by Judy Nunn
She had witnessed the exchange between her aunt and grandfather. What in God’s name had Mary said to him? The old man looked shocked, pale. ‘Come and sit down. Let me fetch a glass for you.’
From the far side of the room Mary watched as the old man allowed himself to be seated. He and Hannah were inseparable according to Emily.
‘She writes down all of his stories in the diary I gave her,’ Emily had said, ‘and she won’t let anyone see. It’s for posterity, she says. Well, that doesn’t seem right to me at all,’ Emily had laughed affectionately as she’d prattled on, ‘a girl should write about beaus in her diary. But then Hannah doesn’t seem particularly interested in beaus.’
It was probably the beaus who were not interested in Hannah, Mary thought as she watched her niece return with the wine. A bold, brawny girl, one who made few concessions to femininity, it would be a rare breed of man who would take on Hannah Kendall. So unlike her mother, Mary thought, as she caught sight of Emily comforting Nathaniel. Even in middle-age, and even at a wake, Emily fluttered her fan coquettishly at Godfrey Streatham as she offered condolences to his son. And Matthew, standing beside his wife, smiled fondly, proud of her femininity.
Theirs was a good marriage, Mary thought with envy. A good marriage bound by love, support, trust, a happy family surrounding them … She must not get maudlin, she told herself. The Kendalls, after all, would amount to nothing. The market farm had long since been subdivided and sold, the family keeping several small allotments which they rented to tenants. No longer a scattered village, Surry Hills was becoming the backyard of Sydney, providing low-rental housing for the working class. As landlords, the Kendalls earned enough to keep their family clothed and healthy, but they would have little to leave their children and their children’s children.
The descendants of the Kendle line, however, would inherit wealth, power and station. She, Mary Kendle, had been the driving force behind a legacy unequalled in the colony. Her children would inherit Kendle and Streatham, soon to become the finest emporium in Sydney. What need had she for envy?
But try as she might, Mary could not shake off her despondency. It was a wake she told herself, the funeral of her only daughter, she was supposed to be despondent. But she had accepted Phoebe’s death. During the two weeks it had taken Phoebe to die, mother and daughter had never been closer.
Mary’s one worry had been that Phoebe might have married Godfrey Streatham’s son simply to please her. The Kendle partnership with Streatham and Son, the well-known family retailers, had certainly been the business coup of the decade, and Phoebe had always done as her mother wished. But theirs had been a true love match. On her very deathbed, Phoebe had told her so.
‘Look after him for me, Mother,’ she had whispered in the dead of night when the fever had subsided, Mary spending every minute at her bedside. ‘Look after Nathaniel, I do so love him.’ They had clung to each other and wept and never in her life had Mary felt so close to another human being.
‘I will love him like my own son, my darling, I promise,’ she had whispered.
‘And the baby. Look after the baby.’
‘Your baby will have the world, Phoebe. I will give Howard Streatham the world, I promise you that too.’
The memory of her promises made Mary strong. So why did she feel so sad, so defeated?
She could live without the happiness she saw in her sister-in-law’s marriage. That was a small enough price to pay for the legacy she would leave her grandchildren.
No, it was the look on Thomas Kendall’s face which filled her with despondency. She had wanted him to bear the brunt of her hurt; it was his fault, she had told herself that for years. If Wolawara had never been his friend, if he had not given the land to the Aborigines, if he had not placed temptation in her husband’s path …
But her accusations had only brought back the past. The look on the old man’s face, the shock and the query in his eyes reopened the old wound, and the humiliation was as stinging, the pain as fresh now as it had been then.
‘There will soon be trouble,’ she remembered saying. ‘Take your mother and Turumbah and leave the camp.’
It had been barely a month after her dismissal that Murrumuru had come to her in tears. At first Mary had not believed her.
‘I sleep with the massa for twelve month now,’ she had said, ‘I sleep with no other man.’
Mary wanted to strike the woman. She did not believe her, she could not believe her. She must believe her husband. The two had never been lovers. ‘Just the once’, he had said, ‘just the once.’ The woman had teased and taunted, that’s what he had told her.
