There, in Rio, he looked at her pleading face and shook his head, but Gussie and I knew she would have her way. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘if you’re so set upon it, Liza-Lou, I suppose I must accede.’ He paused. ‘But … we won’t take the services of one of these street peddlers.’ And he led us off into a side alley, from thence into another, and on through a maze of narrow passageways until we came to a low dwelling set apart from a huddle of poor huts. Made of mud, with open holes for doors and windows, it could scarcely claim to be a house, though a few red- and yellow-flowered bushes sprouted in the dusty yard before it.
‘Wait for me,’ said Uncle, leaving us by the broken fence. He stepped into the yard, stood by the entrance and called out in a foreign tongue.
A young girl appeared, black-eyed, dark-haired, her worn frock filthy, her feet bare. ‘O que você quer?’
He spoke to her. She shrugged and vanished. It was very hot by now and the dust had made me thirsty; I could feel the sun beating on my head through my bonnet. The girl reappeared and beckoned us into the hovel.
It took several minutes for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. We walked on earth floors into an empty room and from thence into another in which I gradually distinguished two chairs and several rough boxes set as seats. On the walls hung masks carved like grotesques in a carnival. From further inside the dwelling, the girl led out a very old woman. As she shuffled towards us, I realised she was blind, her pupils glazed with white film. She lifted her head a little and seemed to sniff the air. I thought of Ellen and the cat woman. My heart began to thud. I longed to escape.
Uncle stepped forward, spoke to her in that strange tongue, extracted from his waistcoat some silver coins and laid them in her open palm. She ran a careful finger round the rim of each, and bit them all in turn, before secreting them in a pocket in her skirt. I had a sudden recollection of the organ-grinder’s monkey in Lyme and a sharp pain seized my chest.
‘She says she will tell your fortunes, one by one, starting with Gussie,’ said Uncle.
Lucy frowned. ‘But how will we know what she says?’
‘Because, Goosey, I shall decipher it for you. You will see that she talks in riddles, like the Sphinx. But it’s said in Rio that she has the true second sight. I’m told it’s sometimes given to the blind.’
The old woman sat in one of the chairs, and the girl, indicating that Uncle should take the other and we girls the boxes, set a little stool before the old woman’s chair.
‘Come, Augusta. You first.’
‘I’m not sure I wish to know my fortune, Papa.’
‘It’s merely entertainment. Step forward.’
Tentatively, Gussie sat upon the stool and held out her hand. The fortune-teller took it, raised it and, as Gussie flinched a little, traced a finger over her palm. She spoke.
‘She says, “You have a good heart”,’ said Uncle, ‘which we all know is true. “You will marry for love. You will travel long and far, and you will have many children. In your old age you will be content.”’
Gussie’s hand was released.
‘There,’ he said, ‘that was a splendid fortune indeed.’
Lucy was fairly dancing towards the stool.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Now it’s your turn, Liza-Lou.’
Lifting Lucy’s hand, the fortune-teller bent over it as if she were not blind at all and could see it clearly. A long silence fell. Then,
‘She says, “You lack patience,”’ said Uncle.
At this, we all laughed, even Lucy.
‘“… which will be the cause of much trouble in your life if you do not seek to master it.”’
‘Oh dear,’ said Lucy, ‘this is surely a homily, not a fortune.’
The old woman raised her head and seemed to stare into Lucy’s face. ‘“You will rise high and you will sink low. You will reign like a queen and slink like a cur. You will marry but not for love. You will travel the world but come home. When crowds greet you and praise you, remember the fickleness of fortune. You will be pious …”’
We were unable to smother our amusement.
‘“… and you will do good works. For much of your life, dark men will surround you. The man who will wed you will be elevated but base, the man who will claim you will be noble of heart but far away.”’ She dropped Lucy’s hand abruptly. Then she spoke again, very loudly. ‘“You will have a long life,”’ Uncle translated. A pause. ‘And she says, “One day you will come again to Rio.”’
The woman sank back in her chair, muttering.
