The Dark Mountain

by Catherine Jinks

  She was cut down like a flower in the midst of her days. Yet her soul resides where there is no more loss, and she lives always, a bright and cherished ghost, in the dark corners of my memory.

  Twenty-seven

  1844

  I was fifteen years old when I first met William Cummings.

  It was high summer, and I was feeling ill-used. One always does at that age. Nevertheless, I had more cause than many to lament my circumstances, which were hardly ideal. Not that they were unbearable. I was not starved, nor imprisoned, nor otherwise mistreated. But I had been raised in a certain fashion, and was now expected to pursue an entirely different style of existence.

  To begin with, I was cramped. We were all cramped. Having once enjoyed unlimited space amidst the wide rooms and airy meadows of Oldbury, we had never truly become accustomed to the narrow confines of our little house, nor to the crowded shops and omnibus rides that were our experience of town life. As we grew older, the constraints imposed on us grew even more irksome. Had we been rich, with a mansion like Rockwall or Elizabeth Bay House, we would not have suffered so much. Had we been permitted to roam freely around the harbour, we might have resigned ourselves to other limitations. But thanks to my mother’s wishes—and to the demands of polite society—we were perpetually circumscribed, and baulked at every turn.

  Our funds were low. In 1843, my mother’s income was reduced from 350 to 215 pounds per annum, as a consequence of the ailing condition of my father’s estate. So we could not afford the kind of amusements available to others. There were no music or language lessons; no lavish dinners; no visits to the theatre or to Manchester warehouses. Our clothes were made at home: my sisters and I seemed to spend most of our time hemming and frocking. Nor had we the money to buy books. Instead we borrowed them. But my mother’s one-pound subscription to the Commercial Reading Rooms was hardly adequate to supply the entire family with new titles, especially since the range of works on offer was limited. Unfortunately, our choice of libraries was also limited. The Australian Subscription Library and Reading Room, which charged three pounds a year for a wider selection of volumes, was quite beyond our reach.

  We went to a great many sermons. When good, they were always unbearably crowded. When bad, they were tedious. We went to free lectures at the School of Arts, the Commercial Reading Rooms, and the Colonial Depositary of the Bible and Religious Tract Society. In all these places we sat crushed together, under a pall of heat, listening to endless disquisitions on the evils of drink or slavery. Sometimes we were fortunate: once we heard Mr Michie lecture on phrenology, and on another occasion Mr Marsh gave us his views on music. But for the most part we were not much enlightened, and frequently bored.

  There were picnics, of course, as well as the odd boat trip. Sydney Harbour was a cornucopia of natural wonders in those days; we often enjoyed exploring tidal pools, nesting sites and heavily wooded bays. After a time, however, even these delights began to pall—largely because we had no one with whom to share them. We were so very isolated, you see. Our modest style of living, my mother’s notoriety, and the strain brought about by our endless legal problems combined to prevent us from enjoying much in the way of social intercourse. Where once we might have moved in the most superior circles, my father’s death—and my mother’s remarriage—had put paid to any ambitions of that kind. And though I, personally, would not have objected to visiting a few of the more humble drawing rooms scattered around Sydney, my mother would not allow it.

  She turned up her nose at the types of acquaintance available to us in town. Perhaps it was the result of her own pride, since the rich tradesmen of Sydney (unlike the poor convicts of Oldbury) would have felt themselves superior to us—and shown it, too. Or perhaps she objected not so much to the low origins of the newly rich, but to their defiant lack of education. She deplored them in the way she deplored traditional Ladies’ Academies. Because in each case a kind of shallow and frivolous façade was preferred over sound, solid learning.

  ‘There is so little true education hereabouts,’ Mama would complain, after yet another insipid tea-time discussion about imported lace, or the price of beef. ‘These people are so trivial in their interests! They will spend hours talking about the position of the pulpit at St James, and never once make reference to the content of a sermon preached there.’

