Birdman's Wife

by Melissa Ashley

  ‘I do apologise,’ I said, pressing my lips together and shaking my head. ‘Although I’m unsurprised.’

  ‘I’m quite capable of looking after myself.’ Lady Franklin smiled. ‘You know I like putting my wits to use. And I have every respect for your husband. He has such a fire in his belly. I was immensely sympathetic to his frustration that the Eliza became windbound, and at such an early stage in our voyage, after the bounty of collecting I had promised him. He was quite the sight, Eliza! Pacing the boards of the sloop, shouting and even tipping over a pail at one point, demanding to whomever would listen that we set sail for Hobarton at once.’

  ‘I am mortified,’ I said, burying my head in my hands.

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ said Lady Franklin, touching my shoulder. ‘I have seen far worse behaviour. Your husband cannot stand to waste time, and that is perfectly understandable. His spirits perked up when I suggested we sail for Musselroe Bay, which is known for its abundant birdlife.’

  ‘I’m glad he was not utterly horrendous. But what of your plans? You must surely be disappointed.’

  ‘I’m quite familiar with expeditions unravelling. It’s almost to be expected, if you must know. But enough of me – I’m sure John will fill you in on the details. I want to know about you.’

  I put my cup in its saucer and explained that apart from still yearning to hear word from London, I was faring well. I was not feeling as ill as I had been at the start of the pregnancy, to my immense relief.

  ‘Good, good,’ said Lady Franklin, draining her cup and rising to stand. ‘I shall see you again before long.’ Grasping my hands firmly in hers, she apologised for having to leave so soon, but a teetering pile of correspondence required her immediate attention.

  ‘So you’ve not time to rest?’ I joked.

  Lady Franklin raised her eyebrows as if stunned. ‘Not a wink!’

  I watched her take the path back to Government House. She was not the only member of the party who found it impossible to slow their pace, I thought wryly. On John’s instruction, rather than stop to wash or eat, Benstead and Gilbert were unloading the wagon, hefting sacks and chests to the storehouse behind the cottage. At every chance, they would stop and remove their sweat-darkened hats and shake out their hair, wiping their kerchiefs along their sopping brows. At least they would be compensated soon with a hot bath and a good night’s sleep in a real bed.

  As for reviving their spirits with a home-cooked meal, the men had opted instead to treat us to some bush fare. Benstead had dug a pit in the backyard and made a blazing fire to roast their exotic offerings. I observed Mary standing with Benstead by the flames, talking animatedly and holding the silver pendant she wore at her neck. Until this moment, I had not noticed how close an attachment my maid and John’s manservant seemed to share. Benstead, his face lit orange from the fire, a rag wrapped around his hand, lifted a skewer to inspect the carcass of a green rosella. Mary held out a serving platter and together they worked to slide the bird off the stick. When the charred body had sufficiently cooled, Mary removed the skin, piling the choice pieces of flesh, which fairly slid off the bones, onto another, smaller plate.

  ‘Here you are, ma’am,’ she said, passing the generous serving to me. ‘We saved the best morsels for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, dubious. I waited until Mary’s back was turned to sniff at the plate. The party had eaten green rosella for the first time during their expedition and agreed that it made for a fine supper. They had been unable to resist loading up a brace bag upon making landfall in Hobarton. Bragging of the catch, Gilbert had determined to convince me to let go of my squeamishness at sampling the meat of the colony’s native birds. Now everyone all but goaded me into taking a bite.

  Watching John, Gilbert and Henry tucking into their food around the fire pit, I endeavoured to follow their examples, forking up one of the more tender looking pieces of meat.

  ‘And what might be your opinion?’ asked Gilbert, smiling.

  ‘To be honest,’ I said, tossing the drumstick bone onto the fire, ‘it’s really quite lovely. I can understand why it’s deemed a good meal.’

  ‘Ha!’ said John, pleased.

  ‘It’s become so popular, I’ve heard it’s acceptable to serve rosella at dinner gatherings,’ Gilbert said.

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ I said. ‘What’s your conclusion, Henry? We’re not poisoning your young palate?’