By this time, I was entirely uneasy. I trembled as Uncle motioned me to the stool. The room felt suddenly darker, the carved faces on the walls seemed to grimace at me. I shrank back. ‘I … I should prefer not to …’
He rose and propelled me gently towards the old woman who stretched out a shrivelled hand and clasped my own so that I was forced to sit, in dread, upon the fateful seat. Despite the heat in the room, her touch was cool and papery, and she seemed almost to caress my palm. Without warning, she lifted my hand to her lips. I sat frozen, unable to move, as she spoke in her sing-song voice.
‘She says, “Poor child, you have suffered much and must suffer more but your entire life will not be one of suffering.”’ She released my hand. ‘“From the sea will come your greatest sorrow and your greatest happiness. You will not be brought high but neither will you sink low. You will have your time of sorrow and pain but, when you least expect it, God will reward you and show you a miracle. And you, too, will return to Rio.”’
I supposed this to be the end, but she spoke again. ‘“Little sister, listen to your own heart and not to the words of others. Beware the serpent in your friend’s house.”’
I stared at her, confused. The film across her eyes seemed to glitter. ‘“Do not step on him for another’s sake or the Worm will bruise your heel … and hers. In the face of loss of honour, guard your own.”’
She let my hand fall and I sat, unable to move, seized by a terrible dread. She leaned towards me, muttering.
‘She says,’ said Uncle, ‘“Do not be afraid. There is nothing to fear.”’
And from her skirts she drew out a tiny manikin, waxy-pink and clad in a skirt and bonnet. She motioned me to take it; I shook my head. The room seemed silent, empty of everyone but us two. I breathed faster. The walls shrank and pressed in upon me. Again she held out the manikin; again I resisted. She held it to her cheek, whispering to it and, as she did so, its face swelled so that it resembled one of the gargoyles on the walls. It eyes stared at me, its lips parted, and from its ghastly mouth I heard Mama’s voice: Take care, my darling girl, take care.
I remember nothing more. Lucy told me later that I screamed and fell insensible from the stool, striking my head on the floor, and that Uncle carried me from that evil room, calling my name and saying over and over, ‘What a fool I’ve been.’
Dazed, I came to myself propped against the broken palings of the dusty yard with its monstrous bright flowers. I recall that we stopped at a coffee shop where someone brought me a sharp cordial tasting of bitter oranges which Uncle urged me to swallow as a restorative. I passed the remainder of the journey back to the Tullys’ house like one in a nightmare who cannot escape into the daylight of reality. When, at last, we came to the peaceful garden, I sank into Aunt’s arms, hot and tearful.
‘Why, Fanny, what is it? And you’re covered in dust.’
‘No cause for alarm,’ said Uncle, quickly and too heartily. ‘She took a tumble in the street and now she’s a little over-heated. A trifle overwrought.’
By which I understood that our visit to the fortune-teller must remain a secret from Aunt.
Lucy did not quiz or tease me. Instead, she paid me little attentions and made me laugh greatly at her impersonations of Mrs Tully scolding her servants. She was as clever a mimic as ever I saw in my life.
ALBANY, WESTERN AUSTRALIA, 1835
For several days, a ridge of land smudged the horizon and a great cheer rose
from the entire ship’s complement when the Captain of the Buffalo announced that we should soon arrive in King George’s Sound and then at Princess Royal Harbour. ‘King George’, ‘Princess Royal’. Such familiar, comforting names. I felt a rush of expectancy as our ship passed through a narrow inlet and entered a large sheltered body of water which, to my eye, very much resembled the expanse and form of Lyme Bay. We strained to see the town or any evidence of habitation, but the land seemed almost deserted. No jetty extended from the shore; the only buildings were a few makeshift dwellings and what seemed to be a small army barracks. A sparse knot of people had gathered to watch our arrival. Echoing my mounting dismay, Hugh said, ‘But where is the town?’
‘And where are the houses?’ demanded Lucy. ‘I can see nothing but those ugly huts.’
‘Calm yourself, Liza-Lou,’ said Uncle. ‘The town and its houses are not visible from here.’
‘But how are we to get ashore, sir?’ asked Hugh.
‘Hush,’ said Aunt. ‘At least we are here at last and I, for one, will be heartily pleased to be off this ship, however far away the town may be.’
