by Téa Cooper
She buried her worried little face in his shoulder and gave a snotty sniff.
Michael set her down and hefted the bag, the one he’d packed with care when the immigration office handed out the clothes. Two dresses and a bonnet for Sunday best, new boots and stockings.
‘One moment.’ He squatted down, felt along the back. It was there tucked in the back as he remembered. The rag doll Mam had made from scraps; he’d saved it for this very moment. Grief snatched at the back of his throat. He pulled the doll out. Gave it a shake. ‘I’ve got something for you. Mam made it.’
For a moment she didn’t respond, looked at him with those ancient eyes, then her mouth formed a little circle of surprise. She reached out her hands and clutched the doll tight to her chest.
‘What will you be calling her?’ Mrs Cameron bent down and smoothed the doll’s woollen hair.
She hesitated for a moment, opened her mouth and as clear as a bell said, ‘Lizzie.’
‘Aye. That’s a pretty name. Is that what your Mam calls you?’
She turned her wide, watchful eyes to Michael and nodded.
‘Come along. We’ll go and get matters sorted. You bring Lizzie and we’ll see your brother once we’re settled.’
Without a word, she tucked the doll beneath her chin and slipped her hand into Mrs Cameron’s, and they disappeared into the crowd.
The two men behind him hoisted their trunks onto their shoulders and peeled off in the direction of the lower decks. It was as much as he could do to put one foot in front of the other. His heart bled, everything around him a distant blur of noise and disharmony. This was supposed to be the first day of their new life. The life Mam and Da had planned, scrimped and saved for, but he’d miss what he knew, miss all he loved.
The pathetic queue of humanity shuffled forward as their names were crossed off yet another list, papers checked again before they were allocated a spot. ‘Last one on the left.’
He eased his way between the cramped bunks and threw the bag down, the stench of sweat and bilge water turning his gut. They hadn’t even left the river yet. He’d never thought he’d be seasick, hadn’t been when they’d crossed from Dublin to Liverpool. Air, he needed fresh air. He slipped back onto the deck.
The clouds had darkened and a biting wind swept across the river. It matched his mood, he doubted he’d ever be warm again. He leant over the rail, squinted into the distance trying to pick out the ravaged spire of the workhouse chapel.
Someone behind jostled him; he straightened up, felt a tug at the back of his jacket. Bastards. They’d no patience. Let a man alone to grieve.
He whipped around intent on delivering a mouthful, felt a nudge against the back of his knees. ‘What are you doing here?’ He darted a glance around and squatted down. ‘Darlin’, you can’t be staying with me.’
Her face crumpled into a ferocious frown and her bottom lip quivered. He scooped her up and she burrowed into his chest. ‘I can’t change anything, darlin’, the ship’s sailing.’
He nudged her forward through the stinking, cloying crush. Where the hell was Mrs Cameron? She said she’d take care of her. He set her down and she wedged herself between his boots, eyes pleading.
The ship juddered and groaned in the river current as the steam-tug came alongside. Before he could release the swell of frustration building in his chest, a series of scuffles broke out, then a splash as a body hit the water.
‘What’s going on?’ He turned to the bloke standing next to him at the rail.
‘Stowaways. They’ll take ’em ashore while they can. On the pilot boat, along with the officials.’
Six, hardly more than boys, hands manacled, bumped along the deck.
‘Stowaways?’
‘Trying to get themselves a free passage, or worse, paid their money to the wrong person, to the runners. If they’d got aboard and didn’t show themselves for three or four days, the captain ain’t going to turn the boat around.’
‘Hadn’t occurred to me.’ Michael’s gut churned then lightened. Their papers were in order.
‘Heard tell of a lass who hid herself in a box. All well and good but she hadn’t taken mind of the lack of air. Found her body amongst the cargo when they docked. Gruesome sight that would be.’
They prodded and pushed the motley band of stowaways down the rope ladder into the row boats. Not bound for the colonies, bound for Canning Half Tide Dock then Walton Gaol. His stomach gave another lurch. It was fine. They’d passed the check.
Michael stepped to one side and crouched down. ‘Look at me, darlin’.’
