Birdman's Wife

by Melissa Ashley

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing as we talked that his inner sanctum was a sort of shrine showcasing his adventures at sea. It was bursting with paintings of navigational dramas, all heroic, bloodthirsty stuff. He had a well dusted display cabinet showing a Morocco-bound ship’s log, a swathe of crumbling survey maps and different sized brass sextons. Oh, and of course several model ships.’

  The Governor had regaled my husband with stories of his adventures sailing on the Investigator when he had been but a fourteen-year-old boy. The expedition was delayed for two months while the ship was under repairs at Port Jackson. Young Franklin had befriended the renowned French illustrator Ferdinand Bauer, who had drawn more than 150 species of Australian birds and made meticulous notes on their habits and behaviours. The illustrations fired the imagination of the young midshipman and he came away with an enduring fascination for birds and natural history.

  ‘It’s clear that in all these years he’s not given away his passion for exploration,’ John said, handing me a strip of paper on which the name of the species I had been working on was printed.

  ‘You’ll be firm friends,’ I observed, fixing the tag under the eggshell. ‘You with your fondness for obsessives.’

  John grinned at me as I sat back on the bed and moved my skirt out of the way of the bowl of egg yolk. He reached around my shoulder for the candle on the bedside table, moving it swiftly towards him, wax dripping on his arm.

  ‘Careful!’ I said, all too aware of how easily precious samples could be damaged in our temporary workroom.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I can’t get used to working in this cramped space.’ Although we had negotiated the hire of three rooms from Mr Fischer, we really needed four, an additional one for a workshop. Benstead and Gilbert did most of the stuffing in the room they shared with Will, forcing John to run back and forth between our room and theirs throughout the day. The bedroom John and I shared had leaded windows, only marginally larger than our cabin’s porthole. We had to burn a handful of candles to obtain adequate lighting to work. As a precaution, we had thrown a canvas sleeping roll over the bed lest we make any spills.

  Earlier in the week, John had taken luncheon with several renowned Hobarton gentlemen whom he thought might be useful to our endeavour. John had departed England with introductory letters from high-placed individuals, such as Lord Stanley, the Earl of Derby, which were addressed to the governor-administrators of New South Wales, the settlements at Swan River and Adelaide and of course Van Diemen’s Land. He requested supplies and free travel for us on any government vessels – ships, coaches, drays – in the service of obtaining specimens for The Birds of Australia. Now he was here in person, John’s role was to convince the administrators that our enterprise would be a great boon, raising the scientific profile of the continent by drawing the world’s attention to its natural wonders.

  ‘Goodness.’ I wrinkled my nose at a horrid stench. The egg I had blown was rotten. ‘I hope Mrs Fischer doesn’t drop in with fresh linen. We’ll be evicted.’

  Anyone who stopped by our door would no doubt wonder what we were up to. At least we were not stuffing that day, which I was thankful for. I much preferred the labelling and organising of eggs and nests. Indeed, I genuinely enjoyed assisting John with this task. Something in me warmed at the sight of an intricately woven nest, bearing its clutch of splotched or freckled eggs. We had already gathered a small collection. The home of the pink robin was a cup-shaped construction found wedged in the forked limbs of a wattle tree. The adults lined the interior of the enclosure with moss, lichen and spider’s web to insulate their blotched, blue-tinged eggs. Gilbert had collected the nest of the crescent honeyeater from a patch of shrubby undergrowth. The species wove a bowl from bark strips, twigs and dried flakes of grass, the inner lining softened for the chicks with silken seed pods and shredded leaves, the four eggs in the clutch a lustrous lavender pink.

  I had already painted the grey fantail’s three white and brown blotched eggs, taken from a nest John had found in the foothills of Mount Wellington. I did my best to render the avian engineering into a work of art. The fantail’s finely constructed home was the shape of a crystal goblet, with a cup-like body and tapering stem, twisted together from lengths of soft bark. Spider’s web bound the fern fronds and leaves to form the nest, giving the walls a firm but pliant design. The fantail weavers had drawn long strands of fibrous plant material around and around. I imagined them spinning like maypole dancers with their ribbons to create the horizontally balanced structure. It was such a harmonious composition, I wondered if the birds themselves took pleasure in the spectacle of their architecture. How did they decide the dwelling was finished? That enough spider’s web had been applied, like oakum caulking the decks of a ship? How did they know when it was secure enough to house their precious eggs? Questions such as these drifted across my mind as I began to mimic the threaded masterpiece with my pencil.

