by Téa Cooper
Across the street, outside the only two-storey building in the place, a group of businessmen stood in their bowler hats and suits looking as though they ran the place. And the noise. A continual pounding made his ears ring. ‘What’s the bloody awful noise?’
‘The stamper battery. Only day you’ll get any peace is Sunday.’ The teamster slowed the dray and the three men toppled out. ‘Come and sit up the front. Give you a sense of the town.’
Michael climbed over the backboard and slid onto the box seat when the teamster pointed to a compact line of buildings clinging to the side of the ridge, running north to south, for about half a mile. ‘What’s this stamper battery?’ He had to shout to make his voice carry over the incessant thumping.
‘A great big machine. They use it to crush the quartz.’
‘Is that where you find the gold?’
‘That’s where it is if you strike it lucky. Reef gold, not alluvial. They’ve opened up a mine above the river, built a dam too. There’s good money to be made. Said you wanted the Diggers Rest?’
Michael nodded, his eyes bulging as he counted the number of pubs. Enough for every man Jack to take his fill. There was a telegraph office and a couple of large stores, rows of smaller shops, even a dispensary.
‘Diggers Rest is up there. There’s better places than that.’
‘Nah. That’s what I want, that’s where me da is.’
The teamster cocked a shaggy eyebrow and shrugged. ‘That case, I’ll let you off here.’ The dray slowed and Michael hit the ground with a thud, his bag jarring his shoulder.
‘Head down there a piece. It’ll be on your left.’
‘Ta, mate.’ Michael let the word mate roll off his tongue and lifted his hand in farewell. He liked the word and the look of this place, liked it a lot. The clerk’s news about Mam and the brief note had put the fear of God into him but now he’d seen the town, especially those neat little cottages, his cloud of worry had lifted. There’d been a mistake. Had to be. How could a bloke from Sydney know what had happened to his mam nearly two hundred miles away? He could see her in one of those neat little cottages, cheeks plump and pink from the stove, all trace of the famine wiped away; she’d be right at home.
The Diggers Rest was easy to find—a tumbledown weatherboard warehouse that looked as though the slightest puff of wind would send it toppling. Michael shouldered open the door and dropped his bag to the ground. The stench and the darkness hit him and he stood for a moment inhaling the strange smoky air.
‘I’m looking for Michael Ó’Cuinn.’
A wizened bloke standing at a long counter made of some sort of polished wood and stinking of sweat gave him a puzzled frown. Behind him, stacks of large bales and boxes were organised along the walls and small ceramic barrels lined the narrow shelves. ‘Quinn.’
‘Yeah. Quinn.’ What was it about these people? Couldn’t pronounce a man’s name, had to shorten it. Perhaps that’s why they called everyone mate.
‘Who would you be?’
‘Michael Ó’Cuinn.’
The bloke gave a bark of laughter, though Michael couldn’t see what was funny.
‘Michael Quinn,’ he repeated, ‘he’s me da.’
‘Is he now. He’s upstairs.’ He flicked his head over his shoulder towards the even darker interior. ‘Wily old bugger.’
A young boy, who didn’t come much higher than his elbow, emerged from the shadows, dropped a wooden frame full of beads onto the counter and peered at him.
‘Take him to Quinn, Jing.’
‘Upstairs?’
‘Yeah! Up-bloody-stairs. It’s his son.’
The boy inclined his head to the back of the warehouse where a tiny lamp flickered and spluttered in the gloom. ‘Come, Mr Quinn.’
‘Me name’s Michael. Mr Quinn’s me da.’
When they approached the dim doorway at the back of the warehouse, Jing knocked twice and waited until the door-latch raised. He led the way up some gloomy steps to a small barred door without a handle. It’d need a bloody axe to burst it open.
Jing put his mouth close to the door and uttered a string of low-toned words that sounded more like a song than much else, and the door mysteriously swung open.
Michael turned back once they’d passed through, wishing he’d time to study the ingenious system of cords and pulleys that controlled the door. More lamps spluttered and flickered in the gloom and the air was heavy with a pungent floral odour. A grimfaced Chinaman sat in one corner brooding over a smoky little lamp, which he was feeding with fat from a tin. Arranged around the room a group of recumbent figures reclined, pipe at mouth, inhaling the smoke.
