William must have read my thoughts. ‘It was never like this with the old governor,’ he said, ‘we once had sixteen convicts working this homestead. Only three remain. This time next year I shall be off. Already got my ticket-of-leave. Only biding my time for a pardon.’
‘Where will you go?’ I asked.
‘Moving up river to run a few sheep of my own. Daresay, I shall be needing the help of a young strong wife there.’ He fixed his eyes on me and his broad nose gave a twitch. ‘How old are you by the ways?’
‘Fourteen years if you like, sir,’ I answered with some cheek, too late realising he was considering me as a prospect. Not likely, William. Never you and me! I jumped down in haste from the cart and hurried in the direction of a voice full of familiar irritation.
Mumma was behind the house, urging a red-faced girl to beat a carpet with more gust and vigour. ‘Put some heart into it, Sarah!’ I heard her call as I ran towards her. She clasped me in a firm but hurried embrace. ‘Ungodly hot out, daughter! Let us hasten inside.’
Leaving Sarah lost in a blizzard of dust, she bustled me past some outhouses. ‘Was it a treat having William bring you here?’ She gave a lowly snort. ‘You have to thank a certain Master Larra for that. He is the publican of the Freemasons’ Arms. A first rate forger in his time, as well as a collector of fine silverware! His handwriting was on the pass that allowed you to come here.’
My eyes widened. Filled with suspicion, I asked, ‘Does the Judge know I am visiting?’
‘Not all the ins and outs, no. Do not be meddlesome! What he don’t know won’t bother him.’
Mumma showed me the quarters she shared with Sarah. The room was sparsely furnished with a plain bedstead and a wash bowl. ‘The Judge is not one for niceties,’ I remarked. ‘This place could do with a bit of dressing up.’
Mumma raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Who has a sting in their tail today? Come on, spit out your woes.’
Mumma knew me too well. ‘Why no word from you earlier?’ I asked. ‘Were you not fretting over me?’
‘I found out where they had taken you, didn’t I? There is more than enough for me to do around here, not to mention the house in Port Jackson, than waste time fretting.’
For a few moments neither of us spoke. The only noise came from the keys attached by chain to Mumma’s waist, which clinked and tinkled as she showed me the rest of the house.
In the library a strong smell of stale pipe smoke and brandy greeted us. ‘Them double doors open straight onto the verandah,’ Mumma said admiringly. I looked with envy at the books spilling from every tabletop. How I would enjoy sneaking some reading time in this room. Absently I ran my finger through the thick dust, leaving a clear trail. ‘The Judge don’t care too much for order,’ Mumma said irritably. ‘Now enough of your pouting. All I seen buzzing around your bonnet today is a swarm of spiteful bees.’
Instead of offering me pity she offered me tea. In the parlour she had laid out the Judge’s silver tea set, with matching slender spoons, although what should be shined to a sparkle was tainted and dull. But when she said, ‘Let’s partake as ladies,’ I felt better, knowing that she was fussing over me in her own roundabout way.
‘Sarah!’ Mumma shrieked. Her loud voice carried through the rooms. The poor girl from outside stumbled in with a quart jug of piping hot water. Her hand was quaking. Mumma looked to the heavens and said, ‘Have a mind to keep steady!’
I gazed with sympathy at Sarah while Mumma jiggled one of her keys, making a show of unlocking the tea caddy and spooning some into the silver teapot. The brew was China tea. Sweet and thick.
‘What happens if the Judge finds out you been sneaking his prize tea?’ I asked.
Mumma gestured at Sarah’s back as she left the parlour. ‘That one is too meek to tell, William would not dare, anyone else could not care, and the Judge is too overcome with duties and debts to take any notice.’
‘But what about the Mistress of the house?’
‘That genteel Lady does not reside in New South Wales.’ Mumma tut-tutted. ‘But I should think there would be a swift end to my shenanigans if the Mistress did ever turn up on this doorstep.’
Like real ladies, we sipped at our tea. I settled in to tell Mumma about what had happened since I last saw her, including that Bridget had found herself a rebel sweetheart. ‘A sharp and handsome one at that,’ I added.
