The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

  ‘You be hanging on to that, and if something strange comes to pass, you come and see me. No hanging about. No ridiculous pride. I want to make sure this little angel is well cared for.’ She lifted Elizabeth into her arms and planted a firm kiss on her cheek. ‘I’ll miss you, my little poppet.’ Mrs Cameron lowered Elizabeth to the deck and sailed down the gangplank, one of the first to leave the ship.

  While Michael and Elizabeth waited their turn, his eyes scanned the dockside crowd, searching for Mam and Da, but the crush of bodies and upturned faces made it all a blur.

  It wasn’t until the crew finished bringing the trunks and baggage up from the hold that they were finally given a nod, and with nothing but their one bag he and Elizabeth stepped ashore.

  Some were grasped in long-awaited hugs and greetings, others wandered aimlessly, almost as lost as they’d looked in Liverpool. The crowds swirled and massed around them amongst the ropes, bollards and bales and the stink of horse manure, sweat and rotting vegetables, but there was no shriek of pleasure, no warm, enfolding arms.

  ‘Michael Ó’Cuinn.’

  He turned, heart in his mouth.

  A tall redheaded Scotsman with a drinker’s nose grinned at him. ‘I’m William Cameron, Bill to me mates. The wife’s broken-hearted, says if you want to leave the girl with us while you sort yourself out, she’d be more than happy to oblige.’

  At the very moment he opened his mouth to decline, a passing cart overloaded with bales thumped his shoulder and Elizabeth’s hand slipped from his. He grabbed at her coat and hauled her to safety seconds before she disappeared beneath the wheels.

  ‘Mind Lizzie. She’s scared.’ Elizabeth tucked her doll back under her chin.

  ‘Aye, me darlin’, we’re all a bit scared. I’ll be thanking you …’

  Before Michael finished, Mrs Cameron bumbled up.

  ‘You’ve found him, I see.’ She held out her arms to Elizabeth, who slid into her embrace, Lizzie clutched tight against her chest.

  ‘Let me take her, make it easier. You can sort yourself out, and you know where to find us.’

  ‘Aye, I do.’

  ‘Off you go, boy. You find your mam and da. Afterwards come back and collect her.’

  A little piece of his heart flew to Elizabeth as she gave a jaunty wave over Mrs Cameron’s shoulder, then he pulled down his jacket and set off across the quay through the seething crowds.

  Once the confusion and chaos settled to a tolerable level he stopped at a barrow selling a range of fruit and vegetables that as good as made him weep.

  ‘What’ll it be, sir? Oranges, lemons? Straight off the ship, are you? These’ll set you up a treat.’ He handed Michael a slice of juiciness which he thrust into his mouth, the taste and smell taking him back, back to that night in the chapel. His gorge rose and he spat the remains into the gutter.

  ‘You’ll learn to like them. Came out on the Earl Canning, did you?’

  ‘Aye. I’m looking for the assisted immigration offices in Kent Street.’

  ‘Go along the street over there for a couple of hundred yards, you’ll find Windmill Street, turn right and go up the hill. You’ll see Kent Street. Lord Nelson’s on the corner. Sure you wouldn’t like an orange? Only a penny.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘Not right now.’ He needed every one of the pennies he’d tied in his handkerchief and tucked beneath his shirt until he knew what was what.

  Ignoring all the other quayside vendors, he ploughed on until he found himself on Windmill Street. A mixture of stone and timber buildings lined the way—inns, shops and offices, and every so often the entrance to a dark alley way or courtyard.

  Half an hour and one missed turn later, he stood in front of a window proclaiming itself to be the office of the assisted immigration scheme. He pushed open the door.

  ‘How may I help you?’

  Michael scooped off his cap and squinted at the voice, waiting for his eyes to adjust after the bright sunshine.

  ‘Arrived on the Earl Canning this morning, did you?’

  He must have had the fact painted across his forehead in large letters. ‘Aye.’

  ‘There’ll be a talk for new arrivals tonight at six o’clock. Help you find your feet. Come to pay your dues, have you?’

  ‘Dues?’

  ‘The remainder of your passage. What’s your name?’

  ‘Michael, Michael Ó’Cuinn.’

  The clerk’s head came up with a snap. ‘Ah! I have something here for you.’ He rummaged in the desk drawer and brought out a folded piece of paper and handed it to him. M Quinn was scrawled across the front.

