by Janet Lee
He sat for a good while and stared at the bottom of his glass and then he said that he should like to help me with my future plans, but the uncertainty of his gambling wins was more suitable for a single man, and he would not like to have a wife and children in such a life, for the money ebbed and flowed.
Then he said that he was ashamed to ask, particularly as it was so soon after the passing of my first husband, but he said he should like to marry me, except he felt he had so little to offer a woman of my calibre.
I was taken aback. He had seen me washing and cleaning and cooking for boarders, and I said so, and he told me that part of my charm was that I was prepared to do anything to feed my children and honour my wedding vows. At the mention of my wedding vows, I did not tell Michael what Charles had said upon his death bed about being married previous.
I simply said I would always work to make do.
And at that point he placed down his glass and he asked me if I might marry him, and it was a proposal in the way that every woman dreams a marriage proposal would be, for there were flowers in the room, and we had our drinks and our cheese, and so I said yes.
I am sure Michael loved me, as I know Charles did, in his own way.
In April we were married at the church near Waterloo station.
And I wanted to tell you, sir, my story of how Michael asked me to marry him and how he loved me, and I him.
52.
On one of the first Saturdays after our marriage, Michael caught the tram and went to the Randwick races, for he said that he knew of another bookie who might take him on for work. I had said that I would like to come with him, as I wanted to go wherever he might go.
But Michael said that women such as me would not go to the races for he said some of the women there were of questionable standards, and so I didn’t go, but I gave him some money to bet.
He did not have much luck betting on the horses that day, or finding the bookie that he might work for. When he came home he told me that he had lost the pound which he had taken, saying it was the fault of the bookies, for the only one he had ever felt to be honest was the one he had worked for who had now gone to Queensland.
Michael’s mentioning Queensland again alarmed me, for even though he was married he might still go, for many a man went elsewhere and left his wife while he did. So I told him that there was no need to be worried about the money for there was much more to be had and that Charles had left me well provided for.
I gave him another pound, to make up for his losses at the races.
And to take his mind from Queensland, I said that I thought we should travel to Ballarat to meet his family, as he had often talked of the place where he grew up. He said that we should do this, for there would come a time when he might be the one managing a large property, if his father saw fit to give him the responsibility.
The next day he mentioned going to Victoria again as he and I strolled out on the Sunday afternoon, and stopped in at the hotel. I had said I would have liked to use my parasol – for I had one from my wedding – and Michael said the parasol was too grand for the likes of this particular hotel and that the next week he would take me to the Sir Joseph Banks Hotel, where we might stroll through the gardens and see the menagerie. He told me I might use my parasol there, for it would not be out of place, and that May could take care of young Charlie as she was quite old enough. And he said I should be sure to bring my parasol when we went to Ballarat, for there were fine gardens and all the ladies strolled with a parasol. I said I had heard tell Ballarat was a fine gold area, and he said that the country around it was worth far more than gold for all the sheep it could grow.
I talked with him of some of the properties on which we lived and how I had not seen my mother for many years, since we moved to Sydney, and so there were several of the children who she had not even met, although we exchanged frequent letters. I said that it saddened me that my father had died since I moved to Sydney and I had not been able to go to the funeral, on account of the letter not reaching me in time.
So I asked him if he might think of moving up to the country, to be near my mother. And he asked if it had been my brother who inherited the family property when my father died and I laughed that he would think such a thing. He said that he thought I had been from a well-to-do family.
Now, sir, never in my life had I heard such a thing thought of me. I liked my drink and to sing and dance. I told him my father had only worked upon the different properties and we did not ever own them.
Michael was silent a moment and then began to describe his own family’s property. He spoke of a sweeping drive and a two-storey homestead and the paddock which flowed down to the river. He said the fences were in a state of disrepair, but there were strong solid gums which grew along the river banks and he would soon have good fence posts from them, and he spoke of how the wheat would dip and wave when the heads were full and the wind blew.
I asked how he could ever have left such a beautiful place, and he said he had very grand plans for when he came into ownership and he would extend the thousand acres by purchasing the neighbouring farms, and increase the land under wheat.
He spoke as though he missed the property, and so I said I would like to see it. And then he grew quiet and I said, What is wrong, my love? and he said, Louie, I feel that I may have cursed my father now, for I have spoken of when he is gone, and I worry I might not see him again. I think speaking about my own father being dead may have added to his worry, sir. So I said that of course he should go to see his father and then he said that he did not think I should travel with him, at least at first, but that I should let him tell his family of his marriage before they met me. And I said had he not written to them and told them of our marriage, and he said he had not.
