Birdman's Wife

by Melissa Ashley

  My husband was a handsome man. He had become even more so during his period in the Australian scrub. His skin had turned a deep, burnished brown; his golden hair had lightened in the merciless sunlight, sparking his eyes a flintier blue. The exercise he took tramping about the brushes had transformed him into the picture of health, humours balanced, lungs and heart clear. His bushman’s hat emphasised the spread of his shoulders. He was the sharp tang of lemon, the brine of salmon, the strange aftertaste of cumquat.

  Later, in the confines of our tent, we sat on bedrolls removing muddy socks and stockings. John had seen to it that I had a pillow, a cask of water, sheets and a woollen blanket. A bottle of German riesling, saved from our voyage and left to cool in the river earlier, stood on the makeshift table at John’s side, along with a bag of oranges and a slab of fruitcake from Mrs Bennett’s kitchen.

  ‘What do you make of my bower?’ John asked, sweeping his hands proudly about the interior. The kerosene lamp threw shadows of our profiles on the tarpaulin walls.

  ‘You’ve stocked our camp well,’ I replied, helping myself to a piece of cake. ‘You’ll have to dance for me, mind. Or sing, or something or other to demonstrate your repertoire of talents. I’ll need to make a judgement.’

  He uncorked the bottle of wine, pouring the liquid into tin cups. He handed me one, and we clunked the sides together and laughed.

  ‘I cannot stop thinking about the satin bird,’ said John. ‘It’s such an extraordinary creature. It sings like the lyrebird, but is not solitary. Like so much of the birdlife on this continent, the female of the species finds advantage in groups. And as for the male, he paints. He cleans. He builds. He dances.’

  ‘I was impressed by the stage,’ I replied. ‘How the feathers and fruits were laid out. It’s subtle, and you would only notice if you looked at the surrounding environment, but there’s an order to the platform, as if he sweeps it clean. As if he moves out the debris and fusses over the bric-a-brac.’

  ‘You may have something there, Eliza.’

  ‘You saw it, too?’

  ‘Extraordinary.’

  I met his eyes over my cup of wine. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I’m finished with birds for the evening.’

  Away from our fellow campers, John’s appearance and demeanour changed. Now at last he had no interest but in my face and figure. Civility shed its silks as I realised he had planned my entrapment. I was his prize specimen, lured and netted inside the canvas walls of the tent.

  His hands moved to help me with my hair, my layers of sodden clothing.

  During the day the absence of female company had often left me feeling vulnerable, all too aware of my differences from the remainder of the party. I was the only woman in the campsite – on the island, even. But here alone with John I could be myself, and be utterly female.

  ‘I’ve taken the liberty of organising something for us,’ said John.

  He brushed my shoulder with the tip of his finger, igniting a shiver of goosebumps along my neck and back. He beckoned me closer. I leaned in while he opened his palm to reveal a yellow sea sponge, as pocked with holes as a moth-ruined vest.

  ‘Is this some new delicacy?’ I asked. ‘I tell you, I’ll not eat a sponge.’

  ‘It’s not to be taken by mouth,’ said John, giving a tender smile. ‘It’s a barrier.’

  I understood that my husband referred to our intimate relations, although I could not for the life of me fathom what he meant me to do with the item.

  ‘Wives on the continent are said to be awfully fond of these clever little pore bearers,’ he said, ‘and not for applying paint to a canvas. Mr Bennett mentioned their curious use while walking me through his collection of local Porifera.’

  ‘You mean like soldiers and their gloves?’ I asked. ‘Sheep’s stomachs kept among the linens of a harlot?’

  John ran his fingers along my neck and collarbone. ‘Respectable women. Married women, like you, who want to control the number of children they bear. Who might wish to delay impregnation.’

  His eyes held mine and would not let go.

  ‘So you are saying abstinence is not the only alternative,’ I observed, stroking his cheek. ‘I do miss you.’

  ‘I will respect whatever you choose, Eliza. I’m just suggesting that science might come to our aid.’

  ‘You must tell me how the device operates.’

  John shifted his weight so our knees touched. He gestured for me to give him my ear. Leaning in, he whispered instructions. My heart quickened at his words. Warmth spread across my lower belly.

  I looked into John’s eyes. ‘But what if it fails?’