  ‘It’s very tasty, Mama,’ he replied, glancing up at John. Father and son nodded conspiratorially. ‘Papa says we must always try new experiences.’

  ‘If it’s any comfort to you, Eliza,’ said John, ‘killing the deuced creatures is something of a civic duty. The tribe has reached plague proportions due to the drought. They’re not at all popular with the fruit growers, and they can make a terrible mess of one’s flower gardens. Green rosellas eat anything, really – nectar, insects, fruit, buds – which explains their proliferation.’

  ‘I’m sure you exaggerate the damage the tribe causes,’ I said. ‘Are their numbers really any concern of yours? If you’re not careful, you shall denude the skies of all of its birds.’

  ‘We’re not utter savages,’ said Gilbert. ‘Are we, Henry? Tell your mother what we did this afternoon.’

  ‘We have some pets, Mama,’ said Henry, excitedly. ‘A rose hill parakeet – it has a lovely white patch on its cheek – two tawny frogmouths, a pair of swift parrots and two baby green rosellas, which Mr Gilbert says I must tend with extra special care.’

  ‘I appreciate you preparing the birdhouses, Eliza,’ said Gilbert. ‘The creatures weren’t going to last much longer in the tiny cage I had to keep them all in.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ I said, gratified by his thoughtfulness and the attention he had given Henry.

  The party was exhausted, even more so upon finishing supper. It had been a great pleasure to gather together outside to eat, the evening mild, the blustery winds from earlier in the afternoon died down, but the men’s need for rest was well overdue.

  ‘Welcome home, my dear,’ I said, leaning in to plant a kiss on John’s lips.

  ‘Yes, Papa, it’s good to have you back,’ said Henry. ‘Please don’t go away again just yet?’

  Despite Gilbert’s insistence that the hunting party were not savages, when I saw the specimens they had collected I could not help but wonder if they had erred rather heavily on the side of greed. I was kept busy sketching and colouring the soft parts of several species of gull that John wanted me to record in his field journal before they faded. John, Gilbert and Benstead worked tirelessly on the veranda and in the shed, boxing and packing for transport the many eggs they had procured from island rookeries, stuffing and drying the skins of the birds they had shot: the penguins, petrels, parrots, ducks, teals and quails, not to mention the grey-browed albatross.

  John was determined to describe as many Australian birds’ cycles of growth as possible, which meant obtaining male, female and juvenile specimens of each species, and forming a duplicate collection lest the original be lost at sea. We had not been able to afford to be picky back in London. If a skin was damaged by a gun, if it was bloodied or if it mouldered during its journey, such was the specimen’s rarity that we had to employ the tricks of taxidermy and art to fill in missing feathers, a cracked bill or broken leg.

  The knowledge that the shooting party’s skills and resources far outweighed the defences of their prey unsettled me. But the reality was that we had to gather specimens for our work, and I had not the voice nor the arguments to persuade my husband to restrain himself in his collecting. He would never risk his goal of transforming forever our understanding of Australia’s ornithology.

  Sadly for Henry, his request that John remain at New Norfolk could not be granted. Once the specimens from Recherche Bay had been catalogued and stored, the team turned their attentions to inventorying their hunting supplies in preparation for the next expedition, this time to the islands of Bass Strait. Benstead and Gilbert took t
he Governor’s buggy to purchase gunshot, sewing thread, needles, flax, arsenic powder and pickling spirit. Eager to plan his next adventure, John sat immovable at the kitchen table, survey maps unfolded around him. Before Henry and I quite knew it, their berths were booked on the ship, and we were once again bidding one another farewell.

  ‘You’re to keep a good eye on our pets. I’m relying on you,’ Gilbert said to Henry.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Henry, sounding very grown-up, obviously pleased to be treated with such trust and respect.

  Gilbert then visited each bird cage, which he had suspended from the veranda’s eaves, clicking his tongue and making kissing sounds to farewell his rosellas and frogmouths.

  ‘And look after your mother, too,’ said John, shaking Henry’s hand solemnly and glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whispered into John’s ear.

