Wild Island

by Jennifer Livett

  Bess was more herself now it came to the business of feeding people and greeting friends. When everyone had gone at last, she sank into a chair and sighed, while Liddy, kneeling at her feet, eased off the best black-buttoned boots and rubbed life back into her toes. Bess sighed again and said she believed Chesney would have enjoyed it. It was a shame he couldn’t be there, it had been ‘a good send-off’.

  Bess needed help with letters of condolence, and my leaving was delayed a few more days. When I reached Hobart I found a hasty, sorrowful note from Eliza. Her husband had returned early from Adelaide and was impatient to be in New South Wales. They had sailed. I missed them by less than a week. She and I had said only the most casual of goodbyes in April because we expected to meet again soon, and my grief is still raw whenever I think of it—I never saw her again.

  22

  I INTENDED TO LODGE AGAIN WITH PEG GROUNDWATER ON MY return to Hobart, but I discovered her packing, the house sold. Her husband’s ship had returned with its ‘greasy luck’, a full load of whale oil, but he had found the great fishes less plentiful in these oceans than formerly, and wished to try Nantucket. I was pleased for Peg’s sake; it meant an earlier return to Stromness for her. Nellie Jack was a pitiable sight, weeping in the kitchen corner with her apron pulled up over her face. She must go back to the Female Factory. Peg urged me to stay the three weeks until they sailed. I hoped Anna and Quigley would arrive before then.

  I went immediately to see Louisa and St John, thinking he might have news about Walker or George Fairfax. But St John was highly agitated. He had not yet been allowed to see Walker, and there was, most extraordinarily, no date set for the trial. St John, furious, had now made an appointment to see Spode on both these matters. Louisa was bad tempered because the new nursemaid was unsatisfactory. Little Thea was the only happy member of the household.

  A week after I settled in again, Sophy and Jane returned from Sydney. They had been five months away. Sophy showed me the small scar on her forehead caused when she was thrown from her horse outside Melbourne. She had endured most of the road to Sydney lying in the bottom of a cart, half-insensible with headache. They had stayed with Governor Sir George Gipps and his wife, but the weather was too hot, and the voyage home a nightmare. A journey which generally took ten or twelve days had taken four weeks on account of a violent storm which blew their ship far south past the mouth of the Derwent estuary, and they had trouble beating back up. Sophy was ill continuously; Aunt wrote letters and brought her journal up to date.

  Jane was in high spirits, but had not yet seen the vicious newspaper articles written about her while she was away. At dinner on the first night when I saw her again, she spoke of her long talks with Sir George Gipps, who was doing tremendous good in New South Wales in spite of opposition. The town of Sydney was now fifty-one years old! A child born soon after the arrival of the First Fleet was now a grandmother, and Sydney was beginning to leave behind its brutal origins. The same could be achieved here—quicker and better because the climate was far superior to that of New South Wales: more English, more conducive to health and agriculture. The island was also more abundantly blessed with natural beauties—but it must be rechristened. ‘Tasmania’ was the natural choice, one word instead of a cumbersome three. People told her it would never catch on, but why not?

  The Tasmania Society, established to study every aspect of the island, was now flourishing. It was time it began to produce a Tasmanian Journal of Science, written and published here and sent to England to extol the wonders of the place. The College difficulties must be settled, and the Museum and native botanical garden begun, and an Art Society established.

  ‘An Art Society, Harriet!’ Would I meet her the following day to discuss this?

  After only an hour at Government House next day, I found myself making copies of a letter Jane had finished early in the morning, announcing a meeting to form an Art Society. It must be sent to all suitable artists in the colony, and other cultivated families.

  Jane’s room now more than ever resembled an ‘office’, but she did not appear to notice. Her desk had been moved to the side wall to make room for a table under the window, and here Miss Williamson and I sat copying—in silence mostly, occasionally looking down into the garden where the last daffodils speckled yellow along the drive. A glimpse of the estuary showed too, and I watched for approaching sails. There was no sign of Sophy. She was busy, Jane said; with the dinner book, the letter book, the engagement diary, flowers, the public and private guest lists.

