Behind the Sun

by Deborah Challinor

  The tea and cakes arrived. Sarah poured. ‘All right then, a jeweller who scrubs floors, empties chamber pots and polishes furniture. That bloody Esther: I could quite easily throttle her. Every time I think I’ve finished she finds something else for me to do, anything to stop me being in the workroom with Adam.’

  ‘She probably thinks you’re lifting your leg for him.’

  ‘I know she does.’

  Friday reached for a jam tart. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Really!’ First one woman stood, then the other. Leaving their afternoon teas unfinished, they swept from the shop.

  ‘No, I’m not. What I said earlier, though, about Adam not noticing, I can’t just keep stealing bits and pieces. He will notice soon and then I’ll be buggered. And what I’m taking isn’t even worth much, especially by the time it gets to Skelton. A fence will never give you the full price of what a piece is worth. If I could get my hands on some good paste I could replace some of the better stones Adam has, then fence the genuine ones.’

  Friday eyed her shrewdly. ‘But you don’t really want to do that.’

  Sarah felt her face grow warm, as though she’d just been caught telling an enormous lie. ‘How do you know I don’t?’

  ‘Because you like him, don’t you?’

  ‘I do not!’

  ‘And I say you don’t want to because if you’re caught you’d get another seven years for it. It isn’t worth it because you don’t need to. I’m already making piles of money.’

  Sarah was silent for a while, scraping the jam out of the middle of a tart with her fork. Finally she said, ‘I could always pick a few pockets on my day off, I suppose. Just to keep my hand in.’

  Friday shrieked with laughter at Sarah’s pun.

  They finished their tea and paid. Outside, a very smart curricle, lacquered midnight blue with a raised black hood and pulled by a matched black pair, went past. The driver wore livery and carried a long whip, while the face of his passenger was almost hidden beneath a large hat. The shape of her nose was very familiar, however, and when she turned her head towards them, Harrie and Friday both recognised her.

  She looked away quickly, but it was clear she had also recognised them.

  ‘I saw Bella Jackson this afternoon,’ Friday said to Elizabeth Hislop. The shock of it was still making her heart thump.

  ‘I’d like to see Bella Jackson or Shand or whatever her bloody name is myself,’ Mrs Hislop said as she viciously jabbed a knife into the hinge end of an oyster and prised it open. ‘The cheek of the woman!’ She tipped the oyster into her mouth, tossed the empty shell out of her office window and reached for yet another from the huge bowl on her desk. The oysters came from Sydney Cove and were fresh this morning. ‘Fancy one?’

  ‘No thanks.’ Friday hated them. ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought you might have a taste for them.’

  ‘No, why do you want to see Bella Jackson?’

  ‘To give her a piece of my mind, that’s why. I wouldn’t be bothered if she was hiring out a handful of scabby whores from some rat-infested hovel, but she’s set up in direct competition with me. She’s leased a house in Princes Street — Princes Street, for Christ’s sake! — and tricked it out with velvet wall hangings and fancy carpets and chaise longues and God knows what else, and the next thing you know she’ll have my clientele sidling through her back door, thinking her girls are better than mine!’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Her girls? How would I know? I haven’t seen them. I doubt it. My house has had a reputation for the best girls on the Rocks for years, and that’s because I do have the best girls. Unless she’s suddenly conjured a dozen exotic beauties out of thin air, which I can’t see, myself.’

  ‘But you know what men are like. They’ll have to try it out.’

  Mrs Hislop nodded in weary resignation, because she did know what men were like.

  ‘And she’ll undercut you,’ Friday added.

  Mrs Hislop looked alarmed. ‘Will she? Like that, is she?’

  ‘Hard as a box of nails and cunning as a shithouse rat.’

  ‘Crossed swords already, have you?’

  ‘Crossed swords? I’ll kill the bitch if I ever get the chance. I don’t understand though, Mrs H, how she can set up a bawdyhouse when she’s just got off a convict ship. Isn’t she supposed to be assigned like the rest of us?’

