by Téa Cooper
‘Old habits … Sounds a bit like young Jane.’ Lethbridge grunted his approval. ‘What name did the workhouse give her?’
‘They called her Girlie, though she wouldn’t answer to it. It wasn’t until we crossed the equator she spoke more than the odd word. I gave her the doll Mam made for Lizzie. I always thought one day she’d remember; it hasn’t happened. It’s only recently, since the trip to the Tost and Rohu exhibition at the technical college, that matters have gone awry.’
‘How old was she?’
‘I don’t know that either. Miss Finbright, she’s the one I’m trying to contact, said she wasn’t yet five.’
‘How did she know?’
Michael reached up with his hand over his head, and touched the top of his ear. ‘She said it wasn’t until a child turned five they could touch their ear. That happened the day we crossed the equator. I told her that was her birthday, four days after Lizzie’s.’
Lethbridge groaned and staggered to his feet. ‘Didn’t your embarkation papers show Lizzie’s date of birth?’
‘She was listed as a female child, me sister, between the age of four and seven years. The papers didn’t show anyone’s exact date of birth.’
‘Have you got any more of that whiskey?’
‘I need to tell her.’
‘Indeed you do.’ Lethbridge scratched at his chin, chewed his lip, screwed his face into a frown. ‘Do you believe these events, these turns of Elizabeth’s, are sparked by some past memory?’
‘There’s something going on.’ Michael paused. He felt light, different. As though he’d shed some weight he’d struggled to carry. ‘She’s not her usual self. Something must have prompted it.’
‘Memory is a strange thing. There’s not a lot any of us remember from our early childhood, and anyone who tells you differently is relying on what they’ve learnt since, from their family, these days from photographs, not true memories. Sometimes something happens that triggers the past but it’s like a dream, faded, blurred.’
‘More like a nightmare in Elizabeth’s case.’
‘True enough, given her reaction. You think it was the birds that triggered the first episode. Now the paintings? Anything particular about the paintings?’
‘English pastoral scenes. Not my sort of thing.’
‘Think about how you’re going to tell Elizabeth.’
‘It might make her worse.’
‘It may.’
‘She’s not going to the asylum.’
‘Full circle.’ Lethbridge gulped a mouthful of whiskey. ‘Tell me more about these paintings.’
‘Nothing to tell. The exhibition was meant to be held at the technical college. Major Witherspoon extended the Tost and Rohu exhibition and failed to mention it to Timothy, so Jane offered the auction house.’
‘Who is Timothy?’
‘The artist Marigold Penter’s son. They live in England, the West Country. Her paintings are all of her local village and surrounds.’
‘Give me a day or two. I want to see if there’s anything written up. Freud is making a mark in this area. New findings. The mind’s a tricky thing. He might possibly throw some light on the best way.’
‘You’ll keep it to yourself?’
‘I would hope you know the answer to that.’ Lethbridge tossed back the remainder of his drink. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
Michael topped up his whiskey glass and sipped it slowly, savouring the flavour. How had it come to this? All he’d ever intended, from the first moment he’d set eyes on the poor little mite, was to keep her safe.
Twenty-Six
Oh! She was sick of lying in a darkened room, tired of feeling so thoroughly exhausted, tired of the monstrous lethargy the laudanum provoked, as though she lay trapped in amber. If she could manage a decent night’s sleep, matters might improve.
The moment Elizabeth closed her eyes the smell returned—guano and a bygone time forcing her to fight through the clouds of memory. She stood barefoot and shivering in the darkness. Birds flapping their wings overhead, the sound amplified, the air stinking of mildew, excrement and fear.
Trying not to focus on the pain in her head, the rolling of her stomach and the dryness of her throat, she rode the moment. So dark she couldn’t see her own feet. Clamped by a pair of huge sweaty paws. Thrown through a narrow doorway into a nasty black hole. She was floating, maybe flying, tired, too tired to open her eyes. The rough stone wall hurt her head.
A door slammed.
She lurched back into the present.
Was it too much to ask for some peace and quiet? ‘Come.’
