by Janet Woods
‘Queen Victoria looks like a cross patch,’ Sarette murmured.
‘She wasn’t much older than you when she took the throne, and has been ruling over the British Empire for sixty years.’
Sarette’s eyes widened in the way they always did when she was impressed by something. And it happened often as she examined the goods displayed in every shop, and asked her questions.
‘Why is there a striped pole outside the barber’s shop?’
‘I think it goes back to when barbers were surgeons as well, and the red and white pole signifies blood and bandages.’
She glanced with envy at a pair of button boots in a shop window, situated next to the barber’s shop. Her own boots were clumsy, scuffed and worn out. The clothes she had were good enough for the few weeks she’d be on board, with the addition of a warm coat and shawl, for even here it was midwinter and cold during the night. And he’d made provision for her when she reached England. Ignatious Grimble would handle her expenses from John’s private accounts.
‘The tea room is just a few doors down. Go and secure us a table. I’ll be there soon, I’m just going to get my beard trimmed.’
He did more than that. He had it removed, then he purchased the boots she’d been admiring, with the provision they would be exchanged if they didn’t fit.
Seated near the window, Sarette was gazing out at the street. Her gaze washed over him when he entered the tea room. She frowned and looked puzzled. Then her pretty laugh rang out, causing heads to turn towards her, and smiles to appear.
‘Miss Maitland, may I join you?’
‘You certainly may, Mr John. How handsome you look without your whiskers.’
‘Yes, I must admit I’d forgotten what I looked like.’ He handed her the parcel. ‘I hope they fit. If not we can change them.’
She would have tried them on then and there if he hadn’t stopped her with, ‘Manners, my dear. A lady does not take her shoes off in public.’
Tears trembled in her eyes. ‘I’d marry you if you’d just asked me, you know. I owe you so much and I want to look after you.’
He knew she would. She was young, she was impressionable and she’d be willing to sacrifice her youth looking after an old man who could give her nothing of real value in return. Under different circumstances he might have been selfish enough to allow her to sacrifice herself, but he didn’t really think it was worth it for the little time he had left.
John had always been a convincing liar, it had been part of his stock in trade. ‘I know you would, Sarry. So you’ll do as I ask, and I promise I’ll consider it. Go to England and do your best to improve yourself. When I arrive home we’ll see how we both feel about it then.’
Her eyes rounded in surprise, then he saw doubt creeping into them. Inwardly, he grinned. Now he’d let her know there was a possibility she would begin the process of balancing the good and bad of such a union, then find him lacking, no doubt, and forget it.’
He rose to his feet. ‘Ah, there you are, Mrs Kent. How lovely to see you again. We were just about to order tea. May I introduce you to my . . . niece, Miss Sarette Maitland.’
Mischief flirted in her eyes as Sarette gave the woman a smile. Regally, she said, ‘I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, Mrs Kent.’
The following week was exhausting for John. He took Sarette shopping to make sure she was well provisioned for the voyage. He wrote a letter to Magnus. He wrote another, much longer letter to Grimble with his instructions, then another to Iris Lawrence, who had once been an actress and who now coached young ladies in the female arts.
Parting was harder than he’d expected it to be, so he didn’t encourage Sarette to be maudlin. ‘You will hand the letter to Magnus if I’m not at Fierce Eagles to greet you at the end of your year with Iris Lawrence. Here is the key to my trunk. It contains my books and journals, so is heavy. I hope you’ll take good care of it until it’s time to hand it over to Magnus. Whatever else is in it is none of your business, so don’t go poking around in it.’
An injured expression settled on her face. ‘You can say really mean things sometimes, John Kern. Besides, you’ve nailed those metal bands around it, so how could I poke around in it? You know I wouldn’t open it anyway.’
‘I know. Safe journey, Sarry.’ He fished his gold watch out of his pocket, cupped her hand in his, and placed it in her palm. ‘Take this, and look after it. It has my name etched on it and will prove to Magnus that you are who you say you are if I happen to be delayed. If you get stranded anywhere and need extra money you have my permission to sell it.’
