Rain Music

by Di Morrissey

  Ned wheeled around. ‘Stop, Bella. Stop your damned nagging! This is between Mum and me. Stop trying to run my life!’

  Bella looked like she’d been slapped. ‘Run your life?! We’ve barely spoken in a year!’ Her face turned red. ‘You only do things if it pleases you. If it doesn’t suit you, then you just walk away. Are you going to be like this forever? Because your way hurts people.’

  Ned slammed his fist on the kitchen table. ‘Look at your life, Bella. You seem to manage to do what you want. Poor Brendan has to like it or lump it, and now you’re dumping him for some con man.’

  Bella gasped. ‘That’s not true! I’m interested in developing a business with Antony, not a relationship! Why don’t you just mind your own business, Ned?’

  ‘I could ask you the very same thing, Bella.’ Ned looked at the ceiling. Suddenly he felt very tired. Bella seemed deflated too. ‘Look, this arguing is getting us nowhere. How about we call it a night and start tomorrow afresh?’

  Bella glared at her brother, saying nothing at first, but then slowly nodded her head. ‘Fine. I’ll see you in the morning.’ With that, she stalked out of the room.

  Ned watched her go. It was going to be a very long few days if tonight was anything to go by. He didn’t want to hurt Bella, but if she kept pushing him, he might just say something that he would regret.

  *

  The next morning, Bella walked into the kitchen to be greeted by the wafting aromas of toast and coffee.

  ‘How did you sleep?’ asked Ned cheerfully. ‘Ready for some coffee?’

  Bella stretched her arms above her head. ‘Yes, thank you. I slept really well. I didn’t hear a thing. I can’t believe how quiet it is out here. I thought I’d have another swim.’

  Ned handed her a fresh cup of coffee. ‘How about I make you an omelette with some lovely fresh eggs from the girls?’

  ‘What girls?’ asked Bella, sipping her coffee.

  Ned explained about the hens. ‘Evidently they are Carlo’s pride and joy. He hasn’t had them long, so I’m taking great care of them. I’ve also got some little vine-ripened tomatoes, which I can cook to go with the eggs.’

  ‘You’re very cheffy all of a sudden,’ she said with some amusement. ‘You rarely lifted a finger in the kitchen at home.’ As they ate their breakfast, Bella chatted away lightheartedly. Ned was relieved that she seemed to have called a truce, although he wondered if it was just a temporary one.

  After breakfast, Ned took the scraps out to the hens and then he and Bella made their way down to the river at the bottom terrace. Bella swam while Ned was engrossed with his music. Eventually Bella hauled herself from the river and wandered over to her brother.

  ‘That was lovely. This is such a beautiful place. I can see why you like being here.’ She settled herself down next to him. Ned kept working, strumming his guitar and making notes, humming to himself quietly under his breath. After a few minutes Bella started fidgeting. She cracked her knuckles and then started throwing small rocks into the water.

  Ned put his guitar down to one side. ‘Bella, I’m pleased that you’re happy to be here and I’m glad we can hang out, but I don’t have all that much time before I have to leave, so I’m trying to get as much work done as I possibly can. Didn’t you bring a book to read?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t get into it. I’ll just sit and listen to you as you work.’

  Ned shook his head, ‘I don’t think that’s going to work. Listen, if you really want to make yourself useful, why don’t you have a look through the Bish’s box? I think you’ll enjoy reading Sister Evangelista’s letters and you can help me catalogue them. They might even give you some ideas for your new tourist venture. They’re on the billiard table.’

  Bella acquiesced, getting up and wandering inside. Ned sat by the river thinking through Bella’s comments about rivers being threads binding the past and the present together. More and more he thought about the diverse group of characters he’d met, and even those who’d appeared in the letters of the observant young nun. This place seemed to attract certain types of individuals: the recluse like Jack, the hardworking, down-to-earth Frederick and Theresa, the practical and warm Toni, the good-hearted, no-nonsense Yolanda, and the creative musicians drawn to the tropical north. And who knew what others had lived their lives chasing dreams and shadows through the diverse wonderland of this paradise?

  When he made his way up to the house to organise some lunch, he found Bella lost in one of Sister Evangelista’s letters. She looked up as he walked in.

  ‘This is amazing! I’ve read a couple of the nun’s letters, but I found one about Maytown. It sounds fascinating. It’s near here, isn’t it? We have to go and see it.’

  Ned opened the fridge. ‘Why? Frederick said there’s nothing there. It’s a ghost town.’

  ‘Ghost towns are intriguing. According to Sister Evangelista, there were thousands on the diggings in Maytown, including lots of Chinese. They must have left some trace of their time there. There’s a lot of evidence of their presence in the museum at Cooktown, I’ve seen it. Just think, those people would have a large number of descendants who might want to see where their ancestors had been. What a tourist market! Why don’t I read you the letter while you make lunch? I promise when you hear all about it, you’ll really want to take me to this Maytown.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that, but I am prepared to hear what the good sister has to say about it all.’

  So, as Ned prepared some sandwiches, Bella settled on a chair near the kitchen and read aloud.

