Girl of Shadows

by Deborah Challinor

  George gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. You can have him on your side of the shop. I’ll feed him because I’m the one with the tits, but you can burp him and put him down for his naps and when he shits his clout, you can change it. And you can do all his bloody laundry as well.’

  Harrie was astounded. Surely Nora didn’t mean that? George didn’t know the first thing about looking after an infant.

  George shoved back his chair and stood up. ‘I’ve never heard anything so bloody ridiculous in all my life!’ Grabbing his hat, he marched across the parlour, kicked the wall for good measure, and stamped downstairs.

  Nora and Harrie stared after him.

  Eventually Nora said, ‘I’m sorry, Harrie. That’s been coming for a while.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Harrie rubbed pointlessly at a jam stain on the tablecloth. ‘What exactly does Leonard Dundas do, Nora?’

  ‘Leo? Well, I believe he was a sailor for about thirty years, but these days he’s a tattooist.’

  The lower end of George Street, terminating just prior to Dawes Point, was Sydney’s maritime heart. In recent years new wharves had appeared, extending like rigidly accusing fingers into Darling Harbour at the end of Market Street and near Campbell and Goulburn streets, but the area below the Rocks continued to bustle with industry connected to the sea — warehouses, chandlers and provisioners, sail- and rope-makers, sailors’ lodging houses, pubs and brothels — and sheltered Sydney Cove bristled with ships at anchor.

  Near the Commissariat Stores on George Street stood one-, two- and three-storey buildings, including the fire station and those that until not long before had housed the town’s first post office and the Sydney Gazette. The Stores themselves sat right on the water’s edge, waves breaking against the barnacle-encrusted pilings of the wooden walkway fronting the severe, triple-storey brick edifice. Nearby King’s Wharf reached a short distance out into the cove and, a little farther north towards Dawes Point, lay the dockyard and busy Campbell’s Wharf.

  Leonard Dundas’s tattoo shop was on the west side of George Street, down an alley wide enough only for foot traffic, tucked into the side of a hotel named the Sailors’ Grave. According to George, who hadn’t stopped talking since they’d left Gloucester Street, Leo had been leasing the trio of small rooms for the past ten years.

  The shop door was open but beside it, hooked over a nail driven into the mortar between the bricks, was a sign saying CLOSED. Across the doorway hung a curtain of dried bamboo reeds rattling gently in the afternoon breeze. Painted on the curtain was the most stunning image of a flower in colours of flame orange, bright yellow, indigo blue, purple and sage green. Harrie slowed to admire it but George barged straight through, sending the reeds skittering in all directions.

  Harrie followed, preparing to adjust to dim light inside, but the interior was unexpectedly well lit. She turned in a circle and saw that a ledge had been built right around the wall at a height of about four feet, and on the ledge sat six Sinumbra lamps, three of which were blazing brightly.

  The room was just large enough to comfortably accommodate an odd-looking Windsor chair with flat, wide arms, a waist-height wooden bench, a small cabinet, a full-length looking glass, two stools and, incongruously, an elegant wheeled tea trolley. On this were arrayed a collection of long needles, pots of colour pigment, squares of lint, paper, several drawing pencils and a bottle of what looked suspiciously like smelling salts. On the white-washed brick walls were displayed floor to ceiling an overwhelming selection of designs rendered on parchment, paper and fabric, including: hearts and daggers; anchors and sailing ships; pigs and roosters; mermaids and stars; swallows, bluebirds and eagles; sharks and whales; snakes and dragons; skulls and crossbones; turtles and octopuses; crossed cannon; flags of many nations; religious insignia; beautiful exotic designs made up of lines and swirls; and the words HOLD FAST in at least a dozen styles of script.

  But there was no sign of Leonard Dundas.

  George took off his hat, ducked through a doorway and called, ‘Leo? Leo, it’s George Barrett!’

  Something stirred overhead. Harrie heard feet creaking down wooden stairs and a moment later a man followed George into the room.

  He was tall, perhaps five feet ten or eleven inches, wiry, muscled and old. His long hair — tied back in a cue — was silver-grey, as were his moustache and short beard. The skin on his face, hands and arms, revealed by the rolled sleeves of his grey shirt, was so weathered it resembled tanned leather and deep creases lined his face and surrounded his pale grey eyes. He wore a small gold hoop in each ear just below a miniature tattoo of a star, and on one forearm was a very faded image of a turtle. His long feet were bare; on one was tattooed a pig and on the other a rooster.

