Behind the Sun

by Deborah Challinor

  She also shopped, mostly, it seemed, for things for the house. In fact, she went out shopping so often Sarah suspected her relentless spending might be some form of attack on her husband. Their home was already very nicely furnished. Her sofas and chairs were upholstered in heavy jacquard brocade; she had rugs in almost every room and on the stairs; the drapes were good-quality velvet and lace; the lamps were great ornate things that were a bugger to clean; there were mirrors and paintings and little tables and bits and pieces everywhere; and her kitchen held every tool a cook could possibly want. And in the last two weeks she had still come home with more! Really, it was as though she were possessed with the need to buy and buy and buy. No wonder she and Adam fought about it.

  It didn’t make her happy, however, all the spending. She was a very bad-tempered piece of work, Esther Green. Tempted on occasion to ask Adam why, Sarah decided in the end her moderate level of interest didn’t warrant summoning the nerve. It was their business, not hers. Whatever the reason, when Esther was home she went out of her way to test Sarah’s tolerance and patience. She watched her constantly, presumably to prevent her from stuffing stolen property up her skirt, and checked that chores had been completed to her high standards, but Sarah ploughed through the housework quickly and efficiently, ensuring Esther could never legitimately complain about anything. Then she waited for Adam to call her into the shop or his workroom, which only irritated Esther even further, which she demonstrated by appearing unannounced at irregular intervals for no apparent reason. Sarah wondered if Adam had at some point been sprung dallying with a servant, leaving Esther perpetually mistrustful and on edge. But really, why should she expect her husband to be any different from any other woman’s?

  At the end of each day, Sarah was exhausted and utterly relieved to trudge up to her room and collapse on the iron bedstead, bleary-eyed and sore. After her forced inactivity in gaol and the limited exertion during the voyage on the Isla, working from dawn until nine at night was physically gruelling, but already she could feel muscles firming and her strength returning. It hurt, but in a way that felt good, helping her focus her thoughts when she was awake. And when she wasn’t she slept without dreaming, which was a blessing.

  6 October 1829, Parramatta Female Factory

  Rachel looked guileless. ‘I took it off to go to the privies and now it’s gone.’

  Friday sighed; Rachel had lost her sling again. It was good muslin and someone would have pinched it. This was the third one misplaced, but she didn’t blame her. It was hard enough keeping your balance over those disgusting pits as it was, without having to wipe your arse with one arm hoisted up to your neck.

  ‘Never mind, we’ll get you another one,’ Janie said, a baby balanced on each hip.

  Rosie was doing remarkably well, especially given how many other infants weren’t, at the Factory. But poor Willie was failing, even though Janie had plenty of milk for him. He’d never really thrived; he frequently spewed up his milk and cried far more than Rosie did. He didn’t like the light either, screamed at loud noises, and was often feverish. Mr Sharpe suspected tuberculous meningitis, but he hadn’t needed to tell Janie that — she’d seen it plenty of times in England. Consumption of the brain killed babies and small children all the time. It was usually passed to them in the womb by their mothers, and Janie was sure Evie Challis had had galloping consumption, though she’d always denied it. Evie’s daughter had gone as well. Too old to remain at the Factory, she’d been removed to the Female Orphan School a few miles downriver. Janie had been devastated, but there was nothing to be done about it.

  ‘I want Friday to get me another one,’ Rachel said.

  A wave of guilt churned through Friday’s gut. It felt awful, stirring up pain she’d thought long buried. ‘I can’t, love. I’m leaving, remember? I’ve been assigned.’

  ‘I know, but can’t you stay just one more day?’

  ‘I’m really sorry, love. But Janie’ll look after you.’

  Janie gave Rachel one of her radiant if crooked smiles. ‘You can help me with the babies. It’ll be good practice.’

  ‘And don’t forget,’ Friday said, ‘Harrie’ll be back soon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as she can.’ Though God only knew when that might be. Friday certainly didn’t. How long did it take to annoy your employers to the point that they sent you back to the Factory, without actually crossing a line that might land you in real trouble?

