by Wendy James
‘I want soft beds and warm houses and someone to serve me dinner, clean my shoes, to pull back my blankets, brush my hair.
‘Someone to piss for me if that’s what I order.’
So every Sunday me and Doll take our walk. Of course, Ma can’t work out why it is that Doll is getting stouter week by week, and I cannot tell her that my sister’s stroll ends ten minutes in. That Doll sits and waits under the wattle, eating the sweets that Jack brings her, while he and I go off alone.
He whispers to me that he has never felt this way with anyone. That he can tell me almost anything. That whatever he says to me, he knows I’ll understand. That sometimes he thinks I can see right into his soul. That he has never felt this way with a girl before; that he would never do anything to hurt me. That he loves me so much it is killing him – I cannot love him even half as much as he loves me or I would want what he wants, that I would see that it is right, natural …
I would like to tell him that what he wants, I want. But I know better than that. I understand him very well.
And every week we go further, deeper, and sometimes we wander away from the river, so far off the track that I can’t even hear the soft steady splashing of the running water, so far into the scrub I worry that we won’t be able to find our way back out again.
But always – just when I’m getting anxious, just when I think that I’ll be late home, and all will be uncovered – always Jack pushes ahead and suddenly we’re back on the track and there’s Doll waiting under the tree, a scowl on her face, the brown paper lolly bag crushed and empty.
Elizabeth
Letter from Elizabeth Hamilton to her brother Robert
Dunfermline
St Martins Place
South Yarra
Victoria
20 January, 1898
My dearest Rob,
I’m sorry to have been so slow to reply to your letter, but it has taken me several months to find myself with leisure to write and to see myself sufficiently settled as to be able to give you a proper account of my doings.
You ask for my first impressions of Australia, but I won’t attempt to emulate your wonderful description of your first meeting with New York – writing is, after all, your profession & not mine – so you will have to be satisfied with my rather pedestrian offerings, less wrought but no less true (perhaps more so, lacking the frequent inventions – surely they are inventions! – that sometimes embellish your own).
You will have noticed that I am writing to you from Melbourne, our cousins’ home in South Yarra, and not from Sweetwater, and I imagine you will be anxious to find out how this has come about. I am as eager to relate the tale – it was indeed a strange experience and I would like an opportunity to get the events into some sort of order in my mind.
When the steamer docked I was met as arranged by Harriet and James Hawkins. I spent only one night with them – the ship was delayed and consequently on arrival I was already late in taking up my position. My first sight of Melbourne was not revealing – it was late afternoon, a dismal day, windy and grey. We travelled out of the city along the river to South Yarra and to our cousins’ house which, though new, is as handsome and comfortable as any in Edinburgh, and certainly possessing a great deal more land than most there. Spent the evening quietly. Cousin Harriet is just as I imagined her from her letters, and James the same – reserved & kindly as always.
Anyway, the two provided just the subdued, warm introduction to Australia that I needed (after that voyage! And my unfortunate cabinmate! Oh, but you have heard all about that & I won’t bore you with it again. I can only assume that your coolness on the subject indicates that your own voyage was remarkably comfortable & that you can’t imagine what I have to complain about. And yes, I know that the passengers in steerage have far more convincing complaints). I would have appreciated the anticipated week or so to gather my wits, which seemed to have scattered altogether. I felt strangely distanced from the experience, as if watching myself from a great height – dear, practical Davey would have told me that this was just the effect of my inner ear readjusting itself to life on solid land. However, I ate well and slept beautifully, enjoyed a quiet morning at home with our cousins, and that afternoon caught the train to Albury.
I was not expecting the train journey to be one of complete ease and comfort, but was quite unprepared for the added discomfort of the strange, unseasonable heat. The morning in Melbourne had been as cool & clear as could be wished for, but by the afternoon the day had become unbearably hot. Indeed, the porter informed me (not without some satisfaction) that it had passed 104 degrees! So my happy expectations of being completely enthralled (during the few remaining hours of daylight, anyway) by the new landscape unwinding before me were blasted to pieces. I was rendered – yes, I can see your lip curling – virtually senseless for most of the trip, which in the stifling confines of the carriage seemed endless, though it was only five and a half hours, and arrived in Albury a little after 10 p.m., as ignorant of the beauties of the Victorian countryside as when I left Melbourne.
I was met there by a rather unkempt-looking man, whom I assumed to be a farmhand of some sort – and a rather simple one at that – owing to the fact that after ascertaining my identity he neither introduced himself nor enquired after my wellbeing. Instead he conveyed me silently in a rather primitive unsprung wagon to the hotel where I was to spend the night and, after carting my belongings into the reception area and muttering directions as to our leave-taking the following morning, he then disappeared.
He reappeared early the next morning, as arranged, and by the time we reached the end of our journey – some ten hours later – I was covered in dust and had been driven almost mad by the heat and the flies and my companion’s disinclination (or perhaps incapacity) for conversation (my every attempt being met with either silence or the barest monosyllable). And (I am embarressed to admit) I had still taken in little of my surroundings – the constant jolting of the wagon conspiring to keep me ignorant in this regard.
