Behind the Sun

by Deborah Challinor

  He sipped as he read, turning the pages sideways to follow her handwriting where she had written down the paper as well as across. She thought she was saving money by doing this, but really all she was doing was hastening the arrival of the day when he would be forced to wear spectacles.

  She was keeping busy, she said, preparing the garden for summer and helping her sister Beatrice with her four children. Beatrice’s children, all under the age of six, were quite a little troupe of tearaways, James privately thought, but he and Emily hadn’t managed to have any of their own yet and Emily absolutely adored children, even Beatrice’s, so she might as well get in some practice before theirs came along. He did wish she wouldn’t potter about in the garden, though — they had a man who came in to do that. Picking flowers for the parlour and the bedrooms was fine, but Emily insisted on actually digging holes with her trowel and planting things. Her mother was well, the weather was still a little unpredictable but improving, and there was a suspicion that Tara, Emily’s foxhound, had gone on one of her illicit evening jaunts and come home ‘in a certain condition’ again. She loved him and missed him very much. Emily, that was, not Tara.

  James sighed and refilled his cup. After Tara’s previous litter Emily had cried for a week when he’d given them away. He’d had to. He owned a very nice house on the city side of Kensington, left to him by his mother and father along with a modest inheritance, but it was quite small, too small anyway to accommodate seven scampering puppies skidding on carpets, chewing furniture and piddling everywhere.

  He felt a twinge of disappointment and loneliness at the knowledge that Emily wouldn’t yet have received any of his letters, as he’d only posted them three days earlier — his first opportunity. Perhaps he should have passed them to one of the Flying Dutchman’s doomed phantoms.

  Folding Emily’s letter, he slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat, picked up the cotton packet and turned it over several times. Obviously, the sender had not wanted anyone else to read the message contained within. He carefully slit one side with his penknife and removed a sheet of paper, looking immediately for the signature. Harriet Clarke. Well.

  9th of September, 1829

  Dear Mr Downey Sir,

  I hope you are finding your accommodations at the King Hotel comfortable. We are managing to settle here at the Parramatta Female Factory, and hoping to be assigned soon.

  I also very much hope that you are not offended by me writing to you, but I cannot think of anyone else who might be willing to assist us.

  Our possessions were searched on the day we arrived, and the medicines you prescribed for Rachel Winter were taken from her. We are very much afraid that without them she will suffer a fit, the consequences of which will cause her physical harm and result in her being punished and consigned to the Second Class, beyond our reach and our ability to care for her. Please believe that I am not exaggerating this.

  You will think I am very rude, for which I apologise sincerely, but we would be very grateful if you could see your way to visiting Rachel at the Factory, if you have the time, and perhaps also speaking to someone in authority here. Visiting days are Sundays. We can pay you for your services. Please do not mention that we have written to you, as there may be repercussions.

  Thank you very much in anticipation.

  Your humble servant,

  Harriet Clarke

  Her handwriting was as tidy as she was. James imagined poor Harrie must have died a thousand deaths plucking up the courage to actually write the letter. He was delighted to hear from her, but shocked to learn that legitimate medications had been confiscated from a Female Factory inmate. He wondered who currently held the position of Factory surgeon and fervently hoped it wasn’t still the man who had presided in 1826 when a convict by the name of Mary Ann Hamilton had died from starvation. This after being handcuffed and tied to the floor as punishment for mashing and eating the bones in her ration and picking and eating weeds. The surgeon at the time had attended the Factory so infrequently he hadn’t even known of the woman’s death until the coroner’s inquest. But that was prior to Governor Darling instigating his reforms and James had heard that things had improved somewhat since then.

  He slid Harrie’s letter behind Emily’s and sat staring into his empty tea cup, thinking. He was at fault; he should have provided Rachel — or better still, Harrie — a letter explaining that the laudanum was essential to his patient’s wellbeing. Ex-patient now, however.

  The first-class yard had trapped the noonday heat and the women, in particular the newcomers unaccustomed to the occasional sweltering days that accompanied an Australian spring, were crowded into any sliver of shade they could find.