  ‘This ain’t for me.’

  ‘It is, lad. Came hand delivered straight from your father.’

  ‘Me name’s not Quinn. It’s Ó’Cuinn.’

  The clerk winked. ‘One and the same. Ó’Cuinn’s too much of a mouthful for folks around here. Open your letter and be thankful your dues are paid.’

  Michael’s hand shook as his heart soared. He unfolded the piece of paper. The Diggers Rest, Hill End.

  Nothing more. ‘Where’s Hill End?’

  ‘Off in search of gold, are you? You and the rest of the world.’

  ‘No, off to find me da. It says here Hill End, a place called the Diggers Rest.’

  ‘Yep. Hill End district. That’s where you’ll find him. Hasn’t done the run of late.’

  ‘The run?’

  ‘Quarterly run via Bathurst to Sydney. Set himself up real well, employs a bloke now to drive the dray, since your mam passed.’

  The world tipped and Michael reached for the desk. ‘Me mam passed?’

  ‘Sit yourself down, lad, I’m sorry.’ Hands settled on his shoulders, eased him down. ‘You didn’t know. Take a moment.’

  How could that be? He knuckled a rogue tear from the corner of his eye. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Not real sure. I remember your mam, good-looker.’ The clerk’s face turned ruddy. ‘Beggin’ your pardon. They took off for Hill End soon after they arrived. Your da made a go of it. Didn’t waste time chasing gold, just that first lucky strike within a couple of months of arriving. Then bought the bullock dray and set himself up carting goods backwards and forwards to Sydney. Deposited the money in, regular as clockwork every quarter for your ticket.’

  Michael slammed his fist on the desk, anger easier than the sorrow swelling in his chest. ‘What happened to me mam?’ He ground the words out.

  ‘Not real sure. Heard it from the driver he employed to do the run for him.’

  ‘Is me da all right?’

  ‘Last I heard. Note came last quarter. What’s it say?’

  ‘Nothing, just the Diggers Rest, Hill End.’ Maybe the note wasn’t for him. Maybe it was a mistake. His mam wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye, dropping a kiss on his brow, cupping his cheek, same as she had before she’d climbed aboard the ship.

  ‘How far’s this Hill End place?’

  ‘Couple of hundred miles, west.’ He waved his hand behind him in a generous arc. ‘I’ll give you a chit to draw rations, for the long haul over the mountains; another three days’ll see you to Bathurst. You’ll pick up a ride from there. Come by tomorrow early. Once they know you’re Quinn’s lad, they’ll be happy to take you on, big strappin’ lad like you, give them a hand over the mountain passes.’

  Michael staggered to his feet, his head swirling. He’d clung to the vision of Mam and Da standing on the dock welcoming him with open arms for so long, and now this. ‘So you know me da?’

  ‘That I do. Nice little cartage business he’s got going for himself, though as I said, haven’t seen him for a while.’

  ‘But he left the note last quarter?’ Mary and Joseph, he couldn’t get his head around it.

  ‘Nah! It wasn’t your da, one of the Celestials.’

  ‘Celestials?’

  ‘Chinese. Lots of them out that way.’

  He didn’t need to know about Chinamen, he needed to get a move on. ‘I’ve got to go and see about
Elizabeth, me little sister.’

  ‘Your sister?’ The clerk ran a grubby finger across the papers. ‘I’d forgotten about her.’ He threw a sheepish look, cleared his throat and opened the desk drawer. ‘I’m to give you this.’ He handed over a pouch. ‘Something to tide you over. Your da sent it. Hill End’s no place to be taking a child, specially not a girl. It’s tough out there. A man’s world.’ He shrugged his shoulders.

  Aye, it was. And Michael wasn’t yet a man and he’d been making the decisions for far too long, since Mam and Da left. Wasn’t sure if he wanted to do it anymore. Wasn’t sure if he’d made the right call.

  ‘I’ll have the ride sorted tomorrow.’

  He dragged the piece of paper Bill Cameron had given him from his pocket. ‘Can you tell me where I’ll find Cameron Victuallers.’

  ‘Cameron Victuallers.’ The clerk sat up a little straighter, eyed him with a tad more respect. ‘Not too hard. Thriving business. Out of here, turn right, take the next on the left down the hill and you’ll see The Metropolitan. Turn left and follow the road. Place you’re looking for is on the left, couple of doors down from The Fortune of War.’