  John desired samples of the clutches of all Australian species but they were proving so hard to come by that he made a special request for assistance. Boys and men around the settlement were encouraged to scrabble up trees and collect the twiggy containers and their fragile treasures for an attractive remuneration. From the samples obtained, John could make notes in his journal about the number of eggs, the state of hatchling development, whether the male or the female performed incubation duties and how many broods were produced in a season.

  As I admired the patterns on the pink robin egg’s shell, John explained the story it told. The markings on an eggshell give clues to the environment in which a bird rears its young: the wet nest of a grebe, the hollowed limbs of a dead gum used by parrots, the muddy riverbank chamber dug out by a bee eater. John’s written descriptions were so vivid, I felt as though I was walking behind him on his adventures. While I imagined brackish ponds and bulrushes, John paced our temporary workroom, thinking up adjectives to describe the squiggles and smears drawn by nature on the surface of an egg – were they striped, spotted, ribbed, stippled, speckled or plain, or did they show wavy lines? He had to decide the nuanced shade of white of the shell: did it have peach, lemon, buff, teal, emerald or olive undertones? Was the nacreous material matte or lustrous?

  Similarly, I struggled for a match when mixing colours, selecting brushes and sorting out washes and finishes. I took diameter and axial measurements, noting them on my sketch along with the species, as well as the date and place of collection. I scratched and stroked my pencil to conjure the eggs’ appropriate shape – oblong or oval, pointed at the tip or round all over like the moon. I then attempted to imitate the delicate markings on a species’ shell. The activity had me in mind of beach combing, of examining different seaweeds, of the whorls on driftwood, of the squiggles and bumps made by insects burrowing beneath the bark of a forest tree, of mosses and ground cover and sometimes even of the nest itself. As if, when the egg was fresh-laid and still damp, the carefully knitted nest had made the faintest imprint on the shell’s surface.

  There was no doubt that our temporary accommodation slowed our productivity. How quickly I worked at home, showing no regard for the walls and floors of my studio, a large sheet permanently unfolded under my feet. I moved to and fro without thought for spilling paint and mixes. I threw knives and brushes at whatever surface was handy; I smeared pigment all over my apron and dragged charcoal across my cheeks. At the inn I had to daub like a lady of leisure, a girl who dabbled at watercolours during a picnic. I also had to be on guard in case the door was flung open by Mrs Fischer and we were dragged before her husband for explanation. It was not as if our occupation was illegal, and yet I felt like a common criminal.

  ‘The Governor wishes to introduce me to a delegate of scientific dignitaries,’ said John. ‘They’ll be stopping by Government House while overhauling their ship. They’re on an Admiralty-funded expedition to survey the northern coast of the island.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find much to talk about,’ I said, my voice strained. �
�But I’m suddenly feeling quite ill. I think it’s the paint fumes.’

  John removed the straw from his lips. ‘I’ll open the window.’ He kissed the top of my head as he placed an egg near my easel. ‘Did I mention that Lady Jane Franklin is to command an expedition to navigate the southwestern reaches of Van Diemen’s Land? She wishes to sail for Port Macquarie on the west coast, and as there are so many islands and channels yet to be mapped she intends to take along a government surveyor.’

  ‘And you would like to accompany her to inventory its birds? Is that what you’re getting at?’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Just think of them, massed in huge breeding colonies: scolds of cormorants, huddles of albatrosses, plumps of shearwaters, hedges of herons, nurseries of gannets, crèches of penguins.’ He laughed. ‘I must certainly find a way to join her venture.’

  ‘I am curious to meet the Governor’s wife. She is said to be a true friend to science.’

  ‘Indeed she is. Lady Franklin has laid out her own funds for the expedition,’ said John. ‘Did you know that she has been expecting you to call on her?’ He put down the nest that he had been examining and came to the window. ‘Maybe we should break for lunch. Get some air. You look a little green.’

