Read 3 Great Historical Novels Online
Authors: Fay Weldon
3 Great Historical Novels (31 page)
26 July 1841
I’m losing count of the weeks, but shall never forget the first night. We were gathered together on the spiky lawn at twilight, surrounded by the silhouettes of eucalypts. That’s what the strange trees here are called. They are like sentinels at the edge of the world. That night, the superintendent told us that there are three classes of women here at the House of Female Correction, otherwise known as the female factory. The classes are Crime, General and Merit. The
Rajah
women are firmly ‘Crime’, and we’ve had our heads shorn again as a mark of this. It was not as bad as that first time at Millbank, but I had only just started to feel less like a hedgehog. I can’t fathom how men put up with prickles on their chins, it is like sleeping on a pincushion.
As to the class system, General class inmates are girls who’ve returned pregnant after being assigned to service. There are a significant number of them. Merit class have managed six months of good behaviour and can leave the grounds, though they must be back by nightfall. If you are Crime, you work all hours. We are the machines in the factory and we are the servants of the ruling class of turnkeys and wardens.
The superintendent is a heavy-jawed harpy, much like her counterparts in Newgate and Millbank. I realise now how lucky we were to have Miss Hayter on the
Rajah
(and by the way, Albert told me that she and Captain Ferguson are engaged to be married!). I suppose the superintendent has a name and a mother, but it is hard to imagine it. She presides over a number of outbuildings including stores for wool and flax and places for bleaching cloth.
It took me some time to notice it, but the female factory is not unattractive to look at, for a place so miserable. It is three-storeys of sandstone with a clock tower and cupola and an oak-shingled roof. The upper windows are lead glazed and those below are barred, of course, but still
lead-lights.
There’s a kitchen and bake house, a spinning room and dungeon-like privies. It is in the privies that all manner of illicit activity takes place, from rum smuggling to trysts with soldiers and, I hear, between women, too.
Inside the main building, the entire ground level is a refectory lined with long, narrow tables and benches, and the floor is paved with slabs of a pale timber called stringy bark. The sleeping quarters, where I am now, are nothing new. By the light of the tallow (the first one I’ve managed to steal) you can just see that the floor is covered with bodies. We sleep on bedrolls that we fold up in the morning, and are so close to each other that if you venture an incautious leg out in the night you can easily start a scuffle. Some of the women have collected scraps of fleece and piled them together to sleep on, but it’s dirty and flea-ridden and I prefer the hard floor and blankets, though they are made from the roughest wool you can imagine. It is spun here at the factory, and it is a coarse tweed that is, not surprisingly, called Parramatta cloth. I’ve heard that it is being exported to England, but I cannot see it making much of an impact – it makes your spun wool seem as soft as silk by comparison, Mamo.
The warden who is assigned to the spinning room is not unfriendly and is finally answering my questions, now that she sees that I can still spin as fast while she’s talking quietly to me. I’ve learnt that the only market for Parramatta cloth in Australia is for prison clothing. I suppose much of the
population of Sydney is clothed in it, then. It is heavy, brown and dowdy, of course, but it is warm. It is winter in Australia while it is summer in Ireland, which still confounds me. I am always cold.
We were set to work the day after we arrived spinning the fleece that comes from the sheep stations north of Sydney. The settlers are paid in cloth, and around four pounds of fleece yields a yard of cloth, so there’s not much in it for them once they’ve paid the surplus of one pound to the government for the cost of manufacture. The Crown is making money from our labour! And this is called free trade.
There are other officers who aren’t as friendly as the spinning-room warden. Nora has now been sent three times to do hard labour in the grounds, for no more than a sideways stare and a grumble. There is no satisfaction in grumbling when you are made to break stones and dig the hard earth as penance. We are denied tea and sugar for minor offences, and I’ve gone without for my blessed interestedness, otherwise known as asking questions of the wrong warden.
The spinning room is dim and airless with a smoky fire at one end. There are several women I know working there – Jane and Nelly and Agnes, and Nora when she isn’t being punished. Pearl is always close by Nelly in a willow cradle that someone gave her, and the baby is growing fat and sweet in spite of the misery around her. Nelly’s soldier has applied to make her his wife. I hope she can leave before Pearl grows out of her cradle.
