‘Well!’ said Bessie Rudge. She plumped herself down in a chair, red-faced, her chins wobbling. ‘Well!’ she said again, shaking her head. Then, to Nellie’s great astonishment, she smiled. ‘You’ve the cheek of a guttersnipe, girl,’ she said, ‘but now you’re nothing to do with me, thank the good Lord, so all I can do is wish you well. Pig or not, you’ve got courage, I’ll grant you that.’ She didn’t look at Nellie again, but heaved herself up out of the chair and left the room.
Trotty and Nellie stared after her, open-mouthed.
‘Lord above,’ said Trotty. ‘Who’d have thought she had it in her? A heart, I mean. What have you done to her, Nell?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nellie, ‘but, Trotty, I do believe it’s a miracle. It’s the very first time I’ve ever seen Bessie Rudge’s face with a real, proper smile on it.’
‘SHOO, you devil! Shoo, or I’ll – I’ll send for the knackers, so I will!’ A large and very dirty billygoat had found its way into Mrs Adams’s back garden and was trampling the little patch of vegetables that Nellie took great pride in. This particular animal had squeezed through the front gate last week, and here it was again.
Nellie poked at it with a broom.
The broom did no good at all: the goat almost seemed to enjoy it. Nellie gave it her fiercest look. ‘You’re a wicked devil,’ she said, prodding its hairy side again, ‘and what’s more you stink to the high heavens. If it was up to me you’d be in a gluepot tomorrow. Shoo! Shoo!’
The goat lifted its head, cabbage leaves dropping from its mouth. Still chewing, it kept its small yellow eyes on Nellie.
It wants to see what I’ll do next, Nellie thought. That’s the thing about goats: they are as smart as people, and much smarter than some. But I’ll get the better of this one, see if I don’t – the creature!
She bent and pulled up a carrot. Holding the carrot in one hand and the broom in the other, she walked backwards down the side of the house. The goat started to trot after her, its wispy beard waggling.
‘I’ve got you now,’ Nellie said. She backed towards the half-open front gate. ‘Come on, just a wee bit further!’
Suddenly there was a loud squeak as someone pushed the gate fully open. The goat turned and bolted for the back garden again. Nellie made a wild grab for the goat, tripped over the broom and landed flat in the dirt.
‘Oh no, oh no,’ Nellie wailed. ‘Now I’ll never get the creature out of here. Oh, the great hairy hell-hound!’
‘Nellie?’ said a voice.
‘Yes, it’s myself,’ Nellie said crossly, standing up and beating the dust from her skirt. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘I am. It’s me, Nellie. Tom.’
Nellie looked up, scarcely believing it. ‘Tom?’
‘The same.’
Suddenly Nellie’s mind was in a complete fog. All she could say was, ‘You’re taller than you were.’
‘And so are you.’
They were both silent. Nellie had imagined that when she saw Tom again she’d be beside herself with joy, but instead all she felt was confusion. This Tom seemed almost like a stranger. He wasn’t just taller. He was … different.
Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Nellie thought. What do you say to someone when you’ve not seen them for a year but you’ve thought about them every single day?
Tom seemed to feel the same way, for he just stood there, twisting his hat in his hands. ‘So what are you doing here, Nellie?’ he asked at last.
‘I’m housemaid to Mrs Adams, the lady who used to be your teacher.’
‘Really?’
Nellie felt a sort of panic. Who was this polite stranger? Where was the old friendly Tom she used to know?
The polite stranger was speaking again. ‘Are you well, Nellie?’
‘Very well.’ She had to stop herself from adding ‘sir’. ‘Mrs Adams is a fine mistress. I’ve worked for her since I came back from the Burra. I went there to look for you.’ She couldn’t meet his eyes now: had she really said such a daft thing? ‘I don’t mean I was looking just for you – it was your mama I was looking for, because I had your letter saying there was a job for me. But it turned out that I got the letter far too late and you’d already gone.’
