Behind the Sun

by Deborah Challinor

  Outside Overton’s grocery she stopped and peered in through the windows. Harrie wasn’t in the shop, but she wouldn’t be if she was supposed to be looking after the family’s kids. She entered, stepping over a white bulldog lying in the doorway, and approached the counter, where a girl of about ten was tipping boiled sweets into a tall glass jar.

  ‘May I help you?’ she asked, a dozen of the sweets clattering across the counter. She swept them up with her hands and dumped them in the jar.

  ‘Hello, love,’ Friday said. ‘I’m after some tea. It’s called…’ But it was no good, the name had fallen out of her head.

  The girl recited, ‘We’ve got gunpowder, hyson, bing, imperial, congou, pekoe, bohea, souchong —’

  ‘That’s it, that last one.’

  ‘How much would you like?’

  Friday stared at her. ‘I don’t know, love. It’s an errand, for Mrs Elizabeth Hislop.’

  ‘It’s all right, I know what she gets.’ The girl came out from behind the counter and crossed to a row of tea chests. She scooped out a measure of loose tea, weighed it on a scale, decanted the leaves onto a sheet of newspaper, rolled it deftly into a sausage and twisted both ends.

  Friday gave her the money. ‘I’m also looking for a girl called Harrie Clarke. Is she here?’

  The girl retreated behind the counter, deposited the money in the cash drawer, stuck her head through a doorway and bellowed, ‘Da!’

  They waited, Friday and the girl looking at each other. The girl smiled; Friday decided she was pretty. Presently, her father arrived huffing and puffing, carrying a huge bag of flour. He lowered it to the floor and wiped his hands on his apron.

  ‘Da, this lady’s looking for Harrie Clarke.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ Mr Overton said. ‘And why would that be?’

  Friday gazed at him through her eyelashes and ever so slightly shifted her weight to one hip. ‘She’s a friend. I heard she was working here and I’d very much like to see her, sir, if it isn’t too much trouble. Just for a few minutes. Oh, and Bette sends her love.’

  Mr Overton looked uncomfortable. He glanced quickly at his daughter, then nodded his assent. ‘Not long, mind. She’s busy — breaking something, no doubt.’ He pointed at the ceiling. ‘Just go up.’

  That sounded promising. As Friday went up the stairs she heard the girl say, ‘Da, who’s Bette?’

  The Overtons’ parlour looked as though a whirlwind had gone through it. Children’s toys littered the floor; a mountain of clean laundry waiting to be ironed and folded had avalanched from a chair; some sort of food was squashed into the pale carpet in the middle of the room; a box of old kitchen implements had been upended and strewn about; and an empty vase lay in a pool of water beside the sofa, a trail of bedraggled carnations leading from it into the next room. A little girl sat in a chair calmly turning the pages of a picture book, while a toddler lay on the floor, simultaneously picking his nose and eating a biscuit.

  Friday smiled to herself. The little girl looked up.

  ‘Hello, love, is Harrie here?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘Harrie, it’s me!’ Friday called.

  She appeared a moment later, carrying a baby with a red face.

  ‘Friday!’ She looked both shocked and delighted. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve come to see you, haven’t I?’ Friday thought Harrie, who was wearing a boring light grey dress and a silly house cap, looked healthy but a bit flustered.

  She passed the baby to the girl on the sofa. ‘Lydia, hold Johanna for a moment, please.’

  ‘She stinks.’

  ‘I know, I’m about to change her.’

  Lydia took Johanna, propped her up beside her and went back to her book, a hand over her nose and mouth.

  Harrie gave Friday a fierce hug and stepped back. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘It turns out my boss knows your boss. I’m just around the corner in Harrington Street at the Siren’s Arms.’ She held up the packet of tea. ‘I’m on an errand.’

  Harrie picked up Bart and put him on a chair. ‘And you’re treated well there?’

  ‘It’s been all right so far.’ Friday gestured at the chaos in the parlour. ‘This looks a right mess. Things are going well then?’

  Harrie lowered her voice and turned away from Lydia. ‘Very. Mrs Overton thinks I’m completely useless. She calls me clumsy and dull and says I couldn’t think for myself if my life depended on it. I’m a disgrace in the kitchen, too. I manage to burn something every day.’

