by Téa Cooper
Crowds packed the sides of the road. She caught sight of so many faces she knew, their names too, the names she wrote on their pay slips every week. She always divided the little brown envelopes into two piles; those who, like her, had come through the orphanage, and those Michael and Elizabeth had employed from the myriad people who descended on Maitland once they’d realised their plans of finding fortune on the goldfields were nothing but an unrewarding dream.
The sun beat down on her head, unseasonably hot for May, and behind the monstrous black veil Bessie had insisted she wear, sweat trickled down the sides of her face and pooled at her collar. If they’d turned right instead of left outside the house, they’d be at the cathedral by now, but for some reason that escaped her it was necessary to parade through the town. Two miles and one hundred and seventy-six yards. At normal walking pace it would take forty-two minutes; at the rate they were travelling much, much longer than two thousand, five hundred and twenty seconds of sweat-soaked agony. Michael wouldn’t have wanted that.
‘So everyone can pay their respects,’ Bessie assured her when she’d questioned the sanity of the idea. It showed how well Bessie knew Michael. She let out a puff and the veil billowed like an enraged thundercloud.
The cathedral was packed to the gunnels, and Father Cochran droned on and on …
‘Arriving in Maitland with his sister Elizabeth, Michael set about building a reputable business, an aim he achieved with a great deal of success and always to the benefit of others, becoming one of the founders of the Maitland Mutual Building Society, and a member of the board of directors. He was one of the largest landowners in the district, and has for many years been prominently identified with all movements having for their object the welfare and progress of Maitland, particularly in the areas of flood mitigation, the railway and tramway extension, and the great campaign for Federation. He will be sadly missed …’
Jane fought the overwhelming desire to leap out of her seat and speak up. Nothing Father Cochran had said was incorrect, but he’d somehow neatly forgotten to mention Elizabeth’s contribution to Michael’s success. She’d no idea he was one of the largest landowners in the district. She’d simply taken everything for granted. She squirmed, wishing she’d taken the time to ask more questions. He and Elizabeth were a closed book as far as their earlier life was concerned. If Father Cochran was to be believed, Michael’s soul would be winging its way to heaven on gilded wings.
The cortege slowed as they entered Campbell Hill Cemetery and everyone jostled for a position around the gaping great hole in the ground. Father Cochran intoned some Latin and threw around his incense burner, making her eyes water and her throat scratchy. The next thing Jane knew, they’d lowered the coffin into the ground and she was flinching as everyone threw a handful of dirt on top of poor Michael.
She didn’t hold with all this religious nonsense about life after death. Once you were dead, you were dead; they half admitted it with their ashes-to-ashes business, so she couldn’t see why they’d rattle on about rebirth and sitting on the right hand of the Lord.
‘Come on, Jane, it’s time we left. We’re needed back at the house for the wake. There’s plenty to do.’ Bessie handed her a large white handkerchief. ‘Dry your eyes now.’
Jane mopped away the moisture that covered her cheeks.
‘John’s brought the auction-house van to give us a lift back to the house so we get there first, and Miss Quinn’s going in the big car with those political men.’
Once they reached the house they piled out of the van and Bessie marched right up to the front door, slipped the key into the lock and walked in. ‘You and Lucy go around the back.’
Lucy stuck her nose in the air. ‘Well pardon me, Miss Hoity-Toity thinks she’ll be putting on airs and graces now Mr Quinn’s gone.’
Jane didn’t want to think about Lucy’s comment. It had only occurred to her when they were standing around the grave that there might be changes. Maybe Elizabeth wouldn’t want her now.
She tossed her veil over her head and let the sun shine down on her face. Why would that happen? It wouldn’t. Once she’d finished her bookkeeping course, the auction house had been her responsibility. Elizabeth stuck to her charity work these days and besides, she’d made a promise to Michael to help him find out Elizabeth’s origins. It was a promise she intended to keep.
‘Come on. Get a move on.’ Lucy flattened her against the door and stomped into the kitchen.
