by Mary Arrigan
‘Look, Mister,’ I interrupted, ‘we’ve come from a starved land. We can cope with anything.’ But his words stayed in my head as Grandpa clicked the horse into action.
We made our way to where Mama and May waited in the small wooden house we were renting. John Joe had made himself useful at the harbour by finding out all he could about the business of digging for gold. Sometimes his news was good, such as the times he met up with someone who had struck it rich and was on his way to cash in his find. Sometimes it was bad news, when he saw the defeated diggers who’d run out of money and could no longer pay their licence fee.
The licence fee was what worried Grandpa most.
‘Why should we have to pay the Crown to dig holes in Australian soil?’ he grumbled. ‘Isn’t it enough that they have driven us from our own land? What more do they want?’
‘Hush, father,’ Mama would say then. ‘We’re here. God will look after us.’
‘No,’ Mama,’ I said. ‘We’re on our own. We’ve got to work this through by ourselves. Rosaries and long prayers won’t pave a path to a decent living.’
Mama looked shocked. To be honest, I suppose I wanted to shock her. I’d listened to enough of her pleading prayers since Papa died, and I knew that, whatever was in store for us, we had to find the strength to deal with it together.
The night before we left for the goldfield, we stacked what was left of our Irish possessions on top of the wagon. Not that there was much. We’d sold all our furniture, Mama’s china, lamps, pictures and ornaments before leaving Ireland, as well as our livestock – everything except our books. Grandpa had insisted we keep our books. Part of the money had gone towards our passage. The rest, along with our savings, was kept in a box attached to the underside of the wagon.
‘That’s all we have,’ Mama said, as she patted the laden cart. ‘Nothing but what lies in here.’
‘We have ourselves, Mama,’ I said, ‘and we are everything we need.’
Later on, while May and Mama prepared supper, and John Joe was seeing to the two horses, I went across the open yard to where Grandpa was leaning on a fence. He was gazing thoughtfully up at the starlit sky. I put my arm through his.
‘What are you thinking, Grandpa?’ I asked.
Without shifting his gaze, Grandpa squeezed my hand. ‘The Southern Cross,’ he said, pointing to a pretty formation of stars. ‘I’m told that the Southern Cross is only seen over the southern hemisphere.’ Then he looked at me. ‘We really are on the other side of the world now, Esty.’
His words filled me with a momentary panic. Had I done the right thing persuading my family and May and John Joe to come here?
As if he’d read my mind, Grandpa patted my hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ve been listening to the stories of over-packed ships taking starving land-clearance victims across the Atlantic to America. If they don’t die of disease from those vermin-infested floating graveyards, they’re lucky if the ships reach harbour. Look up there at those stars, lass, and make a wish.’
I looked up again at the Southern Cross and wished.
Chapter Fourteen
Grandpa and John Joe attached hoops from one side of the wagon to the other. Over these they nailed an extra length of canvas, which formed a cosy shelter for us and our possessions.
‘There,’ said John Joe, standing back to admire his work. ‘A travelling palace.’
‘Near enough,’ laughed May, clapping her hands. ‘But the real palace will come when we find all that gold.’
‘A simple house with a garden would suffice for me,’ put in Mama. ‘We mustn’t set our sights too high. Indeed, we might not even find…’
‘We will, Mama. We’re going to find gold. Please don’t say we’re not.’
I hopped up on the seat beside Grandpa while Mama and May climbed on to the back of the cart. John Joe rode alongside on his horse. We were on our way.
Once we were beyond the city boundary, the track became rough and bumpy, but that was to be expected. Grandpa was unusually silent, except for the odd click-click to the horse.
‘You’re quiet, Grandpa,’ I said. ‘You’re not feeling like Mama, are you? I couldn’t bear it if you were.’
‘No, Esty,’ he replied. ‘I know we’re facing an unknown future, but we’re made of stern stuff, us Mahers. We’ll take whatever knocks we get, and bounce up again.’
‘So, what are you thinking, then?’
He gave another click to the horse. ‘Your mama,’ he said eventually.
‘What about her?’ I asked.
