Bridie's Fire

by Kirsty Murray

  ‘Get out,’ said Bridie, furious. ‘It’s my boat now – I’m going away from here. I’m going home.’

  ‘But you can’t row all the way back to Ireland! You’re mad!’

  He tried to pull himself into the boat, but Bridie swung an oar and knocked him back into the black water. He sank under the waves, his pale golden hair swirling down into darkness.

  Bridie leaned over the side of the rowboat and plunged her hand into the sea, grasping a handful of hair.

  ‘Let go!’ he shouted as he broke the surface. ‘I can swim perfectly well. I don’t need you to save me.’

  Bridie sat back and let him climb on board, seawater running off his clothes.

  ‘Bridie, you can’t row back to Ireland,’ he said, wiping the water from his eyes. ‘You know you can’t. You’d be exhausted before you even made it across the bay. You’re being stupid.’

  Bridie stared at him. She knew he was right. All her resolution flooded out of her and she crumpled as she grasped the mad impossibility of her instinct, the hopelessness of her situation. She slumped in her seat and let the oars slide from her hands. Gilbert leaned forward and grasped them.

  ‘Bridie, here, move over,’ he said. ‘We’ll row back in together. I can’t quite manage this boat all by myself.’

  Bridie didn’t respond. All the rage and fire was draining out of her, sucked into the big black bay. She shut her eyes and let hot tears course down her cheeks.

  ‘Two years,’ she said despairingly. ‘Two years of Mrs Arbuckle trying to “save” me and dopey Dora telling me what to do, and then maybe longer – maybe until I’m nineteen, until I’m a grown woman! How will I endure it? I’ll never be able to bring Brandon to me. Caitlin and I, we were going to save all our wages and have a home together. Caitlin, she was like my sister, but she’s lost too. And I promised Brandon I’d make a home that he could come to one day, but I’ll never have one, never. And Brandon will forget me and nothing will ever change.’

  Gilbert looked out across the dark waters. ‘Everything changes, even if you don’t want it to. Two years isn’t so long. It takes four months to get home to England. I tell you what, we could write to him again. If I was your brother, I’d never forget you. I’d wait, however long it took.’

  Bridie brushed her hand across her face, wiping away the tears.

  ‘You’d do that?’

  ‘Of course I would, and Brandon will too. Don’t tell my brothers I said that.’

  Bridie laughed, a little hiccuping sound that echoed with the trace of a sob.

  They pulled the rowboat back up onto the beach and Gilbert tied it firmly to the post. Then they trudged up through the tangle of ti-trees. The driveway shone brilliant white in the moonlight and the air seemed suddenly warm against their damp skin. Bridie looked up at the night sky.

  ‘Sometimes I think I’m in a dream and tomorrow I’ll wake up and be in my home above Dunquin. Or now, that we’ll turn this corner up ahead and there’ll be the path from the beach up to my house. I don’t know where I am or where I belong any more.’

  ‘Look up,’ said Gilbert. ‘At the stars. Then you’ll always know where you are. See those stars there? That’s the Southern Cross. Those are the stars you’re under now. You never saw them from your Dunquin, did you?’

  Bridie stopped and turned her face up to look at the huge night sky. For a moment, until she fixed on the stars, she could imagine she was on the beach with Brandon and not with this white-gold English boy. She reached up with one hand to trace the outline of the Southern Cross with her fingertips.

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t go,’ said Gilbert. ‘Glad you didn’t get away.’

  Bridie glanced across at him. His eyes were bright in the dark night.

  ‘And I’m sorry I swiped you with the oar,’ she said. ‘It’s just as well your head’s as thick as your hide.’ Then the grin came and she couldn’t stifle it, and the next moment they were both laughing, a wild night-sky laugh beneath the Southern Cross.

  22

  Hearts of fire

  Bridie knew that Gilbert must have spoken to his sister. When Miss Charity asked if Bridie could stay on as her kitchen maid, Mrs Arbuckle tried to argue that Bridie was too unskilled to be anyone’s servant, but Miss Charity simply smiled and insisted on having her way. No one ever contradicted Miss Charity when she made her wishes clear. Bridie watched with growing admiration as Miss Charity stated her case in the kitchen on that warm October afternoon. Charity looked exactly like Gilbert when she was sure of her course, wearing down her opposition with a sharp, determined smile.