‘Why did you not get my letter until it was too late? I wrote it before Christmas. Mother was in a sad way after Father had his mining accident, and she wanted you to join us straightaway. When we heard nothing from you, we wondered what had happened.’
Nellie didn’t answer: the story of the lost letter was too complicated to tell right now. If she and Tom were ever to be friends again, they’d talk about it then. They’d talk about Mary, too – now wasn’t the time for that, either. ‘Where are you living?’ she asked, instead.
‘Mother has another boarding house, in Hutt Street. It’s quite close to here. Um – I was very surprised when young Billy Macintosh gave me your valentine. He asked me for tuppence, too.’
‘Oh, the spalpeen – I gave him tuppence already! But how did you guess the card was from me? I mean, of course I wanted you to, but it was supposed to be an – an – anon –’
‘Anonymous?’ Tom laughed, and immediately sounded like his old self again. ‘There was never anyone less mysterious than you, Nellie. How did I guess?’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Firstly, Saint Valentine’s Day is in February, and it’s only November –’
‘Oh,’ Nellie said, embarrassed. ‘I thought you could send such a card whenever you wanted.’
Tom laughed again. ‘Indeed, and why shouldn’t you? And secondly, Billy said the letter was from a young Irish lady. But one thing in particular told me who had sent the card. You wrote one of the ‘Ns’ in ‘valentine’ the wrong way round.’
‘What? Tom, I never did!’
‘Oh yes, you did. But the rest of it was very fine. I liked the bees, especially. And your writing has come along well. You should be very proud of yourself.’
Praise from Tom was something Nellie had wanted to hear for so long – and how often she’d imagined it! But all she could do was stand there and smile like an eejit.
Then Tom said, ‘I have a letter for you, too. It’s from Mother.’ He handed Nellie a sheet of folded paper, and she opened it and read it aloud, glad to show Tom how well she could read.
My dear Nellie
We should be very happy to see you again. I should be greatly obliged if you could join us on the 17th November for Sunday dinner at 14 Hutt Street. Please come at 12 o’clock.
Yours very truly
(Mrs) Harriet Thompson
‘Will Mrs Adams give you time off to visit us, do you think?’ Tom asked.
‘Oh, I’m sure she will,’ Nellie said. ‘If she doesn’t, I’ll just run away!’ Then thinking of running away made her remember something. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph – the goat! Sure, by now it’ll have eaten the entire garden!’
The goat hadn’t eaten the entire garden, but it was happily feasting on a pillowslip that hung from the washing line. Although now full of cabbage and pillowslip, it was surprisingly nimble on its feet. Chasing it up and down the garden, Nellie and Tom laughed so much they could hardly breathe, and by the time they’d shooed it through the gate Nellie had the worst stitch she’d ever had in all her life.
Sure, how could Trotty imagine Tom is anything but a friend, Nellie thought. He’s not a bit handsome, and his ears do stick out quite a lot. But, thanks be to the blessed saints, he’s still my Tom!
‘It’s Nellie!’ shouted Hetty. ‘Mama, it’s Nellie!’
Nellie heard quick footsteps, and then Mrs Thompson was at the front door, with Tom, Will and little Albert close behind her. Mrs Thompson opened her arms wide, and Nellie was enfolded in a great warm hug. Then she was hugged by Will, and by Hetty, and finally even by Tom. Albert, squeaking with excitement, put his arms around her knees, the only part of her he could reach.
Then Nellie met Mr Thompson, who was still quite frail and walked with a stick, and after that she sat on the sofa in the drawing room fo
r a little while. She was so full of happiness that she was afraid she might burst into tears, and she had to stare very hard at the pattern of the carpet and swallow the lump in her throat several times. Mrs Thompson sat next to her and took her hand, and Hetty ran to fetch her a cordial.
‘It’s like a dream,’ Nellie said, sipping at the cordial. ‘I’ve imagined this so many times, and now it’s happened I can hardly believe it. Oh, I’ve missed you all so much!’ And such a big lump came into her throat that she had to drink some more cordial until she was herself again.
