‘Your supper is in the study,’ she declared, without raising her head. ‘You will be sleeping there also, until you apologise for your conduct and undertake to improve it. I fear for your sisters’ morals, otherwise.’
This was slightly better than I had anticipated. My fear had been that she would box my ears as soon as I had crossed the threshold.
‘Why should I apologise?’ was my defiant retort. ‘I have done nothing wrong. If you hadn’t been so unreasonable, I would not have been forced to lie.’
‘This is my house.’ Mama closed her book with a snap. She looked up, her eyes hard. ‘If you do not abide by its rules, then you are not welcome in it.’
‘Your house!’ The bitter words bubbled out of me like mud from a hot spring. ‘This is not your house! You have no house! You would have nothing at all if it weren’t for me and the others! You are living on our money, Mama!’
Her nostrils flared. She turned pale with anger.
‘How dare you!’ she spat. ‘How dare you speak to me like that, you wicked, brazen girl!’
‘Brazen? You call me brazen?’
‘You go off on the most improper excursion, with men to whom you haven’t even been introduced—’
‘At least there were ladies present! At least I was chaperoned! Which is more than I can say for you, when you rode off alone with your overseer—’
I was interrupted, dodging her book as it sailed through the air.
‘Get out!’ she yelled. ‘Shameless, unnatural girl!’
‘You are the shameless one! Would we be here today, if it weren’t for you?’
‘Get out!’
‘You can’t tell me what to do!’ As she rushed towards me, I shrieked: ‘If you touch me, I shall tell the Master in Equity! And he will take me away! He will take us all away, and you will have no money to live on!’
What an obnoxious child I was, to be sure. And yet I was quite correct. At that particular time, my siblings and I were effectively wards of the Court, since our inheritance was still under its control. This meant that my mother was obliged to tread with great care.
Knowing this, I could defy her almost with impunity—once I had a mind to. Once I had a reason to. And in William Cummings, I found that reason.
After I met William Cummings, Mama could do absolutely nothing with me.
She tried, of course. She refused to take me on various excursions into town, and was terribly stingy with her Christmas presents. Whenever James, Emily or Louisa spoke to me, they incurred my mother’s grave disapproval. I was no longer requested to read aloud, nor to join in the merry parlour games with which we occasionally occupied ourselves.
In return, I was rude and disagreeable. I wrote screeds of abuse in my daily journal, which I left about quite openly in the hope that she might read it. I broke into her writing desk, and examined many of the documents hidden there. I ignored her stated wishes at every opportunity, especially where Fanny Rickards was concerned. In fact, I began to spend more time at Fanny’s house than I did at home.
You will understand why, I am sure. It was not for Fanny’s sake but for William’s. I was keen to hear news of him; even keener to see him. At first I was reluctant to confide in Fanny, thinking her far too stupid to be trusted with a confidence. I simply angled for information as best I could. As the days passed, however, I found that I could no longer restrain myself. It was nearing Christmas, and I had to know: would Mr Cummings be attending the Christmas service at St James or not?
Though Fanny was generally stupid, she could be very quick when it came to matters of the heart. One glancing, all-too-casual reference to Mr William Cummings was enough to alert her. From that moment on, we talked of almost nothing else—except her own unrequited passion for a military officer by the name of Wren. It was Fanny who pressed her brother Thomas for tidings of his friend at Liverpool, and subsequently conveyed them to me. It was Fanny who arranged that Mr Cummings and his family should join her own clan at the Christmas service. It was Fanny who, by means of much shrill manoeuvring, managed to effect an introduction between Mr Cummings and my mother on the steps of St James. Trapped by the crowds, my mother was unable to avoid this unwelcome meeting. And having been properly introduced to him, she found it difficult to justify her unfriendliness towards Mr Cummings thereafter.
Difficult, but not impossible.
‘If he decides to call,’ she announced, ‘I shall not receive him. You may do as you wish, Charlotte—you always have—but he will receive no such condescension from me, I warn you. For he deals in liquor, and I regard that as a disgraceful occupation.’
