Out of the Silence

by Wendy James

  At this dreadful lie Sally Bateman’s face brightens and even busy-Lizzie stops her snorting and stamping.

  ‘Oh,’ says Sarah, ‘Truly? He didn’t mention—’

  ‘Well, no,’ I say, ‘he keeps quiet about these things. He wouldn’t want to attract fortune-hunters, now, would he?’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t do at all,’ I say firmly, ‘not seeing as how he’s just recently engaged to be married.’ I stay long enough to see their jaws drop, but not to hear them make any reply. I turn and leave the room and then push through the welter of bodies, looking for a way out, half blind with tears.

  Once outside I march about the place looking for Jack. I don’t care about making a spectacle of myself, and think nothing of walking right up to groups of men I’ve never met who are standing about smoking and yarning, and asking them if they’ve seen Jack Hardy, until finally I find him leaning up against a cattle shed. He’s alone, smoking away. I watch him for moment – just stand and look. There’s no doubt about it, he’s a fellow that would make any girl crazy, and for a moment I feel sorry for Sally Bateman and her plain face and know that I am lucky indeed to have such a man wanting me and that nothing – not fine dresses, or grand houses, or friends in high places – could be worth more than this: than knowing that it is me and no other that Jack Hardy wants.

  I call his name – only quietly, but he hears me as I knew he would, and wants me as he always does. And we come together right there in the darkness behind the cattle shed, with the noise of the dance and the lowing and tramping of the beasts drowning out all our own sounds.

  And even though there is no way to be certain of any other thing in the world, I am certain that I would risk anything to keep what is between the two of us.

  For love, I would risk anything, lose everything.

  Elizabeth

  Elizabeth Hamilton’s diary

  10 February, 1899

  A letter from Rob. He is to have a story – fiction this time – published in The Atlantic magazine, which is a very great honour he says: he will be in the most elevated company, with Mark Twain & Henry James & Mrs Beecher-Stowe amongst the many notables who have had their writings published therein over the years. He is to be paid well too, which pleases me greatly. I suspect he has very little of his capital left and the life of a writer is such an uncertain one. I cannot but think of his future, his prospects of attracting a respectable girl, setting up a home and so on. Though no doubt I worry too much …

  12 February

  Meg’s birthday. She would be twenty-two today. Impossible to imagine that sweet little imp a grown woman. I wonder who she would have become; what life she would be leading. And if she were still alive — everything would be different. Oh, the whole terrible chain of events would be utterly transformed — it doesn’t bear thinking about … Mama would not have been laid so low with grief, would never have succumbed; Davey would never have been travelling in that coach; and dear Father, whose poor heart was so utterly broken, might still be alive …

  Such senseless deaths — and the pain of loss has barely lessened over time. I cannot imagine that it ever does …

  And we who are left are still suffering …

  13 February

  Dreamt last night of the day Davey died. The same dream, always.

  As ever, there was no wonderful deviation from the actual occurrence, no happy ending. Only the nightmarish events, replayed. Relived. Those last few moments before D.’s departure for Edinburgh: I have thought to keep the secret to myself until after his final exams, but I cannot bear to any longer and I tell him of the baby — our baby! — and he’s unwilling to go. We make plans to move the wedding forward several months. We walk to the birch and stand close, Davey is worried and yet excited – this new little life! We are both overwhelmed by the idea of it – so wrong in one sense and yet there is no denying the utter rightness of it – for the two of us, and for Father too, for there has been so little to hold him to life since Meg and then Mother’s death. So really there can be no shame. He holds me in his arms for the longest time, and why I do not wake at this moment I don’t know, for then I would wake feeling warm and loved and secure.

  Instead, as always, the dream moves on relentlessly. I am sitting with my father in the drawing room. We hear Jeannie’s cries from the kitchen and rush in, imagining that she has cut herself with the carving knife or dropped some precious plate or cup, but no, and I see it so clearly: her ashen face turned to me – it is Jeannie’s face that looms in this dream, but distorted and grotesque – become some sort of tribal mask, barely human. ‘Oh, Bess,’ she cries, ‘Miss Bess … an accident … Dr Lewis … his carriage … it’s overturned and he, poor, poor lad …’ and me saying nothing, but standing stock-still, mute, paralysed. My world slipping away as surely as if it was my spine that had been crushed.

  Why is it always that day rather than the many happy days of my life that is relived – those days that were filled with all the small joys of being where I wanted and with those I loved? Like Miss Brontë, I ‘wake to woe’, but why, I wonder, am I never allowed to ‘dream of bliss’?

  17 February

  Accompanied Harriet to the Australian Church this morning, instead of usual service with James. Dr Strong at the pulpit. Can see why they are so taken with his preachings – not at all evangelical as I feared, and not a crank, though I can see why James would object. He certainly has far more to say about the necessity of social and political reform than we are used to at our little church! Still, he spoke sensibly and challengingly on the ‘ideal of marriage’. He believes that our respect for this sacred institution has been degraded in this modern commercial age – an age he sees as being characterised by false individualism, thoughtlessness, pleasure-seeking, abrogation of duty. That family life is too often regarded with aversion, and motherhood is seen (often justly) as slavery. That the love of children, ‘one of the most beautiful emotions of the human breast’, is being destroyed. That if we are to improve mankind, if mankind is to continue to progress, we must ensure that our young are nurtured in an environment that is just, moral and godly.