‘I can’t tell you how happy we are to see you again, pet,’ said Mrs Thompson. ‘It was a sad day when we left for the Burra without you. At the time we had no alternative, but it was a hard thing to do. Then, when Mr Thompson had his accident, we needed you more than ever. There was something missing in our family, and we never quite replaced it. We were greatly disappointed when you didn’t reply to Tom’s letter.’
‘Sure, ma’am, I understand. One day I’ll tell you about everything that has happened to me since then. Right now I’m just so thankful that I’ve found you at last.’
‘Tom tells us that you are employed, Nellie,’ said Mr Thompson.
‘Yes, sir: I have the best mistress a girl could wish for – or at least the second-best mistress, because I’ll never forget Mrs Thompson’s kindness to me.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Thompson, ‘it was no more than you deserved, and I regret that we’ve failed you since. It’s something we must make up to you. Come, let’s eat. Our boarders are all out – we have four young men at present – so it’s just the family. And that’s the way we want it, for today is a special day.’
Just the family. Her heart singing, Nellie held the precious words close.
They gathered in the dining room for the Sunday meal, and the new little Irish maid, Honora, brought the food to the table – brown Windsor soup, roast leg of mutton, and cabinet pudding with jam – and cleared away the dirty plates from each course. It felt strange to Nellie to be waited on, and Mrs Thompson had to stop her jumping up from her chair to help. ‘You’re our guest, pet,’ she said.
Looking around the dining table, Nellie was in a daze of happiness. There they all were: her family. Mrs Thompson, with her friendly gap-toothed smile and her hair just starting to go grey beneath her lace cap. Mr Thompson, pale and weak, but full of cheery conversation, and reminding Nellie very much of her Cornish friend Bob Trelawney. William, with a twinkle in his eyes, as if plotting some mischief – she’d still not trust him, the spalpeen! Hetty, quiet and demure, seeming determined to be a ‘good girl’. Tom, always rather serious, his face lighting up whenever his father told a joke. And Albert, no longer a baby, but sitting up in his high chair and almost managing to feed himself.
Seeing Albert again reminded Nellie of the day when she’d found him crying in his cot as the boarding house burned around them. It was the day her life had changed for ever.
‘How Albert has grown!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s always a baby in my mind, but he’s such a big boy now. The last time I saw him, he was barely walking!’
‘Dear Albert,’ said his mother, looking at him fondly. ‘He’s the joy of our lives, and to think we almost lost him.’ She turned to Nellie. ‘I felt that we never thanked you properly for saving Albert’s life, pet, so this is long overdue. A while ago I saw something in the watchmaker’s window that said “Nellie O’Neill” to me, and I bought it in the hope that one day I’d be able to give it to you. I knew we’d meet again – never doubted it.’
Standing up, she walked over to the sideboard and returned with a small box, placing it in front of Nellie.
Nellie looked at it, her eyes wide.
‘Be careful, Nellie,’ said William. ‘It might be a really small snake. Or a spider!’ He wiggled his fingers in the air.
‘Do be quiet, Will,’ said his mother comfortably. She turned back to Nellie. ‘It’s for you, pet,’ she said. ‘From all of us, with our love and gratitude.’
Nellie opened the box. Inside it was a bracelet of greenstone Irish shamrocks. Hanging from the bracelet was a tiny charm: some kind of animal, also of greenstone.
‘Here,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll put it on you.’
Nellie held out her arm, and Tom carefully clipped the little bracelet around her wrist. It fitted perfectly.
Nellie gazed at it, her heart too full for words.
‘The jeweller who made it was an Irishman,’ said Mrs Thompson. ‘He told me that he’d only sell it if it was to be worn by an Irish girl. He hoped it would mean something to her, as it meant so much to him.’
‘It does mean something,’ said Nellie, at last. ‘It means more to me than you can ever know. Thank you.’
