Girl of Shadows

by Deborah Challinor

  Rowie winced. ‘God, he will, too. Well, I don’t know. Any ideas?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ Friday gulped the last of her gin and used her crutch to push herself to her feet. ‘Christ, this bloody leg is driving me insane.’

  Rowie accompanied her outside and they woke up Jack, who, for a moment, didn’t know where he was. He helped Friday up into the gig, where they sat crunching liquorice-flavoured cachous to disguise the alcohol on their breaths before they headed for home.

  On the eastern side of George Street down near the waterfront crouched the Black Rat Hotel, one of the roughest and least salubrious pubs on the Rocks. It was a favourite with sailors on shore leave looking for a wild time, and with those who had brought to Sydney the culture of England’s underworld, which was a significant number of the town’s inhabitants, no matter that they might now have earned tickets of leave, been granted pardons or otherwise served their sentences. While many ex-convicts were content to put down roots and build new, law-abiding lives in the colony, others were just as happy to carry on as they had in the old world, living off their wits and criminal endeavour, and for them the Black Rat was the place to go.

  The night was warm and Friday hadn’t bothered with a jacket or a shawl. Her left foot had healed enough now for her to wear both boots and, even hobbling on a crutch, the Black Rat was only a few minutes’ walk from the Siren’s Arms. She’d asked Jack to come with her but wouldn’t tell him the full story, and he was sulking because of it, which only made her filthy mood even filthier. All she could tell him was she owed someone money and had to pay it back, and she wanted him with her in case she was robbed on the way to the Black Rat, which was true.

  At five to midnight she made him promise to stay outside and wait for her, then went in. The pub was noisy, choked with smoke, badly lit, and crowded with the usual assortment of shady characters, low-rent whores, drunken tars and misfits, and she spied Bella’s ‘man’ slouched in a dark nook not far from the door. As expected, it was Amos Furniss.

  ‘Very wise, girlie,’ he said as she hop-skipped up to him on her crutch.

  He slid a bag off his shoulder and held it open; gritting her teeth, Friday took a small leather pouch containing one hundred and fifty pounds in notes from her own reticule and jammed it in.

  ‘I hope someone murders you for that on the way home,’ she said so viciously she spat on him.

  Furniss cackled. ‘Better start saving for the next lot.’

  ‘Fuck you.’ Friday swung around and hobbled away.

  ‘Unless,’ Furniss called after her, ‘she decides to tell the pigs, that is.’

  Friday ignored him, but his words sent an icy spear of fear into her belly — as, of course, he’d intended them to.

  Outside the Black Rat, in the sharp sea air and the glimmering moonlight, she raised her crutch, whacked it against the ground so hard it broke, and screamed, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’

  ‘Hey, hey,’ Jack said, grabbing her arm. ‘Settle down!’

  ‘You fucking settle down!’ Friday said, aiming a slap at him.

  ‘I’m not upset. Come on, calm down. Come on, that’s it.’

  Friday couldn’t stop the tears of rage spilling down her cheeks.

  Jack took her hand. ‘Come on, let’s go home and open the gin and you can tell me about it.’

  ‘I can’t tell you, Jack. I just can’t.’

  ‘Well, let’s open the gin anyway.’

  Adam had been away for eleven days, and Sarah was running out of things to do to frighten Esther. She’d heated the milk very early one morning so it curdled, and replaced all the fresh produce in Esther’s pantry with rotten fruit and vegetables bought for a penny from a costermonger very happy to offload it; she’d laboriously and very quietly moved all the furniture she could around in the parlour, which had taken half the night; she’d left one of Esther’s own turds in a dish tucked overnight into a recess above a beam in Esther’s bedroom so that the smell permeated the whole chamber; and she’d spent several hours another night walking ponderously up and down the stairs, making sure every tread creaked as she trod on it. It was all having the desired effect, however, as Esther was beside herself. The bags beneath her eyes were enormous and a dreadful purple colour, and her skin had gone pasty and spotty.

  Fortunately, Sarah was up so often and so late at night perpetrating the ‘haunting’ that she looked just as awful, and was able to commiserate regarding their shared fatigue without lying, though her fear of the ‘ghost’ was of course pure fabrication. It clearly pained Esther to have to discuss even her fear with her, but Adam had gone and there was no one else. She would not talk to Bernard about it, sensing perhaps, Sarah thought, that he didn’t like her, though he was eager every morning to hear from Sarah about the ghost’s latest escapade.