  Once the decision was made, Mrs Arbuckle set about teaching Bridie as much as possible in the course of the next few days. Dora sullenly stood at the trough washing pots and pans while Bridie followed Mrs Arbuckle around the kitchen, committing all her instructions to memory. A daily would be coming in from St Kilda village to do most of the cooking, but Bridie would be the person responsible for all the day-to-day chores in the kitchen. Mrs Arbuckle warned her that she’d be working harder than she ever worked at Beaumanoir, but Bridie’s heart sang at the thought of being so independent.

  Bridie felt at home in the little kitchen at Beaumer. Even though the cook from the village took control of it much of the day, Bridie loved the quiet nights and early mornings when she had it to herself and could pretend it was her very own. She slept in the small lean-to that was built onto the back wall of the kitchen and she loved the way the scent of firewood and food drifted into her tiny room. Some nights, she’d drag her little pallet bed outside and sleep beneath the stars; if it was cooler, she could pull it closer to the stove.

  Every morning, Bridie got up before dawn. It was her favourite time of day. After stoking the fire, she’d cook breakfast for Miss Charity and Mr Degraves. They would eat in the small breakfast room at the side of the house. Bridie would make sure that everything was laid out just as Mr Degraves liked it, carefully arranging all the small jars of marmalade, honey and jam, making sure that the silverware was shiny and his favourite breakfast cup was in place. She fried slices of soft bread in pork fat, and cooked kidneys and creamy scrambled eggs with lots of butter and sherry, just the way he liked them.

  Martin Degraves was very particular about what he would and wouldn’t eat. He never spoke to Bridie as she moved in and out of the room, freshening the tea and bringing extra butter and toast, but after the meal, as she was washing the breakfast dishes, Miss Charity would come out to the kitchen and discuss whether the eggs had enough cream mixed in with them or whether the tea was brewed exactly as the Master liked it.

  The only times Martin Degraves spoke directly to Bridie was when he’d come in late from a night in town. On the nights he was not at home, Bridie slept in her clothes so that when she woke to the sound of his heavy footfall in the kitchen, she could leap up and set to work, cooking his favourite late-night snack of pig’s trotters. If he’d had a pleasant evening, he’d smile as she served him, but sometimes he’d be in a dark and angry mood and not even notice her as she crept in with the tray. On those nights, he would sit alone in the front parlour for hours, cradling a glass of brandy in his hand, while Miss Charity slept on overhead.

  Bridie remembered how her father used to come home late after sharing a few whiskeys with Mick O’Farrell, singing, and fall laughing into bed beside her mother. But drink didn’t seem to bring Martin Degraves much happiness, and when his mood was dark, Bridie’s heart ached for her gentle mistress. She knew how much Miss Charity wanted him to be happy.

  Bridie knew she should think of Miss Charity as Mrs Degraves now but it seemed impossible that someone so young and kind could be a mistress. Miss Charity was so easy to work for. Like Gilbert, she seemed pleased with and interested in everyone and everything around her. And there was no one she was as passionate about as her new husband. She watched him constantly, looking for ways to please him. Bridie discovered there was no surer way to cheer-up her mistress than to take good care of all Mr Degrave
s’ needs. Looking after Martin Degraves became a passion for both of them. Bridie made sure that his boots were clean and shiny, his white shirts perfectly starched and pressed, and his meals inviting and satisfying. Even though Bridie had so much housework to do, she longed to be allowed to cook all their meals. Mrs Smythe, the cook from the village, was a big, silent woman who set about her work with a firm hand and small conversation. But Bridie watched everything she did, learning more recipes and ways to please her master and mistress with each passing day.

  Gilbert regularly came to stay at his sister’s cottage by the sea. Whenever he fought too much with his brothers, he was sent to Beaumer. Bridie knew he baited his brothers even more often than before, just for the chance to come and stay. As long as his other brothers and sisters weren’t with him, Gilbert could spend most of his stay in the kitchen with Bridie. She would cook up fudge and marzipan and treacle pudding with hot custard when he was staying. And then there was always the chance to swap stories. If Martin Degraves was in town on business, Miss Charity would join them in the kitchen, eating fudge at the kitchen table and licking her fingers like a child herself.