She ordered Murrumuru out of her house.
‘Please, missus,’ Murrumuru had begged, tears coursing down her cheeks. ‘I know I do wrong. I know. But I love Richard. And he tell me too, he love me, he tell me too.’
That was when Mary knew it was the truth. When, sickeningly, she heard Murrumuru call her husband by name. Perhaps she had always known it was the truth, she thought as she fetched the money.
‘You must leave this place, Murrumuru,’ she said. ‘There will be trouble. Take this money and leave with your family. For the sake of your unborn baby you must leave this place.’
She didn’t tell Richard about Murrumuru’s visit and the fact that the woman was with child. What was the point—he obviously cared nothing for his Aboriginal mistress. But any remnant of love which existed within Mary died that day, and from then on she looked at her husband with loathing.
The years had passed and she had never told him about his child, but she made him suffer a contemptible marriage. He must be made to carry the burden of his guilt.
And tonight, as she had looked at the old man, Mary had decided that he too must share the guilt. She wondered what Thomas Kendall would do if he knew that he shared a grandchild with his friend Wolawara. He would never know, but as she had watched him, the old bitterness had crept back like bile. He should suffer along with her husband. Both of them should suffer, both of them should know that they were the cause of her unhappiness.
But the old man’s suffering had not eased her pain. It had only brought back the past.
‘And these are your children.’ Thomas’s voice was weak but still authoritative. ‘Remind me, James, it is easy to forget when one is dying.’ The old man’s health had not been good for some years, but following Phoebe’s funeral, he had fallen into a rapid decline. He pointed a fragile finger at the little boy who stood dutifully beside the bed. ‘Charles, and …’ He couldn’t remember the name of the baby James’s wife was cradling. But then he couldn’t remember the name of James’s wife either.
‘Anne, Grandfather, we named her after Grandmother.’
‘Christen her Anne,’ Mary had said the instant she had discovered the new baby was a girl. ‘It is both politic and practical, James. You must not forget that your grandfather is still a man of property.’
‘Good, good,’ muttered Thomas, distracted. He was proud of his great-grandchildren, five in all with the new baby, but he needed to talk to James alone. He gestured for the others to leave and Alice Kendle backed towards the door with the baby, grasping three-year-old Charles’s hand as she did so.
‘You too, Hannah,’ Thomas said gently. ‘Go along, my dear.’
Hannah, who had remained silent in the bedside chair for the duration of her cousin’s visit, rose and held the door open for Alice. Pretty little Alice gave her one of those superior, pitying looks she always gave her, and as usual Hannah had to fight back the urge to hit her. Clearly Alice felt sorry for Hannah. Plain, without a beau at twenty-six, Hannah was obviously destined for an old maid’s life.
‘No, not you, James,’ Thomas said as his grandson followed the family out. ‘I want to talk to you.’
It was with some reluctance that James closed the door and sat down beside his grandfather’s bed. Fifteen minutes later, he closed the bedroom door behind him and entered the sitting room where the others were waiti
ng. He looked shaken, and Hannah rose to her feet, concerned.
‘Is he all right?’ she asked.
‘He wants to see you,’ James said. ‘He’s rather agitated.’
‘Did you upset him, James?’ she barked.
‘No, no, he upset himself, I swear it.’ James was visibly upset and his wife rose to pacify him. ‘I don’t have the answers for him, Hannah. I don’t know what he expects of me. I don’t have the answers …’ But Hannah had disappeared into the hall.
Inside the bedroom she took her grandfather’s hand in both of hers, as she had always done when she’d sensed he was troubled.
‘He doesn’t know, Hannah,’ Thomas said, his voice feeble now. He was tiring, and the breath wheezed from his lungs with the effort of talking. ‘He doesn’t know.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Grandpa, it doesn’t matter.’ Gently, she stroked his hand, the soft raised veins and the translucent skin like silk beneath her fingers, and as she did so, she cursed Mary Kendle. Thomas himself had told her of the hideous accusations her aunt had flung at him the night of Phoebe’s funeral. Hannah wished she knew the answers herself, she wished she could make them up so that her grandfather could die in peace. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said again.
