A Tattooed Heart

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘I said I’d cut down a bit.’

  ‘No, there was no “cut down a bit”. You promised me you would stop. You promised Harrie and Sarah you would stop. Mrs Hislop told you to stop or she will fire you.’

  ‘Yes, and I will.’ Nag, nag, nag.

  ‘When?’

  Oh, shut the hell up. ‘When the time’s right.’

  ‘The time is never right for you, Friday.’

  ‘I can’t help it if shitty things keep happening, can I?’

  ‘What is wrong with now? The blackmail is over, Bella will be dead soon, everyone is happy.’ Aria paused, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘I will not tolerate you getting drunk any longer. You have become a person I very much do not like and I cannot be with you if it happens again.’

  It wasn’t her who’d gone strange, Friday thought, it was bloody Aria — ever since she’d shagged those soldiers in Newcastle, which she’d had to do to get them out of there. It had been unpleasant, and yes, she’d been punched in the head, but those men had been no worse than countless other cullies she’d had. They’d hardly talked about it since, but she knew it was bothering Aria. A lot. She didn’t understand, though, how little it had really meant. In fact, Aria reckoned that was the trouble — that she, Friday, had no pride.

  ‘This isn’t really about the gin, it’s about Newcastle, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Can you not see that it is the same thing?’ Aria demanded.

  ‘My drinking and fucking those soldiers? Oh, it is not!’

  ‘It is. If you valued yourself, you would not abuse yourself with the gin, and you would not have allowed those men to treat you like a piece of meat.’

  That gave Friday a fright. Hadn’t she said almost those very words to Bella? ‘I had to. How the fuck else were we going to get out?’

  ‘I could have killed them.’

  ‘Oh, not that again. Can’t you see what shit we’d have been in if we’d been caught?’

  ‘If. Why do you not trust me to take care of you?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You do not. You do not listen to me and you have to do everything your own way. And do you know something, Friday Woolfe? Your own way is very often wrong.’

  ‘Is it? Well, I’m twenty-two and I’m still here so it can’t be that wrong.’

  ‘You are a convict and an inebriate and you whip men’s arses for a living.’

  That stung. ‘You said you didn’t care about me being a convict, or the flogging.’

  ‘It is a lot better than the prostitution. Friday, I say these things because I love you.’

  ‘I know. I love you, too.’

  Aria gazed at her, her beautiful dark eyes luminous. ‘It would break my heart to be without you, but I cannot tolerate your drinking. I cannot tolerate your willingness to submit yourself to indignity and dishonour. And you must trust me.’

  Friday felt tears sting her own eyes, and she wondered why the hell she constantly risked losing the love of this gorgeous woman. ‘It’d break mine, too.’

  As Friday and Aria made their way towards Harrie’s house on Hunter Street, the paddlesteamer Sophia Jane churned her way into Sydney Cove. With the usual lack of fuss she berthed at King’s Wharf, shortly thereafter disgorging her passengers, including Jonah Leary.

  It had been five weeks since he’d kidnapped the child and over a month since those bloody women had taken her back, and he was still no closer to finding his accursed brother. He was, however, damn near penniless as he’d had to lodge at the Crooked Billet due to Iris Kellogg locking him out of her house, and, worse, he strongly suspected she’d recently told those interfering bloody tommies from the King’s Own that he’d left Sydney without permission, the bitter old slag. They’d come knocking a couple of days back, forcing him to jump out from a second-storey window and skulk about till he could get himself on the paddlesteamer. And now he’d have to keep his head down here, too, in case a message had been sent south and the police were keeping an eye out for him for violating the terms of his ticket.

  But it didn’t matter a pinch of shit whose sights he was in: he’d find Bennett if it was the last thing he did.

  He’d have one last try at snatching the kid again and if that failed, there would be other ways to hunt down his brother.

  To celebrate Matthew and Lucy’s betrothal, Harrie had invited to supper Sarah and Adam, Friday and Aria, James’s practice partner Dr Lawrence Chandler and his wife Eloise, Matthew’s friend from work Robert Prior and his wife Patience, and, out of courtesy, Lucy’s employer Gertrude Armitage and her husband Lloyd. Fourteen people, which meant that, to accommodate everyone, including the children, the extra leaves of the mahogany dining table had to be opened out, dusted then polished before being laid with the good flatware, silver and crystal.