Jane didn’t want to follow her inside the dark house with its overpowering smell of lilies and naphthalene, she’d prefer to stay outside. She sank down onto the step and rested her hands on the sandstone worn into a smooth parabola from the countless feet scurrying in and out of the kitchen. Perhaps if she reckoned the depth and the wear rate of the sandstone she could fathom how many people had walked up the steps since the house was built. Pleased to have something other than death and misery crowding her mind, she closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun.
‘’Scuse me, miss.’
She snapped her eyes open.
A young boy stood shuffling from leg to leg, waving a small folded piece of paper under her nose. ‘This the Quinns’ place? I knocked on the front door. No one answered.’
‘That’s because the house is in mourning.’
‘I got to leave this. For Miss Quinn.’ He shoved a small thin package into her hands and took off.
Jane turned it over, examining the carefully tied string making four neat rectangles against the buff-coloured paper. She ran her finger around the edge. An envelope of sorts, no glue holding it in place, no name except for a string of neatly inscribed characters that in some way made her think of Elizabeth’s abacus. She lifted the paper to her nose and inhaled the lovely fragrance, tugged at the string. Nestled inside lay a small piece of paper with a golden metallic rectangle in the centre. She ran her hand over the smooth shiny surface then carefully replaced it inside the envelope.
‘Come on. Inside. We’ve got work to do.’ Bessie glared at her through a crack in the door.
Jumping to her feet she tucked the package into her pocket. ‘I need to see Aunt Elizabeth.’
‘She’s not back from the cemetery yet. I need some help with these sandwiches.’
Twenty-Eight
They were all there, the townsfolk, the gossips and the not-so-gossips, drinking tea and eating the mountains of cakes and sandwiches as though it was the highlight of their week—year even.
Jane could still feel Michael’s presence, the smell of his whiskey and his sandalwood soap cutting through the sugary treats, stale sweat and naphthalene.
‘Miss Quinn.’
Jane started at the drawling masculine voice—not Michael, not Lethbridge. She looked over her shoulder and into the eyes of a vaguely familiar, gaunt-faced man, nursing one of Michael’s Waterford crystal tumblers full of whiskey.
‘My condolences. Your father was a fine man.’
No, not that again. Not today.
Timothy quirked some sort of a grin at her from across the room; she wasn’t sure if it was good or bad.
‘Who are you?’
‘We met at the gallery in Sydney. Langdon-Penter. Timothy’s father.’
It seemed so long ago, a day she would cherish even if the pompous man in front of her had infuriated Michael. ‘Mr Quinn was not my father. I am an orphan, at least I was until he rescued me. My name’s Jane. Jane Piper.’
What might have been a frown wrinkled his forehead ‘Your adopted father perhaps would be a better way of putting it.’
She studied his face, looked for something of Timothy; certainly not the steely eyes, she thought, as the soft grey of Timothy’s gaze fixed on her across the room. ‘Mr Quinn was my benefactor.’
‘Another of his good works.’ Langdon-Penter took a swig of whiskey and held it in his mouth.
‘I don’t see myself in that light.’
‘The man was well known for his altruism. The Labor party, the fight for work
ing hours, the Benevolent Society, the orphanage. So many boards, so much time spent on the betterment of others. Especially during the depression, one of the largest landowners in the area. Not bad for a poor immigrant Irish boy.’
He might have been repeating Father Cochran’s eulogy, although she hadn’t seen him—or Timothy—at the church. No reason for them to be there. Oh! How she wished Michael was standing here beside her. ‘Were you at the funeral?’
‘My wife and I arrived in Maitland early this morning.’ He took another mouthful and looked around the room. ‘They’ll be reading the will later. You’ll be a wealthy woman before long.’
The odious man! Why would he say that? ‘I don’t expect to inherit anything of Mr Quinn’s estate. It will pass to his sister.’ Who wasn’t his sister at all, and at that moment was standing across the room looking more than a little forlorn. ‘Please excuse me, Miss Quinn needs me.’
