The body was dressed in a clean, pressed shift and had been carefully washed, by Harrie no doubt, the jaw tied shut with a length of muslin knotted on top of the head. The eyes were closed but the pennies had slipped off and become caught up in the folds of the shroud. He would reposition them when he’d finished, although no doubt the undertakers would steal them before the body went into its grave.
James removed the muslin strip, gathered together the hair, still spectacular even in death, and arranged it so it all hung over the end of the bench, then draped a cloth over the body’s neck and chest, tucking it beneath the shoulders. He opened Mr Sharpe’s case of surgical implements and selected a scalpel. Working carefully but deftly he cut around the hairline from one side of the jaw to the other, the cold, waxy flesh parting bloodlessly, then pulled hard on the scalp, applying gentle pressure to muscles unwilling to relax, and flipped it back to expose the skull. Leaving the scalp still attached he scraped away the tissue covering the bone, reached for the drill and made a small indentation in the skull on the right side near the top. He then fitted the point of the centre-pin of Mr Sharpe’s trephine into the dent, lowered the trephine’s crown and started turning. It took him less than twenty minutes, but not operating on a live patient he wasn’t having to employ any finesse. When he felt the teeth of the crown break through he removed it, picked out the round section of bone and put it aside. Moving a lamp closer he took a pair of long-handled tweezers and began to poke around.
As he left the mortuary the undertaker was just arriving, preparing to back his black wagon up to the door.
James remembered he’d left his gift in the store room and fetched it before he found Harrie again, this time kneeling in the kitchen garden collecting herbs for poultices.
‘This is for Charlotte,’ he said.
‘Oh, I thought you’d gone. Thank you.’
‘Harrie, I performed a quick post-mortem investigation of Rachel’s body and —’
Slowly, Harrie stood up. ‘You did what?’
Perhaps she didn’t understand the terminology. ‘A post-mortem. An internal investigation of the possible cause of death.’
Such an expression of revulsion crossed Harrie’s face that James thought she was about to faint. He reached out to take her arm, but when she slapped him viciously away he realised her horror had suddenly turned into virulent hostility.
‘You went into that…charnel house, while she was all alone, and cut into her? That’s revolting! How could you?! For God’s sake, she’s dead now, couldn’t you have just left her alone?’
James had never seen Harrie so angry. Her face was as white as marble and her whole body shaking. She swung her basket of herbs at him and he only just managed to dodge it.
‘You’re as bad as Keegan! You’re disgusting!’ She burst into wild tears. ‘Get away from me, go on! Get out!’
Stunned at how quickly everything had gone so terribly wrong, he turned and walked away, barely noticing Janie as she crossed his path, heading for the garden. His face burning, he made his way to the front courtyard to the internal gates, passed through and told the porter to fetch his horse. As he waited he heard the sound of running feet and whipped around, heart thudding, but it was only Janie.
‘You’re a bloody idiot, you are,’ she said, and thrust a note at him. ‘This is Harrie’s letter to Friday and Sarah, about Rachel. There’s no post today. The least you can do is deliver it yourself. Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone?’
And as she marched off he asked himself the same question.
Friday sat in the visitor’s room, staring down the turnkey. The mot had a moustache and could do with a good splash of arsenic and quicklime to get rid of it.
James Downey had come to Mrs Hislop’s yesterday evening with Harrie’s letter; Jack, the idiot, had sent him down the alleyway thinking he was a customer because he’d been asking for her. He’d stood in the reception room, his face all stiff and his hands shaking, and handed her the letter, and when she’d read it she’d nearly hit the deck. He’d grabbed her, sat her on the sofa, said he was sorry about ten times, told someone to get her a cup of tea, then buggered off.
The pain in her chest and throat had been so awful she’d thought she was going to die. She’d felt like she couldn’t breathe, as though she were drowning on dry land. It had been like daggers. Mrs H had bunged her a full tumbler of brandy, given her a big, bosomy, perfumed hug and the night off, which had been really good of her, and she’d gone out and got on the gin. She couldn’t remember much, but she knew she’d been round to see Sarah, climbing over the fence and banging on the back door and yelling her name. Sarah had come down and then that Adam and that Esther cow had come out and there’d been arguing and shouting and the next thing she’d been in the Bird-in-Hand and this morning she’d woken up in the stable behind the Siren next to young Jimmy Johnson, who’d got a hell of a fright. She’d had an almighty headache and felt sick, but gin in her tea had fixed that.