‘I hope it will always remind you of the bond between us,’ said Mrs Thompson. ‘We would like you to visit us often, Nellie.’
‘As often as you can,’ Tom said. ‘You mustn’t slip away from us again.’
‘Why, Tom, it was all of you who slipped away from me!’ Nellie protested. ‘And a hard time I had of it, trying to find you! But I promise that now I have found you, I’ll not be forgetting you in a hurry.’
Then she bent her head and looked more closely at the tiny animal on the bracelet. ‘Why,’ she said, laughing, ‘I do believe it’s a pig! A wee Irish pig!’
‘So it is,’ said Tom, examining it. ‘But why is that funny?’
Nelllie touched the little pig. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ she said. ‘Sure, there are so many things I have to tell you. This little pig will always remind me that I’m Irish. But I’m an Australian girl too, now, and isn’t that the grandest thing?’
I am descended from Irish, Scottish and English immigrants who came to this country in the mid-nineteenth century. One of them, my great-great-grandmother, was a young farm girl from Somerset, England. She arrived in South Australia in 1856, and a year later, while still only a teenager, she married a Scotsman who owned a large sheep property. He was a widower with four children. She became a mother to these four and went on to have twelve more babies of her own. My Irish great-great-grandparents, who owned the property next door, had eleven children. Even allowing for a few infant deaths, these two families between them had so many sons and daughters that they hired a teacher and built their own school!
I grew up on a farm too, and had the happiest of Australian girlhoods.
I was born and grew up in Italy, a beautiful country to visit, but also a difficult country to live in for new generations.
In 2006, I packed up my suitcase and I left Italy with the man I love. We bet on Australia. I didn’t know much about Australia before coming – I was just looking for new opportunities, I guess.
And I liked it right from the beginning! Australian people are resourceful, open-minded and always with a smile on their faces. I think all Australians keep in their blood a bit of the pioneer heritage, regardless of their own birthplace.
Here I began a new life and now I’m doing what I always dreamed of: I illustrate stories. Here is the place where I’d like to live and to grow up my children, in a country that doesn’t fear the future.
We are all Australian girls, each one unique,
Reaching out across centuries, far lands and seas.
And even though I might seem different from you
If you take my hand let’s share history too.
Each of our girls has a story to tell.
An adventure, a journey, a growing as well.
Each one of them shares part of our history.
Each one an Australian girl like you and me.
If you’d like to hear the OAG song, you’ll find it on our website. Go to ouraustraliangirl.com.au
TODAY we can ring or text almost anywhere in the world on our mobile phones. We can send emails. We can use Facebook or Twitter or Skype. In the twenty-first century, it would have been easy for Nellie to find Tom, and to keep in touch with Mary.
In 1850 the main form of communication was a hand-writ
ten letter. For Australian colonists, contact with distant friends and family came with the arrival of ships bearing precious mail. The letters they received were already months old, their news no longer new, but they would be cherished, read and re-read until their contents were known by heart.
A postal system within Australia was established quite early. The first Postmaster was appointed in Sydney in 1809, and by the late 1820s overland mail routes were being established between major centres. Letters were expensive to send, with the cost based on the number of pages in the letter, and the distance it had to travel.
Before the use of adhesive stamps, a letter was postmarked by hand with a ‘stamp’ indicating the place, month and day it was posted. When the first pre-paid postage stamps were issued in Australia in the 1850s, postal services boomed. A letter, a valentine or one of the newly fashionable Christmas cards could be sent for just one or two pennies. It would be another thirty years before you could make a telephone call, though. The first Australian telephone exchange opened in Melbourne in 1880. By 1884 it was handling twenty calls a day!
This beautiful valentine was made in England in the 1840s. Beneath the red and white roses is a hidden compartment in which the sender of the card could put a message or a lock of hair. In the language of flowers, the rosebuds mean ‘Our love is secret’. A valentine like this was a rare treasure. Today billions of commercially produced valentines are sent worldwide.
Nellie's Greatest Wish Page 5