The Hanging of Mary Ann

by Angela Badger

  Later when the baby was curled up in her cradle with Cathy fast asleep in the big bed and the two women sitting in the comfortable morning room, Hannah repeated her remark.

  “What a shame George could not accompany you.” Hannah looked curiously at her sister over the rim of her cup of tea.

  “Oh yes, such a shame, but he insisted that we have a little holiday. That terrible fire set him back so much, and then of course I’ve been so occupied with Lizzie I haven’t been any help at all. It’s been so demanding with repairs and shifting stock and so on. Poor George is out there from dawn to dusk and it is easier if he doesn’t have to worry about us for a little while. Poor George, he never stops.”

  Sagely Hannah observed to herself that her sister spoke too fast and repeated herself too often.

  Mary Ann could not tell Hannah her real reason for agreeing to this visit. The last thing she had wanted to do was leave Bywong, leave George and travel up to the city. Night after night as she had tossed to and fro, every thought had been punctuated by George’s snores as she searched this way and that for a way ahead.

  A change must come about. Anything to break the routine of tasks and silence. If she went away for a few weeks surely the joy of her return would overturn that weight of indifference which had taken hold of her husband. As she thought of Cathy’s eager face and felt the baby’s fingers curl about her own she longed to share those moments with him. Surely he would look at them afresh and realise the loneliness of life at Bywong too and see the beauty in their daughters and long once more for the warmth of her embrace.

  And she would tell him about the baby then. Of course it was a gamble, there might be another daughter on the way, but families were large, she was strong, there certainly would be sons one day.

  “We hear a little news from Gundaroo,” her sister’s gaze did not falter. “Mrs Palmer visits her mother in Hyde Park Crescent from time to time. Mrs McAllister, you remember her, don’t you? Well, she’s a great friend of Mrs Palmer’s mother. We hear that the Palmers are increasing their acreage.”

  So everyone knew about the sale! The network of chatter which linked those from the remote properties to their city cousins had functioned as efficiently as usual. Birth, death, disgrace, prosperity and failure travelled from country to city and back to the country, fodder for all those who sat at the banquet of life. Mary Ann swallowed hard and then smiled brightly.

  Obviously Hannah was fishing for more information. “Yes, we sold some land to the Palmers a while back. George wanted to be rid of it. There’d been scab down there… best forget it, he said.

  “What he doesn’t know about sheep isn’t worth knowing. All those years on other’s properties… that’s what experience does for you.”

  Her sister sniffed but said no more. At least no more to Mary Ann but she certainly had plenty to say to her husband as they settled down for the night in their four-poster with the mosquito net pulled tight.

  “Not a decent rag to her back!”

  “Oh come, my love, you know how everyone lives down there. What would they do with frills and furbelows.”

  “There’s always Sunday best, isn’t there? Admittedly, Mary Ann was a bit of a hobble-de-hoy, but she’s a married woman now – with property too.”

  “Girls can’t be hobble-de-hoys.”

  “Well, she was always out and about on the farm, down in the paddocks and…”

  “Can’t blame her if she’s not very stylish then, can you? She’s happy enough. Don’t unsettle her, leave her be.”

  “Living in a fool’s paradise. I’d like to ask her about that land they’ve sold. Papa would be turning in his grave if he knew. Are they in trouble?”

  “Well, ask her. You’ve a tongue in your head.” Edward sighed to himself.

  “I did. She just said George had decided it was best got rid of, not good land or some such, but I can tell you, Honoria Palmer hinted there’s a lot more baggage attached to that George and she says things are happening as would make your hair stand on end.”

  “Don’t read too much in to what you’re told, my love.”

  “Sometimes it’s what you’re not told, isn’t it? Mrs McAllister said things were changing at Bywong, or so some say, but then she wouldn’t utter another word. I’ll just have to come face to face with our Mary Ann, I can see that.”

  “Now then, Hannah, not right to meddle.”