  Mrs Hislop selected another oyster, thought better of it, and dropped it back in the bowl with a clatter. ‘She is assigned — to her husband. Clarence Shand is fifty-six years old, an importer and exporter with warehouses and lumber yards on Sussex Street and Phillip Street and down on the waterfront, and filthy rich. Well, by Australian standards. A bit shady, and a bit of a bastard by most accounts. His wife of some years died twelve months ago.’

  ‘So Bella is his servant?’

  ‘Hold on, let me finish. A man who marries a woman still serving her sentence becomes responsible for her, so she comes off the stores, which is one reason marriage is encouraged here. But she’s still a bonded convict, so no, she can’t run a business. Marriage to Clarence Shand, however, means Bella can quietly dabble in whatever venture takes her fancy under his protection, because their marriage itself was a business deal. It was brokered by a woman who arranges these sorts of things for the wealthy. Very discreet and charges a hell of a fee. I expect it’s quite a suitable set-up for old Clarence. He gets what he wants, and Bella gets what she wants.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  Mrs Hislop tapped the side of her nose. ‘I’ve lived on the Rocks for nearly eighteen years now, love. I’ve got all sorts of people owe me favours. And a few I owe, too. There’s not much goes on here I don’t know or can’t find out about.’

  ‘So what does Shand want?’ Why anyone would choose to marry Bella Jackson was a complete mystery. It would be like taking an adder to your bed.

  ‘A woman who scrubs up reasonably well and keeps her mouth shut.’

  ‘About what?’ And then Friday realised. Honestly, she was so dim sometimes. ‘He’s a mandrake, isn’t he?’

  Mrs Hislop nodded. ‘And it’s much easier to be one of those with a loving wife on your arm.’

  Friday snorted. ‘He won’t get much loving out of Bella Jackson.’

  ‘Luckily he won’t want it.’ They laughed. ‘But will she?’

  ‘Doubt it. She’ll be too busy counting her money and scheming to expand her criminal empire.’

  ‘Is she really that flash?’

  ‘She really is. If I were you I’d watch my back. If I were Clarence I’d watch my back.’

  ‘Mmm. Perhaps I won’t go round to Princes Street and throw bricks through her windows then. You should watch your back, too, Friday, if you’ve already had run-ins with her. You really don’t like her, do you?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m just waiting for my chance.’

  Mrs Hislop gave Friday a worried glance. ‘Really? You’d swing for it, you know. Even if she is as rum as you say.’

  ‘Be worth it.’

  ‘Will you tell me why?’

  It might be a relief to tell someone older and wiser about Keegan’s crimes against Rachel, and how Bella very likely orchestrated them, and for a second Friday considered confiding the whole story to her. But only for a second. ‘One day I will. But not now. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Does it involve your friend? The one still in the Factory?’

  Friday nodded.

  ‘Well, I’ll not pry,’ Elizabeth Hislop said. ‘God knows we’ve all got secrets. I have to tell you, though, love, I can’t allow you to bring trouble into my house. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Hislop,’ Friday said. ‘I do. Very well.’ And she did.

  February 1830, Parramatta Female Factory

  Janie sat on the floor in the hospital, Willie in her lap. His skin was pale and clammy and his blind eyes half open, eyelids fluttering fitfully. He was naked except for his clout, the rapid rhythm of his tiny heart visible in his sunken bel
ly.

  Harrie set a cloth and a fresh bowl of water on the floor. Willie’s head lolled in her direction, then his arms flew out, fists clenched and his spine arched as he was taken in another fit. Janie slipped one hand beneath his buttocks and the other behind his neck, supporting his rigid little body until the spasm passed.

  She looked at Harrie helplessly, tears welling. ‘I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but if I could put an end to his misery and get away with it, I would. It’s so cruel, Harrie.’

  ‘It can’t be long now, Janie, surely. Mr Sharpe doesn’t think so.’

  ‘Mr Sharpe doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. I’ve seen babies like this go on for weeks and weeks until they starve to death. And so have you, so don’t deny it.’

  It was true: Harrie had. If a convulsion didn’t kill him, Willie could die from lack of food. He was taking very little nourishment from Janie now; his bowels had stopped; he was barely conscious much of the time; he was blind; and he seemed in constant pain. She dipped the cloth into the water and gave it to Janie.

  ‘And he still can’t keep the tincture of opium down?’

