The Boy with Blue Trousers

by Carol Jones

So… she had not shared her secrets but he suspected that she had them. ‘It is safer for you if you don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘What use is safety without trust, Strong Arm?’ he asked with a hurt expression. ‘I know there is something important that you aren’t telling me.’

  She wanted to tell him. She wanted to unburden herself. But if he looked hurt at her secrets, how much more disappointed would he be if he knew the truth? If he knew how great was her deception? She could not face his disappointment. Not yet. One day, perhaps.

  She sighed, saying, ‘We are far from home. Do you think the gods can find us so far from the Middle Kingdom?’ She could not admit the real reason for her tears, not even to herself – for that way lay weakness – but she could admit to homesickness. They all understood this. They had all left parents, wives, or children to seek their fortunes on New Gold Mountain.

  ‘The gods can find us anywhere, if they want. That does not mean they will,’ he said. That the gods were fickle was well known. Even the most splendid offerings did not guarantee their benevolence, and splendid offerings were scarce around here. ‘You are worried that your attacker will return,’ Big Nose added, reading her mind.

  She counted herself lucky to have him as a friend and hoped he would not be hurt by what she planned to do. She had already hurt Second Brother. How would she forgive herself if she ruined her friend’s life too? But if she didn’t act, she might never have the chance to repay her family. Elder Brother and Siu Wan would not be able to marry. Her parents might lose their livelihood. And Second Brother would never be free to follow his dreams.

  ‘It would not be difficult to track a team of bullocks and two hundred and sixty men through the wilderness. They do not go quietly,’ she said, remembering the way the beasts crashed through scrub, and heaved through heavy mud.

  ‘He cannot murder you in the midst of all these people. As long as you stay with the group you will be safe. And perhaps in time the situation will resolve itself.’

  ‘Perhaps. If the gods will.’ She borrowed a gesture from Thomas, that lift of the shoulders signifying acceptance of whatever might come. Except she knew that it was a lie. She could never be a woman of wu wei as the sages advised. She could never wait to see how things turned out and then adjust for them, nor let life’s current take her where it willed. She would always be striving. Fighting. Forcing her way. This was her burden and her gift.

  ‘Come. We’d better return before we are missed,’ she said.

  She followed Big Nose as he wound his way across the pockmarked earth to their claim. Rank after rank of tents lined the ridges, while the slopes of the Creswick Creek valley and the lesser gullies radiating from it resembled a battlefield. Wherever she turned, the ground was piled up in heaps of yellow clay, excavated from a thousand narrow shafts. Massive tree trunks lay scattered about. The trees had been felled for fuel, or to prevent them crashing down when the diggers undermined their roots. And as the diggers marched further along the valley, more trees disappeared, until the distant woodland stood like a grey-green wall at the far edge of the diggings.

  Strong Arm and Big Nose’s shaft was round, as broad as two men’s shoulders, with precarious toeholds cleft into its walls. Somewhere below, the gold ran in the bed of an ancient underground stream. Some of the deeper shafts were fitted with windlasses to help lug the valuable earth to the surface, but theirs was too shallow yet to necessitate a windlass. She had soon learned that the object of this mining business was to dig until the seam of gold bottomed out. If your claim was large, you could then tunnel where the gold led. If, like most of her countrymen, your claim was shoulder to shoulder with another, you abandoned the depleted shaft to dig elsewhere once you had sieved through the excavated earth. All the dirt must be sluiced with water to separate the gold, from the tiniest grains, to the small pellets… to the greatest nuggets.

  Today, Big Nose was digging while she took her turn hauling dirt to the nearest waterhole, where she washed it in a cradle; a wooden box that rocked the gold like a number-one son. Her shoulders ached as she carried the buckets on either end of her ta’am down to the banks of the muddy waterhole. If the journey from Robe had left her footsore, and the death of Ah Hong had left her heartsore, mining for gold caused her muscles to scream in protest. But she supposed this torture was small punishment for her crimes.

