by Peter Corris
Something about Smale reminded John Gulliver of his father, 'Tom the Gypsy', who'd faked a few paintings in his time, forged a signature or two and minted some gold using, for the greater part, lead. Gulliver knew and feared his own larcenous streak and knew that it was only Kitty who had kept him out of gaol. The business with Smale had seemed harmless enough. How could reading or looking at pictures hurt anybody? Smale had told him that the ancient Romans had produced such works and the Chinese and Indians and every race of men under the sun.
Well, perhaps Romans, Chinese and Indians had paid penalties, as he had. The loss of his worldly goods and even the hard fact of exile he'd been willing to endure, but not this. His heart was broken. He could still feel the chill on Catherine's lips as he bent over to kiss her. Sobs shook his body and his strength seemed to diminish with every fresh gust of weeping.
'John Gulliver, aged 57, husband of the late Catherine Gulliver, died this day of typhus,' Dr Anderson wrote in his journal. 'He appears to have become infected from close contact with the corpse of his wife and to have offered no resistance to the disease.' After this entry the doctor wrote up the daily statistics on the course of the epidemic: fatal cases, 9; serious, 5; recovering, 12. He turned the page and a thought struck him. What had become of the infant Catherine Gulliver had given birth to? Was it still alive? He doubted it. He was exhausted and lay down to sleep, pledging to enquire of the nurse the next day. His last waking thought was: What in hell will become of all those orphans?
6
London, August 1986
Jerry Gallagher sat in the sunlight falling on the steps of the British Museum. She had agreed when Ben suggested that she might like to fill in for him and receive Jamie Martin's latest report, and Jamie had suggested the BM as a meeting place. Jerry had become fascinated with the Gullivers and was eager to share the feeling with Jamie; Ben seemed increasingly distracted from the search. He conferred frequently with Monty and once she had caught him abruptly changing the subject and his tone of voice when she came in unexpectedly as he spoke to his father on the telephone. Ben had said that the lawyers were pressing Monty for results, but Jerry doubted the truth of this. If it were true, surely Ben would be pressing Jamie. And he wasn't; he wasn't even very interested in meeting him.
Jerry stood as Jamie approached through the gates. He was almost running and the pigeons scattered in front of him. Jerry noticed how well he moved as he dodged old people and strolling couples.
"Hello," Jamie gasped. "I'm so glad to see you."
Jerry smiled and touched his arm. "Me too. You look as if you've got news."
"Yes, I have. Where shall we go? Inside?"
Jerry shook her head. "Too nice a day. Let's find some grass and sit." Jerry was wearing loose beige trousers, medium heels and a long white cotton shirt belted at the waist. Jamie drew himself up to his full five feet nine and was glad he had worn his clean jeans. He found it hard to take his eyes off her. Twice she had to stop him from stepping heedlessly out into traffic. They walked into the Bloomsbury and found the grass in the precincts of London University.
"How's Ben?"
Jerry shrugged. "Secretive and morose. What's your news? Do I have to take notes?"
Jamie pulled a sheet of paper from his hip pocket. "No. I can give you the gist of it. I'll type something more formal up later. I just got this stuff today. This morning."
Jerry smiled. The mention of Ben had dropped her spirits momentarily, but Jamie's enthusiasm was infectious. "What stuff?"
"The passenger list from the Australian end. A friend faxed it from Canberra."
"You haven't got a fax machine, have you?"
"No, but I know someone who has."
"Well, come on, come on. Did the Gullivers survive the voyage? They must have, or you wouldn't be looking so full of yourself."
Jamie wanted to tell her that just seeing her made him feel good and that he'd feel the same if the ship had burned to the waterline off South Africa. Instead, he assumed a serious expression. "John and Catherine Gulliver died of the fever within a few days of each other. They were buried at sea."
"Oh, God," Jerry gasped. "How awful. Poor things." She knew what Ben would be hoping—that the fever had reduced the Gulliver brood to a more manageable size. Damn Ben! she thought. "What about the kids, Jamie? What about them?"
