Brigid the Girl from County Clare

by Vicky Adin

  Brigid had never cried as many tears as she had in the last few days. As her tears lessened, her resolve grew.

  Her worst fear had come to pass. She was alone.

  Even Philip couldn’t comfort her.

  The stopovers to drop passengers at Bowen, Mackay and Rockhampton passed in a blur. After a journey of fifty-six days, the SS Dorunda reached Brisbane on Monday 13th December 1886. Brigid stepped off the ship a new woman. Stronger, more determined.

  Her new life had begun.

  PART TWO

  Australia

  6

  Prejudices, Conceptions and Opportunities

  Brisbane

  December 1886

  Philip Harrison-Browne walked into the George Street property as if he’d only stepped out for a few hours, instead of the months it had taken him to go to England and back.

  “Hello, son. You look pleased with yourself. Had a good trip?” Harry Browne stood up from behind his 18th-century partners desk to greet his son.

  Philip shook his father’s outstretched hand and promptly sank into the leather-upholstered captain’s chair on the visitors’ side. “Not bad, all things considered.” Aware that it would annoy his father, he crossed his feet up on the desk.

  As expected, his father frowned. “Haven’t learnt any respect yet, I see.”

  Ignoring him, Philip took a cigar from the box, taking time to sniff it before he notched a V into the end with the cutter. Extracting his gold match-safe from his pocket, he lit a match on the striker and held it to the cigar, sucking rapidly to get the tip burning. “Leave off, Pa.” After returning the case to his pocket, he rocked back in the chair and blew a couple of smoke rings towards his father. “Don’t you want to know what I’ve been up to?”

  Coughing at the fumes, Harrison Browne II, as he preferred to be known, waved his hand to clear the air. “Not really. I know you achieved what I sent you for. I have the paperwork.” He shuffled some papers on the desk to one side, opened a ledger and picked up a nib pen. His hand hovered over the inkwell. “What’s her name this time?”

  “Brigid ... but she’s not important – not yet, anyway.” He almost felt guilty at dismissing Brigid so airily, when in fact he had much bigger plans for her than he was prepared to admit.

  Harry scratched away in the ledger while Philip smoked, contemplating both his surroundings and his companion. His father had certainly developed a taste for the finer things in life over the years. From the original paintings on the wall of his fashionably decorated office to the Turkish rug, Harry lived life well these days. But it hadn’t always been like that.

  Neither man spoke, each waiting for the other, but after admiring the well-made drapes pulled back from the window, Philip chose to sound out his father now rather than later. “I do have a bit of an idea though, Pa.”

  “Mm. I’m listening.” His father continued calculating figures, dipping the pen in and out of the ink.

  Removing his booted feet from the desk, Philip sat forward, eager now to impress his father. “I think it’s time to expand. Get some more exotic fabrics and laces, even employ in-house workers.”

  Within a few moments Harry paused, eyes raised, pen held in mid-air. He put the pen down and sat back in his large swivel chair, folded his hands across his stomach and listened. Philip avoided the details, but described his ideas in depth, creating sweeping pictures from his imagination as to what the store could look like.

  “Interesting,” his father said, when Philip finished. “Let me think on it.” He picked up the pen again, but before he resumed with the figures, he fixed his gaze on his son. “How does this Brigid fit into the picture?”

  Usually, Philip didn’t care whether or how other people were affected by his schemes, as long as they benefitted him more, but something about Brigid had got under his skin. It didn’t make sense, even to him. He dropped his head. “I’m not sure yet. I don’t want her knowing too much about it all, at this stage.”

  Harry raised his eyebrows. “Up to you. We’ll talk some more later. Meantime, go and do something useful. You can help Alf catalogue the goods.”

  Philip ran his fingers through his hair, flicking it back as was his habit whenever he felt uneasy or things weren’t going quite his way, like now. He hated not getting his way.

  As he hastened down the stairs to talk with Alf, their warehouse manager, he thought about how far his father had come in the last forty years.