‘I’m looking for me da. Michael Quinn.’
The old man waved his hand at the group.
‘Me da …’ His words petered out as one of the corpse-like figures rolled to a sitting position.
‘Mr Quinn.’ Jing crossed the floor to the platform and eased the old man upright.
It couldn’t be Da. What had happened to the strapping man he remembered, the man who brandished a hurley like a weapon? Not an ounce of flesh remained on his bones, his chest concave and his legs frailer than a splinter of wood, with vomit staining his threadbare shirt. ‘He’s sick. Is it the consumption?’
Jing shook his head. ‘Ah-pen-yen.’
‘Ah-pen-yen?’
‘Opium.’ The old man’s hand rested on his shoulder. ‘He is searching for lost heaven. To take away the pain.’
Michael sank down on the bench, lips clamped against the roil of his stomach.
Tears welled in Da’s eyes and he blindly reached for the clay pipe.
‘It’s Michael, Da.’
Blinking in the half-light, he rolled over and peered into his face. ‘Michael, me boy.’ The words wheezed past his cracked lips.
‘Where’s Mam?’
He sucked hard on the pipe and lay back, eyes closed, shutting him out.
‘Da!’ Michael reached for his shoulder, the withered skin dry and fevered beneath his touch.
‘Come with me. I know.’ Jing reached out a hand, pulled him to his feet and led him back down the narrow staircase.
Michael wasn’t certain he wanted to hear the story from this diminutive boy with his smooth skin and narrow eyes, who looked a darn sight younger than he was, but there was little else he could do except follow.
When they reached the bottom of the rickety stairs, Jing led him to a corner of the store and sat him down on an upturned box. ‘Wait. I’ll get tea.’
He didn’t want tea. He knew what he’d seen. Da wouldn’t last long; the oily sweat smearing his emaciated body and the overpowering stench of vomit, mucus and shit told him more than enough.
Jing thrust a small cup into Michael’s shaking hand. He inhaled the clear perfumed liquid and turned up his nose.
‘Drink it.’
Michael screwed up his nose and sipped the tea, winced as it burnt down his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and put the cup down. ‘What happened to me da?’
‘He’s no good.’ Jing tapped at his head. ‘Fell down and broke his head.’
‘He cracked his skull?’ Didn’t they have hospitals in this godforsaken hole? ‘What did the doctor say?’
‘He’s finished.’
‘What happened to me mam? Where is she?’
‘Very good lady. Come.’ Jing clattered down the dark corridor, through the doors and out into the sunshine, taking off at a fair gallop down the road.
‘Wait a minute. Where’re we going?’ He wasn’t leaving Da, nor was he leaving his belongings with these strange Chinamen.
‘To see Mam. Good stone. Da spent up big.’ He scoped out some shape with his hands.
Holy Mother of God. Michael grabbed hold of Jing’s arm. ‘Stop! Me mam, where is she?’
‘Up the road a piece. Catholic burial ground.’
The wind whistled out of his lungs and he sank down in the gutter. Mam was dead and Da only a few steps behind. He squinted up at
the boy. How would he know? He needed someone he could trust, someone who’d understand. ‘Where’s the priest? Where’s the church?’
Michael scrubbed Father MacCormick’s large white handkerchief across his face, drew in several slow breaths and tried to remember he was a man. Right now, all he wanted was his mam’s soothing smile and the gentle touch of her hand.
‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of, lad. It’s come as a shock I can rightly imagine.’
‘What about Da? Can’t the doctors do anything? Should I take him back to Sydney? Get him away from the Chinamen and their filthy smoke.’
‘I doubt he’d make the trip. Be thankful you’ll have the opportunity to say your goodbyes. Don’t be quoting me, but the opium’s the kindest way. Once your mam passed he turned to the bottle something fierce, stumbled and fell into one of the old diggings. Jing found him the next morning. There’s nowt they can do for him.’
‘Where’s me Mam buried?’
‘Over yonder, and there’s space alongside for your da; it’s what he wants. Then you’ll have to be deciding what to do with the business.’
‘The bullock dray?’
‘Your da did well, Michael. Very well.’