  Rachel met her gaze and held it. Today, she knew exactly what was what. ‘She has to be careful, doesn’t she?’

  Friday took her hand. ‘Yes, she does. But she will be, don’t worry.’

  ‘And will you and Sarah come and see me?’

  ‘Of course we will.’

  They hugged fiercely, but as Friday turned to go, Rachel grabbed her sleeve.

  ‘Friday?’

  ‘What love?’

  ‘I’m never going to leave here, am I?’

  Friday stood outside the gates of the Factory, smoking her pipe and still feeling upset and distracted, aware that the portress was watching her through the slot in the wicket. She turned and gave her the finger then looked up at the gathering, pewter-edged clouds, hoping it wasn’t going to rain. Her new employer apparently owned a hotel on the Rocks and would probably collect her in some shitty old cart normally used for hauling kegs and hogsheads, which meant she would get soaked on the long ride into Sydney Town.

  If the cove turned up at all: she’d been standing here for an hour.

  God, she hoped Rachel and Janie would be all right. She thought they probably would be; Janie wasn’t anywhere near as gormless as she looked. She was tough and capable and would look after Rachel as best she could. In any case, the biggest source of trouble they might have faced, as far as Friday could foresee, had already left the Factory. Bloody Bella Jackson — what a cunning cow! How the hell had she managed that? She’d barely been in the bloody place long enough to open those bloody trunks of hers. And instead of being delighted to see the back of her, Friday had felt angry and bitterly disappointed. Because it wasn’t finished between them, not by a long shot. Still, Sydney wasn’t a big town. Her chance would come and she knew how to wait.

  At last, she heard the distinct sound of hooves approaching along the gravel road and tapped the tobacco embers out of her pipe. Though what came to a halt before the gates was not a shitty old cart, but a landau with its hoods up, drawn by a handsome four-in-hand. The body of the vehicle was lacquered a deep, gleaming maroon colour and had no identifying insignia on the door, and the single window space was covered by a gauze shade. A coachman sat high on his seat at the front, staring impassively ahead.

  As Friday stood gaping, the door swung open and a voice from within commanded, ‘Come on, hurry up and get in. It’s going to rain soon.’

  A female voice.

  Friday placed her foot on the step, climbed up into the landau and sat down without being invited, the interior being too low-ceilinged for her to remain standing. She pushed her bag beneath the seat.

  The woman sitting opposite had clearly been beautiful in her youth and, though she was still handsome now, time had done its best to rob her of her looks. Lines nested around faded green eyes and ran from her nose to her mouth, accentuating slight jowls that would only droop even more in coming years. She was a little overweight, which helped to plump out cheeks that might otherwise have sagged and gave her a bosom a younger woman might envy. Her hair was henna-ed chestnut brown and she wore a touch of rose-tinted balm on her lips and cheeks and an old-fashioned beauty spot on the left side of her top lip. Unless it was a real mole — Friday didn’t want to look too closely.

  For a woman whose husband owned a pub, her clothes were very smart, as smart as her mode of transport. It was a warm day, despite the threat of rain, so she wore no cape, but her dress was of quality polished cotton — not that Friday really knew what she was talking about when it came to dress fabrics, Harrie was the one for that �
�� in a vibrant orange-red colour, with the fitted waist and puffy sleeves that had been the rage with the nobby women in London. The ribbon and silk flowers on her straw hat matched perfectly.

  Friday pulled off her horrible Factory bonnet and scratched her head, her curls springing out in all directions. ‘I thought I’d be working for a bloke. Gordon said I’d be going to a Mr B Hislop.’

  ‘Well, you’re not,’ the woman said, ‘you’ve been assigned to me, Elizabeth Hislop. Mr Hislop is my husband and he’s away at sea much of the time.’

  The carriage rocked slightly and the coachman’s face appeared at the window. He was a good-looking cove, Friday noted, and perhaps a potential source of profit? She winked and was encouraged by his smirk.