  Stopping halfway down the slope, she set her burden to the ground to rest her neck and shoulders. Here the diggings spread before her in all their chaos, so different to the green and ordered groves of her homeland. Strewn with fallen trees, pitted with craters and buckled by ridges of earth, the ground stretched out in a scarred and tumultuous landscape. A place to be wary of traps and pitfalls. A place where danger lay but a step away. A place where anything might happen and no one would ever be the wiser.

  39

  The Ballarat Star – Friday, April 4, 1857

  Requirements:

  A Lady, recently arrived from London, and formerly employed as governess to the Earl of Chetwynd’s grand­children, seeks position as governess to respectable family in the Creswick Creek area.

  Apply in writing to V., at Anthony’s American Hotel, Creswick.

  The advertisement was positioned on the last page of the newspaper, squeezed between a notice proclaiming ‘good bricks for sale at Frewin and Miller’s Brick Yard, Ballarat’, and an announcement that the ‘very best position in the Township of Creswick’ was to be let. It was small and discreet, as befitted a young woman of good family, and several pence cheaper than a front-page position. Violet was not displeased, but so far it had yielded little response, other than a single enquiry from one Mr T, asking if she was willing to work under canvas, and instruct a family of eleven.

  She thought not.

  Replacing the newspaper upon a table in the modest salon of Anthony’s Hotel, she reassured herself that it had been less than a fortnight since her advertisement first appeared, and there were many outlying farms and settlements whose residents probably rode to town but once a week. Something was sure to come along. And if it didn’t, she could always follow the example of the Misses Crowther of Ballarat, and open a small day and boarding school, if she could find money for the premises. Her small store of sovereigns was becoming rapidly depleted, with even the least salubrious premises setting an extortionate sum for board.

  The accommodations at Mr Anthony’s hotel and boarding house were somewhat primitive, but then so was the entire township. But at least she no longer slept in a tent or under a bullock dray. Scattered timber buildings lined a broad and dusty street, and the surrounding settlement of tents and bark shanties sprawled over rolling country that had been largely denuded of trees. The more comfortable of these temporary dwellings were distinguished by the addition of a mud-brick chimney, while others made do with a ring of stones for a fireplace. Many of the tents and shanties had set up as businesses selling tea, coffee, sugar, tobacco and other necessities, while others operated as ‘sly grog’ shops masquerading as coffee tents and lemonade stalls, to escape the government prohibition of alcohol amongst the diggings. Their proprietors sold watered-down brandy and gin, and from what Violet had seen of all the broken bottles lying about, the goldfields were largely populated by the inebriated.

  With little else to do on this fine and pleasant day, she donned her favourite dress and bonnet, buttoned her jacket, opened her parasol, and proceeded up the main street, intent on attracting notice. Her presence might be a more effective form of advertisement than a few dry words in a newspaper. Indeed, it had not escaped her notice that men outnumbered women in the town by a factor of at least three to every one, with most of these women being plump matrons with a brood of children and very little dress sense, or more enterprising females of dubious respectability. For the most part they were garbed in hues of indigo and dun, so that Violet felt obligated to present the prettiest picture possible in this brown and dusty town.

  Beyond the main street and the diggers’ en
campments, the land rolled away in a series of wooded hills and gullies. The Chinese Camp at the Black Lead was situated a short distance from town, on the south side of the creek, where the Chinamen had established a large pool for sluicing the gold dirt. From what she had seen, the Celestials comprised half the population of the town, their numbers so great that she no longer attempted to differentiate between one blue-clad Celestial and another.

  Besides, after more than a month of overland travel, she was not sorry to see the last of them, especially after the unfortunate death of Ah Hong. For four days and nights she had wiped the sweat from his brow, the vomit from his chin and other more putrid excrescences from his nether parts, only to have the ungrateful fellow die on her. It was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

  It did not take long to happen upon a team of twelve bullocks and their Welsh driver outside Roger’s Hotel. The township was not large, and after a few polite enquiries she soon learned that Lewis had returned with a load of beer from the Phoenix brewery near Ballarat and was unloading barrels outside the hotel. Coincidentally, on the very route of her stroll, which was not difficult since the town consisted of a single main street and a couple of dusty lanes crossing it.

