The Governor's House

by J. H. Fletcher

  I saw no one but for the first half hour it was like one of those dreams where you found yourself walking stark naked along a street crowded with people – although even in the most depressing dream you did not get shot for your daring.

  I kept going and nobody shot me but I knew they would not give up so easily. What had the man said? The crown has great symbolic value to my people. We shall not rest until we recover it. Not knowing where they were was a burden. I even found myself wishing I could catch sight of them, an obviously stupid idea.

  I had no idea how long it had taken me. I was weary beyond belief, exhausted by the things that had not happened as much as by those that had, but eventually I squeezed my way between two standing rocks and found myself staring down at Dixon’s Kingdom. Moving with great caution, I lay on the stone-studded ground, rested my chin on my arms and settled down to wait. Here the slope was gentle but further down it fell away steeply and through the branches of the trees below me I could see our two tents.

  There was no sign of movement. It had been full daylight for some time now but yesterday had been a hard day and I was not surprised Colin was still asleep. I hoped he was still asleep. I thought it should be all right. I did not think the two men could have got here much ahead of me, especially the man with the damaged throat, nor did I think they would risk trying a second kidnap in broad daylight. This was a popular camping area and they couldn’t be sure when someone might turn up. On the other hand they knew I had to come here and were perhaps out there now, hoping to grab me as I came down the slope. They might be willing to risk that.

  I looked around me but saw nothing. Not surprising; there were endless places to hide. They wouldn’t show themselves unless they could see some point in it.

  Where that left me I wasn’t sure. After last night I wasn’t sure about anything. Until then it had been little more than a game; not now. Mack the Knife might have killed me if he’d managed to hang on to my ankle; he’d be even keener to do it after my Randy Johnson moment. Yet knowing it was no longer a game somehow made the search more worthwhile. These men thought the crown existed. So did Wiranto. After the events of the last few hours I was coming to believe they were right. If that were so I was determined I would be the first person to find it. What I would do with it when I had it I didn’t know; I’d worry about that afterwards.

  A movement from the campsite caught my eye. The flap of Colin’s tent was now open. A moment later he emerged into the light. His chest was bare and I remembered what I’d planned for last night, only to be nobbled by physical exhaustion. I asked myself how the kidnappers had known to take me from my tent and not the other one. Only one answer; they must have been watching us when we set up camp. Another thought: how come they’d been following us at all?

  At that moment I was prepared to bet they were watching now, waiting for the moment when Colin would go to my tent and find out I’d vanished. And then? I didn’t know. In the Land of Crazy, who was to say what might come next?

  Suddenly there he was. The man who’d done most of the talking, who had warned me jovially what his companion would do to me if I did not co-operate, was strolling beneath the trees, cool as you please, with backpack and hiking boots as though he had just walked up the track from Wild Dog Creek. He stopped and chatted to Colin. My nerves were on edge. Where was the second man? Had I really disabled him or was he there somewhere, watching the drama unfolding below him? Not that there was much drama.

  The man pointed back down the track to Damascus Gate and I heard them laugh. Then, with a cheery wave of his hand, he walked on. He passed below me, close enough for me to hear his breathing. I could have dropped a boulder on him and enjoyed doing it. Of course murderous thoughts were very different from murderous deeds. I lay with my ugly thoughts for company until he had passed out of sight.

  Colin zipped the fly of his tent and set off down the track towards Damascus Gate. Looking for me, no doubt. He would not have seen the gash in my tent

  I thought of going after him but something held me back. Good decision. Two minutes after he’d left the kidnappers emerged from behind a pile of grey rocks and made their way down the slope. They passed a few paces below me but did not see me. Thank God for that. They went first into Colin’s tent and then mine, spending no more than a few minutes in either. Of course they found nothing. They stood talking. There was plenty of hand waving. They looked thoroughly pissed off and I thought they were arguing about what they should do next. Eventually they turned their backs on the tents, climbed up the track past me once more and disappeared. The grim-faced way they walked made me think that this time they would not be back. All the same I waited several minutes before emerging from my hiding place; even then my insides were turning somersaults as I passed the tents and went on down the track.

