There were guessing games, sewing bees, religious services. There was livestock to visit in coops on deck ‒ cows for fresh milk, chickens for eggs, geese and turkey for meat. The ship’s longboats held boxes of soil in which grew lettuce, cabbage, carrots.
When the ship anchored to take on supplies, mail or fresh water, shore parties were formed. They visited Cape Verde, and after that aboard ship there was the ceremony of Crossing the Line, in which new crew members and male passengers were summoned by King Neptune, shaved roughly, and toppled into a bath of sea water. Such children as wished could also undergo the ceremony. Three little boys and one little girl volunteered, but Heather avoided the invitation of Neptune’s trident.
Then came Cape Town, and Mauritius. After that it was the long crossing of the Indian Ocean with the southern trade winds blowing first from port and then starboard as the ship tacked to fill her sails.
They didn’t make a record voyage, but they had done the trip in a respectable time of eighty days when they entered Sydney Harbour on the 25 February 1869.
Ferryboats were plying to and fro. Coastal steamers were discharging cargo at the jetties. Beyond lay the town, nestled among greenery. The government buildings on Garden Island gleamed in the sun. The sky was a hard cobalt blue, the sea reflected back the colour. The breeze smelt of strange flowers, of fruit for which Jenny had no name as yet, of the smoke of steamers and factory chimneys. On deck the heat was so intense that the deck planks felt hot even through her shoes.
‘So here we are,’ Baird observed, looking about with a wary gaze. ‘Is there anyone to meet us?’
‘I sent word by the pilot boat to Mr Chalmers.’
‘And to the maister?’
Jenny moved restlessly to hide her embarrassment. ‘I asked Mr Chalmers to send word to him.’
‘What for could you not send word direct?’ The question seemed artless, but Baird had her own opinion of how things stood between husband and wife. On the voyage, Jenny had tried not to confide her troubles, yet only the most insensitive could have failed to see there were great uncertainties about the forthcoming meeting.
‘I … there is some … some doubt concerning his whereabouts.’
‘But I thought he had lodgings near the Quay?’
‘Perhaps. His last letter certainly gave that address ‒ but I’ve reason to believe he’s gone from there.’
Reason to believe: a long interval without a letter from Himself. What could the gowp be up to? ‘Humph,’ Baird said, and turned to accompany Heather on a round of farewells among the surviving livestock of the Larksong.
Heather had stood the long journey well. She had soon become accustomed to shipboard life, had made friends with the animals, had been kept to her lessons at set times and, moreover, had taken them sometimes with the six other children on board.
These other little passengers had accepted Heather’s silence as part of the strangeness of travel. Everything was different on board ship, so why shouldn’t there be a little girl who didn’t speak? She took part in games on deck, she shared in the cosseting of the ship’s animals, she did her lessons under the kindly supervision of one or other of the mothers who never scolded when she shrank from reading aloud. The eldest of the children, a girl of eleven, had taught her to knit and crochet after a fashion and was now in tears at the thought of leaving Heather and sailing on by coastal steamer to Melbourne.
Jenny had been greatly relieved at how things went. At first she had been very worried: first the seasickness and then the sticky business of fitting the child into the pattern of shipboard living. Yet there had been no return of the nightmares of four years ago, no problems other than what could be expected from being cooped up for eighty days in meagre accommodation.
But now they would soon be ashore. Jenny was in a turmoil of emotion ‒ first a mere physical longing for space, for unhindered activity, for the sight of trees and flowers and the sound of a running stream. And beyond and above that, longing to see Ronald, to look at his face and hear his voice.
There was apprehension too. What would he say when they met? If Mr Chalmers had been able to contact him, what had he felt at the news of her arrival?
Mr Chalmers, when he came aboard to greet them, was a surprise to Jenny. His letters had led her to picture him as a slender, willowy, rather poetic creature, earnest and easily made anxious by his own defects. In fact he turned out to be rather portly and red-faced, perspiring freely in his Norfolk jacket and sponge-bag trousers as he hurried in the wake of the purser to be introduced to her.