  I had kept well out of the way of his energised list-making, focusing instead on my drawings and ignoring the sight of the yard taken over by sheets and waste boxes and skinning tools, the shouts of laughter and incessant chatter of the three travelling companions.

  Emptied of its menfolk, a sweet silence settled over New Norfolk again. For the first couple of days after the party’s departure, I wandered about in a half-dream, moving the kitchen items back to where I preferred them to sit, rearranging the furniture, planning how I would attack the box of skins John had left me to draw. In the mornings, Mary left in the buggy to take Henry to school, and after a leisurely cup of tea I commenced the day’s work. After luncheon, I would wander the gardens of Government House. I always took pencils and paper with me in case I should discover a new pocket of plantings on the extensive grounds. I often bumped into Lady Franklin, taking a cordial under a sun umbrella and bossing a maid trimming roses or a gardener emptying a wheelbarrow of manure. After a chat, I would take myself off to the apple and peach orchard, or the eucalypt grove on the far eastern corner of the property. When I had discovered a scene to study, I would settle on one of the many wooden benches dotted around the grounds and sketch a family of thornbills or silvereyes, a singing pardalote or a cluster of wattlebirds and parakeets, trembling on a eucalypt branch or flitting about one of the lower shrubs.

  In my wanderings I began to observe a particular pair of green rosellas, with their blue throats and yellowish-green underparts and breasts. I sketched them tottering across the grass, warbling to each other and digging for seed. Every now and then they made a short flight to explore the lower limbs of the budding apple trees. They would suddenly disappear, returning to the orchard after a short interval. I followed them one afternoon as they hopped and fluttered from branch to branch. They led me to a towering silver-trunked eucalypt at the outer fringes of Lady Franklin’s garden, disappearing into its high canopy. Although I could not make anything out at such a distance, I decided they had built a nest inside a hollow tucked away behind the shimmering leaves. The gum was in bloom and I made several quick drawings of its buds. Finished, I was struck by an idea. I searched for a fallen branch with its white, pom pom-shaped flowers intact.

  Once I had returned to the cottage, I placed the branch inside the cage of our pet green rosellas, thinking to make a drawing. My studies of the live birds helped me to compose their form accurately, injecting movement and animation into the design. Observing our pets at close proximity aided me in rendering the finer details of their morphology and plumage. At first the rosellas ignored the branch, continuing to peck at their seed bowl. Then the male hopped up onto his perch to investigate the white flowers, his female companion on his tail.

  I was putting the final details on my composition when the front gate opened. Mary walked up the path, Henry behind her, his head lowered. I had completely lost track of time. I took down the biscuit tin for afternoon tea. It was a ritual I looked forward to every day, an opportunity to ask Henry about school – not that he offered much of an answer – but mostly I simply enjoyed sitting with him before he scampered outside to find one of the stablehand’s sons, with whom he had become friendly. Henry’s freedom to roam the grounds of Government House was a great comfort to me. As a child I loved exploring the countryside that surrounded our home, and I well understood the pleasures obtained out of the sight and hearing of adults: soaring high on a swing, looking for coins dropped on the ground, playing hide and seek, crossing streams, spying on some small animal chasing prey.

  I did not mind that Henry came home for supper with mud-flecked legs, a fine coating of sandy soil on his hands instead of the coal ash and soot of London’s streets. And I rather enjoyed picking his pockets to discover the exoskeletons of cicadas and beetles, locusts and spiders, their soft casings and the silk from their webs dusting the fabric of his clothes.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ I said.

  Henry stomped inside the cottage and dumped his satchel under the kitchen table. He ignored the plate of milk and biscuits I had set out for him. Freed of the weight of his books, he turned on his heel, rushing down the front steps and disappearing up the path.

  ‘Was he like this in the buggy, Mary?’

  ‘He didn’t speak a word to me the entire trip.’

  ‘Oh dear. Well, I hope he works it out in the fresh air,’ I said.

  When Henry returned for supper I noticed how grubby his elbows and knees were; his hair, too, was grittier than usual, full of a pale dust, as if he had scuffed about in the dirt like a tomcat. Still he would not look at me. Nor did he show any interest in the soup Mary had made for his dinner.

