Girl of Shadows

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘I’m fine. Go on, you’ll be late.’

  Friday waggled her fingers in farewell and left, closing the door behind her.

  Returning to the workshop, Sarah resumed work. It wasn’t long before she sensed Jared’s presence in the room. As predicted.

  ‘Sarah, what did you mean when you said to Friday you’re not sure she really is back? Who?’

  Sarah gave a reluctant sigh and swivelled on her stool. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything, but do you recall when you came to supper — last October, was it? — and Adam told you Esther thought this house was haunted? Well, it was, by the ghost of a girl named Rachel Winter. It was the reason Esther left. The poor woman was frightened witless. She couldn’t bear it.’

  ‘Poor woman, my arse,’ Jared said coarsely. ‘The pair of you clearly couldn’t stand each other.’

  Sarah’s heart gave a little jolt of alarm, a reminder that she must be very careful. Just because he behaved like a boor didn’t mean he was obtuse. ‘That’s true, we didn’t get on. She thought I was to blame for Rachel’s spirit being here.’

  Jared moved across to the workbench and leant against it. ‘Who exactly was this Rachel?’

  Sarah turned again so she could see his face. ‘A girl who was transported with me and Harrie and Friday. We were very close. She died giving birth in the Factory.’

  ‘Who was the father?’

  Sarah frowned. What the hell did that matter? Also, she most definitely didn’t want Jared connecting them to Keegan in any way. ‘We never knew.’

  ‘Like that, was she?’

  ‘We all are, Jared. We’re convict whores, remember?’

  He didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. ‘And this ghost went away when Esther left?’

  ‘Seemed to.’ Sarah manufactured a vaguely regretful expression. ‘I suppose in a way it might have been my fault Rachel haunted this house, but only because this is where I was assigned. Esther was just as much to blame. If she hadn’t been so unpleasant to me, and if she’d granted me leave to go to the cemetery when Rachel was buried, perhaps Rachel would have stayed in her grave.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jared seemed uneasy.

  ‘It was extremely unpleasant here when all the haunting business was going on. There was a very nasty sense of … resentment in the air. I can’t help thinking Rachel may have been angry with Esther.’

  ‘Because she stopped you from —’

  ‘Attending the burial. Yes. I was very upset.’ What an understatement.

  ‘And you think the ghost was persecuting Esther for that?’

  ‘And for being such a constant bitch to me.’ Sarah shrugged. ‘But then Rachel always was very protective of us.’

  ‘And when Esther went, so did the ghost?’ Jared asked again, as though to reassure himself.

  Sarah turned back to the workbench, gave the silver bangle she’d been engraving a quick polish with a cloth and squinted at it. ‘All the strange activity stopped, if that’s what you mean. The bad smells and the furniture and everything moving around and the food going off and the creaks and rattles and bangs in the night.’

  ‘Good God! That’s certainly a relief to hear.’ Jared pulled nervously at his cravat. ‘Sounds like an absolute nightmare!’

  Sarah raised her head and looked him squarely in the eye. ‘Well, I thought it had stopped, until last night.’

  George Street’s new market sheds had not long been completed, replacing the bark and slab huts, rough stalls and open ground that had previously constituted Sydney’s central market. After numerous and ongoing complaints from nearby residents and shopkeepers, the livestock market had been moved south to Campbell Street in the valley below Brickfield Hill, taking its flies and noisome stinks with it, and there was talk of the hay and grain farmers following in due course. It was also quietly hoped that with them would go the less salubrious stallholders — those who sold second-hand goods, ready-made hot foods, and medical preparations of questionable quality — leaving the George Street market to good, honest Sydney citizens shopping to simply feed families and stock store shelves.

  Smirking to herself, Friday hurried towards one of the market’s many entrances, looking for something to grab to eat before her doctor’s appointment. That had been clever of Sarah. Whatever hints she’d dropped to Gellar about Rachel’s ghost reappearing must have been good ones, judging by the way his gob had been flapping open.

  She spied a familiar figure about to enter one of the long sheds. ‘Harrie! Oi, Harrie!’

  Harrie stopped and waved. She had one of the junior Barretts with her, the naughty, annoying one named Hannah.

