‘Get in. Get in!’ Aria urged.
Friday yanked up her skirts, waded into the knee-deep water, hoisted herself up and over the transom, then collapsed face first into the boat, shot in the head.
Part Three
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me
Chapter Fourteen
Carrying a sleeping Charlotte in her arms, Harrie trudged down the carriageway, Robbie trailing after her. It was getting towards midday and the sun overhead was hot, but she was so tired she barely noticed. She was dirty, her legs ached horribly from running over sand, and she’d scraped her arm scrambling into the rowboat, but none of that mattered because she had Charlotte back.
The front door flew open and James tore out, looking deranged. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick!’
Charlotte woke up and started to cry.
Harrie could only just summon the energy to answer him. ‘We went to Newcastle, to get Charlotte back.’
‘For God’s sake, Harrie! Is she all right? Are you?’
‘I think she is. I’m fine.’
‘Well, get inside, right now. Robbie, tell Daisy to prepare a bath. Why did you let this happen? You should have stopped her.’
Robbie looked astounded. ‘Me? Stop her and her mates?’
Propelling Harrie into the house as though she were a misbehaving five-year-old, James ranted on, venting his worry and anger, but she ceased listening to him. She was just too tired. In the parlour he extricated Charlotte from her arms and carefully looked her over.
‘Tired, Dada,’ she whined. ‘Iris hit the bad man.’
James asked, ‘Who’s Iris?’
‘Hang on.’ Harrie rang the bell. When Elsa appeared she said, ‘Take Charlotte, will you? Then she can get in the bath with me.’
It took her a good ten or so minutes to explain all that had happened in Newcastle. James was deeply shocked to hear that Friday had been badly hurt. ‘Is she at the Siren?’
Harrie nodded.
‘I’ll call on her shortly. It sounds as though she’ll certainly need stitches. A head wound like that can be very serious. I’m very surprised she didn’t . . . well, I’ll call on her.’
‘You’re surprised she’s not dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘There was a lot of blood, and she didn’t wake up till we were on the ship.’
James sat beside Harrie on the sofa, then burst out angrily, ‘Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning to do?’
‘If I had, would you have let me go?’
‘No.’
‘But you weren’t going to go and get her, were you?’
James started to speak but Harrie pressed her fingers over his mouth.
‘I know you wanted to, but you couldn’t. It’s all right, I know you couldn’t. How would it have looked, a Sydney doctor, a retired naval surgeon, running around the colony after someone like Leary and fighting over a baby girl? If it went wrong, everyone would know and you’ve got a lot more to lose than I have, James. Don’t forget I’m just a convict girl lucky enough to marry miles above my station. If I fall, I haven’t got far to go at all. But if you do . . .’
James gazed at her for a moment, his eyes filling with tears, then pulled her into a fierce embrace. ‘Harrie, my dearest love, you’re so much more than just a convict girl. You’re the bravest, most loyal, loving, determined and stubborn person I’ve ever met. And I love you for it and I always will.’
‘Does this mean you’re not angry at me any more?’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
‘Oh.’
Sarah stood in the doorway of Friday’s room. The curtains had been drawn against the daylight, shrouding the chamber in gloom. An enormous floral arrangement stood in a vase on the dressing table, the scent of carnations, freesias, lily of the valley and sweetpeas perfuming the air. Somewhere, probably behind the curtain, a trapped fly buzzed. Friday lay on the bed, a smooth white sheet pulled up to her chest, eyes closed, her hands crossed on her belly. She was as still and as pale as marble.
Sarah watched her for a long time, a lump the size of an apple jammed in her throat. But she would not cry. This was bad, but there had been worse things. Just.
After a while, Friday’s eyes opened. ‘Christ, my head hurts.’
Sarah went in and sat on the chair beside the bed. ‘Can I get you anything? Water? A damp facecloth?’
‘You can take those flowers out. The smell’s making me sick. I think Lucian sent them. But don’t tell him. And some more laudanum wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘How much did James say you could have?’
‘As much as I like.’
