Hannah wasn’t sure why she’d been sent there, instead of being assigned to a family. When she arrived, the factory superintendent raised his eyebrows. The officer escorting her leaned over and muttered something in his ear. Hannah started. Had the man said Thomas Behr’s name? She swallowed nervously. What was going on? Why did the superintendent narrow his eyes at her and purse his lips? Where was Thomas?
Hannah hated it in the factory. Men were allowed in at all hours of the day and night, and were always to be found in corners with women who would do just about anything for a couple of copper coins. Buttock-and-twang, they called it, leering and simpering at the men. Convicts, officers and free men arrived in a constant stream, clutching a handful of coins in their grubby fists.
Each Thursday, about a dozen of the convict women would dance the mermaid dance. They were stripped naked, and bright blue numbers were painted on their backs. Then someone would play a fiddle or a flute, and the women would dance. The men called out the numbers of their favourites, bidding against each other. They stamped and clapped and whistled. The women would dance harder – trying to outdo each other in wantonness and vulgarity. When the dancing was finished, the highest bidder would pay his money and slip away with his prize.
The first week, Hannah was afraid that she would be forced to join the mermaid dancers. But it turned out that the women volunteered, and the superintendent split the money. Hannah was disgusted that the women could be so obscene, just for a few copper coins. Then she remembered what Long Meg had said about protection. What was it that Cathy had said to her? We does what we does to survive.
There were few familiar faces in the factory. A handful of women from the Derby Ram were there, including Tabby, who, on arrival, burrowed into a greasy and filthy pile of raw wool and rarely emerged.
The women were set to work each day, carding and spinning wool gathered from a nearby sheep farm. Other, more skilled women wove the coarse yarn into a rough, scratchy fabric that clothed the convicts in winter. Women who misbehaved in the factory were sent out to do manual labour. They were fitted with spiked iron collars and marched out of the factory by red-coated marines who whipped them to the beat of a drum as they hauled buckets of earth and rubble around for building works. If they paused or were insubordinate in any way, they were given the ‘Botany Bay dozen’ – twenty-five lashes, or twelve if the woman agreed to receive them naked.
The superintendent of the Female Factory was a man called Green, and he appeared at infrequent and random intervals to toss them a sloppy bucket of ‘smiggins’ – a watery soup made from barley. He despised the women, referred to them as nothing other than ‘filthy whores’, and looked disgusted every time he had to touch them. At all other times, they were left to themselves.
Hannah asked everyone she could find if they had seen Thomas Behr. She barely noticed the stinking smell of the greasy sheep’s wool, or how sore her fingers became after only a few hours of carding. She didn’t care that the food was much worse than it had been on the Derby Ram, and was distributed much less often. She was far too eager to find out any news of Thomas.
The women shook their heads and shrugged. Hannah felt a terrible sinking feeling inside. What if he had never come to New South Wales in the first place? What if he’d decided not to become a marine after all?
But there was the strange look that the officer at the pier had given her when she mentioned his name. He had to know something. Maybe Thomas had been sent back to England.
One night, Hannah was curled up in her corner, her stomach grumbling even though they’d just been served dinner. A woman with frizzy brown hair came up to Hannah, introduced herself as Bess, and sat down.
‘I heard you was looking for a gentleman,’ she said.
Hannah’s heart pounded. ‘His name’s Thomas Behr. Do you know of him?’
Bess shook her head. ‘I don’t know no names. But I heard a story in Sydney Town, afore there were some ill feelings between my mistress and me and I got sent here.’
‘What story?’
Bess scratched a red rash on her arm. ‘An officer got in trouble. Sommit about a woman. He killed a woman? Sommit like that. Then he ran away. That could be your man.’
Hannah shook her head. ‘Thomas would never kill someone. It isn’t him.’
Bess shrugged and stood up. ‘Men do all sorts of things when there’s a lass involved.’
She shuffled off.
Tabby was peering at Hannah from her pile of wool. ‘Ye seek grace at a graceless face,’ she said.
