by Julie Janson
Mary walks quietly from the room and Henry gently holds his wife’s hand.
Days later, hushed speaking trickles down the corridors. Henry engages in hot and desperate coupling with Mary against the piano after her violin practice. But it was quick, almost as though it did not happen. She smooths down her smock and straightens her hair.
Early the next morning, a loud howling seeps from the corridor and Susan Smythe stands in front of little Eleanor, who is crying. The mistress has her hands behind her back holding a large spoon. She looks at the child as though she would like to eat her. Mary runs to the child and kneels down.
‘What happened?’ asks Mary.
‘Mrs Susan hit me with spoon,’ Eleanor cries.
Mary turns, shaking with anger, but she dares not speak. Susan Smythe throws the spoon across the kitchen and tosses back her hair which is falling free on her shoulders. She is still in her night clothes and there is blood on her nightdress. Mary looks down at the stain, which Mrs Smythe tries to cover with her hands.
‘I did no such thing. The child is a liar, and we should teach her better manners. I will begin her education with others in the orphan school,’ says Susan. ‘We can’t afford to keep every half-breed creature who comes to our door.’
‘Sorry, Mrs Smythe. I’ll take her along to the kitchen. She won’t bother you,’ Mary whispers with a quiet, tense voice. She hides away in the pantry and squeezes Eleanor in next to her.
‘You must be good, nyindi, kurung jannunggai, and daughter.’
Mary fears she will die if Eleanor is taken. She must do everything she can to prevent this. Perhaps she can find a position elsewhere or find her long-lost aunties?
All night, she is awake with fear, listening to the beating of her heart and the sounds of the house. Somewhere, someone sighs. Mary fights with her impulses, with the need to be with Henry.
Mary takes some embossed writing paper and writes a letter.
‘Dear Mrs Shelley,
I am Mary James who you brought up by hand. I run away but now I am back living in the home of the master of the Orphan School, as you must know.
I hope the Sunday School examinations have gone well.
Would you think of taking me back to live with you? I can be of service to you because I can read and write and play music. I would like to be a teacher. You might hear I have a girl, and she is mostly a good child. I wish to bring her and live with you.
Yours sincerely,
Miss Mary James’
A week passes and Mary receives a return letter delivered by Cook, who is amazed that there might be a letter for a native servant. She is shocked that she could have written a letter, let alone received one in reply. She looks at her as if she is a dog who can now walk upright.
‘Dear Miss James,
My dear young friend, I am sorry to hear about your situation but I cannot help. I have so many charges to care for already.
Please do not presume to write ever again about this problem. I can send some linen for your child, but not much else.
I am so sorry to write that you are known as a woman of corrupted virtue – a person of scandal and low native morals. I am afraid that we English have taught you nothing. You have flaunted your illegitimate child in the streets of Windsor. I am crying as I write these words to someone I love. Have you no shame? I thought you to be a good girl. I also know that you are kind. Ask for forgiveness and it shall be given. Much gossip attends your continued presence as a so-called servant. That the minister can tolerate you is indeed evidence of God’s supreme mercy.
My dear girl, the other students you were with at our school grew (mostly) into respectable members of society and have married in the church to suitable ticket-of-leave husbands. You, I hear, have no visible husband. Perhaps you are, indeed, a fallen person. I pray for you every night.
Yours sincerely,
Mrs Shelley’
Mary keeps the letter folded tight in her shift and is filled with regret every time she reads it.
…
One morning, Henry Smythe is tending his corn patch with a hoe. When he has scratched the mud from his boots and returned to the house, Susan calls him to the drawing room, ‘Henry, where is my new blue gown that arrived on the Perseverance from England in the package with the peacock screen? I am most distressed at its disappearance.’
The look of alarm on Henry’s face is like a spreading stain.
‘It was here in this tea chest. I want to wear it to meet the Governor’s wife at the ball. She is fashionably attired. I thought it would match my bonnet with white ribbons.’
‘Oh, I was under the impression that it was a box of rags,’ says Henry Smythe, ‘and I gave it away to the poor … well, to Mary, actually.’