He turned to look at me. ‘Don’t you love her?’
‘Yes,’ I answered hesitantly. ‘Of course I do. She’s my mother.’
Grandpa focused on the track again. ‘Are you blaming her, Esty?’
‘Blaming her for what?’ His words were very unsettling.
‘For your papa’s death?’
‘What are you talking about, Grandpa? Didn’t I hear her trying to stop him from going out that … that awful morning? How could I possibly blame Mama for that?’
‘So what are you blaming her for, then?’
I turned away, as if by doing so I’d stop him from seeing the lie I had just told. But I knew I could never keep anything from him. I took a deep breath.
‘Going into service,’ he said quietly. ‘Is that it?’
I bit my lip and nodded. ‘Perhaps,’ I muttered.
‘Ah,’ was all he said.
We continued in silence.
‘I was too young,’ I said eventually, spilling out the thoughts that I’d been trying to subdue since those long, suffocating days and nights in the cramped cabin of the ship. ‘What mother sends a child out into service at twelve years of age? It hurt me, Grandpa. I’d already lost Papa, and then Mama sent me away to slave among strangers.’
‘And look at you now,’ said Grandpa, turning to me.
‘What about me now?’
Grandpa smiled and switched his attention to the track again. ‘You’re all grown up,’ he said. ‘A headstrong young woman with some knowledge of life and the determination to use it. Where do you think those qualities come from?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘When you left, Esty – and believe me, it hurt me too – you were a timid child. You were spoilt...’
‘Spoilt!’ I spluttered.
‘Spoilt, in that you wanted for nothing,’ he put in. ‘Sheltered from all that was going on. All the hunger and misery outside the estate – none of it touched you.’
‘I saw enough,’ I retorted, remembering Brigid and the day she fell down dead. ‘I can’t see where all this is leading, Grandpa.’
‘Think, Esty. If you’d been kept at home, what sort of a person would you be now...? No,’ he went on, as I started to protest. ‘Think for a moment, before you answer. Think hard, Esty.’
I did think. If Mama hadn’t done what she did, I would still be that sheltered child living in a grand house and concerned only with her own pleasures. Just like Miss Emma. Going into service had made me realise that I must rely on myself to survive the knocks of life. I shuddered at what might have been.
‘Are you cold, Esty?’ Grandpa asked. I shook my head.
‘Mama should have said,’ I murmured eventually. ‘If she had only told me that she’d asked Mrs Burgess to take me on. She did it behind my back, Grandpa.’
‘And what would you have done about it, child?’ he said. ‘Tell me that.’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Made a fuss, I suppose,’ I replied.
‘Exactly,’ said Grandpa. ‘And where would that have got us? Still in that hovel we had to move to, waiting for His Lordship to move us on to something worse while he fattened up his cattle? Consider your time in service as an education, lass. A tough education, I’ll grant you, but an education nevertheless.’
‘A moneymaking education,’ I said, with a note of bitterness. ‘Every penny I earned went back to Mama. Never once did she thank me for t
hat.’
‘Oh, Esty,’ said Grandpa wearily. ‘You have no idea how much she blessed your little head every time John Joe delivered your letters and money. She’s a proud lady, your mother. Can you imagine how she must have felt, taking the earnings of her twelve-year-old daughter to survive? She could have done a lot better than my son… No, let me finish,’ he said, as I tried to interrupt. ‘I loved my son. I did my best for him, bringing him up alone when my wife died. But it was your mother who knocked the corners off him and made him what he was, a gentleman who thought about others. Don’t ever forget that, Esty.’
I knew Grandpa was right. During that long sea journey, with too much time to think, I’d been looking for reasons to resent Mama.
‘If all this goes wrong, Grandpa,’ I said quietly, ‘Mama will blame me and nothing will ever be the same again.’
‘Ah, so that’s what it is. It’s your own doubts that are feeding you these bad thoughts, Esty,’ he replied, turning to look at me. ‘It’s no harm to have doubts, lass. But to twist them around and imagine things like your Mama blaming you, and resenting her because of it, is a waste of time. Don’t let that happen, Esty. There will be hard times ahead. We all need each other right now.’