‘She had better watch out. Them rebels caused a few skirmishes in the colony last year. The Judge had the culprits flogged, but he says they are bound to try again. Mark my words, he is keeping one eye on them. Did you know he is in charge of the Parramatta Loyal Company? I’ve landed in the right house for protection.’
I listened while Mumma caught me up on what had happened to Meg. ‘Seems she has dropped on her feet as well. Sent me a letter. Here.’ She pulled out a crumpled fold of paper from inside her apron. ‘Master Larra did me the courtesy of reading aloud. Will you read it to me once more, daughter?’
Eagerly I made out the words. Meg was practically living as a member of the Palmer family. Their house overlooked the bay. It sounded very grand and handsomely furnished.
‘What did I tell you?’ Mumma said, ‘She has done very smartly for herself. Commissary Palmer is most respected and his wife very kind. If ever he pays a visit to your employ make it known that Meg is a friend. Don’t be shy. A word in the right ear now and again helps, my word it does.’
Not wanting to be left out of everyone’s good fortune, I held out my hands, rubbed soft with lanolin from the wool. ‘I have had a bit of luck, myself,’ I said, ‘never had smoother paws in my whole life.’
‘Turning into quite the little lady, are you then?’ She chuckled. ‘It is a relief, daughter, to know we are all faring better than we did at Newgate.’
I was just about to say ‘But not better than before Dadda had his accident’ when a rush of feet interrupted us. A pair of pink-cheeked girls tore into the parlour. The elder one stopped abruptly, scowling at the sight of us both sipping from the best family silver.
At once Mumma began to scold, ‘If you dare tell your father—’. The girl turned her back on Mumma and stalked away. My jaw dropped. I never thought I would live to see the day when someone other than me would be brazen enough to flout one of Mumma’s tongue-lashings. ‘They try my nerves something cruel,’ muttered Mumma, turning her attention to the younger one instead, a shy six year old, who was standing rigid as a rock, her wide-eyed gaze fixed intently on me. ‘Bid a greeting to our Mary then.’
I smiled encouragingly. ‘Look at you with your fine curly locks.’
Mumma pushed the little girl towards me. ‘Feel Mary’s hands. Go on. They are as soft as one of your lambs.’
I held out a flat palm. The little mistress studied it warily.
‘Grab it then, she does not bite!’ Tears smarted in the girl’s eyes. Mumma dabbed irritably at her cheeks. ‘This one always blubbering! The other always scowling enough to scare a scarecrow! What am I to do with such unruly children, and the Judge so fond of them?’
I grasped the little girl’s hand gently and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Do you miss your Mumma?’ She peeped under pale glistening lashes. ‘If you like you can have a sip of my posh tea from China.’
Mumma interrupted, ‘Do not go spoiling the child. Besides you have it wrong. Lady Atkins never was their mother. Both mites are born of housekeepers before me. Poppy’s ma, God rest her soul, passed over in childbirth. This one belongs to Kitty Haggerty, who boarded a ship home while the ink was still drying on her pardon. If you ask me these girls are in sore need of a new mothe—’ Mumma stopped short. ‘Daughter, you remember on the Nile when Mistress Rouse was delivered of her baby son—’ She paused again.
‘’Course I remember,’ I replied. ‘What has that to do with anything?’ Mid-voyage the ship’s master had sent word down to the hold for someone to attend the childbed of Mistress Rouse, a free settler’s wife. Throughout those months at sea Meg had always been
the first to offer help. I had begged her to ask if she could bring me along. She did. My role was to watch over the chubby little Rouse daughter, barely two years old, ensuring she came to no harm while Meg delivered her mother of a fine new son. Afterwards Meg said, ‘You did a good turn as a nursemaid, Mary’, which left me bursting with pride. Now why did I have an inclination that Mumma was seeing another one of her possibilities?
Mumma brushed away my concerns with a ‘Never you mind!’ and ushered me out. ‘Best not upset anyone by keeping you away too long. A quarter hour stroll should see you back at Quaker’s Row. No dillydallying.’
I gently retrieved my hand from the little mistress who was still gripping it tightly and being tugged along towards the door. ‘Is William not driving me?’
‘You have been pampered enough for one day. Off you trot.’
