Her cold hands slipped from the spar and she floundered, thrashing about wildly until she could hook her arms over the piece of wood that was all she had. She peered despairingly ahead, seeing only the ravening waves falling upon the rocks. Her head, so heavy. Her face, cut and stinging. Her throat raw with salt. Were her legs still there? She couldn’t feel them. Surely she’d drifted in a bit more. What was that ahead in the waves? What was it?
A moment later she identified the object as a cask, bobbing madly, with three people clinging on while attempting to climb up on it. But it couldn’t support their combined weight, and now they were battling for life, one with an arm around another’s throat while the third man took advantage of the throttling to raise a marlin spike and strike. Pearl’s spar tumbled with her down into a wave hollow and when she emerged there were only two men clutching the cask. Two heads turned towards her, their expressions frighteningly blank. Suddenly Pearl could feel her legs again. She kicked hard, trying to steer her unwieldy spar away from the men.
‘Hey. Wait. Help us.’ The voice was rough, imperative.
Pearl wanted to say she had no energy left to help anyone, that the spar couldn’t hold a third person, but her voice wouldn’t come.
‘Chink bitch. Get her.’
A pair of naked arms stretched out to grasp the spar, dragging it dangerously down in the water. Pearl felt her braid gripped and jerked as the sea closed over her. The next moment she was afloat again, in her ears a furious chattering and the man’s curses as he struggled to free himself from Peanut’s clinging paws. Pearl’s hand snaked under her jacket. A second later the man gave an anguished howl and floundered backward, his bloodied knuckles to his mouth. Peanut leaped to Pearl’s shoulder as she raised her knife, waiting. But the man was already two yards away making clumsily for the keg, his curses swamped in the seas breaking over him. His companion waited with the marlin spike raised. Then a wave hid them from Pearl’s view.
She checked that Jo-Beth was safe before sliding the knife back into place, utterly exhausted. It was too hard, too far to go. She had nothing left in her. Yet when she next craned her neck over a wave top the shore had risen up to meet them. Rocks menaced to the left but a trick of the current had taken the spar closer to the beach where sand sloped up to rough grass. She kicked feebly, feeling the undertow suck at her body. Now the waves had flattened and lengthened into combers, building to a peak as they entered the shallows. She felt herself lifted and flung forward, her toes scrabbled on shingle, then she was dragged back. So near, yet beyond her reach. She couldn’t make it.
Again the spar with its burdens was lifted and thrown onto the shore then hauled agonisingly backward. Pearl could only lock her arms around the timber and moan as she saw safety slip away from her. It was so pointless. She’d escaped the sinking ship, battled her way back to the surface, found Jo-Beth, fought off the desperate sailor to eventually reach the shore – and it was all wasted effort. She couldn’t make it without help.
And then the gods reached down to pluck her from the gates of death. People were running down the beach – men with lanterns and ropes and grappling hooks rushing into the surf to grasp her, to lift the spar and Jo-Beth with her lolling head and closed eyes and race them up onto the land.
Pearl let her own eyes close. Hard hands under her armpits squeezed her battered ribs and a scream died in her throat. Through fading senses she heard voices exclaim, ‘What’s that around her neck? It’s a bloody monkey. A monkey! I ask you.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
New methods are always unpopular. It was Elly’s axiom, and she went ahead with her changes, ignoring any opposition not founded on sensible argument. One of her first decisions was to stop scrubbing the ward floors. Meeting amazed stares from her staff she explained how such methods only allowed the organic matter from feet and breath to be absorbed into the floor; but by planing the timbers and saturating them with linseed oil, then polishing with beeswax and turpentine, the floor could then be cleaned daily by using a brush with a cloth tied over it. Any spillages could be washed off immediately with soap and water and the place dried.
To Elly’s great surprise, the Board approved the expenditure on materials, probably in the hope that she would cease her constant petitioning over the drains. The only difficulty was housing patients from a whole ward during the alterations. She was still pondering the logistics of tents in the courtyard, when she received an unexpected visit from Paul Gascoigne.
