The Locket of Dreams

by Belinda Murrell

  Nell smiled in her sleep, and settled down into a deeper sleep. Sophie kept stroking her hair, her cheeks and scorching hands all through the night.

  The next morning, Nell woke up and was lucid, but very weak. She tried to smile at Charlotte through cracked lips.

  ‘I woke up this morning and there was a girl lying beside us,’ whispered Nell. ‘You were on one side of me asleep, and she was on the other, stroking my hair.’

  Charlotte’s heart sank. Nell must still be rambling. ‘Who was it, my sweet?’ she asked.

  ‘It was our guardian angel.’

  Charlotte stared at the narrow space beside Nell against the wall. Sophie smiled back at Charlotte and Nell, and squeezed Nell’s hand.

  ‘See?’ whispered Nell. ‘She called me back, and told me not to die.’

  Nell was sick for a week. Charlotte nursed her constantly, barely leaving the cabin except to fetch hot soup or fresh water. On the seventh day, while Nell was sleeping, Charlotte went up on deck to get some fresh air.

  Blinking furiously, Charlotte climbed up into the strong sunshine. The first thing that struck her was the heat. The sun danced on the deep blue ocean. A stiff, warm breeze filled the sails and whipped Charlotte’s red curls across her face. Children ran and played on the deck, supervised by their chatting mothers. A couple of men lounged near the railings, reading.

  It was only ten days since they had left Liverpool but it felt like a different world. The sun had never shone this brightly or warmly in Scotland. The sky and sea had never been this deep, clear blue. Somewhere to the south-east was the exotic coast of Africa.

  The warmth and sunshine and fresh, salty air made her feel startlingly alive. First Charlotte walked around the deck, breathing in the air and the sights, enjoying the feeling of her muscles working once more. When she tired a little, she sat down on a bench in the sunshine and soaked up the warmth, deep into her very bones.

  The hair whipping across her face tickled her nose like a feather and made her smile. Charlotte gathered the unruly curls and crammed them back under her bonnet.

  A feeling of hope welled up from deep inside her. Charlotte and Nell had survived. They had survived their parents dying, the deep despair of grief, the loss of their family and home. They had survived the fierce storm at sea and Nell was recovering from her terrible illness. Now the sun was shining and it was a truly beautiful day.

  Sophie whispered goodbye to Charlotte, flew across the deck of the clipper and slowly circled around the masts, exploring the rigging and bulging sails. She glanced back at the activity on the deck below, then swooped up towards the sun.

  Sophie felt a tickling sensation under her nose. She swatted her nose and turned over, hitching the doona over her face. The tickling started again behind her right ear; Sophie batted her ear and felt something feathery and soft.

  Sophie sat up, wide awake now. Jessica was leaning over her, brandishing a long turquoise-and-iridescent-green peacock feather.

  ‘Sophie, wake up,’ insisted Jessica. ‘All you ever want to do is sleep these holidays. It’s sooo boring.’

  Sophie felt a wave of annoyance wash over her, and a sharp retort leapt to her lips. ‘You’re sooo boring. Leave me alone.’

  But she didn’t actually speak the words, because then Sophie remembered the adventures of the night, and how Nell had nearly died on the ship to Australia. Little sisters could be extremely annoying sometimes, but life would be sadly empty without them.

  ‘Morning, Jess,’ Sophie said instead, and grinned. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  Jess looked surprised, then smiled back.

  ‘Yes, but I’ve been up for hours, and Nonnie is taking us to the beach today,’ Jess explained, jiggling up and down. ‘It’s the most glorious day and I bet there’s good surf at Whale Beach.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Sophie cried. ‘I’m coming.’

  The voyage of three months seemed interminably long. The girls felt homesick and bored. At last, in August, Charlotte and Nell caught their first glimpses of the new continent, Australia, which was to be their home. The coast looked scrubby and flat and desolate, so different from the emerald misty hills of Scotland.

  Black seals, dolphins and huge whales dived and played alongside the ship.

  The sky seemed vast and deep, deep blue, and the sun always seemed to shine, although it was still winter in this topsy-turvy land. On August 25, 1859, they landed in Port Phillip Bay, near the town of Melbourne.

  Here Charlotte and Nell transferred to a smaller coastal steamer, which transported them to Sydney in New South Wales, a voyage of two days.

