The Dark Mountain
Page 39
Later, in bed, I formed no coherent plan for the future. I did not think: ‘He is a poor prospect, and therefore must be avoided at all costs.’ Nor did I decide that I would defy the world, marry for love, and stand fast against the consequences. I simply indulged myself in filmy, romantic dreams, or chewed on my nails when my dreams became contaminated with more disquieting elements. In my defence, let me say that I did make one resolution. I resolved that I would inquire about Thomas McNeilly, without, at the same time, revealing myself hopelessly smitten.
This was more easily said than done. To begin with, it meant that I could not betray myself with leading questions. I had to be oblique, and careful. I had to find a legitimate excuse for placing myself in the kitchen, where the servants tended to congregate and where confidences were often exchanged. Though the state of my ankle did not allow me to stand, I was by then capable of shelling peas, chopping vegetables and kneading pastry. This I did, in the manner of a humble penitent; my mother, I think, was cheered to see me so eagerly playing the role of domestic handmaid. Her icy mien thawed considerably at this time. No doubt she believed that I was trying to atone for my sin.
Alas, however, my industry was entirely self-serving. I listened intently as Sarah gossiped with Mary Ann, and Richard reminisced to Sarah, and Thomas made inquiries of Richard. Thomas ate in the kitchen, and would wander in and out occasionally in search of goose-grease, or twine, or some other necessity. I knew this, and was prepared for it. I did not blush the first time he sauntered in, doffing his hat and running his hand through his hair. He had come to collect his boiled barley, which he sometimes gave to the horses as a restorative. Having cheerfully greeted Sarah, he crossed the floor towards the stove before catching sight of me.
Then he hesitated.
‘’Mornin’, Miss,’ he said at last.
‘Good morning.’ Desperately I racked my brain for something to add, without success.
‘I hope yer foot’s improved?’ he continued, in a stilted and formal fashion.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Shameful as it is to admit, my very bowels yearned. As he peered into the bubbling pot, I had to drag my gaze from his lean and graceful form, lest my eyes betray me. ‘This not done yet?’ he asked Sarah, who was banging her pots around with irritable emphasis.
‘You tell me,’ she snapped. ‘I ain’t no horse-doctor.’
‘Ten more minutes,’ he judged, stepping away from the stove. ‘What’s for dinner, then?’
‘Half a pound o’ nothing, if you don’t leave me be!’ Sarah responded. Thomas caught my eye, and seemed to rally a little. ‘Ye mustn’t be a skivvy to ’er, Miss, for she’ll take advantage,’ he said, with a half-smile. Whereupon Sarah shook her ladle at him.
‘That I will not!’ she exclaimed. ‘What are you doin’, I should like to know, that you can spend your day roamin’ in and out o’ my kitchen?’
‘Why, Mrs Prince, I cannot keep away from ye,’ said Thomas, blithely. I had the impression that he was accustomed to teasing her in this suggestive way, and had let drop the remark without thinking. For he then recalled that I was present, and glanced at me, and looked confused. ‘Aye . . . well,’ he muttered, donning his hat. ‘Good day t’ye, Miss.’
I nodded, being all but speechless. No sooner had he walked out than Sarah began to complain about him. He was a Godless, smarmy, indolent Irishman, she muttered, with no respect for her married state and an unhealthy fondness for hard liquor.
‘Oh,’ I said, my spirits sinking, ‘does Mr McNeilly drink?’
‘Drink!’ Sarah snorted. ‘Is there an Irishman who don’t, Miss?’
‘But have you seen him drinking?’
‘No need to see ’im, is there? Not when you can smell it on ’im. With all them ’otels in Berrima, no one need ever run short of a nip. And ’e’s not backwards in comin’ forwards, not when there’s mail to be collected.’
‘Maybe he is simply anxious to collect his own mail,’ I remarked. But Sarah frowned, and shook her head.
‘McNeilly never gets no mail,’ she said, reaching for a knife. ‘Couldn’t read it even if ’e did. You ready with them taters, Miss? Only I’ll need ’em soon.’