I had almost convinced myself that we would never arrive, that I had indeed been abducted, when we at last came to a halt outside what I assumed to be an outbuilding of some sort, perhaps a shepherd’s hut. It was the most humble of accommodations, fashioned from a crude assortment of planks and tin, with tree branches masquerading as verandah rails and the whole thing lopsided and ramshackle in the extreme (the sort of structure I would once have found amusingly rustic, but never ever in my wildest imaginings would have conceived as my home …). It was set in the middle of bare earth with no tree or flower within ten feet, despite the countryside around being lush and green and beautiful, and not at all the harsh dry landscape I had been expecting.
Anyway, it was outside this unprepossessing dwelling that we finally came to a standstill, and the man – still without a word – unceremoniously flung my box to the ground, and then – barely waiting for me to alight (which I was happy to manage unassisted, fearing that he might treat me as unkindly as my luggage) – he sprang back up, gave a sort of whistle and drove off without a backward glance. His parting whistle, however, must have had some communicative purpose, for within seconds four bodies – a woman and three wild and ragged-looking children – had appeared on the verandah. The four stood still as statues, staring out at me as if I was some kind of phantasm. These, then, were my three charges, and this my new home …
I must confess that until this moment the vision of £100 per annum and the assurance I had had from our cousin that the family I was to work for were quite respectable people (the children’s grandmother is on some committee with Harriet) had kept my spirits reasonably equable. But at the sight of these four wretches and the realisation that this – to call it a shack would be to elevate it somewhat – was not a shepherd’s hut but the homestead, they began a fairly rapid sinking.
Although I did feel myself to have been somehow transported to the pages of some dreadful romance, you will be pleased to know, brother dear, that I d
id not fall to the ground in a swoon, but managed to maintain my by then very fragile composure, and to introduce myself. While the woman uttered not a word, the tallest child, who was surprisingly well-spoken, managed to perform the niceties herself. She informed me that she was Thisbe and the other two girls her sisters Isolde and Pandora. (Oh, Rob, the absurdity of their lofty names – these raggedy, grimy children – in such a desolate situation.)
The woman – who looked as if she had reached her three score and ten many years ago, so wrinkled and stooped was she – Thisbe introduced as Mavis, the housekeeper. She then informed me happily that Mavis had lost the use of her tongue during her transportation, and therefore she was able to communicate only by some special hand signals, which she would be happy to teach me by and by (the romance associations were, I can assure you, becoming more powerful by the minute). In the meantime, would I like her, Thisbe, to take me to my room and show me where to clean up? And would I like to take some tea and try the fresh hotcakes that Mavis had made? And she was sure that the little girls would love to help me unpack; and my what a pretty dress I was wearing; her mother had left some pretty dresses that would be hers one day and that I could borrow them should the need arise even though I was somewhat taller than her mother, but was indeed no thicker about the waist and that the dresses would only need some letting down, which was easy enough, Mavis having worked as a seamstress in Sydney many years before …
During this deluge of information (it was as if the poor child had not spoken for weeks) I’d somehow been moved indoors and along a short hallway into what Thisbe rather grandly informed me was my bedchamber (‘The only room, other than Papa’s,’ said little Pandora proudly, ‘with a proper feather bed – and you don’t have to share it with nobody.’) It was the smallest room imaginable: the dimensions of a closet (a very primitive closet, Robbie, with numerous gaps and spaces to ensure the most convenient admission of the wind and dust and snakes and spiders and all the other inconveniences of the Australian bush) with barely room for me to stand.
I sat on the bed – there was nowhere else to sit & the ceiling was rather too low to make standing comfortable – and surveyed the scene: the three children clambering about me, the sinister Mavis at the doorway watching silently. A decision was made without any soul-searching whatsoever to get myself back to Melbourne by the very next train, regardless of the promised £100.
It was not the very next train that I took, however, but one almost a month later. For the master of the house – yes, that loquacious fellow of the cart! – did not return for more than three weeks, leaving me to fend as best I could with the children and Mavis. Of course, there was no other way to escape this mountain eyrie, miles and miles from anywhere and anyone. We were visited once during that time by an Afghan – some sort of a tinker – riding a camel & bearing all sorts of odds and ends, from ribbons to pudding steamers (I have nothing but admiration for such industriousness – to travel those distances in such weather for so little gain). So there was I, stranded in a hut with three wild children and a dumb convict housekeeper. It was truly a scene from Mrs Radcliffe.
There was nothing for it, then, but to make the most of my ‘situation’, though I must confess I did despair several times & on occasion truly wished I could fall into a swoon – the moment when I was apprised of the plumbing arrangements (which I will not even attempt to describe, knowing no adequate nouns or adjectives with which to render the details) comes to mind immediately. But I realised that swooning would leave me with little other than a sore head, there being no hero to stay my fall, so I rolled up my sleeves, donned my pinafore and set to work.