  ‘Leo, this is Harrie Clarke,’ George announced.

  Leonard Dundas eyed Harrie disapprovingly. He wiped his hands on his faded duck trousers and grudgingly offered her the right one. Across the tops of his fingers were tattooed the letters FAST; on the fingers of his left hand she glimpsed HOLD. She shook the hand gingerly; already she didn’t like him.

  ‘This is a lass,’ he barked at George.

  ‘I know,’ George replied cheerfully.

  ‘You said it’d be a lad.’

  ‘I’m not sure I made mention either way,’ George said quickly. ‘But think of the advantages, Leo. She’d be a drawcard, don’t you think? A pretty face like hers?’

  Harrie cringed inwardly; she felt like a cow George Barrett might be attempting to sell in Campbell Street’s new cattle market.

  ‘I couldn’t have a lass here.’ Leo looked Harrie up and down again. ‘Not one like her — not with my customers. Too rough.’

  ‘But you could advertise the designs as having been drawn by a girl, though, couldn’t you? Think of the novelty!’

  ‘Can’t see that helping,’ Leo snapped. ‘Women are unlucky at sea.’

  Harrie noted George’s smile getting more and more strained.

  ‘Well, could you at least give her a trial?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could she not even do just one tiny sketch? She’s very good.’

  Leo crossed his arms, eyes narrowed. ‘If I let her draw something, will you leave me alone to get on with my work?’

  George was already at the tea trolley gathering up paper and a pencil. He thrust them at Harrie. ‘What do you want her to draw?’ he asked Leonard.

  ‘What the hell does it matter? I don’t know. A mermaid will do.’

  Offended by the rudeness of both men, Harrie said, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ George demanded, his voice squeaking slightly as the easy profit he’d envisioned from this venture fluttered ever closer to the window.

  ‘Because I’ve never seen one.’

  The corners of Leo’s mouth twitched.

  ‘What have you seen, then?’ George asked in desperation. ‘A goat? You must have seen one of those. Yes, draw a goat.’

  ‘No.’ Leo shook his head. ‘What sailor would want a bloody goat tattooed on his arm? Be reasonable, man.’

  ‘An angel?’ Harrie suggested. ‘I could draw one of those.’

  Leo’s interest was finally piqued. ‘Oh, you’ve seen an angel, have you?’

  ‘I might have.’

  ‘Is that right? Well, away you go, then.’

  Harrie sat in the wooden chair and, resting the paper on the wide arm, worked for five or six minutes. She drew Rachel’s lovely face, long silky hair and lithe body, but when she came to the wings she found herself sketching an enormous pair of bat wings rather than those you would expect to see on an angel. The effect, however, was somehow right. She handed the finished image to Leo Dundas.

  He studied it for some moments. ‘Have you ever seen something called the Book of Kells?’

  Harrie said no.

  Opening the little cabinet, he ferreted around among the books and papers inside then passed her an illustration. Harrie gasped; it wa
s possibly the most breathtaking image she’d ever seen.

  Leonard said, ‘The Book of Kells is the most beautifully illuminated manuscript in the history of man. This is a hand-painted reproduction of a single page. Do you see the triple spiral at the bottom there on the left? Can you copy that?’

  The large central motif was the letter P, filled with and surrounded by interlaced and extremely intricate spiral and geometrical designs, and the entire page glowed with colour. If this was only a copy, Harrie thought, what must the original be like? She knew, though, that of course she could copy the spiral, and extended her hand for another piece of blank paper.

  Leo examined the finished sketch with the same indifference he’d accorded the angel. Again he went to the cabinet. This time he retrieved a leather tube about two feet long from which he withdrew a roll of oiled parchment. Carefully spreading it flat on the wooden bench, he beckoned to Harrie to approach. This close she could smell him: a mix of fresh sweat and a hint of the sea, not unpleasant.