  Ten minutes later I met Colin coming back.

  ‘We should have brought a gun,’ I said.

  He stared. ‘What would we need a gun for?’

  ‘I’ll tell you on the way back. What we have to do now is pack up and get out of here fast.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  On the way back I told him. Even to me it sounded unbelievable while Colin stared like I was around the twist.

  ‘Have a look at my tent, if you don’t believe me.’

  We examined the rent Mack had cut in the material.

  ‘The police will have something to say about this,’ Colin said.

  ‘Don’t kid yourself.’

  With no evidence but a slit in the tent fabric I couldn’t see the cops doing much but Colin was fire and fury.

  ‘We’ll get the number of that hire car in the car park. They’ll be able to track them through that.’

  But when we eventually got down the car was gone.

  ‘Let’s face it,’ I told him. ‘We’re buggered.’

  The odd thing was that I did not feel too bad about it. Who else did I know who’d been kidnapped at knife point in a national park, threatened with all sorts of unpleasantness and at the end come out without a scratch?

  ‘And I rediscovered my pitching arm.’ I did a little tippy-toed dance to celebrate. ‘Something to tell the grandchildren,’ I said.

  ‘Are you planning on any?’

  ‘First things first,’ I said.

  We stayed at Ross on the way back to Hobart. It was a nice little town in a vastness of open country. Old buildings of honeycoloured stone stood beneath ancient shade trees on either side of the main street. There was also a hotel.

  The hotel had bedrooms, showers, a restaurant and a bar. All the heart could desire. Well, almost all the heart could desire. We had a good meal with a few drinks to help us unwind. Surprisingly I had no nightmares. The following morning we drove on to Hobart.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Cat

  Cat Haggard stood in the library and stared at the doctor in horror.

  ‘You want me to do what?’

  ‘To be my hostess at the dinner party I am giving in two weeks’ time.’

  ‘My dear life!’ It was an expression that Mrs Hargreaves had discouraged but occasionally it still slipped out. ‘Oh no, sir, I couldn’t do that. I believe it would not be seemly.’

  Dr Morgan raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Pray tell me why.’

  She could think of any number of reasons. ‘I am a kitchen maid –’

  ‘You were hired out to me to carry out whatever duties I decide. They’ve done away with that old system but you are still my employee. If I want you to be a kitchen maid, a kitchen maid you will be. If I want you to be hostess at my dinner parties, then I expect you to carry out that duty, isn’t it?’

  Catherine was almost in tears. ‘But sir, I’m a convict.’

  ‘You are indeed. And therefore must obey me.’

  Surely he could see it would never do? ‘But sir –’

  ‘No more discussion, Catherine. It is settled.’

  ‘I am your kitchen maid.’

  ‘Not any more. A new gi
rl starts tomorrow. Her name is Gladys and Mrs Amos speaks well of her.’

  So Mrs Amos was on the doctor’s side in this foolishness? All Catherine could feel was that she had been doubly betrayed. ‘The people at this party will be gentry?’

  ‘No doubt some would call themselves that. And their wives, of course.’

  ‘The Byfields aren’t coming, are they?’

  ‘Heaven forbid, girl.’

  That was something; she hadn’t met anyone else who might be called gentry although it would still be tricky facing up to them. The wives scared her most. With the men she might pass, with luck and Mrs Hargreaves’s grooming, but the wives would smell her out in a trice. They would smile knowingly, invite her to share her experiences aboard the transport and in the women’s factory. Their eyes would strip her to the bone.

  ‘Oh no, sir. I couldn’t be doing nothing like that, sir.’

  The more agitated she got the more Somerset reclaimed her speech, emerging irregularly and without warning, like hiccups.

  ‘You are telling me after all this time that I have been wasting my money trying to make a lady out of you?’