Michael stood before her, his face creased in concern. ‘How’re you feeling?’
‘Not too bad. I’ll be up soon.’
‘Bit late for that. Why don’t I tell Lucy to bring you a tray?’
‘I’m so tired of this. I feel as though I’m suffocated by a thick haze. Everything is out of reach, intangible.’
Michael moved the chair closer to the bed and sat down. Most unusual. She couldn’t remember him ever entering her bedroom, never mind sitting down, making himself at home. Although she couldn’t ever remember being confined to her bed. The odd head cold, an off day, nothing that required invalid status.
‘I need to speak with you.’ His grave voice pushed aside her own concerns.
‘Are you unwell?’ Not the pair of them surely. ‘Have you been taking your pills?’
‘It’s not me. I have something to tell you, something I should have told you years ago.’ He sat there wringing his hands, gazing down at his interlaced fingers.
For some strange reason his demeanour sent a flash of energy through her. What had he done? Gambled away their assets? Not a chance. Not without her knowing; she had everything tied up tighter than a Victorian corset. Maybe he’d promised it, found some worthy cause, got carried away and donated every penny. She wouldn’t put it past him. Heaven forbid. Was it Jing? They never spoke of him.
She twisted the frayed red thread around her fingers under the counterpane. ‘Spit it out. It can’t be that bad.’
He cleared his throat, pulled at his cravat.
‘Michael, for goodness sake.’
‘How much do you remember of the past?’
The past. Should she be pleased her thoughts about gambling were wrong? ‘Which particular part of the past?’
Her eyes flicked to the little blue and white china pot sitting on her bedside table. Surely he wouldn’t mention Jing. As far as Michael was concerned, that was long gone, albeit the only time they’d had any sort of altercation. Except when he’d made a ridiculously enormous donation to the Labor party—to appease his conscience, she’d always insisted, because they’d done so well for themselves.
What a strange thing to ask. ‘My earliest memory?’
He shook his head, took a deep breath. ‘I haven’t told you the truth.’
About what? ‘Michael, you’re frightening me.’
A faint humming sound assaulted her ears, followed by a tinge of dizziness. She closed her eyes, clenched her teeth. Her world shifted, then stilled.
She snapped open her eyes. ‘Well?’
He sucked in a deep breath, exhaled, stretching the buttons on his waistcoat. ‘You are not Elizabeth Quinn. Not my sister. Not Elizabeth Ó’Cuinn.’
The atmosphere in the room swelled, taking every breath of air. ‘Of course I am,’ she gasped. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Elizabeth Ó’Cuinn died on September seventh, 1862.’
‘That’s the day before we left England.’
His head shot up. ‘You remember that?’
‘I remember what you’ve told me. When we arrived in Sydney you left me with the Camerons and forced me to suffer thousands of lonely days.’ That brought a touch of a smile to his face. ‘You took me to see the prince and got arrested for sedition. I remember that as clearly as yesterday.’ She’d always prided herself on her memory. How could she not be Elizabeth Quinn? ‘You’ve made a mistake.�
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‘No,’ he said softly, ‘it’s not a mistake.’
‘Then who am I?’ She could feel her very core unravelling, as though someone had grabbed the end of a thread and pulled, whipping her soul away.
‘That I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
Sorry! Was that all he could say? A flash of fury ignited. ‘You’re apologising? You tell me I’m not the person I believe myself to be, and you are apologising? Not the person I was yesterday, not the person I’ve been for the last fifty-odd years.’
She shook her head, batted away a lock of hair falling over her eyes, and stared past him, through the window to the garden beyond, the roses, the life they’d built together as brother and sister, and all that time she’d been living a lie. Did he have any idea how foolish he made her feel. How hurt?
‘How can I trust you? I don’t know if I ever will again.’
He reached for her hand and she turned from him, blocked him out as she’d never done before, not even when he’d taken her from Jing. He didn’t move, just sat there waiting.
‘Why did you lie? More to the point, why would a fifteen-year-old boy steal a child? Something must have happened, something I can’t remember.’