  Harrie and Sarah watched as Friday walked towards them, her wild copper hair ablaze in the sun. Rachel sat with her back pressed against the wall, hands shading her eyes.

  Friday sat down. ‘I’ve been in the bog talking to a girl called Katie about this assignment business. She said it’s almost all domestic service.’

  Fanning her face with the brim of her Factory bonnet, Sarah said, ‘Did you ask her how it works?’

  ‘Apparently if someone wants a servant they apply to old Tuckwell. The application gets matched with Gordon’s list of eligible inmates — that’s us from first class. The employer has to pay a bond, but if he or she doesn’t collect us within fourteen days they miss out and we come available again.’

  ‘What happens to the bond?’ Harrie asked.

  ‘Dunno. Goes in someone’s pocket, I suppose.’

  Sarah said, ‘And what if you don’t like your assignment?’

  ‘Well, this Katie says there’s things you can do, but it’s more usual the assignees don’t like us.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t they?’ Harrie demanded, offended on principle.

  ‘Oh, because we get drunk, we’re shiftless, we’re idle, we won’t do as we’re told, and we’re rude and immoral.’

  Harrie said, ‘Speak for yourself.’

  ‘I’m just saying what she said.’

  ‘So what can you do if you don’t like it?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Plenty of things,’ Friday replied. ‘Be annoying or useless, or misbehave, but without doing anything criminal or you could end up in the penitentiary. Shagging the master is a popular one, apparently.’

  Sarah frowned. ‘But what’s the point?’

  ‘The point is your master or mistress will be so fed up they’ll send you back here. And then you can get reassigned somewhere else. Or stay here for years if you play your cards right.’

  ‘Christ,’ Sarah said. ‘Why would you want to stay here?’

  ‘Because it would be better than wherever you were before.’

  They all considered the high stone walls and dirt yards and hollow-eyed, shoeless women for a moment. Better?

  ‘And playing up to get sent back really works?’ Sarah swatted at a fly buzzing around her face.

  ‘So Katie says. As long as the authorities don’t catch on.’

  Harrie looked doubtful. ‘Isn’t there a punishment for being returned? Girls would be doing it all the time, otherwise.’

  Friday frowned. ‘I didn’t ask about that.’

  ‘Well, next time you’re on the throne for hours chatting away,’ Sarah suggested sarcastically, ‘perhaps you should.’

  Rachel burst out, ‘I don’t want to have to sleep with my master!’

  It occurred to Harrie that Rachel might not have realised she possibly wouldn’t be assigned at all. She took her hand. ‘Sweetie, try not to worry about it, please.’

  ‘I’ll kill myself before I do that.’

  ‘You won’t have to, love, really, you won’t.’

  ‘What’s that noise? I don’t like it,’ Rachel complained. ‘It’s hurting my head.’

  The noise, whatever it was, was extremely irritating — a sort of high-pitched trilling.

  Sarah said, ‘What do we actually get when we’re assigned? Did you ask that?’

  ‘Food, b
oard and clothing. Katie’s already been assigned once. She’s a whore by trade. She’s hoping her next assignment will give her a bit of time off at night. She says she’s sick of having no money.’

  Harrie looked confused, rather than shocked. ‘Convict girls can’t do that, can they?’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to,’ Friday said bluntly. ‘I don’t do any other sort of work. I’ll run out of dosh if I don’t.’

  ‘Is it against the law here?’ Sarah asked.

  Friday shook her head. ‘Only operating a brothel. But Katie says convict girls caught whoring go straight to the penitentiary.’

  ‘Oh, Friday,’ Harrie said anxiously.

  ‘Oh, Harrie,’ Friday teased. ‘Don’t fret. I’ll be all right. Katie says there’s a place in Sydney Town called the Rocks where everyone goes. A bit rough but plenty of business with tars and the like. I’ll go there.’

  ‘If you can,’ Sarah said. ‘From what I’m hearing some girls get hardly any time off at all.’

  ‘Do you know what I heard?’ Harrie said suddenly. ‘I heard that men come here, to the Factory, to choose a wife.’