‘I think the bay is a little like Lyme,’ I ventured.
‘Nonsense, Fanny,’ snapped Lucy. ‘It doesn’t resemble Lyme in the least. Where are the shops and the Rooms? There’s not even a church that I can see. I believe it has no civilisation at all.’ She turned to her papa. ‘How can you have brought us to such a horrid place?’ she demanded, and burst into hysterical weeping.
I saw the pulse in Uncle’s injured temple begin to throb.
‘We are all tired after such a long voyage,’ said Aunt. ‘Take your sister below, Hugh, until she’s a little more composed.’
‘I shall never be composed in my life again, and the moment I’m of age I shall return to Lyme.’
‘Look,’ said Gussie, craning out over the rail, ‘the sand is white, like marble.’
‘An excellent sign,’ said Uncle. ‘Capital.’
The Buffalo dropped anchor and two jolly boats rowed out to take us and our possessions to a number of carts drawn into the shallower water. ‘We’ll be temporarily housed in Albany-town,’ said Aunt, ‘but Papa has already purchased Sir James Stirling’s house at Strawberry Hill, only a mile or so away. Such a pretty name.’
‘I wager there’ll be no strawberries and no dwelling either.’
‘Lucy, I’m becoming exceedingly vexed with your constant complaining.’
‘Stop it at once, Lucy,’ said Gussie. ‘Can’t you see that Mama is tired? In her condition, she shouldn’t be upset.’
I felt a stab of fear and pulled Gussie aside. ‘What is the condition Aunt is in?’
‘Why, Fanny, has no one told you? We’re soon to have another brother or sister.’
Panic seized me. Before I could stop myself, I heard my own voice saying, ‘Will she die?’
‘Of course not. Whatever gave you such an idea?’ Then, comprehending, she put her arm about me. ‘Mama has borne eleven children already and you see she’s quite alive and well.’ She blotted my tears with her handkerchief. ‘Just think, Fanny, how wonderful it will be to have a dear little baby brother or sister.’
I recollected Louisa’s yellow face. ‘Or perhaps … the baby will die.’
‘I think it very unlikely. Let us wipe your eyes again. There, that’s better. Now, let’s think of some names for this new little baby.’
‘If it’s a boy,’ I said, ‘and if I could choose, I should call him William.’
We were handed down from the Buffalo, rowed to the carts and arrived at the shore with our lower parts wet and dripping. Sprawled to dry on the glittering white sand, we watched as load after load of our possessions was brought from the ship. Trunks of clothing were dumped next to furniture, books, huge sacks of flour, rice and sugar wrapped in oiled cloth, kitchen and farm implements, plants, bushes, even several large fruit trees. Finally, the livestock was disembarked, the goats and sheep bleating, the chickens and ducks squawking and quacking, the cows lowing desperately. The ram butted at the sides of his prison with determined ferocity and I prayed the slats would hold.
Despite this cacophony, Lucy fell asleep on the sand. I dozed beside her while the older Spencer children talked.
‘Whatever are those?’ asked Mary Ann, as assorted wooden rectangles were propped beside the ram’s cage.
‘Frames for windows and doors,’ said Edward, panting as he started out again for the jolly boat. ‘And there are doors and glass to go in them, and tiles and slates and—’
‘And even the carriage,’ put in Hugh, sitting down for a moment beside Mary Ann, ‘though that, thank goodness, won’t arrive till the Captain Stirling puts in and it’ll be of no use at all here. There are no roads anywhere.’
‘There are certain to be better roads over the ridge at Albany-town,’ said Mary Ann.
Hugh looked discomforted. ‘There’s something I must tell you.’ He paused. ‘There is no other town here, only those mean dwellings we saw from the Buffalo.’
‘What? That rough little settlement is surely not Albany?’
‘I’m afraid it is.’
‘But … there must be some mistake. Papa has brought us here for our betterment. You’ve heard him say so many times in Lyme.’
‘Whatever he may have said in Lyme, I’m as sure as I’m sitting here that this is all Albany consists of. There are only twenty-seven inhabitants, just nine meagre houses, a barracks and a miserable little gaol. When Captain Sadler went to seek provisions for the Buffalo, he found the people so improvident he could get nothing but water. It seems they were in hopes of our ship being able to supply them.’