  Must confess to being pleasantly surprised and somewhat impressed. He seemed rather an unassuming man from the pulpit: slight, long-bearded, his speech subdued but forceful. When he shook my hand after the service his gaze was quite penetrating and a little unnerving.

  21 February

  A letter from Thisbe Tucker. She says that her father had at last found a woman to teach them, but that the poor thing broke her leg rather badly and now cannot work. Thisbe says they all wish that I would return. Her father is having plans prepared for a new homestead, which she says will have five bedrooms, one expressly designed for a governess and with every imaginable comfort. She writes that her grandmother is insisting that the girls return to Melbourne if their education cannot be properly arranged. Thisbe says she will not go – that she and her sisters will never be parted from their poor father again; that an education means nothing … She is right to insist on the sanctity of her family – how could I argue against such devotion? – but then her grandmother’s argument has its merits, too.

  24 February

  I’ve suggested to Vida that the school purchase typewriters for the older girls and that we provide a course in shorthand, thereby extending our teaching program and perhaps increasing our numbers. Vida impressed that I possess such skills and I’m pleased that time spent acquiring them is not to be completely wasted.

  Stopped in at Whitelaw’s – bought pair of horseskin boots for winter. 22/6. Expensive, but the girl assured me extremely serviceable.

  2 March

  Only James and I at home for tea – Harriet at a suffrage meeting. Alice appeared in a somewhat agitated state after main course – there was a woman at the door, she said, who insisted on seeing the lady of the house. Despite Alice’s insistence that Mrs Hawkins was out for the evening, the woman would not go away – stating that
she would not be put off by a mere housekeeper, and that she would speak to the lady of the house, even if she had to camp on the doorstep … J. offered to see her off the premises without further ado; I volunteered to talk to her – and this despite the fact that the pudding looked particularly appetising. James patently relieved – he’s no doubt quite familiar with the types of visitor his mother is likely to receive at this time of night.

  Woman was quite peculiar. Gave her name as Mrs Susy Day. She appeared to be in her late fifties, grey with dirt and smelling of liquor, clothed only in the lightest of shifts. I offered her a hot drink, which she declined, and to act as a messenger for any information she’d care to pass on to Mrs Hawkins. Her response – the most comprehensive tongue-lashing I’ve ever experienced – went something like this: ‘Well you can pass on this to that b——y old so and so! She knows I’ve got three children to take care of since that b—— went on his merry way. I’ve had a hard time feedin’ ’em let alone meself and that b——y committee goes and stops me credit. That b—— Mr C. says I’m only ’titled to two shillin’s bread money a week, but what good’s that to me and what right ’as that old b—— to stop me voucher? I ain’t had no work for three months and it don’t look like things are gettin’ any better and look at what I bin reduced to wearing, and I’m this close – this close – to going back on the street and if it’s because she’s heard that I’m livin’ with that b—— George Downey that’s a d——d lie and I’ll be d——d if I should have to starve my children because of some d——d gossip – and what’s it to her if I have a bit of fun, anyway? B——y charity ladies are all the same – cold b——s. Could probably do with a fella herself …’

  I finally persuaded her to cease with a two-shilling piece – more gladly handed over than taken I think! – and a promise that I would speak to Mrs H. on her behalf and that this grave injustice would be looked into immediately. She left still muttering and cursing, and poor Alice (her face even paler than usual) bolted the door after her.

  Quite lost my appetite after that encounter.

  10 March

  Persuaded by Harriet to attend meeting of the Australian Church Literary Society. A Mrs Galvan gave a talk on the civilising influence of the mother figure in English literature. No doubt very learned, but she spoke far too quietly, far too expressionlessly. Much surreptitious yawning throughout the hall, I’m afraid.

  24 March

  Letter from Rob. Very excited – he has received a commission from a Boston newspaper to travel about the American continent, going wherever his fancy takes him, to write a series of ‘first impressions’ pieces. He’ll be travelling for several months – destinations unknown, but says he might go as far as Mexico – so will not be able to receive letters for all that time. Feel dreadfully bereft – even though he is thousands of miles away he is my only real link with my past.

  28 March

  Beautiful autumn afternoon – took the senior girls to play tennis with the boys from Dr Dewar’s – as part of new physical regime. Both Elsie and Vida played – Vida most impressive. Strong, certain, graceful. I haven’t played since the summer Davey died. Girls certainly benefit from their contact with boys – no missish or coquettish behaviour to be seen (other than Renée Partridge, who is never otherwise). Made something of a fool of myself – these Australian girls are so vigorous and competitive and there was no one but Cynthia Crawford, who can always be relied upon for her kindness, enthusiastic to take me on as a doubles partner, so I retired as early as possible to the umpire’s chair. My vision’s perfectly competent, so no complaints there.