  ‘Have you consulted a clergyman?’ he’d suggested on the fifth day of Adam’s absence. ‘The missus and I did. Came and said a few prayers and sprinkled some holy water around. Didn’t work, mind you.’

  But this morning he didn’t have any useful suggestions, or even a smile. He’d been in the dining room with Esther, having his morning tea, but now he’d come into the workroom where Sarah was putting the finishing touches to a gold chain-link bracelet.

  ‘Sarah, lass. I’ve some bad news.’

  Sarah glanced up, her heart beating just a little bit faster.

  ‘I’m sorry, love, there’s no easy way for me to say this.’ He indicated a document in his hand. ‘These are papers to return you to the Factory.’

  Sarah dropped the bracelet; it slithered into the middle of the pigskin apron. ‘What? But she can’t! Only Adam can sign that!’

  Bernard’s voice was very gentle. ‘Love, he has signed it.’

  Sarah’s heart hammered violently, she couldn’t catch her breath and a wave of dizziness washed over her. ‘But …’

  Bernard stepped forwards, a hand out as though to placate her, but she leapt up from the stool and backed away from him.

  ‘Often an assignment doesn’t work out, Sarah. Who you end up working for is a very arbitrary thing. It’s a lottery. I was assigned twice before I settled somewhere.’

  ‘But I’ve been here for over a year! We work well together! I thought …’

  But clearly it didn’t matter what the fuck she thought, did it? Adam didn’t want her working with him any more, and that was that. He’d signed the papers and left it to Bernard to tell her while he was away. Gutless bastard.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ she demanded.

  Bernard’s head jerked back. ‘Me? I had no idea. Esther only just gave me the papers.’

  ‘Give me a look at that,’ Sarah said, snatching it out of his hand.

  But there it was, Adam’s distinctive signature at the bottom of the page. She marched over to the cabinet where the records of all the materials that came into the workshop were kept, yanked out a drawer and pulled out a receipt she knew he’d signed only a fortnight ago. The signatures were exactly the same.

  She waved the Factory papers at Bernard. ‘She’s a screever, you know. That’s why she was transported, for forgery.’

  Bernard nodded. ‘That has occurred to me. But to all intents and purposes what she’s given me are papers signed by Adam to return you to the Factory. And she insists he wants you gone by the time he gets back. She wants you to leave today, in fact.’

  ‘I’ll bet she bloody does.’

  ‘Between you and me,’ Bernard said, lowering his voice, ‘I think she thinks that if you leave, so will our supernatural visitor.’

  Or had Esther realised she was behind Rachel’s ghost? Sarah wondered. ‘No, Bernard,’ she said, her initial shock subsumed now by a rapidly escalating sense of outrage. ‘There’s a lot more to it than that. She’s jealous. She’s jealous because Adam spends so much of his time with me. That’s why she wants me gone.’

  Bernard’s brows went up. ‘And does she have reason to be jealous?’

  ‘I’m not sh
aring his bed, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  Sighing, Bernard said, ‘Well, I’ll put in a good word for you at the Factory. I’ll tell Ann Gordon I’ve been supervising you and I’ve been very happy with your behaviour. And I’ll talk to Ruthie. Perhaps we could manage another servant ourselves.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sarah mumbled, trying to sound grateful.

  Although she strongly suspected Esther had forged Adam’s signature on the papers, she couldn’t banish the baneful thought that Adam might have signed them himself, and the idea made her feel horrible — humiliated and sick.

  Was her work not up to standard? Was she not clever or amusing enough? Or was he just bored with looking at her plain, scarred face and thin little body? Then it suddenly occurred to her that he might finally have realised she’d been stealing from him all these months, and that the warning he’d given her before he’d left was not to assist her in any way, but to tell her off. Her stomach clenched as unaccustomed shame surged through her. And if he was aware of that, then perhaps he knew she was also responsible for the ‘ghost’.