As you may imagine, I was dismayed to learn that Thomas McNeilly might be a secret drinker. At our next meeting, the following day, I watched him closely. He was finishing his breakfast when I entered the kitchen, and I searched his face for the kind of symptoms that had once been evident in my stepfather’s of a morning: the bloodshot eyes, the slight list, the short temper and sensitivity to light. I noticed none of these things, however. Thomas McNeilly’s demeanour was brisk and firm. Though his chin was unshaven, his eyes were bright. He spoke clearly, without a trace of hoarseness, and his brown hands were as steady as his gaze.
‘’Mornin’, Miss Charlotte,’ said Mary Ann, as the servants all rose to greet me. ‘Can I help you, Miss?’
‘No, no.’ I was limping, but not incapable. ‘I shall sit over here, on the stool. Is there anything I might help you with, Sarah?’
‘Well, now . . . let’s see . . .’ Our cook surveyed the room, eager to supply me with some menial task. ‘When Mrs Barton gives the orders, Miss, I’ll have a better notion, I’m sure . . .’
‘You ought not o’erstretch yersel’, Miss,’ said Richard Prince, in his kindly way. Thomas said nothing. He simply sat down again and addressed himself to his tea.
The others followed his example, awkwardly, as if my presence made them self-conscious.
‘Mrs Barton warnt askin’ fer me, were she, Miss?’ said Mary Ann.
‘No. I don’t think so. She is writing letters, at present.’
‘Then she’ll not be wantin’ the gig?’ Thomas inquired, wiping his mouth. I shook my head, unable to reply—for his voice took my breath away. ‘If not, I should exercise Ida,’ he added. ‘The gig won’t be needed this afternoon, I daresay?’
‘I doubt it,’ was all that I could croak out in response. Whereat Thomas put down his cup, and rose.
‘I’ll be away, then,’ he said, and nodded politely in my direction. When he left the room, it seemed to me as if the sun had gone behind a cloud.
Being of fairly regular habits, he was accustomed to exercising the horses at around the same time every morning, as long as they were not required for other duties. I therefore arranged to leave the kitchen just before nine o’clock, when I was bound to find the stables empty. Bennett was there, but he was not himself still; I found him sleeping in Sovereign’s empty stall. Thomas McNeilly’s meagre possessions had therefore been left unguarded.
He slept on a mattress made of canvas ticking stuffed with dry grass, which was placed behind a linen curtain. In the light that seeped through cracks in the wall I saw a four-legged stool covered by a stained damask towel, on which reposed a tin mug, a shaving brush, a comb, a small, speckled mirror, a couple of blue earthenware plates and a grubby picture of a Catholic saint. From a hook positioned over his pillow hung more Popish implements: a crucifix and a rather fine amber rosary. His Sunday clothes dangled from another hook. A colza lamp stood on top of a battered hatbox, in which I discovered no hidden bottle of gin, but only a seashell, a set of fishing hooks, an ancient missal with a silk ribbon (not much used), a fine linen cravat, a carved trinket box, and a bundle of yellowing papers. None of these papers was a ticket-of-leave, I was pleased to learn. One was an engraving torn from a book or newspaper, showing ‘A View of Cavan’. One was something that may have been a pawn ticket. There was also a signed ‘pass’ of the type often granted to free or freed men by persons in the commission of the peace, lest they (the recipients) be arrested as vagrant bushrangers while travelling. Finally, there was a letter. It may come as a surprise that I hesitated to read this letter—that I possessed, in fact, even a modicum of common decency. I was sitting on my heels, the letter in my hand, pondering its possible contents, when I heard a noise.
I turned just as Thomas McNeilly pushed back the curtain.
‘Well now,’ he drawled at last, propping himself against one of the supporting beams, ‘here’s a pretty sight.’
I opened my mouth, but no sensible excuse sprang to mind. What could I possibly have said? With a faltering movement I placed the letter on the nearest horizontal surface, and edged towards the door.
‘What might ye be lookin’ for, Miss?’
‘N-nothing,’ I stammered, and he raised his eyebrows.
‘No?’
‘I wasn’t going to take anything! I just . . . I wanted . . .’
‘Did ye think mebbe I took somethin’?’
‘Oh, no!’ I was aghast. ‘Not at all!’
‘There’s not much here, but ye’re welcome to any of ’t.’