  July, 1893

  My Dear Parents,

  Please forgive me, it has been several months since I last picked up my pen, but now I want to relate to you an amazing adventure that I have just undertaken. I have been to the goldfields! Such a journey, I hardly know where to begin.

  I was very surprised one day immediately after our morning prayers when Reverend Mother told me that the good bishop has seen fit to grant my desire to see the goldfields as he wants to ascertain if it is possible to rescue some of the young girls from the diggings and bring them to St. Mary’s. The bishop is of the view that the profligate waste of money by the miners might be better spent providing an education for their daughters. Father O’Brien has arranged to take Reverend Mother to Maytown and I am to accompany them.

  Hearing this news, I tried not to look too excited as I felt that would be undignified, so I thanked Reverend Mother for her kind consideration and asked when we would be leaving. She replied that we would set out as soon as possible, so as not to be caught out in the rainy season.

  As stagecoaches are not suitable transport to the goldfields – the passes are very narrow and the country is extremely rough, having many steep ravines and barely hewn tracks – we set out in a small cart, which the good Father drove. We were escorted by two outriders and followed by a dray pulled by sturdy horses and driven by a brutal-looking man, who spoke very little. We travelled on the track where the carriers haul their loads. In places, the way was so narrow that we could see where mining machinery, hauled for the mines, had gouged into the sandstone rocks that lay alongside. Wild the country may have been, but the great spread of land through which we travelled was beautiful to see.

  On the first night the riders made a campfire and we had tea, bully beef and damper for our supper. Sleeping in the cart was cramped and not at all comfortable, but there were no other arrangements possible. However I did enjoy the open air and being able to look up at the stars.

  The next day we had to face the most worrying part of the track. It is called Hells Gate Pass, and it is so named for good reason. Reverend Mother and I both said our rosary as we entered it. The dray scraped against the sides of the vertical rock walls and the men dismounted to lead their horses, watching upwards to where massive boulders were balanced precariously. I had to turn away at the sight of the skeletons of packhorses who ha
d taken a misstep on the terraces and fallen to their deaths. But we passed through without misadventure, reaching a timbered valley, eerily silent, with a deep gorge on one side and huge dark rocks on the other. There, we were horrified to come across human remains.

  The dray driver said it was probably an unlucky Chinaman, left to his fate, who had run out of water, or food, or both, or come to grief with a black savage, or had an accident, or some other misfortune. Gold will lure many, the dray driver said, but dangers await them.

  I thought it such a sad and lonely place to die.

  Reverend Mother said that even though he was a heathen, there was no reason for us not to pray that his family might some day be told of his miserable fate, so we said a quiet prayer.

  As darkness fell we stopped and spent another uncomfortable night camping in the bush. We were on our way before sunrise. The journey was not as arduous as the previous two days had been, but still very slow as the tracks were so poor the horses were unable to break into a trot. Thus it was a wonderful relief to arrive at the banks of the Laura River late that afternoon. The packers set up camp in a lovely valley, where the horses fed on sweet grasses and refreshed themselves in the clear water.

  As night drew in, Reverend Mother suggested I find us some suitable bedding, because she thought we might be more comfortable sleeping on the ground, under the dray than in the cart. After the previous nights’ arrangements, I managed to find enough grass and some canvas from the dray to improve our conditions immeasurably.

  The next day we passed a couple of small shanty buildings selling mainly alcohol to the miners and travellers, although some did provide rough overnight accommodation. We passed them by as they are coarse establishments and slept for a final night on the hard ground under the protection of the dray.

  We finally arrived in Maytown late in the afternoon. Originally the town was just a collection of bark huts, shanties and tents around the Palmer River, but now it is a township of neatly kerbed and paved streets. There are a plethora of hotels, boarding houses, general stores and weatherboard houses as well as a courthouse, a School of the Arts, and a small schoolhouse.

  On a slight rise on the edge of the town stands the finest of homes, which Father O’Brien told us belongs to the mining warden. As I gazed at all these buildings, as well as the jumble of mining machinery that dots the landscape, I could not help but admire the perseverance and ingenuity of the men who dragged everything into this remote wilderness.

  Father O’Brien took us to the home of one of his parishioners, who runs a small, modest boarding house. Mrs. O’Rourke welcomed us effusively. She had rooms ready for us, and assured us that hers was a very respectable place where we wouldn’t be disturbed. She arranged for water to be brought to our rooms so we could wash off the dust from our journey, and then brought up our dinner so that we could retire early.

  The next morning, Reverend Mother decided we would visit the schoolhouse we’d seen on our way into town. As we walked there, completely refreshed by our night’s sleep, we passed the newspaper office. It is called The Golden Age, and the editor came out to greet us. He was very interested to know why we were visiting Maytown. He asked if he could write a small piece for his paper should Reverend Mother make a decision about any of the girls going to our convent. We also saw many storefronts with Chinese symbols emblazoned on their signs. We saw coolies carrying goods on long poles across their shoulders. I noticed several young women, fashionably dressed in silk gowns, wearing bonnets also lined in silk. They carried parasols and chatted cheerfully amongst themselves. I commented to Reverend Mother that such beautifully dressed young women seemed out of place in a goldmining town.