  ‘No, sir, that wasn’t my meaning –’

  ‘You think them so much better than you, is it?’

  As with increasing agitation Catherine became more Somerset, so Dr Morgan became more Welsh.

  ‘It’s not that, sir. Only –’

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘I’m not their sort, no more than I’m yours. You know that.’

  ‘You think my guests will be so ill-mannered?’

  ‘I’m afraid they may laugh at you behind your back.’ And at me.

  ‘You don’t think it might be better to let me worry about that?’

  ‘I would hate for you to be humiliated because of something I said or did that was wrong.’

  ‘Listen to me, Catherine.’ He spoke with great force, finger raised. ‘No one outside yourself has the power to humiliate you. No one! And I would put it to you that you are the equal of any woman in this colony. You think women like Mrs Byfield have read the works of Homer or Shakespeare, as you have? You started with nothing, girl – nothing! – and now I daresay are among the half-dozen best-read women on this island. I would like to see the woman who would try to humiliate someone with a record like yours.’

  He had made up his mind and it was pointless to argue with him. Catherine was frustrated. She still could not express herself as clearly as she would have liked but knew he was wrong about this. Women did not judge other women by the books they’d read but by their looks, deportment and breeding. She supposed she might pass on looks and even deportment, provided she took care, but breeding was a gaping hole in her armour and she could do nothing about that.

  ‘I shall be a fisherman’s moll till the day I die,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t be right for me to pretend otherwise.’

  ‘Not right?’ he repeated. ‘There is a very delicate conscience we are developing.’

  ‘I’d sooner be excused, sir, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘But I do mind, Catherine. In fact I think you are forgetting yourself,’ Dr Morgan said with mock severity, leeks and laver bread in every syllable. ‘You are neither a moll nor a lady. You are a servant, isn’t it. You were hired out to me by the crown to do my bidding. To defy me might therefore be construed as treason. What do you have to say about that?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. Seeing I don’t know what construed means.’

  ‘It means you should obey my instructions and not seek to defy me. It means when I tell you to do something you should obey me with a willing heart.’

  ‘My heart’s willing, sir. Very willing. Like you say. You won’t find a heart more willing than mine. The only thing –’

  ‘The only thing?’

  ‘I’d better prefer it, sir if you were kind enough to let me off being your hostess the week after next.’

  ‘I am sorry to say I am overruling you,’ Dr Morgan said. ‘Miss Jillibel Atkins will be coming to the house tomorrow at ten to provide you with clothes suitable for the occasion.’

  ‘Jillibel?’

  ‘The story is that Miss Atkins’s father favoured the name Jezebel which he was told was in the Bible. Not being a well-read man he imagined the name must therefore be acceptable to all right-thinking folk. It was not until the day of the christening that he discovered the true nature of the biblical Jezebel. He saw that the name would not do but in the heat of the moment could think of no other name more suitable. So when called upon by the vicar to name the child he said the first thing that came into his head. I understand his wife was very angry with him,’ Dr Morgan said gravely. ‘And I am told poor Miss Atkins has not got over it yet.’

  It was cruel to laugh over Miss Atkins’s misfortune but Catherine did so anyway and suffered no pangs of conscience. On the contrary, it put her in such a good mood that she was able to contemplate the prospect of being the doctor’s hostess with more fortitude than at first had seemed possible.

  The regrettably named Miss Atkins arrived punctually the next morning accompanied by a beast of burden in the form of a tired-looking woman bowed beneath the weight of a wide variety of silks and other fabrics. Within seconds she had taken charge of the upstairs bedroom in which the doctor had decided the measuring and fitting out of his new hostess would take place.

  Decorum required that Dr Morgan absent himself during the more intimate stages of the process but it quickly became obvious that he intended to have his say regarding both fabric and style.

  ‘I am thinking of several outfits,’ Dr Morgan said.

  Miss Atkins’s long nose twitched. ‘Very well, Dr Morgan, sir.’

  ‘In the latest fashion. I rely on you to advise me, Miss Atkins.’