  11 April

  Elsie has very kindly supplied me with some volumes of Australian verse from her library. I would like to use these in my seniors class – important for the girls to see their own countrymen and perhaps their own country as a subject fit for artistic endeavour. James is of the opinion that there is nothing colonial worth the paper it is printed on – that it’s all third-rate, though he feels the stories of Mr Lawson could perhaps be regarded as second-rate, and that I would do better to stick to Shakespeare and Tennyson and so on; that I will only provoke complaints from the girls and their parents.

  Poor James, I think he regards everything that is ‘colonial’ as being but a pale, deficient imitation of home. He doesn’t see what a newcomer, whose knowledge of home is borne of long experience rather than mythology and sentimentality, sees: that this is a place brimming with potentialities rather than deficiencies, and that the newness he so despises is what makes it so remarkable. Here, they have been given an opportunity to keep what is the best and to discard those traditions that are old & tired & meaningless … and what could be better. Already — as in some American states – several of the Australian colonies allow women to vote, and this legal right seems to me to be an institutional reflection of the wonderful independence of spirit that is characteristic of the Australian woman. It’s a freedom that extends beyond the individual and into wider society. At home, women like Miss Goldstein would be viewed by many as being ‘beyond the pale’ and would be shunned & subtly excluded from polite society. Here only a small minority view her as a crank – she is generally accorded the respect that is her due.

  I think James’s negativity will ultimately be proved wrong – that they are in the process of creating something first-rate here.

  21 April

  In the evening visited Enid Gregory. Have put it off as long as possible but really no way out now without appearing abominably rude. Cannot help but feel sorry for her – despite her various defects of character she certainly doesn’t deserve all that has befallen her since arriving at the colony. (Since leaving home if one is to count her dreadful seasickness.) Poor thing says that having me as her cabinmate was her only bit of good fortune. Impossible to be unkind, though really I would be pleased to avoid her altogether – can’t help wondering whether her inability to get on with all those around her, her propensity for taking over, for always asserting herself as best and first, exacerbates her condition.

  Her circumstances are thus: she lives in a boarding house for indigent governesses in a miserable cramped room up flights and flights of stairs. No light, no fresh air, unbearably stifling in the heat of summer, I’d imagine. It barely justifies the term ‘room’, being only slightly larger than a closet with just a bed, a small deal table, a little window overlooking some nasty lane and one chair, which she insisted I take. Offered up a dinner of tinned ham and stale bread – I had brought a basket of fruit and eggs and madeira cake baked yesterday, so was pleased to be able to help in that small way. She says she has very little money other than a small allowance provided by a family trust – the room costs 17/s a week and that only leaves her a few shillings to clothe and feed herself. She hasn’t eaten fresh fruit for months, can only afford eggs once a fortnight and meat rarely. (I couldn’t help thinking of the enormous cuts that are served up at our table so regularly – Clio is probably better fed.)

  She’s in a terrible state and it seems has no prospect of work; says she has pleaded with the society who arranged her employment for assistance to return home, though she is quite unable to repay her fare out. Has complained to them that the work is not what she was led to expect and not with the sort of people she is used to. She is, as she has seen fit to inform me on numerous occasions, from a respectable family – a minister’s daughter – and is adamant that her education was ‘not to be put to waste cleaning other people’s homes and teaching the brats of bog Irish who are not fit to spit on my boots’. She sneered when I suggested that the colony seemed to me to be a great and bold experiment – people able to rise by merit rather than birth – and that perhaps opportunities would appear if she would only be flexible and receptive. ‘You were not willing to remain in your last position,’ she pointed out rather coldly – and of course what she says is true.

  And my situation is certainly now far removed from hers; indeed in comparison my circumstances appear excessively fort
unate. I promised her that I would make inquiries on her behalf, but as she refuses to consider employment with those that she feels are of a lower social standing, I can’t see how she will get on, and couldn’t in all honesty recommend her. I would not call myself bold, rather the opposite – but still there is a degree of resourcefulness, a willingness to make-do when necessary that I know I do have, and these traits are perhaps a requirement for success in this new world … I will see what can be done – perhaps Cousin H. will know of some suitable position.

  I am not sure what poor Enid expected from the colony (though I have a suspicion that she had some hopes of securing a mate) and I cannot see what will become of her if she is not able to secure her passage home. Though her situation there is unlikely to be any better …

  She brought out a bottle of gin the moment we finished our meagre meal, and much about her was instantly explained. She has, in her misery, succumbed & I can’t say that I blame her, her prospects certainly would lead one to despair.

  There but for the grace of God, etc.

  24 April

  Typewriters were delivered today – quite an expense, but the way of the future, no doubt. Eventually, Elsie twitters, nobody will bother to write. Don’t think she should give up on her handwriting classes just yet, however. Can’t imagine typing replacing writing. There is something about holding a pen and about our individual markings … A great deal of the pleasure of reading and writing would be lost if we were only to communicate in such a uniform way.