‘That woman knew something,’ said Hannah.
Tabby shrugged. ‘Ain swallow makes no summer.’
Hannah sighed.
‘Need makes naked men spar, and sorrow makes websters spin,’ said Tabby.
Hannah looked at her, uncomprehending.
‘Kings and bears oft worry their keepers,’ said Tabby.
Hannah grabbed her thin, bony arm. ‘Do you know something? Did you hear something?’
Tabby shook her head. ‘Puddings and paramours would be hotly handled.’
Hannah released her.
‘It is na time to stop when the head is off,’ said Tabby, chuckling, and burrowed back down into her fleece.
Three days later, a new woman arrived from Sydney Town. She had a large purple bruise on her cheek, and her right eye was swollen nearly shut. When Superintendent Green came in with a servant bearing their meagre evening meal, Hannah hastened over to speak to her.
‘Behr?’ asked the woman, narrowing her eyes.
‘Have you heard of him?’ asked Hannah.
The woman shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
Hannah grabbed the woman’s wrist. ‘Please, think,’ she said. ‘You haven’t ever heard of anyone called Behr?’
Bess wandered over. ‘I thought it might have been that officer,’ she said to the new woman. ‘You know, the one who killed that woman.’
The woman shook her head. ‘That was a bad business,’ she said.
Hannah released the woman’s wrist. ‘Never mind,’ she said, turning to leave.
‘Wait,’ said the new woman. ‘That officer, he had a German name. It might have been Behr.’
‘It couldn’t have been,’ said Hannah. ‘Thomas isn’t a murderer.’
The woman closed her eyes, trying to remember. ‘I heard my master talking about it,’ she touched the bruise on her cheek and winced. ‘My old master, I should say. He said some German officer fell in love with a convict woman. Then something happened to get him into trouble, and he disappeared.’
Another woman with a shaved head looked up. ‘Are you talking about that officer who killed his superior? In cold blood, they say.’
‘I heard he killed the woman,’ said Bess.
‘No,’ said the woman with the shaved head. ‘The superior killed the woman, and he killed the superior. He was hanged two months ago.’
Bess shook her head. ‘I heard he was sent back to England.’
‘You’re both wrong,’ said the woman with the black eye. ‘He was sent to Van Diemen’s Land, to work in a chain gang.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Hannah. ‘It isn’t him.’
Superintendent Green banged his cane against a wall.
‘All right, you worthless whores,’ he yelled. ‘Back to work.’
The other women went back over to the looms. Hannah remained sitting on the floor. What was the point in moving? He was gone. He probably never left England. She was alone in this horrible hell at the end of the world. Even Molly had been taken away from her.
‘You!’ Superintendent Green barked, towering over Hannah. ‘Laziness will not be tolerated!’
He brought his cane down hard on Hannah’s back. The thin wood sliced through her dress and bit deep into her skin, but Hannah didn’t move. The pain exploded again as Superintendent Green brought the cane down a second time. Hannah struggled to her feet and made her way over to the piles of greasy wool where women sat cro
ss-legged on the floor, carding wool.
The blood dried into her dress and her back became stiff and painful. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more.
On Sundays, the women of the Female Factory were lined up along the front of the building, and the single men of the colony were invited to come and inspect them. Some preened and simpered, others scowled and scuffed their shoes in the dirt.
Men shuffled along in front of the women. When a man found a woman he liked the look of, he would drop his handkerchief in front of her. If the woman liked the look of the man, she would pick up his handkerchief, and go home with him.
Hannah quite enjoyed the fresh air, but made a sullen face whenever a man passed her. They never dropped their handkerchief for her. A part of her was vaguely insulted – wasn’t she beautiful anymore? Back in London, these dirty and rough men would have given anything to be able to just look at her, to stand close to her. Now they were too good for her.
Hannah’s third Sunday outside the factory was overcast and gloomy, the clouds threatening rain. Tabby stood hunched next to her, chewing on something black and pungent.