‘I’ll never sell it. I’d die first.’ Her hug was as fierce as her voice as she held him tight. ‘I’m going to miss you so much, Mr John.’
He found the strength to put her at arm’s length, took one last look at her sweet, upturned face and placed a kiss on her forehead. ‘Be good now, Sarry girl. Go on. Mrs Kent is already in the boat, and they are waiting to row you out to the ship.’
John stood and watched the passenger boat being rowed out to the ship at anchor, his heart beginning to crack. He saw her go aboard, and lifted his hand in reply to her fluttering handkerchief.
He made his way to Rous Head, seated himself with his back against a sun-warmed limestone boulder and experienced the empty ache inside his pain. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a vial and swallowed the laudanum it contained. After a while the pain subsided into a dull throb. He stayed there, watching the sails unfold and the ship turn towards the horizon. His eyes narrowed as the ship grew smaller and smaller, then he could see her no more.
Sarry had gone. Overcome by a feeling of abject loneliness he began to cry, taking great heaving gulps. What an inglorious end for an adventurer, he thought. He’d been a fool to take her in in the first place. He should have left her to die in the goldfields. She had no relatives that she knew of, and nobody would have missed her.
He said out loud, ‘But no, not only did you take her in, you let her into your heart. Then you did something really noble Saint John. You swapped your own comfort to provide a future for her.’
Never mind that he already regretted sending her away, and would give his right arm to have her back.
Darkness fell and the stars appeared. ‘God, if you exist please give my Sarry a good life with someone who will love her as much as I do.’
It occurred to him that he could shorten the time he had left, find oblivion in that mythical medicinal brandy bottle he’d told Sarry about. After all, he had sod all left to live for. Painfully rising to his feet, he turned and lumbered towards the lights of the town.
Three hours later and he’d drunk just enough to keep the nagging pain at bay, when there came a burst of raucous laughter from a group of four men at the end of the bar. Someone shouted, ‘Here’s to Ireland and the Irish.’
‘I’ll second that, Flynn Collins. Just see if I don’t.’
Flynn Collins? Where had he heard that name before? John remembered. Kicking his stool aside he staggered to his feet. ‘Were you ever on the Coolgardie diggings, Collins?’
‘To be sure. What’s it to you?’
‘Remember Sarry Maitland.’
The Irishman grinned round at his companions. ‘One woman is the same as the rest, and I can’t say her name sounds familiar. What of her?’
‘You were her father’s partner. When he died you stole all she had and left her destitute, that’s what of her.’
‘You’re a fecking liar and so is the woman. She was a goldfields whore.’
‘She was a child, only fourteen years old. Her father died from snakebite, remember? You buried him, then sold everything out from under the girl and took off. She had to work her fingers to the bone to pay off her father’s debts, and was wandering and almost dead from thirst when I found her.’
‘Irish scum,’ somebody in the crowd shouted.
Collins’s face mottled a dull red. ‘I was going to take her to the orphanage in Perth, but the girl ran off . . . Ithoug
ht she’d gone.’
‘You bloody liar. You crept back into camp that night and while she was sleeping you stole the small amount of gold her father had left her. Not only that, she was turned away from her own claim by the people you sold it to, and the woman was wearing her dead mother’s dress.’
Collins turned away. ‘Aw, shut your clack. You don’t know nothing?’
‘Aye, I do. I was there. And I’m going to beat the living daylights out of you.’
‘Go back to your brandy, old man.’
‘He’s a coward as well as a thief,’ said the same person who’d shouted before, and this time there were mutters of agreement.
‘Coward yourself. I’m leaving, I don’t like the company in here.’
‘Not without answering to me for what you did.’
Collins turned, pulling a gun out from under his jacket. ‘Get out of my path.’
The bar owner walked between them, a shotgun aimed at the Irishman. ‘We don’t allow weapons in here, Collins. Put it on the bar, you can pick it up when you leave.’ When it was handed over he said. ‘Right, Outside, all of you. Let’s make this a fair fight. I’ll run the book. My money’s on the big man. He looks as though he can handle hisself.’
