Mrs. M

by Luke Slattery

  In the late afternoon Brody walks up from the guardhouse with a straight face that eases into a small smile when he is a mere yard away. I give a little clap — just the one. Things have gone well, though not as well as they might have done if Sanderson had been punished as a common criminal, not cautioned for overstepping regimental bounds.

  I come in late from the garden, enter from the rear door and seek out the pretty Miss Ringold, who is in her room reading a letter — no doubt from a secret beau. She has already prepared a scalding bath for me. When it has cooled a little I slide down into the suds, close my eyes and allow my hair to float up around my face like a Medusa. After drying my hair and dressing for dinner I observe the light in Macquarie’s office gleaming through the panes. I do not go to him, and he does not come to me. I eat alone. We sleep apart. At sunrise I wake, look for him about the house, and, failing to find any sign, step out in my nightgown to the verandah. Seated there in the gentle half-light surveying the town, he smiles weakly at my approach.

  I tell him of the Architect’s victory, but he has already been informed of it. In any event my husband seems more intent on the careful examination of my countenance for any telltale tremors of emotion than news of the trial. Accordingly, I report in a dry style. I withhold.

  ‘We must reward Bungaree and his tribe generously,’ I say in breach of the uneasy silence that has descended between us. I take on a solid voice — an insisting tone. ‘And Gooseberry too. He calls her his queen. Let us treat her as one. Without her, I fear the Architect would have been lost to us.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ Macquarie concedes with a corrugated brow. I have touched on some source of consternation. ‘There are other tribes I know’ — a slight jerk of the head towards the vast interior — ‘who would have filched the Architect and left him to die of his wounds. At this moment they would be attempting to fathom the purpose of the folding rule and divider he keeps in his coat pocket.’

  ‘A rather harsh assessment.’

  ‘Yet manifestly true of some. The point is to encourage those wishing to accommodate themselves to us.’

  ‘And what of those with no such desire?’

  He takes this in the spirit in which it was intended: as a question without an answer.

  Later that morning Macquarie returns from the garrison with a small detachment. The soldiers go to the castellated stable, which hastens slowly towards completion. They take off their coats and join the convict labourers. They look hot and sullen. The sun is already stabbing through my parasol as I stroll in the garden and doubtless it boils the brains of those poor soldiers to a bisque. I come in from the garden and join him on the verandah.

  ‘Work has slowed in the heat,’ he says. ‘I cannot afford to have Earl Bathurst countermand me before it is finished. I informed him I was building a dignified horse stable but the townsfolk, they call it Macquarie Castle. If he doesn’t yet know — he soon will.’

  He takes off his hat on the verandah, unbuttons his jacket, and frees himself a little from his cares. Before I can even be seated he springs forward, takes my face in his big hands, kisses me on the lips, looks deeply into my eyes. ‘There are no secrets between us. Are there?’ His eyes search mine.

  ‘No, of course not.’ I draw away. ‘Whatever made you think …?’

  ‘Apologies, my love,’ he says. He brings the chair to me. I sit across from him, hands folded contritely. ‘It is just that,’ he begins again, ‘the colony talks. Remember that most of the cottages you see from here, and many that you don’t, resemble your garden plants thirsting for water. They crave tittle-tattle and scandal and wither if it is withheld.’

  He breaks off, rubs a hand sleepily through his wiry grey hair. ‘You remember the day of the assault on the Architect,’ he goes on with a heavy shake of the head. ‘I was in the countryside and was told of the events a day later. It seems that you and Brody rode to him’ — he raises his eyes — ‘as if drawn.’

  It is an unconvincing interrogation. Whatever suspicions he harbours, they are kept firmly in check. He cannot bring himself to voice his deepest fears; he can only hint at them. If he could peer into my mind he would find this very same seam of trepidation — the fear of betrayal. What had occurred between the Architect and me? Very little. And yet a large part of me is now given over to this man without my knowing precisely why or how. It is my unexplored self — the self not even known to me — that I most fear. This vein lies deep within, obscure to me and unseen by my husband. There is no hint of it in my demeanour.

