Behind the Sun

by Deborah Challinor

  To be truthful, he went out to Parramatta to visit Harrie as much as he did Rachel. Harrie had been so kind after Emily had died, which had only made his feelings of guilt worse. Some weeks after he’d received Victor’s and Beatrice’s letters she had appeared at his hotel on a Sunday afternoon to tell him she was very sorry to hear of his bereavement. She’d handed him a posy of flowers, which to his embarrassment had brought tears to his eyes, then burst into tears herself, apologised, said she didn’t like to see people she cared for in pain, apologised again and left.

  He’d resigned from the navy in October, having decided to stay on in New South Wales as he and Emily had planned. There was no real reason to return to England now — he would only be reminded of what he’d lost. He’d written to Beatrice explaining his decision, and to Emily’s mother and father, and to Victor, whom he’d asked to stay on at the house in Kensington indefinitely. Someone had to look after Tara. He hoped they would all understand his decision, even if they couldn’t entirely forgive him for staying away.

  He removed his hat and gloves, used the gloves to mop the sweat from his brow, and entered the hospital.

  Rachel was in a bed near an open window, though there was no breeze to speak of. Harrie sat next to her, wiping her face with a wet rag.

  ‘Good afternoon, Harrie.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Downey.’ Harrie dipped the rag into a bowl of murky-looking water, wrung it out and draped it across Rachel’s forehead.

  He gazed down at the patient. Her belly looked huge because she herself was so tiny. In actual fact, according to Mr Sharpe, the foetus was a normal size. The rest of Rachel was very thin, her arms and legs almost spindly, her face pale and her closed eyelids a transparent, smudged blue. Her breasts, however, had enlarged, getting ready to feed her baby, due in nine or ten weeks.

  ‘Asleep or sedated?’

  ‘Sedated,’ Harrie replied. ‘Another headache. Mr Sharpe wanted her in the hospital because of the heat. He says her pulse is too fast. He fears a burst blood vessel in the brain.’

  James nodded; it was a possibility.

  Harrie, he knew, had been returned to the Factory at the end of October for failing to perform as a domestic servant in a satisfactory manner, though he found that hard to believe. Harrie, with her thorough and capable work habits and constant willingness to please? He had asked her what had gone wrong but she’d eluded his questions with a guile he hadn’t previously suspected of her and he had not broached the subject since. Whatever had happened was clearly, she felt, none of his business.

  Since then she had been working in the Factory hospital as a nurse, a position she had managed to secure with his previously written recommendation supported by a private word from him with Mrs Gordon. It wasn’t until December that it occurred to him that Harrie’s failure to perform on assignment and her subsequent desire to work in the hospital — where Rachel Winter was a frequent patient — might be connected. It gave him new insight into Harrie Clarke’s character, though he couldn’t fault her for her apparent duplicity as she had been motivated by loyalty. It had also amused him, and he appreciated that, as very little had lately.

  He moved to the head of the bed and gently lifted each of Rachel’s eyelids. Her left pupil appeared normal, perhaps a little large but that would be the effects of the laudanum, but the right was fully dilated to the extent that only the narrowest rim of blue was visible around it, and the sclera was shot with red. The eye had been in the same condition the month before. He let the eyelid close again.

  ‘It looks awful, doesn’t it?’ Harrie said.

  ‘I don’t expect it’s painful, however. You were in Newgate Gaol together, weren’t you?’

  ‘That’s where we met, the four of us.’

  ‘That eye, the pupil, can you recall if it was enlarged then?’

  Harrie dipped the rag again and reapplied it. ‘Nothing like it is now.’

  ‘But you noticed a difference?’

  ‘I think so. A little. I can’t really remember, I’m sorry.’

  A woman cried out for a nurse and Harrie went to her. James watched as the patient vomited, partly into a bowl but mostly on herself and her mattress. Harrie began to clean her down.

  The hospital was full beyond capacity, a result of accommodating the overflow from Parramatta Hospital and sometimes even farther afield, further reducing the minimal level of care provided.