Placing her teacup on the table, she turned her back on him. How could someone as personable as Timothy have such an obnoxious father?
‘Aunt Elizabeth.’ She laid her hand on the frail black-clad sleeve, felt a tremor. ‘Would you like me to take you upstairs? This must be more than you can stand.’ It was more than she could. She’d never attend another funeral unless it was her own, wouldn’t have much say in that.
‘I think I would, Jane. I think I would. First I must make my apologies.’
‘There’s no need to do that. I’m sure everyone will understand, and if they don’t, I shall come back and explain.’
‘Very well. Thank you. I am tired.’
‘Did Dr Lethbridge leave you some more of the sleeping draught?’
‘I don’t like it. It makes me feel …’ Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat.
Poor Elizabeth, first finding out she wasn’t who she thought she was, and then Michael dying before they found an answer. Jane would solve the mystery. She must. If she could reduce the facts to a simple equation she knew she’d find the solution. ‘Yes?’
‘Disorientated. Odd. And the dreams, I have strange dreams.’
‘Let me help you upstairs.’
Jane opened the door to Elizabeth’s darkened bedroom, the curtains still drawn as befitting a house in mourning, and led her to the bed. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, I’d like to rest.’ Elizabeth eased herself onto the top of the bedcovers. She reached out to the bedside table and picked up the blue and white jar. She nursed it close to her chest, lifted the lid, and withdrew a twisted piece of red thread. Once she’d wrapped it around her little finger, she replaced the lid and traced the collection of black symbols on the front of the jar.
Jane’s hand shot to her pocket. The envelope was still there, the writing similar. She pulled it out. ‘Someone delivered this after we got back from the cemetery. I wasn’t sure who it was for.’
Elizabeth extended a shaking hand.
‘Is it for you?’
A faraway smile lifted the corners of Elizabeth’s pale lips. ‘I believe it might be.’ She pulled off the string and removed the sliver of paper.
‘What is it?’
‘A tribute from one man to another, a sign of acknowledgement.’ She rested back on the pillows, closed her eyes, a smile on her lips and the red thread wound tight around her little finger.
Biting back the surge of curiosity, Jane hovered by the bedside. After a few moments Elizabeth opened her eyes. ‘There’s a box of matches in the dressing table drawer, would you bring them to me, please.’
What in heaven’s name …
By the time she’d retrieved the matches, Elizabeth had the blue jar open on her lap and was folding the golden square of paper and its backing neatly into a little package. She dropped it into the jar and held out her hand for the matches. She struck one and dropped it into the jar. The paper caught and the scent of burning tinged with incense and sweet ginger filled the room.
‘What are you doing?’ She’d burn the house down. If the jar tipped and set the bedcover alight they’d be toast, although the tears streaming down Elizabeth’s cheeks might go some way to extinguishing the flames.
‘I’m sending it to Michael. It’s a gift for the afterlife. Joss money.’
What hocus pocus! Hell and damnation. She’d have to call Lethbridge. Where was he when needed? Downstairs helping himself to Michael’s whiskey with Mr Langdon-Penter?
She took two steps to the door and stopped. She couldn’t call Lethbridge. If he saw Elizabeth like this she’d be up the river and off to the asylum before dawn.
‘Go downstairs and make my apologies. See if you can get everyone to leave.’
Elizabeth’s steady voice broke into Jane’s thoughts and she whipped around. No sign of tears, the blue and white jar with its lid firmly in place sitting on the bedside table, and only the scent of ginger and incense to prove she hadn’t dreamt Elizabeth’s strange behaviour.
Elizabeth lay back on the pillows, inhaling the scent of the past. Her hands cradling the tattered carte de visite she kept in her bedside drawer, Jing gazing down at her with such a look of love in his eyes. She had no need to look at the picture, every moment of their time together remained as clear as crystal. How did he know of Michael’s passing? Where was he? So many times she’d wanted to try and contact him, beg his family to allow her to write to him. He wouldn’t have wanted her to do that. Michael had told her Jing had promised to sever all communication, but with Michael’s passing did that promise hold? She still had the note Jing had left with his suanpan. Before they’d set out for Maitland she’d taken it to Ah Chu and asked him to translate it. Jing’s uncle had lied by omission. The note hadn’t only said the suanpan was hers. It had said that his heart was hers and he was leaving the suanpan because it was something she could keep forever.