‘Even though you freely chose to marry a drunkard?’
My mother stood up, and made as if to leave the drawing room. Conscious that she could not afford to lose her temper with me, she had taken to removing herself from my vicinity whenever I attacked her.
‘Would marrying a wine merchant be more disgraceful than marrying a notorious drunkard?’ I asked. ‘Why did you marry a notorious drunkard, Mama?’
‘Oh, for—’ James, who was also in the room, rose abruptly, throwing down his pen. ‘Must you do this?’ he snapped at me. ‘Must you ruin everything, always?’
‘I?’
‘There’s never any peace for anyone, thanks to you!’
‘Thanks to me? When was there ever any peace since she married George Barton?’
‘Do not speak to her, James,’ my mother said. ‘She is unreasonable. She chooses to torment us—it gives her pleasure. Do not indulge her by paying any attention.’
‘Why did you marry George Barton, Mama?’
For perhaps the twentieth time, I put this question to her. And for perhaps the twentieth time, she refused to answer it. Instead, she walked out of the room, with James at her heels.
I daresay that you could have called me the victor, though it was an empty victory. In truth, I derived little satisfaction from my role as Black Sheep, which left me bereft and isolated. Yet I could not control myself. Something bitter in my heart drove me to snap and growl at my mother like an untrained dog. And the more I did so, the more I had to complain of. For she still possessed some resources, despite her advanced age. She still had it in her to make my life miserable, though her choices were limited by her fear of the Master in Equity. Only consider the estrangement that slowly opened up between me and my siblings. That was largely my mother’s doing—and it happened around this time.
My only comfort lay in William Cummings. After paying a brief call after Christmas, he returned to Liverpool, where he took to writing me letters. Though they were brief and ill-composed, I treasured these scraps of paper. I used to carry them with me everywhere, tucked into my bodice. There were five of them all told, and one was an invitation to view the regatta that was held every January, on Sydney Harbour, to commemorate the colony’s birth. Mr Cummings had never missed a regatta in his life. And he would be honoured, he wrote, if he could perchance watch this one in my company.
You may be wondering why I was permitted to receive such correspondence. Why, you might ask, had my mother not hidden it from me? The answer is that she knew nothing of it. Mr William Cummings, being well aware of her opinions, sent all his letters to me via Fanny Rickards. You may regard this as an underhanded ploy, and you would be right. It was. But I had no reservations—not with Fanny there, urging me to indulge my wayward nature. And the more recklessly I behaved, the more William Cummings seemed to appreciate my worth.
He had his own reckless streak, though not (as you will see) to the detriment of his comfort.
I find it hard to describe him more fully after so many years. At the time, I thought him a ray of sunlight. And I was not far wrong, because he was a merry soul, with no taste for introspection, for heavy reading, or for company of a melancholic bent. He was a good rider with a pleasant singing voice. He mixed with a great many sailors and shipping agents, and though he himself had never ‘turned a blue jacket’ (that is, gone to sea), he was knowledgeable on
the subject of lading, customs, tonnage, and all kinds of associated business. In Liverpool he must have lived the rackety existence of a single man pursuing a trade that, while not exactly disreputable, would have caused him to mix with some disreputable characters. But he was always well groomed, and had never fallen foul of the police. Indeed, he seemed to be generally respected among the mercantile fraternity—though whether this was on account of his own talents, or whether it was owing to his father’s good reputation, I have no way of knowing.
I think that he must have had a canny side to him, for all that it was not immediately evident. To deal in spirits is to run the perpetual risk of becoming a sot, yet William Cummings never made that error. Though apparently insouciant by nature, and much given to attending horse races and card games, he was neither a gambler nor an habitual drunkard. I wonder now if his social activities were not somehow connected with his business—for a dealer in spirits must perforce make himself generally agreeable if he is to move his wares. Not that his happy demeanour was in any way contrived. I am quite sure of that. There can be no doubt, however, that commercial imperatives combined very profitably with his natural inclinations to make his life as cheerful and prosperous as one could reasonably expect, at such a young age.