For a few moments I thought about what he’d said. Then I sighed and turned to him. ‘You’re right, Grandpa,’ I said.
He smiled, and lightly flicked the reins.
May poked her head through the canvas cover.
‘Would anyone like a biscuit?’ she asked, thrusting two round, oatmeal biscuits towards Grandpa and me. ‘To keep you going until we stop for the night,’ she added.
Chapter Fifteen
The first night passed comfortably enough. John Joe lit a fire near the shelter of some trees, and Mama made soup from bones left over from the roast we’d had as a sort of farewell celebration the day before. We looked again at the Southern Cross and talked about the future. The food and the warm fire spread good cheer among the five of us.
‘Tell us again, Esty,’ said May.
‘Tell you what?’ I asked, though I knew what she wanted to hear.
‘About your meeting with Lord Craythorn.’
‘Oh, May,’ I sighed. ‘How many times have I told that story?’
‘Do tell us, Esty,’ Mama urged.
John Joe threw another broken branch on the fire, making starry sparks light up our faces.
‘When you crossed the bridge,’ said May. ‘Start where you crossed the bridge.’
‘All right,’ I laughed. ‘So I stood at the bridge on the road to the Craythorn estate, and I knew that once I’d crossed it I’d have to keep going. It was terrifying. All the way along the avenue, I had to steel myself. I just kept thinking of those pictures and articles about Australia in The Illustrated London News.’
‘You knocked on the door,’ May interrupted me. ‘Get to the bit where you knocked at the door.’
I laughed again. ‘I knocked at the door and a manservant answered. I said to him, “I wish to speak to Lord Craythorn.” He looked me up and down and said, “His lordship is indisposed. If there’s something you require, young woman, go around to the tradesman’s entrance.” But I was determined. I stood my ground and said – ’
‘I’m Miss Esther Maher, daughter of His Lordship’s late middleman, and it is imperative that I speak with Lord Craythorn,’ put in May, with a giggle. ‘I love that bit.’
‘Maybe you should tell the story, May,’ I said. ‘You know it better than I do.’
‘No, no. Go on,’ said May, flapping her hands.
‘Well,’ I continued. ‘The manservant gave a superior sniff and tried to close the door. But I put my hand on one of the door panels – I was wearing one of Mama’s lace gloves to make me look genteel – and insisted that I had an audience with his lordship.’
‘Audience!’ laughed John Joe. ‘A regular lady, our Esty.’
‘You learn a lot by waiting on the gentry,’ I said glancing meaningfully at Grandpa. He smiled, and nodded. ‘So I stared him out, the pompous old fool, until he sniffed again and told me to wait. It seemed like ages, but he came back and told me to –’
‘Come this way,’ put in May.
‘May!’ laughed John Joe. ‘Will you let the girl get on with it!’
May looked at me, eyes twinkling, and put her hand over her mouth.
‘So I followed him,’ I went on. ‘He opened a door at the end of the hall. “His Lordship will see you now,” he said grandly. I said, “Thank you, my man.”’
Grandpa slapped his thigh. ‘Thank you, my man,’ he chuckled. ‘What a cheeky little madam you were, Esty Maher.’
‘Lord Craythorn was sitting at his desk,’ I continued. ‘He turned around when the manservant announced me and held out his hand. I didn’t know whether I was supposed to shake it or kiss it. But I certainly wasn’t going to kiss it, so I shook it. He smiled at me and asked me to sit down. My heart was pounding so loudly, I was sure he could hear. But I told him that I wanted to change our assisted passage from America to Australia, that my mother, grandfather, two unfortunate relatives and myself wished to make our way to the goldfields in Australia.’
‘Unfortunate relatives!’ sniggered John Joe. ‘Hear that, May? We’re unfortunate relatives.’
‘Shush, John Joe,’ said May, tapping his knee. ‘Go on, Esty.’
‘“Australia?” His Lordship exclaimed. “I’ve already paid for assisted passage for most of my tenants to go to America. Why should I make different arrangements for you, young woman?”