  ‘I had no idea. Are you saying that I’m to introduce myself? Is that quite proper?’

  ‘It’s perfectly acceptable for you to do so – Lady Franklin doesn’t stand upon ceremony. Write her this evening and invite her here to examine your latest sketches, your paintings of Hobarton’s flora. She’s inordinately fond of gardening. And let me remind you, if we wish to be successful in this endeavour, it’s up to us to dictate terms. We can’t very well wait around for patrons to come to us.’

  ‘How do you suggest I broach the subject?’

  ‘Create an opportunity. Turn the conversation to our enterprise. Tell Lady Franklin how cramped we are at the inn. Make her aware that we had only intended to stay here a few weeks and need more suitable lodgings.’

  ‘I will do what I can,’ I said. ‘Though you are the one gifted in negotiation, not me. I thought you were to secure our accommodation. I don’t understand why this has become my lot.’

  ‘This is a subtle situation,’ said John. ‘We need to be careful. We don’t want to spoil any opportunities. I might seem too keen.’

  ‘But I don’t know Lady Franklin’s tastes and I’m unsure how to tailor our case. It’s difficult for me to agitate like this. You must be aware of the position you put me in.’

  ‘I have every faith you’ll come up with a charming letter. I know how hard it is for you to be unsettled here. When we’ve a more permanent place to stay, you’ll feel better. You only need to be yourself.’

  ‘That’s reassuring,’ I said. ‘Don’t misunderstand my concerns, I’m much intrigued by what I’ve heard about Lady Franklin and I do look forward to making her acquaintance.’

  I sent a message to Government House, inviting Lady Franklin to the inn to view my sketches of Hobarton’s native plants. She wrote back suggesting I bundle them into a cloth and meet her for a ramble through the Botanic Gardens. She had a fondness for picnics. If that did not suit, we could take the ferry to the slip dock at Port Arthur and inspect the progress made on a sloop that she was having built.

  A meander through the Botanic Gardens, of which I had seen but a tantalising glimpse, appealed to me the most. I returned the note, accepting Lady Franklin’s counter offer. I asked Mary to accompany me on the outing. We donned our best woollen dresses, shawls and bonnets, which we had starched with wheat flour, having no finer grains in our stock. As a final touch, I dabbed lavender water on my wrists and set a little chalk powder under my eyes.

  ‘Am I presentable?’ I asked John, pirouetting to show off my finery.

  ‘Perfection. You make a handsome picture.’ John smiled, kissing me on the brow.

  Around mid-morning a buggy arrived from Government House to take us on the hour-long ride to the Botanic Gardens. The carriage itself cried out for a shine, the only sign it belonged to the Governor’s fleet a small insignia of the English Crown on the door. The horses looked tired and old, but we were grateful for the courtesy. And by now we were well aware of the realities of life in the colonies.

  Following the example of my husband, who brought shooting and preserving equipment to every venture, I had packed my botanical knives, scissors and pressing album in case the opportunity for taking samples arose.

  My initial encounter with Lady Franklin was memorable for the unexpected view of her it presented. After a maid met our carriage at the gates and led us on a brisk march to the gardens, we rounded a corner to be met with Lady Franklin’s jiggling rear end. She was tugging furiously at a hardy-stemmed weed, impertinent enough to impose itself on a magnificent display of King George roses, which I later discovered she had personally grafted. The stays in her house dress had been left off and her broad-brimmed hat flattened her curls. Her feet were shod in men’s boots, enclosing her ankles and laced around the shins, unlike the soft slippers favoured by most women of her station.

  ‘Lady Franklin,’ announced the maid. Our hostess made a muffled cry of surprise and pushed upright to face us. She wiped a gloved hand across her brow and squinted through the strong morning sun at Mary and me. Her mouth formed a broad smile and she held out both arms. ‘Mrs Gould!’ she said. ‘I finally have the pleasure.’

  ‘Oh, but it’s all mine,’ I answered, smiling delightedly back at her.