‘Mine’s on the Irishman. He’s younger.’
‘Mine too.’
It wasn’t much of a fight, lasting only five minutes before John floored Collins. That was enough to exhaust him, and it set up a dull throbbing in his stomach, so he turned and was sick into the grass. He wiped his mouth, picked up his bottle and took a pull, before walking off and leaving the man with his companions.
John saw Flynn Collins only once more. It was a month later and the bar was just about to close for the night. The Irishman was waiting for him in a doorway, a belligerent look on his face.
John’s strength had deserted him rapidly over the past month, and he knew he couldn’t take on the Irishman again. ‘The score’s settled as far as I’m concerned,’ he said, and walked past the man.
West Australian Times. August 1896
At the Criminal Sittings of the Supreme Court today, the accused, Flynn Collins, was sentenced to death by hanging for the unprovoked and cowardly murder of Mr John Kern, who was unarmed at the time of the shooting. Witnesses said that Collins stepped out of a doorway and shot Mr Kern in the back. The bullet went through the victim’s heart, killing him instantly. Mr Kern’s goods were sold to pay for his burial, and a modest stone memorial erected to commemorate his passing. He has no known relatives.
The next day a second notice appeared.
The murderer Flynn Collins escaped from his warders and is presently at large. Collins is described as being about forty years of age, of stocky build with dark hair and eyes and an Irish accent. He wears a full beard. It’s believed Collins might be heading for the goldfields of Kalgoorlie, where he has friends. Anyone found harbouring this dangerous felon will be severely dealt with by the law.
London
It was the early September when Sarette stepped ashore in Southampton. She had enjoyed every moment of the journey, and knew that if she was a man she would choose the sea as a profession. The captain had been jolly, both by name and by nature. He was a rotund, but nimble-footed man, and despite his responsibilities, had answered her questions with no hint of impatience.
‘The ocean seems endless, Captain Jolly. How do you know where we are?’ she’d asked, and he’d showed her how to plot a course, using the sextant and the horizon. She’d written it all down in her journal. Indeed, she’d had so many exciting things to write about and sketch, that she’d begun to run out of space towards the end of the journey.
Mrs Kent had proved to be tedious. The woman was scared of her own shadow, and every small creak or snap of the sail served only to convince her that they were about to be shipwrecked. She also suffered from nerves, which made her physically sick, so Sarette was kept chasing back and forth with buckets and clothes. Mrs Kent’s cabin began to smell unpleasant. Sarette didn’t want to be mean to her though, for the woman was grieving for her husband, and Sarette knew what it was like to lose someone you loved.
‘It’s a fine day, you should come on deck, mingle with the other passengers and breathe in some fresh air, Mrs Kent. It will do you the world of good,’ she told her.
‘And be washed overboard by a wave and drowned?’
‘But the swell is very gentle, and the breeze has just enough puff in it to fill the sails and move us nicely along. I’m so glad Mr John booked me on a clipper ship instead of those steam ships that need a fire burning in them to make the engines work. Captain Jolly said that the wind sailors call them steam kettles, and if the engines break down they are at the mercy of the weather and tides. And sometimes the boilers blow up.’
‘Oh dear. How dreadful,’ Mrs Kent said greyly. ‘I’m such a bad sailor. I shall be glad when we reach dry land.’
And now she had, and was being greeted by a rather bored-looking man and a twittering woman. The two females cried on each other’s shoulders then stood back and blew their noses.
Mrs Kent drew her forward and introduced them, explaining to her sister, ‘Miss Maitland was placed in my charge for the duration of the trip.’
The sister twittered something at her.
Sarette smiled graciously, and wondered if she could keep up this polite talk, which was a bit of a strain. She twittered back, ‘I’m sure I shall, Mrs Petty.’
The man gave a bit of a chuckle.
‘It was kind of you to look after me,’ Sarette added. ‘Please don’t wait. I’m sure I’ll be met quite soon.’