  ‘If we had not done so he might have died,’ I insist coolly. ‘Redfern agrees. And where would that leave your cause? Our work? Honestly, there is too much to be done in this colony for idle gossip.’

  He studies his hands, turns them over, looks at the palms as intently as a soothsayer.

  ‘I have a solution to the question of the natives’ reward,’ he resumes in a warmer tone. ‘A land grant at Georges Head. A reservation. No need for them to wander — a gift from the Government, just as every settler and emancipist desires.’

  I lean back, breathe easily, comforted by this sign of accord. ‘Are you willing to endure the scorn of those who will declaim, “Not only does that beastly Scot favour the emancipists over the free, he now extends his favours to the heathens.” Are you?’

  ‘They will send their pernicious unsigned missives to Whitehall no matter what I do. The die, I’m afraid, is cast. It is said that I waste Government money on architectural toys and run a colony the likes of which Henry Hunt or William Cobbett would approve.’

  ‘Your young wife approves. Is that not enough?’

  ‘It may not be enough if these rumblings of discontent rise to a chorus.’

  ‘Let us stop up our ears in the meantime. And sail on.’

  I have always found my husband fortified by my boldness. But on this occasion he offers a brave smile that fades a little too quickly. Much of his former optimism — it ebbs now.

  When, a few days later, Brody rides out to Bungaree’s tribe to deliver the news of the Governor’s gift, he finds that it has disappeared.

  ‘It happens often that they will move with the seasons, the weather — even the tides,’ he explains on his return. I ask him to sit but he prefers to remain standing. ‘If a scout spots a school of fish at another shore they will follow. Well, I suppose’ — he grins — ‘there is little to pack.’

  It occurs to me that the natives might not, in any event, consider this the magnanimous gesture Macquarie supposes it to be: the land, they no doubt believe, is not his to give. But that is an issue I will let Bungaree raise, if he is bold enough.

  When contact is made with Bungaree he is enticed to attend a ceremony at Government House. He arrives in his admiral’s coat and bicorne over a new set of pleated trousers. His feet are bare.

  ‘I had to scour the colony,’ Brody recounts, ‘for a pair of breeches suitable for a tall, thin native, and then enlist a tailor to have them altered while I stood outside his door. For when I found Bungaree in town he wore none at all.’

  ‘You mean?’ I clasp a palm to my forehead.

  ‘I’m afraid so. The top half,’ he slices the air around chest height, ‘the uniform and bicorne. The bottom half — a rag.’

  We both laugh.

  Macquarie has fashioned a second breastplate for Bungaree. ‘This one,’ he explains to the native, ‘is no replacement for the kingplate — the one that declares you King of the Broken Bay tribe. This new one — and you must show it to any challengers — confirms you and your people as owners of prime land at Georges Head. I have also provided a fishing net, and a fishing boat. All of this is given in gratitude for saving the life of the architect of the lighthouse.’

  ‘I think we should also be able to provide a sow and some pigs — and some Muscovy ducks from our own stocks,’ I say on a whim. Macquarie tucks in his chin and shoots me a look of surprise. Bungaree offers a broader smile at the news of this gift than he did when offered the land.


  The native takes his new breastplate in his palms and rubs his hands over the engraving. ‘Very fine thing indeed and I am profoundly grateful to Your Excellency,’ he says with such a theatrical imitation of courtly etiquette that I confess I find it difficult to retain my composure.

  And then, returning to his natural cadence, ‘The soldiers teach me all the languages. Irish. Welsh. Scots. And one they call Posh.’

  ‘We look forward to your rendition of Posh another time. But for now I have some duties to attend to. Do stay here and take a refreshment with Elizabeth.’

  Turning to me before he flees down the steps, he says as an afterthought, ‘The guards are close by.’

  I offer Bungaree tea. He holds the cup between two fingers placed on the rim, sipping warily. ‘Are you,’ I ask, ‘happy? The Governor has given you land — land for you and your people. Your children.’

  ‘Will the land have a wall like this one,’ he throws out a scarred hand. ‘Before the stone here there was one of wood. And before that — none.’