Sarah bet he didn’t but she wasn’t going to argue: Friday’s wound was pretty unpleasant and must hurt like hell. The ball from the pistol had struck the top of her head and ploughed a furrow along her scalp half an inch wide and six inches long, and down to the bone. James had sewn it up and said she would be all right as long as no infection set in. There would be a scar, but with luck it would look like a wide parting in her hair. He’d also said that if the ball had hit just quarter of an inch lower it would have taken the top off her skull and she’d have had no chance.
Sarah poured out a nip of laudanum, gave it to Friday, then put the flowers out in the hallway. Then she went over to the brothel to talk to Elizabeth. She wasn’t a big consumer of spirits, but after the events of late, and the terrible telling-off Adam had given her when they’d returned from Newcastle yesterday, she decided she could do with some fortification when Elizabeth offered her a brandy.
‘Aria said the captain had taken the rowboats,’ Elizabeth said, refilling her own tumbler. ‘I have to say I’m not entirely sure why.’
‘He did. As soon as they’d got out of the cabin — which wasn’t difficult because that little cove, Pierre, just climbed out the porthole, same as we did — he upped anchor and sailed upriver to the town —’
‘But Aria said he wouldn’t bring you upriver, because it was too dangerous in low light.’
‘Apparently low light doesn’t matter when you’re really angry. Two of the crew swam ashore and found the boats, and even though Captain Farrell had a good mind to sail back to Sydney and leave us there, he decided he’d better stay and make sure we were safe, because of his contract with you.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘He did.’
‘Really? Well, he can’t have been happy with how well he’d delivered on it because half the money I paid him was returned to me this morning.’
Sarah shrugged. Rian Farrell’s money wasn’t any of her affair. ‘So anyway, he thought we’d be better off avoiding the soldiers, or maybe he wanted to, I’m not sure. I think he might have had some involvement with contraband going into Newcastle. I think he has quite a lot to do with contraband, actually, our Captain Farrell.’ Sarah took a sip of her brandy. ‘So he moved the rowboats to the ocean side of the town rather than the river side. Poor Robbie and Walter. They nearly died when they went back for them and they’d gone. It’s bloody lucky the captain and his men were there, though, in the end. We could never have rowed all the way back to the Katipo, not after running away from Leary like that. We were completely knackered. And with Friday . . .’
‘My poor beautiful girl,’ Elizabeth said.
They shared a moment of silence, both contemplating what life would be like without Friday in it. Peaceful, predictable, quiet, dull, lonely, colourless.
‘Still, she’ll be back to normal soon,’ Sarah said.
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Providing there’s no infection, and there might not be. Hawk swears by that disgusting bear grease he put on her wound. God, it stank. I nearly spewed. It was like . . . I really don’t know what it was like. Where’s Aria?’
‘Gone to the chemist for more laudanum. Friday’s knocking it back as if it was gin.’
‘She’ll turn into a laudanum inebriate next.’
�
��Probably. At least she’s not had a drink for days. It’s a start.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Do you think Aria’s all right?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘No, I don’t, actually.’ Sarah stared into her brandy. ‘Something happened while we were in Newcastle. They disappeared for about an hour and I think it happened then. I haven’t been able to ask Friday and, well, Aria’s not very approachable, is she?’
‘She seems subdued and . . . angry.’
‘I think I’d be angry, too, if my lover had been shot.’
‘It’s more than that. It feels deeper.’
Sarah nodded. ‘I know what you mean. Why don’t you ask her?’
‘Frankly, dear, I’m too scared to.’
Sarah laughed. ‘I’ll have a talk to Friday then, now she’s back in the land of the living.’
‘Do you think Leary will have another go at Charlotte?’
‘Oh God, I hope not. I mean, what would be the point? Harrie’ll never let her out of her sight again.’
Jack stuck his head round the door. ‘Sorry, ladies, mind if I interrupt?’ He stepped in and placed two guineas on Elizabeth’s desk. ‘Just been down the market. That trunk of Molly’s? That’s all I could get from the second-hand dealer. Better than nothing, though, eh?’
Elizabeth scooped up the coins. ‘Thanks, Jack.’
‘What will you do about the flogging room while Friday’s recovering?’ Sarah asked.