  “There’s a mite of difference between meddling and giving some sound advice and I’m beginning to wonder if that isn’t what our girl needs right now. I’ll find an opportunity.”

  Each day Hannah’s housemaid and the girl who helped in the kitchen spirited the children away.

  “You need a real rest, my dear. That’s what holidays are all about, aren’t they? In a few days we’ll pay some visits. Everyone’s agog for news. So much has happened since your last spell in the city.”

  So much! When, three days later, Mary Ann glanced around the tasteful parlour of Mrs McAllister she found it difficult to enter into the conversation. The latest journal, a successful new addition to a family, the shocking lack of good nursemaids or even kitchen staff as so many women joined their men at the diggings - the currency of everyday life dominated every conversation but the values and demands of her own life at Bywong would be so completely foreign to them that she could only sit in silence.

  No one would even be able to visualise all that made up her daily round: the sole care of her children, the orchard, over forty chickens, the mixing of the pigswill and the orphan lambs to rear. And like a shocking backdrop was the memory of the fire, the desperate hours that saved their home. No, she could not even begin to tell them of her life.

  Every room at Mrs McAllister’s basked in the sheen of the current trend in sophisticated furnishing. Displayed on the lacquered table in the parlour the latest journals spoke of all that was à la mode in London and Paris. Casually tossed over one of the chairs the colours of a Spanish shawl glowed in the sunlight and the ivory keys of an upright piano gleamed shiny and white.

  Obviously Mrs McAllister cherished every single item, every nook and cranny was scrupulously cared for, every piece of wood, brass and silver burnished to perfection.

  “What a lovely piano.” Mary Ann felt that some comment was expected.

  “Ah, yes, so many of our friends like to sing, you know. The pianoforte is a great delight. I am sure you’d find that in the country too. I make sure the keys are cleaned with milk each week.”

  “Cleaned with milk!” Mary Ann exclaimed.

  “The vapours of the city, Mrs Brownlow. You have no idea the dirt we have to put up with. The only way to keep ivory nice and white is to rub it with milk. Our windows need cleaning every fortnight, I may say. You’d have no such problems in the country, would you? I daresay your windows would not need attention more than once a month?”

  Mary Ann bit her lip. Once a month! Lucky to get to them once a year. Wryly she observed to herself that, anyhow, glazing was still something of a luxury. Perhaps she might mention to her hostess that she had to make do mostly with open windows and shutters. “My days are very full,” she managed to reply.

  “Full! Well, we all know how that is, once we have a family. Ah, it seems only yesterday when you were here with your dear grandfather. So much has happened, hasn’t it? Mr McAllister’s not enjoyed the best of health, you know but still, he has perfectly amiable business partners to share in his duties. Yes, that has been a constant concern for us. Then of course we had some extensive work done on our home, not nearly large enough for such a suitable position as Mr McAllister’s. But handy for Government House, so convenient. And then there has been the most unfortunate plague - one could almost call it a plague - of the shingles. That made certain that many of us have had to curtail the visits we usually make. Oh yes, plenty has been happening here, we have all had to make such sacrifices. The whole Colony suffered with the drought - the price of lamb! But then the city is like that, isn’t it? I really env
y you your life down at Gundaroo. So peaceful after all the hustle and bustle up here. So restful by comparison, don’t you agree?”

  Before Mary Ann had time to open her mouth the ladies were nodding and agreeing and moving on to the next subject.

  “Now you have the little ones, you really will have to come up to the city more often. You owe it to yourself, you know.”

  “More often?”

  “Well, no one spends their life buried in the country, do they?”

  “My grandmother was always very happy, and our mother too.”

  Mrs McAllister cast a pitying look at Hannah then smiled at Mary Ann. “But times change, my dear. We must all move with the times. It is said that following that terrible drought the farmers are entering a most prosperous time. You must speak to your husband. Now is just the moment to think of buying a house in town. After all, think of the years to come when your daughters will need a good school and then you’ll be glad…”

  Houses, husbands, new carriages and the latest news from the old country dominated the conversation. Occasionally a novel recipe was mentioned or the name of the best dressmaker bandied about. Certainly after several days of calling upon Hannah’s friends Mary Ann’s head was bursting with all the advice so freely given.

