by Maggie Hope
Who does she think she is? Mary would think when Mrs Wales complained about her work, or made nasty remarks about Prue, not even bothering to lower her voice. She was glad to get away from Mrs Wales and everyone else, even Ben. For Ben was courting and he wanted the cottage to bring his wife to when they were married and there would be no room for Prue and Mary.
Prue didn’t mean anything when she flirted with the seamen, it was just that she was developing as a woman and enjoyed testing out her new powers. She would be all right without the restrictions imposed on her by the missionaries and their wives. Well, when they got where they were going they would perhaps be able to branch out on their own; everyone said Australia was less class-ridden than England and why couldn’t they find their fortunes there? Or at least a rich man apiece. And in the meantime it was so deadly boring on the ship with prayers twice a day and the top-deck passengers looking down on them all the time even if they just passed the time of day with a seaman. Poor chaps, they went months without seeing a woman, why shouldn’t they have a bit of fun now?
Mary chuckled to herself. By, they’d had a good time in Capetown yesterday, that was one thing about seamen, they were generous with their pay if they liked a girl and there was no doubt that Joe Rae liked her.
Mary’s thoughts shifted to the man who had come aboard at Capetown, the American; now there was a man to dream about with his bonny eyes and bright hair and his air of assurance, his way of looking at a girl and somehow showing he was interested, wicked-like, as though he knew what she was thinking. And his clothes, so outlandish and yet so good and well-cut, he must be worth a bob or two, that fella.
‘He’s a bit of all right, isn’t he, Mary?’
Prue, sitting beside her on the bench they shared in the cramped steerage part of the ship, broke into her thoughts.
‘Who?’ asked Mary though she knew very well who it was.
‘That Captain West, o’ course, who do you think? Morgan West.’ Prue rolled the name round on her tongue, savouring it. She looked dreamily at her sister, a very adult look in her eyes.
‘Prue!’ snapped Mary and Prue giggled mischievously, suddenly a little girl again.
‘I never meant nowt,’ she said, ‘I was only funning. Anyway, you know I like Jack.’ She sighed, remembering that Jack Allan was in trouble over being late back to the ship last night. ‘Do you think Captain Molar will let him out today? It wasn’t his fault we were late.’
‘No, it wasn’t, it was yours, you young minx,’ said Mary. ‘If you hadn’t dawdled about the shops trying to get him to buy you something we would have been back in plenty of time.’
Prue pouted. ‘It’s so boring on the ship and Mr Tait thinks me and you don’t have the right to any fun, him and those others. Jack reckons those holy joes are right hypocrites and he’s right an’ all.’
‘They did let us come, though, didn’t they? You have to give them that. Why, man, Prue, what sort of a life is it we would have at home? Marrying some pitman would be the best we could do and likely end up like Mam, widowed and with a houseful of bairns. Australia or even this Fiji they are talking of going to, well, they’re bound to be better than that, aren’t they?’
Prue sighed and flounced across to the ladderway that led up to the deck. ‘Well, I don’t know, I tell you, I’m sick of this damn ship.’
‘You’d better not let anybody hear you swearing like that,’ warned Mary. ‘Come away from there, any road.’
‘I won’t, I want some fresh air, I have a bloody right—’ began an unrepentant Prue but her petulant tone altered immediately when the boatswain, Joe Rae, appeared.
‘Eeh, lass, you’d best not let them holy joes hear you swear, they’d have you walking the plank, they would,’ he commented cheerfully as he clambered down the steps and brushed past Prue. He walked over to Mary, picked her up bodily from the bench and kissed her soundly, one arm holding her tightly to him as the other plunged down her neckline, putting a fearsome strain on the buttons.
‘Joe! Behave yourself this minute,’ Mary said, struggling out of his arms. Look now –’ as the top two buttons popped off and skittered across the floor – ‘I’ll have to sew them on now, you great lump.’
‘Aye, but it was worth it, wasn’t it?’