‘No, I . . . I’m sorry, I . . . excuse me.’ I felt almost suffocated by my own sense of acute shame, and had to get out—immediately. When I tried to push past him, however, he caught my arm. When I tried to push past him, however, he caught my arm.
‘Whatever it is ye want,’ he said quietly, ‘I’ll give it to ye.’
‘No, don’t—I mean . . .’ I could hardly draw breath, for his face seemed very close in the dimness. ‘Let go, please . . .’
‘Is this what ye’re lookin’ for?’ he murmured.
Then he bent his head and kissed me on the corner of my mouth.
Thirty-six
An interlude
It seems to me that my upbringing was tainted. I should have slapped Thomas when he kissed me. I should have run, and never looked at him again. Yet I did not.
Instead I reached for him, and sealed my own fate. I returned his kiss with ardour. In my defence let it be said that I broke away almost immediately—but that was not the end of the story, as you must surely realise. Therefore I cannot offer up the excuse that I was carried away by the moment, and deeply regretful afterwards. The fact is, I was somehow corrupted. No doubt it was owing to George Barton’s influence, or to my mother’s. She went into the forest at Belanglo with George Barton. As a consequence, perhaps, I threw myself into the arms of Thomas McNeilly. And the impurity endures, because I have been punished through Eva. What else can be the reason for her perverse and destructive recklessness? To have one illegitimate child is wicked enough, but four? It smacks of an inherited defect.
Perhaps I erred. Perhaps I should have kept Eva here, exposed to the ridicule of our friends and neighbours, from the very first. At the time, however, I was not thinking clearly. I was not myself. Eighteen-eighty-five was such a terrible year that this third blow was altogether too much for me to bear. I can only be thankful that Thomas never knew. It was not, after all, Eva’s disgrace that killed him.
On the contrary, I have always believed that Emily Louisa’s passing brought about his own.
He died exactly three months after my darling daughter expired, and the first symptoms of his malady appeared within days of her interment. Had I known, I would have engaged a doctor much more quickly. But I was beside myself with grief—as was Thomas. We both of us lost our appetites. We both of us became thin. How was I to know that, whereas my own wasted appearance was the natural outcome of a broken spirit, my husband’s sprang from an even grimmer cause?
We were at Byng Street, by then. Edwin was with us—and Ernest too, God rest his soul. Eva was only eighteen. Flora was living in Molong with George, and we saw her from time to time. Her eldest, Emily Susan, had just set up as a dressmaker, though the other two girls were still at school. My Emily had married Henry David in 1877. So she had her own house and her own life, on the other side of Orange.
It was as well, perhaps. When poor Charles died in 1873, he was laid out in my bedroom. I did not sleep well for a year after that, and had to buy a new bed. After Emily’s death, I was not so haunted. This may have been because I had not see her slack and colourless face adorning my pillow. On the other hand, it may have been because my fears for the living soon overwhelmed my concern with the dead. Though not soon enough, I regret to say.
I intend to be frank, here. I shall spare myself nothing, and may hurt others in the process. For the fact is that my marriage was not always a happy one. And if you should read this, Edwin and Flora, then I am sorry to pain you. But it surely cannot come as a surprise. You yourself witnessed many a bitter exchange between your parents. Why, Flora must have been all of five years old when your dear brother Thomas died, and I was mad with anger, and blamed your father for it. I was unjust in doing so, because he did bring a doctor, and drank himself stupid only after the dear child had already gone. At the time, however, I was in search of someone to punish. And when I considered our humble life, with all its attendant miseries, I was convinced that poor little Thomas had fallen victim to it. I was sure that, had I been well supplied with trained nurses, fine food, woollen blankets, sealed walls and clean water, my darling would never have perished as he did.
Perhaps it was true. Perhaps not. Whatever the case, I was wrong to blame my husband, for all that he seemed so helpless in the face of unfriendly circumstance. He did his best, though it seemed (at times) inadequate. I wince when I consider the accusations that I made against him. He had lost his only son, and I stood over him like some avenging Fury, heaping censure upon his bowed, dishevelled head. You may remember it, Flora. You may recall that at last he lashed out, not with his tongue but with a tankard, drenching me in brandy-and-milk. Certainly I shall never forget it. I shall never forget how I hit him, and he fended me off, and how, as we grappled shamefully there in the kitchen, I happened to look away—while shielding my face—and caught a glimpse of your own grave, wide-eyed stare in one corner.
