The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

  ‘Did you hear me, Michael?’

  He slowed the sulky. ‘What’s that, me little darlin’?’

  ‘If we’re starting afresh, you have to stop calling me that. It makes me feel as though I’m still in pinafores.’

  ‘I can be doing that for you. Now what was it you were saying?’

  ‘Back there, at the School of Arts, the sign said they had bookkeeping classes. I could go.’

  ‘Aye, that you could, if you think you’d like to. Or maybe the piano or some painting lessons befitting a fine lady.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to be a fine lady. Look at the two women walking down the street there. Their hats are as big as houses, and … look. Look at their behinds!’ She clapped her hand over her mouth but failed to quell her shriek of laughter.

  It was good, so good to hear her laugh again.

  ‘Bustles those are. The latest fashion.’

  She frowned at him. ‘No wonder ladies faint so often. Those nipped-in waists and big behinds probably damage their internal organs.’

  He’d gone to a lot of trouble to find out about ladies’ fashions. He wasn’t going to have Elizabeth looking anything but her best, even if it did mean a little bit of light-headedness. ‘Michael Quinn and his sister are going to make their mark.’

  His fingers itched to get his hands on the keys and begin. The agent in Sydney had told him they could collect them from the shop two doors down. A surge of eagerness swept him and he leapt down from the carriage and held out his arms to Elizabeth.

  ‘Michael, stop! I’m not a child anymore, you can’t be seen swinging me around and around like a whirligig.’

  ‘Oh I’ll be doing whatever I like. ’Tis an exciting day.’ The mere sight of the building had his blood pumping, except for the name. Potters Inn—it would have to go. The only pots he intended to see would be passing under his hammer.

  Elizabeth was growing to womanhood. New town, new place. She’d already turned sixteen and they needed to establish themselves. She was right. No more whirligigs. The pair of them were on the up and up.

  Here was his chance to do right by her. Make up for his rash decision, his lie. Aye, that’s what it was, no better, no worse. A lie. One he’d regret until the good Lord called him. When they were settled, when he’d built her the house, given her everything she deserved, he’d sit her down and explain why he’d acted like Christ Almighty, and taken her life into his hands.

  Twenty-Three

  Maitland Town, 1913

  Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen, and only a sliver of light shone under the door of Michael’s study. Without giving herself time to second-guess her reasoning, Jane knocked.

  ‘Come in.’ Sitting in front of the fire, a glass of whiskey at hand, Michael looked up, stubbed out his cigar and stood. ‘Jane, thank goodness you’re home. We were beginning to worry.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Can I talk to you?’

  ‘Of course you can. More plans for the auction house?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. This is a bit more personal, and I’m sorry if I’m going to sound impolite but I need to ask you something before I lose the courage.’

  ‘Goodness me. That sounds dire. Come and sit down.’

  ‘I’ll stand.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘Michael, are you my father?’ There, she’d done it. Timothy was right, it hadn’t been too difficult.

  Michael’s face turned puce and he closed his eyes.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Where were his heart pills? She’d never seen him take a turn. Elizabeth had warned her if he did, she was to find his pills in his top pocket and make sure she tucked one under his tongue. She darted forward and slipped her hand into his inside pocket, right over his heart.

  His eyes flashed open and he wrapped his fingers around her wrist. ‘I’m not having an attack, Jane.’

  As though scalded, she wrenched her hand free and leapt away.

  ‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry.’

  Why was he sorry? Sorry he hadn’t told her? Sorry he hadn’t had an attack? She sank down onto the rug in front of the fire.

  He leant forward and lifted her chin, stared deep into her eyes. ‘No, Jane. No, I am not your father. Believe me, if I was, I would be a proud man. Nothing would make me happier.’

  ‘Oh!’ The air left her body in a sudden whoosh. She wasn’t Michael’s daughter. The knowledge hit low in her gut like a punch. So much for the townsfolk. She should have known. Since when did gossips deal in truth?

  ‘If you were my flesh and blood I would never, not in a heartbeat, leave you to grow up in an orphanage.’