  When Daisy and Elsa had finished, Daisy having completed the setting with matching vases overflowing with sweetpeas and freesias from the garden, Sophie, Anna and Robbie stood staring, open-mouthed.

  ‘It looks like the king’s supper table!’ Anna breathed.

  ‘King table!’ Charlotte crowed, stuck to Sophie like a limpet.

  ‘Well, not quite,’ Harrie said, then realised with a painful squeeze of her heart that, to them, it probably did. It would have to her, once, too.

  ‘I happen to know that the king has his supper on a silk cushion balanced on his knee,’ Daisy said, adjusting a spray of sweetpeas, ‘and that Queen Adelaide has to feed him bread soaked in milk because of his mouldy old false teeth.’

  Sophie and Anna giggled.

  ‘Oh, who told you that?’ Harrie asked.

  ‘I saw it in a broadsheet.’

  ‘Can we come and see when the supper’s served?’ Sophie asked.

  Harrie shook her head.

  Crestfallen, the girls stared at the floor.

  ‘You won’t have to, you silly girls. You’ll be sitting at the table. James and I wouldn’t give a supper without our best girls and boy!’

  Anna and Sophie grinned delightedly at each other, though Robbie looked less than thrilled. That was all right — Harrie hadn’t expected him to be — but he could damn well put on some decent clothes and behave like a young gentleman for a couple of hours. It wouldn’t kill him.

  ‘Me?’ demanded Charlotte.

  ‘Yes, sweetie, and you.’

  It was far from ideal, having Charlotte plonked in her highchair at a supper table set for adults, and well past her bedtime, but Daisy and Elsa would be run off their feet preparing and serving the food, and everyone else would be at the table. There simply would not be anyone free to mind her. She could not be left alone, not for a second.

  ‘Can we wear our new dresses?’ Anna asked.

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘I’m not getting dressed up,’ Robbie said.

  Harrie replied, ‘You are so. Elsa’s already pressed and starched your new shirt. It’s hanging in your room.’

  Glancing down at his creased and worn trousers and shirt with a hole torn in the flapping hem, Robbie mumbled, ‘What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?’

  ‘Oh, honestly,’ Harrie snapped, her temper fraying. ‘Why can’t you just do as you’re told for once?’

  ‘Boys,’ Daisy said, shaking her head as Robbie slouched sulkily out of the dining room.

  By the time James came home from the surgery everyone had changed into their good clothes, including Robbie, and at half past seven the guests began to arrive, starting with Matthew, who’d collected Lucy from the Acacia Boarding Establishment for Ladies. She looked radiant and, frankly, so did Matthew, Harrie thought, if you could describe a man in those terms. She was truly delighted that he’d at last found a girl who so obviously made him happy. She was a lovely young woman, Lucy, and Harrie hoped she appreciated just what a decent, kind and loyal man she was marrying.

  Gertrude and Lloyd Armitage came next, followed by Sarah and Adam, then Robert and Patience Prior, Lawrence and Eloise Chandler and, finally, Friday and
Aria. Harrie had been worried that Friday might have been at the gin, but she seemed perfectly sober.

  At eight o’clock they sat down to eat. Harrie was particularly proud of the supper menu, which she, Daisy and Elsa had spent two days preparing. The entree was lamb cutlets, followed by pea soup, then a main course of braised ham, glazed carrots and green beans, then cherry tartlets, fig pudding and jelly. The wines were port, hock, madeira and, to toast Lucy and Matthew, champagne. Lemonade was set out in carafes for the children — and Friday, who immediately poured herself a virtuously large glass.

  ‘What a delightful table, Mrs Downey,’ Gertrude Armitage declared. ‘I adore your silver candlesticks. Did you bring them from home?’

  Sarah gave a bark of laughter.

  Startled, Harrie looked at Mrs Armitage. ‘Er, no. They’re a fairly recent purchase.’

  ‘Well, I am surprised. I find the selection of goods in the shops here to be really rather limited. We brought a lot with us when we came out, didn’t we, Mr Armitage?’

  Nodding, Lloyd Armitage didn’t look up from his lamb cutlets. ‘These are jolly good.’

  ‘I must say it was a very expensive exercise, however,’ Gertrude prattled on. ‘Did you find that, Mrs Downey? You have a lovely home. What did you bring with you, may I ask?’