The women who cannot spin pick the bracken and dagsfrom the fleece, or card the spun wool. The yarn is woven somewhere else in Parramatta, by male convicts on manual looms. Weaving is considered to be men’s work, even here,
as though the simple mechanism of a loom is beyond female comprehension.
There are no mills to provide the power for mechanised looms here. It seems that there are precious few in the entire colony. I occasionally think of what Ryan said to me the night he died, when he came to my room. I thought then that it was a dream. He said it was up to me to send a shipload of Australian wool to my mother. Well, here am I spinning the stuff, but I’m damned if I can see how this gets me any closer to shipping it. The oily feel of the fleece and the action of twirling the yarn between my fingertips onto the spindle is such a familiar action that I cannot keep my thoughts from Greystones. I’ve given up on trying to banish thoughts of home because it is only in imagination and memory that I feel alive. My body is always either cold or tired or hungry. I can conjure all sorts of things now. A meal of porter, coddle and soda bread with Annie Kelly’s yellow butter and blackberries with thick cream. Sometimes I can almost feel the cloth that I once wore and, very rarely, I catch a glimmer of a pattern in my mind’s eye, as though it were dancing just out of reach.
One last thing and then I must sleep, because the bell rings at daybreak and we have only minutes to be ready and at breakfast in the refectory. It is too miserable to be sent to the spinning room hungry as well as cold. The female factory has other functions, besides the spinning of coarse wool. It is a wife market, too, because free men can select a wife from amongst the convict women. None are obliged to leave with their suitors, thank Christ, but I hear that most do, just to be rid of the place.
Agnes has discovered a roaring trade in buttock and twang and, since she means to run her own place when she’s
free, she is keen to have some experience of an Australian brothel. Prostitution is the only means to afford a life outside of the factory, if you have no other skill, and the reason for the number of inmates who return pregnant. Many of the women who are allowed outside the grounds use their leisure time earning a bit extra at their second job. I hear there were several established brothels in Parramatta. I have considered the possibility myself, but am too unskilled.
28 July 1841
I have met a real Australian now, though I wouldn’t tell anyone but you. I’m certain that it was the same gentleman we saw from the Parramatta River the day we arrived, and now I know why he seemed familiar. I’ve seen him before. I saw him first in the photogenic drawing at Cloak Lane. He was the figure amongst the trees. I swear that it was he. I would say this to none but you.
He was standing behind an enormous old tree when we were sent to collect firewood after supper in the grounds. If he hadn’t moved, then I would have thought him part of the tree, because his limbs and his fur cape blended so well into the bark in the twilight. It was as if he was waiting for me. A foolish notion, I know. I would have made a sound, but he put a finger to his lips. He greeted me in English, of sorts, and asked me my name and the name of my ship. If he
was
real, rather than a shadow, then I can’t imagine how he got into the grounds, so I suppose he was a spirit of some kind. This place is swarming with them.
Our property is locked up in one of the stores, to be returned to us when we receive either a ticket of leave, or an offer of marriage. It was easier than I expected to get to my trunk. There are no firm rules against inspecting your own property, and I’ve had my eye on the soldier who guards the stores, and I made sure that he also had his eye on me. The stores are large sheds, made of rough, untreated timber with a corrugated iron roof. The guard is no more than a pimply youth who wears his serge tunic with so much pride that I can tell he’s not yet had reason to think ill of his profession.
I smiled at him last time I was collecting firewood and then I decided to try something. I walked right up to him and asked him if I could see if my trunk was safe. It was almost that easy. He wanted a kiss, of course. I gave him a good kiss on the lips, but he must have thought he could have more, and his hand wandered until I had to slap it away. He was disappointed but, thankfully, kept his part of the bargain. The building is the size of a barn and is stacked from top to bottom with the sorriest collection of luggage you’ve ever seen. There are cracks between and across the wall timbers and a dusty lattice of sunlight fell like a net of light across walls stacked with the belongings of the displaced.