  At the age of 17, life had handed plain Henry Brown – without the ‘e’ – a tough blow. Despite his innocence, he’d been transported for seven years, accused of stealing medicine for his sickly widowed mother.

  Once in Sydney, Harry was put to work in the stores, thanks to the legacy of Commander Arthur Philips, the first Governor of New South Wales. His idea was to use prisoners who could read and write to help run the new colony, so they could learn to do something useful with their life. Harry became a model, if shrewd, prisoner, and a good dealer, well liked by most people he came in contact with. Four years later, in 1842, he received his ticket of leave.

  The bell tinkled above the door as Philip entered the warehouse.

  “G’day, young guv’ner,” said Alf. The pair shook hands. “I’ve received the first bolts of cloth from the ship already. What other sort of stock should I expect?”

  Alf, himself a former convict, had been Harry’s right-hand man ever since Harry had first arrived in Brisbane, at the age of twenty-four, with his Certificate of Freedom in his hands and big plans.

  “I managed to get my hands on a lovely array of textiles and designs that are the pinnacle of fashion.” Philip described some of the men’s suiting and the ladies fabrics, as well as the hats and accessories he had purchased while in England. He watched Alf as he laid a couple of rolls of the new fabric on the counter to inspect the quality.

  Once free of the army’s constant surveillance, Harry found employment with Mr Wicklow, a wealthy general merchant who provided the ever-increasing numbers of free settlers arriving in Sydney with their much-needed household goods.

  Harry had been a quick learner and mastered his trade well, thanks to his mentor. After rising to head of the drapery department, and wanting to learn the skills to run his own business, Harry even attended evening classes at the Sydney Mechanics’ School of Arts.

  “Will we be needing new shelving or display cabinets, do you think, Alf? Especially for the new range of gloves.”

  In those early years in Brisbane, Alf had the local know-how and practical skills that Harry lacked, but Harry had the ideas. Together, he and Alf set about establishing a mercantile business, just like the one Mr Wicklow had started in Sydney, only better – a place with class and style. To match that image, and wanting to put his past behind him now he was a free man, plain Henry Brown became known as Harrison Browne II. Taking his first small step to independence.

  Alf rubbed his chin and thought about Philip’s question. “I think we can manage for now. I’ll move some of the existing ones around and see if that works first.”

  He and Alf continued discussing the layout and the inventory, labelling, pricing, and stacking as they went.

  Later in the afternoon, Philip rolled down his sleeves and retrieved his jacket, preparing to finish up for the day. “Before I go, Alf, I’d like your opinion. I’ve had an idea to branch out a bit. I’ve spoken to my father about it, but I’d be keen to know what you think.”

  For the next few minutes, Alf listened to what Philip had to say about new departments and more staff, nodding now and then, just like his father had. “Well, maybe. Not sure it’s summat your pa would want to do. But let me think on it.”

  He had hoped to pique Alf’s interest enough so that he would talk to Harry and promote the idea on his behalf, but Alf was too clever. He knew Harry’s ways too well to accept ‘the boy’s’ word. He’d just have to wait for the two of them to talk and decide whether to allow his idea to flourish or not.

  Angry and frustrated
, Philip went in search of a drink and some company. Normally after a long sea voyage, he would head to the obscurity of the Dunsmore Arms – a rather tired old pub about to be replaced, if the rumours were true – where he could get drunk with impunity. But today he was too keyed up for that and set out to find some old school friends, hoping they, at least, would back his ideas.

  Hands in pockets, hat fashionably tilted to one side, he stood on the footpath and looked up and down George Street. He had two choices: turn right and go to the Transcontinental Hotel, situated just around the corner from where his old school once stood in Roma Street; or turn left and go to The Queensland Club. The club overlooked the splendid Botanical Gardens, and while both buildings were only two years old and both offered congenial surroundings, only one was suited to business.

  He turned left.