  Mrs Hislop seemed not to notice. ‘Back to town, thanks, Jack.’

  Jack disappeared and a moment later the landau moved off in a wide arc, gravel crunching under the wheels.

  Mrs Hislop reached into a large reticule on the seat beside her and took out two oranges, offering one to Friday. ‘Tell me about yourself, Friday. I like to know a bit about the girls who come to work for me. Your name, for instance. It’s quite unusual.’

  Friday stared at the orange in delight; she hadn’t had one in ages. In fact, the last one she’d eaten she’d pinched off a stall at Covent Garden market. Carefully, she bit into the skin to start the peeling process.

  ‘No, dear,’ Mrs Hislop remarked benignly, ‘we don’t peel oranges like that. Not in my house, anyway. Use this.’

  She passed across a small utensil with a mother-of-pearl handle concealing a short blade, which looked to Friday suspiciously like a fancy flick knife. She opened it and had the peel off her orange in about five seconds.

  ‘Friday is short for Frideswide, as in Saint,’ she began, juice running down her chin. ‘Ma was a Catholic and always praying to this saint and that saint. And when I came along I suppose she thought Frideswide was as good a name as any. St Frideswide was a beautiful rich virgin who lived over a thousand years ago and built a church in Oxford and took the veil and did miracles, or something.’

  ‘And you’ve no children of your own?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Husband?’

  Friday shook her head and broke off another segment of orange.

  Mrs Hislop dabbed at her mouth with a linen handkerchief. ‘The documentation Mrs Gordon provided stated you were sentenced for robbing a man of his watch and walking stick. Is that correct?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I know as well as you do that the word “robbing” means you stole those things from his person, so do you mind if I ask what you and he were doing at the time?’

  ‘Well, it’s not hard to work out, is it?’ Friday looked ruefully at her last three orange segments. Should she eat them now or save them for later? ‘I’m a prostitute, right? The plan was to loosen him up, get his kecks off, then grab the swag and run.’ She laughed. ‘But he was nervous and such a weedy little cove. He drank too much and passed out and we helped ourselves.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Mrs Hislop finished her orange, blotted her mouth again and replenished her lip balm. ‘I own a hotel in town, down on the Rocks, the Siren’s Arms. You may have heard of it?’

  Friday shook her head.

  ‘No, of course not, you’ve only just arrived. We do meals, accommodation and the like. I have quite a large staff as we get very busy of an evening and there are the rooms to look after, too. So I’m often taking on domestic servants, and of course I need bar staff, and there are always a few lads to help out with the heavier work, the kegs and what have you.’

  ‘Is it grand then, your hotel?’ Friday asked.

  ‘I’ll be frank, dear: no, it isn’t, but there are far worse on the Rocks, I can assure you of that. We cater to a lot of sailors, but all sorts come in regularly and some of them are quite particular. I’ve come to know many of them well and I make a point of trying to provide them with something a little out of the ordinary.’

  Friday decided to eat the last of her orange after all, studying Mrs Hislop’s face while she did. Mrs Hislop watched her back.

  ‘What will my duties be?’ Friday asked.

  ‘I’ll start you as a chambermaid. Changing linen in the guest rooms, sweeping floors, dusting, perhaps helping in the laundry. Can you cook?’

  ‘I’m not famous for it.’

  ‘Oh well.’

  ‘And after that?’

  Mrs Hislop raised her eyebrows. ‘And after that what?’

  ‘I think you’re running a bawdyhouse, Mrs H. You’ve just about said as much. I don’t want to muck about sweeping floors, I want to make real money doing what I’m good at.’

  The landau slowed and came to a halt. Mrs Hislop lifted the gauze shade and peered out of the window.

  ‘Only the toll gate. Jack will take care of it. You don’t mind if I keep the shades down? This southern sun is so harsh on the skin.’ She settled back in her seat. ‘Well, you certainly have the looks for it and I’m not saying you wouldn’t be an asset in my house. Though you could do with a bit of bicarbonate of soda on those tobacco stains on your bottom teeth. The prostitution laws are the same as in England, but you do realise that because of your convict status, if you’re caught you’ll be charged, and if you’re convicted you’ll do time in third class back in the Factory? Good. Never let it be said I encourage the girls assigned to me to prostitute themselves. That decision is always theirs to make.’