‘Suspend the service, I suppose,’ Elizabeth replied gloomily. ‘None of my other girls can handle a whip. I only hope she isn’t out of action too long. All her clients will move to Mrs Thompson’s. That’d be a bugger.’
As it happened, Friday was up and about in a week. Her wound healed remarkably quickly — far sooner than anyone, especially James, expected. Privately he’d harboured grave fears that her scalp would degenerate into a suppurating mass of pus, the source of an infection that would ultimately kill her, but no such thing eventuated. He wondered if the absence of infection was due to the evil-smelling concoction Captain Farrell’s Red Indian crewman had slathered all over the wound, and which had been exceedingly difficult to remove. In fact, he hadn’t been able to get it all off, and some still remained, to Friday’s annoyance. James had told her that if the grease was the reason she hadn’t developed an infection, she shouldn’t complain about a little bit of stickiness and odour. He would very much have liked to discuss the matter with the crewman — he believed his name was Hawk or something similar — but the ship had sailed the day after the girls had returned from Newcastle, so he would have to wait until next time they were in port.
As for Friday, the first thing she did when her headache subsided and she could get about without feeling dizzy was visit the Bird-in-Hand and drink six gins in a row. It felt wonderful, like the two halves of herself sliding together again and making her whole. The smell of dirty bar rags, alcohol and stale smoke when she walked into the pub felt just like coming home, and she wondered why she’d ever thought it was a good idea to get off the booze. She’d not had a single drink for well over a week so it was pretty clear to her she could stop whenever she felt like it, and obviously folk who could stop for that long, like herself, really weren’t inebriates. And she was indestructible: she must be. How many people got shot in the head and survived? It had to be an omen. But to be on the safe side, just to make sure things didn’t get out of hand like they could sometimes — all right, quite often — she’d stick to six or seven drinks at a time. She especially didn’t want to annoy Aria. Or Mrs H, or Sarah or Harrie. In fact, maybe she wouldn’t tell them she’d started again. They wouldn’t understand that everything was under control.
No, best she keep it to herself.
Maryjane Saltmarsh picked dispiritedly through the junk on the dealer’s table. There wasn’t much here, which she supposed wasn’t that unexpected for a Monday. She usually came to the George Street market on Saturdays and Sundays, when the best stuff was for sale, but she’d been laid up with her bad legs for nearly a week. And they were still bad, ulcerated and weeping, but she had to eat.
She was forty-three and looked twenty years older, a convict transported for seven years for stealing a coat one snowy London winter, who’d long since served her sentence. But while some emancipated convicts made successful lives for themselves in New South Wales, Maryjane hadn’t. Her marriage had failed, she hadn’t seen her children in years, her health was poor, she drank, and above all she was bitter. The best she could do to support herself was to buy up second-hand goods, then mend, clean and resell them.
She stood contemplating a ladder-back chair with two rungs missing, not just broken. She couldn’t do much with that. Clothing was best but furniture was all right, too, though you had to be quick. There were used-furniture merchants who’d kick the legs right out from under you to get at a good chair or side table. Anything bigger than that, of course, and she couldn’t get it home. She sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve and moved on.
‘Morning, Maryjane. How’re you?’
John Penny. A decent, church-going man who always took pity on her and knocked a little bit off his prices.
‘Not so good, John. Me legs,’ Maryjane replied, exaggerating her limp.
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘I’ll get by. Got anything for me today?’
‘I might at that.’ He bent down and hauled a trunk out from beneath his cart. ‘Been saving this for you. Thought you’d be along yesterday or Saturday but I didn’t see you.’
‘Been laid up. What is it?’
‘Trunk of clothes, mainly. Women’s. Nothing special but I thought you could clean them up.’
‘Ooh.’
John lifted the lid. ‘See?’
Maryjane dug through the contents. He was right — the clothing wasn’t anything special, but there was also a pair of boots and one of shoes, two shawls, several hats, a reticule and a few grooming items. Quite a haul, really. Could she afford it?
‘How much do you want?’
‘Well, I won’t lie. I only paid two guineas for the lot, but I do need to make a profit.’
