Band of Gold

by Deborah Challinor

  Kitty blew out her cheeks, not ashamed of what she was about to impart, but not exactly proud either. ‘When we arrived back at the Bay of Islands, after we left Auckland, Simon, Amber and I went off to look for Rian. And Amber was stolen, by a woman who’d been our housegirl at Paihia when I first went out to New Zealand. Her name was Amiria. Anyway, I followed them and when I caught up with them I…well, I had to kill her to get Amber back.’

  There was a short silence, then Flora said mildly, ‘You do surprise me, Kitty’, in a tone that suggested no surprise at all. ‘Well, these things are sent to try us, I suppose. Oh dear, that was trite, wasn’t it?’ She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. ‘And what happened to Mr Bullock? Is he still in New Zealand filling native children’s heads with religious rubbish?’

  ‘No, he isn’t, actually. He left the church and he’s been sailing with us since, well, since we last saw you.’

  ‘As a seaman? Really? I’d rather gained the impression he wouldn’t have the fortitude for that sort of life.’ Flora held Kitty’s gaze. ‘But, of course, a number of sailors are perfectly happy with the company of other men.’

  Startled, Kitty stared at her. ‘How did you know?’

  Flora gave a faint smile. ‘Because when it comes to those who would rather love someone of their own sex, it takes one to know one.’

  ‘Oh.’ Kitty felt a blush creep across her face. She’d had no idea!

  Flora laughed. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you, Kitty. I’m normally more discreet than this. And I assume Mr Bullock also is?’

  Kitty wondered if Simon’s ears were burning. ‘I’ve never been aware of him pursuing a…liaison. And the others, the crew, think the world of him. I wouldn’t imagine they would if he…you know.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Flora replied.

  ‘Simon is just, well, Simon. A good, decent and loyal man. And a friend.’ Kitty paused, embarrassed and wondering how her next question would be received. ‘Flora, if you…well, being the way you are, how did you manage to…go with men?’

  Flora drained her teacup, and placed it precisely back on its saucer. ‘Money is a great motivator, Kitty. But back to Mr Bullock—you say he left the church entirely? I must say I’m quite surprised by that.’ She thought for a moment. ‘No, actually, I’m not. He wasn’t your usual sanctimonious, self-righteous pedant, was he?’

  ‘No. But he hasn’t lost his faith. It just doesn’t, well, rule his life any more.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it. So, how long are you expecting to stay at Ballarat?’

  ‘I don’t really know. Until either Rian becomes rich beyond his wildest dreams, or he gets sick of it and gives up, I suppose.’

  ‘You’ll get very bored here, Kitty. There isn’t a lot to do. Unless you’re interested in fossicking?’

  Kitty recalled the women and children she had seen scratching almost desperately in the dirt left behind by the miners. ‘No, I’m not. I’ll leave the prospecting to Rian and the crew.’

  Flora looked thoughtful. ‘Well, you might want to consider finding yourself something to occupy your time. A small business, perhaps?’

  ‘Such as?’ The thought had never entered Kitty’s head.

  ‘There’s a bakery for sale just down the street. You could look at that.’

  Kitty laughed. ‘But I don’t know how to cook! Well, not to a standard that people would be willing to pay for.’ But a spark of interest had flickered within her. ‘Pierre does, though,’ she said slowly. ‘But I don’t think we could come up with the money to buy a business. We’ve spent most of it on the claim and the mining equipment.’

  ‘Mmm. Well, as it happens, I’m looking for an investment. I’ve more money than I know what to do with. My business is flourishing,’ Flora said wryly.

  ‘You would put up the money?’ Kitty asked, astounded.

  ‘I would. I trust you to make a success of it. You’re an intelligent woman, Kitty, and I know you have the drive to do whatever you put your mind to.’

  ‘And what would you expect in return?’

  ‘A percentage of the profits, and when it’s time for you to move on the business would revert solely to me.’

  Kitty had to admit the proposal sounded far more interesting than the prospect of sweeping Lilac Cottage’s floors and hanging out laundry for the foreseeable future. ‘It’s a generous offer, Flora. Very generous. But I would have to talk to Rian about it.’

  Flora inclined her head in acquiescence. ‘Of course.’ Then she looked amused. ‘But there is the possibility that he may object to his wife engaging in the sort of work that involves getting her hands dirty. Well, floury, at least.’