  More than a fortnight had passed since their arrival and Lewis was still here. He could have returned to the other side of the Grampians, tending to his pastures and his sheep. He could have returned to Robetown for another party of Chinamen. But he hadn’t. Perhaps she was deceived by his courtesy. Perhaps there remained a stronger attraction in Creswick. Perhaps she might win him yet.

  The bullocks stood placidly as the man in question hoisted a barrel from the wagon and rolled it through the hotel door, handling the heavy barrel with ease. She had heard that he would depart soon with a load of wheat and oats for the port of Geelong, before travelling onward to the Western district and home. She might never see him again. The thought made her furious. She had expected a gentle wooing. Followed most probably by a proposal. She had thought him a gentleman. But instead he had cast her aside. Something she had vowed never to allow again. If nothing else, he owed her an explanation. And if she could get him alone, he owed her so much more.

  She approached the lead bullocks and removed one of her lace gloves. She scratched the nearest furry white forehead, while avoiding the animal’s long curving horns. It dipped its head obligingly to make the scratching easier, nudging her side with its nose.

  ‘Easy there, Taffy, my glove isn’t luncheon,’ she said, swatting away the inquisitive bullock’s nose.

  ‘Getting reacquainted?’ said Lewis, returning from the murky interior of the hotel. There were patches under his arms and the bright handkerchief tied at his neck was damp with sweat. He smelled of the road.

  ‘I think he likes me.’ Taffy’s partner Bruiser sidled towards her, nudging Taffy closer. ‘Easy there, Bruiser,’ she laughed. She did not back away.

  He leaned a hand upon the veranda post of the hotel and considered her with his head on one side. ‘It seems Taffy’s not your only admirer.’

  ‘I could be forgiven for thinking so.’ She challenged him with her eyes and the lift of her chin. How dare he ignore her for so long?

  ‘When we set out upon our journey, I never imagined you might take a liking to the beasts,’ he said, ignoring the challenge.

  ‘Beasts have their uses.’

  ‘Now there’s the Violet Hartley I know,’ he said, tipping back his head and laughing, exposing the smooth brown skin of his throat and the bump of his Adam’s apple. She wanted to smother his throat with kisses, or slash it. She wasn’t sure which yet.

  ‘But then you know very little about me, Lewis Thomas. You only think you know.’ He might think he knew her mind, because he had known her body, but like all her acquaintance, he only knew the face she chose to show him. He did not know her secret self. That would be far too dangerous for both of them. He did not know that she sometimes woke shivering in the night, wondering if this was to be her life forever. Exiled from her home, hanging onto the last threads of respectability by a fingernail. Retaining the last shreds of gentility with a pitiful few sovereigns.

  ‘I should have been born a man. Then I would not have to apologise for love.’ The words emerged in a low growl, slipping from her tongue before she could call them back. For a solitary breath, she was so shocked at what she had revealed that she stood with her lips still parted in an ‘o’ of surprise. But she quickly righted herself with a derisive laugh, saying, ‘We all have our fantasies, I expect. Even you.’

  He was silent for a moment, as if reading the truth of her life on her face. ‘You deserve more, Violet.’ She did. She deserved so much more. She had been fighting for more all her life.

  ‘I deserve an explanation, certainly.’

  He sighed. ‘You do. But not here in front of the entire town. It will only cause talk if we’re seen to be arguing.’

  Arguing? Is that how he described a conversation about love?

  ‘And for “a Lady recently arrived from London”, that could prove unhelpful.’ He smiled and she had to stop herself from taking a step towards him, stop herself from reaching up to caress his cheek… or slap it. Both had their appeal.

  ‘You saw my notice then.’

  ‘I did. I mentioned it to Mr Randall, who owns several public houses in Ballarat. He and his wife have two children and another on the way, plus a home and a pastoral lease on the Creek Road. A man with a business on the up and a growing family has to be in need of a governess. I thought it might suit.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She concentrated on stroking the bullock’s forehead. ‘And my explanation?’