  She also condemned the ‘coarse mode of expression’ adopted by so many metropolitan ladies. I do think, however, that their speech irritated her less than the way they employed it, for they were very much given to bantering with the opposite sex—and not on elevated subjects, either. Sydney drawing rooms were awash with jokes about regattas, and horse-racing, and which country-bred gentleman had been seen at the Pulteney Hotel with an actress from the Theatre Royal. This kind of talk repelled my mother. For all her frankness, she had never been fond of prurient or vacuous discussion. She spoke her mind on subjects that were either far more lofty or far more simple; in her opinion, it was ill-bred to converse at length about a young lady whose shoes had been washed out to sea during a rockpool ramble, and who had been forced to parade her naked feet past any number of gentleman in consequence.

  ‘Male and female created He them,’ she would say. ‘And if He created them differently, that is no reason to spend half an hour twitting some poor fellow about the growth of his beard, or his sister about the re-arrangement of her hair. It is not only ill-mannered— it is boring.’

  That was my mother’s opinion. But I did not share it. On the contrary, I was very much excited by the vibrant exchanges that I sometimes witnessed. They would occur in the street, or in a public park, or perhaps even in a shop; a group of ladies would encounter a group of gentlemen, and there would be a flurry of teasing remarks, and the air would seem to glitter all about them. This was particularly the case where military gentlemen were concerned, for they were always the boldest. I once heard a red-coated officer remark to a lady in spotted muslin: ‘Shall I tell the mess table tomorrow that you want to be a soldier’s bride?’

  How it thrilled me!

  You may wonder why it did not thrill Mama. After all, she was a spirited woman, careless of her appearance and—it seemed to me—of her reputation. Had she not been, we would not have been so impoverished, nor so widely shunned by our peers. Yet she would sniff, then turn away. She would mutter disapprovingly about ‘colonial manners’, when her own had turned most of the Sutton Forest gentry against her. I suppose, looking back, that her manners were of another era, for all that they had caused such offence in her youth. By 1844 she was almost fifty years old, though she did not look it. She was accustomed to a far more restrained demeanour. Furthermore, her outspokenness had never been of a flirtatious or mischievous cast. She abhorred frivolity, superficiality, and domestic incompetence, believing that ladies should be strong-minded, efficient, knowledgeable and devout.

  ‘These girls who fritter away their valuable time dancing, and shopping, and making love to officers, are of no use whatsoever, in heaven or on earth,’ she once declared, as we marched down George Street. ‘I have no patience with such creatures, and can only comfort myself with the certainty that they will not attract good, respectable men, but trivial and capricious rogues who will make unreliable husbands.’

  You can imagine my own thoughts as I listened to this. Unreliable husbands! I sneered and said: ‘One need not be a giddy girl to marry an unreliable husband, Mama. One can be the mistress of a large estate, and the mother of four children.’

  We had just passed a jolly cluster of currency youth, both male and female; my mother, greatly annoyed at having been forced off the footpath onto the road, had announced her opinion of them in a voice that was not quite low enough. Yet she flashed me a furious glance when I spoke frankly.

  ‘Really, Charlotte!’ she hissed. ‘We are on a public thoroughfare! Have you no sense of decorum?’

  I wanted to ask: ‘Have you?’ For I was growing tired of my mother. On the one hand, she had undermined my prospec
ts with her foolish marriage. On the other hand, she would not allow me to explore those ranks of society now open to us. More and more, I viewed her as hypocritical. More and more, I found the courage to speak my mind.

  ‘A sense of decorum must be learned from example,’ I rejoined tartly. ‘You have said so yourself.’ It was a veiled insult, but not too oblique for my mother. She caught her breath, and her face went red.

  When we turned into the Post Office, she was trembling with anger.

  ‘Oh, Charlotte,’ Emily whispered, as the postmaster attended to my mother’s wishes. ‘She will take away your books again. You will not be able to finish Bewick’s Book of Birds.’

  ‘I don’t care. What good is that book to me? We see no European birds here.’

  ‘And she will not buy you a lollipop,’ James added, at which I gave a most unladylike snort. Lollipops were practically the reason for his existence, at that time, but I had passed beyond the concerns of childhood. And as if to demonstrate this fact, I was suddenly hailed by a familiar female voice.

  It belonged to one of my school-friends, Fanny Rickards.

  ‘Why, Charlotte! How are you?’ she exclaimed.