Sarah had arrived just before she’d set out this morning, breathless from running, red-eyed and spitting nails, to say Esther wouldn’t give her the day off to go out to Parramatta to see Harrie, the baby or Rachel’s body.
So Friday had had to come out by herself.
The door to the visitor’s room opened and Harrie came in, looking as shattered as Friday expected. They hugged fiercely.
‘You can go now,’ Friday said to the turnkey.
‘Not likely,’ the woman said. ‘It’s not even a proper visiting day. You could be passing contraband.’
Friday opened her purse and offered a sovereign. The turnkey took it and left.
Sitting down at the table, Harrie reached for Friday’s hands.
‘Our beautiful girl,’ Friday said, her voice cracking.
Harrie nodded and they held on tight, crying, not caring that they were being ugly and messy, because it was only them.
After a while, Friday blew her nose and cleared her throat. ‘What happened?’
Harrie pulled her own handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘She had one of her headaches, a bad one. Mr Sharpe doesn’t really know but he thinks the strain of pushing…’ She gestured at her head. ‘It may have been too much.’
‘Was it quick?’
‘Not really. She suffered, Friday, and there wasn’t anything we could do and she refused the laudanum anyway and it went on for hours. I’m not even sure she was aware of the baby.’
They wept again at the thought of Rachel’s pain.
‘Were you allowed to lay her out?’ Friday said at last.
Harrie shook her head. ‘Not properly. All we could do was wash her and put her in her good shift, and tie her jaw and close her eyes. Janie helped. And then they took her away to the mortuary.’
Friday frowned. ‘But what about…?’
‘Mrs Dick said the undertaker would do all that.’
‘But that’s our job! The people who love her.’
Fresh tears trickled hotly down Harrie’s cheeks. ‘I know it is, Friday. I know that.’
When Harrie’s father, William, had died she had helped her mother lay out his body. They had bathed and shaved him, tied his jaw, plugged every orifice to prevent leakage, bound his elbows, wrists and ankles to keep his limbs straight, dressed him in his best clothes, laid him in his coffin and closed his eyes with pennies. There had been other essential tasks to see to as well. The clock had been stopped at the moment of his death to avoid bad luck, and Harrie had run down to the church to have the bell rung to announce his passing. The only looking glass they’d owned had been covered with black crepe to ensure her father’s soul would not be trapped in the house and prevented from crossing to the other side, and the doors and windows had been unlocked for the same reason.
There had been the funeral feast to arrange, with a lot of help from neighbours, and Harrie and her mother had sat constantly with William Clarke’s corpse in their tiny parlour for three days and three nights until the burial. When the time h
ad come his coffin had been carried out of the house feet first to keep his spirit from looking back and enticing other family members into the grave.
But this time none of those precautions had been taken, and Harrie had been denied the chance to tend to Rachel’s body in a way that might have helped to ease her grief.
‘We should write to her family,’ Friday said at last.
‘I have.’
Friday nodded gratefully. ‘I want to see her.’
‘I don’t think you do,’ Harrie replied shortly, and told her what James Downey had done.
Friday was horrified. ‘That’s awful! That’s…Christ, I don’t know what it is.’
They stared at each other.
Grief making her harsh, Harrie added, ‘She’ll be stinking by now, too. They say the mortuary isn’t cold enough and the weather’s been hot. They took her away yesterday. It won’t be Rachel any more.’
‘Well, can I see the baby?’ Friday asked.
Harrie nodded. ‘We named her Charlotte. Janie’s bringing her soon. Could Sarah not come today?’
‘Esther Green wouldn’t let her. Sarah’s roaring.’
‘Poor Sarah, she only saw Rachel once after she left. She’ll be heartbroken.’