  ‘It’s true, there’s no guarantee it will work.’ He jiggled the sponge in his palm. ‘But given the evidence it’s worth a try. And, just so you know, these little sea sponges are clean. There’s a pamphlet by the philosopher Mills – you might like to cast your eyes over it one day. He writes of the importance of the physical bond between husband and wife.’

  ‘I don’t need Mr Mills to tell me of such necessities,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Surely there’s no shame in accepting a little help from nature, though.’

  ‘I agree. And yet … I searched my husband’s face. ‘I want dearly to believe it sound. I do not know if I can endure another pregnancy while we are expeditioning. But I cannot make my mind up alone.’ I slipped my hand into his shirt. ‘I may need you to convince me.’

  John began to loosen my chemise and I nuzzled into his chest, my cheeks heated by his explorations, any trace of lingering resistance dissolved.

  The deep-throated hoot of an owl sounded through the brush. Drifting in and out of a dreamy rest, I awoke early and watched the sky gradually lighten through the tent’s opening. My hands swiped at the mosquitoes and midges that peppered my ankles and wrists with small pink lumps. Leaving John to sleep, I dressed and wrapped my shawl around my shoulders. I found a folding chair near the remains of the campfire and carried it down to the water’s edge nearby. Dipping my bare toes in the water, I listened to the slur of frogs, the slap of the tide on the mud, the sucking of whelks and molluscs.

  The scent of woodfire and frying butter drifted over and lured me back to camp. As I returned to the clearing, I made out the green body of our tent, its wooden poles unpegged, its canvas walls like the silks of a deflated hot-air balloon. The campsite was a hive of rolling and packing and tying and coiling. Our field books and clothing, our binoculars and maps were being loaded onto the canoe. We gathered around the open fire to roast our bread on sticks. I had been shown how to remove the stick and drop jam and butter into the hole. Tea was a weak brew cooked in a tin over open flames. After we had satisfied our hunger, the men kicked sand onto the coals.

  John, who had breakfasted with Mr Scott, greeted me with a kiss. He offered his elbow and we led the group along a wet path through melaleuca swamp to shore, where our canoe waited. A heavy thumping ahead caused us to pause. John turned, and with his raised hand indicated that we were to be silent. A wallaby, standing about three feet tall, a leggy bulge peeping from its pouch, regarded us intently. Its nose twitched and in its paw it held a stem of grass. The animal studied us for a long moment, its powerful tail lying still as a draught snake. There was a trembling of leaves in the tree bough hanging between the wallaby and our party. Startled, dew brushing her fur, the wallaby turned on her tail. With three short thwacks, she disappeared into the scrub.

  To my relief, John’s guns had been stowed. It would have distressed me had he made fire. At the boat, the anchor was drawn up. I closed my eyes and breathed the salty, slightly fetid smell of the shore into my lungs. Before climbing aboard, I listened to the popping of crabholes, the scouring grate of cicadas, unsure I was entirely ready to part with Mr Scott’s mud-fringed, satin bird Eden.

  Chapter 18

  Chestnut-backed Quail thrush

  Cinclosoma castanotum

  Yarrundi, ‘place of possums’ 1839

  The movement of a wagon on
wheels drawn by bullocks is not lulling like the rhythm of a ship or steamer. Sleep was made impossible in any case by the armies of biting mosquitoes. I was haunted daily by the terrors of finding a snake in my boot, of a goanna digging its claws into my stockings, of hairy-bellied spiders and slippery skinks slithering and scuttling behind rocks and tree stumps whenever we stopped to eat – the bush fare of fire-baked bird, possum and tea. My mouth was constantly parched and my nose peeling with sunburn. The pocked roads, the heat, the amber dust that found its way behind my ears, into my nostrils and the creases of my neck, made me wonder more than once if it was all worth it. Our torturous journey from Maitland across the Liverpool Plains to my brother’s farm was testing us all.

  Mary offered me a sip from the water flask. Passing her a sleepy little Frank, I climbed through the tarpaulin flaps and took a seat beside our driver, Sammy. I preferred to watch the countryside rather than broil inside under the canopy and made the most of the opportunity whenever I could. Sammy was fond of apples and chewing tobacco, and of swearing ferociously at the team of stubborn bullocks dragging our possessions across the plains. In front of the wagon, John and Benstead rode on horseback, their mounts’ tails rhythmically flicking at flies.