Outside, Mistress Poppy was trying to hide herself in a scrubby bush thicket. I walked over and stuck my hand through the foliage, intent on giving her ribs a tickle, and began to say, ‘My eye glass doth spy Mistress Pop—’ when … Ouch! Instead of grabbing her, I stuck my hand full of needles from the spiky leaves. As I wandered away sucking my wound, the mistress emerged and gave me a stone cold glare.
I thought to myself, Lawdy, little miss, what makes you so full of the miseries?
10 April 1802
William turned up again today. As soon as I saw him I knew Mumma had been up to something. William grinned and told me that Mumma had somehow convinced the Judge that the girls were in need of a new mother and that since I could read and write, I would do as well as anyone. So I have been assigned as nursemaid to the Judge’s two daughters. I am to move out of Quaker’s Row forthwith. Oh, I do hope I can be a proper nursemaid to those little mistresses, one being so timid and the other so sour.
22 April 1802
One thing Mumma can do most ably when she wishes is turn her hand to cooking. Today she used the last of the summer peaches to bake a pair of spiced peachy-pies, one for the Judge and although he does not know, the other for us.
The Judge’s official duties cause him to live between Parramatta and Port Jackson, which is where he is until tomorrow. As a rule, when he is here he shows little interest in us. However, he is set on keeping us all provisioned from the stores, saying that all civil officers are entitled to have the government feed their convict servants. But Mumma does help herself now and then to the household food stocks, which was how she was able to bake this extra peachy-pie.
She said most likely we shall be coming and going with the Judge, whenever he sees fit to take us to Port Jackson. But for the time being we are staying put in Parramatta.
The happy aroma of nutmeg, cloves and hot buttered pie case was too tempting. But Mumma slapped away my hand when I tried to sneak a taste. She said I knew what the pie was being saved for and I should mind my manners. Oh, how I wish two days would slip by so I could have a portion.
24 April 1802
At last Saint George’s Day has arrived! Even if New South Wales celebrates one day too late! The Judge has given us permission to attend the celebrations on the High Street. He cut a fine figure this morning as he left to meet with the Governor. Sarah, William and Mumma have already set out for town, sneaking along with them our prized peachy-pie.
Earlier this morning there was a heavy downpour, but luckily the rain has eased. The girls and I remained inside until our conveyance arrived as it would be unseemly for them to wade through mud like common folk.
While we were waiting, I told them the story of how Saint George slew the dragon, although, of course, they know it by heart. When I asked them to name two places where his red cross could be found, clever clods Mistress Tessa was quick to reply, ‘On his shield and on the Union flag.’
The girls did look sweet, dressed in red print robes and white linen petticoats. As I plaited the last of the red ribbon through their pretty turban bonnets, I said, ‘Saint George would be so proud of you two dragon slayers.’
At the sound of our transport we rushed out. A gusty wind greeted us. Of necessity I wrapped our shawls tight. The wheels were soon whirring along the track, flicking up mud.
Closer to the township everything was festive. Merrymakers had twisted and draped lengths of coarse red and white cloth over the picket fences. Garlands and crosses fashioned from dried red geraniums hung on doors or were propped against walls. There were red shirts and white breeches. White hats and red gowns. Red vests and white bonnets. Ribbons tied to long poles. I stifled a sigh, for back in London this time every year Dadda would always search out a red rose to pin on my dress. The Union flag flapped and danced wildly. Each gust of wind made the sea of red and white twist and turn, rise and fall.
Mistress Tessa clutched my hand as we played Spot a Redcoat. She waved to the soldiers as they strolled over from the barracks. Mistress Poppy walked behind, keeping to herself in her strange silent way. ‘Ain’t it a grand spectacle?’ I said, hoping in vain to strike at her sour-lurking demon, the one that prevented her from showing any joy.
Along the High Street people were keeping a genteel distance from one another. The free settlers and their families stood well away from any assigned servants like me who had been allowed to attend. However, being in charge of the Judge’s daughters meant I could claim one of the best positions. We planted ourselves on the verge.
When the redcoats fired a volley from the Governor’s house up on the hill, a roaring cheer went up. There came the sound of fiddle players. Everyone tried to be the first to see the fearsome dragon weave and claw its way along the street. I clutched onto the little mistresses to stop them from being pushed over.
