The Quarantine Station

by Michelle Montebello

  He smiled warmly. ‘I can try.’

  ‘I’m think I’m lost. I’m trying to get down to the wharf, but I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere.’

  ‘I’ll say you have,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘You’re nowhere near the wharf.’

  She rolled her eyes at her own incompetence. ‘I figured as much. Do you think you could point me in the right direction?’

  ‘I can do one better. I can walk you there.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to do that. I don’t want to interrupt your work.’

  ‘You’re not interrupting. I was heading down there anyway.’ He smiled that warm smile again, exposing rows of perfect white teeth and Emma felt her stomach flip strangely in a way it hadn’t in years.

  ‘I’m Matt,’ he said as he led them down Isolation Road.

  ‘Emma. That’s what most people call me anyway.’

  ‘Emma,’ he repeated, and she blushed at the sound of her name on his lips.

  ‘So you work here?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’m from a long line of carpenters. My father, grandfather and great-grandfather all worked at this station at one time or another.’

  ‘That’s impressive. My grandmother was born here in 1919,’ she explained as they walked, her sneakers and his work boots kicking up small rocks along the road. ‘She lived here until she was seven, and then moved away with her parents. She’s in a nursing home now. She suffers dementia.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. If she was born in 1919 that would make her…’

  ‘A hundred years old.’

  ‘What an achievement. Good for her!’

  ‘Yes, though she has a tendency to wander from the home at night. It’s starting to occur more frequently and I’m worried that one day something will happen to her, that maybe she won’t come back.’

  Matt was quiet as he listened and Emma wasn’t sure why she was telling this stranger her woes, only that she felt oddly at ease in his presence.

  ‘The aged care director said that introducing some items from my grandmother’s past might stop her wandering, perhaps something from her days at the Quarantine Station; letters, photographs, that sort of thing. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have anything like that in her possession, and I get the impression her parents packed up and left this place suddenly in 1926 with little more than a suitcase between them.’

  ‘So you came to see if you could find something that will help her?’

  ‘Yes, though I’m embarrassingly unprepared. This place is enormous,’ she said. ‘I don’t even have a map or a clue where to start.’

  He laughed. ‘I remember the first day I started working here. I got lost a bunch of times. The station is huge. I’ve worked here for eight years and I’m sure there are still hidden pockets that I’ve never seen before. It’s an incredible place.’

  He spoke about it with such passion that Emma was able to glimpse past the disorienting presence of it and into the beauty. They were high up on the headland when they arrived at a cluster of buildings, interconnected with walkways, similar to those in first class. The view of the harbour was one of the most impressive Emma had seen so far.

  Matt explained that it was the Former Isolation Precinct. ‘This was the place you were brought to if you’d been in contact with a sick person but had yet to present symptoms yourself. It wasn’t a great place to be in but the views were nice.’

  ‘Almost worth going to isolation for?’

  He laughed. ‘Almost.’

  They continued down Isolation Road, reaching the Former Hospital Precinct where two hospitals sat opposite each other.

  ‘The original first-class hospital burnt down in May 1919 and they had to rebuild it.’ He pointed to one of the buildings that looked slightly more modern than the other.

  Emma turned and stared out at the view across the harbour to South Head. White sailboats bobbed calmly on the water and Sydney city glistened beneath a pale azure sky. ‘It’s hard to imagine so much death and illness in such a lovely place.’

  ‘There were a couple of reasons why they built the hospitals up here,’ Matt explained. ‘Being high up, the wind blew away the stench of death. Can you imagine how awful the smell would have been otherwise?’

  ‘It would have been horrible.’

  ‘They also thought all the fresh air would blow disease away. Their thinking was a little backward, but you have to give them points for trying.’ He touched her arm. ‘Come, we’re nearly at the wharf. The rest is downhill from here.’

  He led them to a narrow path carved through sandstone that declined sharply. They followed it down, Emma holding onto the railing, sunshine wattle and bottlebrush on either side.