  I thought back to the comforts we had enjoyed the week before aboard the paddle steamer William the Fourth, churning the brown waters of the Hunter River during our passage from Newcastle to Maitland. Our party had stopped off there for several days and taken every opportunity to replenish our stores with the array of fresh produce from the Upper Hunter region that flowed through the thriving industrial town. We explored the rainforest alongside the great river to collect botanical samples and birds. The cedar trees had such wide girths that a team of men was required to bring one down. There were great grey-skinned figs with roots that grew in a skirted flare around their boles, and myrtle and clematis. One morning, just before sunrise, we saw flocks of rainbow and scaly breasted lorikeets, musk and little parakeets, all feeding side by side in the grass on the town racecourse. When not exploring with John, I had worked at colouring the soft parts of the specimens he had collected. He was bringing back so many bodies I could have sketched night and day without rest and still not managed to keep up.

  I pushed away all thoughts of the comforts of Maitland and focused on the road ahead. The landscape put me in mind of the parklands of Kent, but rather than oaks and elms and alders, there were eucalypt, acacia and casuarina, a faded carpet of native grasses. On the sides of the road lay the heavy bones of drought-felled bullocks, their skins tanned to leather in the sun. I tried to admire the mobs of grey and pink galahs, the sulphur-crested cockatoos and the corellas, but as their cackles and shrieks interrupted my attempts at respite more than once, they were not my favourite visitors.

  The further northwest we travelled the more the land flattened out, as if subjected to a slow sloughing, and the Liverpool Ranges made curves of the horizon. Nearing Stephen’s farm, we came across a native girl and boy playing in a clearing. They threw a stick around in some kind of game. The little girl wore a faded pink dress, the boy the sort of rough trousers I dressed Henry in for travelling. The girl stopped and stared at our party, then cupped her hand to the boy’s ear and whispered. The boy dropped his stick. Then, in a kick of dust, they ran ahead of us along the track.

  John turned to Sammy, pointing his crop at a painted tin sign nailed to the trunk of a salmon gum that read ‘Yarrundi’. My brother had explained in his last letter that this meant ‘place of possums’ in the language of the natives. Had the children been looking out for us,I wondered? I was swamped by a delicious relief that our journey was almost over.

  We turned off the road, passing fields under attack from the loggers’ axe, bare stumps sprouting from the denuded land like so many bristles on a brush. Sheep were sprinkled throughout the paddocks, heads lowered to crop the grass. Swathes of wheat and sorghum, blankets of yellow and red, lay still in the noonday heat. Along the west side of my brother’s property scrolled a small watercourse, fringed by plump-limbed river gums.

  John and I were so dusty and sweat-filmed, our joints aching from the journey, that it was an effort to rally for the welcome Stephen had prepared. Nevertheless, once I was wrapped in my brother’s wool- and earth-scented embrace I felt a renewed sense of wellbeing.

  It was twelve months since we had seen my nephew, and in that time Will seemed to have crossed the boundary between boy and man. At sixteen, he had reached his full height, his chin and jaw filled out. The sun had given him freckles and his hands were calloused with labour. But most strikingly, Will exuded a new confidence. Indeed, it was difficult to comprehend how completely my nephew had been transformed.

  Stephen clapped John on the shoulder, making a joke about shaking off the dust on his saddle-legs, before directing us to the welcome sight of several thick-cushioned wicker chairs on the homestead’s deep veranda. Our belongings would keep, Stephen assured Benstead and Mary. Relieved beyond measure to have a comfortable seat, I enjoyed the luxury while a maid served us tea and yellow fruitcake, and my brother chatted happily about the arrangements he had made for our lodgings.

  John sipped his tea, uncharacteristically silent. He looked exhausted. It was unlike my husband to exhibit tiredness, but the last stretch of our three days overlanding had worn even him out. Beads of sweat glistened on his face, and all he seemed capable of doing was draining his tea and motioning with a weary shake of his fingers for more. Sinking into the wicker chair, I closed my eyes, letting Stephen’s chatter wash over me and the breeze cool my face.