I did not rightly understand this, how he could marry but not tell his family. But later, I came to think that his family was not on such a large property as Michael described, for by then I had begun to wonder if many of his stories were added to and played up to sound bigger. And even though I loved him, I did not know quite what to believe sometimes.
53.
A month or so after our wedding, Michael and I moved to Johnson’s Lane, for Michael had expressed an interest in living in that part of Botany, it being a better area of town. And so we rented a cottage there, although the rent was dearer than we paid in Frog’s Hollow. I bought myself a few nice things, a tea set and a vase, and these reminded me of all the pretty things I had dusted for the Missus.
And it was then that our son, William John, was born, but I shall come to that sad story directly.
But we were not as happy in Johnson’s Lane as we had expected to be. The Sir Joseph Banks Hotel and Pleasure Gardens was very grand, but it was an expensive place to be regularly drinking. Also, it was frequented by different folk from those we were used to seeing, and so after just a few months we decided to move back to Frog’s Hollow. I sold some of my new dresses and the tea set and the vase and then my parasol – as Michael said this was all too grand for us now – and he sold one of his new suits.
The money from the insurance people, which had seemed such a large sum, well, it was disappearing. I had paid off my own debts and Michael’s as well, and he was not working so we had no money coming in, but there was still plenty going out on rent and food and the like. When we came back to Pople’s Terrace, I was clear of debt and still had some twenty-five pounds in gold, which was a lot of money, but nothing compared to what I had received when Charles died. And so we made economies.
Michael found work at one of the fellmongers but he was only there about six weeks before he lost his position. He said he thought his boss had taken a dislike to him.
But after he had lost that job, he was then several weeks without work and did not appear to be able to find employment, even though he was a fit young man. I should say, though, work was hard to find at the time, as there were fluctuations
in the need for labour, and even my own boys, who were good workers like their father, well, even they had to travel to find work.
Michael said to me that he thought he would go and make some money at a gambling house which he had been to in the past, one which is on George Street. I now know that gambling establishments are not fair in their business and do not have a care if they take more money from people than people can afford, but I did not know that then.
I did not like the thought of him going there for I have heard there is a certain kind of woman who frequents those places, although you would probably not know of this, sir, as you will have never been, and neither have I, of course, but I have heard stories.
Now, all this was in my statement, the one I said in the inquest court, the same one which has been read out at each of my trials since, so you do not need to hear it again.
The chaplain says he would like me to tell him anyway.
Well, that Saturday night, he borrowed a pound from me and he went off to the gamble game.
He came back very late, but he was pleased, because he had turned that one pound into more than four. Four pounds and ten shillings. He told me the money was easier to make there than when he went to work carting the green skins or working in the other factories, that he could make more money in a shorter time.
He said to me that if he had twenty pounds that night, he would have been able to make one hundred pounds, and that it would have been easily done, and that by such a venture, only once or twice a year, we should be able to live a fine life. He said again that he wished I had given him more money for that very evening, as Lady Luck was on his side, but he was sure that she would favour him again next time he visited.
But I was not convinced that gambling was a good idea, even though Michael had just brought me over four pounds. Charles had not been a gambler and so I was only just becoming accustomed to having a husband who gambled.
Then he said, You have twenty pounds, don’t you, Louie?
I said he knew I did, for we did not have secrets in this regard.
And he said that if I gave him my twenty pounds to use on the next Saturday he would bring me back one hundred in return, for it was a sure thing that he would win again. It was just like a business venture, he said. An investment, he called it.
I told him that this would be my last twenty pounds, and I did not think he should gamble with so much money. And I told him I was glad to see the four pounds he had made, but that we should go to sleep for it was late.
Through that week he was out looking for work and found none, and he had only had a few days’ work in the last month or so. And he would ask me about the money and say again he was sure he could make my twenty pounds into one hundred and I should give it to him. And, well, sir, I suppose by the time the Saturday came around, he had convinced me and so I gave him my twenty pounds and he went back into Sydney, I think to the same house on George Street.
He did not come home with money.
He had lost everything.
I said, What do you mean? Lost it all, what do you mean? And I asked where my hundred pounds was. And he looked at me and shook his head and then I myself began to cry.
He had not made me one hundred pounds, and he had lost all of the twenty besides.
I could say nothing, sir. All that money. Gone.
I still feel sick even now thinking of it, for we had nothing, nothing, and me with all the children.
And I think I said that he had promised me, or something like, for I was very upset.
He asked me to forgive him.
