But, what was he holding in his hand? Something small, heavy, by the way he weighed it, brows arrowing down to his nose. Slipping his other hand into his pocket, he pulled out something small and red. Where had she seen that slip of red velvet before? Never mind the confusion, or welter of emotions. She shoved her way towards him.
‘No, Rhys, don’t!’
He startled at the sound of her voice, his hands closing around the stone and pouch. He gave a wan smile. His eyes looked huge, bruised, so much darker than usual.
‘Please, Rhys, don’t throw the stone into the sea.’
He swung away, training his gaze on the bay. ‘Beautiful, this land is, Bridie. Prydferth!’
It was. Bridie could only agree. The clear blue waters of the bay shimmered like a chandelier in the bright morning sun. The shores on either side were wreathed in smooth yellow sand. Beyond them, steeply wooded hills were clothed in dusky shades of green. She raised her hand, pointing.
‘That hill’s called Arthur’s Seat. But … I don’t know why.’
‘It’s named for a place in Scotland. Mt Martha, the hill beyond, is named for a man’s wife.’
‘Oh.’ Bridie didn’t know what to say. Though he clearly expected an answer. Head cocked, his dark eyes studied her face. She dropped her gaze. ‘I didn’t think you’d like it here.’
‘Lovely, the land is, and Siân dead. Two unalterable truths. I can’t change them and I’ve no mind to try. What about you? Do you like what you see?’
‘Yes. I like it fine.’
‘Glad, I am, to see you happy. And your baby brother, how is he?’
‘Oh, Rhys, I’m sorry … so sorry.’ Her lips quivered like flummery. She stopped, took a deep breath, determined not to cry.
‘There’s sorry, I am, too. To be so pathetic.’
‘It’s fine. I understand. You’ve lost everything.’
She meant it, too. At least, she thought she did. Except he didn’t smile or reach out to her—no gesture, or word of comfort, nothing like her old friend Rhys. Despair washed over her. Maybe it was too late. After all her thinking and writing and realising, maybe she’d lost him already. Their stories and magic and seeing things differently, nothing but the flotsam and jetsam of a difficult voyage.
‘Please Rhys. Don’t throw Siân’s stone into the sea.’
‘It’s cursed, Bridie. Like her life. I only made things worse by making her emigrate.’
‘You weren’t to know. No one knew. How could they?’
‘Siân knew.’
‘And she chose to come with you.’
‘If she’d not been on this ship, she’d not have fallen, or started to bleed. I made that happen.’
‘It’s horrible when someone dies. You blame yourself. I did, after my dad died. I thought, if I’d tried harder he mightn’t have drunk so much or felt so sad or … given up on life.’ She stopped, her heart tapping like a mallet. ‘I’ve never told you how my dad died, have I, Rhys?’
‘In an accident, like Siân’s. Is that what you’re trying to say, Bridie Stewart?’
‘No. I lied. Ma told me the morning we left Deptford. My dad didn’t die in an accident. He was a sick man. Dying. One night, after he and Ma had argued, he went out and killed himself.’
She saw his face soften, his eyes fill with understanding.
‘Sori, bach. I should have realised.’
‘Their argument was about my notebook. That’s why Ma hated it. That’s why I was desperate to save it. But Ma’s words hurt so much. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. And now, I think, perhaps … I wasn’t meant to.’
‘Yet you just have.’
‘I can now because I know the whole story. Alf told me. He was there. He said my parents were happy once. That even if my dad did give up on life, he still loved me. Not the words you would have given me—magic words that would conjure a mighty wind or unlock shackles. But the words I needed in my day of trouble.’
‘So, Alf was not big, dull Elffin, he was Taliesin?’
‘Elffin, Gwyddno and Taliesin, that’s the way it works, isn’t it? Each of us in every character, the stories shifting and changing as we learn to see differently.’
‘A great lesson, you’ve learned, Bridie bach. There’s glad I am to hear you say it. But it’s different for me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Siân’s life was cursed.’
‘I don’t think she saw her life that way. I think she liked being a fairy woman. Your fairy woman.’