Jamie saw that her distress was genuine. He had felt something the same when he'd seen the black marks on the photocopied sheets, and the words "buried at sea" had an ominous ring of eternity about them. "The children whose names we know all survived, but there's a remarkable thing here—Catherine Gulliver had another child, born just before she died."
"That's sad," Jerry said. "I suppose it died pretty soon after."
Jamie shook his head. "No, it didn't die. It . . . I don't know what sex it was or what name it was given. The list just calls it an infant. Anyway, it was still alive when the Southern Maid reached Australia."
"That's amazing," Jerry said.
"That's not all." Jamie stretched and moved a little closer to Jerry. They were sitting on a patch of yellowed grass across which a spindly tree was just beginning to cast some shadow. The sunlight in Jerry's hair created an aura around her head. Jamie wanted desperately to touch her. Jerry didn't move away. She plucked at some leaves on the grass.
"Ben won't be pleased about an extra body," Jamie said.
"Bugger Ben. I don't know what would please him lately."
"He did some historical research himself, didn't he?"
Jerry nodded. "A bit. He gave it up. How did you know?"
"Oh, I heard. It's a small community in a way." He didn't add that he'd heard the suspicion voiced that Ben Cromwell's idea of 'original' research wasn't orthodox. "Have you ever seen the Turner?"
"No," Jerry said. "Why?"
"Are you sure it exists?"
Jerry's mind was jerked to the mysterious phone call. "I'm not sure." She didn't want to think these thoughts. She looked at Jamie as he pushed back his thick, fair hair that was starting to curl on his collar. She was suddenly aware that she was smelling him and not getting the stale alcohol smells she got from Ben or the reck of tobacco emitted by Montague.
"Ben told me you smoked Gauloises," she said.
Jamie brushed his hand across the dry grass. "That was an affectation born of having a few quid in my pocket. I stopped it."
Jerry smiled. "Good. You said that the passenger list wasn't all you had."
"Right. Right." Jamie was glad to get off the dangerous ground of the Cromwells' intentions. "I'm going back out to the PRO in Kew tomorrow. I hope they can turn up the medical officer's journal." Jamie glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand for the first time. "Ah, Dr Percival Anderson. I've never seen one of these things, but I expect it could give us a lead. The MO's the most likely person to have made arrangements for the children."
"What about the chaplain?"
"Good point." Jamie pulled a ballpoint from his shirt pocket and scribbled a note. "I didn't think of that. You're not religious, are you, Jerry?"
Jerry laughed. "Me? Come on. No way. Look, I could do with a coffee."
Jamie jumped up and extended his hand to her. Jerry took it and he pulled her up slowly. Her hand was firm and strong; she steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder while she adjusted a shoe strap. They didn't speak until they were back in Great Russell Street. "So the next move is to track the Gulliver kids in Australia?" Jerry said.
"Yep." Jamie took her arm as they crossed at the lights. "All five of them."
7
Fremantle Harbour, June 1910
"I can offer the lad a job and a home," Clive Rooney said.
Jack stood beside Rooney uncomfortably. He was as tall as and more muscular than this man who was volunteering to sponsor him, and during the ill-fated voyage of the Southern Maid he'd become used to being his own master. This situation, where men disposed of him simply because they were older, irked him. But he stood and endured it—beca
use of the pain he felt at his parents' death, because of his burning need to get off the ship that had lain quarantined for weeks in Fremantle harbour, and because of Trudie.
"Is this what you want, Gulliver?" Roger Duff said. The captain and the doctor had constituted themselves a tribunal on the disposal of the Gulliver children. The interview took place in the doctor's cabin on the day that the West Australian authorities had agreed that passengers from the vessel could land.
Dr Anderson, who felt a vague sense of responsibility for the whole Gulliver plight, looked at the strong, dark youth whose hard, lean face was set in a way that suggested stubbornness combined with intelligent self-interest. "Jack?" Anderson said. "You can have your say."
"I'd like to work for Mr Rooney," Jack said.
The answer did not satisfy Anderson. "What about your sister and brothers?"
Jack shrugged. "They'll have to look after themselves."