‘She is. She was desperate to say goodbye. I’m glad I’m not walking in Esther’s shoes. Sarah harbours a mean grudge.’
Janie arrived with Charlotte and embraced Friday, almost squashing the baby between them.
As Friday took Charlotte and gazed down at her little features, her face crumpled again and fat tears plopped onto Charlotte’s head. Quietly she began to sing a lullaby. She sang as tunelessly as ever, and couldn’t remember all the words, and that only made it even more poignant.
Janie and Harrie exchanged a startled look.
‘She reminds me,’ Friday whispered.
Harrie touched the tattoo on Friday’s left forearm that spelt out Maria. ‘Of her?’ she asked gently.
Friday nodded. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. ‘She was three months old. I left her alone while I went out to work. Just for an hour. When I got back she’d died. I don’t know why.’ She looked up at Harrie. ‘We won’t leave this one alone, will we?’
Harrie squeezed her hand. ‘No. We won’t.’
Although the day was warm, rain fell steadily and the skies were low and the colour of a dirty sixpence. From where Friday stood beneath the shelter of the lychgate to St John’s Cemetery, Parramatta, she could see the mound of mud next to the open grave. She would, she expected, be the only mourner as Harrie and Janie couldn’t leave the Factory and Sarah had again been denied time off.
Finally the black wagon bearing the coffin rattled down O’Connell Street and turned in through the gate. Friday stepped aside then followed it to the graveside where the chaplain waited, his damp vestments and cassock clinging.
The undertaker and his assistant unloaded the coffin with practised ease and manoeuvred it over the grave onto the straps, where it sat while the chaplain droned hurriedly through the short service.
Really, how are the dead raised up? Friday wondered idly, only half listening as rain dripped off the brim of her hat. Or do they never properly go to sleep?
She stared past the coffin into the watery grave, thinking about all the things Rachel had wanted. There would be no pretty dresses now, no cakes, and no Lucas. And no more laughing, darling, difficult Rachel.
Because of Gabriel Keegan.
The chaplain finished, closed his soggy bible and signalled for the coffin to be lowered. Friday dropped three white roses into the grave and turned to leave.
James Downey stood a short distance away, hat in hand, rain trickling down his face. He gave her a brief nod.
She stared at him for a moment then walked away.
Twenty-one
April 1830, Sydney Town
When Harrie informed Mrs Dick she refused to pay any more garnish to keep her position as a nurse in the Factory hospital, Mrs Dick told her she would lose it; there were plenty of other inmates willing. Harrie said fine, they could have it. They were welcome to the endless crooked dealings, too, and the desperate misery of the place, and the sad songs of home, and the furtive, night-time couplings in the dormitories — all of it. Harrie had had enough.
She was reassigned to George and Nora Barrett, who lived towards the Middlesex Lane end of Gloucester Street on the Rocks. It was slightly embarrassing, as their house wasn’t far at all from the Overtons’ grocery, and Harrie had already been sent in to buy a few things and Henry Overton had been behind the counter, but all he’d said was, ‘Good morning, Harriet,’ so she had said, ‘Good morning, Mr Overton,’ and that had been that.
It was a good assignment, Harrie thought. George Barrett was a tailor and made men’s and boys’ suits and shirts and had a shop on the ground floor below the house. His wife, Nora, was a sempstress of some renown and was supposed to be busy making the sort of dresses women with a bit of spare money could afford, but had her hands full with their children — Abigail, who was seven, Hannah, five, and Samuel, three. And she was expecting again. Nora thought Harrie an utter miracle because she was good with children, had some experience as a midwife (Nora felt at thirty-six she was getting too long in the tooth for childbirth and wasn’t looking forward to the arrival of number four) and could sew and embellish beautifully.
The Barretts were both ex-convicts, as were so many people who lived on the Rocks, and had built up their business together and were prospering. Harrie told them when she arrived she’d been transported for stealing silk and embroidery thread, and that she’d done it on the spur of the moment because she was desperate to start her own dressmaking business. She wanted to be honest from the outset but it sounded feeble once it was out, and she wondered if she’d made a mistake. But George had assured her the past was the past and as long as she didn’t steal anything from them, they would all get along nicely. And so far they were. They’d even accepted Angus, busy earning his keep as a ratter.
