The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

  ‘Aye, my darlin’, I saw it.’

  ‘I dropped the vegetables. I need them for your supper.’

  ‘I don’t need anything excepting you safe and sound. Let’s go.’ He snatched up her apron, left the vegetables, and strode off into the darkness.

  He had everything he needed.

  Michael’s heart thumped against Elizabeth’s cheek as he cradled her so close it almost hurt. Almost. Not as much as the throbbing in her ankle. He didn’t say a word as he thundered back up the street. She’d known he’d come, not that he’d take so long.

  It wasn’t until he lowered her into the chair by the long-dead fire and unlaced her boot that his face softened. ‘Made a nasty mess off that.’ He eased off her boot and stocking, revealing a throbbing purple mess where her ankle used to be. ‘You sit tight. I’ll stoke this fire and bind that up.’ His thumbs pressed on the swelling, rocketing her out of the chair.

  ‘I cooked supper.’ Her voice quavered and tears gushed down her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Michael.’ A huge sob wracked her body. ‘Don’t be cross. Kitty couldn’t come. She sent a message. I told Mr Whittaker I could look after you.’

  ‘Oh me little darlin’, I know. I know. It won’t happen again, don’t you worry. Sit tight.’

  He pulled off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. The smell of him—wood smoke, soap and a little bit of something from the warehouse—wrapped around her, keeping her safe.

  Elizabeth woke to the warmth of a blazing fire, tucked under her quilt with her bound foot throbbing.

  ‘I’ve brought you some supper.’ Michael put the tray down on the floor and slipped his hands under her arms, easing her into a sitting position. ‘There’s a boiled egg and a cup of tea and some bread and jam. That’ll see you right.’

  ‘I made lamb hot-pot. We forgot the vegetables.’

  ‘Long gone, me darlin’. Can’t leave it cook forever. Eat up.’ He cracked the top of the egg and handed her the spoon.

  ‘I can do it. I’m not a little child.’

  ‘No, you’re not, but we can’t be having you wandering alone. Seems Kitty’s going to be busy for a while, so you’re going to have to forget school and come to the auction house until that ankle’s better.’

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to complain about missing school, then stuffed it full of egg. There was nothing she’d like better than spending time at the auction house!

  ‘Least that way if I’m busy, Jing can keep an eye on you. Once your ankle’s healed and Kitty’s sorted, we’ll go back to the original plan.’

  ‘What about my lessons?’

  ‘There’ll still be lessons. Jing can go and pick them up every day until you’re better.’

  It was as simple as it was perfect.

  Elizabeth loved being at the auction house. She had her lessons done in a flash, didn’t have to wait for all the dawdlers and the plodders, and for the rest of the morning Jing taught her the workings of his suanpan.

  Every day he’d wait patiently until she’d finished her schoolwork, then he’d produce the ledgers and together they’d work their way through all Michael’s outgoings and tally all his incoming receipts.

  It was close to the end of the month, and a pile of screwed-up pieces of paper Elizabeth had found in Michael’s coat pockets covered the bench. She smoothed and sorted the receipts into date order and entered the figures in the ledger.

  At the very moment she reached for the suanpan to calculate the total, a gust of cool air blew through the open doors and the papers took flight. She flattened them under her palms.

  Jing grinned at her. ‘Quick hands. Quick mind.’

  ‘Not quick enough. I haven’t totalled them.’

  ‘But I have.’ He drummed his long fingers against a scrappy piece of paper.

  ‘How did you do that so quickly?’

  He threw her an infuriating, mysterious look. ‘I’ll show you. Later, later. We’ve got people.’

  ‘Top of the morning to you.’

  Elizabeth hadn’t noticed before, but Michael’s voice had changed. It was deeper and more important. He stuck out his hand and a weathered, stringy man with a drooping moustache clasped it.

  ‘Michael Quinn?’

  ‘How can I help you?’

  The man looked over his shoulder and beckoned; a small woman, with a baby clasped to her chest and a toddler hanging off her leg, stumbled in. ‘It’s me wife and bairns. They’d be needing a place. Folks say you can help.’

  ‘That I can. Come on in.’

  Michael shepherded them through to the back of the warehouse.