  ‘I’ve even tried mixing it with some of me milk in a spoon, but he just spews it everywhere.’

  ‘Keep trying, Janie.’ Harrie turned to go; she had to check on Rachel. ‘It will help him, even just a little bit.’

  Janie nodded, kissed the top of Willie’s head then rubbed her cheek gently along the side of his face. ‘I will. I’ll not give up, Harrie. I’ll do anything to make him feel better.’

  Outside Harrie walked through the dormitory building and out into the first-class yard. Rachel was sitting on a blanket in the shade of a wall, Janie’s baby Rosie in a basket beside her. The heat and humidity were stifling and Rachel had taken off her blouse and shift, revealing breasts patterned with delicate blue veins and tipped with large brown nipples. Her belly was huge. She’d drawn up her skirt around her thighs and the kitten, now approaching six months, whom Rachel adored and had named Angus, lay between her legs asleep on his back, paws in the air.

  ‘Rachel, sweetie, put your blouse back on.’

  ‘It’s too hot.’

  ‘I know, but you’ll get mosquito bites and then whitlows.’

  Rachel gathered her hair — falling well past her bottom now — in one hand at the base of her neck, twisted it into a bun and stuck a filigree tortoiseshell comb through it. The comb had been a gift from Friday and, while Rachel loved receiving presents, Harrie and Janie had a hell of a time stopping other inmates from pinching them.

  Angus rolled over, expecting a tickle. Harrie obliged. ‘Has Rosie been asleep the whole time?’

  ‘Mostly.’ Rachel slipped her blouse back on, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. ‘She woke up once and had a little grizzle and I sniffed her nappy but it’s clean.’

  ‘Do you want some help?’

  Rachel’s shoulders slumped and she nodded. Over the past month she had begun losing the strength in her left arm, which was odd, given that she’d broken her right wrist.

  Harrie fastened her buttons for her. She and Janie had no concerns about leaving Rosie in Rachel’s care — not when Rachel was feeling well, anyway. And she had been feeling really rather good lately. She’d had a nasty headache a week earlier and needed her laudanum, but there had been no fits for over a month now. It seemed that the closer she came to her lying-in, the more settled she became. Perhaps her body, small as it was anyway and now wasted from her long illness, had only enough strength for one task at a time and had chosen to concentrate on bearing a child. Or perhaps she was simply getting better, her poor head finally healing. Harrie fervently hoped so anyway.

  She checked Rosie, who was fast asleep, her pink, sweaty face pressed against the side of the wicker basket. Harrie moved the round head slightly, and waved away the flies that continually lit on the child; they rose for a second, hovered, then landed again. The hundreds — thousands, probably — of flies that crawled and buzzed over everything at the Factory were disgusting and could drive a person to distraction, but she knew there would be just as many in Sydney Town, except perhaps when a stiff breeze blew in off the harbour. In the end she gave up, sat down, lifted Rosie out of the basket and cradled her.

  Rachel picked up Angus and lay him across her belly, where he flopped bonelessly, staring up at her with adoring eyes long ago turned gold.

  ‘Harrie?’

  ‘Mmm?’ Harrie looked closely at Rosie’s neck; she had a very faint spotty rash in the folds of her skin. Perhaps it was only from the heat but she would ask Mr Sharpe about it just in case. Scarlet fever started with a rash.

  ‘That man, Gabriel Keegan,’ Rachel said. Her tone of voice was both questioning and thoughtful, though she didn’t look up from Angus, continuing to stroke his dusty fur over and over.

  Harrie sat very still, startled and uneasy: she’d been sure Rachel had lost all recollection of Keegan and what he’d done to her. ‘Yes,’ she said noncommittally.

  ‘He hurt me, didn’t he?’

  Harrie felt sick. Should she lie, or should she tell Rachel the truth and upset her all over again, just when she seemed to be settling, getting ready for her baby? And what could she say about that, about whose child she was carrying?

  She laid Rosie back in her basket, and took a deep breath. ‘Have you remembered something?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s like when you see something when there’s lightning at night. Just…flashes of things. Pictures. He did this, didn’t he?’ Rachel touched the back of her head where the long scar lay.

  ‘Oh sweetie, yes, he did.’

