Breakfast at Midnight
Page 28
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
A Question of Upbringing
Under the welcoming shade of a majestic old English oak, a ravenous George Brearly hurled himself onto the freshly spread picnic rug, almost hitting Agnes with his legs in the process. He then proceeded to crawl across the rug, until he was able to settle himself between Frances, Charlotte, and, more conveniently, near the picnic basket.
‘A rose between two thorns,’ he audaciously proclaimed, and while the young women laughed at his joke, he leant over the picnic basket and attempted to unfasten it.
‘George,’ Michael ventured loudly, ‘what do you think you are doing?’
‘Well, what does it look like I’m doing, Michael? I’m about to raid the basket for some decent food.’
‘Oh, no you don’t, George,’ Louisa interposed ill-naturedly.
‘What?’ George cried. ‘And why not? The food they served on board had all the flavour of sawdust. Suffice to say, I’m still hungry.’
‘You’re always hungry,’ Michael muttered.
‘I have good reason to be. That boat trip was tedious. It was three hours of unmitigated boredom, and the longest three hours of my life. Yes indeed, it was boredom in capital letters.’
‘Yes, thank you, George,’ Michael cut in quickly, ‘I think we comprehend your meaning.’
‘And did you hear the City Band playing?’ George went on regardless. ‘Their music was enough to make my stomach turn.’
‘I think you’ll find that that was mal de mer,’ Frances smilingly suggested.
‘Mal-der what-ee?’ George echoed. ‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’
‘Speaking of that boat trip,’ Louisa said, lowering her voice to a confiding tone, ‘I heard that there was a nasty altercation on board, between a young lady and a gentleman.’
Michael stared. ‘We’ll I’ll be bound!’
Louisa sighed. ‘Apparently, the young lady, if you can indeed call her that, inflicted the man with some sort of injury.’ She paused briefly, and while some members of the party drew in a sharp breath of censure, she brushed off some grass blades from her skirt. ‘I confess I did not hear all the particulars, and frankly, I did not want to hear the end of the story.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ Michael murmured. ‘Fancy behaving like that in public.’
‘As I understand it,’ Thomas Maycroft broke in tumidly, ‘the young woman struck the man with her parasol.’
The Wintersleigh party turned instinctively towards Thomas, waiting to hear what else he had to say. Thomas, however, could elaborate no further on the topic, and all attention was promptly returned to Louisa.
‘Oh no!’ Louisa breathed. ‘Have some people no shame? Cyril,’ she said, turning abruptly to her mute son-in-law, ‘you are a man of the cloth. What do you think of a young couple behaving like that in public?’ Before Cyril could answer, Louisa cut in. ‘Makes you question their upbringing, does it not?’
George, Agnes and Frances, meanwhile, were silent onlookers to this exchange, and while they contributed nothing themselves to the conversation, their downcast eyes, and in George’s case, a broad smile, alerted the intuitive Louisa to the fact that they were concealing something.
‘I don’t suppose you saw anything, George?’ Louisa probed. ‘You were up on deck at the time.’ She scrutinised him suspiciously through narrowing eyes.
George pretended to consider her question. ‘No, I can’t say that I did see anything, although I must add that I’m disappointed to have missed such a spectacle. It sounded, in the least, awfully entertaining.’
Frances smirked and attempted to hide her face under the shade of her parasol. She was not fast enough for her aunt, however, and in the next moment Louisa began to question her.
‘I see that you are also smiling, Frances,’ Louisa observed. ‘Do you think this is amusing?’ Frances refrained from answering. ‘I suppose you think it is acceptable for people to behave like that?’ Frances remained silent. ‘I cannot account for your upbringing, Frances, but in the Wentworth family such behaviour is most definitely unacceptable.’ She sniffed resolutely. ‘Oh, I should die of shame if my daughters ever behaved like that.’
Without warning, Frances and George exploded into irreverent laughter, and despite everyone’s questioning glances and Louisa’s stern rebuke, they continued to laugh uncontrollably. Even half-an-hour later, when the picnic had ended, and the party set off to explore the convict ruins, George and Frances had difficulty in suppressing their amusement. They could hardly exchange a look or word, before one or both of them succumbed to a seething fit of giggles.
The first stop was the old convict church, which was located quite a distance away from the main ruins. Bushfires in 1884 and in 1890 had taken their toll on the building, but fortunately large sections of the facade still remained intact. Despite the irreparable damage to the church, it was still an imposing looking structure, with its uniquely shaped windows and its distinctive dramatic spires.
As the party of nine meandered its way around the convict building, Thomas Maycroft’s voice was heard in the distance. ‘What an impressive place this is,’ he commented to anyone who would listen. ‘Such remarkable architecture. Look at those individual pick marks in the stone.’ He leant forward to stroke the indentations. ‘The markings were essentially decorative, and many convicts had their own unique design. I suppose they were like signatures.’
‘I’ll give him pick marks,’ George muttered under his breath. ‘Or better still,’ he added, directing his comments to his brother, ‘I’ll impale him with his own walking stick.’
‘Don’t be so impatient, George,’ Michael chided. ‘I’m sure Thomas has pretty nearly finished.’
In the background, however, Thomas Maycroft’s orotund voice was echoing around the structure. ‘Convict transportation to Van Diemen’s Land, or Tasmania, as it is now known, began in 1804 when the vessel Calcutta brought out…’
‘Damn and botheration,’ George sighed, ‘he’s going back to the beginning of settlement.’ He yawned and began scraping his fingernails on a ponderous slab of stone. ‘Come on, Tommy, old son,’ he shouted out. ‘Get to the point! We haven’t got all day you know!’
Thomas cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. ‘Whilst male and female convicts were sent out to Van Diemen’s Land, only male convicts were sent to Port Arthur. This facility was established in 1830 and was named after Lieutenant George Arthur, a keen disciplinarian. It was a prison for the very worst criminals. Convict boys lived nearby at a place called Point Puer, and as I understand it, it was the first juvenile prison established in the British Empire.’
‘By Jove, Jack,’ George said, looking down at his diminutive nephew, ‘you had better behave yourself or your Papa will send you…’
Thomas raised his voice to drown out the sound of his brother-in-law’s attempt at humour. ‘In the 1840’s incorrigible criminals could be sent either to Port Arthur or Norfolk Island. In Marcus Clarke’s novel, For the Term of his Natural Life…’
‘Then transportation ceased in 1853,’ an exasperated George interrupted, ‘and all remaining prisoners were transferred to the Hobart Gaol. The settlement eventually closed down in 1877 and the township of Port Arthur was thereafter known as Carnarvon. History in a nut-shell. There’s a lot to be said for it. Here endeth the lecture.’ Seeing the looks of astonishment around him, he sought to explain himself. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I’m not as idiotic as I look.’
‘It’s just as well,’ Frances quipped.
George smiled. ‘Why thank you. Well said. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a complete philistine. I do have some grey matter between my ears. Now, let’s get on with the tour. Thanks to old Tommy, I feel as though I have spent the term of my natural life in here. I’m fast losing the will to live.’
As a result of George’s words, the tour of the church did not last much longer, and once the party had withdrawn from the church, they set off in search of the infamous Penitentiary, a
nd accompanying watchman’s quarters that overlooked Mason’s Cove.