  Other than women lying-in, the patients suffered from a range of maladies, most commonly dysenteria, anasarca, ulcers, opthalmia, abscesses, debilitas, syphilis, febris, and psora, as well as broken bones and wounds from accidents and fighting. The nurses were all Factory inmates and neither was the midwife salaried — only Sidney Sharpe had advanced medical qualifications. The hospital environment was not sanitary, and in weather conditions such as those of January 1830, the stink of suppurating wounds, vomit and faeces was nauseating and the flies that accompanied it a constant, droning pest.

  James carried a second stool over to Rachel’s bed, sat down and lifted her delicate wrist, noting that the bones had mended as well as could be expected, and took her pulse. It was somewhat rapid.

  Harrie washed her hands and came back.

  ‘Does she still believe the baby is her lover’s?’ James asked.

  ‘Yes, she does. And she still thinks he’s coming to get her.’

  ‘Even when she’s lucid?’

  ‘Yes. And I don’t think there’s any point telling her otherwise any more, do you? It just upsets her. She’s got it fixed in her head and nothing will shift it.’

  ‘And she’s never remembered anything of what really happened?’

  Harrie looked down at Rachel. She straightened the hem of her shift. ‘Sometimes I do wonder, but if she has she’s never said.’

  ‘It isn’t unusual for a particularly unpleasant experience to be permanently erased from the mind. And her head injury has no doubt contributed to her memory loss as well.’

  Harrie said, ‘You’ve a loose button. Would you like me to sew it back on for you?’

  James glanced down and saw that a button was indeed dangling precariously from his coat. ‘Please, if you don’t mind. Thank you.’ He removed his coat — mourning black, like the rest of his costume — and gave it to her.

  From her apron pocket she took a long bone reel with three different coloured cottons on it, opened a compartment at one end and extracted a needle, threaded it with black cotton, and very deftly reattached the button, biting off the thread when she’d finished. James tried not to stare at her teeth, which were small and even and not discoloured at all, or at her smooth, full lips. She pulled on the button to test her handiwork for strength, then handed the coat back.

  ‘Thank you, Harrie. I appreciate that.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Mr Downey.’

  ‘I ran into someone from the Isla the other day. Matthew Cutler. You might recall he was a paying passenger. Pleasant young fellow. Asked me if I knew where you could be found. I’m not sure why he thought I would know.’

  ‘Yes,’ Harrie said. ‘Friday spoke to him not long ago, in the street on the Rocks.’

  ‘Perhaps you have an admirer.’ James said it in jest, though actually he didn’t find the notion particularly amusing. And possibly neither did Harrie, because she looked embarrassed. ‘How are Friday and Sarah faring these days?’

  ‘Sarah’s still at the jeweller’s. I’m not sure she and Mr Green’s wife get on very well, but, well, you know yourself what Sarah can be like. Mr Green seems to be happy with her. And Friday is fitting in nicely at the Siren’s Arms.’

  ‘She’s a domestic servant there, isn’t she?’

  An expression James couldn’t quite fathom flickered across Harrie’s face. ‘Yes. They do accommodation and meals. She and Sarah come out to visit Rachel when they can, which isn’t often because the round trip by coach takes all day and neither of them gets much time off. Friday’s been out more often than Sarah has.’

  ‘Yes, it mu
st be difficult. When Rachel’s time comes, would you like me to be on hand, or are you happy for Mary Ann Neale to manage the delivery?’

  Harrie smoothed Rachel’s hair back from her damp forehead. ‘Well, I suppose it depends on what state she’s in. Mary Ann has delivered dozens and dozens of babies, and if Rachel’s lying-in is straightforward she should be able to manage, shouldn’t she?’

  ‘I expect so. Mr Sharpe tells me she’s a very competent midwife.’

  ‘Shall we discuss it next time? She’ll only have six weeks to go by then.’

  James stood and collected his hat and gloves. ‘Yes, we shall. And perhaps you could also consult Mr Sharpe for his opinion?’

  Harrie regarded him with embarrassment, then giggled. ‘I’m not her doctor, am I? I keep forgetting.’

  James allowed himself a smile, finding unexpected joy in this new, less formal relationship — it could almost be called a friendship now, though in his most private moments he was prepared to admit he yearned for more. She was changing: her confidence was growing and she seemed more at ease, more settled. He liked it.

