Alley Urchin (2 page)

‘Yer bleedin’ well ain’t!’ came the indignant retort. ‘I saw him . . . with his filthy paws all over yer. What! The bugger’s lucky I didn’t clap him on the back o’ the neck wi’ a shovel!’ Her angry brown eyes twinkled at the thought. ‘Randy bleeder,’ she went on, at the same time retrieving her wooden bucket and leading the way to the inner recesses of the big barn, where she proceeded to gather up the numerous eggs which had been laid here and there. When Emma pointed out that Foster Thomas was
her
problem and said, ‘He’s sure to cause trouble for you, when he finds you sent him on a wild goose chase,’ Nelly was quick to assure the concerned Emma. ‘Old Mr Thomas’ll cover up fer me. He’s done it afore.’

Exasperated, Emma shook her head, rolled her lovely grey eyes heavenward and laughed out loud. ‘What
will
I do with you, Nelly?’ she chuckled. Whereupon, Nelly laughed heartily, ‘Send me back ter England.’ She added with some gusto, ‘The sun don’t cook yer brains there, and there’s more bleeding pockets ter pick.’

Quickly now their laughter subsided, when a shadow came between them and, looking up, they saw the large, ungainly figure of Mr Thomas. His face was unusually stern and, as he stood unmoving with his two large hands spread one over each hip, Emma saw the frustration in his dark, round eyes which were usually kind and smiling.

For a long, awkward moment, no one spoke. Feeling uncomfortable beneath his accusing glare, Nelly cast her eyes downward. Emma however met his gaze with an equally forthright one, until, seeing that there was no immediate explanation forthcoming and that, as always, he was hopelessly outnumbered two to one, Roland Thomas took his hands from his hips, plunged them deep into his pockets and allowed the whisper of a smile to creep over his craggy, kindly features.

‘What a pair of baggages you are,’ he said goodhumouredly. Then, to Nelly, who had raised her merry brown eyes to smile at him, ‘You’ve got that bloody son of mine running round in circles . . . me as well!’ Of a sudden the smile slipped from his face and his voice held a warning: ‘You’re playing with fire, though. Be careful, Nelly, because though I say it as shouldn’t . . . that son of mine is a bad lot!’ His eyes were now on Emma, as though willing her to convince Nelly that she was putting herself in danger, ‘Be warned. Don’t antagonise him.’

‘But he were pestering Emma again!’ protested Nelly, afterwards falling quiet when Roland Thomas stepped forward, his concerned eyes never leaving Emma’s face.

‘Don’t worry about me, Mr Thomas,’ Emma promptly assured him, ‘I can look after myself.’

‘Look here, Emma’ – his voice was quiet now, and on his face a look of anxiety as he told her – ‘I’m no fool and I’m not blind.’ His gaze lingered on her face for a moment. ‘Stay out of his way as best you can. Keep a good distance between you.’ Having said that, he turned away to leave them to their duties.

It was a moment before both Emma and Nelly recovered from the seriousness of the warning they had just been given. The first to speak was Nelly who said, in little more than a whisper, ‘Well, I’m buggered! I ain’t never seen old Mr Thomas so harsh.’

Neither had Emma, and her every instinct had been aroused. Was there something going on that neither she nor Nelly was aware of? An idea wormed itself into her troubled mind, and swiftly, Emma thrust it out. No. Surely to God, it couldn’t be that Mr Thomas was about to turn over the business to his son! No, he would
never
do that . . . would he? Oh, it was true that Violet Thomas’s health had gone steadily downhill these past months, and it had been a source of much anxiety to her husband. But knowing his great passion for the trading business he had nurtured all these years, Emma couldn’t believe that Mr Thomas was about to let go of the reins. And certainly not to his son Foster . . . who had never shown an ounce of interest in the business; except, of course, in the money it provided him with, to waste on grog and gambling. Yet there was something . . . definitely something: she was sure of it.