  Miss Williamson and I sat in a strong aroma of peppermint because she suffered with dyspepsia and sucked peppermint drops all day. She was fifty-five but seemed older, already developing the witch-featured profile of thin old women, the dowager’s hump, the hooked nose curving to meet the whiskery chin. She wore plain white caps, had a persistent small cough, fussy little habits and an uncertain temper, but I was fond of her. She was well informed on many subjects, made wry little comments, and smiled sweetly when you least expected it.

  On these cold spring mornings Jane, although she would have hated to know it, was the image of the female scribblers I had seen among Nan’s friends in London. She did not sit at her desk, but in the green chair by the fire with her writing-slope on her lap, her small feet on the footstool in shabby red velvet slippers. She wore fingerless gloves and an old green shawl. Her hand raced across the pages, deep concentration on her face. I drew her like that in pencil, thinking her too intent to notice—but she did, and frowned. She hated to have her likeness taken. Miss Williamson asked me if she might buy the sketch and I gave it to her. She had it framed, and three years later when she went home, she gave it to Boyes, saying she would like it placed in Jane’s Museum when that was finished. The drawing afterwards passed into Boyes’s son’s hands, and I have lately seen it ascribed to Mr Bock, who would never have drawn a sitter who was not looking directly at the viewer. He habitually used a dot of Chinese White in the eyes, too, and he would have added a flattering neckline, as I did not.

  When the Art Society letters were done, Jane said to me with one of those short-sighted, intent looks, ‘Your friends are not yet come, Harriet? There is a little more copying if you are willing? Miss Williamson has been kind enough to help, but she is not in the best of health. And she was employed as Eleanor’s governess and must not be put upon now Eleanor is grown beyond her care. You have a good clerkly hand. But the most vital thing, of course,’ she lowered her voice, ‘is absolute discretion.’

  My mind, steeped in foolish fiction, leapt to intrigue, although what Jane Franklin could have in that line was hard to imagine. Even so, her manner was so covert I was a little disappointed to find myself copying only the many tedious pages of the ‘Feigned Issues (Distillation) Bill’, as dry and unsuspicious a piece of legislation as you could imagine. It had been introduced by Sir John under pressure from England to increase revenue, and was designed to bring all distilling of spirits in the island under Government authority.

  I laboured on, waiting for the secret correspondence, in the meantime copying letters to England about seed wheat, the town water supply, shortfalls in land revenue. About a week later, a conversation with Miss Williamson at afternoon tea was enlightening. She was sitting on a window-seat, slightly apart from the rest of the family and guests, looking out at the wind-lashed garden. I carried across to her peppermint tea and a thin slice of Dundee cake which she seemed to live on.

  ‘I have never been fond of daffodils,’ she said. ‘In spite of Mr Wordsworth. I find their odour unpleasant. Shakespeare is truer to life: “Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds”.’ She added mildly, ‘I am grateful you are to relieve me, my right arm aches, and Lady Franklin is pleased to find someone she can trust to be discreet.’

  ‘If all the documents resemble the Distillation Bill,’ I said, ‘I will not be tempted to read them, let alone speak of them.’

  She looked at me as though I were a dim pupil and said, ‘It is not, of cou
rse, the subject matter which makes discretion necessary.’

  She explained that if the copy clerks in St John’s office or the Colonial Office noticed a word altered here and there in the Governor’s wife’s hand, it was nothing, but it would be unwise to let them begin to discuss how frequently Lady Franklin’s handwriting converted many rambling pages into one articulate paragraph, or entirely recast—or even composed—whole documents for Whitehall. In those cases a fair copy must be made, to go to the clerks for copying.

  Miss Williamson coughed, frowned, dabbed her mouth with a handkerchief, and said, ‘Between ourselves, Mrs Adair, I have often found myself thinking it a shame that no one can admire Lady Franklin’s letters. It seems hardly right to be obliged to hide such a light under a bushel. Or perhaps it’s the parable of the talents I mean, but . . .’ she shrugged, adding calmly, ‘there would be outrage, of course, if it were known how much she assists.’