  Fanny was the daughter of a well-off auctioneer. Having recently turned sixteen, she had left Mr Rennie’s school; I had no idea how she was occupying herself, though she had always been partial to male company. I liked her, I must confess. She was so friendly that one could hardly dislike her, for all that she was somewhat dull-witted. Her pretty face, cheerful manner and generous nature appealed to me. So did the fact that she regarded me with a kind of awe.

  Not being a scholar herself, she thought me quite brilliant. Truth to tell, she viewed my whole family as staggeringly accomplished, and did not make the mistake (common to Sydney society) of valuing wealth above good breeding. It did not matter to Fanny that I wore the same clothes year after year, and trimmed my own hats. She would sing my praises regardless, wishing that she were half so talented. Upon leaving Mr Rennie’s school, she had presented me with an exquisite silver pencil-case, instead of the modest articles of clothing that she had distributed among her other class-mates. ‘Because you are so clever,’ she explained, ‘and have a mind above kid gloves.’

  I was obliged to relinquish that pencil-case in later years. But I remember it still, just as I remember the way her face lit up in the Post Office.

  ‘It is so long since we met!’ she trilled, and introduced me to her companions: her mother (the faded daughter of a provincial English clergyman), her elder brother Thomas, her younger sister Blanche, and her brother’s good friend Mr William Cummings, who was visiting from Liverpool. Mr Cummings was a fair young man of about twenty-five, very neatly and fashionably dressed in a velvet coat and Bedford cords. I was immediately struck by his sunny smile. And I wished that I had been wearing something other than my chocolate muslin, which was a hideous shade, though my mother considered it ‘practical’.

  ‘Where is Mrs Barton? Oh! There she is,’ said Fanny, who had met my mother before. ‘Thomas, these are the Miss Atkinsons, who are so prodigious clever, and their brother James, who takes out all the prizes at College High School year after year. Mama, you remember Miss Atkinson, do you not?’

  Various pleasantries were exchanged, none of them particularly memorable. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my mother hurrying to complete her business. She kept glancing over to our group, her brow furrowed with concern.

  Though acknowledging Fanny’s charm, she had never thought much of the Rickards family. In her view, they were a commonplace breed of dolts, with absolutely nothing to offer.

  ‘You must join us tomorrow!’ Fanny insisted. ‘For we are taking a picnic to Bondi Bay, with the Cartwrights and the Kellys and—oh! Lots of amusing people. You must come, Charlotte, for we can pick you up on the way. There will be at least two dogcarts, and the Dettmans’ carriage.’

  ‘And the men will be riding,’ her brother added.

  ‘Yes, indeed—plenty of room! And Mama will be present to supervise, will you not, Mama? With Mrs Cartwright. Please come, it will be so much fun, and you can tell us all about the marine life! For Miss Atkinson is a very learned naturalist,’ Fanny remarked to Mr Cummings, ‘and knows everything there is to know about native fauna.’

  ‘I should be happy to join you,’ was my bold response, to Emily’s evident alarm. ‘When are you planning to set off?’

  This was too practical a question for Fanny to answer. She turned to her brother, who suggested that the picnic party would pass through Darlinghurst at approximately ten o’clock, on its way to Bondi Bay. I was reciting my address to him when my mother joined us, busily stuffing something into her reticule. She greeted Fanny with a very guarded smile.

  ‘Yes, of course. Miss Rickards. I have not forgot you,’ she murmured, a distinct lack of warmth in her tone. ‘How do you do, Mrs Rickards? You will forgive me, but we must fly. There are one or two things that have to be done, and I do not want to miss the omnibus. Good afternoon. So nice to have met.’

  As she hustled me away, I glanced back over my shoulder to smile an apology. I was concerned that Fanny’s feelings should not be ruffled, but she was already chatting excitedly to her younger sister. It was Mr Cummings who caught my eye.

  Whereupon he wagged his index finger in mock severity, and grinned.

  ‘Anyone would think they were attending a ball,’ my mother remarked, on our way to Market Street. ‘All that white silk and lace—so very unsuitable. Mrs Rickards should know better than to overdress her daughters in such a fashion. They look as if they have no background at all . . .’

  I let her ramble on unheeded, too startled to defend the Rickards against her sour sniping. With one broad grin, Mr Cummings had created a forceful and lasting impression. He had sympathised. That much was clear. By some means he had grasped my situation, and clearly conveyed the depth of his insight.