  The parchment was quite brown, and very delicate, and on it was an image of a ferocious oriental dragon with bristling whiskers and yellowing teeth, eyes and claws, and a sinuously scaled body and tail. The beast was wrestling with a cherubic child against a background of stormy skies and wild seas, and maple leaves and chrysanthemums were interspersed across the crowded, colourful scene.

  ‘It’s irezumi,’ Leo said. ‘Japanese. Just copy the dragon’s head.’

  Harrie looked at George, who, transported by greedy anticipation, was almost hopping on one foot. She glanced back at Leo and, for an instant, was sure he’d rolled his eyes.

  She’d just finished the outline when she realised, with a deeply unpleasant jolt, that the parchment was very possibly tattooed human skin.

  ‘You are quite good, aren’t you?’ Leo said as he viewed her completed drawing. ‘George said you do original designs. That’s actually what I’m after.’

  Harrie remained silent: she didn’t want to work here at all.

  Leo said, ‘And sometimes my customers have their own ideas. Do you think you can interpret what a man tells you he wants on his skin, and put it into a drawing?’

  Thinking about it, Harrie replied, ‘Well, in what way would that be any different from sketching a pattern of what a lady would like in a gown?’ Then wished she’d kept her mouth shut, because she knew it was a good answer.

  Carefully Leo rolled up the tattooed parchment, slid it back into its tube and put it away. ‘All right. I’ll give you a three-month trial.’

  George actually clapped, then immediately began haggling with Leo over the rate at which he would hire out Harrie, while she sat on the chair feeling humiliated.

  ‘Moo,’ she said.

  George stared at her as though she’d lost her mind. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  When they’d eventually agreed on a fee the men shook hands, then Leo told George to be on his way.

  ‘What do you mean?’ George narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘I’ll have to escort Harrie home. It’s not safe around here for a girl.’

  ‘It’s safe enough,’ Leo replied benignly. ‘The lass and I have matters to discuss. Good day to you, George.’

  George lingered in the doorway, sensing — correctly — that he was about to be excluded from something. Reluctantly, however, he finally departed.

  Harrie edged towards the door herself; she was not remaining here alone with Leo Dundas.

  ‘Stay where you are, lass,’ he growled. ‘You’re working for me now, so let’s get one thing clear.’

  Harrie could only stare at him, transfixed with rapidly escalating alarm.

  ‘The tea things — they’re kept next door on the shelf beside the hearth.’ Leo suddenly grinned, revealing several gaps between his teeth. Of those that remained, one appeared to be made of dull gold. ‘Put the kettle on, there’s a good lass, and I’ll go up to the baker’s and get us something nice. Raisin buns? Will that do you?’

  Oh Lord, which was the real Leonard Dundas? Harrie felt paralysed by doubt. Could she trust him? She closed her eyes, praying for guidance, and when she opened them again Leo was staring right at her.

  He tut-tutted. ‘Aye, I can see I was a bit hard on you, but you can’t let a coney-catcher like George Barrett get the upper hand now, can you? There’d be no end to it.’

  When he’d gone off up the alleyway in his bare feet, Harrie returned to the chair, sank onto it gratefully and waited until her heartbeat had returned to something approaching its normal rhythm. For a hideous second she really had thought Leonard Dundas had been going to force himself on her.

  Tea: that would help. The other room contained a small table, three mismatched chairs, a hearth with a camp oven and cooking implements — it must get so hot in here during the height of summer — a tin bath on its end in a corner, a narrow cot made up with a blanket and pillow under a small window, and shelves holding boxes and various bits and pieces. Against one wall steep wooden stairs rose to the next floor.

  The kettle was already filled and hanging on the sway, so she stabbed at the fire with a poker and blew hard on the flames to invigorate them. She found the tea caddy — an unexpectedly beautiful one in rosewood with a sailing ship rendered in intricate marquetry on the lid — and set out two cups and saucers and the teapot. Leo’s good taste apparently didn’t extend to china — the cups didn’t match and were of an inferior blue and white pattern, and cracked and stained. Does he take sugar? she wondered.

  ‘Who are you?’ a voice demanded.

  Harrie spun around so fast her skirt flicked into the fire; the fabric caught just for a second and she slapped out the tiny flame, leaving behind a brown singe mark.