  ‘You’ll be wanting a cup of tea and maybe something to eat. Sit yourself down.’

  He pulled the huge metal teapot from the fireplace at the back of the warehouse, poured three cups of tea and set a plate of biscuits in the middle of the table.

  ‘Leave them be, Tommy, we ain’t got money for it.’ The woman slapped at the boy’s hand.

  ‘Help yourself, lad, there’s nothing worse than a grumbling tummy.’

  The biscuits disappeared in a second and Elizabeth’s gut roiled in sympathy, bringing with it a flash of memory, the touch on her tongue of barley sugar and flickering candles, and Michael, a much younger Michael, his arm cradling her against him, keeping her warm.

  ‘Now we’ve got a room for you. It’s not big but it’ll do the four of you.’ He flashed a look at the hangdog man leaning against the doorjamb.

  ‘Won’t be needing it for long, long enough to sell what we’ve got. We’re outta here. It’s no place for the likes of us. Need money, big money behind you to get anything but scratchings these days, and them Chinamen take all those.’ He sent a squinty-eyed look in Jing’s direction.

  Michael ignored his comments. ‘You’ll be wanting a ride. You won’t be walking back over the mountains with the little ’uns.’

  Elizabeth doubted the woman would even have the energy to make it out of town. Sweat beaded her pale brow, and with the wind whistling through the open door, it wasn’t the heat causing her discomfort. As if noticing Elizabeth’s scrutiny, she wiped her face on her apron, smudging dirt across her hollow cheeks.

  ‘I’ll give you a decent price for your goods and chattels,’ Michael said, ‘and throw in a bed for the night and as much stew as you can handle. There’s a dray heading for Bathurst tomorrow. We could organise a ride.’

  ‘I ain’t riding with no Celestials.’ The man rammed his hands in his pockets and glared at Jing.

  His wife turned her pleading eyes on her husband.

  ‘Your choice, that’s me offer.’ Michael folded his arms across his chest and raised one eyebrow. Elizabeth knew the look, even though she hadn’t seen it for a long time. ‘Take it or leave it.’

  Before the man had turned to go, the woman pulled herself to her feet and stood behind her son, the baby clasped tight in her arms. ‘We’ll take your offer, Mr Quinn and we’ll be thanking you. If ’n’ it’s a good offer. There’s spades and shovels and bedding, pots and pans. A good size tent, canvas.’

  ‘Sit yourself down, have a cup of tea. Me and your man’ll go outside and organise things. Me sister will look after you.’

  And so Elizabeth learnt another side of Michael’s business. Not only buying and selling and transporting goods, but looking after people, the way he took care of her. Father MacCormick said Michael made a good auctioneer because he had the gift of the gab. It wasn’t so much that—he knew what people needed, what they wanted.

  Fifteen

  Maitland Town, 1913

  The house was in darkness by the time Michael slipped his key into the door. He took off his coat and hat and hung them on the hall stand, stuffed his gloves into the pocket and threw his scarf onto the table. As much as he enjoyed the local Labor party meetings, he was feeling his age, even though Jane now worked full-time at the auction house and had relieved him of many of his responsibilities. His occasional visits were mainly for show to appease those who still insisted a woman’
s place was in the home.

  He switched on the lamp on his desk, revelling in the soft glow from the green shade, and poured himself a glass of whiskey before settling in the chair.

  Elizabeth had turned fifty-five the year before; she was ten years younger than him, and despite her perpetual insistence to the contrary, the feeling he’d failed her preyed heavily on his mind. Everyone believed he was responsible for their financial security, but in fact it had been Elizabeth who’d managed, during the depression of the ’90s, to cement their future by investing in seemingly risky ventures which in the long term had thrived. She’d gambled with the skill of a veteran bookie—not on the horses, nothing as flighty as that, but on land, bricks and mortar, and floundering businesses, arranging mortgages and rescuing cash-strapped farmers. They’d come out of it head and shoulders above everyone else.

  He’d always imagined she’d marry one day. She’d had her fair share of suitors, but whenever Michael had raised the question she’d maintained family came first, and since he was the only family she had, the matter didn’t merit discussion.