  She wasn’t sure how she should feel. Was she disappointed? There wasn’t anyone she could think of she’d like better than Michael to be her father. She’d fallen into the same old trap as all the girls at the orphanage did. Grasped at dandelions.

  ‘Jane, look at me.’

  She lifted her head, dashed away the tears collecting in the corner of her eyes.

  ‘What made you ask the question? It’s not like you to jump to conclusions.’

  ‘I’m a fool.’

  ‘No, you are not. That is the last word I would use to describe you.’

  Easier to tell the truth, the whole truth. ‘When I arrived at the auction house everyone was staring at me.’ How foolish she sounded. ‘I asked John what was going on. He said since Elizabeth’s turn, and the telegram from England, people were saying there was something odd about you and Elizabeth, that you had something to hide. They thought it might be me.’

  Jane sat like a fallen sparrow on the rug, picking at the fringe, her face bone-white. Poor little mite. ‘I’m so pleased you came to me and asked,’ Michael said. ‘Honesty is one of your most admirable characteristics.’ Not a quality he could attribute to himself.

  ‘I didn’t come straight to you.’ She sat up tall, threw back her shoulders. ‘I went into your office and looked through your desk. I opened the safe.’

  ‘Did you indeed, and how did you manage that?’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult to guess the combination.’ Her lips puckered and the colour came back to her cheeks. ‘Elizabeth’s birthday.’

  The date Elizabeth believed was her birthday, the date he’d given her, all those years ago.

  ‘What did you find?’ A handful of old IOUs. Nothing more, unless he was mistaken. He’d moved all the old paperwork—their immigration papers and Mam and Da’s early letters—to the house when he’d cleared out his office.

  ‘I’m sorry, Michael. It was underhanded. I’ve never done anything like that before, I promise you.’

  ‘I believe you, Jane.’ Although in many ways he wished she had found something. He’d like to share his burden with her, ask her advice and see how she might apply her logic to the conundrum. ‘Now we’ve sorted that out, tell me how you think Elizabeth is.’

  Jane picked up the poker, prodded the fire, and for once had the look of someone choosing her words. ‘She’s not getting any better.’

  ‘Something more than the scare at the technical college?’

  ‘Much more. She’s lost, well, she’s lost her bounce, which is a silly thing to say because she’s always telling me I shouldn’t bounce. She has no enthusiasm, no interest. It’s as though she’s somewhere else. Did I tell you she made a mistake in the ledgers for the Benevolent Society? I’ve never known her do that before. I keep finding her sitting staring out of the window, as though she’s thousands of miles away.’

  Perhaps she was. ‘Jane, what’s the earliest memory you have?’

  ‘The earliest?’

  ‘Yes, the first thing you can remember.’

  ‘Being in the orphanage. In the dormitory, all of us in cots, rows and rows of them. The way the single ray of light played and threw shadows. They changed as the day passed.’

  ‘That’s a strange thing for a little girl to remember.’

  ‘The bars made patterns on the walls. I remember threading my sheet through the bars to change the pattern …’ She let out a
huge splutter of laughter.

  It was such a relief to see her back to her usual self. What a dreadful thing for the poor child to suffer, to imagine he was her father and hadn’t wanted her. The thought brought him up short.

  How could he tell Elizabeth if he had no answers? Thank God he’d plucked up the courage to write a proper letter to Gertrude Finbright, not hidden behind a proposed trip to England. How he hoped the workhouse would forward his letter and she might have an answer for Elizabeth.

  ‘… you should have seen Sister Mary Ann’s face! I am so glad you rescued me,’ Jane said. ‘What’s your first memory?’

  ‘Mine? Of me mam, sobbing her heart out. Me Uncle Seamus. He’d been taken, accused of all sorts of rubbish by the bloody English. Mam had found out Da was caught up in it too. That’s what made their minds up to come to Australia, as if the famine wasn’t enough. They left us with my aunty, so they could take advantage of a free passage for childless, married couples. The plan was for us to join them once they’d established themselves. But my aunty died of the consumption, and so Lizzie was settled in the workhouse ’til I could earn enough to pay out the tickets. Took a lot longer than any of us expected.’