  When they reached the bottom, Matt pointed to a long, wide jetty that extended out into clear water. ‘And there’s the wharf.’

  He explained that most of the original wharf timber had been infested with white ants and extensive work had been undertaken to restore it to its former glory. The tracks from the funicular railway were still visible.

  The buildings that made up the rest of the Wharf Precinct were brown brick and some had been refurbished and transformed into eateries. There were more tourists down here than in the other precincts, gathered around the café tables or sitting on the beach.

  ‘Over there, near the restaurants, are the old shower blocks and the autoclaves. Arriving passengers were treated to showers with carbolic acid to remove lice and eggs from their hair and skin. Their luggage was fumigated in the autoclaves to kill anything that would spread disease.’

  ‘Sounds awful.’

  ‘Yes but it was necessary. Those treatments were effective, stopping typhus in its tracks.’

  ‘I see. I was hoping to catch up to the Wharf Wanderer tour, but perhaps I won’t have to,’ Emma said smiling. ‘You know so much about this place.’

  ‘I guess it’s in my blood. I find it fascinating. And when you love something like that, you just soak it up.’ He led her to a long brick building closest to the wharf. ‘Then you babble about it to complete strangers.’

  They came to rest outside a doorway and Emma was able to glimpse Matt properly for the first time. His hair was dark, though sun had lightened the ends and his eyes were hazel with flecks of green and gold. He had long lashes and light stubble on his face that Emma found attractive. He was rugged and tanned, strong yet gentle, and she felt her cheeks flush at the thought of him.

  ‘This is the museum,’ he said, indicating the doorway and if he had noticed her sudden colour, he didn’t acknowledge it. ‘There could be something in here for your grandmother. You could take a few photos and show her.’

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘I have a spare ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Want me to show you around? It’s only small but—’

  ‘Yes please,’ Emma said quickly, and it was Matt’s turn to blush.

  He led the way through the door and they stepped into a large room with glass cabinets and displays that had been erected to form a winding path. There were old suitcases and tombstones, medical implements, framed maps and a yellowing book titled Quarantine Deaths 1881–1962.

  Emma wasn’t sure where to cast her eye. There were many things to look at—clothes and shoes, chinaware, teacups and teapots, items from a time so long ago that it hardly seemed possible they could still be here.

  She followed the path around the museum, taking time to read the stories behind glass frames and to study dishes of medical instruments—syringes, scales, jars and vials. The tombstones saddened her, for behind the intrigue were stories of disease and death, of families that had arrived whole but left parentless or childless.

  Matt was a knowledgeable guide. He led her around the exhibits while she took photos on her phone, describing the use of certain implements and telling her stories about the staff and passengers who had been thrown together by circumstance. He answered her questions in detail and at times, her focus strayed from what he was saying to how he was saying it,
with strong hands, that incredible smile and eyes that crinkled beneath long lashes.

  ‘That was fantastic,’ Emma said when they reached the end of the trail and arrived again at the doorway. ‘Almost like stepping back in time.’

  ‘I’m sure there are still hundreds of items hidden away in rooms and buildings that no one has come across yet. The place is just too big to have collected it all.’

  ‘Well, thank you for walking me down here and for your impromptu tour. I enjoyed it immensely.’

  ‘No problem. I enjoyed it too.’

  ‘I better let you get back to work,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  A moment passed between them, then Emma made the first move, slipping through the doorway and back out into the sunshine. ‘Goodbye, then.’ She started up towards the shower blocks where she hoped to catch the shuttle back to her car.

  Matt called out after her. ‘Do you still want to search for something for your grandmother?’

  Emma turned and squinted into the sun. ‘Yes!’

  ‘Come back soon. I’ll unlock the archive room. There’s a lot of stuff in there.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That would be great!’

  His eyes lingered on her then he slipped back into the museum. Emma continued up to the shower blocks to wait for the shuttle, wearing a smile the entire way.

