But standing in front of Lieutenant Blackwell, I felt that old fear returning. I felt unsteady around him, as though those expressionless eyes were prising away the wall I’d erected around myself to keep my terror at bay.
Full of hate, Lottie had said. But when I looked at Blackwell, I didn’t see hate. I didn’t see anger. I didn’t see anything at all. And that, I realised, was what made me feel so damn unbalanced.
“I have shelter,” he said after a moment.
I shook my head. “I know the price of shelter in this place.”
“Four shillings a week,” he said evenly.
“And what else?”
No response.
“I don’t have four shillings a week.” I put my head down and walked, making it clear our discussion was over.
*
That night, thunder rolled in across the mountains and the air thickened with approaching rain. Black clouds drained the colour from the sky.
I crouched with my back against the wall of the church. The awnings above my head were narrow and I knew they would do little to keep out the rain.
My stomach groaned. Hunger seemed to be seeping into every part of me; weakening my legs and tangling my thoughts. Tears pricked my eyes and I blinked them away. I couldn’t find the energy to cry.
It was my empty stomach that led me to the tavern. Lamps flickered in the windows, and I could hear a muffled roar of laughter coming from inside. I had never been in such a place before, and I was dimly aware that I ought to have been nervous. But things had gone too far for that. What room was there for emotions as petty as nervousness when my life had been pared down to a thing of survival?
I pushed open the door. The place was cramped and noisy, bathed in hot orange light. Men in grimy shirtsleeves were clustered at the bar, and at the crooked tables dotted around the room. I spotted a few women among them; faces I’d seen at the spinning wheels that day.
I glanced around, my heart thudding.
What was I seeking? Money? Food? A man who would use my body as payment for shelter from the rain? I wasn’t sure. I only knew that staying beneath the awnings of the church tonight would nudge me towards insanity.
I saw it then, on the edge of a table; a plate of roasted meat, two chunks of potato. A man sat with his back to it, howling with laughter, far too engrossed in the woman on his lap to bother with his supper. I edged towards the plate, as calmly as I could. Eyes down, cap pulled low. With my striped skirts and fiery hair, I knew I would draw attention. And before I could think, could hesitate, could judge myself, the potatoes were in my apron pocket.
The man whirled around at my movement. “Hey!”
He tipped the woman off his lap and made a grab for my wrist, but I was already darting towards the door. I clattered my way through chairs and bodies. Raced out into the street. I turned down the narrow alley beside the tavern and hurried into the thick darkness.
“Where the hell are you?” the man called. I could see the dark shape of him at the top of the alley. I pressed myself against the wall, holding my breath.
The sky opened suddenly, sending the man hurrying back into the tavern. I lifted my face upwards, grateful for the downpour. Water pelted the road, turning it to mud in seconds. I hurried back towards the church and pressed myself against the wall, trying to find shelter beneath the narrow awnings. Rivulets of water rolled from the roof and slid down the back of my neck. With each shard of lightning, pieces of Parramatta were lit up, picked out from the enormity of the surrounding forest. Rain drummed loudly against the earth, making the bush smell fresh and clean.
And then there was a figure a few yards from the church. Between the shafts of lightning, he was little more than a silhouette, but his height left no doubt as to who it was.
I turned away. I didn’t want him here, with his I have shelter and his ludicrous pretence that I would not have to part with a piece of myself in order to claim it.
He came towards me slowly, footsteps sucking through the wet earth.
“I don’t need shelter,” I said, before he could speak. I gave an empty laugh; a laugh to keep myself from screaming. Rain ran down my cheeks. Ran down his cheeks. It pooled in the mud at our feet.
“And that is a humorous thing, is it?” he asked.
I didn’t answer. In spite of his authority, I felt no need, or desire, to justify myself to this man. I took a step back, my shoulders pressing hard against the wall of the church.