‘It does, it does. It matters very much to me.’
‘I know it does. I know. Ssh now, it’s time you slept.’ His agitation was keeping him awake, and that was not good for his heart.
‘I must know the answers.’ the old hand tensed around hers, and the breathing was laboured. ‘I must know what happened, what it was that I did.’
‘I will find out for you, Grandpa,’ she promised, although she knew it was not possible. ‘I will find out for you, I swear I will.’ She had never lied to anyone, least of all to her grandfather, but she didn’t flinch as the old eyes, dim and faded, met hers. ‘I will find out and I will write it all down in the journal, I promise.’
‘Ah, Hannah,’ he sighed thankfully, ‘we’re a good team, you and I.’ He believed her, Hannah never lied.
‘Sleep now, Grandpa Thomas, please try and sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.’ Her voice was gentle, and Thomas could feel his eyelids closing. ‘Go to sleep now. Go to sleep.’
‘He said that you had condemned him.’ Shaken by the exchange at his grandfather’s bedside, James confronted his mother that same evening. ‘He was desperate to know why.’
‘The wanderings of an old man’s mind,’ Mary said dismissively.
‘But you told him he’d ruined your marriage. You told him he’d given peace to no-one, least of all his family. He’s tormented, Mother. What did you mean?’
‘For goodness’ sake, James, the man is dying. Who knows what tricks a dying man’s mind plays on him.’ Abruptly, Mary terminated the conversation. ‘Now go home to your family, it is getting late.’
Thomas died in the early hours of the following morning. In his sleep. Peacefully, Hannah hoped.
She never found out the answers her grandfather so desperately sought. But, fifty years later, James did.
From their vantage point at Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, the harbour promontory once favoured by Governor Macquarie’s wife, Charles Kendle and his cousin Howard Streatham trained their binoculars on the two twenty footers. Wings of Honour was vying for first place with Merlin’s Magic.
Amidst a flotilla of yachts, the two were charging home, and the harbour was a mass of canvas as sails flapped on the final turn, skippers screamed orders, swingers leaned so far out for the homeward run that their backs skimmed the water, and hundreds of onlookers roared out the name of their favourite.
Merlin’s Magic had the edge, the crisp breezes favouring her lighter hull, just as the experts had predicted. ‘If the winds are strong over the harbour tomorrow,’ Christopher Pearce, popular columnist for the Sydney Morning Herald, had written, ‘my money will be on Merlin’s Magic.’
Pearce wandered over to Charles and Howard, champagne glass in hand. ‘It appears I was right, gentlemen.’
‘Anything can happen yet, Chris,’ Charles said, ‘anything at all.’ The company of Kendle and Streatham was a major advertiser with the Sydney Morning Herald and the men had become good friends, Charles with an eye, as usual, to his advantage. Christopher Pearce was a powerful man, popular with his readers, and Charles had quickly realised that in these modern times the power of the press reached considerably further than the advertisement pages.
Howard, of course, was sceptical. But he was a Streatham and they were all the same. Honest, trustworthy and dependable, certainly, but predictable, unadventurous and, at times, downright boring.
‘I have a feeling something’s about to happen,’ Charles muttered to Christopher. ‘A change of wind perhaps.’ He smiled roguishly as he glanced sideways at the columnist. He had told Pearce to put his money on Wings of Honour, regardless of prevailing winds or popular opinion.
Out on the harbour, aboard Merlin’s Magic, the skipper was hurling abuse at his crew as he always did, even when they were winning. He screamed at a laggard who was straining himself to the limit; he kicked the bailer who was puffing and sweating; then, to the swingers as the yacht reached for home, he bawled, ‘Out on her! Get your ugly carcasses out on her!’
Paddy O’Shea leaned out as far as he could. He was a powerful man, six feet tall, weighing sixteen stone, and two thirds of his body was out of the boat. He was clinging to the gunwales with his knees, and he could feel the waves flicking his back as the boat surged through the choppy waters. He was bearing half the weight of the swinger beside him and suddenly it appeared he could take the strain no longer. In a second, he was swept overboard. The other swinger went over the side too, and together they clung to the boat, their combined drag slowing it to a crawl.