Jing could help her make sense of the swirling confusion in her mind. Maybe he knew something of her past. Something Michael hadn’t told her, something she couldn’t remember.
The knock on her door made her jump. If it was Jane back again, or worse, that dreadful girl Lucy with her starched apron and knowing smile, she’d scream. ‘What is it?’
Lethbridge’s face appeared around the door. ‘I thought I’d check on you before I left. Make sure you had everything you needed.’
Everything except the one thing no one seemed able to provide. ‘I have, thank you.’ She slipped the carte de visite into the drawer and gestured to the bottle of laudanum.
‘It will help you sleep.’
Exactly what she didn’t want to do. She wanted to make sense of the swirling confusion in her mind. She’d never felt so adrift, not since that dreadfully embarrassing episode at the technical college, and then at least she’d still had Michael. What she wouldn’t give to step back in time.
Surely Lethbridge’s diagnosis wasn’t correct. Women of a certain age. What a load of poppycock. She’d overheard his suggestions for a rest-cure. Rest-cure! Rubbish. He was talking about the asylum. She knew all about it. A dreadful place. It was somehow slightly ironic that she should have begun her days in a workhouse, an institution, and now she might end them in another. Well, there was no Michael to save her. She was going to have to take matters into her own hands.
Lethbridge hovered over her like a persistent fly, offering a glass of his mind-numbing panacea. She turned her head away. ‘I don’t want it. I want to talk.’
He had the good sense to put the glass down and draw up a chair. ‘Of course.’
‘I don’t believe I am losing my mind.’
‘I have never suggested that you were. Michael’s passing is enough to upset anyone, and the stress of your turns …’ He cleared his throat.
Her dilemma. She much preferred that explanation. After all it was a dilemma—an embarrassing or perplexing situation. ‘What do you know about memory? Jane mentioned a Mr Freud …’
‘It’s a difficult field, many people doubt the validity of the new research.’
‘But childhood mem
ory. How far back do people remember?’
‘Most childhood memories recede, something unpleasant can manifest as a phobia. Your fear of birds is a case in point.’
‘Surely if something traumatic happened I would remember it.’
Michael had talked about the fire at the workhouse, and she had no overwhelming fear of fire. The local bushfires outside Maitland had hardly been pleasant and the town had filled with smoke, but they hadn’t sent her into this mind-numbing paralysis like the detestable birds.
‘Repression is a protective mechanism,’ said Lethbridge. ‘The unpleasant memories are pushed out of your consciousness until a later event—the trip to the Tost and Rohu exhibition, in your case—then elicit a response.’
‘That doesn’t account for my reaction to the paintings at Mrs Penter’s preview.’ For a fleeting moment the beating cloud of swooping birds dipped and shifted in her mind. Perhaps it was time for another dose of laudanum.
‘My feeling is that something happened to you in the first three, maybe four years of your life …’
He paused as if waiting for her to admit some guilty secret. She didn’t want to be someone other than Elizabeth Quinn. She liked being Elizabeth Quinn, and now she was no one. She didn’t even know her birth name, for goodness sake. She was going to have to tell him, as much as she didn’t want to. Apart from anything else, it seemed so wrong to slander Michael now he was no longer able to explain himself. This aversion to birds had to have been caused by some event she couldn’t recollect.
‘Freud’s observations indicate that not only do we not remember anything from birth to three years, we also have a spotty recollection of anything occurring from three to seven years of age. There are various theories as to why this occurs: some believe that language development is important, the ability to speak helping us cement memories.’
‘Lethbridge, may I tell you something in the strictest confidence?’
‘Of course, doctor-patient privilege, no different to that of the confessional. I would have hoped you knew and understood that.’