  Rachel was in the sky far beyond the pain in her head, the delicate membranes of her wings catching the wind and suspending her high above the Factory, her precious cargo nestled within her fur-covered belly. She delighted in the way that one twitch of her wrists tilted her wings this way and that to take advantage of the breeze, her tidy little ears open to every sound.

  Far below lay the Factory grounds, stark and ugly. The main buildings formed a long rectangular compound, the penitentiary end abutting the river. Surrounding them were the yards, and beyond the solid outer walls clustered the houses and gardens of Parramatta township.

  But for now no wall was high enough to keep her captive. She circled and circled, riding lazily on the breeze, free of pain and fear, content to wait until she knew she would have to return.

  February 1830, Sydney Town

  Friday called for Sarah at two o’clock sharp, the bell over the door chiming as she entered the shop. Sarah gave a low whistle.

  ‘Well, don’t you look the well-to-do tart?’

  Friday did a twirl, the skirts of her new, hydrangea-blue muslin dress fanning out prettily. The sleeves were full above the elbow but fitted to the wrist, and the waist was snug, the bodice ending in a point. The neckline was wide and low — Sarah noted Friday had declined to wear the lace pelerine collar that would usually accompany such a daring cut — and her hat was a startling confection trimmed with feathers and copious loops of ribbon.

  ‘Pretty, isn’t it? I thought I’d treat myself.’

  ‘The colour suits you.’ Sarah felt positively dowdy in the plain, sage-coloured dress Esther Green had purchased for her to wear as a uniform, but then she’d never been one for flaunting her charms. You had to actually possess them to flaunt them. She put on her small straw hat, not bothering to check the angle.

  ‘Adam, I’m off out now!’

  Adam Green appeared, his eyebrows lifting slightly as he caught sight of Friday’s ensemble.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Woolfe.’

  ‘Mr Green,’ Friday replied silkily.

  ‘Don’t be too long, Sarah,’ Adam said as he lifted the hatch in the counter for her. ‘Esther will be back by four o’clock.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Outside on George Street, Friday teased, ‘“Adam”, is it? Sounds cosy.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be an arse,’ Sarah snapped.

  ‘He fancies you.’

  ‘He does not.’

  ‘He bloody does.’

  ‘You’re full of shite, Friday Woolfe. Now, where shall we go? I’ve only got two hours. And I need to see Skelton.’

  ‘Skelton? That sounds promising. Tea shop, I thought.’

  Skelton’s pawnshop was on Upper Pitt Street, tucked between a tailor and a gun maker. They’d almost arrived when Friday noticed they were being followed by half a dozen filthy, undernourished dogs.

  ‘Don’t turn round, but there’s a pack of dogs behind us.’

  As Sarah looked two darted past, faced them and growled.

  ‘Don’t look them in the eye, they’ll attack,’ Friday warned.

  Sarah dug in her shopping basket and pulled out a heavy wooden cosh about eighteen inches long.

  ‘Bloody hell, where did you get that?’

  ‘Bought it.’ Sarah slipped her hand through the wrist strap and swung it at the nearest dog’s head, shouting wildly.

  The dog retreated a few steps then stood its ground, barking. The others, growling menacingly, moved closer.

  The door of the pawnshop opened and Mr Skelton emerged carrying a fowling piece, which he fired at the dogs. They scattered in all directions, yelping and howling, then ran off, peppered with shot.

  ‘Damned wild dogs,’ he said. ‘If it’s not them it’s the damned feral goats eating everything in sight. Come in, ladies.’

  The shop was crammed with used goods including furniture, carpets, flatware, pots and pans, tools, clothing and linen. Cabinets displayed fancy pipes, watches and jewellery. Mr Skelton propped his gun in a corner and returned to the carriage clock he was disembowelling on the counter.

  ‘What can I do for you today, Mrs Dunn?’