  Harrie glanced at Sarah and Friday, both smirking, then at James, who merely shrugged, then finally at Matthew, who looked deeply embarrassed. Oh well, she might as well just say it. ‘I brought a set of convict slops, a comfort package from Elizabeth Fry, and a seven-year sentence for pinching a bolt of cloth.’

  Gertrude gaped at her, then quickly moved her attention to James. ‘I do beg your pardon, Dr Downey. I had no idea.’

  ‘Don’t apologise to me, Mrs Armitage, apologise to my wife.’

  ‘Really,’ Harrie said, torn between annoyance and wanting to laugh, ‘there’s no need to apologise. Would anyone like another lamb cutlet?’

  ‘I would,’ Lloyd said.

  ‘You’re not a convict, are you?’ Gertrude asked Lucy uneasily. ‘I never thought to . . .’

  ‘Not yet,’ Lucy replied.

  ‘I am,’ Sarah said.

  Friday raised her hand. ‘So am I.’

  Gertrude eyed Aria. ‘And you?’

  ‘No, I am not. I am Maori royalty.’

  ‘We’re not convicts, either,’ Patience Prior offered, and giggled at her husband.

  ‘Neither are Eloise and I,’ Lawrence Chandler said, winking at Harrie.

  ‘Or us!’ Sophie declared. ‘Though Robbie should be.’

  Lloyd Armitage said, ‘Glad we’ve got that sorted. Stop being so supercilious, Gert. Now, that cutlet?’

  As Harrie escaped to the kitchen, Gertrude whispered to her husband, perhaps more loudly than she’d intended, ‘Please don’t call me that in company!’

  Eloise Chandler said quickly, ‘I must say that’s a simply divine gown you’re wearing, Mrs Armitage. May I ask the name of your dressmaker?’

  ‘Oh. Thank you very much, Mrs Chandler. A Mrs Flowerday, in Phillip Street.’

  ‘The colour is just lovely on you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And do you have a dressmaker in mind for your wedding gown, Miss Christian?’ Eloise asked.

  Elsa rushed in then with two more lamb cutlets for Lloyd, served them, turned scarlet when one overshot his plate and said, ‘Whoops, very sorry, sir,’ put it back with her fingers, and tore out again.

  Sophie and Anna giggled behind their hands, but Charlotte clapped outright, highly entertained.

  ‘Mrs Nora Barrett is making my wedding dress,’ Lucy said. ‘Harrie recommended her.’

  ‘Oh, she made mine!’ Patience said. ‘She’s a treasure. I was so pleased. I wore fawn taffeta with ecru lace on the bodice and cuffs.’

  Harrie returned and resumed her seat, hoping that the subject of convicts had well and truly passed.

  ‘Nora Barrett made your wedding dress, didn’t she, Harrie?’ Eloise said. ‘You looked absolutely lovely.’

  ‘Thank you. Yes, she did. I’ve recommended her to Lucy.’

  ‘Yes, she was saying. And have you set a firm date, Miss Christian?’

  ‘We have. The church is booked for the eleventh of January.’

  To her credit, Eloise did not glance at Lucy’s middle. ‘That’s not far away, is it?’

  Matthew said, ‘Neither of us wanted a long betrothal.’

  ‘Especially not me,’ Lucy added. ‘I can’t wait to move out of the Acacia Boarding Establishment. I’m fed up with ladies of the night clomping about at all hours. Not that I have anything in particular against ladies of the night. Everyone has to earn a living.’ She grinned wickedly at Patience’s and Gertrude’s gasps of shock, though it wasn’t clear whether they disapproved of prostitutes lodging at the Acacia Boarding Establishment for Ladies, or Lucy’s attitude towards them. ‘It’s their noisy footwear I object to. And, of course, there’s my beautiful school. Imagine getting up in the mornings and seeing your own schoolhouse being built before your very eyes day by day.’

  Gertrude’s expression changed from prudish distaste to outright petulance. Lucy’s obviously handed in her notice, Harrie thought.

  ‘You are most certainly to be commended for your ambition, dear,’ Gertrude said, ‘but I fear you’ll find that the business of establishing an academy is far more fraught than you might anticipate.’