  Friday hurried over. ‘I’ve just been at Sarah’s. It’s started,’ she said, rubbing her hands with glee.

  ‘What has?’

  ‘You know.’ She inclined her head at the child, indicating she needed to watch what she said. ‘The return of our friend.’

  ‘Oh. Right. How is Sarah?’

  ‘Pretty fed up. He’s been pawing her again.’

  Harrie made a face. ‘I’ve been meaning to visit but Lewis and Sam have been sick for the last two days. I’ll go in the morning if I can get away.’ She put out a hand. No Hannah. ‘Oh God, where’s she gone?’

  Friday spotted her disappearing into the fruit and vegetable shed. They trotted after her but lost sight of her again once they entered the noisy, dimly lit building. The shed was two hundred feet long, about thirty wide and divided into multiple stalls piled high with fresh produce, and crowded with shoppers.

  ‘Oh Lord, what if someone steals her?’ Harrie fretted.

  ‘Wouldn’t be the end of the world, would it?’

  ‘Don’t be horrible.’

  They eventually found her in the grip of an irate-looking costermonger, her mouth and hands stained dark red with plum juice.

  ‘Is this your kiddie?’ the man demanded.

  ‘She’s … yes, she is,’ Harrie said for simplicity’s sake.

  ‘Well, you owe me one shilling and tuppence. She’s pinched and eaten eight of me prime plums.’

  Friday laughed down at Hannah. ‘You’ll be shitting through the eye of a needle tomorrow, won’t you?’

  ‘Did you help yourself?’ Harrie asked.

  Hannah nodded. ‘I were hungry.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop her?’ Harrie asked the costermonger.

  ‘I didn’t see her, did I? She were down there in front of me stand. She’s only a dot.’

  Harrie opened her purse and counted out the money. ‘Thank you for not fetching the watch.’

  The costermonger humphed. ‘What do you think I am, with her just a kiddie?’

  ‘I appreciate your generosity.’

  The man tipped his hat as Harrie dragged Hannah away by the hand. As soon as they were out of the shed, she removed a length of sturdy twine from her basket.

  ‘Nooo, I hate the twine!’ Hannah whined.

  ‘I’m sorry, Hannah, but I did tell you what would happen if you misbehaved.’ Harrie tied one end of the twine to the back straps of Hannah’s pinafore and looped the other around her wrist. ‘Where are you off to now?’ she asked Friday.

  ‘Appointment with the doctor.’

  ‘James?’

  Friday shrugged. ‘I usually see old Chandler. I need a note for Mrs H to say I’m fit for work.’ She was fairly sure her recent bout of gonorrhoea had now passed. ‘Though it was James who sewed up the dog bite. I’ll get Chandler to check and make sure I don’t have rabies after all, though obviously I don’t. It’s been months and months and I haven’t bitten a single person. Shall I say hello to James for you if I see him?’

  ‘No, it’s all right, thank you,’ Harrie said hastily.

  ‘Why not? Christ, don’t tell me you aren’t talking again!’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’ Harrie wouldn’t meet Friday’s eyes. ‘I just don’t feel … up to seeing him at the moment.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Harrie. He’s said sorry, hasn’t he
? Look, why don’t you just get off your bum and go and visit him at home?’

  Harrie was shocked. ‘I couldn’t do that.’ She gave the twine a good jerk as Hannah bounded off after a woman carrying a litter of kittens in a basket.

  ‘Why? Because of Rowie?’

  ‘Have you had a proper look around?’ Harrie said, wrenching the conversation in another direction. ‘It’s a lot nicer with the new sheds, don’t you think?’

  ‘It’s a market,’ Friday said dismissively. She found shopping boring and never did it if she could avoid it. The girls Elizabeth employed at the Siren’s Arms hotel did all the shopping, and the cooking, and Friday ate whatever was put in front of her, as long as it wasn’t oysters. ‘Don’t change the subject.’ It was too late now anyway. She waved. ‘Speak of the devil.’

  ‘James?’

  ‘No, Rowie.’

  Harrie whipped her head around. Approaching was a very pretty girl wearing a pale pink dress and a cream bonnet trimmed with pink ribbons. She was petite and slender yet shapely, had lovely, gleaming black hair falling in loops over her ears, and looked far better than a convict girl had a right to. Then, with a squirt of annoyance, Harrie remembered that Rowie Harris wasn’t a convict — she had a ticket of leave.