He stood for a moment with his head tilted. He was still wearing his coat, but his head was bare and his gorget removed. Had he returned to his hut, then thought better of it, and headed out into the storm to rescue me? Why did the thought of that make me so uncomfortable?
“What is it that stops you from trusting me?” he asked. “Is it my uniform? Or is it the man inside it?”
“I don’t have money to pay for lodgings,” I said. I did not want to go into issues such as trust. I just wanted him gone.
“There are other ways to pay for lodgings,” he said.
I gritted my teeth, shook my head. “Please leave.”
He stood motionless, eyes fixed on me. “How can you sleep out here?”
“I’ll manage,” I said. But I was sure he hadn’t heard me. The wild weather had carried my words away. A sense of complete and utter hopelessness pressed down on me. This storm, this land, this dark, it would swallow me.
Blackwell slid a hand around the top of my arm. “Come on now. You’re being foolish.”
My breath caught. “You’re going to force me?”
But I walked with him, because what other choice was there? Take me to shelter. Take the last scrap of dignity I have left.
It had taken me less than two nights to crumble, to succumb to this twisted game Parramatta was playing.
For the first time since I had arrived in this place, I let my tears fall.
CHAPTER FOUR
When we reached a small mud hut at the far end of the village, Blackwell let go of my arm. Beyond the building I could see nothing but darkness.
He opened the door and gestured for me to enter. I stood frozen in the doorway, wiping my eyes hurriedly with my wet sleeve. The lieutenant stepped awkwardly past me, his dark head inches from the roof.
“You’re frightened,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to get you inside. These storms are dangerous. They’re far more wild than those in England. Last month a man was killed by a falling tree.” He lit a lamp and turned to face me, his hollow cheeks darkened with stubble. Thick brown hair was plastered to his head, water dripping from the ends. The dancing light left shadows beneath his eyes.
I wondered distantly if he would chase me if I ran.
He took a step towards me, and I inhaled sharply, but he just reached over my shoulder to close the door. I stood with my back pressed against it and glanced about the hut.
The sleeping pallet was narrow, pressed up against a wall, a wash basin beside it. A crooked brick chimney climbed into the thatched roof, a blackened pot hanging from a hook above the grate. Crooked shelves jutted out from one wall, lined with jars of potted meat and a bottle of liquor. A pile of books sat on the shelf below. A table was pressed into a corner of the room, the lamp flickering in the centre.
Water drizzled in through the cloth covering the small window, rain pattering in the puddles outside the hut. Thunder rumbled distantly. The storm was moving, I realised, drifting away from us, moving out towards the ocean. I could hear the faint burble of the river behind the hut.
“Please,” I said huskily, “I don’t want this.” Every inch of my body felt taut. “Just let me go back out.” When he didn’t speak, I added, “The storm is passing.”
Blackwell slid off his wet jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. “What’s your name?”
I swallowed. “Eleanor Marling.” I didn’t know why I’d introduced myself that way. No one had called me Eleanor since my father had died.
Blackwell r
eached for the cloth that hung on a hook beside the table. He held it out to me. “Dry yourself.”
I wiped my face and squeezed the water from my hair. I sat the damp lump of fabric on the table. It was streaked with the dirt I had wiped from my cheeks. Blackwell looked down at the bulge in my apron.
“What’s in your pocket?”
Panic welled up inside me. Twice I’d broken the law. And twice I’d been caught.
I brought out the potatoes and sat them on the table.
“Where did you get those?”
I looked up at him. What point was there in lying? “I stole them from the tavern.” I swallowed heavily. “My meat was rotten. And I’ve no way of making bread.”
He nodded.
I gripped the edge of the table, my legs weak beneath me. Blackwell looked down at the potatoes.
“Eat them,” he said. “You must be hungry.”
I hesitated. Was I walking into a trap? Would he haul me to the cells the moment I took the first bite? But then my hunger got the better of me.