  ‘Ta.’ He held out his hand.

  The clerk tipped his head and winked. ‘See you this evening. Meeting’s at six sharp.’

  Once he was outside, Michael turned his face up to the sun, let out a long breath and shrugged out of his jacket. A man could fry in the heat.

  And nothing, nothing, as he’d expected. For here on in he’d never believe a word ’til he saw for himself.

  Hoisting his bag onto his shoulder, he set off down the hill back through the chaos, the barking dogs, frolicking women and drunken sailors.

  It didn’t take him long to find the warehouse with ‘Cameron Victuallers’ emblazoned above the wide doors. Before he’d had a chance to look around, Bill Cameron, stripped to his singlet, brawny muscles bulging, appeared. ‘Ah! There you are. Everything sorted?’

  Michael dropped his bag down inside the door and followed Cameron through a greasy-aired warehouse packed with mountains of canvas bales marked for London. They climbed up a flight of narrow stairs and stepped into a cosy room.

  Mrs Cameron smiled up at him from the chair beside the open window, a cup of tea in hand. ‘Sit yourself down and tell me how it went.’

  Michael drew in a deep breath and collapsed onto a chair. ‘It’s not as simple as I thought.’ He pulled off his hat and scratched at his sweat-soaked hair. He’d no idea where he was going other than the name of the place. Hill End—it sounded like the road to Hades. ‘The immigration bloke seems to think me mam’s dead.’ He swallowed the threatening sob. He’d not be believing it. ‘Me da’s in some place called Hill End.’

  ‘Michael, Michael.’ Elizabeth flew into the room, her doll tucked under one arm and an apple on a stick clutched in her other hand. ‘Toffee apple.’ She thrust the sticky mess into his face and grinned a gap-toothed smile.

  ‘Come here, me little poppet.’ Mrs Cameron stretched out her arms. Elizabeth hesitated for a moment then nestled at her feet.

  Mrs Cameron caressed her halo of curls. ‘She cannae go out there. Not one this bonny.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Not without her mam.’

  He lifted his finger to his lips. No point in telling Elizabeth something she’d not understand.

  ‘The good Lord’s not seen fit to grant me children.’ She smoothed Elizabeth’s hair back from her sticky cheeks. ‘Leave her here with me and go and find your da. She’ll be safe and sound until you’re ready. Goldfields are no place for a little girl. Since we sighted land I’ve been hearing nothing but terrible tales of dirt, heat, vicious animals, bushrangers and sickness.’

  The thought of leaving Elizabeth made his stomach sink. Perhaps it was the best solution. The immigration bloke had said the same, and Elizabeth had taken to Mrs Cameron.

  ‘Some say Sydney Town’s hard, set foot outside and you’ve got dirt like you’ve never seen before, and heat that’d suck you dry.’ Cameron threw in his five-pennyworth from the doorway. ‘Never mind the bloody animals, the bushrangers and the Chinamen.’

  Michael had to find out what happened to Mam, had to find Da. ‘I can’t ask you to look after her. I can’t pay for her board.’ Maybe a bit, the pound Da sent, he’d not much else except a couple of pennies.

  ‘Bill’s doing all right for himself. He’s got his own business, the boat and the warehouse. Give us what you can and leave Elizabeth here. If you don’t like what you see out there, you come back. We’ll see you right.’

  Five

  Maitland, 1912

  Jane couldn’t believe how quickly her life had changed in the last six years. She’d moved into the attic bedroom just a week after she’d had tea with Michael and Elizabeth, and found a brand-new school uniform hanging in the wardrobe, straw boater and all. Not only that, but new shoes, two new skirts and three blouses.

  Once she’d finished at St Joseph’s there were classes at the School of Arts and Maitland Technical College, and her life followed the same pattern. When she’d finished classes she walked home for lunch, and spent the afternoon working with Elizabeth on the accounts. Not just those of the auction house and the other Quinn businesses, but many of the local charities and ventures Elizabeth and Michael supported.

  Jane discovered there was a whole lot more to arithmetic than she thought. But most fascinating of all was Elizabeth’s abacus. Why didn’t everyone use one? It made everything so much faster.

  Today, however, was not an accounts day. Oh no! She had a day off because she was going to Sydney. On the train with Michael and Elizabeth!