  ‘What is it?’ Bernard asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ Sarah strode around the workshop gathering up her personal possessions. Bugger Adam Green; if he didn’t want her here, then she was happy to leave. He was spineless anyway — spineless, hen-pecked and a milksop. ‘How am I supposed to get out to Parramatta?’

  ‘I’m to deliver you.’

  Sarah thought quickly. ‘Will you take me to my friend’s house first? Please? I need to give her some things I can’t take to the Factory.’

  Bernard nodded.

  ‘No,’ Esther said from the doorway. ‘Mr Cole, I want you to take her straight to the Female Factory.’

  Sarah wondered how long she’d been listening. Bloody cow.

  ‘If that’s what you’d prefer, Mrs Green,’ Bernard said impassively.

  ‘It is. And Sarah, I want every single thing of yours out of that room upstairs, do you understand? And leave your house keys.’

  ‘I’ll take everything that’s mine,’ Sarah said. ‘Except perhaps for Rachel. It’s you she’s so angry at, Esther, not me.’

  Esther blanched but glared at her. ‘Just get packed and get out.’

  It didn’t take Sarah long to gather her things, including her satchel containing her set of skeleton keys and safe-breaking tools, and the Charlotte fund hidden beneath the attic floorboards. She had her own canvas bag that held her clothes and Bernard found her a box for her cups, saucers and teapot. They left through the shop door, which Esther refrained from slamming after them; perhaps, Sarah thought, too conscious of the neighbours’ scrutiny.

  ‘We’ll walk to my house and collect my gig,’ Bernard said. Sarah’s beautiful cushions made by Harrie were jammed under one arm, a rug was rolled under the other and a pair of curtains printed with birds and flowers fluttered gaily from his shoulders. ‘Where did you say your friend lives?’

  ‘She’ll be at work by now, on Argyle Street. She’s at Elizabeth Hislop’s establishment.’

  ‘Bette Hislop! I’ve known Bette for years. Magnificent woman. And your friend …?’

  ‘Is a prostitute, yes.’

  ‘Well, we’ll collect the gig first. My poor legs won’t carry me as far as Argyle Street. Not carting all this.’

  ‘Bernie Cole, as I live and breathe!’ Elizabeth Hislop opened the door wider to let him in.

  ‘Hello, Bette, love. It’s been a few years, hasn’t it? You’re still a picture, though, I see.’

  ‘Oh, get away with you. And Sarah Morgan. Hello, dear.’ Elizabeth frowned at the odd pair standing in her foyer.

  ‘I’m on my way back to the Factory,’ Sarah explained. ‘It’s a bit sudden and I was wondering, could I speak with Friday, please?’

  ‘Actually, she’s with a customer at the moment.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Friday called from the stairs. ‘Just finished.’ Looking worried, she hurried down and gave Sarah a hug. ‘What are you doing here? What’s happened?’

  ‘Esther bloody Green’s sending me back to the Factory. Or Adam is, I’m not sure. Anyway, that’s where I’m going. Bernard’s taking me.’

  ‘The Factory? Right now?’

  Sarah nodded grimly.

  ‘But … when did all this happen?’

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Sarah. Did he finally wake up?’

  Elizabeth and Bernard exchanged uneasy glances.

  ‘Don’t know and don’t give a bugger,’ Sarah snapped. ‘It was time to move on anyway. I’ve had a bloody gutsful of the pair of them.’

  Friday knew that wasn’t true, not as far as Adam was concerned at least, but wisely kept her mouth shut.

  Sarah turned to Elizabeth. ‘Do you mind if I speak with Friday in private for a few minutes, please?’

  ‘Not at all. Use my office.’

  Friday led Sarah into Elizabeth’s private room and closed the door. ‘Fucking hell, Sarah, what’s all this about?’

  Sarah sat in Elizabeth’s chair. ‘I think that bitch Esther forged Adam’s signature on the papers to send me back to the Factory. Either that or Adam really did sign them and left Bernard to tell me while he was away.’

  Friday could see from Sarah’s pale, pinched face, stiff posture and repeated blinking that her contemplation of the latter possibility was hurting her very much.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Wasn’t told a reason.’

  ‘But you were doing so well there. Adam said so. He said his profits had improved no end because of you, didn’t he?’

  Sarah nodded. Then she shrugged.