  Rose

  1918

  Rose Porter squinted over the advert again, the sun’s glare bouncing off the newspaper. It was unseasonably hot for May and she was sweating beneath her hat, gloves and the unforgiving fabric of her corset.

  She smoothed her brow and dabbed the shine above her lip, clutching the railing for support as the ferry to Manly tumbled over rough water in the harbour. Foam sprayed up and wet her face but she didn't mind. It was some respite from the heat.

  She glanced down at the advert again in her lap. Parlourmaid Wanted. North Head Quarantine Station. First-Class Precinct. Board and Meals Provided.

  Rose folded the newspaper and set it in her lap. She wasn’t a qualified parlourmaid nor had she served in a great house before. She had arrived from London only days before. Her home had been under air siege by the Germans, and Rose’s family, her mother, father and six siblings, had decided upon refuge in the English countryside when Rose declared she would not be joining them.

  Instead, she boarded the troopship Ormonde for Sydney, securing passage as a seamstress, making and mending troop’s uniforms and helping in the galley. It had been a treacherous journey across unsafe waters, the transportation of civilians having ceased years earlier when the Great War exploded. Nevertheless, after months at sea, she’d planted her feet safely on Australian soil. With little more than a handful of coins in her purse, she was eager to secure work.

  Just like England, employment opportunities in Sydney were scarce. Seamstress roles had dried up, so too had jobs in munition factories and great houses, for with all the men sent to the Front, thousands of women had been forced into the workplace.

  So when Rose had glanced at the newspaper over breakfast the day before and saw the advertisement for a parlourmaid at the Quarantine Station, she’d been intrigued. She had heard stories of the Quarantine Station, that it was the kind of place to make a grown man quiver should he find his boat docking at its wharf. Thankfully, the Ormonde had entered Australian waters disease-free.

  To be willing to apply for a role in such a place was testament to Rose’s desperation. She was far from home, in a foreign land and her money was dwindling. She had barely enough left for another two nights in her squalid shared room at the boarding house in Surry Hills. She had to find work soon if she didn’t want to become a lady of the night like the other girls in her room.

  The ocean splashed up as the ferry dipped and Rose smoothed the back of her pinned hair. The sun was fierce. Sweat trickled down the inside of her dress, though she refused to remove her hat and gloves. There would be hundreds of applicants vying for this role, if the women of Sydney were half as desperate as she was. She wanted to look the part of a skilled parlourmaid and hoped the interviewing officer could forgive her lack of experience.

  The ferry docked at Manly Wharf and Rose disembarked with her handbag and a suitcase of clothes. Seagulls squawked and flapped near her ankles but she paid them no mind.

  She walked purposefully towards the esplanade, bustling with people. She stopped to tuck the newspaper beneath her arm. Opening her handbag, she retrieved a map of the area she had collected at the Circular Quay terminal. She calculated the distance from Manly to North Head where the Quarantine Station was located, hidden away from civilisation. It was too far to walk, especially in the heat.

  Rose looked around, considering her options. She didn’t have enough money on her person to hire a ride in a new taxi cab; a luxury reserved for the rich, but she did have enough to spare for one of the few remaining horse-drawn carriages still in operation.

  She approached a bearded man in a dirty shirt and suspenders. He reeked of tobacco, even from his position high on the carriage.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for transportation,’ Rose called up to him.

  He spat tobacco out his mouth. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To North Head.’

  ‘The Quarantine Station?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He peered down at her, his mouth moving beneath his yellowed beard. ‘It’ll cost you one shilling.’

  Rose was outraged. ‘One shilling!’

  ‘One shilling. And I won’t take you all the way up. I’ll stop at the quarantine arch. You’ll have to walk the rest of the way.’

  Rose didn’t know where the ‘quarantine arch’ was, but it didn’t sound close to where she needed to go. ‘I need you to take me all the way into the First Class Precinct.’