The lowest point of my life, I saw then, was not the moment I’d been arrested. Or sharing a shit bucket with fifty women at Newgate. It was this moment; here, now, eating a stolen potato, about to sell my body to the redcoats, with the filth of the factory clinging to my skin. I turned my face downwards as I ate, unable to look another person in the eye.
Blackwell took a loaf from the shelf and broke off the end. Held it out to me.
I chewed slowly, the dry bread sticking in my throat. But the food in my stomach took away an ache that had begun to consume me.
I could feel Blackwell’s eyes on me. Could feel the heat rising from his body. I closed my eyes. I had eaten his bread now. The thing was done. I owed him compensation, and my only way of paying was to lie on my back and lift my skirts.
He opened a wooden storage chest beside the bed and took out a thin grey blanket. Laid it on the floor in front of the empty grate. “You’ll sleep here.”
I watched him smooth the edges of the blanket across the uneven dirt floor. What was this? If he was going to take me, I just wanted it over with.
But I went to it, that thin little blanket by the unlit fire. My sodden skirts tangled around my legs, dampening the blanket. I was barely warmer than I had been on the street. Blackwell crouched in front of the grate and laid a fire, despite the water drizzling down the chimney. I shuffled backwards and hugged my knees to avoid his arm brushing against mine.
The fire hissed and spat before taking. I watched a line of steam rise from my clothing. I was acutely aware of Blackwell’s presence as he moved slowly around the edges of the hut, rearranging things that didn’t need rearranging. The silence was thick and heavy. Rain pattered dully against the window.
He took a book from the shelf and carried it to his sleeping pallet. He slid off his boots, and stretched out on his side, a blanket pulled to his waist and the book opened on the floor beside him.
A faint flicker of hope stirred inside me; perhaps he wouldn’t come to me that night. But that scrap of hope felt too dangerous. I steeled myself against it.
I looked past him to the door. I could reach it without difficulty.
I could run.
But I didn’t. What was keeping me there? Was it the warmth of the fire, or the roof over my head? Was it the faint flicker of curiosity I felt for this man? Perhaps I just wanted to see who would be first to break this silence.
I shivered hard and shuffled closer to the fire. Blackwell looked up from his book.
“Your clothes are wet,” he said. “If you sleep in them you’ll get ill.”
His words were matter of fact. No threat, no lechery. But I understood them to be an order. I wrapped the blanket around myself and reached beneath it to unbutton my bodice, wriggling out of my dress and laying it beside the fire to dry.
Was he still watching me? I couldn’t tell. I dared a glance over my shoulder. His eyes were on his book, but the muscles in his forearm were tense beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves.
There were no more words. Just a thick, weighty silence and the crackle of the fire.
I see now, with painful clarity, that I should never have set foot inside that hut. I ought to have stayed beneath the awnings of the church and let the rain soak me through to my bones. But I didn’t leave. Instead, I stayed with the blanket pulled to my chin, hardly daring to breathe. Waiting for footsteps to come towards me. Waiting for the moment that I lost a part of myself.
*
When I opened my eyes, dawn was flooding the hut and Lieutenant Blackwell’s sleeping pallet was empty. I sat up, rolling the stiffness out of my shoulders.
I’d done my best to stay awake through the night, but exhaustion had finally pulled me down. It was a surprise to be woken by the morning light and not the lieutenant’s breath on my skin.
I climbed to my feet and folded the blanket, hanging it over the back of a chair. My skirts were still damp and smelled of wet wool.
My eyes moved to the small wash basin sitting beside the storage chest. It was filled with clean water, a bar of soap and a washcloth resting on the rim. It was almost as though it had been placed there for me. I knew it foolish to think such a thing. I would likely be punished if Blackwell returned and discovered me splashing about in his washbin uninvited. But I didn’t care. I could barely remember the last time my skin hadn’t been caked in grime.