  ‘Lizzie? I’ve never heard you call Aunt Elizabeth Lizzie. That’s what she calls her old doll.’

  Holy Mother of God. How had that slipped out? ‘Enough of all this nonsense. You must be hungry, missing supper like that. Go and find Bessie and see what she has for you.’

  He stoked the fire, reached for the whiskey bottle and topped up his glass. The flames twisted and flickered and took him back …

  An ominous red glow tinted the sky.

  Without a second thought he’d taken off, his boots clattering against the cobblestones, his breath billowing in front of him in misty clouds. The flames had to be coming from the workhouse. There were no other buildings along that stretch.

  He skidded to a halt and clambered over the fence, feet slipping against the coated iron. Hit the ground with a God-awful thump, snatched a breath, full of burning timber and something sweet and musky, putrid and leathery, something he’d not think on.

  Skirting the exercise yard, the boys’ dormitory and the building where they housed the old men, he pushed through the crowd. Giant flames swept up into the night sky sending sparks like the fireworks high into the air.

  ‘Out of the way.’ He elbowed through the crowd until he was almost at the front. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. What the hell …

  A crowd of quaking bodies huddled together as one of the wardens called out a list of names.

  ‘Ellen Brown, Alice Baker, Susan Alcock …’ Each name greeted by a frail refrain. ‘Lizzie Ó’Cuinn.’

  Silence, then a low murmur. ‘Lizzie.’

  The air whooshed out of his lungs. She was safe.

  ‘Here. Make use of yourself. We’re going in.’ The line of men passing buckets pushed him forward.

  The warden grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘Michael, me boy. What’re you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for Lizzie.’

  ‘She answered her name. Give us a hand.’ A bucket was thrust into his grip and a hefty shove sent him towards the line.

  God only knew how much time passed in a flurry of buckets, water and stinkin’ heat, until finally the chapel and the girls’ dormitory gave an almighty groan and the rafters collapsed inwards in a mass of sparks and dust, leaving only the silhouette of the ravaged chapel spire.

  Bent double, Michael hawked the smoke-ridden air from his lungs and peeled off his sodden jacket. When he straightened up he caught sight of the group of girls huddled under the tree. He’d got to find Lizzie. Take her away. She wasn’t staying. Not now, not when they’d be boarding the ship first thing. He didn’t give a rat’s arse what anyone said, he’d be taking her. Right this minute. She didn’t need anything; he’d packed her new clothes into the bag, all as the clerk at the office had told him.

  He ducked around a cluster of women in all manner of nightclothes and made his way to the group of girls—a couple of bigger ones, ten, maybe twelve years old, arms wrapped around the younger children, hugging them tight, and in the middle of them all Miss Finbright.

  His eyes scanned the group. ‘Anyone seen Lizzie? Lizzie Ó’Cuinn?’

  Faces pinched and pale turned to him.

  ‘Lizzie Ó’Cuinn. Anyone seen her?’

  Eyes big and round as saucers stared at him. He bent down. ‘D’you see Lizzie?’

  Her little friend sniffed, wiped a great blob of snot down her nightdress. His heart plummeted right down to his soaking boots.

  He ploughed through the mass of people, forced his way to the front and stopped short. A row of bodies laid out in the dirt. Two of them adults, from their length, others smaller.

  ‘Lizzie, Lizzie Ó’Cuinn.’ He grabbed the jacket of some officious-looking man ticking names off on a long list. ‘I’m looking for Lizzie Ó’Cuinn.’

  ‘Name’s ticked off. She answered the roll call. Must be over there somewhere with the other girls.’

  Not good enough. He needed to see her with his own eyes. A wave of remorse shot through him. He’d promised Mam he’d care for her. Fine job he’d done of that. He should have kept her with him, not left her at the workhouse.