Susan Smythe is horrified and storms in a rage around the drawing room.
‘No, it can’t be! Have I married an idiot? Tell me that I misunderstand your words? It was blue shot Chinese silk, worth many pounds! And you gave it away … to her?’
Mary pours the tea, but her secret is written on her face and the air is thick with moist, mysterious suspicion. The truth is aching to come out.
Sex with Henry after music practice has become routine.
That night, Susan tiptoes down the stairs and sees Mary wearing the blue dress, which now is lifted, bunched up under Mary’s arms, the azure ruffles caught in brown fists, the embroidery crushed beneath Henry’s thrusting knees. Susan’s shocked face stares out of the candlelight; Henry gasps. Mary pulls down the dress and runs to hide in the cupboard under the stairs.
‘You monster! You deceitful fornicator! You adulterer! I will kill your strumpet!’ shouts Susan.
‘Reverend Masters shall hear of your doings, your pathetic life,’ she screams.
She runs past Mary’s hiding place, up the stairs and into her husband’s dressing room. There she attacks Henry’s clothes with scissors, cutting them and ripping them with her hands. The servants hear the ripping and screeching. Mary stays hidden, quivering, wondering how it will end. Will Henry beg for forgiveness?
‘There you are, you evil doer!’ yells Susan as the cupboard door opens. Susan is unhinged. She grabs Mary by the hair and pulls her across the floor. She attacks her with ferocity and her strength is huge as Mary struggles to keep this betrayed wife from scratching her face.
Cook, who has been wrestling a leg of kangaroo into a pot, runs into the room with the leg still in her hands. She rushes in and uses it to hit Mary across her back. The women part and Cook drags Mary into the drawing room and throws her at Henry’s trembling feet.
‘What will be done with the slut, Reverend?’ says Cook.
‘My, my! Too much noise on the Sabbath. Leave her there,’ he says as he takes up his quill and dips it in ink. Mary cowers on the carpet.
Mary does not feel afraid for herself but fears for Eleanor; defiance is perhaps uncalled for. She bends her head in a suitably ashamed manner. Henry cannot look at her. He is hiding his face as he bends to his writing with trembling, coward’s hands.
‘You are desirous of my attention, dearest?’ he coos at Susan, who has entered the room.
He steps away from his writing desk and over the prostrate Mary to pour himself a glass of claret.
It is now clear to Mary that Susan can do anything – nothing is off-limits. Once unleashed, her anger knows no end.
Mary is dragged by the furious Cook to the laundry.
…
Days pass and the house is silent as they all pretend to be going about their work. Susan weeps in corners and Mary knows she must stand her ground while appearing docile. She sings ditties and plays mournful Irish tunes on her violin.
One night Mary hears a crackling noise and smells smoke. She presses her face to the kapok pillow, coughing. She crawls up on her knees to peek through the window where she sees a small, creeping golden fire that looks like a snake. She covers her child with a blanket.
Mary hurries out to the field despite being afraid of being attacked
and murdered by corn thieves. There she sees the figure of Susan in her nightdress, carrying a lantern against the yellow flames in the corn field. Her other hand is holding a sheaf of burning straw. Mary thinks of the Reverend that morning tending his field of beloved maize, as he walks through, testing the corn for ripeness.
Mary runs to fill a bucket of water and races out towards the trickling flames, shouting, ‘Help! Fire! Fire!’
Then, she sees him. She has heard of the attacks on outlying houses by the renegade warrior Chief Jerungi and his band. Jerungi is silhouetted against the hill holding a woomera, a dozen long spears and a boondi stick with a lumpy hammer end. His head is a mess of plaited hair tied with white kangaroo teeth. Around his shoulders a kangaroo skin pelt hangs by a rope and he disports a waistband of plaited reeds. He is nearly naked. He turns towards the building and the light shines on his ochred face and red-painted chest. Mary is terrified. His eyes fall upon Susan in her white slip as she trips across the field, setting fires, unaware of his presence and hers. Mary runs as fast as she can towards Susan, at the same time screaming out to the house, ‘Henry, your wife is burning the corn!’