  “You’ll have to have a new dress for the Governor’s Cup. Only ten days, Mary Ann! I’ve got some delightful sprigged muslin. It won’t take more than a few days to have it made up, then we can find a bonnet.”

  Mary Ann recoiled from the thought. A sudden change in the weather had ushered in one of the chilly southerly winds to the city. The day had been hot but suddenly the temperature dropped and the coolness brought remembrance of sitting on the verandah at Bywong before winter chased them indoors. A determination had been growing inside her. A deep conviction that she needed to be back at Bywong. George would be facing each day with the same tedium that she had felt herself. She wanted to see his face light up as she walked onto the verandah. She longed for his arms around her and his breath upon her cheeks. This was no place for her, she did not belong, she could not share in her sister’s life. Her own awaited her. How foolish she had been to turn her back.

  “I was thinking,” she paused as she dreaded the reception her remarks would have, “I was wondering if I shouldn’t return to Bywong… I think…”

  “Return!” Hannah exploded, tight curls bobbing up and down on her forehead, indignant eyes flashing. “You’ve only been here just over a week. What are you thinking of?”

  “Dear Hannah. I should be at George’s side. I know he’ll be working all hours of the day and night. The fire’s weeks ago, I know, but he’s still replacing fenceposts and the cowshed’s waiting to be rebuilt. He’s working from morn to night. I’m so selfish enjoying myself up here when he has so much to do. We came to see you, we came to enjoy life in the city. Well, I’ve enjoyed every minute but I fear I have been too self-indulgent, I really must return to Gundaroo.”

  “Are you sending off a letter by the mail?”

  “There’s hardly time, is there. I’ll stay till the end of this week, no matter. It will be a lovely surprise for George. We’ll just be there, he won’t be on his own.”

  Her sister shrugged. Made very little difference to her own life, of course, but she wanted to shake the girl, take her by the shoulders and rattle her from side to side like a wayward child. Speak firmly to her just as Grand-père would have done but she was a married woman now, a woman with two children and a husband whom she unfortunately idolised. Why couldn’t her sister just enjoy herself for once, be like other young women and make the most of the drapers and the milliners and the haberdashers, take advantage of all that the city had to offer?

  “She’s always been like this,” Hannah grumbled to her husband that night as she pulled up the sheets and tied the ribbons of her night cap a little tighter. “Not like the other girls. Always wondering about what’s happening out on the wretched property. I thought this visit’d show her a more genteel way of life. Why, I bought a whole length of chenille for her - lovely delicate material that would have been perfect for a gown - and what do you think she said?”

  “I don’t know, dear, I really don’t.”

  “She said, ‘If I back it with something more serviceable it’ll make a beautiful runner for the table!”

  “Uum,” he muttered as he turned over.

  “Have you seen her shoes? She was going to wear her boots to the races, I ask you. Mrs McAllister would have swooned if she’d known and now she’s finding every excuse to make that awful journey back to Bywong. What do you think?”

  With a sigh Edward rolled over. “Can’t say, dear. Second time she’s ever been away from the place. Homesick, that’s the trouble I’ll be bound and fretting for that husband of hers.”

  “But she’s a mother now, she needs the company of other ladies. Surely she can think of something beside that wretched property and fussing over that George? Gets an idea into her head and goes at it headlong. Never thinks. Like Henry said at the wedding, our French blood’s the trouble, either up and floating around with her head in the clouds or down in the dumps. Passionate, that’s the word.”

  Argue as much as she liked, Hannah could not shift Mary Ann’s resolve. Disappointed, she waved farewell to the coach and agreed amongst her friends that Mary Ann had become an-out-and-out country wife.