The sails of Merlin’s Magic luffed uselessly in the wind as Wings of Honour ploughed past the floundering vessel and raced to victory.
‘I told you so, Chris.’ Charles’s smile was smug and confident as his sister topped up his champagne glass. ‘Thank you, Anne.’
Christopher Pearce was glad he had done as Charles had suggested and put his money on Wings of Honour. He didn’t know how Kendle had managed it but, as usual, his tip was a good one, and, as usual, one favour deserved another. Already he had his leader for tomorrow’s column. ‘Charles Kendle’s yacht flew home to victory in yesterday’s spring regatta, proving that she is worthy of the proud store motto after which she is named. Kendle and Streatham, Trading on the Wings of Honour.’
In the back rooms of the Hero of Waterloo, Paddy O’Shea pocketed the five pounds Colin ‘Cocky’ Shaw handed him.
‘We’ll keep you on ice for a while, Paddy me old mate,’ the cockney said. ‘Don’t want the word gettin’ round. P’raps the Autumn Race Carnival, what do you say?’
‘That’s fine by me, Cocky,’ Paddy agreed, and off he went to collect his winnings from the bookie with whom he’d placed a whole six quid, more than a fortnight’s wages. But then Wings of Honour had been a sure bet.
These odd jobs were the cream on top of the milk, Paddy thought as, half an hour later, he walked up Windmill Street. A hell of a lot more lucrative than working the docks, and a lot more fun into the bargain. Now he could take his girls out for a Saturday night on the town, and he could give his old mother some ready cash to buy herself something nice. Not that she ever did, but they always shared the fun of his latest windfall.
‘You rascal, Patrick O’Shea,’ she’d say. ‘What have you been up to this time?’
He never told her. ‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies, Ma,’ he’d say with a smile and a wink.
Today was no exception. She opened the door of her cottage, he thrust two one-pound notes into her hand, and she said, ‘Where in God’s name did this come from? I don’t need this money. You take it right back, Patrick O’Shea.’
‘Come on now, where’s a hug?’ She was a big, bulky woman, despite her sixty-seven years, but he lifted her bodily off the ground.
‘Where’s a hug for your only son?’
‘Put me down!’ she protested. ‘Put me down, Paddy,’ but she returned the embrace with equal fervour. Hannah Kendall O’Shea loved her son. He was an incorrigible, impetuous, reckless young man, just like her Daniel had been, and the adventurous spirit in Hannah loved him for it.
It had been that very spirit which had so attracted Daniel O’Shea to Hannah Kendall. He had recognised instantly a kindred soul.
‘You won’t find better than me, Hannah,’ he’d said when he’d asked her to marry him. ‘I’m amongst the best Mother Ireland has to offer.’
‘Oh, is that so, Daniel?’ she’d laughed. ‘Then I should certainly hate to see her worst.’
‘You’d not regret marrying an Irishman, I swear.’ It sounded like another boast, but the banter had left his tone. ‘We’re a poor country with little to offer those outside, except our very selves.’ Daniel had left his beloved Ireland only the previous year, like many hundreds of others, to escape the potato famine. ‘And to those who take us into their hearts, we can bring magic.’
Hannah looked at him sceptically, he was a mercurial man, it was difficult to tell whether or not he was serious.
‘I tell you, girl, I’ll make you laugh and I’ll make you cry, but I’ll never bore you. And you’re a woman, Hannah, who should never be bored. You will marry me, won’t you?’
The following day, just one month after their initial meeting, Hannah announced her impending marriage. Everyone, with the exception of her brother William in whom she had confided, was astounded. Her Aunt Mary was openly scathing when she heard the news.
‘The woman’s mad to even consider marrying an Irishman,’ she said to anyone who would listen. ‘Chances are he’ll murder her in her bed.’ Mary suffered the anxiety prevalent amongst the English upper class regarding the Irish. Then to William, upon his brief visit to the Elizabeth Bay mansion, she added ‘besides, the man’s as poor as a church mouse, he’s marrying her for her money.’