  ‘Well sir, we are fortunate. We received news of the latest London fashions only the other day with the arrival of the Bengal Princess.’

  There followed an explosion of fabrics, of patterns and illustrations that made up what Miss Atkins was pleased to call her fashion portfolio. Directions as sharp as knives were driven into the ribs of the bullied assistant, who scurried to set out a succession of materials for the doctor’s consideration.

  ‘I like that one,’ Catherine said but no one was listening. It was clear that neither the doctor nor Miss Atkins was interested in her opinion. She found it aggravating. She would be wearing the clothes and should therefore have a say in choosing them but clearly that was not Dr Morgan’s plan. More and more Catherine was coming to realise that Dr Morgan’s determination to recreate her in the image he wanted left no room for her opinions.

  ‘The blue silk, I think, Miss Atkins.’

  ‘Exactly what I would have chosen myself, sir. Brings out the colour of the eyes most beautifully.’

  Catherine was growing crosser by the minute. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the blue but she was not a tailor’s dummy and did not intend to be treated as one.

  ‘We shall make the skirt fuller by the addition of flounces,’ Miss Atkins said.

  ‘Explain what you mean by flounces,’ the doctor said.

  ‘Deep ruffles,’ Miss Atkins explained. ‘Décolleté, of course.’

  ‘Décolleté?’ Catherine asked. ‘What is that, please?’

  Miss Atkins continued to look at Dr Morgan, who would be paying the bill, and said, ‘That is very much the present fashion. Off the shoulders as well, with short sleeves.’

  ‘I asked what décolleté means,’ Catherine said.

  ‘There is talk in London of a steel cage to be worn under a very wide skirt,’ Miss Atkins said brightly. ‘With pantalettes, of course, for modesty’s sake.’

  Catherine wondered how the dressmaker would react if she took her long nose and twisted it slowly.

  ‘That sounds interesting,’ the doctor said. ‘You say that is the coming fashion?’

  ‘They call it the crinoline.’

  ‘I am not going to wear a steel cage under my skirts,’ said Catherine, speaking very loud
ly and clearly. ‘And I am still waiting for you to answer my question.’

  The doctor looked surprised, Miss Atkins affronted.

  ‘You are making these outfits for me.’ Catherine’s voice was deadly. ‘I shall decide whether I am willing to wear them or not.’

  Miss Atkins’s thin face turned a deep red. Until that moment it had obviously not occurred to her that Catherine might have an opinion.

  ‘Décolleté,’ Catherine said.

  ‘A low neckline,’ Miss Atkins said. ‘Revealing the bust.’

  ‘How much of the bust?’

  ‘The upper part only, of course.’

  ‘Good. I am prepared to consider that.’

  ‘With lace and ribbon trimming. If I may suggest it,’ Miss Atkins said cautiously.

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Now the question of a riding habit.’ The doctor had clearly decided it was time he took matters back into his own hands.

  ‘I don’t need a riding habit,’ Catherine said. ‘I don’t know how to ride.’

  ‘We shall arrange lessons. Every lady must be able to ride. How else can she get about?’

  Until now Catherine had found her feet had served, as they did for ninety per cent of the population, but if he wanted her to ride it was one part of being a lady she could imagine enjoying. They settled on a close-fitting jacket with tight sleeves worn over a white lawn chemisette, with a long skirt and top hat to go with it.

  ‘Now for day dresses…’

  Silk taffeta, lace collars and cuffs, exaggerated sleeves…

  Dr Morgan was indefatigable in pursuit of his ideal woman and Catherine was exhausted by the time Miss Atkins and her assistant packed up their bits and pieces and departed in their little cart for the city. She had never imagined getting kitted out as a lady would involve so much work.

  Nor was it finished. Three days later Miss Atkins came back for a fitting. At least this time Dr Morgan was banned from the bedroom. Miss Atkins fussed and fiddled with pins and muted exclamations of despair and delight before disappearing once more to make final adjustments.