‘Even so.’ He jerked the stone from his pocket. ‘I’d rather not have this to remind me.’
‘No!’ Bridie caught at his arm. ‘Don’t you see? I almost threw my notebook into the sea, I was so desperate not to share it with Alf. If I had, I’d have lost everything, the words, the magic and the chance to see differently.’
He paused, arm aloft, his hair ruffling like feathers in the wind. ‘Nefi! Why are you doing this to me?’
‘Because we’re friends, Rhys, and … because Siân would have wanted me to.’
His shoulders sagged, his arm lowered. She took the stone from his slackened fingers. It felt cool and heavy in her palm. She slipped it into her pocket.
‘I’m taking this because you’re grieving. But if you ever want it back, you only have to ask me.’
‘Thank you.’ His words little more than a whisper.
This was it. Time to read him her story—the final, most important story in her notebook. But was it the right time? Rhys looked so worn and wan, at the end of his strength. How could he possibly see in such a dark place? He’d have to wait, through the worst of his grief, and wait some more. It might be years before he was ready to hear her story, let alone see with different eyes. Meanwhile, he needed something to hang onto. Something to give him strength in the days ahead.
‘I’ve a gift for you, Rhys. Something magic to help you remember our friendship.’
‘I don’t need magic to remember you, bach.’
‘It’s not real magic. I’m not a fairy woman, like Siân. But I would like to know you are all right.’
‘I could write. I’m sure they have a postal service in Port Phillip.’
‘No. Not penny post. This is magic we’re talking about.’
‘Indeed.’ He found the ghost of a smile. ‘I think you’d better explain yourself.’
‘I don’t pretend to know how you feel, Rhys. I’ve never lost a wife or a child. But I have known grief and I have watched someone give up on life. I know, for a while, your stories are going to be all broken up inside you. There will be no one to remind you. No magic cellar where you can sit and feel Siân’s presence. So I think,’ she held out her notebook, ‘you’ll have to use my stories for a while.’
‘No.’ His smile vanished. ‘I’ll not take your notebook.’
‘I’m not giving it to you, Rhys. Only offering it on loan. I hope, one day, you’ll bring it back to me. But if you don’t, I’ll understand. You can rely on the postal service in that instance.’ She smiled, jiggling the notebook. ‘Here. Won’t you take it?’
‘No, please, bach, Don’t make me do this.’
‘You’ll not want to get out of bed, Rhys, or look after yourself. So, you see, my motives are purely selfish. I want to know you’re alive somewhere in the world. You won’t want to read my notebook either, not for a long time. But when you are ready, there are rules. I expect you to abide by them.’
He raised his head. Uncertainty flickering across the thin drawn contours of his face. ‘May I know the rules, Bridie Stewart, before I enter into this contract?’
‘You must read the stories, one at a time, in the order in which they were written. You must think of each one as a test, like in a fairy tale. You must never, ever skip ahead, or fail to heed their lessons, lest you suffer the consequences.’
Silence. Bridie heard the drumming of her pulse, the raucous cry of a seabird overhead, felt a slackening as Lady Sophia entered the calmer waters of the bay. The hiss of Rhys’
s indrawn breath.
‘Iesu, Bridie Stewart. You’re a shrewd magician.’
Chapter 36
There were no big, dull men waiting to claim Bridie’s hand in marriage when Lady Sophia dropped anchor in Hobson’s Bay. Not even a wharf for her absent suitors to stand on. Only a wooden jetty poking out from a squalid settlement called Williamstown. That’s if you could call the stone warehouse, gaggle of wooden huts, severed trees, pigs, dogs, sheep and rough looking men a settlement. It smelled worse than Covent Garden after market day—a ripe, rotten stench of privies, animal slaughter and tanneries.
Bridie stood on the main deck that first night and watched dusk soften the outline of its buildings. A punt crossed the nearby river mouth, an offender released from the stocks with a good-natured slap. Men read notices from Williamstown’s single remaining tree. She shivered. How would they live in such a strange, desolate place?