Her days were full and she was grateful as there was little time to sit and mope about Rachel, though at night in her attic room she lay in bed, the twist of silver-white hair clutched in her hand, and wept. She knew Charlotte was safe with Janie. As long as Janie continued to receive a regular supply of money, she could give Charlotte — and Rosie — everything they needed for now. Harrie couldn’t contribute the way Friday and Sarah did, not at present, but one day perhaps she would. In the meantime she had a position with a family she liked, at least half a day off every week, she was doing a little sewing again, and Friday and Sarah were nearby.
But things were still not right with the world.
‘I know where he lives. I’ve known for a while.’
‘How did you manage that?’ Sarah pegged one shoulder of yet another of Esther’s expensive lawn nightgowns to the drying line. ‘Pass me another peg, will you?’
Friday obliged. A still, pale face looked down at them from an upstairs window. ‘We’re being watched.’
‘Esther? She hates it when you come around. She doesn’t think servants should have friends. Especially loud drunk ones.’
Friday puffed on her pipe. ‘I got my boy Jimmy at the Siren to follow him, then I followed him myself. A couple of times. He’s staying at a gentleman’s boarding house in Phillip Street.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘A couple of blocks that way on the other side of the stream.’ Friday waved a hand vaguely over her shoulder.
Sarah selected another garment. ‘Have you ordered the headstone yet?’
‘Yes. It’ll be a few weeks. Still quite soon, though, don’t you think?’
‘No, I don’t. And neither does Harrie.’
They fell silent. Over the past month they’d said all they wanted to say about Rachel and any more talk of her death would be like jabbing at a raw and pus-filled wound. A small lizard darted out from behind the drying line pole and skittered across the cobbles, disappearing beneath a rock. Sara
h hung up the last of the washing then turned to face Friday, eyes hard, her mouth a grim line.
‘Will we, then?’
‘I say yes.’
‘When?’
‘When can you get away?’
‘I’d have to sneak out, so it doesn’t really matter to me.’
‘Monday then?’
Sarah looked at her hands, red from the washing. ‘Will we tell Harrie?’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ Friday said, ‘but now I’m not so sure. She still feels very sad, and angry, about Rachel.’
Sarah grunted. They all did.
‘She won’t say so, though.’ Friday shifted on the upturned pail she was sitting on. ‘I’m wondering if it might, you know, help her settle.’
‘Seeing justice served, you mean?’
Friday nodded. ‘She wouldn’t have to do anything.’
‘She’ll worry we’ll get found out.’
The sash on the upstairs window rattled up and Esther Green’s fair head emerged. ‘Sarah!’ she shouted down, ‘I’ll thank you to get back to work!’ The sash slammed back into place.
‘Bitch,’ Sarah said. ‘She was a lag herself, you know. Seven years for forgery.’
‘We won’t get found out,’ Friday said. ‘It’s commonplace round here, just like it was commonplace at home. He’ll be too shamed to complain about it and it’s what he deserves.’
‘And he’s out and about every night?’
‘Seems to be.’
‘This Monday night?’
Friday stood and dusted off the back of her skirt. ‘Monday.’
On her way back down towards the Rocks, Friday spied Bella Jackson’s curricle travelling along Bridge Street, approaching the intersection with George. Galvanised into action, her heart thumping, she elbowed her way through a group of pedestrians gathering on the corner to cross the road.
Bella noticed her and said something to her driver, who had slowed the horses for the turn, and he suddenly sped up again. She was going to get away!
Friday was standing behind a man gripping the wooden handles of an enormous barrowful of fresh produce from the George Street markets. So she shoved him; he staggered out into the road, sending an avalanche of onions, squash and sweetcorn across the intersection. The horses, unnerved by the vegetables rolling in all directions, shied and reared, eliciting cries of alarm from onlookers, which only unsettled the animals further.
Behind the Sun Page 42