‘No, it wasn’t. Any road, who said you could take liberties with me like that? Get away from me, go on, you’re coarse, that’s what you are, I’ll not have it.’ Mary’s irritation was turning to fury as she went down on her hands and knees and scrabbled about looking for the buttons.
The boatswain frowned. ‘What’s that you say? After all I spent on you yesterday, you and that little whore of a sister of yours?’
‘You never did, you bloody liar,’ Prue cried, ‘you never spent a penny on me. I was with me own man, for what would I go with an old man like you? And besides, I’m not a whore.’
‘Are you not?’ Joe laughed harshly. ‘I’m beginning to think the pair of you are fresh out of the gutter. And it’s because of you that poor old Jack Allan is where he is.’
Mary got to her feet, her eyes flashing and her face pink with anger. ‘Get out of here, Joe Rae, or I’ll scream the place down. Don’t you come near me nor my sister again, do you hear me?’
Joe stared at her for a moment, then lifted a hand and placed it squarely on her chest where the material of her dress gaped open. Grinding his hand against the soft flesh, he pushed her violently against Prue so that the two girls went sprawling, Mary banging her head against the iron support of the bench. Without another word the boatswain strode past them and on up the ladder to the deck.
Mary was dazed, her head swimming, and she put up a hand to her temple and felt the stickiness of blood. Shaking, she managed to sit up and look about for her sister. Prue was sobbing quietly, her face pale but, as far as Mary could see, she wasn’t hurt.
‘Come on, pet, you’re all right,’ said Mary. ‘We’d better make ourselves presentable before we go up to see if Mrs Tait wants us to do anything.’
Snuffling, Prue got to her feet and brushed down her dress with her hands and Mary dabbed at her temple with a cloth dipped in a cup of water from the bucket provided for drinking. She peered at the cut in the mirror that one of the emigrants had tied to an upright. It wasn’t so bad.
‘It doesn’t look bad, does it?’ she asked Prue and the younger girl shook her head. ‘I’ll tell them I fell, do you hear me, Prue? There’d only be trouble if we said Joe was in here.’
‘Aye.’
Prue had stopped crying at least, Mary thought as she looked out her sewing box and replaced the buttons on her dress. She winced when her hand caught her breast as she fastened them again. Joe had bruised it, the rotten sod. Well, there was one thing for sure, she didn’t want any more to do with the likes of him.
That American, Captain West, now he was different, a gentleman. He’d been ever so nice to her even though he knew she was just a maid and she’d heard Australians were like that an’ all. Maybe Australia was the place for her and Prue. What would it be like married to a man like Morgan West? The very thought made her feel warm all over. Suddenly the prospect of the voyage from Capetown to Sydney no longer seemed boring.
Chapter Nine
18th March, 1861. A red letter day, thought Eleanor. Australia, at last. She was elated as she descended the gangplank with Francis by her side and Mary and Prue behind her. She wanted to shout it aloud, dance a jig on the quay, do something to mark the day.
‘Aren’t you excited?’ she asked Francis, who was walking sedately by her side, and he smiled wryly.
‘There’s a fair way to go yet,’ he replied. ‘This isn’t Fiji.’ But Eleanor could see a little extra colour in his cheeks not put there by the sun and his eyes shone.
There was a noisy, bustling crowd on the quay as porters touted for custom and hackney carriages, which had been standing in line waiting patiently for customers to disembark, filled up and threaded their way through the crowds. And above the din a br
ass band was playing.
Eleanor paused and looked back at the ship for a moment but Francis was eager to get on and he rushed forward to hail a cab.
‘Come along, Eleanor, we don’t want to keep the others waiting,’ he said, holding open a cab door as he turned to see what was holding her up. Sighing heavily, he saw she was with Mary, an arm around the girl as though she was comforting her, and Mary was holding her face with one hand, evidently distraught.
‘Eleanor!’ he cried sharply. Exasperated, he let go of the cab door and strode over to them. ‘Come along, we haven’t time for silly regrets now. Anyway, where is that girl Prue?’
‘She’s gone, that’s where she is, she’s run away,’ sobbed Mary. ‘The minute her feet touched dry land she was away and how will I find her in this place? Look, she pushed this letter into my hand and she went!’