‘I’d best get these eggs inside . . . afore the buggers are cooked!’ Nelly remarked, at the same time slapping Emma heartily on the back as she passed. ‘Roll on three o’clock, Emma . . . and we can put our feet up, eh?’ Then, turning just once before she went from the shadows of the barn into the baking heat outside, she added, ‘The buggers don’t worry me, dearie, and they shouldn’t worry you.’ Emma smiled to herself. She admired Nelly for her fearlessness, yet she also saw it as being foolhardy. When the two of them had been exiled from their homeland, Nelly’s sentence had been less severe than her own. Now, seven years on, their roles were reversed and, while Emma had earned her ticket-of-leave through good conduct, Nelly’s rebellious attitude had put back the day of her freedom even further. Yet even though she was her own worst enemy, Nelly was a warm, loyal and steadfast friend, whom Emma loved like a sister. And, though the Governor had told Emma that her ticket-of-leave gave her at least the freedom to choose her own employer and place of work, Emma remained alongside Nelly in the Thomas trading post. While her friend was forced to stay, then so would she. Emma shook her head and chuckled softly, ‘The way she’s going on though . . . we’ll both be old and grey before we get the chance to make our way in the world.’ Afterwards she sighed, and turning her attention to the task in hand, at the same time subconsciously noted that the stock of small oil lamps would need replenishing.

Emma loved her work here, and she took a great pride in all of her duties. Mr Thomas himself had remarked on more than one occasion, ‘You’re a born trader, Emma . . . you’ve got a real knack for it.’ Emma was grateful that she had been assigned to the trading post, for she did feel so much at home, serving the customers, making up the orders and keeping the books for Mr Thomas. It wasn’t so very different from being a clerk at her father’s cotton mill in Lancashire. Sometimes, when the sun had beaten down mercilessly all day and the stream of customers continued from early morning to closing, when Emma’s feet ached and her back felt as stiff and uncomfortable as the ladder she might have to run up and down a dozen times a day, Emma was glad to crawl back to the small room she and Nelly shared, at the back of the stables. It was a hard life, with each day as demanding as the one before. But Emma poured herself heart and soul into her work. Mr Thomas was a good employer and lately, he had been shifting a good deal of the more confidential duties on to Emma’s shoulders, so that, besides keeping the stock-book up to date, she was often responsible for the accounts ledger, and even for cashing up and securing the takings.

One particular evening, Emma had overheard a raging row between Mr Thomas and his son Foster who, she knew, bitterly resented his father’s increasing dependency on her. Afterwards, she had respectfully pointed out to Mr Thomas, ‘I don’t want to be the cause of bad blood between you and your son.’ His immediate reply was to inform her of two things. Firstly, that he was obliged to spend as much time as possible with Mrs Thomas, who ‘is a delicate and refined creature who unfortunately does not enjoy good health’, and secondly, ‘if she had been able to bear me another son . . . or even a daughter of
your
calibre, I might be fortunate enough to lean on them. As it is, Emma . . . I have a worthless son who thinks it more natural to take rather than to give.’ Here, the weariness melted from his craggy features, and in its place was a great tenderness. ‘Then, I have you, Emma. And though the hand of fate was so cruel as to condemn you to this land a convict . . . I can only bless my
own
fate, for having deigned that you should be assigned to me.’ On this last word, he had turned away before Emma could see how deeply he had been affected by the vehement row with his son, and the added burden that Emma might decide to seek employment elsewhere, which, having earned her ticket-of-leave, she had every right to do. Some time later, her heart filled with compassion at this good man’s dilemma, Emma made it her business to explain to him that she would not desert him. He spoke not a word, but touched her gently on the shoulder and when he turned away, it was with a brighter, more contented light in his dark eyes.

Thinking about it all, Emma later reflected on her assurance to him, which amounted to a promise. She thought also about her determination not to desert Nelly. As she dwelt on it more deeply, it became apparent that she was enveloped in a prison other than the one to which Her Majesty’s Government had despatched her. It was a prison within a prison, made by her own hand, and one which by its very nature would thwart her plans towards absolute freedom and her eventual return to England. This above all else burned fiercely in Emma’s heart. She knew with every breath in her body that her day
would
come. That wonderful exhilarating moment when she would embark on the ship which was destined to carry her over the oceans to the other side of the world. To England! To the ‘friends’ who had cheated and betrayed her. And, with God’s help, to Marlow Tanner . . . the man whose child she had borne and tragically lost. The man she had loved then, and whom she had loved every waking moment since. Oh yes, that day would surely come. Until then, she must count the hours and be frugal with every penny she earned. Above all, she must thank God for the love and devotion of a dear, dear friend, and count herself fortunate to have the confidence, loyalty and trust of another. She wouldn’t let them down. Not even in the face of a no-good like Foster Thomas.