‘He found gold?’
‘In the early days, alluvial gold. He made a wiser decision after that. His cartage business, more than one dray and the Diggers Rest, they’ll be coming to you.’
Michael screwed the soggy handkerchief into a ball. ‘You’re saying Da’s a wealthy man. Did good for himself?’ He couldn’t imagine the crumpled bag of bones he’d seen making good of much, would rather remember him as he’d seen him last on Irish soil.
‘Gold’s all well and good, but the diggers need to eat, need the services your da provided.’
Then what was he doing holed up in that godforsaken attic sucking on an opium pipe?
‘There’s nothing you can do for him, Michael. He’ll be called soon. He’ll die a happy man. He and your mam talked about nothing but you and your sister. She’s with you?’
Michael’s stomach turned upside down, threatened to spill the greasy lamb and damper he’d had that morning, only a few hours ago, when he’d imagined something far different. He sucked in a shallow breath. ‘Elizabeth’s in Sydney. I left her there with a family we met on the ship. I didn’t know what I’d find. The bloke in the immigration office made mention of Ma’s passing.’
‘You’re a sensible lad. Now let’s be going to see your da. He’s better after a pipe or two, and you’ll be coming back with me until we sort things out.’
As much as he wished otherwise, even a fool could see Da wasn’t long for this world, and Michael was more than thankful for the good Father’s support. Nothing, but nothing was as he’d imagined. A fall down a mineshaft. Bloody bad luck. He’d dreamt they’d left all that behind in Ireland.
Over the next few days, Michael worked like a man possessed. With Jing’s help, he cleaned and scrubbed and moved Da downstairs into the room at the back of the warehouse. A local girl, Kitty, came to cook and clean, and Jing ensured a supply of the little brown pellets, making Da’s last days on God’s earth as comfortable as they could be.
And when the time came, Father MacCormick laid him to rest alongside Mam in the little cemetery. Some things a man couldn’t change, and so Michael turned his mind to his inheritance, because as surely as God was looking down on him, Da’d left him the wherewithal to make a decent life for himself and Elizabeth.
Seven
Maitland Town, 1913
‘Jane, try not to bounce when you walk. It makes you seem over-enthusiastic.’
Jane slowed her pace. She didn’t want to cause a ruckus, she wanted everything to go as smoothly as possible, especially as Elizabeth had suggested she accompany her to the technical college. Ever since she’d finished evening classes, her life revolved around accounts books and never-ending lists of figures. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the work but it didn’t stretch her mind the way it once had and, although she wouldn’t dare admit it to Elizabeth, she was a tad bored. She needed a conundrum, something to solve, a puzzle … better still, a mystery. She’d cracked the last of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s mysteries before Sherlock. Now that would be the job! She’d definitely have the aptitude for that sort of challenge.
‘Jane, you’re still bouncing.’
Yes, she was, she couldn’t help it. The thought of the exhibition had her nerves vibrating. It wasn’t so much the paintings from the art gallery—although they seemed to be the only thing anyone could talk about—it was the Tost and Rohu curiosities, taxidermied specimens and fossilised remains. A prehistoric skull and jawbone reputed to belong to the fearsome prehistoric wombat, the diprotodon. She still hadn’t found the time to call into the library at the School of Arts and check her facts, but if she remembered correctly, they’d been found over sixty years earlier and no one had paid very much attention until now.
Jane squinted up at the facade. Built of red brick with a steep slate roof, the building was hardly a temple to art, but impressive nonetheless. She’d read that a volcanic rock, trachyte, had been used for the steps and every time she passed by she pictured them erupting, bubbling in a welter of steam and sulphurous gases. She took the three steps in a bound and stood waiting for Elizabeth, who insisted on adjusting her hat and pulling her gloves straight before she gave Jane a nod indicating that she should push open the door.
The high-ceilinged foyer illuminated by the stained-glass skylight put her in mind of the hushed reverence of a church, which she promptly destroyed as her boots clattered on the parquetry floor.
Mrs Witherspoon, guardian of the technical college, raised her head and came to her feet, fawning. ‘Miss Quinn, how wonderful to see you out and about and looking so bright and sunny.’