  No music could sound sweeter than the rattle of the wheels and the creak of the woodwork, no fragrance more enticing than the fresh scent of the gum. As every milestone passed by so Mary Ann’s heart beat faster, the eternal jolting, the tedious delays and Cathy’s complaints mere annoyances compared with the growing elation gripping her.

  Soon she had put all memories of the city behind her and passed the tedious hours totting up in her mind all the tasks awaiting her shortly. What should she do first? Should she turn the apples, take out the damaged ones, make them into rings and string them up to dry or should she make the new dress for Cathy? There’d sure to be a pile of mending and by now some of the hens would have gone broody and would have to be set upon their eggs. Should she start making the new cushions with the peach brocade she had bought? Or would the plums be ripe and ready for jam making?

  The very thought of George sent her senses spinning. The sight of him, the roughness of his jacket, the touch of his hands, such pleasure would be hers again. Before long she’d have the kitchen filled with the smell of fresh baked bread, the soup bubbling and plopping in its pan as she sat recounting all the novelties of the city in the soft glow of the candlelight. Best of all, she would be able to tell her husband they were nothing compared with the joy of being home once more and sitting opposite him. Camden, Picton, Berrima, Paddy’s River passed by; three days later when they rumbled down the hill into Goulburn her heart thudded in time with the horses’ hooves. Home, home, home, George, George, George. Home is where the heart is and the joy of returning made those two weeks away almost worthwhile.

  And then would come the moment when she would tell him her wonderful news.

  Enquiries at the inn quickly found a couple of men taking a dray out to Gundaroo the next day so early in the morning they left Goulburn, on the last leg of their journey home.

  Wings on your heart, wasn’t that what the old folks said? When you are journeying to meet your loved one, you have wings on your heart.

  Even before the cart turned the corner she heard the sound of hammering. One of the Irishmen stood, tool poised, about to drive home a nail into the gatepost. The other lounged nearby, pipe in mouth. Both stared at her, neither said a word.

  “Can you open the gate …?” They stood transfixed, “The gate?” Glancing at each other, one shrugged his shoulders and the other raised the latch. Mick or Seamus, Seamus or Mick? She nodded as the cart passed between the posts, identical cold blue eyes in identical long bony faces framed with identical shocks of black hair just watching and saying nothing.

  “Where’s Mr Brownlow?”

 
“Master’s down the long paddock,” one of them muttered. No word of greeting, not even a welcoming smile.

  “And where’s Job?” She’d brought a new waistcoat for the old man. A present chosen with much pleasure.

  The man with the hammer shifted from one foot to the other, the other one looked away.

  “Well, where is he?”

  “Down the village. Fetchin’ and carryin’ for the blacksmith.”

  Something faintly like amusement flitted across the men’s features. An emotion akin to the superiority felt by the young and strong for the elderly.

  Rage spurted through her. Rage which she quickly dampened down to disappointment. Had George been having problems? Could he not keep the old man on? She must not judge, she told herself. Even so she felt a bucket of cold water might just as well have been thrown over her.

  She bit back the words which were on the tip of her tongue. She could not allow herself to spoil the next few hours. Nothing must spoil the meeting with George that she’d dreamt about and longed for.

  But she had also looked forward to seeing the pleasure on old Job’s face as he undid the parcel she had brought for him.

  Firmly stopping her thoughts from going further she allowed the patina of civil words to conceal that sudden fury.

  “One of you find Mr Brownlow for me,” she called over her shoulder.

  Those damned Irishmen! George would explain, she knew exactly what he would say. Yes, of course they’d agreed about Job’s failing strength, but she’d imagined after she’d expressed her feelings that the old man would remain on the property. His hut and vegetable patch would have been enough for him. Perhaps George had approached the subject awkwardly, maybe the old man had taken umbrage and walked off the farm.

  I mustn’t come home with a complaint on my lips, she told herself, jumping to conclusions never helps. Irishmen or not, the farm had run smoothly and George would have made the right decision.