Esty's Gold

by Mary Arrigan

  None of us had known anything about this until Mama took me to meet the stage coach twelve months later. I thought she was expecting a parcel – we often got things for the restaurant delivered by the mail coach.

  I was struck dumb when I saw the familiar, plump form of Mrs Casey descending from the coach. Even as she stood looking about with a dazed expression, I could not grasp the reality of her standing here in Ballarat.

  ‘Mama. That can’t be…’

  Mama laughed, and gave me a gentle push in the direction of the descending passengers.

  ‘Mrs Casey,’ I shouted, as I threw myself at her and felt her familiar comforting arms envelop me, just as they had long ago in her kitchen. She put her two hands on my face and beamed at me.

  ‘It’s you!’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s really you.’

  ‘And look at you,’ she said. ‘All grown up and brown as a berry. Where’s my little Esty?’

  ‘I’m still me,’ I laughed, holding on to her stout body in case she’d disappear. Arm in arm, we walked with Mama back to the restaurant, asking questions about the homeland that had become a distant memory, and listening to her marvelling at the shops and fine buildings of Ballarat. I remember being almost afraid to go to bed that night, in case I’d wake up to find it all a dream.

  ‘What a kind thing to do, Mama,’ I whispered, when all the fuss began to die down. ‘I can’t believe…’

  ‘Kindness?’ Mama said with mock surprise. ‘Nothing to do with kindness, Esty. I’ve been listening so long to your praise of Mrs Casey’s cooking, that I decided I must have her for my restaurant.’

  ‘But you arranged this long before you started the restaurant,’ I put in.

  ‘Ah,’ Mama replied, her eyes twinkling. ‘You see? I was planning this business from our first miners’ dinner. I knew I’d found my niche even then.’

  And indeed she had. She bloomed as she tended her customers, stopping to chat at tables and making her diners feel special with the personal touch of the proprietress. Milady, Grandpa called her.

  She pretended not to like that.

  ‘Will His Lordship be coming for Sunday lunch as usual?’ May asked, with a mischievous smile that brought me back to the present.

  ‘He’s not a lordship, May,’ I retorted. ‘He’s just a third son who was pushed into the army even though he didn’t want to. He won’t even inherit…’

  ‘Oh, poppycock, Esty,’ laughed May. ‘His pa’s a lord, and that’s grand enough, isn’t it? You’ll be a lady…’

  ‘Stop, May!’ I said. ‘I’m almost nineteen, I have a career and I have no intention being either married or a lady. And don’t you say anything, Mama,’ I went on when I heard her chuckling. ‘And that goes for you too, Mrs Casey,’ I added, when I saw her eyes crinkle with mischief. ‘We’re just good friends, Giles and I. We just happen to work together.’

  Which was how things had turned out. Giles had been invalided out of the army, after an injured knee on that fateful dawn had left him with a limp. He said it was the best thing – after me – that ever happened to him, since he hated the army. So we worked together on The Ballarat Times, when Giles wasn’t working on his book on the Eureka Revolt.

  Mama, Mrs Casey and May exchanged glances and smiled. ‘You can still be a journalist with The Ballarat Times and be a lady,’ said Mama.

  ‘Mama!’

  But Mama reached out and took my hand. ‘We’re just teasing, Esty,’ she said. ‘I’m so proud of you, I really am, each time I pick up the newspaper and see your name. Your papa would be so proud.’

  Yes, I knew that. Many times I thought I could feel his influence as I wrote my articles. Papa’s calm, steady outlook had stayed with me throughout those years. But I found it more and more difficult to remember his face.

  There was a polite knock, and the kitchen boy stuck his head around the door.

  ‘Mr Maher says, will you ladies join him in the garden, Ma’am.’

  We followed him down the stairs. Grandpa was waiting in the garden. I was surprised to see Giles with him – he wasn’t due for another couple of hours. I blushed.

  Grandpa offered his arm to Mama.

  ‘If Milady will be so good as to accompany me,’ he said, with exaggerated grandeur.