If I met him now, I should probably think him just a fraction too pleased with himself. His breeziness might appear a little bumptious, his perpetual good humour a sign of emotional vacuity. But at the time I thought him so wonderful that his self-confidence seemed entirely well founded. He was my sun, moon and stars. To me, he was invested with a kind of glow, as if he carried in his hair and on his skin the vestiges of that golden afternoon at Bondi Bay, when I had glimpsed a form of existence utterly removed from my own: a life unconcerned with fear, or doubt, or mistakes of the past; a life in which the intricacies of natural existence came a poor second to the simple enjoyment of a race on the beach.
What William Cummings saw in me I cannot begin to comprehend. A pretty young girl, I suppose, in quite the fashionable style: dark-eyed, dark-haired and well-rounded, though rather too tall and brown. But there were many pretty young girls about, so I was hardly unique in that. Perhaps my attraction lay in the ambiguity of my status. Though well bred, I was not, on closer acquaintance, quite as well bred as I at first appeared to be. And though my origins were respectable, my nature was a little wild. The combination might have struck William Cummings as piquant and exotic.
So we arranged to meet at the regatta. I would lose myself in the crowds, and meet him in front of the Commissariat Buildings. He would then return home with me in the guise of my preserver. It would not be the most convincing story, but it could hardly be disproved. And by what other means could we possibly come together? Our mutual admiration was such that we were determined to take any risk, regardless of the consequences. Therefore, on the twenty-seventh of January, I set out to make my rendezvous.
At first, my mother had been disinclined to take me with her to watch the regatta. She remarked that I deserved no such indulgence, and should rightly remain at home, mending my worsted stockings. But when I replied that I would go alone if need be, she relented. Perhaps she was concerned about my safety. Or perhaps she was afraid that, if I was discovered wandering around the dockyards unattended, her reputation might suffer even further.
She therefore allowed me to join the family party.
Respectable people used to watch the anniversary regatta from certain specific locations. Many of the highest rank were afforded a first-rate view from aboard the flagship—in this instance, the General Hewitt. Others positioned themselves on private landings, or atop balustraded roof-walks. My mother’s choice had always been a spot on the slope near Government House. It was a high, breezy, uncluttered vantage point, far from the noise and hilarity of the dockyards, and I knew that, once there, I would have no chance at all of slipping away. I would have to make my escape either before or after the event, as we squirmed through the milling crowds. My choice was therefore a difficult one. If accomplished before the races, my retreat would ruin Mama’s enjoyment of them. But if I had to wait until afterwards, I would forsake my own pleasure, and perhaps annoy Mr Cummings. How could I be sure that he would wait for me at the Commissariat Stores for the entire length of the festivities? No—the plan had to be carried out as soon as practicable. When I was passing through Macquarie Place, perhaps.
As it happened, my withdrawal was effected quite easily. There was such a mob of people pouring down Bridge Street that I had only to duck behind the high fence of the Colonial Secretary’s House, and I was free and clear. Then I used an overloaded dray as a kind of screen or shield, walking close beside it until I had crossed the Tank Stream. From there, it was a sharp right at George Street, and due north to the Commissariat Stores.
I can still remember my heightened state of fear and elation. On the one hand, I felt guilty, for I knew that my mother would be terribly concerned. On the other hand, I saw my entire escapade as a huge adventure. Never before had I walked the streets of Sydney alone and unaccompanied. Never before had I explored this particular part of the city, which my mother regarded as unsuitable territory for a well-bred girl. In the locality known as the Rocks, it was not unusual to encounter vice in all its forms—or so I had been told. The proximity of the gaol and the Naval Yards meant that the Rocks attracted many hotel-keepers, loose women, and dubious characters of every type. So you can imagine my nervousness as I struggled past the dilapidated brick edifice known as Underwood’s, being buffeted on all sides by loud-voiced people smelling of drink.