Some two hours later, Emma had completed the laborious task of taking account of all stock, both in the general store and in the huge outer barn, which doubled as a warehouse. Afterwards, when coming back into the small office at the rear of the store, she put the heavy ledger on to the bureau and commented to Mr Thomas, ‘That consignment of goods from England is overdue. Another twenty-four hours and we’ll likely be sold out of candles, boots and general harness. And another thing, Mr Thomas . . .’ Emma quickly finished her final entries into the ‘Urgent’ page of the ledger, before emerging through the office doorway and into the store. There she assured herself that Mr Thomas was attentive to what she was about to say. Then, taking off her dusty pinnie, she replaced it with a freshly laundered one from beneath the counter and continued, ‘I do wish you would think about what I said some time back . . . about taking up a lease on one of the more substantial warehouses on Cliff Street. That old barn isn’t secure, as well you know it, Mr Thomas, and there’s a lot of money tied up in the goods stored there.’

‘Oh, Emma!’ Mr Thomas raised his finger and thumb to tickle his mutton-chop whiskers absent-mindedly; it was a peculiar habit of his whenever he seemed slightly amused. ‘Do you think we’re about to be robbed?’ He chuckled aloud and, bending his back, he grasped the comers of a box of carbolic soaps with his two hands. He swung the box upwards, before bringing it down in a flurry of dust, on to a shelf he had just cleared. ‘Or mebbe you’ve got a notion that some rascal creeping about at night has the intention of putting a match to it, eh?’ He chuckled again. ‘You’re a little scaremonger, that’s what you are,’ he declared with a broad and confident smile.

Emma was not amused. Nor would she be dissuaded from pointing out the errors of continuing to store valuable goods and equipment in such an insecure and vulnerable place. ‘There
are
“rascals” enough who might well put a match to anything, if it suited their purpose!’ she reminded him. ‘You know as well as I do that there are certain unsavoury characters in Fremantle who wouldn’t think twice about razing that barn to the ground, after helping themselves to a good deal first.’ When Emma saw that, at last, she had his serious attention, she went on quietly, ‘Oh, Mr Thomas . . . I’m not saying as they would, but you’ve seen the strangers about of late . . . diggers and bushmen . . . some new to the area, and some looking even rougher than the worst convicts sent to break stones on the road. Wouldn’t it make sense to house your more valuable goods at least, in a small secure lock-up on Cliff Street?’

Pausing a moment longer in his work of setting out the blocks of soap in a fetching grey display, Mr Thomas played one lip over the other, biting first at the top, then at the bottom, while he quietly pondered Emma’s suggestion. Wasn’t she right after all, when the goods were hard come by, and cost a fortune to ship out from England? Then, once out on the high seas they were at the mercy of every wild storm and natural disaster that a ship might encounter on its long voyage. She was right! Emma was right. Some of the stuff . . . shovels, pickaxes, and good working tools were going out as fast as he could get them in. There had been guarded murmurs about little pockets of gold being found here and there, and that was no doubt the explanation. All the same, merchandise was an increasingly valuable commodity hereabouts, and a person could never be too careful.

‘You do see why I’m so concerned?’ asked Emma, her shrewd business instinct telling her exactly the thoughts going through her employer’s mind. ‘I can arrange it . . . if you’ll trust me to do the job right,’ she offered, knowing only too well that his mind was lately taken up with his wife’s unfortunate illness. Emma felt sorry for Mrs Thomas, who had never gone out of her way to make friends, was a very private person and, unlike Mr Thomas, kept both Emma and Nelly at a distance. The only person who enjoyed her confidence, other than Mr Thomas himself, was the blacksmith’s spinster daughter, Rita Hughes. Rita pampered her every whim and saw to her every need, for the small weekly payment of a few shillings. Emma suspected that Nelly was right in her observation that ‘Rita Hughes has one eye on Mrs Thomas . . . and the other firmly fixed on
Foster
Thomas’! Adding, to Emma’s disapproval, ‘Though if yer ask me, she’s well past it and gone sour.’ When Emma protested that that was a cruel thing to say, Nelly was quick to point out, ‘Huh! T’would be even
more
cruel if he took a fancy to her! What . . . a fella the likes o’ Foster Thomas would mek her life a bleedin’ misery.’ Emma had to agree.

Emma was convinced that poor Mrs Thomas had withdrawn into herself on account of her husband and son forever being at loggerheads. At one time she had doted on her only son. Now he showed little interest in his mother, and she showed none in him. All the same, Emma suspected that her heart was quietly breaking.