  ‘So how long, do you think?’

  ‘A fortnight? Perhaps even sooner. The children are sweet, but Mrs Overton can’t cope with them. I’ll miss them.’

  ‘All we have to do now is find out where Sarah is.’

  Harrie’s face lit up. ‘But I know where she is! We passed her the day I arrived, cleaning windows on George Street.’

  ‘Did you stop?’

  ‘I couldn’t, could I? And I haven’t been allowed any leave since I got here.’

  ‘Christ, Harrie, you’re entitled to some time off.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, demand it. Kick up a fuss. Can you remember where the shop is?’

  ‘Opposite the military barracks.’

  Shouldn’t be too hard to find, Friday thought. ‘I bumped into someone just before, Matthew Cutler. You know, the other passenger on the ship, the one I belted?’

  ‘The one who tried to help Rachel?’

  Friday nodded. ‘He asked me if I knew where you were.’

  ‘Me?’ Harrie looked startled.

  ‘I said I did, but if you wanted him to know, you’d get in touch with him.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Anyway, he gave me his address.’ Friday gave Harrie a sly wink. ‘If you want it.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. I’m too busy.’ A sneaky look crept across Harrie’s face. ‘Unless he wants a kitten.’

  Friday laughed when Harrie told her how she’d found the orphan, smuggled it in and made it a little sand box, which she kept hidden under her bed and cleaned out three times a day to minimise the smell. She’d tried feeding it cow’s milk pinched from the table but that had given it the shits, so now it was taking goat’s milk, which seemed to better agree with its digestive system.

  ‘Rachel will just love it, though,’ Friday said. ‘You do have some good ideas, Harrie. It’ll be good company for her, and keep the rats away.’ She frowned. ‘Unless she kills it while she’s having one of her fits.’

  ‘Friday, what a horrible thought. Actually, if Mrs Overton found the kitten, she might send me back for that, mightn’t she? She hates cats. I could accidentally let it out.’

  ‘Wait ’til we’ve seen Sarah.’ Friday wrinkled her nose. ‘Christ, that kid really does stink.’

  Lydia had moved, leaving Johanna on the sofa by herself. Harrie laid the baby on her back, lifted her gown and removed her napkin, setting it to one side. Expertly she wiped Johanna’s bottom, put on a fresh nappy and set her on the floor to crawl around.

  Mrs Overton chose that moment to appear, bleary-eyed, her face creased from her daily nap. ‘I thought I heard voices. Harriet, who is this?’

  ‘I hope I didn’t wake you, Mrs Overton,’ Harrie said. ‘This is my friend Friday.’

  Friday waved. ‘Hello, Mrs Overton.’

  ‘Harriet, who gave you permission to receive visitors?’

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs O, your husband sent me up,’ Friday explained brightly. ‘And I’m just leaving. See you on your next afternoon off, Harrie, all right? Send me a note, let me know when it is.’

  Harrie reached for the soggy and full napkin, gathered the corners together, and headed for the stairs. Unfortunately the nappy fell open, depositing a large and squashy turd on the carpet.

  Bart, who had remained remarkably quiet for the preceding fifteen minutes, let out a screech of glee, crying, ‘Jobbies, Mama! Jobbies!’

  His shriek was a
lmost drowned out by Mrs Overton’s. ‘Harriet, for God’s sake, it’s on the floor!’

  Harrie flapped her hands ineffectually and turned in a circle before picking up the turd with a lace doily snatched from a side table.

  ‘Bye, Mrs O! Nice meeting you!’ Friday, her hands firmly over her mouth, could barely get down the stairs and out of the shop fast enough.

  16 October 1829

  Friday had seen him walking down Argyle Street twice now: once when she’d been sitting in the parlour idly looking out through the drapes, and again when she’d opened the window to air her upstairs room after a customer had departed. Both times her heart had almost leapt out of her chest. His profile and swagger had been unmistakable and the sight of him had sent a bolt of rage right through her. Another afternoon she’d seen Amos Furniss go past. She’d moved out of sight when he’d looked up and didn’t think he’d seen her, but it had been an unpleasant shock; she’d assumed he had gone back to England on the Isla. What was he doing still in Sydney Town?