  One bright November morning, Gilbert came into the kitchen with a strange and beautiful fish on the end of his line. He laid it on the table, grinning with pride.

  ‘It’s a fine creature you’ve hooked there,’ said Bridie. ‘As beautiful as Fionn MacCumhaill’s salmon.’

  Gilbert drew up a stool and watched the shimmering scales fly off the fish as she cleaned and filleted it.

  ‘Does that mean I get a story in exchange for my fish?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Bridie teasingly. ‘I don’t know that a boy who puts penny bungers under his brothers’ beds is deserving of stories.’

  ‘That was only a joke! Did Charity tell you that’s why I’m here again? I don’t care. I like coming here. It’s not a punishment! Though perhaps you’ve run out of good stories and I’ll have to start behaving myself,’ said Gilbert in reply.

  ‘Oh, so you think insulting me will get the story out? There are more ways of killing a dog than by choking him with butter, Gilbert De Quincey. Can’t you see I’ve got work to do?’

  Gilbert put his hands together in a mock gesture of pleading and Bridie laughed.

  ‘Quickly then, I’ll tell you how Fionn mac Cumhaill was the fairest boy in Ireland. And when he was not much older than yourself, the boy met a soothsayer called Fionn the Seer living beside a deep pool. Now this old Fionn, he’d heard a prophecy that someone named Fionn would catch one of the salmons of knowledge, magic fish that in their flesh had all the wisdom of the world.’

  ‘So did this Fionn mac Cumhaill catch one of these fish like me?’

  ‘Oh no. Not young Fionn, but the old soothsayer did. He caught the fish and gave it to young Fionn to prepare. But here’s the rub. See, Fionn’s other name was Deimne, and the old Fionn only knew him by that name. So young Fionn was cooking the fish for his master, and a big blister came up on the skin of the salmon and the boy went to push it down with his finger and the blister broke and the hot sweet juice of the salmon scalded the boy’s finger, and straight to his mouth it went. And he sucked it hard to soothe the burnt flesh. And then he took the fish to his master but the seer knew something was amiss and he said to the boy, “You’ve not eaten any piece of it, have you, boy?” and Fionn answered truthfully, and told how he’d sucked the sweet juice from his finger. So then the old seer knew that fate had tricked him and he asked the boy if he had another name. Hearing it, the old man shrugged. “Eat the salmon yourself,” he said. “Seven years I’ve waited for this fish, but I’m not the one to fulfil the prophecy for all my waiting.” So Fionn ate the salmon of knowledge and afterwards he had only to put his thumb under his tooth and he had the gift of prophecy and magic counsel in all things.’

  By the time the story was told, Bridie had cleaned and gutted the fish and put it in a pan to poach. She cut two thick slices of bread, one for her and one for Gilbert, and then set the fresh cooked fish between them.

  ‘That Fionn mac Cumhaill is like you, not me,’ said Gilbert, sounding a little cheated as he crammed in mouthfuls of bread and fish.

  ‘And what makes you think that, then?’ asked Bridie.

  ‘Well, you cooked the fish, like Fionn! And sometimes I feel afraid that Fate might trick me, like that old man. I wish we could know what’s going to happen to us next, when we grow up.’

  ‘Maybe it’s better not to know,’ said Bridie darkly.

  ‘You can say that, because you’re so brave.’

  ‘Me? Brave?’

  ‘Anyone who even thinks of trying to best Dora in a fight has to be either brave or completely barmy!’

  Bridie laughed, but Gilbert put his elbows on the table and rested his face in his hands. ‘It’s true, Bridie. You’re like that young Fionn, not me. I think you must be the one with the gift of magic counsel. So tell me another story, but one about your Cú, I like the stories about him best.’

  And so they cleared the table together, and Bridie told him another story of Cú Culainn that sated him more than fish and bread.