She gazed up at him, big blue eyes, trust shimmering bright. A wan smile tugged at the corner of her lips, tugged at his heart more like.
‘We’ll forget all about the workhouse. Can you do that?’
She nodded her head and rested against his leg, her smallness and vulnerability killing him.
‘Look darlin’, trust me. I’m taking you home. Mam and Da will be waiting for us; until then I’ll look after you.’
Tears welled.
Biting back his frustration, he drew in a breath. ‘Pretend it’s a game. You know how to play a game?’
Curls bouncing, she brightened.
Consumed by the need to do right by her, he squatted down on his haunches and drew her close. ‘You’re safe with me.’ He held her tight as the ropes tethering the ship slipped into the water, leaving behind his heart and all he held dear.
Three
Maitland Town, 1906
Still glowing from the scrubbing Sister Mary Ann had administered, Jane stood quaking on the doorstep of the Quinns’ Church Street house and rang the bell. Noisier than a fire engine, it filled the entire street. She whipped around in case anyone came running.
No one did, so she turned back to the door. It opened to reveal a red-faced girl done up like a leg of lamb in the butcher’s shop, her frilly little cap and ruffled apron so white it made Jane squint.
‘Better come in. And none of your nonsense. Think you’re some kind of clever sticks, I’ll bet.’
Lucy Smith! So, that’s what had happened to her. The Quinns must make a habit of choosing girls from the orphanage. Well, Mr Quinn could forget it, she wasn’t going to prance around in a get-up like that; besides, she’d be no good at it. All that bobbing and curtseying.
Before Jane had time to respond to Lucy’s smart remark, Mr Quinn’s booming voice echoed down the long hallway. ‘Right on time. Good girl. Off you go, Lucy.’
With her nose twitching, Lucy scurried off, leaving Jane in the doorway with no idea what to do next.
‘Come along, come and meet Elizabeth.’
Mr Quinn beckoned and she tiptoed along the patterned carpet runner down the hallway, hands clasped tightly. Some sort of paper covered the walls on either side of her, painted with what looked like flannel flowers. There had to be at least five hundred and twelve flowers in the space between the front door and the spot where Mr Quinn stood.
At his invitation she stepped over the threshold, and into a fairy tale.
Miss Elizabeth Quinn sat on a small rose-patterned sofa next to the window, looking like some kind of an angel with the sun behind her, hair the colour of roasted chestnuts, loose curls swept back from her face. And her eyes! She had the brightest blue eyes, almost violet, putting Jane in mind of a doll she and Emmaline had seen in Owen and Beckett’s shop window last Christmas, all porcelain skin and shiny blue. Emmaline reckoned the doll’s eyes opened and closed.
‘My name is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Quinn. I’m Michael’s sister.’ She patted the cushion next to her on the sofa. It was the palest of pinks, like the inside of a real rose.
‘How d’you do, miss.’ She tried to do one of those curtsey things but her stocking started to slither. Did Miss Quinn truly want her to sit next to her?
‘Come and sit by me. We girls must stick together. Michael, you sit opposite us.’ She picked up a small bell from the table next to her and gave it a shake.
Two sec
onds later Lucy Smith returned, bobbing in the doorway like a foraging duck. ‘Yes, ma’am?’ She shot Jane a disparaging look.
Not to be outdone, Jane stuck her nose in the air, crossed the room and plonked herself down on the pink sofa, her hands neatly folded like Miss Quinn’s. Lucy’s eyes narrowed. That’d teach her.
‘We’d like tea now, if you wouldn’t mind, and some of Bessie’s delicious macaroons.’
Lucy dawdled for a moment, looking for all the world as though she’d like to stick her tongue out, then gave a huff and flounced from the room, banging the door behind her.
‘Now, Jane.’ Miss Quinn turned sideways and smiled right into her eyes.
Jane caught Mr Quinn smiling too. They were up to something and she had no idea what.
‘Michael’s been telling me about your skill with figures. He thinks your acumen should be fostered.’