  Kitty recalled the many times she’d helped on the Katipo’s deck when the weather became rough, or occasions when the schooner had had to leave port with the utmost haste. And there had been plenty of those. She smiled, almost to herself. ‘He’s not that sort of man.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think he would be. Otherwise he wouldn’t have married you.’

  At that moment three men entered the dining room, removed their hats and sat down, their rough work clothes, unshaven faces and shaggy hair incongruous against the crisp, white cloth draping their table. As one, they stared at Kitty and Flora.

  Flora stared stonily back, until one by one they lowered their gazes. She sat back, satisfied.

  Kitty said, ‘Flora? This Lily Pearce, what sort of woman is she?’

  ‘She’s spiteful, Kitty, and has very few scruples. Watch out for her.’

  Impatiently, Rian looked at his watch: they’d been standing in this queue for almost an hour now.

  ‘Is it like this every bloody day?’ he muttered to Hawk.

  They were lined up outside the office of the gold commissioner, waiting to pay the compulsory twenty shillings each for a monthly licence to ‘dig, search for, or remove gold from Crown lands’. It was enforceable by government officials via the police, and the inability to produce one could result in a hefty fine or even imprisonment.

  Rian thought the fee was outright extortion, but he couldn’t risk not having a miner’s licence: Sir Charles Hotham, Victoria’s new governor, had announced that licence searches would increase from once to twice a week. Apparently it wasn’t enough to have one licence per hole in the ground—every digger working said hole had to pay for the privilege. The rest of the crew would have to come in tomorrow for theirs. He waved as he caught sight of Patrick O’Riley hurrying up the street. The Irishman waved back, and mimed the raising of a glass to his mouth. Rian signalled his agreement.

  Forty shillings grudgingly handed over and their licences finally procured, Rian and Hawk met Patrick in the nearest saloon. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning, but already it was crowded, noisy and thick with pipe smoke.

  ‘Holy Christ,’ Patrick complained as he sat down, clamping his hands to the small of his back. ‘The rheumatiz, so it is, from workin’ waist-deep in cold water for nigh on a year. Got your licences, I see?’

  Their glasses of hot brandy arrived. Hawk thoughtfully turned his around on the scarred table top, and remarked, ‘It is busy in here for the time of day. Is this usual?’

  Evidently there was no rheumatism in Patrick’s elbow: he lifted his glass and half-emptied it in one draught. He nodded in approval. ‘There’s usually a good handful of diggers keepin’ the seats warm in these places any time you care to go in, but I have to admit there’s a fair few today, so there is.’

  ‘Any reason?’ Rian asked, his eyes watering from his first sip of brandy.

  Patrick tapped the side of his nose, and Rian wondered whether one day he might actually wear a hole in it. ‘Trouble on the diggin’s,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘This Hotham business, the diggers aren’t too happy about it.’

  ‘Well, I’m bloody well not, either,’ Rian said hotly. ‘Twenty shillings a month!’

  ‘Sure, and La Trobe, the fellah before Hotham, was a fool as well. Introduced the licence fee in the first place, then was after ra
isin’ it to three pounds a month. Three pounds! Nothing but a tax, pure and straight! But the chums organised and the fee stayed at thirty shillings. And, to be fair, it did go down to twenty shillings in November last year. But La Trobe wasn’t just a fool, he was blind as well. Must’ve been, not to have known what a drunken, corrupt pack of Joes he had running around on the diggin’s makin’ an honest digger’s life a misery. And they still do, the thievin’ heavy-handed bastards.’

  Rian raised his eyebrows. ‘“Joes”?’

  ‘The peelers,’ Patrick explained. ‘Coppers. Now Hotham’s supposed to be investigating’—and here he affected a braying upper-class voice—‘ “goldfields disputes and grievances”. Couldn’t investigate his own arse, if you ask me.’ He hoicked in disgust and aimed at a spittoon. ‘Oh, the bloody fanfare when he turned up here, I tell you. Just before you came, it was. People were thinkin’ he was Christ risen, the way they were carryin’ on. But that soon changed, I can assure you.’

  ‘And the disputes, what is the cause of them?’ Hawk asked.