  I pondered his intentions all the way home, blind to Emily’s nervous glances, deaf to my mother’s complaints. At last we arrived at our front gate, more hot and dusty and tired than you would have thought possible. My mother’s first instinct was to lie down in her room with the curtains drawn. My own was to prepare some lemonade. As I served it up to my siblings, Emily blurted out: ‘Will you not tell her, Charlotte? About tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course I shall,’ was my response. ‘When I’m ready to do so.’

  ‘She will never allow it,’ my brother opined, and I turned on him fiercely.

  ‘Yes, she will!’ I retorted. ‘As long as you all keep your mouths shut, I’ll manage it somehow.’

  ‘You’re not going to sneak out, are you?’ Louisa wanted to know. She was a canny soul, and I have to admit that the thought had crossed my mind. Sneaking out seemed to be my only chance of success. But it could hardly be done if my mother was at home, for the arrival of two laden dogcarts and a carriage on our doorstep would surely attract her attention. If she went shopping, or visiting, the thing could easily be managed. I could plead a headache and stay behind. Unfortunately, however, we had no firm engagements planned for the next day.

  I decided that I would pin my faith on any chance excursion that might take Mama from our house the following morning. And if she decided to stay in, then I would inform her of my plans at the last possible moment. By this means, I would prevent her from sending a note to the Rickards, excusing me from the expedition.

  And what else could she do, after all? Grapple me to the ground in front of all those strangers? Embroil herself in a screaming public argument? For she could not expect me to submit quietly. I would fight her tooth and claw.

  I had learned how, thanks to her own example.

  ‘You must not say a word about this,’ I instructed my siblings. ‘Not one word, do you hear? Or I’ll scratch your eyes out.’ As I fixed each of them with a baleful glare, I added: ‘It will be better for you all if you stay mum. You can pretend that you knew nothing about it.’

  ‘Oh, but Charlotte,�
�� Emily whimpered, ‘you know how I hate to lie . . . ’

  ‘You won’t be lying!’ I snapped. ‘You won’t have to open your mouth!’

  ‘She will ask us, though,’ Louisa pointed out. ‘After you have gone, she will ask us if we knew. And she will punish us, Charlotte.’

  Louisa was right. Unless we all went, someone would bear the brunt of my mother’s fury. And I did not want to be unfair.

  ‘Very well,’ I said slowly, after a moment’s careful thought.

  ‘I shan’t go.’

  ‘What?’ said James.

  ‘I shan’t go. If they come for me, I’ll tell them that I feel unwell, and cannot go with them.’

  ‘Truly?’ said Louisa.

  ‘Truly,’ I declared. ‘But they probably won’t come. Why should they? I hope they stay away, in fact, or Mama will be cross with me. You won’t say anything, will you? For if they do not come, Mama need never know a thing, and we can all be comfortable.’ I looked around the table. ‘What do you think? Is that a good plan?’

  Emily thought so, as did James. Louisa nodded, but there was a speculative glint in her eye. I am quite convinced that she had her suspicions—though she did not express them. Even at the age of ten, she missed very little.

  I do not believe that she was much surprised when I joined Fanny’s picnic party the following day.

  Twenty-eight

  The picnic party arrived at half past ten. I had placed myself in the study, which (as you may recall) was reached from the front veranda. Therefore I had a better view of Macleay Street than anyone else in the house.

  When it was time to go I simply laid down my pen, put on my bonnet, and went out to meet the first dogcart.

  I had planned everything carefully. Upon discovering that my mother was too exhausted by the previous afternoon’s excursion to attempt anything similar that morning, I took possession of the study at a quarter to ten. My excuse was my journal. I told Mama that Louisa’s coughs were a terrible distraction—that I found it difficult to concentrate, what with the heat, and the coughs, and Betsy’s warbling. Though not a bad soul in many ways, our housemaid Betsy was an incorrigible singer, with a very poor voice. When occupied, she would frequently burst into song. And though we might remonstrate, nothing came of our efforts. She continued to crow and howl from a sheer vacancy of mind. One might as well have asked her to stop breathing.