  She replied saying that we should not comment on, or even notice women of that class. Well dressed they may be, but they were Godless women.

  And in the shadows we saw some natives silently watching all this activity.

  We reached the school and introduced ourselves to the schoolteacher. Mr. Halstrom was a pleasant enough man pleased to show us what his class could do. The children recited poetry and sang songs and answered no doubt rehearsed questions on arithmetic and history. When the class was released the boys quickly scampered outside while some of the little girls obediently sat and listened as Reverend Mother spoke to them. They nodded politely but seemed little enthused at the suggestion of going to school in Cooktown.

  After we left the school, Father O’Brien took us to meet several of the families who lived in the township as well as others who were camped in shacks closer to the diggings. Those in town listened to what Reverend Mother had to say about the opportunities that St. Mary’s could provide for their daughters, and I have to say that she spoke most persuasively. One or two of these families seemed very interested and asked several questions. But in the camps, it was a different story. The mothers were careworn and the fathers seemed defeated, but nonetheless expressed a determination to stay on in the fields. No doubt they had little choice, for they seemed only to live on hope, charity and the fever brought on by the thought of gold. I feared that there was little interest in St. Mary’s here.

  On Sunday we went with Father O’Brien to Mass in the small wooden church that serves our faith. During the service he christened six children, ranging in age from a few months to about four. The good Father later told me that owing to the fact that he cannot get to Maytown as often as he would like, he must often christen many children when he is there. Reverend Mother said she expects that God finds this arrangement quite acceptable under the circumstances.

  In the cool of the afternoon, after a simple meal, we were escorted to the edge of the diggings by Father O’Brien. It was a surprising sight. It was as though an army was scattered along every creek and in every gully. Across the open plain, men worked on very small patches of ground, side by side with nary a blade of grass to be seen, many toiling away, even though the hour was late. Dotted between the slopes and amongst the sparse trees were more shanties and tents, and further afield it was easy to see the Chinese camp as it was surrounded by market gardens and fruit trees. Father O’Brien told us that the Chinese worked the alluvial claims abandoned by white men who, he said, are often too quick to give up on one claim to move to another. But the Chinese are more patient and will turn over each rock in the creek beds, washing them for gold specks. It is all very hard work, but quite successful. This creates envy amongst the white miners, who think that they should be allowed the lion’s share of the discoveries.

  Later, as we walked back towards the boarding house, we noticed a lot of dark-skinned children playing in the street. I asked Father O’Brien if he knew why these children were not in Mr. Halstrom’s school, and he replied that it is a sad thing, but their families feel they have no need for learning.

  It was almost dark by the time we returned to Mrs. O’Rourke’s. In the distance we could hear snatches of bush ballads drifting from the campfires at the diggings or perhaps from outside a tent. The songs seemed to be more of a lament than the hearty sea shanties I have heard in Cooktown, and I understood what a hard and lonely existence this must be for these miners far from their families and home.

  On the final day, before we started on our long journey back to Cooktown, Reverend Mother and Father O’Brien had another conversation with Mr. Halstrom, asking him to continue to ask those few interested parents to send their daughters to us at the first opportunity. Father O’Brien quietly told me later that Reverend Mother had made a very favourable impression and he was sure that her visit would be rewarded with the successful enrolment of some of the local girls.

  As I stood on the verandah of the boarding house with our small valises, waiting for their return, Mrs. O’Rourke, who seems to run the establishment singlehandedly, joined me and we exchanged small pleasantries. Then she surprised me by saying that we should leave the dark kids as they were. Don’t try to tame them, she said. Let them run wild while they can. They’ll not sett
le to the ways and likes of our rules and they’ll be having it hard soon enough. The girls will be taken for the men and the boys set to work unless they go bush. Their old ways are lost now even though the warriors still fight.

  I replied quoting the Bible, Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God. So perhaps she is right, these children should be tolerated as they are, but I did say that I thought an education could be of benefit.

  Mrs. O’Rourke was quick to answer me, saying that the gospel was not for these children. Though they live in a half-world here, they still have a deep culture. Their own faith and beliefs were handed down through the generations even before we ever came to this country. Their ideas may not be our ways, but they sit well enough in their own customs. She said that although the government’s policy is to let them die out, or breed out, she thought that if we took the trouble, one day we might just learn something from them.

  I was quite surprised by the passionate outspokenness of this woman, and indeed, she also seemed a little embarrassed by her outburst for she hastily apologised and went inside. Then our driver, who had heard what she’d said, spoke to me, commenting that Mrs. O’Rourke was a funny person. ‘She’s got no husband and spends too much time with the old black gins who tell her struth knows what, begging your pardon, Sister, ’cause she’s learned their lingo,’ he said. ‘But if you don’t mind me speaking me mind, I say she’s right. To take them kids away from what they know will never work for you or them. Let ’em go; the blacks and the chinks are not God-fearing people. Their ways aren’t ours. Leave ’em be, I say. You’ll be doing them no favours trying to change them.’