  It didn’t bear thinking about.

  She clattered down the stairs and into the kitchen. Bessie had a bowl of porridge waiting for her. She’d hated porridge at the orphanage, now it was one of her favourites. Cream made all the difference, and the knob of butter Bessie always sat in the middle, but best of all was the brown sugar, a lovely crust on the top.

  ‘Got a big day ahead of you, I hear.’ Bessie plonked a glass of milk down on the table, all creamy and frothy on the top. ‘Take your hat off while you’re eating.’

  ‘I’ve never been on a train before and I’ve never been to Sydney. We are going to the National Art Gallery of New South Wales.’ She swallowed the last mouthful of delicious porridge. ‘It is a temple to art. I’m very interested in the proportions of the building.’ The last spoonful of cream disappeared. ‘Then tomorrow I have a philosophy class with Professor Watling at the School of Arts. I’m giving a talk. The last one before the Christmas holidays.’

  ‘Oh, are you now. You’d be good at that. What would you be talking about?’

  ‘Fibonacci.’

  ‘Fibon—who?’

  ‘Fibonacci. He was an Italian mathematician, although that wasn’t his real name. He lived in the twelfth century. He introduced the Fibonacci sequence, the Golden Mean.’ And it made sense of everything. Patterns never lied.

  ‘I suppose now you’ll be heading off to Victoria to them there goldfields.’

  ‘Not that kind of gold. It’s represented everywhere in nature. In the coil of a seashell, the seeds of a sunflower. Leaves, branches and petals can all grow in spirals.’

  ‘And, you’ll be telling me next, in those stinkin’ rabbit paws, rotten shells, dried plants, and all them numbers.’

  ‘One, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen.’

  ‘I thought you were good at numbers? They ain’t right, all muddled up; even I know that.’

  ‘It’s a sequence. You simply add the previous two numbers to create the next.’ Jane sketched a spiral with her index finger. ‘The Golden Mean. It explains the perfect shape of nature.’

  ‘Nature, is it? That would account for the fact your room is full to the gunnels with desiccated rubbish, making it stink worse than the compost heap. I’m planning on sending Lucy in there to clean up today.’

  Jane shot to her feet and grabbed Bessie’s floury hand. ‘Oh no. Please don’t.
I promise I’ll clean it up as soon as I get home.’ She couldn’t have Lucy in there messing with her belongings, she’d never find anything again.

  ‘The floor is covered with screwed-up pieces of paper. Why can’t you use a bin like any normal person?’

  ‘Because they’re not rubbish. I might need them.’

  ‘Just as well you’re tucked away in the attic, not in one of the guest rooms. Don’t see why you can’t use a notebook like any sane person.’

  Jane slipped her hand into her pocket and ran her fingers over the beautiful leather-bound notebook Elizabeth had given her last Christmas. The trouble was she always tore the pages out, either to keep pinned to the wall or in her pocket where she could check them easily, whenever she had a spare moment.

  ‘Pull your stockings up and tie that hair back, you look like a tramp.’

  ‘I’ll clear my room up when I get back. Tomorrow.’

  ‘That will be a little difficult, won’t it? You’re off to the School of Arts with Mr Fibon Archie.’

  ‘I’ll do it after supper, when I get back.’

  ‘Then you’ll be banging and crashing in there all night and Lucy’ll be complaining in the morning that she couldn’t get any sleep.’

  If Lucy hadn’t kicked up such a fuss and managed to wheedle her way into the other attic room, she’d have nothing to complain about. Besides, she did nothing but sleep. Said she needed eight hours a night. What a lot of poppycock. Jane hardly ever slept more than two hours at a time. Her eyes would flash open and her mind would whir and she’d be out of bed and at her desk.

  ‘I’ll be quiet, I promise. Please, please don’t let Lucy into my room.’ She clasped her hands together and schooled her face into the most beseeching expression she could manage.

  ‘Get away with you. Let me look at you.’

  Jane gave a small pirouette and hoped she’d got her outfit right—her navy skirt, just the right length; her boots, which she’d polished until her arm wanted to drop off, peeping out; gloves, and her straw boater trimmed with one of her navy hair ribbons.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Bessie. ‘Just right for a day in the city. Mr Michael’s waiting for you in the sitting room, and don’t forget to say goodbye to Miss Elizabeth.’