  And that was the crux of the problem.

  He wasn’t family.

  It was time he told her the truth.

  And he had no idea how to do that.

  It would be selfish and cruel to take away everything she knew, everything she’d worked for. She’d expect answers where there were none. Broadcast the knowledge and she’d be subject to the most appalling gossip and innuendo. They’d have to move on. Start again. He couldn’t. They couldn’t. It was too late in life. He had to find some answers.

  He pulled the small brown envelope from his pocket, hoping against hope it contained the information he needed. Closing his eyes, he rocked back in the chair, remembering the sensation of her tiny, trusting hand slipping into his, and her pleading eyes.

  When Elizabeth had asked him if she’d always been afraid of birds, his stomach had turned and he’d almost admitted the truth. Instead he’d stood there, incapable of responding because he simply didn’t know.

  He’d waited far too long.

  Perhaps the answer lay in the small envelope.

  He set the whiskey glass down on the desk, and withdrew the telegram. The thin piece of paper rustled as he unfolded it.

  REGRET TO INFORM UNABLE TO ASSIST.

  100 YEAR CLOSURE PERIOD FOR RECORDS

  IDENTIFYING INMATES.

  WORKHOUSE ADMINISTRATOR.

  BROWNLOW HILL, LIVERPOOL.

  One hundred years. Michael clenched the telegram into a tight ball and let his mind drift back to that evening fifty years ago, when he’d strolled down the road, his heart full of promise and the future stretching like the road to heaven before him …

  A fine mist rolled in across the Mersey, dampening the dim twilight. The bloke in the immigration office said the sun always shone in Australia. He couldn’t believe that. Not every day, not all the time, otherwise what would they do for water? A little bit of sunshine, once in a while, could go a whole lot towards making a man happy.

  Just another few days and he’d have the paperwork in his hands. He’d done it faster than he’d thought possible. Two pound for himself and one for Lizzie. He’d taken any and every job on offer and worked until he’d not the energy to find somewhere to lay his head. In doing that he’d neglected Lizzie. His promise to see her once a week had slipped; it had been three weeks since the last time, way overdue.

  Fingers crossed Miss Finbright would be on duty. She’d let him in. She wasn’t like the other dragons who guarded the workhouse, she knew what it was like, grown up there, knew how much his visits meant to Lizzie.

  He climbed over the metal railings and slinked through the shadows behind the chapel to the side wall of the girls’ dormitory.

  The clock on the tower chimed six and the door opened a crack.

  ‘You there, Michael?’

  ‘Aye, that I am.’ He stepped into the light of her lantern.

  ‘Lizzie has a new friend. Mind if she tags along?’

  ‘Course not.’ He tucked his hand into his pocket and counted the number of barley sugars he’d got. More than enough for Lizzie to share.

  ‘I’ll bring them down. It’s a bit chilly. Take them to the chapel; you’ll be sheltered from the worst of it. Won’t be long.’

  She pulled the door to, leaving him scuffing up and down, stamping his feet. Lizzie wouldn’t be cold when he told her he’d got a sailing date. She couldn’t remember Mam and Da, but he’d kept them alive by talking about the past. A little girl needed family. A boy too, even if everyone thought him a man.

  ‘Here we are.’ Miss Finbright held the lantern high, illuminating the two pale faces in the bright glow. ‘I’ll leave the lantern with you and be back on the dot of seven. Make sure you listen for the clock tower.’

  ‘Right you are, miss.’ He flicked her a wink, made her cheeks flush, then pulled Lizzie into his arms, hugging her tight. ‘How are you, me little darlin’?’

  ‘Cold.’ She burrowed into his chest. ‘Have you got something for me?’

  ‘That I have. Some of those sweeties you like, and … just you wait and see. Who’s this, then?’

  The little slip of nothing hung her head, and Lizzie shrugged. ‘Miss Finbright calls her Girlie but she doesn’t like it.’

  He slid Lizzie down to the ground and crouched in front of the poor pathetic little piece of misery. An off aroma stung his nostrils; she could do with a bath, never mind a decent feed. ‘What’s your name, darlin’?’

  Her nose wrinkled a little and she licked her blue lips.