I plunged the washcloth into the water, scrubbing at my arms until they were red. I sloughed away at my face and neck, then lifted my skirts and worked the cloth up my legs, beneath my shift and across my stomach. I worked the soap suds over my body, inhaling their faintly sweet scent. Tears of gratitude overcame me. I had become so accustomed to the layer of filth on my skin, to my own stench of grime and sweat and saltwater. With soap suds gliding over my body, I felt fleetingly, preciously human again.
I looked back at the basin. I had left the water murky and brown. I carried it outside and emptied it into the vegetable patch behind the hut. Then I went to the river and refilled the basin, ready for Blackwell’s return.
I stepped back out into the street, the door scraping loudly as I tugged it closed. Broken as my sleep had been, it was better than any I could remember. There was a clarity to my thoughts I’d not had for months.
I crossed the bridge and walked towards the factory, a wry smile on my lips. I tried to imagine the prisoners at Newgate walking obediently back down Giltspur Street to be let back into their cells.
As I reached the jail, I stopped abruptly. A man had a convict woman pinned up against the wall, driving into her with loud, rhythmic grunts. The woman caught my eye and I turned away hurriedly. I couldn’t bear to look. Not at what was happening to her. And not at that haunted expression in her eyes.
On the Norfolk, I, like all the other women, had not been spared male attention.
A young ship’s mate had ever so kindly chaperoned me back down below after we’d been let out to wash. Invited me to lift my skirts.
I shook my head, grabbing my dress from my bunk and holding it against my wet shift to shield myself. “Leave me alone.” He could force me, yes, I knew that well. But why bother? There was nothing about me that warranted a fight. There were plenty of women who were willing. Talk rippled regularly through our quarters of girls who had earned a little extra favour by seeing to the sailors’ needs. An hour of fresh air. A scrap of extra bread. A comfortable bed for the night.
“I can do things for you in return,” the ship’s mate said. “I’ll call on your family in England. Give them news of you.”
Later, I found out this ship’s hand had promised to call on families from Glasgow to London with news of their wayward daughters.
I gave him a wry smile. “No one’s waiting for news of me.”
Foolishly, I’d imagined bartering with our bodies might end once we were back on solid ground. But I was quickly coming to learn the currency of this place. Coming to learn where the women in striped skirts fitted
into the puzzle.
I hurried up the stairs, eyes down and my thoughts churning. I was acutely aware that I had not paid for my night on Blackwell’s floor. Not in coin, not with my body. I couldn’t fathom his intentions.
When the bells rang at the factory that night, what would I do? I’d been gifted a night of food and fire, and I knew myself lucky. Going back to that hut felt like I was tempting fate. But what was the alternative? Lottie was right; I could hardly spend my entire sentence sleeping in the street.
It was a decision for the evening, I told myself as I took my seat at the spinning wheel. I was coming to learn that the best way to survive in this place was to look no further than the moment I had in front of me.
Out the window that day I caught my first glimpse of the reverend. I’d heard talk of Samuel Marsden the day before; magistrate of Parramatta, assistant chaplain of the colony and, if the women in the factory were to be believed, father of every illegitimate child this side of Sydney.
Maggie Abbott, one of the most outspoken women in the factory, stuck up a finger as she filed past the window on her way to the carding machine. “Would you just look at that bastard? Strutting around with his chest puffed out like he were the king himself.”
I glanced out the grime-streaked glass. I guessed Marsden close to forty; broad and flat-faced with pale, thinning hair. He swept past the factory, dark robes billowing, without a glance in our direction.
I took a sack of carded fleece from the corner of the room and carried it to my spinning wheel.
“Off he goes,” Maggie sang as she made her way to the wheel beside me. “Potato on legs. And with all the mind of one too.”
On the other side of her, Hannah gave a snort of laughter.
“Quiet, all of you,” barked the superintendent. I hid a smile and tucked myself onto my stool.
Soft sobbing was coming from the woman behind me. I tried not to look at her. I wondered if Maggie’s jabbering had been intended to block out the sound of the woman’s grief.
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