Bridget Crack

by Rachel Leary

She crossed the room to the cabinet, where she placed the tray.

  ‘Well, I don’t see how that can possibly be the case. I saw him just yesterday and he said they had been seen only a few miles west of Coal River.’

  ‘I hardly think Mr Brewer would make up a thing like that, Captain, and he is not blind. And the description Linley has given of the men who robbed him matches the description of the banditti perfectly.’

  ‘Yes, but they were seen near Coal River, Colonel. Only days ago.’

  ‘Well, they can’t have been at Coal River. They were at Linley’s last week, at the other end of the colony, Captain. There must have been some mistake.’

  Captain Marshall sighed. ‘Well, I’m told they have found a route through the mountains.’

  Bridget leaned over and placed a cup of tea down in front of him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The captain’s politeness towards the servant did not escape the other man’s attention. Bridget saw surprise light his eyes and flicker there before fading into a hazy question supplanted by the topic at hand. ‘Perhaps so, but regardless, whoever made the report at Coal River must have been mistaken. The governor will not be made to look like a fool, Captain.’

  Marshall lowered his head and when he spoke, he did so quietly. ‘No. However, perhaps…’

  She put a cup down in front of the colonel, who continued with the conversation. ‘Pardon me, Captain?’

  ‘He’s making mistakes, Colonel.’

  ‘Mistakes? I see. And what are these mistakes you would charge him with?’

  ‘I am not sure precisely. His manner.’

  ‘He is mistaken in his manner?’

  Marshall sighed again. ‘Look, I will pay a visit to Mr Brewer. I would like to hear what happened there for myself.’

  ‘I don’t see how you can comment on his manner when—’

  Bridget pulled the door shut behind her. As she did, a woman descended the stairs. ‘You’ll be the new girl then.’

  The nose was beaky and her eyes a rare ginger-brown, rimmed by darker circles. Freckles a shade or two lighter than her eyes stained the bridge of her nose, continued out towards her cheekbones.

  Bridget nodded.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes? You will address me as Ma’am and Captain Marshall as Sir, thank you very much. What is your name?’

  ‘Bridget. Bridget Crack. Ma’am.’

  ‘I see. And I trust Mary has shown you around?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Speak up.’

  ‘Yes. Ma’am.’

  ‘Good.’ She turned and, in a rustle of material, went up the hall.

  ...

  The rock of the mountain was pink in the dawn light. A few yards away from where Bridget was milking, a creek flowed through a gully and the cleared land stopped. When she finished she left the bucket and walked over to the creek. A flock of black birds flew over uttering plaintive cries, their wings beating the air slowly. It had rained in the night and the air was still moist and the spicy smell prickled Bridget’s nostrils. Trees with smooth dark green leaves that tapered at the ends crowded the creek and further up grew more closely together, a mess of shrubs below them, no light in there at all. In Suffolk there were some woods on the Harringtons’ property. She had gone there a few times with her brother when she was little. But her father didn’t like Harrington and said they weren’t to go on his property. She remembered a carpet of bluebells, patches of sunlight, birds flitting from tree to tree. The rest of Suffolk was grass and hedgerows and villages.

  She stood there a moment in the dark under the canopy with the rushing creek, inhaled the sharp fragrance. Not like the smell of Suffolk—flour and hay. Those were the smells she remembered.

  ...

  In the town there was the occasional grand building made of pale, soft-looking stone, and then cottages, fenced gardens around some of them, rosebushes growing along the fences. Bridget walked along a wide busy street full of carts and bullocks and horses, people ducking and weaving through them to get from one side of the street to the other. A group of men stood out the front of a timber building yelling and laughing. A blacksmith worked under an awning, hammering and clanging, now and then a red-hot hiss, like a sigh, puncturing the iron ruckus.

  Bridget found the store and delivered the note as instructed, had just arrived back at the house when there was a knock at the kitchen door. The red-haired woman she opened the door to regarded her. ‘You new?’ she said.

  Bridget nodded.