Acumen. What was an acumen? Another ‘A’ word. She hadn’t had time to look up aptitude and accountant yet and now she had to remember acumen. She wasn’t sure whether this acumen was a good thing or not.
‘As I expect you know, we own the auction house in the main street.’
The auction house! No, she didn’t. Sister Mary Ann had given Jane a long lecture before she left, saying Mr and Miss Quinn were important benefactors. Come to think of it, she wasn’t too sure what a benefactor was either. Did they own the orphanage? No, that was the Benevolent Society.
‘Many of the people we employ here at home and at the auction house started life at the orphanage.’
Jane couldn’t sit quiet any longer. ‘I’m almost old enough to go to work.’
‘We’d like to offer you the opportunity to extend your education.’
Extend it? How could an education be extended? At twelve she’d have to find a job, everyone knew that. Out into the cottages and off to work; only Sister Mary Ann’s treasures escaped that fate.
‘Come along, Elizabeth, stop picking your words. Tell Jane what she needs to know and let’s see if she agrees.’
‘I was simply trying to break the idea gently. It’s all well and good for you with your blunt, no-nonsense approach …’
‘I like blunt, no nonsense.’ Jane slapped her hand over her mouth, making Mr Quinn’s big laugh echo around the room.
At the exact same moment the door swung open and there stood Lucy Smith; if she’d been gawking before, her eyes now looked as if they were about to bounce across the room.
‘I’m sorry to disturb. I’ve brought tea.’ She said it in such a hoity-toity voice it would have made Sister Mary Ann right proud.
‘Thank you, put the tray down here.’ Miss Quinn pointed to the table in front of the sofa. ‘That will be all.’
The cups rattled as the tray hit the table and Lucy shot back out through the door as though she had a Chinese firecracker up her bum.
‘Now, where were we?’
‘Blunt. No nonsense.’ Mr Quinn gave another snort and pulled out a big red handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his eyes.
‘Ah yes.’ Miss Quinn held the pot up high and a stream of perfumed tea filled the cups, cups so thin you could see the light through them, and they were covered with roses the same colour as the cushions underneath her. Jane smoothed the sofa with her fingers then snatched her hand back.
‘Michael and I would like to sponsor you to attend St Joseph’s Girls School here in Maitland. We feel your aptitude …’
There was that word again. She must look it up.
‘… for numbers is remarkable and should be fostered. After you’ve completed the education program, there are evening courses in accounting, bookkeeping, typing and shorthand you could attend. Women need more in life than a husband.’
Well she certainly didn’t want a husband. ‘Why me?’
Miss Quinn reached out and laid her fingers on Jane’s arm. ‘Neither Michael nor I have any children and we’d like to help you, become your benefactors, and when you have completed your education we’d like to offer you a position in our business.’
‘But I can’t. I’m going to leave the orphanage and get meself a job, find somewhere to live. I can’t be going to school and evening classes.’
‘Elizabeth has that covered too, Jane. Be patient a little longer.’
‘Bessie, our cook, has decided not to live in anymore now that her daughter’s had twins and needs some help. She’ll come in daily. I’m proposing you take Bessie’s room. It’s on the attic floor, a little bigger than Lucy’s so there’d be room for a desk, which you’ll need because you’ll have plenty of studying to do.’
‘You’d do all this for nothing?’
‘It wouldn’t be for nothing. While you’re at school you’d be able to help me in the afternoons and at weekends with the accounts, learn about the business. Now, how does that sound? Would you be interested?’
Interested yes, maybe if she could get her head around it all. Not adopted like Emmaline and some of the other girls, and truth be told she wasn’t even sure she wanted to be. Bertha Brightman had come back with dreadful tales of whiskery old men and wandering hands. She shot a look at Mr Quinn. He couldn’t be described as whiskery or even very old and he smelt nice, of some sort of hair oil, something sweet like caramel, and a hint of tobacco.
‘Are you all right, Jane?’ Miss Quinn’s cool hand covered hers. ‘I realise this is a lot to take in.’
‘Mmm. Yes. I still don’t get it. Why me?’
Mr Quinn pushed to his feet and came and stood next to the sofa. Jane hadn’t realised he was so tall.