Paul paused in the doorway to survey the cramped office then, at Elly’s invitation, wedged himself into the chair opposite her desk. Morning sunlight fell across it, burnishing the scarred wood to honey-gold, highlighting the piles of documents and journals pushed to one side. It also highlighted the bleakness of the room.
Elly herself had a no-nonsense aspect she cultivated for the benefit of her staff, helped by a severe uniform of dark serviceable twill with stiff collar and cuffs and a bonnet with a deep frill covering her neck at the back, to hide her cropped golden head. She aimed at neatness and propriety, hoping to overcome the disadvantages of youth and the good looks remarked upon often enough by others.
‘So this is your lair, Madame Fox.’
Elly, suspecting she was being patronized, and annoyed at the way her pulse had leapt at his appearance, smiled sweetly. ‘You compliment me. Wiliness is a necessary attribute for a woman seeking any kind of office, and as you see, it’s achieved its purpose – almost. I plan to be fully installed as Matron by the end of the year.’
He said swiftly, ‘I do mean to compliment you. Such a demanding post is not easily achieved, but I believe you will do it.’
‘Thank you.’ Elly was dismissive. ‘Tell me how your campaign progresses. I see The Empire is busily deriding Mr Wentworth’s schemes for a colonial aristocracy.’
Paul shrugged. ‘He and Henry Parkes have never agreed on any point, so I fear the warfare can only escalate. Parkes is for the common man, wielding his newspaper in the common man’s service, and his own, of course. He wants to enter the Legislature as a member for one of the Sydney Districts.’
Elly was thoughtful. Despite her avowed lack of interest in politics, she kept herself abreast of local matters. ‘He is a forthright man, with some influence.’ She turned her vivid blue eyes on Paul with deliberate persuasiveness. ‘You said he was your friend. Might you not induce him to apply pressure on the Legislature to help the hospital?’
‘Ohhh, no.’ Paul held up his hands in mock horror. ‘We’re not trying a fall with the gentlemen of the Board of Directors. They’re far too powerful. They’re also known as the stagnant barons. You’ll never shift them, no matter what pressures you apply.’
Elly, scenting real possibilities, would not be put off. The changes she wanted could only result from pressure on the Board, and somehow she had to find the means of applying such pressure. She’d use anybody or anything that could help. ‘Your Mr Parkes might be a match for them. Stagnant pools, and barons, may be stirred up with the right sticks.’
Paul shook his head. ‘There are so many more vital matters needing our attention. Henry Parkes is a busy man.’
‘What could be more vital than the common man’s health?’ Elly’s mildness hid a spark of irritation. Who in this world wasn’t busy? What kind of an excuse was that? She could make allowance for lack of energy in someone ill or debilitated, but a young, volatile newspaper proprietor, dedicated to betterment of his town, could surely make time for its citizens’ health needs.
She thought Paul’s smile condescending.
‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘It’s the vote that will give the common man power to change all the other ills in his life. We must channel every bit of our energies into the fight for universal franchise, no matter how long it takes. Once we can get our men in next door the changes will come.’
His reference to the northern building which housed the Colony’s Legislative Council Chambers failed to impress Elly, who had little faith in the
goodwill of legislators.
‘Hmph! While in the meantime the males you intend to enfranchise may watch their families suffer and die for lack of the most basic health care. If that’s your idea of a brave new world you may keep it. Now, I have a great deal of work to do, so if you’ll excuse me...’
Paul put out a staying hand. ‘Wait. I didn’t mean to argue with you the minute we met again. What is it between us?’
Elly would not be mollified. Her cause was too dear to her. ‘We are simply as diametrically opposed as Mr Parkes and Mr Wentworth. We’ll never agree.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ He paused, then said slowly, ‘I will be honest. There is another reason for my reluctance to become involved in your battle – my career. In order to gain my objective, a seat in the Legislature, I need the support of influential men. I must align myself with popular causes, those which have some hope of success.’ When her lip curled, he flushed. ‘Don’t look like that. I truly believe in the causes I fight for. I simply can’t afford to take on one which will be viewed by my patrons as time-wasting.’