Though not especially beautiful, the north end of George Street was interesting. Lanes sloped down to the water, pinched between the high walls of dusty-looking warehouses. Bristling masts were visible above the sagging roofs of shipping offices and marine dealers’ stores, and oily water could sometimes be glimpsed lapping at barnacled piers. The streets smelled of tar and coal, rope and rusty iron, salt and slops. They rang with the rattle of dray wheels and the whistle of draymen, many of whom were that day carrying human loads, all wedged together in hilarious confusion. Sailors bawled their shanties from pub doors as dirty children scurried about like rats among the scraps of rotten onion and orange peel. The mood at the docks was ferociously cheerful, with a pipe being played somewhere, and men chanting for victory.
I enjoyed it all, make no mistake. I could hardly do otherwise, since it was a rare spectacle. But I was relieved when I came upon Mr Cummings outside the Commissariat Stores. And I clung to him in a manner that he must have found gratifying.
He had donned a navy-blue coat, in honour of the occasion. He also wore ribbons in his hat. They had been placed there in support of a crew manning one of the third-class sailing boats, whose owner was a friend of his. If it won its race, he would feel obliged to donate a bottle of rum to each of the crew members. ‘So while I pretend to wish them well, in my heart I hope that they run their boat into Pinchgut,’ he confessed with a laugh. ‘I tell you, Anniversary Day may be good for business, with everyone toasting the Queen, but I lose almost all my profit because I am such a faithful friend to so many of the competitors!’
This was no idle boast. As the day progressed, I witnessed innumerable encounters between Mr Cummings and various watermen who demanded that he wish them luck on account of some upcoming race. We viewed the course from various angles, and there was always some skiff manned by a friend or acquaintance of Mr Cummings. This fact alone made the occasion more enjoyable for me, since I had never before felt any proprietary interest in the vessels competing. But had the entire event been a complete disaster, with the General Hewitt sinking and every small craft being dashed against the overburdened wharves, I would still have been delighted. Because in the company of Mr William Cummings, the whole world seemed gay and gorgeous.
I shall not describe our activities at any length. We went from wharf to wharf, and cheered lustily, and ate prawns and peaches, and drank ginger beer, and waved handkerchiefs, and gi
ggled over mishaps (such as a capsized rowboat), and gave ourselves over entirely to feverish enjoyment. There were moments when I forgot my name, my family, my very self. I seemed to be engulfed by the crowd; I laughed when it laughed, groaned when it groaned. Invested with its overbearing confidence, I became bold, screaming like a common rag-tacker and disregarding every lesson that I had ever learned on the deportment of a lady. Why, I even kissed a sailor! At least, I allowed him to kiss me. For he had just won his heat, and was in a perfect delirium of joy, bussing me on the cheek before I could protest.
During all these proceedings, my swain stayed close to my side. He kept up a running commentary that amused me no end, joking about the prizes, the officials, the Army Band and the poor foreign sailors who had been roped into competing without the least idea, I am quite sure, of what was going on. Yet for all his careless good humour, he made sure that I was neither jostled nor over-heated; that I always had a seat when I needed one; that I was never thirsty nor hungry. Moreover, he insisted that we leave before the final race. ‘Because it is getting late,’ he said, ‘and I do not want you caught in the crush, when everyone else decides to depart.’ He was—I still contest—a perfect gentleman. And by the time he handed me into the Darlinghurst omnibus, I was utterly enraptured.
‘I wonder if Mama is home yet?’ I mused, as we sat together, blind to the people around us. ‘She will be very angry with me.’
‘You need not be afraid,’ was Mr Cummings’s doting reply. ‘I shall be there to protect you. With my pocket-knife, if necessary.’
‘If she casts me out of the house, what shall I do? My uncle will not take me in—why, I don’t even know where he is!’
‘Have no fear,’ said Mr Cummings. ‘I will not let any ill befall you.’
How young we were! I suppose that it seems laughable, now, but I felt like Juliet. It never occurred to me that a talent for enjoying oneself was hardly the bedrock for a successful union, or that Mr Cummings was not necessarily the man with whom I was destined to find eternal happiness. As we drew closer and closer to my family’s house, I became more and more convinced that I should die without him. For had he not agreed to accompany me directly into the Lion’s Den?
The Dark Mountain Page 32