She sees Jerungi lift his woomera and swiftly place his spear. His arm is flung back, taking aim. His spear will split Susan in two. Mary stumbles on the corn shafts as Susan delicately places the fire on each stalk and quickly she is upon her and takes her to the ground and falls on top, saving her from the whirring spear. Susan struggles under her.
‘You would harm me? Harlot!’ she hisses.
A hook spear lands with a thud next to their heads. Mary turns her face towards the hill. Susan is at last aware of the danger.
‘Don’t move. That blackfella might kill you,’ whispers Mary, ‘lay still!’
Susan’s eyes are wild with fear and she pushes her face into Mary’s shoulder. Amid the confusion, the lantern has tipped oil onto the earth and it catches fire and burns along the ground. They can hear the clamour of people from the house and school buildings arriving to fight the blaze.
‘Susan, where are you?’ yells Henry, as he lumbers from the building.
Mary looks up and Jerungi has gone, but she knows they can’t hide from him – it is a game he always wins. He has feather feet.
Susan stands up, wiping black ash from her face, her hair dishevelled. Mary wipes the mistress’s eyes and smooths her hair in a moment of quiet. Susan coughs and straightens her nightdress as they walk together towards the house. Mary has her arm about Susan’s waist.
‘You will not speak of it to him. Please!’ pleads Susan.
‘I will not.’
‘Good. I take no responsibility for the work of the devil in this God forsaken hellhole,’ says Susan.
Susan removes Mary’s arm from her waist and walks ahead.
All around, the servants and neighbours are running with buckets and they form a chain from the well to douse the flames. Henry is among them in a desperate effort to save the crop. They bucket water onto the flames until the fire is under control. Henry stops to rest and his face is black with ashes. He sees his wife and Mary silhouetted against the smoke in the field.
‘What happened?’ Henry shouts with a puzzled and wild face.
‘She set the fire, the native you protect! I tried to stop her,’ says Susan.
‘Lord save us! We required this harvest to survive the winter. The church does not provide enough for all of us. Mary, did you do this?’ Henry holds Mary’s arms and shakes her.
Mary does not answer; she faces him with a steady gaze.
‘They are right! You people cannot be tamed,’ says Henry Smythe, then turns to his wife.
‘Thank you, my dearest Susan, for your valour. We might have lost the School as well,’ he says tenderly.
Susan stares and smiles at Mary then the husband carries his wife in his arms across the burnt field. At that moment a warrior rushes down beside the barn and with a ferocious whack, belts Henry across his back with a waddie. The man flees across the field, like a shadow. Henry collapses and Susan screams and falls to the ground beside him. She leans over to nurse her husband in her arms.
The servants carry Smythe to the house and lie him on the sofa to be cared for by Cook and Susan. He will not die, but he has broken ribs.
Mary is told by Cook that she is not needed and she walks back to her room and throws herself on her bed. She has run out of options, but will find strength and take her daughter away. Her hatred for Henry overtakes all other emotions. She will now happily leave his loathsome house.
Over the next week, Mary makes ready for her departure, and the inevitable long-foot walk, with Eleanor, into God knows what. She prepares her belongings carefully and remembers the day she arrived years before at the Native School and the dreadful Cook giving her a savage scrubbing with a bristle brush, as though to wash off her dark skin. Mary remembers Mrs Shelley and Mercy and running away with Boothuri.
She will not ask for anything from Smythe except what she has earned and paid for herself. He must release her from the indenture. But she will have no hesitation in taking whatever provisions she needs. To take from white people is not a bad thing. She ponders the word ‘thief’ and how it refers to her somewhat pathetic pilfering. A few silly chickens and some flour. Now, if she stole a horse or cow, that would warrant the name.
…
The next day, the sun shines and the sky is a radiant blue. Deerubbin is sparkling and small river boats make their way along it; diving ducks plunge into the water and rise up with wiggling fish. The grand sandstone edifice of the Orphan School seems untouched by last night’s fire.