  ‘But I won’t be nabbed, will I? If the laws are the same it’s only illegal to operate a house, and I’d be working in yours and you haven’t been nabbed. Or have you?’

  ‘Not in New South Wales, I haven’t.’

  ‘There you go. And you’re not encouraging me. Whoring is my job. I’m good at it.’

  ‘Do you enjoy it?’ Mrs Hislop asked. ‘No man wants to pay for a sour-faced girl, no matter how buxom she is.’

  ‘I enjoy making money.’ Friday wasn’t about to admit that frequently she utterly loathed the men she had sex with. ‘That always makes me smile.’

  Mrs Hislop rummaged about in her reticule again, this time extracting a bunch of grapes. ‘I’d expect you to sign a contract. Our current fees are five pounds for full, that’s per hour, the same for Greek, four pounds for thighs only, three pounds each for hand or mouth, a full night is eight pounds, anything else is negotiable and up to you. I don’t cater to men titillated by children — all my girls are seventeen and over. The split is forty–sixty in your favour, bed and board included for assignees naturally, two whole days off a week and, if your performance isn’t up to the high standards I require, you really will be sweeping floors and working in the laundry. Also I’ve heard a rumour lately about yet another new house starting up. There’s always the risk that some of my girls will imagine the grass will be greener somewhere else. It won’t be, because my terms are very generous, but I’m insisting they all sign contracts. If they want to leave they’ll have to give a month’s notice to give me time to find suitable replacements.’

  Friday thought that was reasonable. ‘Are there a lot of brothels in Sydney?’

  Mrs Hislop ate a grape. ‘At least twenty I know of, most of them around the Rocks, which is quite a number for a town of only fifteen thousand. And I’m not sure how many streetwalkers. It’s all the sailors. I don’t know anything about this new madam, but you might. Apparently she came over with your lot. Got herself married in about twenty minutes flat. Shand, her married name is. Stella Shand.’

  Friday stared at Mrs Hislop. ‘You don’t mean Bella?!’

  ‘Bella, that was it. Grape?’

  James Downey trotted downstairs to the King Hotel’s pokey front desk to ask if any mail for him had been delivered. He was leaving for England in a week, and he’d not had a letter from Emily lately. He was expecting quite a pile, as a ship had arrived from England the previous day.

  The clerk handed over two letters tied together with a piece of ribbon and a quick scan revealed neither wer
e from Emily, which was disappointing. James sat down in a slightly grubby wingback chair and opened the first, from Emily’s sister Beatrice.

  8th of June, 1829

  My Dearest, Dearest James,

  I am so terribly, terribly sorry but I have dreadful news. Our darling Emily has been taken from us. On the first day of June she cut her hand whilst gardening, contracted a rampant and consuming fever and passed away less than a week later on the 6th.

  James must have cried out because suddenly the clerk was hovering, asking if he could be of assistance.

  James looked up at him blankly. His ears were ringing, he could no longer feel the chair beneath him, and it took a few seconds for the man’s words to register.

  ‘No. Thank you, no.’

  The clerk waited a moment longer, regarding James anxiously, then retreated to his desk.

  His heart thudding massively, and not really comprehending the words on the pale cream paper, he read on.

  Victor did all he could, and called in other physicians he thought could be of assistance, but to no avail. She went so quickly, James, but at the end she was tranquil, and we were all at her side. Your name was the last word to pass her lips.

  We laid her to rest at St Mary Abbots this morning. Upwards of three hundred mourners attended. She was so loved, James, but you of all people know that.

  You must be strong, dear. We are all utterly devastated but you will be heartbroken beyond words and I would give anything for you to be here with us as you read of this terrible news so that we may provide even a little comfort. All we can do is send you our love and prayers and wish you a speedy journey home.