‘But what are we to do? Where will we sleep?’
‘Mama is to be housed with the garrison commander’s wife, but for tonight and I suppose for some time,’ said Hugh, ‘the rest of us are to sleep in tents pitched near the barracks.’
‘In tents?’
‘Papa has borrowed them from the garrison commander.’
Our tents stood together a little further down the beach from the soldiers’ quarters, and we were permitted to make use of the barracks’ foul-smelling earth closet. We were obliged to crawl into the tents through a flap of material. ‘Look at our beds,’ said Lucy. ‘Merely coverlets laid on sand. I shan’t be able to sleep a wink.’
‘Nor I,’ I said, loyally.
We woke in the morning to dazzling sunlight and the buffeting of the tent in the wind. As we struggled outside, Uncle, Hugh and Edward appeared, mounted on a horse and two mules also borrowed from the garrison commander. Poor Thunder, too weak to be ridden, had been temporarily quartered in the garrison stables.
‘We rode out early to Strawberry Hill to examine the premises,’ said Uncle.
‘It’s a very pretty name,’ said Gussie, carefully. ‘Is it a … pretty house?’
Uncle said nothing, but Hugh answered for him. ‘It is no house whatever,’ he said. ‘Just a small wattle and daub cottage, ramshackle and sagging in every direction, with two small shacks nearby in similar condition. The servants and the men from the Buffalo will help us shore up the main dwelling immediately and then we’ll see to the others.’
‘So it’s very fortunate,’ said Uncle, ‘that I had the foresight to bring timber and roofing from Lyme.’
‘But very unfortunate,’ said Lucy, ‘that you didn’t have the foresight to ascertain the condition of our new home.’
I had only once before seen Uncle in one of his worst rages. Now he snatched up his riding-whip and advanced towards Lucy, shouting incoherently, the damaged half of his forehead glowing scarlet. Hugh and Gussie rushed to either side of him, clutching his arms in an attempt to restrain him.
To my astonishment, Lucy remained where she stood, staring boldly at him. ‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘Whip me. I’ve spoken nothing but the truth. If the truth is an offence, then punish me. I’m suffering enough already. What is a little more pain to me?’
Gussie knelt on the sand and c
lasped her arms around her father’s knees. ‘I beg you, Papa, leave Lucy alone. What will poor Mama say if she knows you’ve whipped her? Please, Papa.’
‘Get up, Gussie,’ said Lucy. ‘If my father wishes to flog me like a common Jack Tar, so be it.’
She held her father’s gaze.
Uncle faltered, stopped and threw down the crop. ‘Hugh, Edward,’ he shouted, ‘we must begin work at once. I’ve no time to waste on an impudent girl. Come.’ And he sprang onto his borrowed horse.
Lucy bent down and picked up his whip. ‘You will need this, I think.’
Snatching it, Uncle brandished it at her, but in a half-hearted manner, then he circled his horse and the three of them rode away.
Gussie sighed. ‘Stop it, Lucy, or we’ll be in even worse straits. For the rest of today, I implore you to stay out of Papa’s way.’
It was five days before we children saw our new home. We set off on foot in procession along the dusty track from Albany and after an hour arrived at Strawberry Hill. On a plateau beside a river, halfway up the slope of a squat outcrop, sat a low four-room cottage with a steep roof of thatch.
‘It’s so small,’ whispered Gussie.
We peered through the windows at the cramped rooms; there was no elegant drawing room, no parlour. Attached to the back wall was a tiny scullery and beside it a rudimentary outdoor kitchen, open entirely to the elements. Pitched by the back door, a large tent served as a dining-room, incongruously housing Aunt’s walnut table and chairs, and her handsome sideboard. Since one room had to be used to store Uncle’s building materials, only three rooms were left for our habitation. The biggest, at the back, was Aunt’s; one front room would hold us four girls, two to a bed, the other the younger boys. A small hut, at some distance from the cottage, was the women servants’ quarters and a larger cabin housed the men.
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