There is an alphabetical system of sorts in place, so we knew where to search, and narrowed it down to looking for a brown card label with my name on it. My old trunk looked shamefully handsome amongst threadbare sacks and patched-up carpet bags and wicker baskets. The soldier pulled it across the floor towards me, and I felt afraid to open it, as though it were Pandora’s box. It is too much a reminder of the past.
The boy had the good grace to go and wait by the door while I took the little key from around my neck and fitted it into the padlock. At first it wouldn’t turn in the lock because it was so rusted up from the sea crossing. But with enough fiddling it sprang open. Inside were the chattels of a forgotten life. I hardly dared touch the pretty gowns and shawls, stays, petticoats, hats, boots and stockings. They belong to someone feminine, refined, not to me with my red raw hands and flea-bitten ankles. Who packed my belongings so carefully and lovingly? It could only have been Antonia. I touched my paints and my ink as though they were lost treasure, and then I saw something else I’d forgotten; the
purse where I kept the few guineas I had saved. It felt heavier. The guard was smoking and not paying me any attention, so I opened the clasp. I counted at least seventy sovereigns in silver. More than I ever earned.
Jarrah was standing just out of reach of the light from the lantern on George Street, looking pleased with himself. Michael shook his head. ‘You actually
found
her?’
Jarrah shrugged and smiled, his teeth as white as lamps. ‘She found me, boss, behind a grandfather tree, then the wombat woman shouted at her.’
‘She got in strife, then?’
Jarrah nodded. ‘That’s a bad place.’
‘Damn right. I don’t know how you got so good at finding people. It’s quite a talent.’
Jarrah shrugged. ‘Too much noise here,’ he jabbed his bony finger at Michael’s head, ‘means you don’t hear this,’ he said, poking his belly. ‘Dangerous. You still got that knife?’
‘Of course,’ Michael said. The knife was in his boot and he didn’t go anywhere without it. Jarrah had made it for him. He’d seen a big shark or two in his time, but he had no idea how Jarrah got hold of the tooth of one. It must have been a beast, by the size of the tooth. Michael used to wonder what it was about white men that interested Jarrah enough to work for the constabulary, but then Calvin told him how they’d met. Jarrah was only a boy when his parents were hunted and shot by some young constables who thought the life of a black man was as worthless as their own souls. When Calvin found out what had happened, he had the killers tried for a different
unsolved murder and they were returned to London to rot in Newgate or face the gallows. Rough justice was what most people got here.
Jarrah turned to go. In a blink he would dissolve into the shadows.
‘So I’ll see you by the lagoon at dawn?’ Michael called into the dark.
‘Yes, boss. I’ll be there.’ Jarrah’s grin flashed before he disappeared completely, and Michael continued on his way to the Rocks. He and Jarrah had a little errand to run for Calvin, tracking the missing sailor who knew something about the dead Quaker.
Maggie seemed pleased that he’d decided to ‘stay a spell’ even though she didn’t believe it was just to print one more pamphlet. She knew him too well to ask questions, though. The less she knew, the better for everyone, and she wouldn’t even lose her rent when Michael eventually left. The Stanhope was to be taken over by a Belfast penny-a-liner who’d had a desk at the
Sydney Herald
briefly, before he’d written something cynical about the governor and the cedar trade.
‘Evenin’, Michael.’ Maggie had her feet up on the kitchen table and was smoking a cigarillo and reading a copy of
Pears
’. She imported them for entertainment and loved to tut-tut and shake her head over London frivolity. But at the same time she was examining every detail with deep curiosity; more than was necessary for a woman with such little use for clothing. The slippery cloth of her house gown was hanging either side of her legs, showing her pink stockings and white thighs. Michael couldn’t always command his gaze. His eyes had their own interests.
‘Evening, Maggie. What news?’
‘Oh, I’ve something you’ll like.’
‘That right?’
One of the girls wandered in wearing only stays and frilly bloomers. She poured a cup of stewed tea from the iron kettle, and winked at Michael suggestively before she left. He sighed heavily. ‘I’m not a fucking saint,’ he called after her, but she just giggled and wagged her arse at him.