  The original Queensland Club had burnt to the ground back in 1870, and it had taken a long time to get another building under way, but the benefit was now his. The new club, opened in 1884 on the corner of Alice Street, was far superior, with accommodation and facilities second to none. Many a deal had been made while seated in the studded leather wing chairs, a fine whisky in one hand and a cigar in the other.

  No sooner had he walked through the club doors than Hugh Paterson and Sam Barton greeted him.

  “Oh, look who’s returned.” Hugh stretched his hand out in welcome. Like Philip, Hugh had been born in Brisbane; unlike Philip, Hugh’s parents were both free settlers.

  While Philip had been accepted into the Brisbane Grammar School at the age of eight, when it opened in 1869, it had been a touch-and-go argument whether Hugh should go there or to boarding school in England. The friends were both glad Brisbane had won the day.

  “You’re just in time. Join us for dinner, why don’t you?” Sam, another friend from school, shook hands, and the trio settled at a table.

  In this new town, money and influence were bestowed upon those who would never have passed muster in the old country. Who you knew was as important as ever, but their background was no longer critical. The sons of ex-convicts and the sons of bankers could mingle side by side, based only on aspirations and acquisitions. What made the difference was their standing in the business world.

  Philip flicked the napkin onto his lap. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to a good feed. I’m sick of salt beef, badly cooked fish – when they could catch any – and potatoes.”

  He had succeeded quite well at school, mostly at business and mathematics, and he’d mastered enough of the arts, languages, literature and music, to give him a way with the ladies. His knowledge of the finer things in life proved a suitable fit to his business acumen, and his natural charm did the rest. Although, he had to admit, adopting Harrison Browne as his surname was proving a distinct advantage. He liked being Mr Philip Harrison-Browne instead of simply being Philip Browne, an unknown.

  The waiter appeared with the wine and took Philip’s order. “I’ll have the crab entrée, the roast pigeon with oyster stuffing and fresh fruit salad with vanilla ice cream to finish. Thank you.”

  While the others gave their orders, Philip poured the excellent red wine into three glasses.

  “A toast: To friendship and prosperity.”

  Hugh and Sam raised their glasses. “Hear, hear!”

  Hugh’s family were bankers and always happy to talk investment. Harry was friendly with Hugh’s father after years of doing business together, but knew little of Sam’s family, except when his mother visited their store.

  Sam’s grandfather had been an ex-convict, but generations later his family were now successful and wealthy graziers. Of the three, Sam was the only one who had boarded at school.

  “You know what, old chap,” said Hugh, after Philip had regaled them with his latest stories of his trip to England, a journey he’d done most years since he’d turned twenty-one. “I’ve never been on a ship, nor has Sam here, and every now and then I wonder what it would be like, but you don’t do much to inspire a body into taking the risk.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, mate, but what do you want? Stories of great adventures, pirates and good times – or the truth?”

  Hugh shrugged. “I’d like the chance for some adventure – and to see new places – instead of being at the bank every day with my father watching over my shoulder.”

  Sam chuckled. “Don’t include me in your notions. I get enough excitement on the station, thanks. If the stock or the dogs don’t cause problems, the wildlife certainly will. Try sleeping out in the bush sometime if you want adventure. I come down here for a rest.”

  The young men snorted at Sam’s stories of snakes, crocs in the river, dingoes and whatever other creepy-crawlies he could come up with to amuse them.

  Hugh ordered another round of drinks from the passing waiter. “So tell me, what little filly took your fancy this time?”

  Philip, feigning innocence, laughed. “Well, let’s see now. There was one ... or maybe two ...” He amused them with a racy story about the girls of London but avoided any mention of Brigid.

  “Oh, come on. You must have seen someone who was more interesting.”

  “No one worth talking about.” Philip flicked his hair back from his face and avoided the question.