  Friday and Sarah stared at her. Even Rachel stopped rubbing the back of her head and raised her eyes.

  ‘As though they were at Billingsgate or something?’ Sarah said, incredulous.

  Harrie nodded. ‘All the women who want a husband line up and the man drops his handkerchief in front of the one he likes the look of and if she picks it up they get married.’

  ‘Not his trousers?’ Friday said, and hooted with laughter.

  ‘No, I think just the hanky.’

  Sarah snorted in disgust. ‘God, why would you agree to that?’

  ‘Well, I suppose if you got a nice one you’d have more freedom than if you were assigned,’ Harrie replied. ‘Wouldn’t you? And someone to look after you?’

  Friday rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t be daft. More likely some bastard after a free fuck and someone to scrub the shite stains out of his kecks. It’s whoring without the bother of having to stand on the street.’

  Letting out a moan of distress, Rachel whimpered, ‘Harrie, can you make that noise stop? It’s really hurting.’

  Harrie looked around but couldn’t see the source. The sound seemed to be coming from everywhere.

  Rachel stood up, stumbled forwards a few steps then squatted, jammed her hands over her ears and squealed, ‘Make it stop, Harrie, make it stop!’

  ‘What the hell is it?’ Sarah rose and turned in a full circle, peering all around the yard.

  The sound was extremely high-pitched, a sort of feverish rattling and ringing as though an army of miniature blacksmiths was banging away with a thousand tiny hammers. The Isla women were all staring about now, too, confused and startled, children grasping at their skirts. Even Bella, standing in the shade of a workshop wall, looked disconcerted.

  Friday waved to attract Nancy Crouch’s attention. Nancy, sitting on the ground smoking a pipe, returned the wave but didn’t get up.

  Friday went over. ‘What the hell is that bloody noise?’

  ‘Cicada,’ Nancy replied. ‘A bit early, though. You’re in my sun.’

  Friday stepped aside. ‘A what?’

  ‘A cicada. Like a grasshopper, only bigger.’

  ‘Just one? God almighty.’ Friday looked up, down and around. ‘Where is it? I’m going to kill it.’

  ‘Do your best: the buggers are really hard to spot.’

  ‘Well, it’s sending us bloody barmy.’

  ‘Well, yous’d better get used to it, ’cos they do it all summer.’ Nancy glanced across at Rachel, crouched on the ground, rocking and moaning. ‘And it’s not as if she wasn’t gawney to start with, is it?’

  Friday felt a surge of anger, but forced herself to walk away. There was no sense in starting a fight with Nancy Crouch while they might still need her.

  ‘It’s an insect,’ she said, looking down at Harrie, who’d slipped a comforting arm around Rachel. ‘Like a grasshopper.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Sarah said in disgust. This country was revolting. The weather might be warmer but the light was too sharp and the sun fierce and the seasons were completely the wrong way round, the trees were the most miserable specimens she had ever seen, and the wildlife — such as she’d experienced so far — was hideous. Strange birds shrieked and cackled, frogs from the river kept them awake at night with their throbbing, droning racket, there were enough bats overhead of an evening to blot out the moon, and the insects! The night before last, she had unrolled the mattress she and Friday shared, spread the blanket, sat down, and from underneath had skittered the hugest, most loathsome fat grey spider imaginable. She had almost shat herself, and had quite badly twisted her knee scrabbling out of the way. And now this!

  ‘Her headache’s getting worse,’ Harrie said. Rachel had woken up with it this morning. ‘This terrible noise isn’t helping.’

  ‘Ah, shite.’ Friday swept her hair back off her face. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Take her to the hospital,’ Sarah suggested. ‘The doctor might give her some laudanum.’

  Friday frowned. ‘Nancy said he was useless.’

  ‘He still might give her some laudanum.’ Sarah asked Harrie, ‘You’ve not heard anything from your Mr Downey?’