It was one of so many disgraceful incidents. There was a furious argument about baptism, which stemmed from my own disillusionment; for while Flora was christened a Catholic, I was adamant that the rest of my children would be received into the Anglican Church. There was chronic bickering about liquor, and how much of it should be permitted in our house. There were disagreements about literature. When Louisa’s first novel was published, in a series of short ‘numbers’, Thomas began to resent the effect that it had on my spirits.
‘If ye’re findin’ it such a strain,’ he advised, somewhat impatiently, ‘then stop readin’ it.’
‘How can I? When everyone else hereabouts will know what she has said?’
‘Everyone else?’ He snorted. ‘Who else? Who else cares?’
‘The Throsbys, for a start. And the Reverend Stone.’
‘Oh, aye. Well, next time we’re takin’ tea at t’Throsbys, I’ll be sure and ask ’em what they thought o’ yer sister’s grand book.’
‘It means nothing to you, of course,’ I snapped. ‘Since you cannot read, and your friends cannot read. You have no idea what it is like among literate people. You cannot understand the importance of the written word.’
This was said to wound, and it did. His face darkened. He turned on his heel. But he said nothing else on the subject for some time, save (once or twice) to complain about the cost of buying up all Louisa’s ‘numbers’. Then, towards the middle of the book, I stumbled upon the wedding of Mary O’Shannassy. And it cut me to the quick.
If you have read Gertrude, you may recall this scene. It takes place on the estate of Murrumbowrie, which bears a very close resemblance to Oldbury. The domestic staff sweep out the largest wool-shed, and festoon the walls with green boughs, and lay long planks on stones and blocks of wood to form benches. They cover a table in rough fare, and tie scarlet and yellow handkerchiefs to the uprights to serve as flags. For illumination, they use tallow candles thrust into the necks of gleaming black bottles. When the dancing begins, it is ‘real, active, violent exertion, such as a lot of spirited horses at play take’. This jumping, bounding and stamp
ing is fuelled to some degree by quiet visits to a two-gallon keg of rum, smuggled into the shed by the ‘slyest means’.
This was my wedding dance. There can be no question about it. I recognised every inclusion, down to the costume of the bride. My mother had refused to buy me anything even remotely resembling white silk, and I had been forced to wear a green muslin de laine gown—just like Mary O’Shannassy’s—with white hose and glazed shoes. The only difference lay in the fact that I possessed a serviceable bonnet, and was therefore not required to attach my veil directly to my head.
Now, you may ask: why take offence at this? Why should a factual representation of my wedding day make me seethe and splutter? In return, I would answer that, while factual, the sketch is not truthful. It makes the whole occasion comic. For Mary is portrayed as a silly girl, forever changing her mind, and Father Patrick O’Connor, the portly priest—with his taste for brandy and genealogy—is no more admirable. At one point, when he emerges from the big house, Mary rushes forward and flings her arms around his feet, kneeling before him and begging him to perform the ceremony. At first he refuses. But as he shuffles across the yard she clings to him, stopping when he stops, moving when he moves. At length, ‘sundry titters’ swell into ‘scarcely suppressed laughter’, and Father Patrick agrees to preside over the marriage of that importunate girl. The wedding takes place five minutes afterwards, in the wool-shed.
For many years, I could not entirely forgive Louisa. She had turned my wedding into a feast of fun, larding it with fictitious events (like the scene that I have just described) and condemning it with the faintest praise. ‘It was universally declared an “illigant” affair,’ she jokes, adding with the utmost condescension, ‘we rather suspect a dance in a wool-shed, or barn, is more enjoyed than the most recherché ball among the elite’. Only in later years has it occurred to me that she may have been struggling to do me a small service. My wedding was not the most joyous occasion, you see. Though there was dancing, and music, and hilarity, it was of the somewhat violent type that stems from ragged nerves and stubborn defiance. It is possible that Louisa was attempting to drain the event of its poison. A comic wedding, after all, is better than a tragic one.