‘It’s finally picked up down at the junction,’ said Maggie. ‘One of the Smith boys was in seeing Fran, full of rum and talk, and said he needed extra because they’d soon be working all the nights God made and he wouldn’t see a cunny for that long.’
‘How long?’
‘Well, Michael, for a boy that age, a week might seem like he’s being a saint, whereas for you, it’s taken years.’
‘That’s amusing, Maggie. And thanks for the tip.’
‘That’s not all. There’s someone been asking after you down at the quay.’
Michael was immediately alert. ‘Who?’
‘A ship’s boy, according to my man. His name’s Albert and he came in on a transport called
Rajah
.’
Michael stood up. ‘That’s something needs attending to directly. I’ll be back before you close your shutters – I’ve some work to do downstairs.’
Maggie shook her head and tut-tutted. ‘I’ll leave the back door on the latch. Be careful, would you?’
The Portcullis at Circular Quay was the most popular of the seafront taverns because it was the first to refill its casks with Jamaican when a ship came in from the South Americas. Michael still habitually stayed clear of the public houses along the quay which had once reminded him too much of freedom.
The room was dim, with too few lanterns hanging from the
rafters. It smelt as rank as any place full of seafaring men, in spite of the rum fumes and tobacco. Michael ordered a jar, then packed his pipe and settled in to listen to the talk. There were several barefoot lads in canvas breeches behind him, proud of their adventures on various trading craft and transports, and someone was boasting about an encounter with Chinese pirates. The
Rajah
was the only vessel Michael knew of that had recently had a run-in with a junk. He sauntered over.
‘Evening, lads.’
‘Evenin’ to you,’ said the only boy brave enough to speak. The others looked as though they expected trouble.
‘Which of you lads came in on the
Rajah
?’
‘James here was the steward,’ said the boy.
Michael turned his attention to an older, sunburnt lad who looked worried. ‘I hear there was some trouble on your transport?’
‘That’s right, but we saw to it,’ he said with false bravado.
‘I’m not talking about the pirates, I’m talking about the murder.’
The boy looked frightened. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’
‘Do you know where I can find the ship’s mate, Albert?’
‘He’s a wharfie. He’ll be at the last pier. There’s a clipper put in from Ceylon.’
Michael left the tavern and walked along the quay. The yellow gaslight lent the activity along the wharves an eerie, jaundiced rhythm. There was only one other ship in, besides the one at the end of the quay, but there were still navvies heaving sacks and crates about, and a herd of merino getting in the way of everything.
At the last pier was a pretty clipper with Oriental characters painted around her prow. It looked as though she was all but
unloaded, since a huddle of young wharfies were sitting on the edge of the pier, dangling their legs above the inky, lapping sea and smoking. Michael approached them. ‘Any of you boys called Albert?’
The smallest narrowed his eyes and looked Michael over. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘My name’s Michael Kelly. Will you take a walk with me?’ Albert was on his feet instantly and, without a backward glance at his scruffy colleagues, fell into step with Michael to the end of the pier and down onto the sand.
When they were out of earshot, Albert squinted at Michael with the same half-suspicious scrutiny. ‘You a friend of Mahoney?’
‘If you mean Rhia, then yes, I used to work for her family back home.’
Albert nodded. ‘That’s what she told me. She’s gone upriver to Parramatta.’
‘Aye, I know that. I heard you’ve been asking after me.’
Albert hesitated. ‘I’ve a letter for you.’
‘A letter? Well I’ll be blowed. I suppose it’s at your lodgings?’
Albert shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be safe there, would it?’ He reached deep into the inside pocket of his too-big sailor’s coat and pulled out a piece of cartridge paper, folded into a small square and tied with a piece of string. He handed it to Michael solemnly. Michael untied the string and unfolded the paper. She had a pretty hand, he thought. Unusual ink, though. You didn’t see much sepia. Michael always used black for the press.