Hannah felt for the pocket she had sewn into her grey serge dress. Thomas’s handkerchief was still there, a wretched little shred of cloth, like the tattered fragment of hope that she clung to. She ignored the men shuffling past, their skin cracked and orange from the sun. She stared steadfastly down at her feet, trying to look as invisible as she could. Tabby spat, a stream of black sputum.
Something white fluttered to the ground in front of her. She looked up, shocked, into the blue eyes of James. He looked embarrassed to be there, amongst such lowly men and vulgar women. But he smiled at Hannah and glanced down at his handkerchief, which had settled into the dust at Hannah’s feet.
‘A broken ship is come to land,’ muttered Tabby.
‘Go home, James,’ said Hannah.
‘Hannah,’ he said. ‘I need to talk to you. I got my inheritance. There was a clause that said I could have it if I got married. So I’m marrying you.’
Hannah shook her head in disbelief.
‘I’ve bought some land near here – a hundred acres – and ten convicts to work as servants. There’s a big house. You’ll love it. There’s white china and chintz armchairs and velvet curtains. That’s why I took so long to come for you. I wanted to make sure everything was perfect.’
She ignored him. He reached out and grabbed her wrist. ‘I know you love me, deep down.’
Hannah tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. ‘Things could be much worse for you than they are now,’ he said, his voice taking on a dark tone. ‘I know what you did.’
Hannah closed her eyes and pictured Thomas looking up at the ceiling-rose in her sitting room, laughing as she told him stories about the plaster bears that were hiding behind the white plaster leaves and flowers.
‘I saw you, on the night of the storm. With Ullathorne. I saw you push him.’ James’s voice was hushed so no one else would hear.
Hannah opened her eyes, and laughed a mirthless laugh. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Tell the superintendent what I did. Tell Captain Gartside. You can tell Governor Macquarie for all I care. I will only leave here with one man.’
‘He’s dead,’ said James.
‘Stop it. I won’t go with you.’
‘Your precious Behr. He’s dead.’
Hannah shook her head.
‘He went crazy,’ said James. ‘He disobeyed orders and then murdered a superior officer in a drunken rage. He was hanged.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Hannah.
James shrugged, and pressed something into her hand, something cold and hard. Then he bent down to pick up his handkerchief.
‘I’ll be back next week,’ he said, and walked away.
‘Rotten toad,’ said Tabby. ‘He that shames shall be shemt.’
Hannah looked down at what he had placed in her hand. It was a pair of round, silver rimmed spectacles. One of the lenses was missing, and the other was smudged and cracked. The arms were bent out of shape. Thomas’s spectacles.
For a moment, Hannah felt Superintendent Green’s cane strike her a thousand times.
For a moment, she shattered into a million pieces and was blown away by the wind.
But just for a moment. Then there was nothing.
That night, Tabby burrowed down into her greasy wool bed and never got up again. Hannah found her the next morning, her black-bird-eyes clouded and sightless. Her right hand was curled into a claw. Her left clutched a black feather. Hannah felt the last sliver of warmth leave her body. Everyone had left her. Her mother, her father, Long Meg, Molly, Thomas Behr. Even crazy old Tabby.
The next Sunday, when James dropped his handkerchief at her feet, Hannah bent down and picked it up.
twenty-seven
Scatterheart left the beach, and travelled on alone.
***
James took her home that very day, in a buggy that he drove himself.
Hannah had no possessions to collect – Thomas’s handkerchief was tucked into her dress. She pulled it out and wrapped the broken spectacles in it.
James spoke briefly to the superintendent, signed a form and then escorted Hannah to the buggy.
She felt like a cow or a sheep bought at market. She thought that James would be much happier with this arrangement than actually marrying her. This way it was more of a business transaction.
James’s house lay about six miles from Parramatta. He told her that he had bought it from a rich couple who had come to New South Wales to develop a new breed of sheep, but had then returned to England.