Jane would hardly describe Elizabeth’s steel grey walking-out suit as sunny but the boater with the mauve and green ribbon, a nod to her belief in Women’s Rights, was a cheerful touch. She hefted her satchel onto the polished cedar bench top, which served as a desk, and removed the ledgers.
‘I can’t thank you enough for all your hard work.’ Mrs Witherspoon’s fingers compulsively smoothed the leather of the ledger as though she couldn’t believe the miracle that had transformed the disorganised piles of papers and receipts she’d handed over into one neatly bound book entitled Technical College Accounts.
Jane had no idea why people found accounts so difficult. She still preferred numbers to words, though she no longer needed to rush for a dictionary every few minutes as she had when she was younger. Numbers had a practicality, a definitive no-nonsense, no-alternatives, no-misinterpretations, black-and-white reality. She always found a certain security and comfort in the neatly lined-up columns and rows of the accounts ledgers.
Aunt Elizabeth’s mouth curved in a semblance of a smile. ‘Jane is responsible for the work. Would you be so kind as to explain the nature of the ledger and how best Mrs Witherspoon can continue?’
When Mrs Witherspoon opened the book her face creased in a worried frown. She flipped through a few more of the pages. ‘Where does it tell me how much we owe and how much we have in reserve?’
‘Jane, while you answer Mrs Witherspoon’s questions, I’m going to take a walk around the exhibition. I’ve heard nothing but good reports of the Major’s efforts to procure displays from Sydney. So good for the town.’
Mrs Witherspoon raised her head from the ledgers and simpered. ‘The news has travelled like a wildfire. There’s never any need to advertise. Tost and Rohu are a force to be reckoned with. The ladies did exceptionally well for themselves; their shop in Sydney went from strength to strength, they won numerous medals and awards for their meticulous taxidermy at international trade exhibitions. I do admire women in business, don’t you?’
‘Indeed I do.’ Elizabeth’s face betrayed little but her desire to escape from Mrs Witherspoon’s incessant rambling.
‘Mother and daughter, Jane Tost, what a coincidence …’ Sh
e gave a girlish giggle as though she had singularly discovered something of great significance, ‘and her daughter Ada Rohu.’
Raising her hand in a regal wave, Elizabeth sailed beneath the rose-adorned Tudor doors into the space now reserved for exhibitions.
‘I’ll leave you to discover the Major’s treasures,’ Mrs Witherspoon called after her.
Jane swallowed her sigh. What she wouldn’t give to be accompanying Elizabeth.
Mrs Witherspoon brushed her hands together and turned back to the neat rows of figures in the ledger. ‘Such a clever girl. Have you finished your schooling?’
‘Some time ago.’ Jane doubted anyone in the town would ever see her as anything but another of the poor little orphans Elizabeth Quinn had taken under her wing, despite the fact that she’d been almost running the auction house since Michael started his campaign for a seat at the next election.
‘Now see if you can explain these hieroglyphics to me. Major Witherspoon is convinced I am lacking.’ She tapped her finger against the side of her head and rolled her eyes.
Maybe Jane could agree with the Major in some cases. ‘The column here is for outgoings and the next page is for incoming monies.’ Surely Mrs Witherspoon could understand. ‘The items are in the left-hand column, then the allocations in the additional columns.’ She stifled a groan, hoping Mrs Witherspoon would catch on. ‘Here’s your income. It follows the same pattern.’ She turned another page. ‘Think of it like this—debits to the window, credits to the door.’
If she didn’t leave soon, Elizabeth would be over and done with the exhibits. She had to see the jawbone and skull. The mere thought that giant wombats had once roamed the country set her mind on fire. Imagine the size of their burrows!
‘…and the monies received in this column.’ Mrs Witherspoon’s forehead creased in a frown. ‘Is that right, Jane? Jane …’
‘Correct, Mrs Witherspoon. I think you’ve got it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go and find Miss Quinn. We are expected home for tea.’
‘Of course, of course. I might have to call on you again. I’m sure you won’t mind.’
Jane drew in a deep breath, almost choking on the dusty scent of attar of roses emitting from Mrs Witherspoon’s bulky person, and nodded her head. ‘Excuse me.’ She bolted though the open archway into the display room and came to a skidding halt.