  Sophy afterwards raised the subject while we were gathering flowers at the Gardens, as we continued to do some afternoons. She had refused to have anything to do with it. Her mother would not like it. (When Isabella was invoked, it meant Sophy was adamant, an army of two.) Beloved Aunt, from the best of motives, was Going Too Far.

  ‘Imagine, Harriet, what the Colonial Secretary in London would say if he knew it was Aunt writing to him!’ she cried. She bent and hacked at the irises, handing them backwards to me to lay in the basket.

  What came into my mind was St John telling us on the Adastra that the Egyptian word ‘almeh’, which originally meant ‘bluestocking’, was coming to mean ‘whore’. Learning in women is often regarded as only a step from depravity, he had said.

  Two weeks later Sir John was forced to dismiss Gregory, the Treasurer, who refused to support the Distillation Bill. In Hobart it was known that this was because he was in business with one of the wealthy distillers, but this could not be explained to England because Gregory’s interests were carefully hidden through middlemen. John Gregory had in any case been furious with Franklin ever since he was passed over for the position of acting Colonial Secretary, in favour of Forster, whom Montagu had insisted upon. The Gregorys set sail for Home vowing vengeance. Boyes told me they were as cold-hearted a couple as one could have the misfortune to encounter. Robert Murray noted in The Colonial Times that the Franklins quarrelled with everyone.

  Still there was no sign of Quigley and Anna, no letter, and nothing from Jane Eyre, although I had written in the winter to tell her my departure was delayed.

  At the reception for the Lady Milford that spring, a little aboriginal girl appeared suddenly in a red dress with short, gathered sleeves, and began to twirl and dance among the guests. Her black hair was shorn close to her head. Her eyes were dark, liquid, enormous. She began to do imitations: Jane Franklin peering shortsightedly at this, at that. Sir John, ambling along with hands behind his back, looking up at the sky, easing his short neck in its high collar. Boyes as a kangaroo, paws held up in front, chin raised, alert, hopping away. There was laughter. Those who could not see crowded in to look. A woman behind me said quietly to someone beside her, ‘. . . addition to the Government House menagerie.’

  A vivid, affectionate child, Mathinna would come confidingly close to some unsuspecting guest, put her cheek against theirs, examine with astonishment their pale hands, face, hair, and peer into their pale eyes; prise open their lips to look into their strange pale mouths. This had to be discouraged. Mrs White did not like to have the fascinating wart on her cheek examined. Mrs Heseltine screamed and flung the child away from her French lace. Mathinna adored Eleanor’s little dog—but not the cat, which she was inclined to treat with casual cruelty. At any chastisement she would fall to the floor and curl up into the picture of despair and misuse, or run gleefully away and hide for hours. She had a pet oppossum, a matter of constant complaint from the servants.

  A maid was deputed to help the child wash and dress and say her prayers each morning, and the assistant housekeeper was to teach her letters, but these women were not equal to their charge. Mathinna would disappear and turn up a day or two later in the stables, or kitchen. She did not like Dr Lhotski, a new guest who appeared at about this time; a scientist, he claimed. He was fat and hugely pompous. Her imitation of him was so obscene she was whipped for it—and the antipathy was mutual. I saw him kick out at her once. But when Count Strzelecki arrived she would follow him like a shadow. A tall, gaunt, eagle-faced man, aristocratic in looks and manner, he had come to measure the heights of the principal mountains in Van Diemen’s Land. While Jane was in Sydney she had persuaded him to come to the island after New South Wales. It was odd to see the mismatched pair standing together in the garden or before the fire; the pale thin Count and the small red-and-black girl.

  In early November St John Wallace sent a note asking to see me. He and Louisa had been nearly twelve months in their cottage and he had just renewed the lease for another year. I expected to find them at war over this, but although they bickered as usual, there was an unwonted calm in the household, imposed by the new maid, a woman called Jane Fludde, a widow transported for stealing a horse while dressed as a boy.

  Their last wretched servant, after many minor offences, had obtained a bottle of gin and drunk herself into hysterics. They had called a constable, but she threatened him with a broken bottle, shouting abuse. Eventually the officer coaxed her into the garden and pushed her backwards into a wheelbarrow. Being too drunk to extricate herself, she screamed like a banshee as he wheeled her away.