‘Call for the dragon slayer!’ someone urged.
A comic singer appeared. He wore a drooping ruff and oversized breeches. In one hand he held a pike. The bottom of a barrel served as his shield, painted with a red cross on white.
‘Over here, Saint George!’ we screamed, ‘Slay the dragon! Slay the dragon!’
Mistress Tessa tugged off her boots and flung them to me. Before I had a chance to prevent her, she went splashing through a deep puddle. ‘Mind your toes do not get trodden!’ I yelled. I knew it was unseemly, and her brand new gown would become splattered and dirty … Oh well! Sarah would just have to put more elbow in her rubbing when she gave it a clean.
A woman abruptly dodged to one side to avoid Tessa’s splashing, plainly of the opinion she was too grand to mingle with the likes of us. But I knew my little mistresses would one day be dining at Government House and she would not. So there! She was clutching a chubby infant. Why, it was Mistress Rouse! I began to speak, ‘It is me Mary Beckwith from when you were in childbirth—’ but stopped short when she gave me a perplexed frown and turned away, although I had not finished explaining.
Lawdy! Seemed Mistress Rouse was not the only one steering clear of me either. Mistress Poppy was flagging behind. With a shrug of my shoulders I let her dillydally.
I spotted Ann in the crowd, cradling an infant, the youngest Cleater. ‘It is not fair,’ I told her, ‘us having to look after other people’s children on such a special day.’
Ann disagreed. ‘We are fortunate that our masters have allowed us to be here. Look around. Not all convicts have the same good fortune we enjoy.’ She gave me a mysterious look.
‘So why are you looking like the cat that’s eaten the cream?’ I asked.
‘By next Saint George’s Day, Tibs will have served his time. Master Cleater will no longer have any hold on him.’ She opened one hand to reveal a tiny, most exquisite, carved rose, burnt black like coal.
‘Lawdy!’ I exclaimed. So this was the reason behind her smugness.
She handed me the pin. ‘This is for you.’
Did I hear right? My ears must have waxed up. ‘For me?’
‘I am wearing mine already.’ She opened her shawl to reveal a miniature cluster of perfectly carved rosebuds pinned to her neckline. Adoration burned in her eyes. ‘Tibs blackened them like jet
so Master Cleater could have no cause for complaining about their gaiety. They are perfect.’
I was lost for words. Dear Ann! Dear Tibs! To include me in their happiness! They were the dearest of friends.
The Cleater infant started to whimper. I grabbed him from Ann with the intention of rocking him quiet, breaking into a song I had learnt on the streets of London a few years earlier:
‘Baby, baby, naughty baby, hush, you squalling thing, I say.
Peace this moment, peace, or maybe, Bonaparte will pass this way.’
The baby’s wails grew louder at my efforts. I patted his back, hoping a few firm verses would settle him.
‘Baby, baby, if he hears you, as he gallops past our house,
limb from limb at once he’ll tear you, just as pussy tears at mouse—’
Ann grabbed the baby back from me. ‘Do hush before you scare him half to death!’ She rocked him gently until he blew bubbles. We both laughed. Baby Cleater did not know that the Giant Bonaparte was as tall and black as Rouen steeple, or that he dined on naughty people! Or that he’d eat you, eat you, eat you, every morsel, snap, snap, snap! We laughed because it was Saint George’s Day. Because Tibs was so fine. Because we had never been so merry.
Mumma came scurrying over, arm in arm with Meg. ‘Look what the wind blew in.’
Meg greeted me with a big warm hug. ‘The Palmers are dining with the Governor,’ she explained, offering around slices of a never-fail seed cake slapped with creamed butter. ‘Any word from Bridget?’
I shook my head. My mouth was stuffed full of delicious crumbs. ‘Last I heard, she was off to plant vines.’
‘Then she must be with Duriault.’
‘You know him?’
‘Only that his vineyards are over the hill, not far from the Governor’s house. For her sake, I hope Bridget takes heed of the new proclamation,’ advised Meg, ‘and does not meet with other rebels. Commissary Palmer says the Governor is expecting more Irish to be sent here. He is worried about keeping control and wants to frighten them out of meeting together. That is why he has banned unlawful meetings.’
Convict Girl Page 4