All the servants and orphans are busy in the field trying to save what is left of the corn. Little children dig and replant seedlings, carrying precious water to each one. Mary wipes her hands on her apron and looks at the place where she saw the warrior standing. She thinks that Jerungi, and perhaps Old Jack, planned the attack, but there is no sign of them. The tracks have been brushed away.
The afternoon is full of work and Mary is polishing silver in the dining room when she hears Henry and his wife walking towards the room. She hides behind the peacock screen.
‘Get rid of her!’ Susan is speaking with a clear high voice. Henry twitches and ruffles his black hair with nervous fingers. He sits by his writing desk and taps his quill. He laughs like men do when confronted by a wronged woman.
‘Must we discuss this now? I am penning a sonnet and working on my native language book,’ says Henry. He dips the quill in ink and examines the tip.
‘Sonnet? Are you insane? I shall call the doctor to bleed and purge these dark humours,’ rages Susan.
‘We must buy more quills – make a list … She is just a black servant. Don’t be foolish, Susan dearest,’ says Henry.
‘You must choose between rich cream cake and soda bread,’ says Susan.
Mary leans forward to hear his answer. She holds her breath.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, dearest. It was a mistake such as many better men than me have also on occasion made. You must forgive me. I command you to find forgiveness. I am only human,’ says Henry.
‘I have heard about such servants! The other colonial wives have spoken of these creatures!’ says Susan. ‘You are shaming me and have no respect for the sacred promise of our marriage. You are a colonial joke. Everyone is laughing at you – behind your back – at your lack of Christian fidelity or conscience as you preach your pious sermons on the Sabbath. Look at you now, damaged by a violent savage and yet you dare to defy me and you let her stay.’
Mary can tell that it can’t be going the way he hoped. It must end, of course it must. She looks at the painted silk screen. There are iridescent Indian peacocks, lilies entwined with bluebells and pink roses dance up the edges. She picks a hole in the silk with her fingernail, intending to put her eyes to the hole, but her hand rips the silk and the tear trickles down through the flowers.
‘Stupid, stupid girl!’ Susan sweeps the screen aside to expose Mary
. ‘You have broken the screen! Am I to pay for everything? Chinese silk is very expensive. Am I never to be free of you?’ says Susan.
‘I can pay’, says Mary.
‘With what? Your concubine wage?’ says Susan. Henry squirms.
Mary rises and stands with her head bowed, submissive. She watches the two of them together with teeth clenched. Every scrap of her body rebels. Heat rises up through her neck and bursts through her head, her scalp tingles and a powerful surge of emotion explodes. She sees Susan shaking. Then Henry and Susan lean towards each other like an old married couple. Mary takes off her apron and lays it carefully on the floor. Her face is strong and rebellious. She can no longer play at being a docile maid. Her dark eyes and lustrous lashes gleam as she clears her throat and the two of them stare at her.
‘Are you cold Madam? You look like ice,’ says Mary. A groan of horror escapes from Henry as he drifts between them. Susan stands with her shocked mouth open. Her hands are clasped as in prayer.
‘Please Mary, have some decorum. If you could allow us some privacy,’ Henry wails from his sick couch.
‘She set fire to that cornfield, not a native! It is her fault you were injured. She is an arsonist!’ Mary says to him.
‘Liar! That thing is your prostitute!’ says Susan. She turns to Henry as if she may scratch his face. Susan is young and perhaps has never used this word before. He coughs, then takes a glass of sherry and downs it.
‘I have taken vows and pledged my love to you alone, Susan. I carried your miniature in my pocket for three long years while awaiting your arrival,’ says Henry. ‘Did you instigate this destruction?’
‘Your servant burns the corn with her accomplice renegades. Not me!’
Susan holds her head high and floats from the room like a ghost.
He sighs a deep, sad sigh and they are alone together but Mary knows the once-gentle love is gone.
‘Mary, you will do as I say or I will be forced to summon the constabulary. If I do, you will be arrested and locked away in the lunatic asylum,’ he says. ‘Do you have any conception of the gravity of what you have done?’ He pinches her chin and looks into Mary’s face. ‘Go and get your belongings. Put them in a basket. You must, of course, leave the child and depart this dwelling tonight.’