  ‘Just in then? Eliza. Servant the next place up there.’ She pointed up the road. ‘Note for the missus, from mine.’ She held out a piece of paper, looked Bridget over. ‘Where you from? London, me. Wexford really, but I been in London before here. Gotta go,’ she said and hurried off around the side of the house.

  ‘Saw you met, Eliza,’ Mary said. ‘Other servant at that place, Dan—Eliza goes with him. I don’t know what I’ve done but she doesn’t talk to me much anymore. She’s Irish though and you know what they can be like,’ she said, and laughed.

  ...

  The next night Bridget woke to a knock on the wall. Her name hissed. ‘Bridget!’

  It was the red-haired woman, Eliza, standing there in the dark. ‘Come on, get dressed.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Going down to town, to the public house.’

  Paul was standing behind her. He and the old man Kelly were the male servants at Marshall’s place; she’d met Paul the afternoon she arrived, from Devon with thin hair, a high forehead and a tendency to look away when he spoke.

  ‘Daniel’s waiting down the road,’ Eliza said. ‘He’ll buy you a drink.’

  Bridget looked behind her at the shape of Mary sleeping. ‘Don’t worry about her,’ Eliza hissed.

  Out on the road Bridget slowed, looked back at the house. ‘Won’t be long,’ Eliza said. ‘They’ll never know you were gone. We do it all the time.’

  The three dark shapes went ahead of her down the dirt road, laughter and banter rolling off them into the night sky.

  ‘You coming or not?’

  ...

  There were only a few cottages along the road, one grand house, but as they came down the hill the buildings were more tightly packed. They crossed a timber bridge over the creek and then Daniel turned into a muddy lane at the end of which was a brick building, double storey, but thin. Even from outside the place was noisy.

  He opened the door and the four of them stepped into the din.

  Inside the room was packed full of bodies and hazy with smoke. ‘Well, well, Mr Rooke, what have you got here? Sharing, are we?’ The gnarled man next to Daniel cast his eyes over Bridget and winked at her, then turned away and raised his arm. ‘Paddy O’Doherty, get yourself over here—our man Rooke has been doing a wee bit of fossicking and I’ll be damned if he hasn’t turned up gold.’

  A man with wrinkled skin and bright eyes came over. ‘So, are you going to introduce me, Daniel?’

  Daniel, in a flat, offhand way, told her this was Paddy.

  ‘He’s charming, he is,’ Paddy said sarcastically.

  Someone put a pitcher of brown liquid in Bridget’s hand then. ‘The finest brew in the colony, without a doubt.’

  A man had just come in and was standing inside the door looking around. When Paddy saw him the smile left his face and he excused himself, pushed his way over to the man. Daniel joined them and a minute later the three of them disappeared out a side door.

  Eliza, who had been talking to another woman, turned to Bridget. ‘How do you like Mary then?’

  ‘She talks a lot.’

  Eliza tipped back her head and laughed. ‘Talks a lot? You could say that. And most what she says ain’t true. She cries too, mostly to get her way.’

  Paul leaned in towards Bridget. ‘At first I thought I’d strangle her, but now I think I’ll shove her head in a bucket of water and hold it there till the bubbles stop.’

&
nbsp; ‘You’ll be holding for a while,’ Eliza said.

  Another man came up beside them. ‘Just in, then? Eliza here said you was just in,’ he slurred. He held his cup in the air. ‘Welcome to Van Diemen’s Land.’

  ...

  Jane Marshall was different to most ladies that Bridget had met—not that she had met many, mostly seen them from a distance or across a room, and usually even if she did meet them their gaze hovered above her and they turned as quickly away from her as they would an uncomfortable truth. Jane was unmarried but not young, was sensible instead of frilly and was scornful of gossip. It was Jane who Bridget took her instruction from, and Mary. The house was one of the biggest in Hobart Town, sat on a street called Elizabeth that led uphill away from the bay. For most of the days she cleaned, did the jobs Mary didn’t want to do. Every few nights Eliza knocked and Bridget got up and dressed, went out into the dark, down into the town to the Bird in Hand—something to look forward to, to break the tedium of her days.