When I saw his sad state, and the misery on his face, I said I would have to, sir, which in truth was the case, for there was no getting the money back. And he spoke of the gambling house and how wrong it was that they would take such an amount of money from people who had none, and that places like that should not be allowed to do such things.
We spent a restless night of worry.
Michael had a cup of tea the next morning when we rose, and we sat and talked of the money again and of how we could get it back and then of where he might go to look for work. We sat for a considerable time talking over this, sir, and he said he thought that he might catch the train and try for some work away from Botany, up the Illawarra line, for he had heard there was work at some factories there and he asked me to give him money for the fare.
I gave him a pound, on account of his saying if he found any work he would take it and so he would be away for the whole week and would need to board.
And I think it was the next day that he left.
He came back that night and, well, I was surprised, sir, and when I asked him why he had come home, could he find no work, he said nothing at first, but after I persisted asking, he told me the story.
He said he caught the train from the city, but had bought the wrong ticket and gone out several miles further on the train than his ticket had allowed, for he was not familiar with that train line, and did not know the stations.
When he went to get off at the station he said the guard had looked at his ticket and had seen that he had gone too far for what he had paid and was being rough with Michael, and they argued, with their fists I believe, sir.
Michael had to pawn his watch to pay a fine. Now, I had bought him that watch as a wedding present, and here we had even less money and he still had no work and now no watch besides. I told him that we would get the watch back, and he said, Louie, we are ruined.
He was very low when he said this, but I was angry, sir, for when Charles had died I had so much money and now it was gone and I was worried how we would pay the rent and eat, what with him out of work, and I thought we might end up on the street. And we had a row, sir, over the money. Well, it was not really a row – it was more just me being angry with him, for he was too low to bother arguing back. And he kept saying that he had failed us, and in the end I told him to stop saying this.
Michael got some work carting skins and he was earning thirty-six shillings per week. He was still very downhearted and so I said that if we put a little aside he might be able to redeem his watch but he said there would not ever be enough money and on any account he could not remember the place where he had pawned it.
I pressed him and said that surely if we went to the area he would remember where he had pawned it. And he said he never could, and so we did not speak ever of it again.
54.
After I gave birth to my son William John Collins, well, sir, I have never seen a father dote upon a baby as much as Michael did upon this child. We called him William on his birth certificate, but we used the name John for the baby.
John was a difficult baby; there are no two ways about it. He wanted to be held all the time and he had a bad colicky stomach, and he cried a lot. But none of this seemed to bother Michael, who would get up to him at night and bring him into our bed to soothe him. Michael was patience itself, and adored the baby, and he was a lovely blessing for us.
But you should be careful when counting your blessings, sir.
On the night my John died, Michael was holding him in his arms and the death of his son, well, it broke Michael’s heart.
Now, I have known the death of a baby before, of course, but it is the type of death which you never really harden to, in the way you might harden to the death of older people. The death of a baby is not in the natural way of things, as they have done none of their living before their time comes to be dying, so the death of a baby seems extra hard.
For the mother, if your baby dies it is as though you lose a part of yourself and you hold the death of a baby close and think of it every new day, for, you tell yourself, today the baby would have been doing this or that or would have had a birthday. I used to think as it was only the mother who felt like this, but I know Michael felt John’s death keenly, and where his birth had given him joy, the death brought him despair.
I think that the death of our son also brought a great sadness upon our marriage, for we were no longer the light and happy couple we had been, teasing and joking. Michael grieved so over the child and to watch this was very hard. He was too down in his own grief to comfort me, even though I had lost the child too, but I still had to put meals on the table and wash clothes. There were times I was glad for the distraction that being busy with these things gave me from thinking of my dead baby.
Michael did not want to go to work and lay upon the bed and he kept saying the child had not been long in the world, which was true enough, but to hear the way Michael said this, over and over in such a melancholy fashion, well, it was very sad indeed, sir.
I was glad that Michael was not there in the court to hear the way the doctors spoke about our child, for they talked of what they found when they dug up the little body – of the kidneys and the parts which had rotted away. It nearly broke my heart to hear them speak this way, talking about ‘that’ specimen. He wasn’t just one of their science things sitting in a jar – he was my child, and all that was left of the little baby I birthed, who I had held in my arms and nurtured as a mother does, and loved. Those doctors should be ashamed to talk of my baby that way.
I had no money to pay for John’s funeral so I had to borrow over one pound off Mrs Bullock.
I used this money to pay for the ground for our John to be buried. I have never yet been able to pay Mrs Bullock back, but she has not asked me for the money, which is very kind of her, and I have written to her from gaol to say that I shall pay her back just as soon as I am able. I still owe the doctor his fee for the visit for the death certificate as well.