Returning to steerage, she spent a gloomy evening staring at the deck boards above. There was no light after-supper chatter to lift her mood. All talk of employment prospects seemed foolish against the bleakness of their setting; all notions of cookery, shepherding, domestic service and needlework strangely out of place.
Bridie lay awake for hours after the lamps had been dimmed. A strange absence of snoring told her she wasn’t the only one affected. She heard sobs and whispered words of comfort, couples hissing their disappointment. A strange, subdued silence from Alf and Ma’s bunk.
Sometime during the graveyard watch, a fight broke out on the nearby shore. She heard shouts, dogs snarling, and the crack of a rifle. She fell asleep to the haunting cry of a night fowl.
Steerage rose early the following morning. Once mattresses were rolled and the breakfast dishes stacked away, Bridie stood on the main deck to await the arrival of the immigration officers. Two men arrived at the nearby river mouth on horseback. They signalled a punt, crossed the river, and joined the harbourmaster on the pier. A pair of surly convicts rowed them out to the ship.
Bridie, Alf, and Ma took their turn before the inspectors. The harbourmaster, a scruffy old man with a bulging red nose, explained they were entitled to two free weeks of shipboard accommodation. The immigration officer asked Alf about Lady Sophia’s sanitary regime. Alf twisted his cap as he outlined his cleaning duties. The immigration officer asked about Doctor Roberts’ role. Alf’s answers were honest, critical. More critical than Bridie would have imagined.
Once steerage been given a clean bill of health, fresh meat and vegetables were delivered to the ship. One of the single men bought a newspaper called the Port Phillip Gazette. Its anecdotes rolled from tongue to tongue, gathering gloom with each retelling. Things weren’t good in Port Phillip. Bridie’s suitors were not the only ones absent. There were no jobs either. Terms like influx, foreign capital, land speculation, and depleted government revenues were bandied about. Bridie didn’t know what they meant. But Tom Griggs did, and he had quite a lot to say about the situation.
‘It’s a cock-up! A right bleedin’ cock-up! All them placards, all them bills. A colony in need of labour, they called it. Now we’re here, it’s all a con. A great big bleedin’ con!’
He stopped, having exhausted his vocabulary of frustration, and ran a hand through his grizzled hair.
‘You can always do odd jobs, Tom.’
‘Odd jobs!’ Tom’s eyes bulged. ‘I didn’t come twelve thousand miles to do odd jobs, Pam.’
‘Just for the start, love.’
Tom clutched his head in his hands, emitting a low growl. ‘I came here to improve meself. Not to struggle.’
‘And you will love, it’s just … a bad beginning.’
Tom jumped up, waving his arms. ‘There’s no money. Or jobs. Didn’t you hear what I just said?’
‘Tom. You’re frightening the children.’
And me, Bridie thought from the privacy of her bunk. If Tom had been given a script and told to act like a man in great distress, he couldn’t have improved upon the performance. Beside him, Alf sat ashen-faced, silent. Ma nursed baby Dylan and wept. Over the next few days, as the situation failed to improve, he tried to explain the situation.
‘The squatters have been buying land, lass. Lots of land, even though they don’t need it, and reselling it at a higher price. They’ve borrowed money to set up their runs, forgetting how long a fleece takes to grow and how far they are from home. Now they’ve run out of funds and they can’t pay the interest on their loans.’
‘So … they don’t need us anymore?’
‘Some are still employing shepherds and hut keepers. But they want single men without dependants.’
Single men could still find work, if they were willing to travel to the remote settlements. But no one wanted a shopkeeper or an ageing builders labourer. Immigrants were starving, the Port Philip Gazette told them, sharing tiny wattle and daub huts with other families. There was no parish relief to fall back on. Even Ma’s needlework wouldn’t help them. There were more needlewomen in Port Phillip than female customers. By the end of the first week, Alf and Tom started to consider their options.
‘We mustn’t panic,’ Alf said at teatime.
‘Of course, not. We’re English. Let’s stay calm in the face of our ruin.’
‘They are not going to let us starve. They brought us out here. They’ll look after us until we get on our feet.’