  The next morning, Charity asked Bridie to pack a picnic lunch, for the whole household was going into town to celebrate the opening of the new bridge across the Yarra. News had arrived that Port Phillip was to become a colony in its own right, with a full government in Melbourne, rather than being ruled from Sydney. Bridie couldn’t see that it made a lot of difference, but Gilbert was as excited as Charity. He paced restlessly up and down the driveway, waiting for Martin Degraves to return in the carriage so they could all go into town. At midday, they heard the distant roar of cannons being fired and Gilbert came storming back into the house.

  ‘Where is he, Charity? We’ll miss everything!’

  Charity sat in the front parlour by the window, wearing her blue silk polonaise and bonnet, her hands folded in her lap. She’d been sitting there for over an hour, waiting patiently for Martin.

  ‘I’m sure that whatever has happened, Martin will explain it when he arrives. Perhaps he has had important business. You know, Gilbert, he’s hopeful of a position in the new government. We must be patient.’

  At two o’clock, Bridie laid out the picnic lunch on a rug on the front lawn. Gilbert slumped down angrily on the grass and picked at the little pies she had prepared.

  ‘Superintendent La Trobe will have cut the ribbon hours ago,’ he said sulkily. ‘And then he was going to give out buns, two thousand of them, to all the children. We’ve missed the soldiers parading from the barracks. We’ve missed everything! I should have walked into town. Someone would have given me a ride on their cart or carriage. Hundreds of people drove and walked past the gate this morning. Everyone in the whole of Port Phillip is at the bridge except us!’

  ‘Never mind, Gil, we’ll be there in time for the fireworks,’ said Charity quietly.

  But Martin didn’t come home. When the shadows lay long across the garden, Charity took off her bonnet and hung it on the hallstand before going upstairs to her bedroom. When Bridie brought her a pot of tea in the early evening, she noticed that the pages of the book on Charity’s lap were unturned and her gaze was fixed on the road.

  Gilbert thumped around downstairs until Bridie persuaded him to come to the beach with her in the hope they’d see some of the fireworks displays at a distance. The sand was still warm, and small waves lapped against the shore as they sat and watched bonfires being lit all along the bay.

  ‘I’m sorry for you, Bert,’ said Bridie.

  ‘Oh, I suppose it’s all right. Henry and Thomas didn’t see it either.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘They’ve been sent away to school. Home, to England. They both begged Father to let them stay until after Christmas, but he said that they should have gone home when they were seven and that they’d never be gentlemen if they didn’t get a proper British education.’

  ‘Does that mean they’ll send you too?�
� asked Bridie, alarmed.

  Gilbert laughed. ‘Mama has promised me I won’t have to go. She says she has to keep one of her boys close by. And besides, Martin Degraves had a proper British education and I can’t see it made him much of a gentleman.’

  ‘But he must be a good man in his heart, for your sister loves him.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose there’s some good in him, but he’s a blaggard for not keeping his promise.’

  Bridie looked out over the dark water to the bright lights of the bonfires and found she was thinking of Caitlin, wondering if her husband left her alone at night, if he treated her well, if she had found happiness in her new home.

  ‘It’s a hard thing to forgive a broken promise,’ she said.

  The summer was long and hot. Bridie had hoped that Gilbert would spend a lot of time at Beaumer, but as the months wore on, fewer visitors came to stay. The little doll’s house by the sea grew stifling in the heat. For reasons she couldn’t fathom, Bridie had a sense of impending disaster. It was almost as Gilbert had said, that she had been given the gift of prophecy. She pushed the idea away from her like a poisoned cup.

  On a Thursday morning in February of 1851, Bridie woke to the smell of smoke. For a moment, as she struggled to consciousness, she imagined Beaumer was on fire, but when she checked the kitchen, all was still and as she’d left it the night before. She ran to the baize door and put her head around into the main part of the house but it smelt sweetly there. The smoke was coming from somewhere else. She dressed quickly and went out into the yard. Smoke lay like a mist across the garden. She hurried down the gravel drive to the gates and slipped across the road to the beach. Even though it was early morning, the air was heavy with heat and the sun itself was a dark red ball in a mahogany-coloured sky. A thick fog of smoke lay across the flat waters of the bay. The strangeness of the Antipodes struck her anew. It was as if here, at the bottom of the world, everyone was closer to the gates of Hell. The thought made her shudder and turn to run back up to the house.