That provoked a slight smile, more a grimace. ‘I didn’t steal you. There was a fire. Lizzie, my sister, perished. Nothing I could do. The next day the boat sailed. I had no alternative but to leave.’
Lizzie? Lizzie her doll, sitting up there on the shelf where she’d sat for a lifetime of lies, gathering dust.
‘Lizzie or Elizabeth?’ The man was making no sense. ‘How did I get to be with you? A four-year-old doesn’t make the decision to sail off into the wide blue yonder with a stranger. Didn’t the workhouse want me?’ Her voice hitched again.
‘You were always headstrong.’
‘That’s no answer and you know it, Michael Ó’Cuinn.’
‘I was standing in the line, on the gangplank waiting to board, mind elsewhere, and my heart broken. I had the papers. I handed them over and you slid in next to me, grasped my hand. The bloke asked if you were my sister and I said yes.’
‘That was it?’ It sounded foolish. ‘Why didn’t you tell the authorities?’
‘I couldn’t bear the thought of returning you to that place. It was a nightmare. Cold, miserable, lonely. Reeking of death and destruction. It was too late for Lizzie, not for you. When I started to think better of it, they found a bunch of stowaways, belted the living daylights out of them, threw one of them overboard, dragged the others off the ship in chains. I couldn’t let them do that to you.’ He dropped his head into his hands. ‘Christ Almighty.’
She smoothed her hand over his hair and he lifted his head. ‘Thank you, Michael. Thank you for saving me, and for looking after me.’ But he shouldn’t have kept the truth from her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
She felt drained, empty. Why couldn’t she remember? She needed his help. Damn the man. ‘I remember the ship. I remember arriving in Sydney. I’m sure I do. Or is it because you’ve told me? Tell me, tell me again right from the start.’
He massaged his chest, right above his heart, with the heel of his hand, as though it pained him to tell her. ‘I told you. I was handing over the immigration papers and there you were by my side. They asked if you were my sister, and I said yes.’
‘It can’t be that simple. How did I get there? Did you know me?’ The whole idea was preposterous. Far-fetched.
‘I’d met you. You and Lizzie had struck up a friendship.’
‘You must know my name, my own name.’
‘I don’t. They called you Girlie at the workhouse, although you wouldn’t answer to it. You didn’t speak, except to say Lizzie.’ He tipped his head to the doll sitting on the shelf above her dressing table, as faded and worn as she felt. ‘Not until we crossed the equator.’
‘My birthday. My fifth birthday. Or does that belong to someone else, too?’
‘I gave it to you. The day you touched your ear.’
‘The day I touched my ear?’ Was there nothing that belonged to her? Not her name, not her birth date, not the man she believed to be her brother.
‘I’d been told when a child could reach over their head and touch their ear they were likely five years old.’
‘Poppycock.’
‘Do you remember the fire?’
The mere word made her inhale and she fancied she could smell smoke, and something sweet and fleshy, like Bessie’s Sunday roast. She wasn’t one for imagination. She liked facts, solid facts.
‘Why didn’t I die, with your sister?’
He dropped his head into his hands. ‘No idea.’
‘You must know.’ How could he sit there and tell her this without having any answers?
‘We thought Lizzie was safe. She answered her name. I helped put the fire out. I couldn’t find her afterwards. They sent me away. Told me to come back in the morning. They’d taken the girls in with the women. They said she was safe, she’d answered her name …’
Michael’s voice faded and dulled, drowned out by the roar of flames dancing against the ink black sky, and the smell, that awful smell.
Lizzie Ó’Cuinn.
‘Lizzie!’
Her heart stopped pumping as the moment rushed back.
She’d answered, called Lizzie’s name.
Twenty-Seven
‘Jane, come into my study.’ Michael grabbed at the doorframe, ignored the sudden wave of dizziness. Seeing the pain he’d caused Elizabeth, his inability to find the answers, drove him to distraction, and whiskey—more whiskey than he’d drunk in a long time.
‘I’ll be along in a moment.’ Her feet thundered on the stairs and a door slammed.