And of course my circumstances were not as dreadful as they had at first appeared. For one thing the place was clean, and for another the girls were certainly not uncontrollable and had been tolerably educated – the eldest daughter was surprisingly well-read, in fact, owing to a passable library (housed in crates that had yet to be unpacked). The smaller girls had benefited, too. Thisbe conscientiously read to them at night – she was in the middle of Great Expectations when I arrived – and even the sinister Mavis seemed to obtain some pleasure from the narrative, so we continued the practice.
In the end the month was not completely disagreeable. All three girls were well-behaved and eager to learn. The middle girl, Isolde, in particular is very bright and took to Latin and French, and also mathematics, no doubt all useful accomplishments in her current circumstances. I managed to get a kitchen garden in order – Mavis having very little understanding of what vegetables are seasonal in this place, they were depending largely on a monthly delivery of fruit and vegetables – and began a flower garden out the front. The girls’ enthusiasm for both gardens will, I’m certain, ensure their maintenance. I was just sorry I hadn’t your skill in carpentry.
From what I have been able to glean from the children, and subsequently, it seems there is quite a sad story attached to the family. (Their name is Tucker, by the by.) They originally acquired the property some years ago – it having been left to them by an elderly uncle of the father. Mr Tucker had been a town man (he ‘worked in the city’ was the best I could get from the daughters. Cousin Harriet thinks he may have been in banking, or perhaps a solicitor) and had had the property up for sale for some time – with no intention, it seems, of working it himself.
However, when his wife died several years ago he went quite mad and all but disappeared, leaving the girls in the care of their maternal grandmother. It was this grandmother who arranged for an ‘English governess’ and who insisted on Mavis – who has been in her employ for many years – accompanying the girls when their father finally sent for them six months or so ago. I must say, I wonder at the grandmother’s deceit – the advertisement as I recall stated that the homestead was comfortable & close to a large township. But it’s possible that she has no idea of their privation.
Once the master, Mr Tucker, arrived home, I’m afraid I doled out to him a severe lecture on the dangers of leaving women and children so isolated from any help, though as it turns out we are less than an hour’s ride from the village of Tawonga, and there are, in fact, any number of neighbouring farms. He was not, then, at all surprised by my wish to defect. So, with many tears from the children and promises to write from me, I was returned to Albury railway station and thence back to Melbourne and my cousins, whom Mr Tucker telegraphed while I was en route. He also very kindly reimbursed the cost of my train travel and most generously gave me three months’ pay, despite my protestations. He admitted he had not really expected any decent woman to remain under such circumstances. And truly the prospect of remaining at Sweetwater, with only Mr Tucker for adult companionship, was not appealing. The single evening spent in his company prior to my departure was intensely painful. Though he made several valiant attempts to converse in the expected manner, and though it was clear that he was a man of some intelligence and refinement, he was unable to maintain any semblance of equanimity or normality – his sentences drifting, or else ending abruptly, his eyes frequently filling with tears. I have every sympathy for the suffering of this unhappy man, but I do not think I could endure such melancholy company indefinitely.
And so, Robert, this letter finds me happily, if temporarily, established with our Hawkins cousins in South Yarra. I have given up for the moment on the idea of governessing – it seems that in Victoria governesses are not greatly in demand, only being employed in such isolated conditions as my last. I hope, instead, to find a situation in one of the privately run schools here in Melbourne, of which there are a number.
I have accepted lodgings generously offered by our cousin as an interim measure, anyway. And yes, dear Robert, I am made perfectly comfortable in their household – not at all the poor relation. And I have been careful with my money: I’ve more than enough to tide me over for quite some time if it comes to that, and haven’t even touched the capital.
I can imagine you will be all eaten up with curiosity to hear more about my current c
ircumstances, but you will have to wait until my next missive. I have quite exhausted myself with this account – I have been at it for hours and my candle is guttering (I’ve no such thing – they are all gas here!) so it will have to satisfy you to know that I am happy and well and none the worse for my ‘bush adventure’ (now you, my dear, could really make something of these dramas, but I quite forbid you to – I do not ever wish to face some dreadful fictional account of all this. You will have to content yourself with dining out on the tale!).
I look forward to your next letter (your hurriedly scribbled page barely constitutes a note, dear little brother, and is altogether unsatisfactory – it hardly warrants the postage!) and hope that your ‘American adventure’ continues to go well for you.
With all my love,
Your sister,
Bess
P.S. And no Robbie, I’m not regretting my decision, indeed, I’m positively enjoying my independence (& the escape from Aunt Lizzie’s clutches). And though I still miss you & home terribly, there’s no way back, is there? For it’s the old life that I want, isn’t it? Don’t you sometimes wish you could go back, Robbie, just for a day or two? Oh, to be able to relive just one of those ‘sweet childish days’. You and me and darling Meg, and then later Davey – all our silly escapades. Do you remember those dreadful theatricals — me writing, you directing – and how we would give poor Meg the dullest parts? She could always be depended on to play ‘the mute’ or ‘the donkey’ or even ‘a flower’ without ever complaining. And Davey’s readiness to join in, despite his dreadful woodenness …