  The speaker was a boy of eleven or twelve, standing in the doorway between the two rooms. He looked familiar. A small scruffy dog with a black snout and ears sprouting ridiculous tufts of hair crouched at his feet, growling menacingly.

  ‘Where’s Leo?’ the boy said, giving the dog a nudge with a dirty bare foot to quieten it.

  ‘Gone out for a minute,’ Harrie replied. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

  The boy shook his head, shaggy hair flopping across his forehead. The dog trotted into the room on short, bandy legs, growled again and bared its teeth at Harrie, jumped onto the cot, turned around several times and lay down.

  ‘I’m sure I do. What’s your name?’

  ‘John Smith.’

  ‘No, that’s not it.’ Harrie suddenly remembered. ‘It’s Walter, isn’t it? You were on the Isla, the ship’s boy! I was the one who needed two sets of slops, remember, one for my friend?’

  The boy shook his head adamantly. ‘It’s John Smith.’

  It was Walter, though, and she could see he did recall the incident.

  ‘Oh. All right, then. Would you like a cup of tea? Leo’s gone to the bakery.’

  At the mention of the bakery, the boy’s eyes lit up. Then Leo himself silently reappeared and laid a hand on his shoulder; the boy jumped and cried out.

  Leo shook his head ruefully. ‘I told you, boy, keep your back against the wall.’ He took a plate from a shelf and arranged on it half a dozen fancy buns and several small cakes. ‘Not much left. Bit late in the day. Walter, you having a cup?’

  Smiling to herself, Harrie wrapped a cloth around her hand, removed the kettle from the fire and set it down on the hearth ledge. Opening the lovely caddy, she carefully measured tea into the pot and replaced the lid.

  ‘It’s Walter Cobley, isn’t it?’ she tried again. ‘I do remember you, you know.’

  Looking miserable, Walter said nothing and took a seat at the table.

  ‘You already acquainted?’ Leo remarked. ‘I’ll be blowed.’

  ‘He was ship’s boy on the transport I came out on,’ Harrie said. ‘The Isla. Although he’s saying he wasn’t.’

  ‘He’s lying low,’ Leo explained. ‘He jumped ship.’

  Harrie poured the tea then sat down herself. ‘But that was a ye
ar ago. Why are you pretending to be someone else? You’re not in trouble with the law, are you?’

  ‘Not the law, no.’ Leo offered Walter a bun. ‘It’s up to you how much you want to say, boy. It’s your story, not mine.’

  Walter took the bun, tore a piece off and tossed it to the dog, who caught it neatly in its mouth and swallowed it whole. ‘Sorry I were rude, missus.’

  ‘Oh Walter, it’s Harrie. My name is Harrie.’

  His eyes were big and haunted and she wondered when he’d last seen his mother.

  ‘And you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,’ she added.

  ‘I couldn’t stay on. I hated him,’ he blurted and crammed half the bun into his mouth.

  ‘Who?’

  Walter chewed and chewed, and finally swallowed. ‘Amos Furniss. The devil.’

  Harrie glanced at Leo, but Leo was resolutely stirring his tea, clearly letting Walter tell his story the way he wanted to tell it.

  ‘He was a very unpleasant man, wasn’t he?’ Harrie agreed.

  Walter nodded, his skin flushing from neck to temples. ‘He … he hurt me and I couldn’t stop him.’ He put down his bun and pressed his hand over his mouth, as though holding back vomit.

  Leo patted his thin shoulder. ‘Hold fast, boy.’

  And Harrie realised then that Rachel hadn’t been the only one to have suffered horribly during the voyage out from England. She felt sick and her eyes burnt with sudden, hot tears for Walter.

  The boy stared down at the wooden table top, his shaking finger tracing a long, weathered gouge. At last he said, ‘So I jumped ship and made meself scarce until the Isla left port. And then a few days after that I bloody seen him. I seen Furniss, on the street. I hadn’t got away from him after all.’

  Leo took a noisy sip of tea. ‘I found him hiding behind a pile of barrels at the back of one of the pubs on Harrington Street.’

  Just like Angus when he’d been a tiny, helpless kitten, Harrie thought.

  ‘Him and the dog,’ Leo added. ‘Bad-tempered bloody article. Won’t be separated from it. So I brought them both here and they’ve been with me ever since.’