  When Jane Fludde carried little Thea in, I thought the woman looked too small and slim to steal a horse, but when I knew her better I decided that if she wanted to steal an elephant she would manage somehow. She was Louisa’s age, as homely looking as Louisa was beautiful. Her lean face might have been a young man’s in its scrubbed, sharp-featured look. She had an air of authority, and treated Louisa and St John like clever children, to be humoured but reproved when necessary.

  Thea, set down on the rug, crawled rapidly towards St John, and when he lifted her high and talked nonsense to her, she crowed with delight and grasped his nose. Louisa went across to them, and Jane Fludde and I stood regarding the trio. A perfect family. No. A Virgin on the Rocks with archangel: except that the infant was a girl instead of a boy, with gingery wisps escaping from the tiny frilled cap. Very Scottish-looking wisps, to my eye.

  We walked into the garden and St John told me of his attempts to see Walker and his crew.

  ‘They were captured in June and it’s now November and still no date is set for the trial. It’s against all precedent. When I speak to John Price—who doesn’t trouble to disguise his contempt for me—he fobs me off with a threadbare story about the case taking time to prepare! Five months? Where there is no question of their guilt, and no lack of witnesses? Sir John tells me he cannot interfere with Price and Spode. Spode says it’s Price’s task to bring the matter to trial.’

  ‘They will not be tried in a magistrate’s court for such crimes?’

  ‘No. They must appear before both judges, Pedder and Mr Algy Montagu, the Mad Judge. I assume it’s because no civilian jury is allowed here.’

  St John had been permitted to see Walker only twice. The second time the convict had a black eye, weals and bruises. He claimed the case was being delayed because the Arthur faction feared he would speak out against them at the trial. He thought they would avoid this by endlessly postponing the matter until it was no longer fresh in the public mind, when they could be quietly sentenced and hanged. (St John’s voice was almost steady.) Walker had since been placed in solitary confinement and only the Prison Chaplain could see him now. In his agitation St John broke twigs off a lilac bush, snapped them into small pieces. He had protested to Spode, who said he had not authorised this, but it was in accordance with the regulations. Other visitors were ‘discretionary’, and Walker was considered at risk of attempting to escape again. ‘Dido’ Thomas was also in solitary. Dixon, Woolf, Moss and the oth
ers were together.

  ‘I don’t understand why Price involves himself?’ I asked. ‘He wasn’t a party to whatever happened at New Norfolk. He arrived in the island three months afterwards.’

  ‘Price and Forster are now allies in everything. Price thinks he’s on the winning side with the Arthurites, and looks to his future. You will not repeat this, Harriet, I know; they have the same contempt for Franklin as for me.’

  St John had now become eager to visit Copping, in the hope of learning from the former innkeepers, the Carmichaels, some detail to use against the Arthurites. He wanted me to go with him, since we might also discover more about Rowland Rochester. The best time would be at Christmas, while we were all staying at ‘Kenton’ with Bess Chesney. It was Bess’s first Christmas without George, and Julia Chesney had decided on a reunion of the ‘Adastras’ to provide distraction.

  ‘My acceptance of Bess’s invitation is provisional,’ I reminded him. ‘If Anna and Quigley arrive we might be on our way to England by then, but if not, I’ll gladly go with you.’

  McLeod arrived. St John was writing articles against transportation for the Derwent Jupiter, McLeod’s new paper. Louisa treated McLeod with an angry flirtatiousness painful to watch. He was casually friendly with her, more interested in news just arrived: our Queen had nearly perished last June, when a madman had fired two pistols into her carriage at point-blank range as she and Prince Albert drove past. By a miracle they were not hurt.

  ‘And we have lived five months in ignorance of this!’ I said. ‘England might be at war with France again and we would not know!’

  ‘Read Plato on the bucket theory of time,’ advised McLeod.

  ‘Women’s minds are not formed for philosophy,’ said St John. ‘They are all instinct and emotion.’ I kept silent, but not without an effort, reflecting that if the word ‘philosophical’ is taken to mean, as commonly, ‘a patient, uncomplaining resignation to circumstances one cannot control’, then women, perhaps more than men, had need to display the quality very frequently.