Dear Mr Kelly,
I asked Albert to try and find you, and to destroy this if he doesn’t. I am guessing that you know of my uncle’s death
and of my situation – Thomas told me that he writes to you regularly. I will not waste precious paper trying to convince you of my innocence.
A man was murdered on the
Rajah
. Perhaps you have heard. His name was Laurence Blake and he was the cousin by marriage of Antonia Blake, the kind Quaker with whom I lodged in London. Laurence was a photogenic portraitist, and before he died he made a portrait of five gentlemen. The gentlemen did not sit for Laurence himself, and I will not go into the complicated means by which he obtained the negative of the portrait, but it was intended to reach a woman by the name of Eliza Green, the mother of Mrs Blake’s maid, Juliette. According to Juliette (who, I admit, is a little batty) one of the gentlemen in the portrait is a murderer, and only her mother can identify him. I have no idea why, and realise as I write this how unlikely it all sounds. As far as I know, Eliza Green is currently employed as a housekeeper on a sheep station somewhere called Rose Hill.
When Laurence died, the portrait disappeared from his cabin. The negative was in the safe keeping of Margaret, one of the
Rajah
convicts, and that too is gone. Margaret herself died before we reached Sydney and before I could discover where she hid the negative. I fear she might have kept it about her person, and took it with her to her watery grave. The disappearance of the portrait is a mystery that may or may not be connected to Laurence’s death. Because the
Rajah
was close to the port of Rio at the time, it is possible that he was killed for his money, since his purse was also stolen. Perhaps the killer thought the portrait was of some value, since photogenic drawings are still very rare. Without it, we will never know if one of the five men really is a murderer, or if Juliette’s nerves have created a phantom. Two of
the gentlemen in the portrait were my uncle Ryan and Mrs Blake’s husband, Josiah. It leaves only three alive.
I was assigned to a botanist as his servant throughout the voyage. His name is Mr Reeve, and he seems to me largely sensible, if dull and irritating. As you see, I am still as intolerant as I ever was. In fact, I am worse. I have confided some of the above to Mr Reeve in the hope that he might be able to help. Perhaps he has discovered something else?
I hope that we meet again one day.
Rhiannon Mahoney
Michael reread the letter while Albert waited, restlessly kicking the sand and smoking. He folded it and put it in his pocket, shaking his head.
‘Well, what did she say?’ Albert coaxed impatiently.
‘You haven’t read it?’
‘Course I haven’t bloody read it.’
Of course he hadn’t. He couldn’t read. ‘She was telling me about a murder and a certain portrait and a certain botanist.’
‘Reeve.’ Albert looked like he’d smelt something rotten.
‘You don’t like him?’
‘He pretends to be a gentleman but you can tell he isn’t.’
‘You know a lot, Master Albert.’
‘It’s how I get by.’
‘Aye, and me.’ Michael grinned. The boy would be all right. ‘Is there any other reason you don’t like this Mr Reeve?’
Albert looked uncertain for a moment, then he shrugged. ‘I thought I saw him snooping around on the night Mr Blake got it in the neck, and if he wasn’t so weak-kneed I’d say he might have done the killing himself.’
Michael looked at him sharply.
‘Did you tell any of the ship’s officers this?’
‘Course I did. I told Wardell, the Whitehall guv.’ Albert looked down at his bare feet and kicked some sand. ‘Wardell said it would take someone strong and clever, and that that ruled out Reeve. He told me to stop nosing around and stirring up trouble.’
‘And did you tell Rhia?’
Albert shook his head. ‘She had enough troubles, losing her friend.’
‘Was Laurence Blake her sweetheart, then?’
Albert shrugged again. ‘She said he wasn’t.’
‘And do you know where this Mr Reeve is now?’
‘I heard he’s got lodgings in the bachelor rooms on Elizabeth Street.’ Albert looked at his feet again. ‘If you see her will you tell her I was asking after her?’
‘Sure I will.’ Michael stretched out his hand and Albert took it, shaking it firmly. The boy turned away and walked back along the sand. He reminded Michael of someone. It took him a minute, then he realised – he reminded him of his younger self.