  Stephen led me to the bedroom of his late wife, Sarah. As I studied my reflection in the mirror that had belonged to her, I found I was barely able to recall her features. From memory Stephen’s wife had been light of spirit, quick to appreciate a joke. She had taken ill with dropsy not long after setting up home in the Upper Hunter with Stephen. After a short battle with the affliction, she died at just twenty-eight years of age, leaving Stephen and their two sons behind. My heart went out to my brother. It must have taken a masterful effort to retain his commitment to carving out a life in New South Wales after losing his beloved wife.

  The window above the loveseat looked out on clumps of native shrubbery and a garden with a wilted vegetable patch. ‘There’re many little forest birds that feed on the brushes in the garden, so I’m sure this view will be to your liking,’ said Stephen.

  Mary tapped on the door, and Stephen excused himself to show John to his room.

  ‘Would you look at these, ma’am?’ said Mary, having thrown open the wardrobe’s doors. She lifted out a dainty cotton dress and laid it across the bed. It was dyed the palest pink, the bodice decorated with tiny stitched swallows. It was exquisite. ‘Might your brother let you borrow something?’ she asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to upset him.’ I sighed.

  I wished I could wear it, though. I had been in the colonies a year and the three dresses I had brought from London were almost frayed to rags. I had asked Mother to send me several new ones via Sydney, but they had yet to arrive. Most of the apparel made in Van Diemen’s Land was poorly tailored and excessively expensive.

  ‘Come, let me brush your hair,’ said Mary. ‘I’ve ordered some water to be heated for a bath, and then we can put you in something comfortable.’

  With Frank quietly asleep in the room next to mine, where Stephen had installed a cot, my mind was allowed to slow. The thought of a hot bath had filled my dreams over the past week. When at last the water arrived, I could not wait to step into the tin tub. I leaned back against its sides, breathing in the scented salts that Mary sprinkled into the water, lavender heads floating about my arms and legs. Thinking about the treasures in Sarah’s wardrobe, I recalled how fascinated I had been as a child by the contents of my mother’s closet. She also had a beautiful embroidered muslin dress made to wear to a wedding, the fabric shipped from India, along with beaded flesh-pink slippers that were stretched on wooden moulds to keep their
fragile shape. I threaded my fingers through the warm water, lost in memory. It was good to have a moment to myself to remember that I was a woman, not just a traveller and artist; I was a feminine body, clothed in skin, and sinking into it felt like the sweetest indulgence.

  The afternoon passed in a dozy blur. In the evening we gathered in the dining room for a country roast. The large room was homely, its bay windows opening to a view of the brook, sheltered in thickets of scrub, the scant and thirsty grass in the foreground and the horse stables in the distance. The floor was bare boards, and a rattan mat was spread beneath the impressive oak dining table, which had been imported from London at exorbitant cost.

  Two women – dressed in black smocks and white aprons, their hair tucked inside caps, served as maids. I braced myself to tackle the heavy dinner: mutton from Stephen’s flock, gravy, bread, peas, potatoes and wine. Truly, what I most longed for was sleep. The still, muggy air had ruined what lingered of my appetite.

  After a long grace – my brother’s faith had intensified since the loss of his wife – Stephen asked for our impressions of the homestead.

  ‘It is beyond impressive, Stephen. I had not really known what to imagine but this surpasses all my expectations,’ I said.

  ‘Here’s to the King of Yarrundi,’ said John, admiration written all over his face. He raised his glass.

  ‘I like the sound of that.’ Stephen laughed.

  ‘How on earth do you manage such an enormous staff?’ asked John. ‘I’m near overwhelmed caring for a dozen, not to mention the cost!’

  ‘They’re all ticket-of-leave holders,’ Stephen explained. ‘I don’t have to pay my men. They’re provided by the government with each parcel of land granted. It keeps them out of trouble. There’s no shortage of work: felling trees, droving, tilling soil, building sheds and repairing equipment, tending the horses. In return, I give them board and lodging. A chance at a new life, you might say. Tomorrow I’ll show you the little village that’s sprung up behind the homestead, the rough huts my farmhands have built. As you’ve no doubt noticed, Eliza, I’ve a number of women working in the kitchen. They’ve served their time and have now all been snapped up in common-law marriages. You must understand,’ he added, having seen my surprise, ‘the practice is rather less frowned upon here than at home.’