  The hollow skeleton of the girls’ dormitory towered against the lightening sky. He searched and searched, asked everyone he could think of, and still he couldn’t find Lizzie.

  ‘Michael, what are doing here? I thought you’d gone.’ Miss Finbright stood before him, a doused lamp in her hand, her face streaked with soot and a mass of hair hanging down her back.

  ‘I can’t find Lizzie. The boat sails tomorrow.’

  ‘She’ll be here somewhere. Her name is marked off. They’ve taken the girls into the women’s dormitories. You go and get some rest, come back in the morning. I’ll find her.’

  He had to take her word for it. What else could he do? Lizzie had answered her name, she’d be inside somewhere. He’d checked the stomach-turning mess of charred remains. Nothing, no one he recognised. ‘Thank you, Miss Finbright.’

  ‘Gertrude. Call me Gertrude.’

  ‘Gertrude.’ He grasped her hand in both of his. ‘I won’t forget everything you’ve done for us.’

  ‘You’re a fine man, Michael Ó’Cuinn.’

  Hardly a man, more an overgrown boy, but her words made him stand taller.

  ‘You’ll make someone a fine husband.’

  ‘And you’ll make a wonderful mother.’

  Why in God’s name had he said that? It must have been the right thing because her face lit like a beacon against the stark skeletal remains of the chapel.

  ‘Come back tomorrow. Everything will be all right, I promise you.’

  Twenty-Four

  Maitland Town, 1913

  At the end of four days, Jane’s hands were raw and every muscle in her body ached beyond belief. They’d swept and cleaned and polished, and the auction room glittered, the windows putting Michael’s cut-glass decanters to shame.

  True to his word, as always, Michael talked Mrs Cohen and John into helping, and together they transformed the auction rooms into a reputable gallery. Mrs Witherspoon could take it and stick it in her unmentionables. Elizabeth said she was fine, but her words and her demeanour said the opposite. However, she was determined to see the exhibition and Michael thought it might be good to get her out of the house, stop her incessant introspection and strange moods.

  The Penters still hadn’t arrived from Melbourne, though Timothy assured her they’d be there by the end of the week. The preview would be a trial run. A chance to show Michael what she’d achieved, and give Bessie, Lucy and the auction-house staff an opportunity to view the paintings because they’d be up to their eyebrows on opening day.

  Timothy arrived late—not an endearing habit. Eight minutes and twenty-two seconds after the time they’d agreed upon. Jane was all aflutter.

  ‘It looks bloody marvellous.’ He made a quick tour of the ro
om, unnecessarily straightened a couple of the pictures and stood back and surveyed the room. ‘I’ve arranged for the photographer on opening night. Mother will like a record when we return to England.’

  Return? The thought hadn’t crossed her mind. She fancied the idea the Penters might find Maitland so appealing they’d stay.

  ‘When will that be?’ She shook away the plaintive note in her voice, plastered a smile on her face.

  ‘No idea. It depends on Father. I told you, he calls the shots.’

  She wasn’t going to involve herself in any discussion. Already she had the feeling she and Timothy’s father wouldn’t see eye to eye; it went back to that very first meeting at the gallery in Sydney, though she couldn’t say exactly why.

  ‘Michael and Elizabeth and the staff are coming in about an hour for a preview. A sort of dress rehearsal.’

  ‘To make sure the paintings are appropriate.’ Timothy threw her an outrageous wink.

  ‘Of course they are! I thought it would be a nice thing to do for the staff. They’re going to be busy on opening day with refreshments and ticket sales, and Michael and Elizabeth would want to have a preview. They’re involved in the business. It’s only because the timing was right we were able to offer you the premises.’ Surely she didn’t have to explain.

  ‘I’m teasing you, Jane.’

  Codding, as Michael would say. She never understood it, better to move on.

  ‘The light is best in the afternoon. As good, if not better than the technical college.’ And no Mrs Witherspoon sticking in her out-of-joint nose.

  He took two steps towards her, grasped both of her hands and looked straight into her eyes. ‘I want to thank you for all you’ve done.’