He shot up from his chair and began to pace the narrow room, hands thrust deep in his pockets, his mobile face alight with purpose. ‘Do you realise Wentworth has been appointed head of a committee to draw up the new draft Constitution? Do you know what that means?’
When Elly frowned his voice took on an edge. ‘No, you neither know nor care that the whole future of this colony lies in the balance. The decisions made in London in the next year or so, based upon the committee’s recommendations, will determine whether we become a modern, vigorous example to the world or merely mirror the old, class-ridden societies of Europe. We have to fight for what we want. We have to fight the Wentworths and the Macarthurs and your own Chairman of the Board, Deas Thomson. I haven’t the time for anything else.’ He halted before her, spreading his hands, saying in a more reasonable tone, ‘Your Board of Directors is powerful and entrenched. They’re not to be taken on lightly. Perhaps, later...’
Elly rose and moved to the door. ‘You don’t have to explain. I understand your position perfectly.’
Cursing under his breath, he said, ‘Look, will you come downstairs to meet a friend of mine? He’s waiting for me in the hall, not wanting to intrude.’
Elly hesitated. ‘What friend?’
‘A newspaper journalist, a radical. A man who thumbs his nose at convention and says what he believes. Aha. I see that interests you.’
She pondered the options, frowning. Her overfull schedule versus the possibility of some public support. She had intended approaching a newspaper herself, but if someone could speak for her... ‘Very well. I’ll spare ten minutes.’ She swept out ahead of Paul.
Down in the hall she held out her hand as Paul said, ‘May I introduce Mr John George Patterson, commonly known as “J.G.” or, in certain circles, “that ruffian bloodhound”. J.G., you have the honour to meet the Acting Matron of the Sydney Infirmary and Dispensary, Miss Eleanor Ballard.’
Elly saw a slightly built man of around the mid- thirties who walked hunched, his thin neck thrust forward as if in eternal quest for information. The casual observer would have named him nondescript, with pale hair, pale eyes, pale freckled skin made raw by the sun. But the impish expression in those eyes commanded attention. Humour twinkled there, plus a fine disregard for accepted custom.
Not your commonplace man in the street, thought Elly, but more as she imagined a leprechaun would look, spry and sharp, full of mischief.
Aware of Paul watching, she said immediately, ‘I believe you are a journalist, Mr Patterson.’
His voice was light, with a chuckle lurking behind the most ordinary words. ‘I am indeed. I started in Melbourne but The Argus disagreed with my policies; so I escaped to this fair city, where the Herald promptly blackballed me; so I had to settle for the well-known clarion of the people, The Empire.’
Elly glanced sideways at Paul. ‘Indeed. So you work for Mr Parkes.’
J.G. grinned. ‘I allow Mr Parkes to support me, in return for the privilege of printing my expressed views on whatever topic might arise.’
She had to smile. ‘I was told you were an individualist, Mr –’
‘Don’t be saying it now. I’m J.G. to everyone. And never listen to the rascal there beside you. I’m not a real journalist at all. What I am is a gadfly to sting the politicians and gerrymanderers into behaving themselves. I’m the colony’s conscience.’
‘A solemn responsibility, Mr J.G.’ Elly repressed a laugh. He was so entertaining. However she hadn’t lost sight of her purpose. ‘How do you feel about stinging a hospital board of directors?’
He looked thoughtful. ‘An appetizing thought. All those fat rumps...’
‘Do you have twenty minutes to spare, Mr J.G.?’
He cocked an eyebrow at Paul, who shrugged, saying, ‘I’d be glad if you could accommodate Miss Ballard, J.G. Unfortunately, I have business to attend to. Shall I see you at the rally tonight?’
‘Barring an accidental meeting with a creditor, I’ll be there.’ J.G. turned to Elly. ‘How may I serve you, Miss Ballard?’
‘Come. I’ll show you.’ She said a brief, cool farewell to Paul and prepared to conduct her captured journalist over the hospital’s worst features, determined to win his support and, through him, the support of newspaper readers all over the colony. She needed publicity to create a public outcry against the conditions she could do so little to change.