  Sydney town seemed busy and overcrowded, with twisting dusty tracks and a confusing jumble of slab huts, bark humpies and imposing stone houses.

  The port was filled with people milling around and going about their business: soldiers in red coats, bearded bushmen in cabbage-tree hats, women in voluminous skirts, children ducking and weaving, sailors cursing and gambling, and Chinese coolies carrying buckets of water and baskets of vegetables. Scrawny dogs fossicked among the rubbish looking for scraps.

  Charlotte, Nell and Sophie all stared with wondering eyes. It was so different to anywhere they had ever seen before. While Sophie had grown up in modern-day Sydney, this Sydney was completely different, except for the stunning blue vista of the harbour.

  Beside the wharf, a troupe of jugglers performed, throwing burning torches into the air and nimbly catching them, turning cartwheels and walking on their hands. They ran and sprang and formed a towering human pyramid.

  ‘Look, Charlotte,’ Nell exclaimed. ‘It is incredible. That boy is walking on his hands as deftly as if they were feet.’

  A tall, dark man walked past them carrying a bundle of rush brooms and a bark gourd full of sweet-smelling honey. He was wearing nothing but a stained blue shirt; his thin legs were long and bare and black. Charlotte and Nell had never seen black skin before.

  The Aboriginal man felt their stare and turned to look. He smiled shyly at them, revealing strong, white teeth. Charlotte and Nell smiled back. In a moment he was gone, enveloped by the crowds.

  ‘Nell, did you see that man?’ Charlotte asked in wonder. ‘He must be one of the natives. He did not look like a bloodthirsty savage.’

  ‘Perhaps – however, he was not wearing many clothes!’ Nell exclaimed in shock.

  The steward who was escorting them to their next steamer found them still staring at the colourful throngs of people.

  ‘Come along, this way, misses,’ he directed them.

  Their journey of many weeks was still not over. From Sydney they took an overnight steamboat up the coast, where they were met at the river port of Easthaven later the next morning.

  A stocky man with a thick beard covering most of his face surged forward to greet them on the wharf. He was wearing a broad-brimmed hat, blue shirt, moleskins and elastic-sided boots, and had an assortment of paraphernalia attached to his belt: a coiled stockwhip, two pistols, a knife, tobacco pouch and a clay pipe.

  ‘Good morning,’ he greeted them with a warm smile, sweeping his hat off with a flourish. ‘I presume you must be Miss Charlotte and Miss Eleanor Mackenzie? I’m Edward McLaughlin, Annie’s husband. Welcome to Australia.’

  Charlotte and Nell stared at him in wonder, then quickly remembered their manners.

  ‘Good morning, Mr McLaughlin,’ the girls chorused shyly.

  ‘Come along now,’ invited Mr McLaughlin, picking up the two carpetbags and hefting them over his shoulders. Two porters followed behind, carrying the trunks.

  ‘The wagon is over here. I picked up supplies while I was here to fetch you. It’s a week’s drive to Rosedale – a hundred and eighty odd miles away.’

  Charlotte’s spirits sank. Still a week to go! she thought with dismay. Will this journey never end?

  Mr McLaughlin seemed to sense the girls’ despondency and smiled.

  ‘It’s a pretty drive to Rosedale,’ explained Mr McLaughlin, as he led them across the
road. ‘Mrs McLaughlin is so looking forward to you coming. She gets lonely in the bush, surrounded by so many men, especially since our own little girls died.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ murmured Charlotte, a wave of sadness washing over her. So much death.

  ‘Of course, you girls both know how terrible it is to lose the people you love,’ replied Mr McLaughlin sympathetically. ‘We try not to talk about our little girls in front of Mrs McLaughlin. She finds it too painful.’

  Mr McLaughlin showed them to a wagon drawn by two bay draught horses, which was piled high with sacks, boxes and bales. Another two horses were tethered behind. The girls’ trunks and carpetbags were added to the load and securely lashed on. Sophie settled on the back of the wagon. The two draught horses snorted and pawed the ground, unnerved by her invisible presence.

  ‘Easy, boys,’ soothed Mr McLaughlin.