Mary had a grubby piece of paper clutched in her hand and she held it out to Francis, who took hold of it rather gingerly and with some difficulty read the unformed hand-writing. Well, there was little doubt, Prue Buckle had run away and what’s more she had run off with a seaman.
Dont worry about me, Ill be all right. Jack luvs me an he ses hell look after me an buy me a new dress a cotton one that’s not too hot an some shus an all an I can throw these ugly old boots away. Luv Prue.
‘Oh, Mary, I’m sorry,’ Eleanor said helplessly. She turned to Francis, her brown eyes beseeching. ‘Can’t we go in search of her? She can’t have got far.’
But Francis shook his head. ‘Certainly not. I’m not running around a strange city after a chit of a girl who doesn’t want to be found. We haven’t the time, Eleanor. Who is this Jack, anyway? Is he that steward she was always getting into trouble? If he’s jumped ship the captain won’t have him back.’
‘Francis!’
He paused at the reproach in his wife’s voice. ‘Now, Eleanor, we have to go, there’s the reception at Wesley Hall and the others have already gone, we’ll be late as it is.’
Eleanor stood her ground. ‘She is fourteen years old, Francis. It is our Christian duty.’
Francis reddened, though whether it was with shame, annoyance or frustration she didn’t know. He stared at her for a moment, his lips compressed, then across at Mary, who was controlling her tears by this time and looking at him hopefully.
‘Dratted girl!’ he exploded; it was the nearest he ever got to an expletive.
‘Just a child,’ murmured Eleanor, pressing her point.
‘Oh, very well, we’ll take a cab and look around the streets before we go to the hall. But I must say we stand very little chance of finding her if she doesn’t want to be found, especially if she’s with this seaman.’ He snorted as he handed the women up into the cab. ‘She’s no child, either. Prudence Buckle was born with a woman’s wiles.’
Mary opened her mouth to protest but a warning glance from Eleanor stopped her. Instead she confined herself to gazing about her from the open-topped cab, oblivious to the heat that poured down on the road and the dust that was raised by the horse cab, and the smell of hot, sweaty humanity and hot, sweaty horseflesh.
By the end of the morning even Mary had to admit defeat. They had searched the area around Circular Quay and the rocky ridge nearby, which the cab driver helpfully told them was known as the Rocks, up and down streets of private dwellings and around bonded warehouses. But of Prue and her seaman there was no sign.
‘It’s too late now to go to Wesley Hall,’ said Francis. ‘We might as well find our lodging.’
Not a very good beginning to their new life, mused Eleanor as she unpacked their overnight things in the pleasant bedroom of a house in a newly-built terrace over-looking an unlikely village green. She had sent Mary to her own room at the back of the house, for she looked exhausted and ready to drop. Francis had removed his coat and was washing his face and hands in the china basin on the wash-stand. He reached for the towel on the side rail and patted himself dry before turning to her.
‘I know, I shouldn’t have brought them,’ Eleanor said quickly, defensively.
‘Yes.’
She watched him change into a clean shirt. ‘Is that all you’re going to say?’
‘What else is there? Come now, Eleanor, it’s almost three, we must go down to dinner. The others will be wondering where we are.’
He’s glad Prue’s gone, she thought. He wanted to dismiss her and Mary besides as soon as we arrived, didn’t he say so? Well, I’m keeping Mary with me, I am.
She followed him down to the dining room, her chin set in determination. Only a few days and the John Wesley, the missionary ship bound for the Fiji islands, would sail with them aboard, Mary included though she might be reluctant to leave Prue behind in Sydney. After dinner, when Francis was safely occupied with his fellow missionaries, she would slip away and persuade Mary that it was the right thing to do and that if Prue had eloped with Jack Allan, she would not want her sister trailing after her.