‘You’re a fool if you believe that, Alf Bustle.’
‘There are public works. One of the single men told me. Men with families are being employed to build roads and dams.’
‘Like felons! Like the bleedin’ convicts assigned to the water police. No wonder they stopped transportation. No need to send out convicts when daft buggers like us are willing to come of our own accord.’
‘It’s not like that, Tom, and you know it. The public works are only a temporary measure until things pick up. Meanwhile, we have each other—we can rent a cottage with the money I’ve earned from my gratuity.’
Tom deflated like a spent balloon. ‘That’s big of you, Alf. I’ve got funds set aside, too, if I’m honest.’
‘Right.’ Alf nodded, his eyes a steel blue gleam. ‘We’ve got money to be going with and we’ll work like felons if we have to. But no one is going to starve. Do you hear me, Mary, Pam, Bridie? We’ll get through this together.’
It took days for Alf and Tom to find a cottage and, from the straight line of Alf’s mouth, Bridie gathered Melbourne’s streets were no more appealing than Williamstown’s. Alf gave notice of their departure, by which time Rhys had also decided to leave the ship. Only Annie would remain on board. As they stood amid trunks, boxes, and bulging canvas bags, Alf fixed her with his concerned blue gaze.
‘Are you sure you won’t come with us, lass? I told your aunt I’d see you safe and I meant it. No matter how bad things are.’
‘I’ll be fine, Mr Bustle. They’re setting up tents for the single girls.’
‘Well, you know where to find us if you need us.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Ma gave Annie a curt nod, passed Dylan to one of the sailors, and stepped backwards onto the rope ladder. Bridie hugged her friend tight.
‘Come and see us, please.’
Annie glanced towards the ladder. ‘I can’t. Your Ma wouldn’t like it.’
Why? What had gone wrong between them? Bridie longed to ask. But Ma’s emotions were still too fragile. She nodded, throat tight, and clambered down the ladder. Rhys followed, settling himself to the rear of the longboat, his eyes trained on the shore. He’d decided to take his chances in the Portland Bay District, he’d told Alf earlier. They needed bark cutters down there, as well as shepherds and hut keepers. He hoped to pick up work at the whaling station over the winter. It sounded harsh and dangerous. What if he got injured or, worse, died? She would never see him again, or even know his fate.
The morning sun seared their skin. The convict oarsmen heaved and panted, the armpits of their faded calico work shirts drenched wit
h sweat. They pulled onto the beach, close to the river mouth. The convicts shipped oars, jumped from the longboat, dragged her up onto the soft dark sand, and passed trunks, bundles, and bags from the boat to the shore. Tom arranged for their trunks to be ferried up the river. Alf hailed the punt. They turned to take their farewell of Rhys.
‘Good luck.’ Alf pumped his hand.
‘Thanks. I’ll need it. We sail on the evening tide.’
‘Let’s hope you find work down there.’
‘I’ll not be needing much, with only one mouth to feed.’
This was true. In a strange twist of fate Rhys had become one of the ‘lucky’ ones—a single man without dependants. Yet as he stood, wan and weary in his patched grey jacket, she knew neither Alf nor Tom would have traded places with him. If their families held them back, it also gave them a reason to keep going. For Rhys, and poor Annie who’d fallen out with Ma, life was empty beyond their basic needs.
‘Keep in touch,’ Pam said, hugging him tight.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I can’t think how.’ Pam sniffed, dashing a tear from her cheek. ‘None of us knows where we’ll end up.’
Rhys turned to Ma. ‘And here’s baby Alfred, come to say goodbye.’
‘Alfred John Dylan.’ Ma nodded.
‘Fine strong names to live by, and two fine parents to help him grow.’
Rhys touched a hand to Dylan’s downy head. Ma shrank back, clutching his swaddled form. Alf reached out and took the baby from her arms.
‘Here, Mary, love. Let Rhys have a look at him.’
Ma stepped back and released her hold. Shifting from side to side, her hands were a convulsive twitch. What did she think Rhys was going to do? Run away with him?
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