  Frowning, Rachel said, ‘And you told me a long time ago he raped me, didn’t you?’

  Harrie couldn’t speak; she felt awful. She swallowed and nodded.

  Rachel ran her fingers down the length of Angus’s tail. ‘Lucas will be angry. But our baby will be all right, won’t it?’

  ‘Your baby will be fine, love.’

  ‘Whatever happens?’

  Rachel’s hands moved rhythmically over Angus, her gaze never wavering from Harrie’s, one bright blue eye and one almost black eye boring into her, staring into her soul, digging out the truth and dragging it up into the space between them. Harrie felt a spider of profound unease crawl up her spine.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What if I’m not here to take care of it?’

  ‘But you will be here, sweetie. Stop talking nonsense.’

  Rachel’s left hand flew out and clutched at Harrie’s wrist; Harrie could feel the tremor in it, the weakness that was becoming more pronounced every day. ‘But if I’m not, Harrie. Will you care for it? Will you promise?’

  ‘Of course I promise. But you will be here. I promise that, too.’

  Rachel’s hand dropped away and she made a sound that was nearly but not quite a sigh.

  ‘I love you, Harrie. And I love Friday and Sarah, too. You’ll tell them that, won’t you?’

  Willie died some time during the early hours of the sixteenth day of February, not in the hospital but in the first-class dormitory sleeping next to Janie and Rosie. In the morning he was blue about the mouth but his still, wasted little face looked, for the first time in months, relaxed and at peace. Mr Sharpe entered ‘death by tuberculous meningitis’ on his death certificate, his opinion being that the child had suffered a convulsion in the night and swallowed his tongue, thereby suffocating. He was buried in St John’s cemetery.

  Harrie and Janie never spoke of it but, as their mattresses were side by side, Harrie knew that Janie slept with both babies very close to her. Had Willie suffered a convulsion, both women would have been aware of it. Something else had finally put an end to his horrible torment, and Harrie could only be glad.

  Twenty

  Friday, 5 March 1830, Parramatta Female Factory

  ‘I’ve got a funny feeling in my belly.’

  Harrie, instantly alert, looked across at Rachel, who was sitting cross-legged on their mattress, pa
tting Angus. The young cat was supposed to be outside murdering rats, the only reason he’d been allowed into the Factory, but as usual he had crept inside and up the stairs and was settling in for the evening. At one or two o’clock he would slink out to do his job, leaving mangled and headless corpses lying about in the yard to be discovered in the morning, but for now he was deeply content where he was.

  ‘What sort of funny? Cramps, do you mean?’

  ‘A dragging feeling.’

  ‘Painful?’

  ‘Sort of. Not really.’

  ‘Have they just started?’

  ‘No, this afternoon, just after dinner.’

  Harrie felt a flash of irritation. Rachel had been grumpy for several days, and not very communicative. ‘Rachel! You should have told me!’

  ‘Why? I said it’s only sort of sore. My back’s worse.’

  Harrie went in search of Mary Ann Neale, who was in the hospital attending to another woman lying-in. Harrie waited until she was free.

  ‘She’s due in a week or two, isn’t she?’ Mary Ann said.

  Harrie said yes. She and Mary Ann had talked about what they might do if Rachel were ill when she went into labour. The idea of dosing her heavily with laudanum was a bad one — she wouldn’t be able to push or help with the delivery in any way. Without the drug, of course, she might suffer a severe headache, and perhaps a fit, and have to be physically restrained. Both options risked the lives of mother and baby. But there had been no fits for over a month and only a few headaches, and as long as the actual delivery didn’t set her off, both Mary Ann and Mr Sharpe thought the birth should proceed smoothly, despite the fact she was so underweight.

  ‘Have her waters broken?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ Harrie replied.

  ‘Then it’s early days yet, but we’d better find somewhere to squeeze her in here.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘The morning will do, unless things change. You can keep an eye on her. Bring her over if anything does change. Your fancy doctor’s not doing the birthing, is he?’

  ‘Mr Downey? No.’

  ‘A good thing, too. You’d have to send for him now and he’d not get here in time if she does turn out to be quick. That Parramatta Road can be right treacherous at night.’