Forty-two shillings! That was far more than she wanted to pay. She stared down into the trunk, calculating how much she could make. Three times that, at least.
‘Forty-five shillings. That’s nearly all me savings.’
‘I’m sorry, Maryjane, I really am. I’ve a family to feed. I was thinking more of fifty-five.’
Maryjane’s gnarled hand flew to her bony breast. ‘Fifty-five! God almighty, you’ll ruin me!’
John fiddled with a button on his shirt, then crossed his arms. ‘Look, seeing it’s you, the best I can do is fifty.’
Maryjane gave him her best smile, revealing seven or eight gaps in her teeth. ‘Well, I appreciate that, John, I really do. I’ll have to pay a lad on top of that to drag it home for me, me being infirm, but that’s not your lookout, is it?’
John sighed. ‘Oh, go on then, forty-nine.’
‘You’re a good man, John Penny. A good man.’
While Maryjane Saltmarsh was paying a boy a shilling to take her newly purchased second-hand trunk home, Aria was striding purposefully towards an address near the smarter end of Princes Street. She was wearing her best gown, a bronze taffeta with black cord trim, and had tucked two huia feathers into her gleaming hair.
Arriving at the house she was looking for, she opened the gate, marched down the short cobbled path and rapped loudly on the front door. A palely attractive, smartly dressed Pakeha woman answered.
‘Good morning,’ Aria said. ‘I would like to speak with Dr Neville Clayton, thank you.’
Looking more than a little alarmed, the woman stared up at her. ‘May I say who’s calling?’
‘Yes, you may. My name is Aria Moehanga Te Kainga-mataa, daughter of Mahuika Aramakutu of Ngati Wai and the great warrior and tohunga moko Tumanawapohatu Te Kainga-mataa of Nga Puhi.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course. I think he’s jus
t . . . One moment please.’ The woman disappeared rapidly into the house, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Aria waited. If he was smart, Neville Clayton would be running out the back door, down to Sydney Cove and getting on a ship to England. But she didn’t think he was smart. When he finally appeared he looked as disconcerted as the woman.
‘Er, good morning. My wife said you wanted to speak to me?’
He was average height, average weight, average looks, average everything. Your basic Pakeha.
‘Yes. May I enter?’
‘Oh, well, yes. Please do.’ He stood back and ushered her in.
The woman — Mrs Clayton — lingered in the hallway, wringing her hands, eyes as big as kina.
‘Please,’ Dr Clayton said, ‘come into the parlour.’
Aria swept in, chose the best seat — a high-backed armchair upholstered in some shiny fabric next to the unlit fire — and sat down.
The doctor stood in the middle of the room, clearly at a loss as to what to do next. ‘Can we offer you refreshments? Tea, perhaps?’
‘No, thank you. I wish to speak to you about some upoko tuhi you obtained from Aotearoa last year.’
Slowly, Dr Clayton sat down.
‘They arrived here early in June,’ Aria went on, ‘after the practice of importing them to New South Wales was declared illegal by the governor.’
Silence.
‘One of those upoko tuhi was that of my revered kinsman, Whiro.’
A flash of skirt in the doorway and rapid footsteps as Mrs Clayton rushed off down the hall.
‘I fear,’ the doctor said, ‘that you must be mistaking me for someone else entirely.’
‘I do not think so. Where are my uncle’s remains now?’
‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you.’
Aria reached into a pocket of her gown, retrieved Dr Clayton’s letter to Clement Bloodworth of 31 May 1831, and began to read.
‘Dear Magistrate Bloodworth, we have not met so I therefore beg your forgiveness for my impertinence, however I am writing to you regarding a matter of the utmost Scientific and Anthropological importance. I am an Ethnologist, lately of Balliol College, currently undertaking research in the Antipodes, and last year I commissioned a Sydney businesswoman and her colleague, a Mrs Bella Shand and a Mr Jared Gellar, to obtain for me several preserved and tattooed Maori heads for my Ethnographic collection.’ She glanced at Dr Clayton, then went back to the letter. ‘Now, I am fully aware that this April Governor Darling issued a Government Notice in the Sydney Gazette declaring that —’
A Tattooed Heart Page 30