  ‘If you’re not going to eat or tell me what’s the matter,’ I said, frustrated, ‘you can take your bath. And then it’s off to bed with you.’

  When I went to check on him, Henry was standing in the centre of the room, his clothing heaped on the floor.

  ‘What is it? Please tell me,’ I said.

  ‘Nothing.’ His fingers worried the flannel folded over the side of the tub.

  ‘Come on then, get in. You’ll enjoy a good scrubbing.’

  As Henry climbed into the bath, he tried to move his back away from me, but I saw at once what had caused his sullen mood.

  ‘Did you find trouble in school, Henry?’ I asked, my voice thick with shock.

  Eight red welts raised the skin of my son’s lower back. Someone had caned him, using a hard hand.

  Henry brought the wet flannel to his cheeks.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ I persisted. I gently nudged him to inspect the marks in better light. Maybe he had misbehaved. I shuddered. Whatever his misdeed, he was but eight years of age, and the punishment was excessive.

  Henry brought his foot up to his hand and picked at a toenail. ‘Reverend Ewing became angry at a boy named Wellings. He’s a troublemaker and a bully, it’s true. He threatens to kick me every other day but I ignore him. Wellings couldn’t finish his multiplication tables. He had a cold, too, and kept sniffing, which bothered the Reverend. When he asked Wellings the answer to a sum and he couldn’t answer, the Reverend brought him to the front of the room for a caning. But the cane broke. He turned red and shouted that there would be a reward for any boy who might bring him a new switch. Mama, I didn’t plan to say anything, but I could not stop myself. I stood up and shouted, “That is unfair!” The Reverend looked so angry I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t. He marched to my desk and started hitting me with the broken cane.’

  ‘Oh, my boy,’ I said, drawing his head towards my chest. ‘I’m so sorry – you were very brave and I’m proud of you. Your teacher should not have done this. I shall speak to Reverend Ewing tomorrow.’

  ‘Please, Mama, no. Please don’t tell him what I’ve said. It’ll make things hard for me in the classroom. If the Reverend takes a dislike to you, it’s not easy to get on.’

  What kind of monster had I subjected my son to? I would remove him from the school immediately, lay down my brushes and teach his lessons myself. Gently I washed around the raised surface of the welts, feeling Henry relax unde
r my touch. What a cruel, petty man.

  ‘There,’ I said, motioning for my son to step out of the tub. ‘You’re clean.’

  When Henry was dry, I tenderly dabbed a rosemary salve on the wounds, but he could not help flinching.

  ‘It’ll feel better tomorrow. How about I make us some nice hot tea with honey?’ I said. ‘Come, the birds need feeding.’

  I sat at the veranda table where I had sketched the parrots, watching my son feed his pets in his nightshirt. He climbed onto a chair and opened the cage, sliding a plate of locusts and beetles into the base of one of the birdhouses. I left to make our nightcaps, and on my return was surprised to find Henry feeding the frogmouth by hand, holding a dead cicada near its mouth. It snapped its jaws around the insect, thanking Henry with a slow flicker of its eyelid.

  As Henry came within reach of the table, I pulled him gently to my side for a hug. He examined my face and said, calmly and clearly, ‘I’ll never forgive the Reverend for what he did to Wellings and me.’

  The following morning I accompanied Henry to his school, making sure to arrive before lessons began.

  ‘Run off and find your friends, Henry. I have to talk to your teacher.’

  ‘But it is too early,’ he said, refusing to budge from the classroom doorway.

  ‘I’m sure they will arrive very soon,’ I said, my hand on his shoulder. Henry shrugged, pulling his cap low on his forehead. I smiled. ‘I will find you when I’ve finished, all right? See you soon.’

  ‘Bye, Mama,’ said Henry.

  I poked my head inside the classroom. Reverend Ewing sat behind a large desk at the front of the small cold room, bent over a swathe of papers. I could not help noticing the broken wicker cane, placed across the length of his desktop, silent in its menacing threat.

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ asked Reverend Ewing, standing and fastening the buttons on his jacket. He rushed around to the front of the desk to greet me but I refused to give him my hand.