  ‘Well, claim-jumpin’ and claims overlappin’—or should I say underlappin’—and the like. ’Tis a real problem with deep-sinkin’. The trouble is the way the gold commissioner, that’s Robert Rede, settles the disputes. Very arbitrary, so he is, and not often fair. The grievances now, that’s all about the fees and the vote and the land and the like.’

  ‘So this Hotham’s not popular among the diggers?’ Rian said.

  ‘You could say that.’

  Rian looked thoughtful. ‘Is there any organised resistance to what he’s doing?’

  Patrick looked at him in surprise. ‘Course there is, and why wouldn’t there be?’

  ‘Is it widespread?’ Hawk asked. ‘And how organised?’

  Patrick took a moment to shred some tobacco and tamp it into his pipe, light it with a Lucifer and make himself more comfortable on his stool. ‘It’s been goin’ on for nearly three years. It all started before I got here—with the monster meeting at the Forest Creek diggin’s, up north of here, in ’51. They were agitating for the cursed licence fee to be reduced, and the right to vote—except for the blackfellahs, of course—and to purchase land. That led to the Red Ribbon Rebellion last year in Bendigo. A mass meeting, it was, more like a carnival. All the nationalities had their flags flyin’, so they did—the Americans and the Germans and the Danes, and the Irish, the Scots, and the Welsh, and the English. There was a Diggers’ Banner, and pipes and a brass band. And they all decided that they were only goin’ to pay ten shillings for their September licences. A lot did, and wore red ribbons in their hats to advertise the fact. After that they took a petition—over forty feet long, it was!—to Melbourne in a dogcart. Not that it did much good, mind.’ He drew mightily on his pipe and was rewarded with a mouthful of smoke that dribbled out as he spoke. ‘These days, because of that eejit Hotham, things are getting very interestin’ here. ’Specially now that the Gravel Pits—’

  Rian interrupted. ‘That’s the leads on the other side of Bakery Hill? To the north?’

  ‘’Tis. Now that them leads are payin’ well, the Tipperary mob, who’ve staked most of the claims there, are gettin’ stirred up. And rightly so. Claims allotted are only eight feet square, as you know yourselves, and if you hit a payin’ lead beneath one, that’s all and good, but if you don’t it’s a lot of hard work for bugger-all. Bigger claims would mean more chance of strikin’ gold. ’Tis an awful waste the way it is. The tension’s becomin’ terrible. And you know what a crowd of Irishmen are like when they get riled, and there’s thousands of them on the Gravel Pits. Plenty on this side, too.’ Tap, tap, tap went Patrick’s finger against his nose. ‘You mark my words, there’ll be trouble on these diggin’s before the year’s out. Serious trouble.’

  Rian hoped not. He was itching to get stuck into his claim, which had only been driven to a depth of around fifteen feet below ground by the unfortunate Mr Murphy. Especially as two days ago, as he had been idly kicking at the mullock piled around the shaft, he had, to his utter amazement, uncovered a nugget the size of his thumbnail.

  ‘Rian?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

  ‘Good,’ Rian said, who wasn’t listening. The firelight flickered on his face, sharpening the planes of his cheeks and jaw.

  ‘Can you put the paper down, please? It’s important.’

  Rian folded the Ballarat Times, then scooped Bodie from his lap and plonked her on the floor. ‘There, you have my undivided attention.’

  Kitty wasn’t sure where to start. ‘Well…you remember when Simon and I went to stay in Auckland that time, when Hone Heke was campaigning against the British in the Bay of Islands?’

  Rian nodded cautiously. He certainly did remember it—he’d almost had to physically force her to board the ship that would take her to safety.

  ‘And you know how I stayed with Mrs Fleming? And Hattie and Flora, and Flora turned out to be a prostitute?’

  Rian nodded again. When Kitty had told him about it, he’d laughed his head off imagining the quiet, bespectacled girl who worked for a watchmaker during the day transformed into a seductive demimonde by night. He’d enjoyed the story immensely.

  ‘Flora was the one who procured the horses for you, wasn’t she? So you could come back up north against my express orders, and be abducted by Hone Heke’s warriors and then almost drown, along with our daughter?’

  ‘Er, yes. Well, I ran into her today.’

  ‘Really? Here on the diggings?’

  ‘Yes, here in Ballarat. She was out shopping, and we had morning tea together.’

  Rian grinned broadly. ‘And what’s she doing in Ballarat? Repairing watches?’

  ‘No, making lots of money running a bordello.’