  ‘She won’t tell. She won’t tell Miss Finbright, won’t talk to no one.’

  Poor little mite; from the look of it, someone had put the fear of God into her. Probably got a beating for refusing to talk. ‘Righto then, let’s get out of this mizzle.’

  Cold thin fingers wrapped around his hand and a swish of good feeling warmed his blood as he led them down the path.

  The heavy door groaned when he shouldered it open and the three of them slipped inside the chapel.

  ‘Come and sit down over here and let’s see what I’ve got in me pockets.’ He tucked his heavy coat over the back of the pew and made a bit of a nest for the two girls, then emptied his pockets. ‘I’ve got some news for you, Miss Lizzie.’

  One of the men down at the docks had given him a couple of oranges. He’d never seen anything like them before. He’d eaten one but saved the other for Lizzie; if he’d known there’d be two of them he’d have saved the second.

  ‘What’s this then?’ Before he could begin to take the peel off, Lizzie sank her teeth into the skin.

  ‘Urgh! It’s horrid.’ A sweet smell filled the cosy space.

  ‘Give it here. You don’t eat the skin. Watch this.’ He slid his finger into the hole her teeth had made and peeled back the thick skin then broke it into segments, just like the bloke on the dock had showed him.

  ‘There.’ He held out one segment. Lizzie shook her head. ‘It’s nice, real sweet I promise you.’ Before she had a chance to change her mind it disappeared, and there was Girlie chewing away with a look of pure pleasure on her peaked face.

  ‘Your friend likes it. Come on, Lizzie, you try it.’ He held up another segment. ‘You’re going to have to get to like them. They grow in Australia and are real good for you.’

  She tentatively took the piece and held it up to her nose.

  ‘I’ve got news, good news.’

  ‘Are we going soon?’

  ‘Sooner than soon, just five more days.’

  Lizzie held up her thumb and then her fingers, one at a time. ‘Five like me. That’s a long time.’ She leant back against him. ‘A real long time. Five like me. You said soon.’

  ‘Not five years, me darlin’, just five days. You go to sleep tonight then the next night, the next night and the next and then next.’ He held up each of his fingers and watched Lizzie’s brow crease as she tried to make sense of it all.

&nb
sp; Not so her friend. With wide eyes she watched each of his fingers, nodding her head, bright as a button. He slipped his hand into his pocket and brought out two barley sugars.

  Lizzie fell on them, her interest in their long-promised sailing date pushed aside. He could understand that. It had been nearly two years since the day Mam and Da had left, and promises grew thin.

  Girlie sat with her head cocked to one side, tracking his every move, her serious gaze never wavering. He tried waggling his eyebrows, offering her a smile, then finally put his hand in his pocket and drew out two more sweeties. Unlike Lizzie, she didn’t pounce on then, just sat there. Palm out, he offered them. Eventually she took one and slid it into the pocket of her smock.

  ‘Aren’t you going to eat it?’ Michael asked.

  She shook her head and moved a little closer to him, her blue-tinged lips trembling. He pulled his coat from the back of the pew and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  ‘Will Mam and Da be in Australia waiting for us?’ Lizzie’s puffed cheeks stuffed full of barley sugar moved as she spoke.

  ‘You know they will. They promised.’

  ‘Sometimes people break their promises.’

  They had this conversation almost every time he visited. It didn’t surprise him. Poor Lizzie couldn’t remember Mam or Da, only Aunty Nuala before she’d been taken. A string of pledges that came to nowt.

  ‘I’ll never break my promise to you.’

  ‘You might.’

  ‘No, I won’t. I promise you we will go to Australia in just five days, and Mam and Da will be standing on the dock waiting for us.’

  Lizzie nodded her head, tugging her lip with her teeth.

  A whiplash of wind tore around the back of his head and the lantern flickered. Miss Finbright stood in the doorway plucking at her apron. ‘I’m sorry, Michael. It’s time for the girls to come inside. Matron’s doing her rounds early. Don’t want any trouble.’

  He swung Lizzie to the ground then slipped his hands around Girlie and lifted her down. She clung like a limpet.

  ‘You too. Time for bed.’

  She buried her head in his shoulder.