  Giles walked beside me as our small procession made its way to the end of the garden.

  ‘What is going on, Giles?’ I asked. ‘Do you know? Are you part of this?’

  Giles smiled. ‘Perhaps,’ he replied, ‘I don’t have the same amount of skill as your grandpa. But,’ he added enigmatically, ‘I like to think I helped in a small way.’

  Grandpa stopped at the door of the shed and turned towards the rest of us.

  ‘Let me say, first of all,’ he said, ‘that Giles and John Joe – who’ll be along shortly – supplied the wood.’

  ‘You were right, Esty,’ May giggled in my ear. ‘It’s a set of wooden stools.’

  With a flamboyant sweep of his hand, Grandpa ushered us through. Our silent disbelief was broken after a few seconds by a cry from Mama.

  ‘My sideboard!’ she gasped.

  And so it was. Made with wood from Australian trees, and complete with carved flowers, twisty pillars and mirrored back, it was almost a replica of Mama’s old sideboard.

  I gazed at all of us reflected there in the mirror.

  Suddenly I knew I’d found the magical, back-to-front place that I’d dreamed about all those years ago.

  Historical note

  The Great Irish Famine of 1845-51 was caused by the repeated failure of the potato crop, Ireland’s staple food. It devastated the Irish population. One million people starved to death, while a further million emigrated to America and Australia. Many died of disease on the overcrowded ‘coffin’ ships.

  The Whiteboys were a secret society of young men who, in their uniform of white shirts, rebelled against the landlords who were forcing the rural poor from their holdings by imposing exorbitant rents.

  In the 1850s, the Colony of Victoria was under British rule. When gold was discovered in Ballarat, the Governor imposed on the diggers an exorbitant monthly tax – the equivalent of a month’s earnings – which they had to pay whether they found gold or not. In 1854, the tax collection was increased to twice a week. This, along with the fact that the diggers had no vote and, therefore, no say in the running of the diggings, led to the Eureka Stockade uprising.

  In October 1854, a young digger called James Scobie was murdered outside the Eureka Hotel by the owner, James Bentley. The case against Bentley was dismissed by the magistrate, who was a friend of his. This infuriated the diggers, 4,000 of whom gathered outside the hotel to protest. They burnt the hotel to the ground.

  Peter Lalor was born in Ireland in 1827. He graduated as a civil engineer from Trinity College, Dublin. He arrived in Ballarat in 1854. When he witnessed the injustice and hardship imposed on the diggers, he tried to improve their lot by peaceful means. But when more aggressive restrictions were imposed on the diggers and their protests continued to be ignored, he became one of the leaders of the Eureka Stockade.

  The Eureka Stockade was erected at the end of November 1854, as a defence against the troops who were massing to imprison those they regarded as troublemakers. On the night of Saturday 2ndDecember, most of the diggers, who were not expecting an attack on the Sabbath, had left to spend time with their families. About 100 men were left guarding the stockade. Between 2 and 3 a.m. the troops and police charged. Over thirty diggers were slain. Peter Lalor was shot in the arm, but was smuggled away to the home of a Catholic priest, where his injured arm was amputated. The battle highlighted the injustice suffered by the diggers and resulted in their grievances being heard and acted upon.

  Henry Seekamp was born in England. He became Editor of The Ballarat Times. His sympathies were with the diggers and, through his newspaper, he strongly criticised the Government’s unreasonable treatment of them. He also exposed police harassment and corruption. After the battle at the Eureka Stoc
kade, he was arrested. His wife was quoted as saying, ‘If Peter Lalor was the sword of the movement, my husband was the pen.’

  MARY ARRIGAN studied at the National College of Art and Design in Dublin, at University College, Dublin and at Florence University. She taught art for 18 years before starting to write for children. She was awarded the International Youth Library (Munich) White Ravens title in 1997 and the 2000 Bisto Merit Award. She has written several novels for children. Her previous book for Frances Lincoln was Mario’s Angels, illustrated by Gillian McClure. Mary lives in County Tipperary, Ireland.