  Friday pecked Rowie on the cheek. ‘Nice to see you, Rowie. How’s things with you?’

  ‘Can’t complain. Good to see you, too, Friday. How’s the leg?’

  ‘Mended. Rowie, this is my friend, Harrie Clarke.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re Harrie.’ Rowie offered her hand.

  Reluctantly, Harrie took it, catching a pleasant whiff of perfume. Rowie’s palm was warm and dry, unlike her own, which was now sweating.

  ‘James is always talking about you,’ Rowie said. ‘“Harrie says this, Harrie did that.” It’s very nice to finally meet you.’

  James? Bloody James? ‘Thank you,’ Harrie said stiffly.

  ‘How’s the …’ Friday gestured vaguely at Rowie’s middle.

  ‘A little better. Comes and goes. You must come and visit again, Friday.’

  Rowie regularly dropped by at the Siren to catch up on the gossip, but Friday had been rather remiss at returning the courtesy.

  ‘You’re right, I should,’ she said.

  ‘You, too, Harrie. Come in the evening. I really think James would like that. In fact, I know he would.’

  Harrie thought furiously, who the hell are you to know what James would like? ‘I’m really very busy. I have two jobs, you know,’ she said. Then realised how rude that sounded. ‘But, yes, perhaps one evening we could drop by.’ She wouldn’t, though.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Rowie said. ‘And who’s this dear little girl?’

  Hannah was picking her nose.

  ‘This is Hannah Barrett. She belongs to the family I’m assigned to,’ Harrie explained.

  Rowie bent down. ‘Good morning, Hannah.’

  Hannah ignored her, fascinated by the lump of snot on the end of her finger.

  ‘Hannah, say good morning, please,’ Harrie prompted, though silently she applauded the little girl’s disgusting manners.

  ‘Mornin’.’

  ‘What a sweet thing,’ Rowie said. ‘Well, I should get on with my errands. Nice to see you both. And please come and visit. James would love it.’ She gave a little wave and headed off towards the meat, poultry and dairy shed.

  ‘See? She’s perfectly nice,’ Friday said.

  Harrie scowled.

  ‘Shall we visit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just don’t want to talk about it, Friday! Not now, anyway.’ Harrie slapped Hannah’s hand away from her nose. ‘Hannah, will you stop doing that?’

  Friday said, ‘Well, I’ve got ears when you’re ready.’

  ‘Thanks. I know. I know you have.’

  ‘Good. Now, I’ve really got to go or I’ll be late.’

  When she’d disappeared into the crowd, Hannah said, ‘Harrie, has Friday got a baby?’

  Startled, Harrie looked down at her. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Then why’s she got her bubbies out?’

  ‘Oh, Hannah, don’t ask so many questions.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nibbling a hot potato, Friday strode down George Street, turned right onto King then followed Pitt north towards Dr Chandler’s surgery. Hearing the rattle of a vehicle approaching from behind, she moved to the edge of the road, but suddenly had to leap for her life as, in a flash of midnight-blue paintwork and a jingle of harnesses, the gig swerved directly at her, barely missing her. A hoot of harsh laughter issued from beneath the gig’s raised hood before it sped off down the street, wheels hurling up gravel. Friday launched her potato in an almighty lob, cursing the air blue as it exploded harmlessly against the oiled black canvas.

  Her anger hadn’t subsided by the time she arrived at the doctors’ surgery to discover at least a dozen other patients sitting outside, waiting to be seen.

  ‘Hoi, wait your turn!’ someone demanded as she stamped up to the door of the little cottage Lawrence Chandler had converted to medical rooms.

  ‘You can wait your bloody turn,’ Friday snapped. ‘I’ve got an appointment.’

  ‘You get back here!’ the woman spluttered. ‘Who do you think you are?’

  ‘Queen Adelaide,’ Friday shot back.

  The woman, a bony specimen wearing a shawl tucked into her waistband and a lumpy brown bonnet, lurched up off the ground and marched over.