  ‘There will be no wall. I can assure you. Well, in time — who knows?’

  ‘A lot of walls now. Whitefellas good in many things. Very good at cutting country,’ he makes an axing gesture with his right palm, ‘into pieces.’

  ‘And your people, what are they good at?’

  ‘Many things,’ he says in a singsong lilt.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Good warriors. Good at secret things — dancing, singing, painting. Keep them old stories. Good at medicine — Gooseberry stuff. Healing magic. The women good at finding food, cooking; women sing the fish. The men good at hunting.’

  ‘What do you like to hunt?’

  ‘Wulaba.’

  ‘Wallaby. Your word — a lovely word. Some others?’

  ‘I teach words of the Sydney fellas,’ he sweeps an arm from one end of the verandah to the other.

  ‘Then teach and I will be your student.’

  He leans back, regarding me suspiciously. After a brief pause he comes forward again. ‘Warane,’ he says, pointing towards the settlement. ‘Your place now. You call it Sydney Cove.’ He raises his right hand high and points behind and above the residence. ‘Place you call Farm Cove — Wuganmagulya.’

  ‘Wuga … an … ma …’

  ‘Long’un — that one,’ he laughs softly.

  ‘And the headland on which we have built the lighthouse?’

  ‘Daralaba.’

  ‘Some others. I’m keen to learn.’

  ‘Baruwaluwu. You say, dolphin.’

  ‘And shark?’

  ‘Guruwin,’ he says with a wide-eyed look of fear, extending his arms to their full span. ‘Very big shark that one.’

  I give an encouraging nod. ‘Go on.’

  He reaches towards my cap. ‘Gabera — head.’

  ‘Damara,’ he holds up a hand.

  Placing the hand on his heart, he pumps it firmly against his ribcage. ‘Butbut.’

  In the word itself I hear the heart’s pounding. He nods and smiles with his velvety eyes.

  ‘Burra,’ he says pointing to the sky.

  ‘And moon?’

  ‘Yanadah.’

  He returns his teacup to the table and raises his empty hands to the sky. ‘Birrung,’ he says. ‘Whitefella say star.’

  Then he takes a finger and, whistling through pursed lips, traces the trajectory of a falling object. ‘Duruga that one.’

  ‘Shooting star?’ I put in, raising my hand. He nods with delight. His broad mouth spreads.

  ‘Of course, kookaburra. Another of your words.’

  ‘No.’ He gives a firm shake of his stiffly matted hair. ‘Guganagina.’

  ‘Like butbut,’ I say. ‘The sound of the thing.’ He throws back his head and performs that raucous unbridled chuckle with a perfect rising pitch.

  ‘Try,’ he says after my laughter subsides. I shake my head.

  ‘So let us add mimicry to the list of things you are good at,’ I say.

  ‘Mimic?’

  ‘Copying … A talent with many uses.’

  Bungaree nods thoughtfully and as he does so my thoughts fly to the Architect.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  In time our Architect made a full recovery, although his scars remained as a daily reminder of the trauma he had suffered at Sanderson’s hands. The most visible stigmata of all — the snakelike welt on his forearm — was regarded admiringly by the young apprentice masons whenever their master rolled up his sleeves. Some part of him, I believe, enjoyed the notoriety.

  The colony continued to grow. A thousand disembarked in the newest of new worlds each year, many of them free settlers. The war with France was over and as the pulse of trade quickened — traders arriving from all quarters of the globe — the proportions of John Piper’s harbourside mansion swelled.

  The settlements in the interior grew and prospered; the colony began to resemble a well-fed man in a cheap coat. The Blue Mountains had been crossed. And the building program gathered pace.

  Macquarie embraced my ambitions for Government House, though the Colonial Secretary, Earl Bathurst, did not. We had to make do with additions: three rooms and a new eastern wing rising to two storeys. Work on the stables continued and construction of the fort at Bennelong Point resumed after stone was found of sufficient mass to withstand the humidity at the harbour’s edge. At Parramatta a refuge and workhouse for women was built and from it came linen, wool and wincey. I had a bedspread made of the wool spun by convict women after it had been finished by Simeon Lord at a mill he had built at Botany Bay. As for the design of the Female Orphan School established beyond the corrupting influences of the Cove, I can claim some form of authorship as I drew for the Architect a sketch of the estate at Airds and asked him if it might serve. Within days a finished plan for a little piece of my homeland on the banks of the Parramatta River arrived in a folio.