‘Mrs Armstrong, ma’am! Welcome to Sydney!’ he gasped, raising his brown bowler.
‘Thank you, Mr Chalmers. You received my note, I see. Did you carry out my instructions?’
‘Ah, yes, yes … That’s to say, as regards the hotel, I’ve sent to reserve a suite of rooms for you. As to the other … er …’
‘You sent word to my husband?’
‘Ah, no … not yet. I presumed, in fact, you would rather do so yourself. Ah … you see, he’s off in the Riverina somewhere.’
Jenny drew in a deep breath. ‘At what address?’
‘Well, that’s uncertain. He … perambulates a lot. But he can be reached, I believe, in care of Daniell’s farm. I thought, since it’s some distance away and a few hours’ delay could make no difference … you’d rather … ah … communicate yourself.’
‘I see. Thank you.’ Her manner was completely calm, although her feelings at this strange landfall were acute. It seemed quite clear that Ronald had given up any pretence of looking after the interests of William Corvill and Son. He was off by himself somewhere ‒ and if one wanted to cut oneself off from the rest of society, there was no place better than the Australian bush, she imagined.
But why, why? Was it to be with a woman, or was it to find something he had lost in the humdrum routine of running the mill? Adventure, she knew, could be enticing. Was it only that? Or was he in the arms of someone else?
She didn’t pursue the matter of his whereabouts. ‘Will you see to our luggage, Mr Chalmers?’
‘Of course, of course. Permit me. How many items?’
She gave him her list so that he could check each trunk and hamper, then went to disburse tips among the crew. Baird and Heather joined her. They went down the gangplank, and set foot for the first time on Australian soil.
Circular Quay was busy. Bales, casks and crates were being unloaded. Nets swung from gantries. The cargo holds were open, releasing strange smells of machine oil and chemicals. Bags of mail were being carried ashore.
Men in cotton drill trousers, baggy check shirts and wide-brimmed hats were heaving on pulleys, wheeling trolleys. There were one or two black men, and a black woman in a shapeless cotton gown selling flowers from a basket ‒ strange flowers, some of them, yellow acacia blooms, a pink blossom that looked something like a rose, crimson waratahs. But among them were familiar things from Europe: irises, potentillas, even the humble marigold.
‘This way, this way. The luggage can be brought on a cart. Would you like to walk? After months at sea ‒ exercise is so beneficial. The hotel is not distant …’
Heather was holding firmly to the hands of the grown-ups. Yet it was encouraging to Jenny to note that the child wasn’t hiding her face against her mother’s side as usual, but was looking about, scared but interested. Much as I feel myself, Jenny thought, with inward amusement.
They picked their way among the crowd on the Quay. She saw that their appearance caused curiosity. The inhabitants of Sydney were avidly interested in each new arrival, for it meant perhaps a useful addition to the workforce, a trade they needed, money to be spent in their industry or commerce, fashions to be copied.
Henry Chalmers led the way, talking with his mixture of hesitation and verbosity. The remains of a fine classical education could be heard in his choice of words but his original Scottish burr had been overlaid with the narrower vowel sounds of Australia.
He pointed out the Tank
Stream. ‘This was the fresh water supply for the First Fleet. And here is the Bank of Australia, ma’am, although of course we use the Australian and Scottish Commerce Bank.’
The city was surprising to Jenny. She had of course seen photographs of Sydney but had always imagined these to show the more impressive buildings: she’d felt sure the rest would be timber shacks, much like the towns of the American West. Not so, however. Handsome sandstone office buildings and houses lined George Street, and moreover there was gas street-lighting and a good array of shops.
The Australia Hotel proved to be in Lower George Street, a two-storey building with a canopied verandah and blinds drawn against the mid-morning heat. Opposite, Chalmers informed her, stood the oldest business establishment in Sydney, Mitchell’s Marine Store.