How he envied her boundless energy and fine, fine mind. He’d tell her to cherish it, make the most of it. He hadn’t appreciated his own youth, and now he felt like Methuselah. Old age had crept up, stealthily, while he wasn’t looking.
Jane ground to a halt in the doorway. ‘Yes?’
‘Come in and sit down. I have to talk to you.’
Her face steadied and a small frown puckered between her eyes. ‘Is it Aunt Elizabeth?’
‘Yes, and no. Not what you think. She’s still not herself, however Lethbridge is investigating alternative treatments. I need your help.’ He pulled out the sheath of papers stacked in the manila folder and deposited them on the desk with a determined thump. ‘Have you spoken to Elizabeth lately?’
‘Not since yesterday morning. I’ve been down at the auction house. Helping Timothy.’ A flush rose to her cheeks.
So, that was how the land lay. Nothing like young love to bring the bloom to a girl’s cheeks. ‘I had to give Elizabeth some unfortunate news.’ Wasn’t that the biggest understatement of his life.
Jane plopped down into the chair and pulled her feet up under her skirt. Not only a bright mind, but the flexibility of youth. It strengthened his resolve.
‘I’ve been doing some research and I need your help.’
She leant forward, eyes wide. He’d caught her attention, as he intended. ‘Yes?’
‘I did something many years ago, of which I’m not proud.’
He’d never thought of himself as someone who had trouble with the truth, trouble spitting it out. Always taken responsibility for his actions, and now he was floundering around like some old fuddy-duddy. Spit it out, man, spit it out.
‘I’m trying to find out who Elizabeth is.’
‘Everyone knows Miss Elizabeth Quinn.’
She’d said that once before, on the first day they’d met at the orphanage, when he’d sat stunned by her sharp enquiring mind and her similarity to Elizabeth. It wasn’t as though he was going against Elizabeth’s wishes. Jane was the closest thing they had to a daughter. She should know he wasn’t the man she thought him to be.
‘Elizabeth Ó’Cuinn was my sister. She died in September 1862, in a fire in the workhouse in Liverpool, England.’
Parched, he licked his lips and reached for the
glass of whiskey, took a long slug while he studied the series of emotions playing across Jane’s face.
‘Then who is …’ The name stuck on her lips and she gestured behind her, up the stairs to where Elizabeth lay in her bed, chasing memories she couldn’t catch because he’d played God.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Does she?’
‘No.’ This was possibly his sanest decision in many years. Never good with emotion, Jane drilled down to the facts. It was the help he needed.
‘She believes she is Elizabeth Quinn?’
‘Not anymore. I told her last night.’
‘She’s lived all her life thinking she was someone she’s not? You must know who she is. How did you meet her, where did she come from?’
For the third time he had to recount his foolish, misguided actions. He repeated the story as succinctly as he could. Jane sat, eyes trained on his face, not speaking, although he could almost hear her mind absorbing every word, lining each fact up in a neat column. When he’d finished he pushed a manila folder towards her.
She uncoiled herself from the chair and spread the contents out onto the floor, read through the immigration papers, pushed them aside, picked up the telegram, smoothed the creases then tossed it away, ran her finger down the list of notes, and looked up.
‘Have you had a response from this Gertrude Finbright?’ She waved the draft copy of his letter in the air.
‘Not as yet. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. I thought maybe a trip to England might trigger some memory for Elizabeth, a meeting with Miss Finbright even. I hold out little hope she will have any additional information. I clearly remember the first time I saw Elizabeth. They’d called her Girlie. She wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t answer to that name, wouldn’t tell them her own. I don’t think anyone knew where she came from.’
‘Lack of speech is a fairly normal reaction to a stressful event in a child that young. Dr Freud says early infant trauma can scar a person for life. Have you got a pencil?’ Jane got up from the floor and came to stand by his desk. ‘And a piece of paper. Let’s write down everything we do know.’
She cleared a space on his desk and pulled up a chair. ‘You don’t know her exact date of birth, but we can presume towards the end of 1857.’