It was a squat, imposing square, made from rough yellow stone. Hannah could see the vertical marks in the stone where the convicts had hewn it into blocks, and she imagined that the occasional dark discoloured patch of stone was stained with their blood. The big house looked lonely and strange, surrounded by flat earth, sprouting prickly yellow-and-brown grass, and the occasional bedraggled eucalypt.
‘We’ll have a garden soon,’ said James. ‘I’ve put in an order for a convict with landscaping experience.’
Due to his newfound fortune, and his officer status, James could pick the very best of the convicts to form his staff. There was a cook, a porter and a butler. Hannah had a lady’s maid, and James a manservant. The remaining five convicts worked on the land, preparing it for crops and cattle. James had ordered cattle from England – ‘None of these pathetic local breeds’, he said – and with them would come another fifteen convicts to work on his estate.
Inside, the house was well-furnished and comfortable. As James had promised, there was a full white china dining-service, with silver cutlery. Maroon velvet curtains hung from the tall windows. The floorboards were newly polished. The sitting room contained three green chintz armchairs and a matching chaise longue. The walls were painted a crisp white, as wallpaper was hard to come by in the colony. No pictures hung on the walls, although James had said on the way home that he was thinking of getting a portrait commissioned.
Hannah hated the house immediately. Harsh white light flooded each room, exposing every crack, every smudge, every speck of dust. The velvet curtains looked gaudy and cheap, the furniture oversized and unreal, like Hannah was living in a doll’s house.
James led Hannah up to her room – hung with pink and white lace, with a soft, comfortable-looking bed. A hip-bath stood in a corner, steam rising from the water. Hannah forgot that she hated the house for a moment, and let out a soft cry. How long had it been since she had had a hot bath?
James smiled. ‘I’ll leave you to bathe,’ he said, and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Hannah hesitated only for a moment. She peeled off her grey-serge dress and tossed it in a corner. Then she stepped into the bath and sighed with pleasure.
There was an assortment of oils and soaps on a small table next to the bath, along with a soft-bristled scrubbing brush. Hannah used them all, scrubbing and splashing until the bath w
ater had turned brown from months of accumulated filth.
When the water finally grew cold, she climbed out and dried herself. Her skin felt as soft as rose-petals.
She padded over to the large mahogany wardrobe and opened the doors. Inside was a large collection of dresses, bonnets, coats and shoes, all exquisitely tailored.
She put on a pale pink muslin dress with delicate white trim, and pulled on some white kid-leather shoes. It felt strange to be wearing shoes again.
On a dressing-table were cosmetics and perfumes – all imported from London or Paris. Hannah picked up one of the little bottles with a happy sigh, and removed the cork. The smell of lavender reminded her so strongly of her father that for a brief moment she thought she was in her bedroom back in London.
She looked up and saw her reflection in the mirror of the dressing-table. For a moment she didn’t recognise the brown, freckled face that looked back at her. Her hair was still spiky and uneven – too short for even the most daring of London fashions. She had a small scar above her right eyebrow, from when James had hit her. The pink dress she wore, with its lace collar and pearl buttons, looked wrong against her dishevelled hair and tanned skin. Mutton dressed as lamb, Long Meg would have said.
She put the bottle back down, her hand trembling. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want lace and expensive scents. What did any of it matter anyway, if Thomas was dead?
That night she sat opposite James, eating a pie which the cook assured her was lamb, but Hannah suspected was really kangaroo. She could barely swallow. The food tasted like ashes, and stuck in her throat like the toast James had brought her on the Derby Ram.
‘Did you enjoy your bath?’ asked James.
‘Yes,’ said Hannah. ‘Thank you,’ she added, after a pause.
The only noise for a while was the scraping of cutlery on china.
‘You’ll be happy here,’ said James. It wasn’t a question, so Hannah didn’t bother to reply.
‘Your new life will take some getting used to,’ said James. ‘And I am quite happy for you to sleep in your own room, for now.’
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