  ‘I value my life thank you, ma’am. I ain’t going anywhere near the place.’

  ‘Fine. Five pence and you can take me to the arch.’

  ‘Ten pence. My final offer.’

  Rose sighed in frustration. The only other horse-drawn carriage was pulling away from the curb with a passenger, leaving her with no bargaining power. She was conscious of time. ‘Settled then. Ten pence it is.’

  He hopped down from the carriage, took her suitcase from her and offered his yellow fingers for support. She placed one foot on the footplate and he helped her up onto the seat.

  Rose sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap while the driver stored her suitcase in the trunk, then climbed aboard the front perch. He requested she pay the ten pence in advance and she retrieved the beloved coins from her purse and begrudgingly handed them over. She had only a little left for the ferry ride home and didn’t want to think about the long walk back to the esplanade she’d have to endure if she didn’t get the position.

  The driver snapped the reins and the horse surged forward. He clomped heavily along the road, pulling the carriage up enormous hills and along coastal streets where the ocean stretched endlessly to the horizon.

  The landscape began to change and Rose sensed they were heading deep into bushland as they approached the station. A feeling of isolation settled over her as the trees grew thicker, the headland higher and the road emptier. There were fewer houses and then civilisation disappeared altogether. At the top of a hill, they arrived at a large sandstone wall with an arch.

  The driver pulled on the reins, halting the horse and carriage. ‘This is as far as I go,’ he said, turning to her. ‘The quarantine arch.’

  ‘Surely you can spare a young lady a walk in this searing heat and go forth a little further.’

  ‘This is as far as I go,’ he repeated and turned away from her. ‘If you had any sense, you’d hitch a ride back down with me.’

  The challenge made her jut out her chin, hoist up her skirts and climb down from the carriage unassisted. She didn’t wait for him to join her. She retrieved her own suitcase from the trunk and stood on the side of the road
watching him. He snapped the reins and muttered good day without meeting her eyes. Turning the carriage around, he accelerated back down the hill, around the bend and out of sight.

  Rose looked around. She was alone and the sound of the horse’s hooves had died away. The only noise left was the thud of her own heartbeat in her chest. With her suitcase in hand, she concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, forcing herself on. She didn’t dare allow her thoughts to roam should her courage desert her and she turn and sprint back after the driver.

  At the sandstone arch, she pushed through a set of double wooden gates and continued on the deserted road. She was incredibly parched, with her corset laced far too tightly for the heat. Her hands were clammy in her gloves and her hair was damp beneath her hat.

  She noticed the landscape was different from that of London—thick and rugged bushland, and there was a sharp scent of something medicinal in the air that she couldn’t place. The wildlife was different too. She heard the raucous laugh of a bird and glimpsed the strangest little critters with long snouts in the undergrowth.

  After some time on the road, she reached a security post where an officer sat sleepily in a small guard house. He sat up when she approached and stepped out to greet her. ‘Good day, ma’am. Can I help you?’

  Rose stopped and tried to force saliva into her dry mouth. It felt like cotton wool. ‘Yes, I’m here to meet Miss Dalton. I have an appointment for an interview.’

  The officer was young and in full naval uniform. He seemed stunned that she was standing there. ‘Did you arrive on foot, ma’am?’

  ‘I had a carriage bring me up from Manly, but he dropped me at the quarantine arch. I walked the rest of the way.’

  The officer whistled in disbelief. ‘That’s some walk. I’m sorry, this is a restricted area. We’re not allowed to let the public enter.’

  ‘Can you let Miss Dalton know I’m here?’

  The officer scratched his head. ‘Miss Dalton. Now, which one is she?’

  Rose furrowed her brow.

  ‘I apologise, ma’am. It’s my first day and I don’t have the radio with me. I can’t call anyone to bring her down.’ He chewed his lip at the dilemma. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to let you go in just this once. But please go straight to her. Don’t deviate.’