  Harrie shook her head, unable to meet Sarah’s eye. Writing to James Downey had been a long shot, she’d known that, but he had offered his help, and she really thought he might at least have sent a note back, even if only to say he couldn’t come to the Factory himself but suggesting what they might do. But there had been nothing, and her imaginings regarding what he must have thought when he’d read her letter were humiliating. A convict girl sending someone like him a note asking for help — it was outrageous when you thought about it. If only she had thought about it — properly — before she’d sent it. She felt horribly embarrassed and, under that, deeply disappointed.

  ‘Typical,’ Sarah said.

  Rachel let out a howl that sounded uncannily like a dog’s. It was eerie and disturbing and everyone turned to stare.

  ‘Right, come on.’ Sarah pulled her up off the ground. ‘We’ll try the hospital.’

  But the pain in Rachel’s head had grown so monstrous that everything else had burnt away. All she knew now was a primal rage and a desperate need to feel nothing at all. She tried to bite Sarah’s hand, but Sarah dodged her and took a firmer grasp on her arm. Harrie gripped her opposite wrist and together they made for the entrance to the dormitory building, on the other side of which lay the hospital. Friday followed, glaring at anyone nosy enough to follow the little procession, which was almost everyone.

  Mrs Dick stormed out of the dormitory building to meet them. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ She whipped a watch out of her pocket and tapped it hard enough to break it. ‘Work starts in two minutes.’

  ‘To the hospital. She’s sick,’ Sarah said, nodding at Rachel slumped between them, panting, her head bowed with pain.

  ‘Can she not speak for herself?’

  ‘No, actually, she can’t.’ Fear and worry made Harrie bold. ‘She has a blinding headache.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t, have you? And neither have you, or you,’ Mrs Dick added, pointing at Sarah and Friday. ‘So get to work. She can make her own way to the hospital. I assume she still has control of her legs?’

  Rachel slowly raised her head and said in a querulous voice, ‘Mrs Dick?’

  ‘What?’ Mrs Dick put her watch away. ‘Quickly, I’m busy.’

  ‘Why don’t you fuck yourself, you dried-up old minge.’

  Mrs Dick gaped at her.

  ‘And I do have control of my legs.’ Before Harrie or Sarah could stop her, Rachel wriggled out their grasp, stepped forwards and kicked Mrs Dick on the shin as hard as she could.

  And then she was off. She shot into the dormitory building and a moment later glass shattered as a teapot crashed against one of the few unbroken windows of the second-class dining room.

>   A great cheer of approval rose from the women in the yard and Mrs Dick, bent double over her throbbing leg, scrabbled for her whistle and blew on it until her face turned scarlet. But Friday, Sarah and Harrie barely heard as they tore after Rachel.

  They clattered into the foyer just in time to see Rachel disappear up the stairs, her skirt hoisted so she could run faster. They thundered up after her into the first-floor second-class dormitory, where she dashed across the floor and came to a halt beside a broken window in the far corner.

  ‘Stop!’ Sarah bellowed, to Friday and Harrie as much as Rachel. ‘She’ll do something stupid!’

  She did. She raised her right leg, kicked out the wooden mullions in the bottom half of the sash, then leant out so far it seemed certain she would fall, cutting her right arm on the shards of glass that remained in the frame. Friday launched herself across the room and tackled her, knocking her away from the window and onto the floor.

  Rachel screamed like an animal, kicking out at Friday, scratching and spitting and swearing and punching, and managed to wrench herself out of her grasp, leaving half of her poorly constructed Factory jacket in Friday’s hands.

  Sarah threw herself onto Rachel, but Rachel, with extraordinary strength, shoved her off, dashed past Harrie, knocking her over, and raced out of the room, drops of blood spattering the floor behind her. A second later there were raised voices, then echoing shouts, then nothing at all.

  Friday, Sarah and Harrie staggered towards the doorway, Friday wiping her bloodied nose on her sleeve.

  On the landing outside the dormitory door was more blood, but no sign of Rachel. Terrified of what they might see, they leant over the balustrade.

  Below, in the foyer, stood Mrs Dick, Mr Tuckwell, several turnkeys and others in a circle. On the floor, face down, her hair fanned out like a silver nimbus, and so very, very still, lay Rachel.