  The girls climbed up onto the hard wooden seat, followed by Mr McLaughlin. There was so much to see as they trotted out of town: wagons, buckboards and buggies, people strolling along the dusty street, boats on the river, farmers riding horses, children playing, the timber slab houses and shops, the beautiful sandstone church and fine public buildings.

  It all seemed so rough and new, dusty and noisy compared to Scotland. Mr McLaughlin pointed out buildings and people of interest as they passed.

  Soon they were out in the countryside, a wide, fertile valley cleared of trees and dotted with white flocks of sheep tended by shepherds. To Sophie this landscape was now wonderfully familiar, yet somehow still strange.

  All day they sat up on the narrow seat being jolted and bounced over the rough track, until their very teeth felt like they might be shaken loose. Big flocks of colourful parrots swooped through the air, shrieking raucously. In the early afternoon, Mr McLaughlin pulled over near a small running stream to water the horses and change over the teams.

  ‘Jump down and stretch your legs, girls,’ Mr McLaughlin suggested, handing them a tin pannikin. ‘Have a drink of water from the creek. You’ll be thirsty after all that dust. Just make a bit of noise to scare off any snakes.’

  The girls stomped down to the creek, stamping their boots on the ground to warn any terrifying snakes and glancing nervously around at the strange, wild bush. They washed their faces and hands in the chilly water, taking deep draughts of water to slake their thirst. It was a relief to move around after so many hours of riding in the wagon.

  Sophie took the chance for a good soar, swooping above the treetops, frightening a noisy flock of rainbow lorikeets.

  Their respite, however, was short. As soon as the new team was in place, Mr McLaughlin called to them to jump up on the seat once more and they set off, heading ever north-west.

  ‘In that bag you’ll find a few johnnycakes and some cheese,’ Mr McLaughlin instructed. ‘We’ll eat while we ride along. We need to cover a few miles before we make camp tonight.’

  The three of them had a picnic lunch of flat scone-like bread, called johnnycakes, hunks of crumbly cheese and some tiny pickled onions. The girls did not speak much, simply drinking in the strangeness of the scenery and the unusual birds and animals they saw along the way. Mr McLaughlin rarely spoke, except for occasionally pointing out interesting creatures.

  In the late afternoon, they had left the farmland and were travelling through thick bush.

  Three long-legged, comical-looking birds ran from the scrub and scampered in front of the horses, causing them to shy.

  ‘They’re emus,’ Mr McLaughlin explained with a laugh, reining in the horses. ‘Otherwise known as bush chickens. They cannot fly and they lay huge eggs which are quite delicious.

  ‘We have two pet emus called Ernestina and Edgar that live around the homestead at Rosedale. We also have a tame native bear called Mala and two pet wallabies called Christabel and Joey.’

  Charlotte felt a flutter of excitement in her stomach. It sounded like a fascinating place to live with all these strange and wonderful creatures.

  ‘We have never seen a native bear,’ said Nell nervously. ‘Are they dangerous?’

  ‘Mala is very tame, although you need to be careful of her claws. Our son Will loves animals and is always encouraging native birds and animals to live with us. Mrs McLaughlin draws the line at snakes, though.

  ‘Look out for kangaroos now. They generally come out in the late afternoon. We will be making camp fairly soon.’

  Towards dusk, Mr McLaughlin pulled over the horses in a small clearing off the track, near a creek.

  ‘This is where we’ll camp for the night,’ Mr McLaughlin explained. ‘I’ll unharness the horses. Could you girls gather some fallen branches for the campfire, please? Pile them up over here.’

  Charlotte and Nell were astounded. They had never been asked to do any form of work before. There had always been an army of servants to do everything for them. Slowly they set off along the banks of the creek gathering up an armful of fallen timber, looking around them in wonder.

  Mr McLaughlin deftly unharnessed the four horses, hobbled them with leather-and-chain straps so they could not wander and tied a bell around each one’s neck.

  Next he dragged over several large branches and set to work making a campfire. He dug a small depression in the soil and surrounded it with rocks set in a circle. He snapped the wood into more manageable pieces with his hands, or using his boot.

  ‘First we make a small pile of dried grass and leaves,’ Mr McLaughlin explained, piling up a mound of tinder. ‘Then we pile up the twigs like this, leaving plenty of space for the air to circulate.’