‘I thought of Papa and, somehow, I got a surge of strength. “My father worked very hard for your estate, Your Lordship,” I said. I was trying so hard to keep the shakiness out of my voice that my knuckles were white. “You know how he died. I know he would approve of my decision.”
‘I bit my lip, sure that I’d overstepped myself, and that he’d have that manservant remove me. He drummed his fingers on his desk for a few moments, and I held my breath.
‘I wanted so much to tell him what I really thought of his greed and lack of humanity towards the tenants he was clearing from his land just to increase his wealth. I wanted to hit him and scream into his face about my father. But I clenched my fists tight and remained calm. There was too much depending on this interview.
‘“You’re very young,” he said then. “You really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
‘“I beg to differ, sir,” I said. “I have been reading about the awful, overcrowded conditions on those ships to America, as I’m sure Your Lordship has too. And I’ve been reading about Australia – about the fertile land there, and the goldfields.”
‘“You read, child?” says he.
‘“Yes, Your Lordship. And I intend to live a worthwhile life in a good land. I owe that to my father.”’
Mama was shaking her head. Even though she’d heard my account before, she still couldn’t quite believe it.
‘“You need extra money?” he asked me. I tried not to hope too much. He was, after all, a landlord who was only visiting his estate to oversee the land clearance.’
‘Indeed,’ murmured Grandpa, as he stirred up some more sparks from the fire.
‘“We have some money,” I told him. I was gritting my teeth to keep calm. “We have a reasonable sum for my mother, my grandfather, two relatives and myself. We’re hoping you will provide the rest.”’
‘What a nerve you had, Esty,’ said John Joe.
‘Go on, Esty,’ urged Mama.
‘“You are a determined young lady,” Lord Craythorn said. “And well informed, it would seem. Very well, out of respect for your late father I shall see to it that you get your money. Tell your grandfather to come and see my steward tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.” Then he got up and held out his hand. I wanted to bite it and shake it at the same time. “I wish you a safe passage and good fortune.”’
‘Oh, Esty,’ said May. ‘You deserve a medal for your courage. Imagine, our Esty getting the bett
er of a lord!’
‘And here we all are,’ put in John Joe, ‘in Australia, on our way to dig for gold.’
Looking at John Joe and the muscles he’d developed during months of labouring on the docks, I marvelled that he’d once passed himself off as a woman.
‘We really should get some sleep,’ said Mama, getting up and brushing down her dress. ‘We still have a long journey ahead of us.’
Before going into the tent I shared with her and May, I stood looking up at the Southern Cross.
I jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
‘Come inside, Esty,’ said Mama. ‘You’ll catch cold if you stay out in the night air.’
Chapter Sixteen
There were times when the journey seemed as if it would go on for ever. The afternoons were worst, when the heat brought flies that buzzed relentlessly around our heads. Now and then, we’d pass broken cartwheels or discarded horseshoes.
‘Where have they gone, these people?’ May asked, as we stopped to inspect an abandoned wagon, its sides burst and wheels missing. ‘Look, a child’s shoe. They must have been a family. Where have they disappeared to?’
‘Probably had to knock together a new wagon. That one was obviously overloaded and fell apart,’ said Grandpa. ‘What choice would they have? If you don’t keep going in a place like this, well…’ He shrugged his shoulders.
Mama gave a shudder. ‘Let’s move on,’ she said.
That same evening, we met a couple of sheepmen and a stout woman who was sitting under a tree fanning herself with her straw hat. They’d stopped at a bend in the river to water their parched flock, which was guarded by a sheepdog.
‘You folks heading for the goldfields?’ one of the men asked, wiping his sweaty brow with his sleeve.
‘We are indeed,’ replied Grandpa.
‘Well, good luck to ye,’ said the man. ‘James Baker,’ he added, holding out his hand to Grandpa. ‘And my son Adam.’ The son, in his early twenties, nodded. ‘And my wife Rose,’ James Baker waved his hand in the direction of the stout lady, who stood up stiffly and put her hands on her hips.