  ‘Tomorrow night, once the diggers are fully occupied getting drunk, I’ll meet you outside your hotel after sundown and we’ll take a stroll in the fresh night air.’

  40

  Fat Lu was looking a little fatter than he had the last time Young Wu saw him. Despite the long overland trek and his exertions with pick and shovel, he had gained an extra chin in the weeks since they had last met face to face, most probably courtesy of Young Wu’s cash. His tunic now strained at the shoulders and he was panting heavily from the short walk out to Slaty Creek from the town.

  ‘Why’d we have to meet so far from the Black Lead?’ he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. ‘You could have saved me the walk.’

  Young Wu hesitated before he replied. So… it seemed that neither the girl nor the bullock driver had spread news of his attack at the river, otherwise his reason for meeting here would be self-evident. ‘I don’t want to make it easy for the boy or his friend. If they knew my uncle and I were here in New Gold Mountain, they would be more vigilant. That’s why I paid a messenger to find you. The boy knows both our faces.’

  ‘We are on important business for the Wu clan,’ said his ‘uncle’, puffing out his old-man chest. ‘We cannot afford to risk failure.’

  His ‘uncle’ always had to stick his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. If the old man hadn’t got himself so well known, Young Wu might have been able to slip through the Chinese camp unnoticed. But in the short time they had been on the road with Little Cat, he had made himself acquainted with everyone in their party. Even now, he had befriended most of the Chinese diggers out along Slaty Creek, and not a few of the Europeans. To make matters worse, he had learned to speak some of the foreigners’ tongue and loved nothing better than to practise his new-found skill over a bottle of their fiery gin.

  ‘What kind of business?’ Fat Lu narrowed his eyes and jutted his lower lip.

  ‘Nothing you need concern yourself with,’ Young Wu replied, placing his hands upon his hips and raising his chin in a gesture he had learned from his father. Fat Lu wasn’t the only one who could display belligerence. ‘You will be paid well for any information you bring us. That is your only concern.’ He nodded to the old man, who opened the pouch at his waist and dropped a coin onto the other man’s palm, as a sign of more to come.

  ‘Well, he knows you are
here now,’ said Fat Lu, closing his fist over the coins. ‘He asked me to bring you a message.’

  ‘How did he know to ask you?’ asked Young Wu. For a moment he was shocked. Despite all his care, Little Cat had spotted him again. Then again, she would expect that he follow her. He had vowed to follow her to the death. But how could she know that Fat Lu was his associate?

  ‘Perhaps Strong Arm is smarter than he looks,’ said the old man, glancing conspiratorially at his nephew. ‘He must have guessed we paid Fat Lu to start the fight with the mixed-egg boy.’

  ‘And perhaps you talk too much, old man! You are always blowing wind up a cow. It is your tattle that has alerted the boy.’ Young Wu regretted his words as soon as they were uttered but he could not take them back. Even if he could, he wouldn’t. That way lay weakness, the quality his father most despised. He was thousands of li from his father’s house, yet he still felt his presence.

  Your father is dead, he reminded himself.

  ‘I may be dead but I will be with you always,’ said his father’s po, so that he was tempted to put his fingers in his ears. Except that would be futile, since the voice was inside his head. In his head his father was always watching. Judging.

  He shook off his father’s voice to find Fat Lu regarding him with a shocked expression that he should speak thus to his elder. The other diggers remained under the impression that the old man was indeed his uncle, rather than a distant and lowly cousin. No nephew should speak with such disrespect. Meanwhile, that same uncle’s shoulders slumped and his face drooped.

  ‘It’s just as well that my father is headman of our village and clan elder. And that I am his first-born son. It’s just as well that you were second-born,’ he said.

  Except his father was dead, and the gatekeeper was not. His father despised him, and the gatekeeper treated him with kindness and affection. ‘It’s just as well that you did not father children, for what could you hope to give them?’