There was something of the maritime town about the whole street, so that she was prepared to find the hotel full of old seadogs. But though there were one or two seafaring types smoking over copies of the Star in the lounge, the housekeeper who came forward to greet them couldn’t have been more sedate and proper.
‘This way, ma’am, I’ve given you rooms at the back so as not to be disturbed by the traffic ‒ wagons and carts go up and down even at night because of the shipping. My name’s Mrs Welland. How are you, ma’am? Did you have a good voyage?’
As she led the way upstairs she was glancing back over her shoulder, drinking in details of Jenny’s bonnet and the trimmings on her pale green linen gown. And more especially, of her white kid gloves. It was the dream of every Australian woman, Jenny was to learn later, to have an endless supply of white kid gloves ‒ and the leisure in which to wear them.
The rooms were capacious and cool after the glare outside. Furniture was sparse, made of woods Jenny couldn’t identify as yet. The floor was polished planks with rugs at bedsides and in front of sofas. Both rooms were bedrooms; there was no sitting room to the suite, and in fact the rooms could only be called a suite in that they had communicating doors.
‘I’ll put in a small bed for the little girl if you’ll tell me which room she’s to go in,’ said Mrs Welland.
Jenny turned to Baird for her opinion.
‘The bairn and I had best have the lesser room, you have the one with the corner windows, mistress. You’ll need the bureau for a desk for business.’
The housekeeper looked faintly startled at this statement, but contained her curiosity. ‘Now, can I fetch you anything? Tea? A glass of ale or stout?’
‘Tea, please,’ begged Jenny, thinking of the pleasure of having it made with pure fresh water.
‘I’ll send it up in a moment ‒’
‘No, no, please, Mr Chalmers is waiting for me downstairs. Is there somewhere I can have it served?’
‘The back verandah? There are shade trees there to keep it cool.’
‘Very well, in ten minutes or so ‒ tea for two on the back verandah. Baird and my daughter will take theirs up here.’ To Baird she said, ‘When the luggage is brought, begin on the unpacking. I’ll be back within half an hour to help.’
Chalmers accepted tea but looked more ready for talk. ‘I must tell you, ma’am, I was quite confounded when your note came on the pilot boat. I had no idea you were intending to make the voyage.’
She explained that there had been no ship sailing in time to bring him forewarning.
‘An express message ‒?’
‘I preferred not to use that method. There is something terse about an express message, something impersonal. This didn’t seem to be a time for being terse or impersonal.’
‘No, ma’am,’ Chalmers agreed, clearing his throat in embarrassment.
‘This girl ‒ what can you tell me about her?’
‘Ah, well … the girl … People say her name is Dinah Bowerby. I myself have not seen her, nor am I cognisant of much concerning her … ah … antecedents. I believe she was brought up at the Female Orphan School. Her mother was Euphemia Bowerby, now deceased. Her father is, ah … unknown.’
‘She lives in Sydney?’
‘No, ma’am, she is a servant on a sheep station near Rankin’s Springs. I comprehend that a post was obtained for her when she left the school at fourteen but consequent on some disagreement she removed and took employment further off ‒ Larkin Springs is really a long way away, towards the Lachlan River.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘I have no idea of the geography of the area, sir.’
‘If you care to come to my office I can show you the map. Unfortunately it is not perfectly accurate, though it will demonstrate to you some of the problems ‒ for instance, there are no bridges over the rivers and some of the valleys are very deep. The roads are poor. In the present season travelling is feasible but once the rains come ‒ if they come, which is not always certain ‒ the routes become quagmires.’
It sounded very formidable, yet, after all, what else had she expected? This was a young country, still trying to put the flesh of civilisation on the bones of the pioneering effort.
She returned to her former point. ‘What is the girl like? I know you say you have never seen her, but what do people say of her?’
‘Ahem, she … ah … I believe she is known for her pulchritude and also for her temper. It’s said she flies up in a rage over nothing. Yet on the whole she has a good reputation ‒ a hard worker and very honest. The upbringing at the Orphan School, you know ‒ good precepts are instilled there.’