  The smallest twigs were leant up together to form a structure like a tiny tent over the mound of leaves and grass. Carefully he struck a match and lit the tinder, then blew gently on the delicate flame.

  The dried tinder caught alight, licking the twigs. Slowly and patiently Mr McLaughlin added larger twigs and small branches to the structure, in a crisscross pattern, until there was a merry campfire blazing.

  The girls sat cross-legged on a couple of blankets by the fire, enjoying the complete novelty of camping.

  Mr McLaughlin went to work, efficiently making camp and preparing dinner. First he slung some canvas on a rope between two small trees and pegged the edges to the ground to make a tent. He gave the girls a pile of rugs to make a bed, using their carpetbags for pillows. He would sleep in the open by the campfire.

  ‘Now we’ll make johnnycakes,’ explained Mr McLaughlin. ‘If you’re going to be pioneer maids in the bush, I’ll need to teach you some bush crafts.’

  Nell fetched water from the creek in the quart pot. Charlotte mixed together flour, baking soda, cream of tartar and water to make a dough. Mr McLaughlin showed them how to bake the thin bread over the hot coals for ten minutes and quickly fry slices of salt beef.

  This meal was washed down with a tin mug of steaming sweet black tea. Even Nell ate hungrily.

  ‘Thank you,’ Nell said. ‘That was delicious.’

  ‘My pleasure. It looks like you can do with some feeding up,’ replied Mr McLaughlin. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs McLaughlin will see to that soon enough. Perhaps you girls could wash the dishes down at the creek while I check the load?’

  ‘I am not sure,’ said Charlotte tentatively. ‘At least, we have never done that before.’

  Mr McLaughlin laughed kindly. ‘It’s not hard. Just scrub them out with river sand until they look clean.’

  Charlotte flushed in confusion, but gathered up the dishes with Nell and set off.

  The sun set in a blaze of glorious colours. When all the chores were done, the girls sat by the fire, and Mr McLaughlin told them stories about Rosedale and adventures of living in the Australian bush: floods, droughts, bushfires, shearing and lambing.

  He told them about his family – his sons, Henry and Will, his wife Annie – and some of the shepherds, stockmen and characters who lived at Rosedale.

  The stars arced overhead in the black velvet sky, stretching away to infinity. A haunting, otherworldly cry
sounded from the trees in the bush.

  ‘What was that?’ cried Nell in alarm, glancing around nervously at the dark bush crowding in on them.

  ‘That was the cry of a bird called the curlew,’ answered Mr McLaughlin. ‘Many Scottish folk would have you believe it’s the sound of a banshee wailing. It sounds eerie enough.’

  Nanny’s words came back to Charlotte: ‘Why, if you hear a banshee wailing, someone you love will die soon enough, but if you actually see one o’ the sprites – perhaps sitting in a branch all dressed in white, combing its long, fair hair wi’ a silver comb – then ye yourself are no’ long for this world.’

  Charlotte and Nell shivered with apprehension. Sophie felt their anxiety and tried to comfort the girls, whispering reassuring words, but they could not hear.

  ‘Don’t worry, there are no banshees in Australia,’ joked Mr McLaughlin. ‘There’s nothing out there in the bush to harm you while I keep guard.’

  ‘What about bushrangers or snakes?’ asked Charlotte, remembering Sally the chambermaid’s tales.

  ‘I’ll keep you safe, I promise,’ Mr McLaughlin assured them.

  At last the girls crawled into their tent, Sophie beside them. Charlotte took her carved oak box out of her carpetbag ‘pillow’ and lay clutching it in her arms.

  ‘Charlotte, it is all so strange,’ Nell whispered. ‘I miss home. I miss everything.’

  ‘I know, Nell,’ replied Charlotte, holding Nell’s hand. ‘I do too. It is just you and me now. We must look after each other and be strong.’

  The girls lay for some time listening to the strange sounds of the bush around them, the fire crackling, rustling in the undergrowth, a thumping on the earth. Charlotte and Nell had never slept outside in their lives, but at last they fell into an exhausted sleep.

  In the morning the girls were woken by the sound of the horse bells and a peculiar raucous laughing sound. Mr McLaughlin was leading the horses to be harnessed to the wagon. A small campfire was flickering, the quart pot was boiling and a delicious aroma of freshly baked johnnycakes wafted past their noses.