  ‘You. Wait. Your. Turn,’ she repeated, emphasising each word by jabbing Friday’s freshly tattooed arm with a sharp finger. ‘I’ve got two very ill kiddies, one with a shocking case of blight and the other with galloping consumption. You don’t look poorly at all.’

  ‘Oh but I am.’

  ‘Prove it!’

  Friday whipped up her skirt, revealing the ragged purple scar on her calf. ‘Dog bite. Rabies!’ And she bared her teeth and barked like a deranged dog.

  The woman’s eyes bulged and she backed away, then turned and fled, slowing only to scoop up her two startled children.

  A window creaked open and James’s head appeared. ‘What on earth is going on out here?’

  ‘Is old Lawrence about? I’m here for my appointment.’

  ‘He’s running at least an hour and a half late. We had an emergency this morning.’

  Friday pouted. ‘Well, Christ, I can’t wait that long!’

  ‘Was that you making dog noises?’ James asked.

  ‘Might have been.’

  James heaved a sigh and pulled out his watch. ‘I can see you now, just briefly, otherwise you’ll have to wait for Dr Chandler.’

  A moment later Friday was sitting in the chair beside James’s desk. ‘I actually do have an appointment, you know.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ James said. ‘A man arrived earlier today having almost severed his foot with an axe. Dr Chandler had to tend to him, because of course the poor fellow couldn’t afford to go to the infirmary. It’s set us very much behind, but I can spare you about fifteen minutes. Providing you promise not to bark. I assume that isn’t why you’re here? It is rather late for the onset of hydrophobia. Obviously you were very lucky there.’

  ‘I’ve had the clap. I’ve been seeing Chandler for that. I need a note for my boss to say it’s gone so I can go back to work.’

  ‘Has it gone?’

  ‘Hard to say. I think so. I don’t stink any more and the burning’s stopped.’

  ‘Well, I heartily approve of Mrs Hislop not allowing you to work while indisposed,’ James said. ‘Not all, er, madams are as conscientious.’

  Friday snorted. ‘Easy for you to say, you aren’t losing her any money. She’s been right shitty at me. I didn’t ask for the clap.’

  James fiddled with the implements on his desk, aligning a scissors perfectly between his stethoscope and a tongue depressor. ‘I will have to carry out an examination. I cannot issue a statement of fitness without doing so.’
/>   Unexpectedly, Friday felt embarrassed, which made her angry all over again. ‘Mrs H wouldn’t expect anything less,’ she snapped.

  ‘Then please recline on the examination couch.’

  Friday removed her hat and lay down on the worn leather bench, her booted feet hanging over the end. ‘Skirts lifted?’ she said, determined to make James feel as uncomfortable as she did.

  He set a lamp on the small table strategically placed at the end of the bench, and turned up the wick. ‘If you please.’

  ‘Knees up round my ears?’

  ‘Slightly bent will be sufficient, thank you.’

  Friday did as asked. James had a thorough look, and a good sniff, but didn’t touch her. ‘Thank you, you may lower your skirts. I see no evidence remaining of any venereal affliction, and will issue a note to your employer accordingly.’

  An unguarded expression flitted across Friday’s face that looked very much to James like disappointment.

  ‘You don’t want to return to work?’

  ‘No, it’s time I went back.’

  But James knew what he’d seen. ‘I might as well look at the site of the dog bite while you’re here. Would you please turn over onto your stomach.’

  He palpated the purple L-shaped scar on Friday’s right calf. It had healed remarkably well, testament, in all likelihood, to her general good health and sound eating habits, and to his skill with a needle and catgut, if he did say so himself. It was somewhat lumpy, but that was to be expected, and the lurid colour marred her attractive pale skin, but there was no avoiding that.

  ‘Ugly, isn’t it?’ Friday remarked.

  ‘Is there any pulling with activity? Stretching? Running?’

  ‘I can feel it when I stretch. I hardly ever run, though. I was thinking of getting it tattooed.’

  ‘The scar?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t want a bloody great purple mark down the back of my leg.’

  ‘It will fade with time, you know. Scars always do.’

  Friday rolled over and sat up. ‘Well, I don’t want to wait that long.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it. The skin is new and still very delicate. If you must do it, I suggest you wait a while.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Friday said, hopping off the couch. ‘Been to see Harrie lately?’