‘And she is how old?’
‘I think in her early twenties.’
‘Young and pretty, and still unmarried?’
‘She was betrothed, so I am reliably informed, to a young man who worked with horses ‒ very rash and bold. He was killed in a horse race for a five-pound prize. It took her some time to recover from the loss. I have heard that she has been offered the married state at least once since then but has refused.’
Jenny’s heart sank. A pretty girl in her early twenties ‒ and not some simpering daughter of one of the Sydney families, but a hard-working girl with a mind of her own. This was a rival who might be difficult to defeat or even equal ‒ for Jenny needed no reminding that she was into her thirties now.
‘Do you think my husband is at the farm to which his letters are directed?’ she asked.
‘There is no way of telling. He comes and goes. He has been in Sydney two or three times in the last six months but he made no call upon me ‒ he and I are not on good terms in consequence of his … ahem … activities.’
‘I should like to go to the farm,’ she said. ‘Is it far?’
‘Not far by the standards of the colony, ma’am. About fifty miles. But you don’t think of going immediately?’
‘Oh no! My little girl needs time to get her land legs, and so do my maid and I. But, let me see, today is Sunday ‒ shall we say next Friday?’
‘Friday,’ said Mr Chalmers, making a note in a pocketbook.
‘You’ll hire a carriage for me?’
‘Easily done, ma’am. In the meantime, I hope that after you’ve rested you’ll let me show you round some of the sights of Sydney. It is a very delightful place, Mrs Armstrong, with some very picturesque scenery within easy reach.’
‘I should like that. I’d also like to drop in at your office to see the map you mentioned, and to look over some of the reports and accounts.’
‘Certainly,’ said Mr Chalmers, looking faintly alarmed. ‘You will find everything in … ah … apple pie order.’
‘I’m sure I shall. Now, if you will excuse me, sir, I have unpacking to do, and my daughter probably needs my attention.’
‘I wondered if …?’
‘Yes?’
‘If you would care to sup with me this evening, ma’am?’ He went on hastily, ‘We eat our evening meal early here, because we start the day early. Six o’clock supper ‒ or tea, as many call it. My landlady is not … ah … a culinary expert but she …’
‘Thank you, sir, but I believe it will be best if I and my little girl spend this first evening quie
tly together.’
‘I quite comprehend.’
‘Tomorrow morning I will come to your office ‒’
‘The address is ‒’
‘I know it well, Mr Chalmers.’
‘Of course,’ he said, blushing. ‘Ask anyone, they’ll direct you.’ And still very pink, he bowed himself off the verandah and away.
Upstairs, Baird had the trunks unlocked and was throwing the wide skirts of the crushed gowns over beds and chairs to air them. Heather was helping by laying her own belongings on a sofa. The tea tray stood on a table almost hidden by shawls and scarves and underwear.
‘There’s no enough room in the presses, I’m thinking,’ Baird remarked. ‘And the moth have got at your worsted jacket forbye. I’ve askit the chambermaid to loan us an iron but the glaikit besom doesna seem to me to be speakin’ the Queen’s English.’
Jenny smothered a smile. Then she hugged her maid in affection. No matter if she was at the far side of the world, she had stalwarts to support her.
When they had made some progress with the unpacking they went downstairs for the midday meal. Baird went off to find her place in the kitchen and scare some discipline into the untrained chambermaid. Jenny found she and Heather were to sit down to a communal table, a long trestle covered with a white cloth.
Introductions were made. There were two sea captains and a coastguard, a farmer and his wife from the Cunningham Plains, and a fruit grower from beyond Camden. Jenny wanted to learn all she could about the country but there was no opportunity at that first meal ‒ everyone wanted to know about ‘home’. ‘Home’ meant Britain, no matter how long the immigrant had been in New South Wales or even if he had been born there.
Jenny recounted all she could recall of social and political matters but kept reminding her listeners that it was all four months out of date, and that in any case she came from a small town in the Scottish Borders, not the hub of great affairs.
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