‘It’s the least I can do, my dear. A young woman of your age needs to be looked after. Oh dear, I do hope your uncle’s solicitor will not be long now.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he won’t, Mrs Kent. In fact, I believe this might be him now,’ and she grinned slightly, for if it were indeed Ignatious Grimble then John’s description of him was highly accurate, right down to the long neck. She waved at the rather reptilian-looking man, who appeared to be examining the various faces in the thinning crowd. She called out, ‘Is that you, Mr Grimble? Are you looking for me?’
He quickly made his way across and a pair of hooded eyes gave her a thorough scrutiny. ‘Tsk-tsk,’ he said as he observed the sea water stains on her skirt, and bowed slightly. ‘If you are Miss Maitland, then yes, I am Mr Grimble. I expected you to be alone.’
‘Mrs Kent chaperoned me on the voyage.’ She gave the woman a quick hug. ‘There, you are, Mrs Kent. You needn’t worry about me any more. I am claimed by Mr Grimble here.’
Mrs Kent’s party bustled off in a flurry of final hugs, waves and twitters, eager to be rid of the responsibility of her and on their way.
Mr Grimble cleared his throat. ‘Is this your luggage, Miss Maitland? The cab is not far away and will take us to the train station.’
‘I forbid you to lift that trunk by yourself. It’s extremely heavy and you look as though a puff of wind would blow you away.’
Faded blue eyes widened considerably and her grin faded at his outraged expression. ‘Your pardon, Mr Grimble. Mr John said I must learn to be a lady.’
‘Yes . . . well, of course you must. After all, that is why you’re here. I shall overlook the breach of etiquette this time, but shall keep an eye on your progress from time to time on John Kern’s behalf and report back to him.’
‘I owe Mr John so much and I’ll make him proud of me, just see if I don’t,’ she said fiercely, and determined to look up etiquette in the dictionary her mentor had given her.
‘Actually, I had no intention of lifting your luggage myself.’ He beckoned to two brawny men, who came forward and accepted the coins he held out. They took an end each of John’s trunk and grunted as they lifted it.
‘It has books in it so is very heavy,’ she said by way of explanation.
Soon they were in the train and heading out of the city. The English countryside was pretty and the land so softly green that it w
as a balm to her eyes.
‘Even though I was born here, I had no idea that England was so beautiful.’
‘It is a pretty time of year,’ Mr Grimble said with a smile. ‘Soon the leaves will be turning into their autumn colours, and it will be prettier still. Before then we must make sure you are properly clothed, for soon it will be winter and cold. Miss Lawrence will see to that, since she’s a lady with a good eye for fashion.’
She stuck out her foot. ‘Mr John bought me these new boots to wear on the journey.’
‘They are . . . sturdy.’
‘Since I have never had a pair of new boots before, I feel very fine in them.’
‘Yes, of course, under such circumstances one would. Miss Maitland,’ he said, ‘I must ask. What is John Kern to you? Why has he taken such an interest?’
She smiled. ‘He took me in after my pa had died and I was left destitute. He became my friend, my teacher, my mentor and protector.’ When Mr Grimble sucked in a breath she gently told him, ‘Mr John was a gentleman in the true sense of the word, if that’s what you wish to know. I reminded him of his daughter, Margaret, when he first came across me. You have no need to worry about my . . . morals.’
‘On this occasion, thank you for being so frank.’ She was subjected to an intense scrutiny. ‘I can see only a passing resemblance to Margaret.’
‘I’ve grown from a child into a woman since then.’
‘You’ve known Mr Kern that long?’
‘Three years.’
‘All that time, and he didn’t inform me about you until I got that last telegraph from him.’
‘I have a letter from him to give you. It’s in my trunk.’
‘What does it say?’
‘It’s addressed to you, so I haven’t opened it. He gave me instructions, you see. And I always do exactly what he tells me. He has a ferocious frown when he’s cross.’
‘John is the kind of man who expects to be obeyed,’ Grimble said with a wry smile. ‘What do you know about John Kern? What did he tell you of his life?’