  ‘I have some items that may interest you, Mr Skelton,’ Sarah replied. ‘Unfortunately, my personal financial situation has not improved since we last spoke and to my regret I find myself having to part with even more of my collection.’ She retrieved a velvet bag from her basket and emptied the contents onto the shop counter — a pair of gold drop earrings, a small peridot and a matched pair of even smaller almandine garnets. ‘I never had the stones set,’ she said. ‘I meant to, but there was never the money, and now that I’m widowed there never will be.’

  She held Mr Skelton’s gaze, aware that he knew she was lying. But that was the way this game was played, and they were both practised at it.

  He held the earrings up to the light streaming through the shop window, then examined them through a jeweller’s loupe. ‘Well crafted,’ he remarked, then produced a grubby handkerchief, spat on it and rubbed at one briskly, checking for black marks.

  ‘Twenty-two carat,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s not pinchbeck.’

  Satisfied, Mr Skelton nodded. He had a close look at the stones. ‘Nice cuts. I can offer you five pounds the lot.’

  ‘I was hoping for a little more.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s the best I can do at the moment, Mrs Dunn.’

  Sarah made a show of deliberating. ‘Then I’ll take it, thank you, Mr Skelton.’

  He placed the jewels in a metal box, popped it beneath the counter, opened his cash drawer and handed Sarah the money. ‘Come and see me next time you find yourself having to pawn more of your collection, Mrs Dunn. I’m sure we can continue to do business.’

  ‘Perhaps, Mr Skelton. Good day.’

  Outside the shop Friday said, ‘I bloody hope you know what you’re doing there, Sarah. Can you trust him? That wasn’t a good price.’

  ‘I haven’t got much choice, have I? It’s not as though I can go round interviewing every fence in Sydney.’ Sarah smirked. ‘Anyway, it was pinchbeck. With just a touch of lacquer.’

  Friday laughed. ‘And Adam hasn’t noticed anything’s missing?’

  ‘I’m still working for him, aren’t I?’

  ‘How are you managing it?’

  ‘Very carefully. Come on, let’s have that cup of tea.’

  The five pounds would go in the bag carefully hidden under the floorboards in Sarah’s room, together with the usual tenner Friday put aside from her own earnings each week. An account at one of the town’s banks might have been more secure, but only men had the authority to open one.

  Since the beginning of November the amount in the bag — the ‘Rachel fund’ — had grown to an extremely pleasing figure, though some of the money earmarked for her had gone straight to Harrie at the Factory. Privately Sarah felt guilty because she contributed so little but, sh
ort of robbing Adam Green even blinder, there wasn’t much else she could do for now. She could pick the odd pocket while she was out, but she had neither the time nor the crew to operate the sort of lucrative caper in which she’d been involved in London. To her surprise — shock, in fact — she felt rather uncomfortable stealing from Adam, given that he was being decent to her, but if she didn’t, she couldn’t contribute anything to Rachel at all, and she’d feel even worse for abandoning her. Their charge wasn’t really abandoned, of course, she had Harrie, but Sarah had made a promise to look after her, and she couldn’t renege just because she’d expected to loathe her master and didn’t. Now she felt guilty about that as well. God, she despised guilt — it was such a pointless waste of thought and effort.

  They chose a tea shop on the corner of George and Hunter streets, sat down at a table near the window and ordered a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches and cakes.

  ‘Who’d have thought we’d be playing ladies like this?’ Friday said, looking around and almost taking Sarah’s eye out with a peacock feather.

  ‘I’m not playing anything,’ Sarah said. ‘I’m a servant and you’re a tart.’

  ‘A very well-paid tart, though. Much better money here than in London, even though I’m handing nearly half of it over to Mrs H.’

  ‘Why’s that, do you think? The money?’

  ‘Not enough women here. Mrs H says there’s three blokes to every girl. The beauty of supply and demand, she calls it.’

  ‘You must be busy.’

  ‘Flat out.’ Friday snorted at her own wit. ‘Except when they want it some other way. My minge is on fire come the end of the night, I can assure you.’

  A pair of middle-aged women at the next table stared at Friday, cake forks suspended between mouth and plate, faces frozen in shock.

  Sarah said, ‘That came out a bit loud.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Friday said, ‘you’re not a servant. You’re a jeweller.’