  It was at this time that I began to detect worrisome signs of strain in Macquarie’s temperament, as if it were thinning, wearing under the pressure of some immovable weight. I had once seen, on a ride into the uplands beyond the family estate, an ancient oak, barest of trees in that autumnal landscape, its trunk grown silvery and leached of life and sap, the few remaining leaves like twisting copper medallions in the breeze. It had been cleaved almost in two; one massive limb lowered itself towards the ground, as if in submission, while the other stood proud and unbroken. That melancholy sight returned to me as I witnessed Macquarie’s struggle. He was nearing sixty years. He was weary of his labours. But he would not allow his enemies the satisfaction of an easy triumph.

  When I recall his journey through the portion of his life he shared with me — as I must on this night of reverie — I see a man of the age just past rather than that beginning to take shape. Those of a strict conservative disposition have supposed Macquarie to be a modern for the simple reason that he sought to better the lives of the outcasts in his care and to beautify a place made by — and for — criminals. And what kind of man but a reformer favours such draff?

  In truth he was shaped in the mould of the young George III. How the satirists had lampooned that sovereign’s plain bucolic tastes — ‘farmer George’ they had scorned him. Macquarie was of that type, a leader with a feeling for ordinary people — a fine and rare fellow feeling. Once a year the convicts were invited to petition the Governor for their liberty. Macquarie applied himself with earnestness to the task, considering their pleas and summoning each spring his new class of emancipists to a ceremony on the lawn of Government House. And there he would forcefully proclaim, ‘I have heard the arguments from each of you, had your respective masters interviewed by my clerks, weighed your degree of contrition and the practical contributions you might make to the future of the colony, and today you shall receive what you most ardently desire: your freedom!’ Each year the words were much the same; and each year they brought forth precisely the same response: a cry of jubilation and a flurry of hats and poesies launch
ed upon the air.

  In this business my husband was the good king; ruling over a tainted kingdom, admittedly, but a king nevertheless. Why, he was freeing the slaves just as a pharaoh might have done to remind all — subjects, vassals and enemies alike — of his power and benevolence. As time went on, and Macquarie’s frustrations mounted with each countermand from London, I observed jarring signs of the contrary disposition: that of an isolated tyrant, small of mind, raging and pacing in his keep.

  The good king lost his lustre when he had two convicts flogged — ten lashes apiece — for trespassing on the Domain. I read of their crime in the pages of the Sydney Gazette before it was discussed between us.

  *

  Returning late from a regimental entertainment — a dinner at the Military Barrack from which even wealthy emancipists were expressly excluded — he settles into a chair before the glowing embers of a winter fire, insensitive to my protests.

  ‘And what would you have me do?’ he says, raising an arm and bringing it down loosely on his thigh. ‘Allow vagabonds to cut corners whenever the desire takes them and trespass over my — over our — reserve? To wander across one of the few sanctuaries of civility available to us, as if it were a common in some Midlands market town? Why these rascals pulled down a portion of the stone wall while clambering over it. Did you know one of these men, named Tallis, was transported for armed robbery; the other, Wilkins, for stealing a pig from its sty and butchering it. And if they had approached you at your … your harbourside chair … as you consumed your novels’ — a satiric snort — ‘or gazed upon the splendid view before you? What then? Would you have made polite conversation with these ruffians? Invited them to sit beside you? Encouraged them next time they happened to pass that way to bring friends and family?’

  I lean forward, a hand braced on each of the chair’s solid arms.

  ‘No!’ he erupts. ‘Do not rise and pace about with that high fiery spirit of yours. Sit! Your look is haughty; it should be contrite. These two men will be punished so that none in the future will pose a risk to your wellbeing.’