  After his time spent in England, he appreciated he lived a privileged life in Brisbane. The English treated him with a certain kind of respect when he visited the warehouses and factories because he had money to spend, but his was a lowly standing in that community. He would never be invited to socialise with any of the owners, being left to the whims of the managers. The girls he met were not the type to take home to his mother either. Was Brigid? Probably not.

  Even while telling his story, matching Hugh’s raunchy jokes with smuttier ones of his own, Philip dreamed of his plans coming to fruition. Maybe Hugh and Sam could help him. You needed friends you could trust when it came to expansion such as he envisaged: someone like Alf.

  “Sometimes I wish ...”

  “Wish what, old man?” urged Hugh.

  “Oh nothing. Just thinking about a conversation with my father.”

  A thrill rippled through him every time he remembered the stories his father told him of his younger years. These days, there were times Philip would hardly give credit to those tales, if Alf hadn’t confirmed them. Harry had become strangely risk-averse.

  In those early days, when Harry first arrived in Brisbane back in 1845, there had been little call for Sydney-type merchants. To get started he’d opened a pawnshop and sometimes found he needed to take on items that didn’t quite have the provenance to match, simply to get established.

  “You mean stolen?” A youthful, wide-eyed Philip had asked. “Cor.”

  Harry had been careful, of course. He had no intention of getting caught out by the law and ending up back in prison. The pawnshop had been a genuine business dealing fairly with those in need. He never double-dealt his own kind, but thanks to contacts in Sydney he began receiving items with a similar dicey provenance. He didn’t so much break the rules as bend them a little to his advantage.

  The business began to change for the better when Mr Wicklow sent Harry a shipment of goods, damaged on their journey, which he considered unsuitable for sale in his Sydney store. Alf had repaired the furniture and household goods, while Harry cleaned the hats and gloves, and trimmed the best of the water-damaged fabrics and suiting, and sold them as ‘direct from Sydney’.

  In his day, Harry could bluff his way around any problem. If there were stains on the manchester or drapery, he offered an extra length of haberdashery or a pair of gloves as recompense. He bought low and sold high. His reputation as a merchant grew until demand exceeded supply. Mr Wicklow put Harry in touch with suppliers in England. Word spread. Eventually the pawnshop was closed in favour of Harrison Browne Drapers, purveyors of high quality goods. It had taken two decades, but he’d achieved his goal.

  Now, twenty years later, Philip was the one seeking exp
ansion.

  “Do you want me to tell your father you spend as much time with the tarts as you do on business?” Sam asked teasingly, dragging Philip back to the present. “Would he keep you home, then?”

  “Don’t be daft. As long as I do the trade, he doesn’t care what I get up to.”

  But Harry cared about his business. Queensland welcomed its first free settlers in 1842, a mere three years after the transportation of convicts ceased and the penal colony at Moreton Bay closed. Brisbane had been nowhere near as grand as Sydney in those early days and struggled to get established. It had been a rough, raw town, but the numbers kept growing and, more importantly, free settlers with their wives and families began arriving in ever-increasing numbers.

  A few years later, many of those transported were considered free men, with a Certificate of Freedom to prove it. Even prisoners serving a life sentence received a ticket of leave. By 1850, the majority of the population lived their lives with impunity and opportunity. Harry was only too pleased to help kit out both ex-convicts and newcomers with the items they needed.

  Philip had never told his friends any of these stories. These days his father was an honest, respectable citizen of high standing in the community and would never stoop to bend the rules again. He’d made his point, and his money.

  Now Philip wanted his turn.

  He wanted someone like Alf – Harry’s go-to for all problems – someone who would back him up through thick and thin. He listened as Hugh and Sam discussed investments, livestock prices and shares – topics he found boring.

  “Enough of this business talk. There’s got to be something more exciting in life.”

  “Such as?”

  Philip shrugged. “I dunno. Anything.” Should he mention his plans? His idea was in want of roots, or maybe wings, he wasn’t sure which, but since neither his father nor Alf had given him the confidence to think it would work, his mind gnawed away at all the problems.