  There was a place behind the dairy that Bridget had found where she sometimes went to get away from Mary, from the house. There was a tree there; its leaves like fronds, hundreds of tiny leaves arranged along a series of stems, pale, washed-out green. She would stand there, pull a twig off the tree, comb the leaves through her hand, hear the house door open, Mary calling her name. Sometimes she would take the letter out of her stockings and read it, fold it back up and put it back in.

  From here she could see out over the fields behind the house, but with the dairy behind her, and trees in front and on either side, she was fairly well hidden. She could sometimes see Paul or Kelly, ploughing or planting the field, saw Jane cross the field with the book she drew in. There was a room downstairs that was Jane’s. Bridget had seen Jane come out one day, the door left ajar, had put her head around and looked. Pictures—the room full of them. She had stepped inside. The pictures were mostly of plants, a few of animals, queer-looking things. A huge bird or something like a bird, long scaly legs and black feathers, a yellow beak and nasty little dark eyes. A flower like a pine cone or a brush, but yellow. She had been standing there looking when she heard Jane come back. She had thought to hide but, finding Jane generally unthreatening, she stood there and let her come in and discover her.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Bridget shrugged.

  ‘They’re not very good,’ Jane said.

  Bridget pointed to the long-legged thing. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Emu, it’s called.’

  ‘The door was open,’ Bridget said.

  ‘That’s alright.’ Jane dipped a brush into paint.

  ...

  A few days later she had been sitting behind the dairy, had heard someone coming and stood up to see Marshall walking towards her. She’d expected to be told off but he’d asked her how she was settling in, was everything alright. ‘Jane said you were interested in her paintings.’

  ‘The door was open,’ she said.

  He’d stood there looking like he wanted to say something, but then Paul had appeared on the other side of the creek, walking in their direction.

  ‘Yes, well. Alright…’ the captain said before he walked off.

  There was no reason she knew of for him to be down there. The dairy was the servants’ area, the female servants’ area. She didn’t know what he wanted—didn’t think it was the usual thing, but she wasn’t sure. Eliza had told her that Marshall’s was a good place to be assigned to. ‘Likes to stroke himself over his goodness, the captain does,’ she said. ‘Prob’ly up there now: Oh, I’m so good,’ she’d moaned, running her hand down her imaginary shaft. ‘I’m sooo gooood.’ They’d been at the public house and she’d gone so on with it that people had turned to look.

  ...

  Snow covered the mountain and then the hills above the town. Upstairs in the library Bridget ran a cloth over the gleaming timber of Captain Marshall’s desk. Behind her on the wall was a shelf of books. She left the cloth on the table, picked out one of the books. Mathilda.

  Florence. Nov. 9th 1819

  It is only four o’clock; but it is winter and the sun has already set: there are no clouds in the clear, frosty sky to reflect its slant beams, but the air itself is tinged with a slight roseate colour which is again reflected on the snow that covers the ground. I live in a lone cottage on a solitary, wide heath: no voice of life reaches me.

  She heard someone coming up the stairs, went to put the book back in its spot, but as she hurried to get in, it fell.

  Captain Marshall stood in the doorway.

  She picked the book up. ‘It fell out. Sorry, sir…I was just dusting and the book fell.’

  He regarded her. ‘Do you like to read?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘You may borrow a book if you would like to.’

  Bridget shook her head. ‘Mary’ll be needing me downstairs,’ she muttered and hurried past him.

  ...

  She was polishing knives in the dining room when he came in. ‘I thought you might like to borrow it,’ he said, and put the book on the table.

  Bridget left the book there until after he had gone.

  Later, when she leafed through the pages, she remembered her father perched on the stool, leaning forward and watching her intently, the dim light of a candle thrown over the Bible page. ‘Again. Read it again,’ he’d say. He’d rest his chin on his hand and stare at the floor while she read, then, when she’d finished, there might be a pause before he looked up, his brow furrowed, his eyes showing concern. He’d shake his head then, as though she had just performed a miracle—a somewhat troubling one at that. Once, her brother Steven went off fishing with Timmy instead of going to school. When her father found out he whipped him like he’d never whipped him before. He was always telling Mr Moore, the farmer he worked for, how well his children could read and write. ‘Bridget’s the best speller at the school,’ he told Mrs Moore. It wasn’t true; but Samuel Owen wasn’t one to let the truth get in the way of his fantasies, certainly not when it came to other people’s opinion of him and his family.