  ‘Well, how do you feel about it?’ Friday asked.

  ‘Too bad. His loss.’

  But Friday knew this for what it was.

  ‘Anyway,’ Sarah said, ‘you’ll have to look after the Charlotte fund. Well, what’s bloody well left of it. I can’t have it in the Factory. It’ll be nicked in five minutes.’

  ‘It’ll be nicked in five minutes here, too. I’ll ask Mrs H if I can keep it in the safe.’

  ‘There’s something else. If Esther did forge Adam’s signature, it could be because she suspects I’m behind the ghost business.’ Sarah looked Friday in the eye. ‘So, what if the haunting continues while I’m not there?’

  ‘Well, how can it, if you’re out at Parramatta stuck in the Factory? Oh.’

  Esther sat at her dressing table applying Gowland’s Lotion to her face with hands that would not stop shaking. At six shillings a quart the lotion was very pricey and one had to pay the cost of importing it on top of that, but her complexion lately had been so dreadful — lifeless and with tiny pimples erupting across her chin and nose — it was definitely worth the expense.

  She had checked the locks on her bedroom door, and the shop and back doors twice, and been around to every window to ensure that they, too, were all firmly closed, despite the warmth of the night. There were lamps burning downstairs with enough oil to last until morning, another on the landing outside, and two here in her chamber. Sarah Morgan had been gone five nights now, and although she didn’t miss the sly bitch at all during the day, she did wish there was someone with her in the house after dark. Someone … alive.

  The first two nights that Sarah was gone had been heaven. She’d not heard a sound. There had been no ominous footsteps on the stairs, no chilling dragging noises from the parlour, no foul stenches straight from the grave, and she’d ventured downstairs in the mornings to find everything exactly as she’d it left the previous evening, which reinforced a private suspicion she’d harboured for several weeks. What if the ghost hadn’t been real? What if someone had been trying to drive her insane? Adam, perhaps, so he could lock her away in the lunatic asylum and have his way with Sarah Morgan, or even Sarah herself?

  But, oh God, the night before last, it had all started up again, and her fear and the extent of her dismay had rendered her physically sick. It was real, all of it — the spirit of the dead gi
rl Rachel was back from the grave and in this house.

  First had been the tack, tack, tack of something hitting her bedroom window. She’d opened it and leant out, but the moonlit yard had been still and empty. It had gone on all night accompanied by the sound of a girl sobbing — first outside, then seemingly from within the house, a low muffled sound that had risen to a desperate, high keening, which had tapered away just when Esther had thought her nerves couldn’t bear it a moment longer. Then it had begun its torturing ascent all over again.

  Last night the tapping had begun in her very bedroom, making its way across the floor, then, an hour or so later, across the ceiling where it had turned into aggressive thumping, knocking off little flakes of plaster and dislodging a large spider that had dropped onto her bedclothes. She’d squashed it, then pulled the blanket over her head and lay there quivering with terror to await sunrise. The dragging sounds had also started up once more in the parlour, and when she’d gone down this morning the furniture had all been jammed into the hallway. All of it. Bernard Cole, when he’d arrived for work just before nine o’clock, had been amazed, and far too entertained by the spectacle for Esther’s liking.

  But he’d waddled off and returned with someone to help put all her pieces of furniture back where they belonged, and had also offered to have his wife spend the night in the house with Esther if she so wished. No, she did not wish; she would rather be dragged by the hair through the gates of hell than spend a night under the same roof as Ruthie Cole, the common baggage.

  Surely Adam would be home in a few days. She really did not know how much longer she could tolerate this. They would have to sell the lease to the shop and house and move to other premises immediately: there was no other thing to be done. Adam would just have to work harder to compensate for any drop in their income.

  She took the pins from her hair and began to brush it, listening as she always did these days — these nights — for strange and untoward sounds. But it wasn’t just noises, she could feel the dead girl’s spirit, a cold hollowness that drifted through the house, lowering the temperature in doorways and in the hall and on the stairs. Twice she thought she’d even caught glimpses of her floating up near the ceiling, her vindictive and accusing face surrounded by a tangle of wafting hair, her ghostly presence rendering the lamplight a bilious green colour, the pattern on the expensive new wallpaper visible through her grave-thin limbs and wasted body.