Mary was not in the lodging house, however; she did not appear for dinner and when Eleanor went to her room in search of her she found the tiny room that had been allocated to the sisters was stifling hot and airless, the curtains had not even been drawn and there was no sign of the maid or her bag. At least Francis would be pleased, thought Eleanor bitterly as she made her way to their own room and flung herself on the bed. She felt hot and horrible, the greasy mutton she had consumed at dinner was repeating on her and her mouth tasted like a colliery tip. She sat up and poured herself a glass of water from the jug on the dressing table but it was warm and brackish and increased her queasiness.
Ingrates, that’s what they were, the Buckles, they never thanked her for anything. Oh, but she would miss Mary – here she was going to a strange land and there was only Francis. Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it determinedly and after a few minutes she felt better. Conscience pricked her; of course Mary would be worried about Prue, she had most likely gone in search of her. She would come back. Closing her eyes, Eleanor fell into a light doze.
Mary was running through the streets of Sydney, not knowing where she was, only that she had to find Prue. She was clutching the shabby black bag that held her few possessions in one hand and as she ran round a corner the bag swung out at an angle and caught against a post, wrenching her shoulder and almost bringing her down, but she ran on. Her breath came in panting gasps; sweat streamed down her face and neck, trickling down between her breasts. People in the street turned to watch the crazy girl who was running in the heat of the afternoon.
‘Prue! Prue!’ she cried once when she saw the figure of a young girl walking on the arm of a sailor, a girl with fair hair and a blue dress and just that way Prue had of looking sideways at a boy and laughing with him, but when she caught up with the couple and stretched out a hand to them, it wasn’t Prue, nothing like her. How had she thought it was?
“Ere, what’s up wi’ you?’ the man growled. Mary muttered an apology and fell back. He shrugged and whispered something to his companion and she was laughing as they walked on.
Mary sank down on a low wall outside an inn and put her bag on the ground by her feet. She was panting for breath and a red mist was swirling in front of her eyes. After a while the stitch in her side eased and her heartbeat slowed. She found a handkerchief in her pocket, wiped her face and neck and pushed her hair away from her forehead.
Looking up at the inn sign, she saw it was called The Jolly Sailor and, remembering Prue was with a seaman, a wild hope filled her. It was likely Jack was in just such a place as this, near the docks, and he would make straight for where he could get good ale on a hot day like this, wouldn’t he?
Forgetting her bag, she went in, following the sound of raucous singing into a smoke-filled bar stinking of male body sweat and stale beer. She had to stand for a moment or two to let her eyes get accustomed to the darkness and then she peered round the room but, as far as she could see, the only woman there was behind the bar. Still, maybe Jack was further in. She star
ted forward to get a proper look in the alcoves but suddenly her arm was seized by a brawny hand, which swung her round to face the man it belonged to.
‘Oh no you don’t, my lass, there’s no women allowed in this bar, men only this is and you can go and ply your trade somewhere else!’
Mary gasped. ‘What? What do you mean? I—’
‘Aw, don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about, I know your sort.’ Without more ado he propelled her out into the bright sunshine to the accompaniment of jeers and obscene calls from his drunken patrons. None too gently he pushed her away from the inn into the dust of the street and she would have fallen but for the man she cannoned into.
‘Mary? It’s Mary Buckle, isn’t it? Are you all right?’
Mary was almost sobbing with humiliation and anger as she looked up into the handsome face of Morgan West. ‘Oh, Captain West!’ She struggled to compose herself, pushing her hair back from her forehead and searching for her handkerchief to dab her face. Oh, she must look a proper sight, she must indeed.
‘Did that man hurt you? I’ll have a word with him, how dare he treat a lady so?’
Even in her distress, Mary was proud that he had called her a lady.
As Morgan West started for the door of the inn, she called after him. ‘Please don’t! Really, he didn’t hurt me at all, look, I’m all right, I shouldn’t have gone in there but I’m looking for Prue, you know, my sister Prue? You haven’t seen her, have you? She’s ran away, I’m desperate to find her, anything could happen to her, anything at all.’
‘Come now, don’t upset yourself, we’ll find her.’ He came back to her and took her arm. ‘Look, we’ll hail a cab and go somewhere quiet and cool where we can talk about it.’