  ...

  Captain Marshall had been away, had just arrived back that morning. Bridget was walking along the hall when she heard voices coming from the sitting room, arguing. ‘Oh, I understand the situation alright. I’ll tell you what I understand. I understand that it was your idea that we come here in the first place when we were quite fine where we were. I understand that you would put your…your high ideals over the safety of your family, over your responsibility as a husband and as a father.’

  ‘Eleanor, please—not this again.’

  ‘No, Richard, don’t you “please” me.’

  ‘I am doing my best.’

  ‘Your best?’ she scoffed. ‘We are all doing our best.’

  ‘Are we? Are we, Eleanor?’

  ‘Yes. We are.’

  ‘And you choose to assassinate my character and tell me this is your best. Is that correct?’

  ‘I am not assassinating your character.’

  ‘Their children are dying, Eleanor, being killed. You talk about innocent people being killed…We have some obligation to protect them. Surely you agree?’

  Silence.

  ‘Come on, Eleanor, surely. I mean, imagine if—’

  ‘No, Richard, don’t. Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it.’

  ‘You are always talking about sides, Eleanor. Why does it have to be about sides? We must stop looking at the situation in terms of sides.’

  ‘No, you are wrong. You want me to imagine? I already imagine, Richard. Every day I imagine. I lie in bed at night and imagine them coming down out of the hills, coming here to this house. You are off away half the time and I do little but imagine. I imagine until I am almost ill and you tell me it is my attitude that is causing the trouble. No, Richard. The trouble is there’s a horde of savages out there who would kill us as soon as look at us and all you can do is make excuses for them.’

  ‘I don’t believe this conver
sation is getting anywhere. I will see you later when you have calmed down.’

  ‘I am not going to calm down!’

  Bridget ran as quietly as she could along the hall. She heard a door slam and the missus go up the stairs. A few minutes later Captain Marshall went out the front door.

  ...

  Mrs Marshall stood in front of Bridget, a dry rag from the line dangling from her thumb and forefinger. ‘Do you call this white?’

  ‘They’re clean.’ All morning Bridget had been in the washroom, her arms in water brown with the little boy’s shit as she scrubbed his rags. She’d rubbed them against the washboard until her back ached.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I washed them, they’re clean.’

  ‘You will take all of those rags off the line and wash them again and they had better not be soiled the next time I see them.’ She flicked the rag at Bridget’s chest, turned and walked away.

  Bridget swore under her breath and the woman stopped, turned around. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Mrs Marshall’s face red, eyes bulging. Then she disappeared inside and the door slammed behind her.

  Bridget stood there by the line near the row of rags and then walked away, away from the house to the place behind the dairy.

  She heard the house door open, heard Mary calling her name. She moved back closer to the dairy wall. Mary called again and then the door shut.

  She sat down with her knees up watching a line of ants go up the tree, drops of amber sap dry on the bark.

  ...

  Winter settled in and Mary began complaining about Bridget’s outings to the Bird in Hand. She threatened to tell Marshall that Bridget was going out at night, to which Bridget replied that if she did, she would kill her. Mary stopped talking to her for a while after that; only spoke to tell her what to do and it was in a clipped but sulky tone. Then one morning Bridget woke to Mary ringing a bell next to her head. She jumped up and tore it out of Mary’s hand, pushed her against the wall, the handle of the bell across her throat. She saw the fear in Mary’s eyes and her anger ebbed. She let go, stood holding the bell while Mary ran to the house.

  Two quiet days followed, Mary not talking to her. Knowing that Mary would have bawled to her, Bridget expected the missus to say something, but she didn’t. Then, on the afternoon of the third day, a constable came to the kitchen, the missus and Mary with him. ‘Tell him,’ Mrs Marshall said to Mary.