  ‘That’s a surprise.’

  ‘She had a business proposition for me.’

  ‘She wants you to go and work for her?’ Rian looked shocked. ‘But you’re my wench! No, I refuse to share.’

  Kitty gave him a withering look. ‘She has money she would like to invest. She suggested she buy a business here in Ballarat and that I run it for her. A bakery, actually.’

  Rian looked crestfallen. ‘But, sweetheart, you can’t cook.’

  She had known he was going to say that. ‘No, I know—but Pierre can.’

  Rian looked at her for a long moment, his face gentle with concern. ‘Come here, love. Come and sit on my knee.’

  Kitty sat in his lap, flinching as the rocking chair gave an ominous creak. Rian put his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her head. ‘Are you bored?’

  Kitty nodded, her face brushing against the fabric of his shirt.

  ‘Already?’

  Another nod. ‘Yes, and I miss the Katipo and the sea terribly. I need to do something, Rian. It’s all right for you, armpit-deep in mud, but what do I have to occupy my time?’

  Rian rocked for a moment, enjoying the warm weight of Kitty’s bottom on his thighs. ‘Are you asking me for permission to accept Flora’s offer, or telling me you’ve made up your mind?’

  ‘I’ve already made up my mind. I want to do it.’

  Kitty felt, rather than saw, Rian smile. ‘That’s my girl. I would have been quite shocked if you were asking me. So out of character. I have one proviso, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That you don’t sample everything that gets baked.’

  Indignant, Kitty sat up. ‘Are you saying I have a big appetite?’ She did, actually, but it never seemed to have a negative impact on her waistline.

  ‘No, I just mean you shouldn’t eat all the profits.’

  And he began kissing her. Slowly at first, then with increasing passion.

  ‘Where’s Amber?’ he murmured.

  ‘Out somewhere with Daniel and Simon.’

  ‘Good.’

  Chapter Five

  One evening in the first week of October, as Kitty and the crew ate supper around Pi
erre’s cooking fire, a horse and cart emerged from the shadows and came to a halt near the rear of the cottage. For a second no one moved, then Ropata, his piled plate forgotten, shot to his feet, grinning wildly.

  ‘Who is it?’ Rian asked, his fork halfway to his mouth.

  Kitty, smiling broadly herself now, exclaimed: ‘Leena! It’s Leena and the children!’

  Ropata hurried to the cart and helped his wife down, then swung her jubilantly around so that her mass of black hair fanned out around her head. His children jumped off the cart and leapt around him, swinging on his trouser legs and demanding to be picked up.

  Kitty crossed to Leena and embraced her. ‘You came! I’m so glad you did. Ropata has been missing you terribly.’

  ‘And I have missed him,’ Leena replied in her low, melodious voice. She met Kitty’s gaze, and Kitty noted that between Leena’s full brows was a vertical line that had not been there a year ago. And, as always, she reminded herself of how lucky she was never having to live apart from Rian.

  ‘You look well,’ she said, and it was true. Leena’s tall figure was as willowy as ever, and her dark eyes sparkled in the firelight. ‘Will you stay long?’

  ‘We will stay until we go again,’ Leena replied in her relaxed, philosophical manner.

  ‘And how are you?’ Kitty asked, stooping to address the younger of Ropata and Leena’s children, four-year-old Molly.

  Her curls bouncing with a life of their own, Molly shouted, ‘Good! I am good! We’ve come to see Papa!’ and clapped her pudgy hands with excitement.

  ‘And what about you, Master Will?’ Kitty asked.

  Six-year-old Will, his own curls rivalling his sister’s, opened his mouth but his intended reply became a shriek of laughter as Ropata snatched him up and dangled him by the ankles.

  ‘Me, too, Papa! Me, too!’ Molly demanded.

  Then someone else climbed down from the cart, stretched stiffly, and ambled over.

  Kitty grinned, delighted. ‘Mundawuy! What a lovely surprise! How are you?’

  Leena’s uncle, Mundawuy Lightfoot, a full-blooded Aborigine of the Cadigal band, held a special place in Kitty’s heart. It was he who had offered to inter the body of Kitty’s closest friend, Wai, in his people’s burial cave in Sydney after she died in childbirth, and it was he who had taken Kitty back to the cave five years later to collect Wai’s bones so Kitty could take them back to New Zealand for burial.