‘I don’t think you understand, Jane. You have a gift. A gift that should be fostered.’
He’d got a present for her? ‘What gift?’
‘Your ability, your aptitude with numbers.’
‘What is this aptitude thing I’ve got?’ Perhaps they were telling her gently she’d got some dreadful disease. Like consumption or something. Betty Brown had consumption. She’d ended up in the infirmary and they’d never seen her again.
Mr Quinn boomed out that laugh again. ‘I’m sorry. We’ve made an assumption. I’ve been following your progress for some time now. Your mathematic results indicate that you are gifted, have a talent for numbers. That gift should be fostered.’
‘Not ignored because you’re a girl,’ added Miss Quinn. ‘Why, there are girls attending Sydney University, studying mathematics. Have you heard of Fanny Hunt?’
Jane raked through her memory. She couldn’t place anyone called Fanny Hunt at the orphanage, but maybe she’d been there while she was in the nursery. Stuck in one of those dreadful cots day in and day out with nothing to do but make patterns with the bars and watch the slant of the sun through the high windows. No, Fanny Hunt didn’t sound familiar.
‘She was the first woman to graduate from the University of Sydney. She gained a Bachelor of Science. I see no reason why you couldn’t do the same one day. So, would you like to come and live here, Jane?’ Miss Quinn’s bright eyes stared into her own with such kindness.
Roses and sunshine or flapping robes and plaster saints.
Not much of a decision.
Four
Sydney, Australia, 1863
There were days when Michael hardly remembered the past as he paced the deck of the ship, revelling in fresh air, freedom and the promise of the future. As luck would have it, he and Elizabeth had the strongest of stomachs. When everyone else lay below decks heaving and moaning they’d braved the swell around the Bay of Biscay and basked in the fierce ride.
As the weeks slipped into summer and the ship into warmer waters, the horror of Liverpool, Aunty Nuala’s passing and the workhouse faded.
‘She’s a bonnie lass.’ Mrs Cameron kept Elizabeth close to her side, as she had ever since she’d snuck away from her that first day.
‘Aye she is that, me little darlin’.’ Michael passed his hand across the top of Elizabeth’s soft hair. The fresh air and regular meals had filled out her cheeks and brought a glow to her pa
le skin. He’d make sure she’d never be wanting again.
‘Not long now. Your mam will be happy to have her little one back, albeit not much of a bairn now. They grow quick. She’ll be waiting on the dock, her arms wide. A son’s a son ’til he takes a wife, but a daughter’s a daughter for the rest of your life.’
And that was the one thing that worried him as the ship made its way up between the two ominous cliff faces standing sentinel to the harbour. He hadn’t heard from Mam and Da for nigh on twelve months.
From the water, Sydney didn’t look like much. A small ugly town, surrounded by barren sandy coves, the trees, short and stunted, clinging to the rocks. None of the green of Ireland. The blinding sun had leached the colour from all but the sky and water. All about them smaller boats glided over the smooth calm surface of the water—steamers, lighters plying their trade, and the bigger ships disgorging their cargo of immigrants and gold seekers.
The quay swarmed with life beneath the shadows of the tall warehouses, and behind them a craggy crowded ridge, packed with precariously perched buildings that threatened to topple into the busy harbour.
It took hours to dock, the wind and the waves taking them backwards and forwards. After close to five months aboard ship, Michael yearned for dry land under his feet and the chance to hand family decisions over to Da.
A pilot and an official-looking chap came on board, spoke with the captain and the surgeon, peered through mounds of paperwork and muttered. There’d not been much illness aboard apart from bouts of seasickness and three cases of measles. Some of the hands reckoned they’d be up for a stint in quarantine but there hadn’t been any other outbreaks.
Michael patted the papers in his breast pocket. If all else failed he’d got the address the immigration bloke had given him. The office.
‘Not long now.’ Mrs Cameron pressed a piece of paper into his hands.
He looked down at it and frowned.
‘You can read, can’t you?’
Of course he could read; he’d got the hedge school and his mam to thank for that.
Cameron Victuallers.