  ‘Come,’ she said, scraping the leaves off her skirt. She moved with light, energetic steps down an avenue of poplar trees. We paused at a planting of native brushes. Without a word, Lady Franklin reached forward with a tiny sickle and lopped off the top branches of a banksia. ‘If you wish to try a new way to sweeten your tea, soak the shrub’s flowers in water. The natives have been steeping it into a flavoursome drink for hundreds of years.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, holding open my botanical folder for her to slip her offering inside. ‘I’ve been enjoying collecting and sketching the local plant varieties.’

  ‘There are some beauties here.’

  ‘You must lead me to them. I want to learn everything I can – and I cannot imagine a better guide than you with your enthusiasm for the colony’s native flora.’

  I was eager to make a study of the garden’s corpus of botanical treasures, and also of the living jewel that Lady Franklin herself presented. My human subject possessed full lips, a straight nose and glittering blue eyes. She was of middle age but emitted the presence of someone upon whom time has not yet left its common stains. She must have been aware of my inspection, for she let her gaze stray from a grove of grevillea brushes to linger on my face, her eyes taking a reckoning of my person.

  ‘You must take this, and this as well,’ Lady Franklin said, offering clippings of the grevillea. The comb-shaped flowers were coloured like fruits: lemon, strawberry, apricot and peach. The final item she added to my gleanings showed a mustard-coloured bloom. ‘The colony’s honeysuckers are fond of this breed,’ she explained.

  I asked Mary to help me fix the cuttings inside their paper casings and pulled out my pencil to jot down their names for future reference. Lady Franklin alerted me to the she-oak, the scarlet-plumed native waratah and a strain of local grass that produced red seeds with tough black hairs.

  ‘It has become a tradition for the governors of the colony and their secretaries to contribute to the expansion of the gardens,’ Lady Franklin said. For her part she had recently provided funds from her private fortune to have workmen install a greenhouse to propagate cuttings from the tropics.

  After collecting samples of a glorious array of native genera, our hostess led us on a walk along a sandy pathway that opened into extensive tulip beds, a fragrant herbarium, and rows of plantings of vegetable and wheat varieties. At a canopied well, we were invited to toss in ha’pennies and make a wish. While Lady Franklin showed no signs of flagging, Mary and I found we had to stop on a wooden bench to
catch our breaths. We fanned our faces, panting, and tugged at our bodices, wishing we had not donned stays. Before a pond stocked with fat red carp, we fixed our fallen stockings. Lily pads larger than dinner plates unfurled their starry purple buds. Blue and green dragonflies skimmed overhead. An impressive fellow rested on a papyrus frond, drinking from a bubbling fountain.

  I thought of Henry, taking his lessons with Reverend Ewing. ‘My son would be delighted by these creatures,’ I said. ‘He’s taken to chloroforming insects.’

  ‘So long as he pins them out,’ said Lady Franklin. ‘We have to entice children into science somehow.’

  ‘I agree. And yes, he appears to have inherited the meticulous nature of his father.’

  ‘That cannot be a bad thing,’ said Lady Franklin. ‘And how is your son faring with his lessons?’

  ‘We are lucky,’ I replied. ‘Reverend Ewing has enrolled him at the school he oversees.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lady Franklin. She bent her head towards mine. ‘Between you and me, the school situation is the bane of this narrow-thinking colony.’ She explained that there were deep divisions between the Papists and Protestants over the question of their children’s education. Each side had argued in town meetings about which faith-based model provided the better instruction. ‘On account of all the squabbling, the Governor and I have turned to championing an independent approach.’

  ‘I’m grateful not to be involved,’ I said, silently thanking the Lord that enrolling Henry in school had been a straightforward affair.

  Lady Franklin resumed the tour with a visit to a glass-ceilinged gazebo, a perfect miniature representation, she informed me, of the greenhouse in the Jardin du Luxembourg in Paris. She invited me to inspect the construction of a small temple that she had commissioned. Blocks of locally quarried sandstone had been laid for the foundations, and I ran my fingers along their fine grains, the veins rich caramel, chocolate and butterscotch. Next, we visited an adjacent building that housed a collection of Batavian and Sumatran exotics. The highlight was a fearsome succulent that stank like night soil in order to attract flies, which drowned in the sticky fluid at its base. When enough flies had been gathered, the carnivorous plant folded its thick red petals and, in secret and in silence, consumed the maggoty feast.