  Since then she’d made a point of watching for Keegan, worried he would come into the brothel and that she might have to service him. He wouldn’t know who she was; she doubted he’d recognise anyone from the Isla, barring perhaps Rachel. Even the thought of lifting her leg to him made her want to vomit. Also, it might be useful to find out where he lived.

  When he actually did come in, at first she didn’t know whether to hide or attack him with a kitchen knife.

  She did neither. She was coming down the stairs when she saw him standing in the hallway, hat in hand, talking to Mrs H. Her heart thumping, she backed up and sat down on a step to listen.

  ‘I’m looking for something a little special,’ he said, ‘and I’m hoping it’s a service your establishment might offer.’

  ‘And what might that be, Mr Coroglen?’ Mrs Hislop replied.

  You lily-livered bastard, Friday thought. What’s wrong with your real name?

  ‘I’m interested in girls,’ Keegan said.

  ‘I have girls here. Very beautiful girls.’

  ‘I mean young girls.’

  ‘How young?’

  ‘Twelve,’ Keegan said. ‘Eleven. The younger the better.’

  There was a long silence before Mrs Hislop replied brusquely, ‘Then I’m afraid you’re in the wrong house, Mr Coroglen. I don’t cater to men of your tastes. Good day.’

  She crossed the floor and held the front door open for him. The very public front door, Friday noticed, stifling a snort. Keegan set his hat back on his head and left.

  This evening she had a feeling in her bones Keegan would come sauntering down Argyle Street again.

  She glanced at the carriage clock on the dressing chest, wishing the man grunting away on top of her, Mr Leech, would hurry up and finish. Mr Leech was fifty-five years old, half bald, and had bad teeth and a pizzle like a pair of peanuts still in their shell. Also, his wife apparently didn’t believe in intimate relations except for the purposes of procreation. His children, he’d told Friday, were aged thirty and thirty-two.

  Friday moaned realistically, sped up her hip action and dug her fingers into Mr Leech’s skinny rump. He obliged by increasing his own thrusting, politely taking his weight on his bony elbows, his shiny pate level with her chin. The bed began to squeak and Friday made a mental note to mention it to Mrs Hislop; perhaps Jack the coachman, who also did odd jobs and worked behind the bar, could come and have a look at it. And while he was at it he could tighten the latch on the bedside cupboard — that was a bit loose, too.

  At last Mr Leech came to a shuddering halt, collapsing with his face buried between her breasts. Tempted to flick him off and leap off the bed, Friday lay with gritted teeth, patting his back. It took him several minutes to recover enough to roll off her and sit up. Friday checked the clock again; he had eight minutes left.

  ‘That was wonderful, my dear,’ he said, still out of breath. ‘You really are the loveliest specimen of womanhood I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing intimately.’

  Yes, yes, Friday thought, get your kecks on and piss off. ‘Thank you, Mr Leech. You’re a very fine figure of a man yourself.’

  He laughed gaily. ‘Surely you jest, my dear.’

  I certainly do. Friday watched as he staggered around trying to get his feet into his trousers, then took ages fiddling with the laces in his shoes. The moment he said goodbye, leaving an extra sovereign for her on the dressing chest, she dashed to the window, just in time to see Keegan appear at the intersection of Harrington and Argyle streets, whistling and swinging his cane. He hesitated, as though considering which route to take, then turned down Argyle.

  Friday threw on her robe over her fancy satin corset, snatched the sovereign from the dressing chest, burst out of her room and pounded down the stairs. At the bottom she turned left and headed out the back door and across the yard past the privy and the drying line to the alleyway. Running as fast as she could, breasts bouncing painfully and bare feet slipping on the mossy cobbles, she barged past Mr Leech, almost knocking him over.

  Then she realised she didn’t have a key to the gate.

  ‘Quick, Mr Leech, the key!’

  Thrilled beyond words at the sight of Friday’s wild hair, bare legs, exposed crotch and heaving bosom, Mr Leech thrust his key at her.

  She opened the gate, flipped the key back at him, tightened her robe around her waist and ran across the yard to the stables.

  ‘Jimmy? Jimmy! Where are you?’