The captain made a quick note on a sheet of paper. "Right," he said. "Best of luck to both of you. You can go ashore in an hour."
Rooney and Jack nodded and left the cabin. Roger Duff sighed and turned to the doctor. "Not the most engaging youth I've ever met, but I suppose he's been through a lot of life in a rush. What d'ye think, doctor?"
Anderson drew his journal towards him and flipped it open. "I think he's going to need a deal of luck not to become gaol bait or worse."
"Yes," the captain said. "Well, I wished him luck, didn't I?"
Clive Rooney, Hester and Trudie Peel and Jack Gulliver stood in the hot, dusty street outside their hotel in Fremantle, where the cab had deposited them. Jack was subdued; he had made brief farewells to Carl, Susannah and Edward. For the baby he felt only hostility. He shook his head as if attempting to expel the associations of sixteen years, feelings and memories. He knew he would never forget the sight of his parents' bodies, wrapped in canvas, one so much bigger than the other, sliding into the sea.
Clive Rooney cleared his throat. "Let's get settled. And then we all need a drink."
"Yes," said Jack who had acquired something of a taste for rum aboard ship. "That's what we need all right."
Rooney booked a room for himself and Jack and one for Trudie and her mother, but the four did not even go through the motions of observing these arrangements. Jack and Trudie slept together in a proper bed for the first time that night and, also for the first time, Jack failed at sex.
"What's the matter?" Trudie sat up in the bed, surprised and distressed, while Jack huddled under the sheet.
"Dunno," Jack said. "Too much beer, I suppose. I've gotta sleep, Trade."
He was snoring within minutes, leaving Trudie staring at the wall. True, he has drunk a lot, she thought, but it was a celebration, wasn't it? They were off the damn ship, in the new country at last, and Clive Rooney had money in his pockets. But Clive Rooney hadn't got drunk as he'd outlined his plans.
"I've got enough to buy a little pub in a nice town," he'd said. "Not too far from here and Perth. We build it up, do everything nice. I never heard of a publican in Australia who didn't make money. Then we expand, see? Get a farm for Jack and Trudie. Me 'n' your mother might give you a couple of brothers and sisters, Trudie."
Trudie and her mother looked doubtful but Clive was full of visions for his future as a man of importance in some provincial locality. Jack had said nothing and drunk glass after glass of the cold, strong beer. Clive Rooney hadn't got drunk. Trudie imagined that she could hear the bed-springs squeaking in the room next door. She sighed and snuggled down next to Jack.
At three a.m. Trudie felt Jack's sour breath on her face. She woke with a start as he kissed her savagely. She felt him press urgently against her. His hands found her breasts, forced her legs apart. She moaned and clawed at him, pulling him close and stroking him with her hands. "Ooh, ooh, Jacky. Yes. Ooh, that's better. Ooh, yes, put it in, lovey. Put it in!"
They made love energetically and inventively, rolling over in the bed and struggling to get closer and to have more freedom for the delicious movements. When Trudie climaxed Jack clamped his hand over her mouth and stifled the sound. He thrust hard into her and bucked and thudded into his own orgasm. He grunted, but made no more noise than a restless sleeper.
"Why did you do that?" Trudie said after they'd finished and lay in a tangle of legs and bedsheets. "Who cares if they hear?"
Jack stroked her hair. "I don't want to live on some bloody farm buried in the bloody country. Do you?"
They packed and left the hotel. Jack had saved money from his enterprises on board ship and by the time Clive Rooney and Hester Peel woke up, Jack and Trudie were on a train to Adelaide. They looked older then their years and neither was shy. Jack bought newspapers as they travelled, read them from end to end, and rapidly acquired a working knowledge of their new country's manners. Trudie talked to everyone she met and picked up her own brand of knowledge.
"Sydney's the place for us, Jacky," she said as they contemplated their finances in a Melbourne hotel one week after their flight.
"What's there?" Jack said. All he knew about the city was that it was big and busy and on a harbour.
"Shops and factories to work in. Places to have fun."
"I don't want to work in a shop or a factory."
"What do you want, Jacky?"