Of course, it would not increase her popularity with the Board, and considering her dependence upon them, it might be as well to have J.G. modify the tone of his reports. That is, if he agreed to help her at all. Paul was useless to her, just another blow-hard ignoring real need in favour of his own pet fancies. He had disappointed her. She’d do far better with the irreverent J.G.
~*~
After the journalist had departed, shaken and expressing his belief that the place should be blown up and begun again, she recalled certain other more personal remarks he’d passed. He’d been complimentary to her, applauding the changes already made as well as those to come. Then he had met her staff, commenting so vividly and scurrilously (fortunately in an under voice) that she’d had trouble keeping her composure. In hearty agreement with him, she nevertheless asked him to moderate his reactions in print, since she needed to keep what help she had.
Paul Gascoigne had also been mentioned.
‘The man’s a hard one to understand, Miss Ballard. He’s my friend, but I’m only allowed so close and no farther.’
‘He’s stubborn and afflicted with myopia,’ she’d replied. ‘We clash whenever we meet.’
He cocked his head at her. ‘Now wouldn’t that argue a similarity of nature?’
‘You mean I’m stubborn and myopic, too?’ Surprised, Elly thought about it. ‘If you mean single-minded, I agree. One has to be, to achieve anything.’
‘Paul is single-minded and passionate about legislative reform. He can’t afford to be side-tracked, any more than you can.’
Elly shook her head. ‘The cases are different.’
‘They are indeed. Paul’s background has made him a fighter. He’s paid his dues in pain and poverty and the sneers of lesser men. There aren’t many who’d deride him today.’ He dropped his serious tone and grinned. ‘One more thing. Paul can’t abide managing women. He’s had a surfeit of them.’
Elly gasped. ‘ You... you’re calling me a managing woman?’
‘Aren’t you?’
She exploded into laughter. ‘Oh, go away, you detestable gadfly. Go and sting someone else. But be sure and write a column to galvanise your readers.’
That evening heavy clouds rolled in from the sea, glowing eerily green, their bellies laden with torrential rain that blotted out the sunset. Trees tossed in sudden wind-squalls and black night descended – the kind of darkness that hid a hand held before the face, yet was lit periodically by lightning. Snug in her small sanctum with the thunder- claps shaking her window shutters
, Elly pitied those caught out in the storm. When the porter’s bell rang she went down to answer it herself, feeling a premonition of trouble ahead.
The man on the step poured with water. His teeth chattered and his face had the pallor of shock.
‘Ma’am, ye’d best make ready for casualties. There’s a great ship gone on the rocks, with men risking their lives to save the poor souls aboard her. Any they do fetch ashore will be brought here, dead or alive.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Lie down. You are safe, I promise you.’ Elly had to use her weight on the girl’s thin shoulders as she struggled desperately. ‘I’m taking care of you.’ Elly wiped the sweaty forehead with a cloth dipped in her own lavender water. She knew the value of simple things in times of stress, and there was something reassuring about the common garden fragrance of lavender.
Her patient stiffened then fell back against her pillow, the dark hair spread there damp and dull, the darker eyes narrowed as she silently studied Elly.
‘You are a nurse?’ she asked.
Elly jumped. ‘Yes, I’m Acting Matron in charge.’
‘And you took me for an ignorant savage who could not understand you.’
Elly shook her head. ‘I make no judgements of a patient. I took you for a woman half-drowned, with two cracked ribs and in danger of contracting a congestion of the lungs.’
‘But you were surprised that I understood you.’
‘Yes,’ said Elly, honestly. ‘The Asian people we see in the colony rarely speak good English.’
‘They’re uneducated peasants or slaves trying to escape to a better life, seeking gold hanging from trees.’ Pearl’s voice was bitter.
Elly laid a hand on her brow, detecting no sign of fever. ‘Try not to become upset. You need to rest.’ As she rose, Pearl grasped her arm.
A HAZARD OF HEARTS Page 11