  The boy appeared, startled. ‘What is it, what’s wrong?’

  She showed him the sovereign. ‘Want to earn yourself a quid?’

  Jimmy’s eyes lit up.

  ‘All you have to do,’ Friday explained, ‘is follow a cove. I want to know where he lives. Can you do that?’

  Jimmy, who had been transported for picking pockets, nodded confidently.

  ‘Good. Keep out of sight, though, eh.’

  She described Keegan and said he would probably be on George Street by now. Jimmy nodded again and took off.

  Toby was larking about with his spindle and ball outside the shop when Harrie returned from collecting Mrs Overton’s new shoes from the bootmaker. He was supposed to be sorting through the fruit boxes for fruit that had gone over, but as usual was skiving off.

  ‘You’re in trouble,’ he said as Harrie passed him, and flicked the spindle so the ball on its piece of string flew at her.

  ‘That will make a change, won’t it?’ Harrie said brightly. Most children she liked, but Toby she could take or leave. He was a surprisingly shiftless boy, given the inherently decent character of his father.

  She traipsed up the stairs to find Henry and Susannah Overton sitting in the parlour, clearly awaiting her return. The other children were nowhere to be seen. A covered wicker basket sat on the floor at the end of the sofa, emitting plaintive little squeaks. Oh dear, Harrie thought, they’ve been in my room.

  ‘Here are your new shoes, Mrs Overton.’ She placed the parcel on the armchair.

  Mrs Overton pointed to the wicker basket. ‘Would you care to explain the meaning of this?’

  Harrie bent down and opened the lid. ‘It’s a kitten.’

  ‘I jolly well know it’s a kitten, Harriet. There’s cat mess all over the ground outside your bedroom window. I discovered the wretched creature hiding in your bed, under your bedclothes.’

  Harrie wondered who had tipped her off, though only Toby would have done it to deliberately cause trouble.

  ‘And that’s not all,’ Susannah Overton went on. ‘You went out the other night, didn’t you? And don’t deny it. One of the children saw you coming home.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Harrie admitted. It was true. She’d crept out on Monday and gone to meet up with Friday and Sarah.

  ‘It wasn’t your evening off; you know that.’

  Harrie nodded and made an effort to look contrite. It wasn’t difficult: her half-day off was on Sundays, and the Overtons could barely spare her that, between the shop an
d the children. She’d felt quite guilty.

  Henry Overton said, ‘You were with that red-haired girl from the Siren, weren’t you? I knew she was trouble the moment I set eyes on her.’

  This was the confrontation Harrie had been angling for since she’d arrived, so she pushed it as far as she dared.

  ‘No, sir, I was out with my man.’

  ‘Your man!’ Mrs Overton looked aghast. She turned to her husband. ‘Henry, this really is the last straw!’

  Part Four

  On the Wing

  Nineteen

  January 1830, Parramatta Female Factory

  James Downey rode through the outer gates, dismounted and passed the reins to the porter. This worthy was one of the few males working within the Factory walls, though only William Tuckwell, Sidney Sharpe and Mrs Gordon’s husband regularly passed through into the Factory proper.

  ‘See that he gets water, will you?’

  The porter nodded; the day was suffocatingly hot and the doctor’s horse dripping with sweat, a dirty cream lather rimming both girth and bridle straps.

  James crossed to the inner gates and waited as the portress opened one side for him. ‘Mrs Dick said to tell you Rachel Winter’s in the hospital again.’

  James thanked her. That wasn’t good news, but neither was it unexpected. Rachel was well into her third trimester of pregnancy and, though the confinement had progressed with surprisingly few problems, the heat must surely be taxing on any expectant woman, never mind someone who suffered the magnitude of headache she did.

  Since October, he had ridden out to Parramatta once a month on a Sunday to visit her, even though she was Mr Sharpe’s patient, not his, and to talk to Harrie about her progress. He was more than happy to do it. He was also happy to work as many hours as he was offered at the surgery in Pitt Street where he’d recently taken a position. Well, perhaps not happy, as Emily’s death still weighed very heavily on his mind — willing was probably a more appropriate word. He found the work filled his days and sometimes even his evenings, keeping at bay the loneliness he at times feared would overwhelm him.