  ‘Oh, look,’ Harrie said. ‘Here comes the main course.’ You jealous old crosspatch, and while we’re celebrating their betrothal. She wondered where the pea soup had got to: sitting forgotten on the kitchen table, probably. Never mind — they’d have it for supper tomorrow.

  Daisy and Elsa served the ham, carrots and beans — this time without any mishaps — then retreated. James went around the table pouring wine for everyone who wanted it, while Friday helped herself to another large glass of lemonade. Harrie thought she was doing extremely well, and sent her a dazzling smile.

  ‘These carrots are delicious,’ Eloise said. ‘What have you done to them?’

  ‘They’re glazed with sugar,’ Harrie replied with one eye on Charlotte, who was messily eating her carrots with her fingers and dropping bits over the side of her highchair, which was what you did when you were a toddler.

  ‘Very tasty,’ Eloise said. ‘You must give me the recipe.’

  ‘Not only will you find the costs of operating an academy astronomical,’ Gertrude said, as though there had been no interval since her last comment, ‘but it is extremely difficult to secure competent and suitably trained tutors.’

  ‘I’m sure running an academy is very expensive,’ Lucy agreed, ‘but I’m thinking more of a school than a finishing academy. I don’t expect to be teaching a lot of painting or embroidery. Or flower arranging.’

  ‘Then what will you teach?’

  ‘Reading and writing, of course. Mathematics. Literature, perhaps, geography, Latin, geometry. Euclid, for the more capable students.’

  ‘Latin and geometry for girls?’ Gertrude looked scandalised.

  Robbie dropped mustard sauce down his pristine white shirt, and whispered ‘Shite,’ making Sophie and Anna giggle hysterically.

  Hearing him, Charlotte opened her mouth: Harrie quickly poked a bean into it.

  ‘And boys,’ Lucy said. ‘I intend to take students of both sexes.’

  Blushing at Lucy’s use of the word ‘sex’, Gertrude blustered, ‘Then you’re setting yourself a very tough row to hoe. Let me speak frankly. You must have students whose parents can pay the required fees or your business will fail. Children of the poor do not have the wits, nor the need, to learn such esoteric subjects as Latin and Euclid. However, no well-heeled, self-respecting parent in this town would even consider sending their child to a mixed school, and I’m afraid that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Well, perhaps it’s time that changed.’

  ‘Yes, vive la change!’ James declared heartily, raising his wine glass.
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br />   ‘Hear, hear,’ Adam agreed. ‘I’m sure your school will be a raging success, Lucy. When do you think it will be finished?’

  ‘The end of February, we hope,’ Matthew said. ‘Though we’ll start advertising for students in January.’

  ‘But you’ll stay on at the Colonial Architect’s Office?’

  ‘Definitely. Well, I wouldn’t be much use to Lucy at home, would I?’ Matthew glanced at her fondly. ‘What would I do? Sharpen pencils?’

  Friday laughed a little too loudly, then pushed back her chair. ‘Excuse me, just have to pop out.’

  She was bursting for a wee. All that bloody lemonade. In the hallway she passed Elsa and Daisy on their way to the dining room, bearing more food. Christ almighty this was boring, and that Gertrude What’s-her-name — what a cow! She felt like giving her a good slap.

  Passing the kitchen, she glanced in at the food and cooking clutter spread across the table, clutter that included a bottle of brandy. With no contemplation whatsoever she ducked in, grabbed the bottle, then continued on down the garden path to the bog.

  Once inside she fastened the latch securely, had her wee, and while still on the seat popped the cork out of the bottle and knocked back four enormous swallows, shuddering and spluttering as the brandy seared her gullet. The alcohol in it began to seep into her blood and for the first time that day she felt herself relax, like a candle slowly melting. She drank some more and closed her eyes.

  After a short while it occurred to her that the privy really ponged, so she let herself out and sat on the ground behind it, steadily drinking her way down the bottle. Before she knew it, over half of it had gone.

  ‘Friday!’

  Harrie. Bugger.

  ‘In the bog.’ Did she sound mashed? She hoped not. She felt it.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘The girls are serving pudding in a few minutes. We’ll wait, if you like.’

  ‘Be there soon.’ Shoon.

  Would anyone notice? Would Aria? She’d just have a couple more sips, then throw the rest away.

  She finished the bottle.

  When she returned to her seat in the dining room, she didn’t so much sit down as crash.

  ‘Whoops.’