Jacky didn't know. He suspected that he didn't want to work at all. They travelled to Sydney and rented a room in Surry Hills. Trudie found work in a city shop that made and sold gowns to ladies of quality. Trudie's London accent was found 'charming' by the ladies who still thought of England as home—and better, as a country where people who spoke like Trudie knew their place.
Over the next two years Jack found life tougher. He lost jobs through being lazy and quarrelsome. He got into fights; it was after laying out a big foreman on a building site who had criticised his labouring skills that Jack found something he could bear to do.
He was five feet nine and a half inches tall and eleven and a half stone by this time. Mick Riley might have spent most of his time as a bricklayer but he knew a fighter when he saw one. Mick had the contacts and within two weeks Jack had sworn off beer, done some training at Stone's gymnasium and was booked to fight a preliminary six-rounder at Rushcutter's Bay stadium.
"C'n I come, Jacky?" Trudie asked.
Only four years earlier Mrs Jack London had defied tradition by being present at the Burns-Johnson world title fight in Sydney. Since then women had attended fights regularly and in increasing numbers.
"All right, love," Jack said. "But keep quiet and don't wear anything flashy."
"I never wear flashy clothes." It was true; under tutelage from the women with whom she worked, Trudie had become a fashion plate. At the stadium she sat close to ringside with Mick Riley and was perturbed at not seeing Jack's name on the handbill. "I don't want to see any of these others," she complained, "I want to see my Jack."
Riley's broad, broken-nailed finger rested on the paper. "That's him, Jacky Gee."
"Why doesn't he use his own name?"
Riley shrugged. "I don't think he likes it, Mrs Gulliver." Trudie nodded and looked at the brightly lit ring. There had always been things about Jack she didn't understand. She was eighteen, Jack was one year younger. She wasn't Mrs Gulliver yet and she wondered if she ever would be.
Jacky Gee won his fight in the second round with a right that put his opponent down for a full minute. He won his next eight fights and only once had to go the distance for a points decision. A preliminary fighter's purses were small, but Jack was a crowd pleaser and he always got a 'shower' after a fight. The patrons threw coins into the ring and the money was split between the fighters.
After one fight, which he won by a devastating knock-out in the second round, Jack asked his opponent why he'd taken the fight.
"You can't punch, mate. You must've known I'd kill you."
The other boxer shrugged. "Yeah, I knew. But youse is alwus good for a shower. Do better from losin' to you than winnin' again
st some other blokes."
Jack told Trudie about this as she bathed his cuts and massaged his aching shoulders. They were still in Surry Hills, which Trudie liked because it reminded her of life in London, but now they had a small flat and decent furniture. "Can you imagine that? Fighting for the money they throw into the ring?"
"Is it so different from fighting for the purse, or for bets?"
"Yeah, it is, somehow. When I think about it, I'd rather be the one throwing the money."
Jack fought a main event, a twenty-rounder against an up-and-coming country pug named Les Dixon. Neither had much skill, both had strength and courage. Jack's strength lasted longer and he knocked Dixon out in the eighteenth round. After the fight, Mick Riley was surprised when Jack invited him to share a couple of bottles of beer with him. They sat in the old Ford Jack had bought with his winnings.
"Give me that," Jack said. He prised the top off the bottle with his thumb and let half the contents run down his throat. "Christ, that's good."
Riley was alarmed. "Y'never drink, Jacky. You know what the stuff does to a fighter. What's got into you?"
Jack drained the bottle. "I've finished with fighting."
"Finished, is it? Y've only just started, boy."
"Open another couple, Mick. I'm finished."
"Why, for God's sake? It was hard tonight, but y' won."
"Three reasons. One, it's a mug's game getting your brains beaten out; two, they'd match me with this Maitland bloke, Les Darcy, sooner or later and he'd kill me; and three, I've got other plans."
John Gulliver, bachelor, and Gertrude Peel, spinster, were married on 1 August 1914, three days before Australia declared war on Germany and six months before the birth of their son Stephen. Jack had wanted to use his ring name on the marriage documents but Trudie had refused to agree. "I'm not marrying anyone named Gee," she said. "It sounds like an Indian or a Chink or something."