Beneath the Southern Cross (13 page)

But the old man's suffering had not eased her pain. It had only brought back the past.

 

‘And these are your children.' Thomas's voice was weak but still authoritative. ‘Remind me, James, it is easy to forget when one is dying.' The old man's health had not been good for some years, but following Phoebe's funeral, he had fallen into a rapid decline. He pointed a fragile finger at the little boy who stood dutifully beside the bed. ‘Charles, and …' He couldn't remember the name of the baby James's wife was cradling. But then he couldn't remember the name of James's wife either.

‘Anne, Grandfather, we named her after Grandmother.'

‘Christen her Anne,' Mary had said the instant she had discovered the new baby was a girl. ‘It is both politic and practical, James. You must not forget that your grandfather is still a man of property.'

‘Good, good,' muttered Thomas, distracted. He was proud of
his great-grandchildren, five in all with the new baby, but he needed to talk to James alone. He gestured for the others to leave and Alice Kendle backed towards the door with the baby, grasping three-year-old Charles's hand as she did so.

‘You too, Hannah,' Thomas said gently. ‘Go along, my dear.'

Hannah, who had remained silent in the bedside chair for the duration of her cousin's visit, rose and held the door open for Alice. Pretty little Alice gave her one of those superior, pitying looks she always gave her, and as usual Hannah had to fight back the urge to hit her. Clearly Alice felt sorry for Hannah. Plain, without a beau at twenty-six, Hannah was obviously destined for an old maid's life.

‘No, not you, James,' Thomas said as his grandson followed the family out. ‘I want to talk to you.'

It was with some reluctance that James closed the door and sat down beside his grandfather's bed. Fifteen minutes later, he closed the bedroom door behind him and entered the sitting room where the others were waiting. He looked shaken, and Hannah rose to her feet, concerned.

‘Is he all right?' she asked.

‘He wants to see you,' James said. ‘He's rather agitated.'

‘Did you upset him, James?' she barked.

‘No, no, he upset himself, I swear it.' James was visibly upset and his wife rose to pacify him. ‘I don't have the answers for him, Hannah. I don't know what he expects of me. I don't have the answers …' But Hannah had disappeared into the hall.

Inside the bedroom she took her grandfather's hand in both of hers, as she had always done when she'd sensed he was troubled.

‘He doesn't know, Hannah,' Thomas said, his voice feeble now. He was tiring, and the breath wheezed from his lungs with the effort of talking. ‘He doesn't know.'

‘It doesn't matter, Grandpa, it doesn't matter.' Gently, she stroked his hand, the soft raised veins and the translucent skin like silk beneath her fingers, and as she did so, she cursed Mary Kendle. Thomas himself had told her of the hideous accusations her aunt had flung at him the night of Phoebe's funeral. Hannah wished she knew the answers herself, she wished she could make them up so that her grandfather could die in peace. ‘It doesn't matter,' she said again.

‘It does, it does. It matters very much to me.'

‘I know it does. I know. Ssh now, it's time you slept.' His agitation was keeping him awake, and that was not good for his heart.

‘I must know the answers.' the old hand tensed around hers, and the breathing was laboured. ‘I must know what happened, what it was that I did.'

‘I will find out for you, Grandpa,' she promised, although she knew it was not possible. ‘I will find out for you, I swear I will.' She had never lied to anyone, least of all to her grandfather, but she didn't flinch as the old eyes, dim and faded, met hers. ‘I will find out and I will write it all down in the journal, I promise.'

‘Ah, Hannah,' he sighed thankfully, ‘we're a good team, you and I.' He believed her, Hannah never lied.

‘Sleep now, Grandpa Thomas, please try and sleep. I'll be here when you wake up.' Her voice was gentle, and Thomas could feel his eyelids closing. ‘Go to sleep now. Go to sleep.'

 

‘He said that you had condemned him.' Shaken by the exchange at his grandfather's bedside, James confronted his mother that same evening. ‘He was desperate to know why.'

‘The wanderings of an old man's mind,' Mary said dismissively.

‘But you told him he'd ruined your marriage. You told him he'd given peace to no-one, least of all his family. He's tormented, Mother. What did you mean?'

‘For goodness' sake, James, the man is dying. Who knows what tricks a dying man's mind plays on him.' Abruptly, Mary terminated the conversation. ‘Now go home to your family, it is getting late.'

Thomas died in the early hours of the following morning. In his sleep. Peacefully, Hannah hoped.

She never found out the answers her grandfather so desperately sought. But, fifty years later, James did.

From their vantage point at Mrs Macquarie's Chair, the harbour promontory once favoured by Governor Macquarie's wife, Charles Kendle and his cousin Howard Streatham trained their binoculars on the two twenty footers.
Wings of Honour
was vying for first place with
Merlin's Magic
.

Amidst a flotilla of yachts, the two were charging home, and the harbour was a mass of canvas as sails flapped on the final turn, skippers screamed orders, swingers leaned so far out for the homeward run that their backs skimmed the water, and hundreds of onlookers roared out the name of their favourite.

Merlin's Magic
had the edge, the crisp breezes favouring her lighter hull, just as the experts had predicted. ‘If the winds are strong over the harbour tomorrow,' Christopher Pearce, popular columnist for the
Sydney Morning Herald
, had written, ‘my money will be on
Merlin's Magic
.'

Pearce wandered over to Charles and Howard, champagne glass in hand. ‘It appears I was right, gentlemen.'

‘Anything can happen yet, Chris,' Charles said, ‘anything at all.' The company of Kendle and Streatham was a major advertiser with the
Sydney Morning Herald
and the men had become good friends, Charles with an eye, as usual, to his advantage. Christopher Pearce was a powerful man, popular with his readers, and Charles had quickly realised that in these modern times the power of the press reached considerably further than the advertisement pages.

Howard, of course, was sceptical. But he was a Streatham and
they were all the same. Honest, trustworthy and dependable, certainly, but predictable, unadventurous and, at times, downright boring.

‘I have a feeling something's about to happen,' Charles muttered to Christopher. ‘A change of wind perhaps.' He smiled roguishly as he glanced sideways at the columnist. He had told Pearce to put his money on
Wings of Honour
, regardless of prevailing winds or popular opinion.

Out on the harbour, aboard
Merlin's Magic
, the skipper was hurling abuse at his crew as he always did, even when they were winning. He screamed at a laggard who was straining himself to the limit; he kicked the bailer who was puffing and sweating; then, to the swingers as the yacht reached for home, he bawled, ‘Out on her! Get your ugly carcasses out on her!'

Paddy O'Shea leaned out as far as he could. He was a powerful man, six feet tall, weighing sixteen stone, and two thirds of his body was out of the boat. He was clinging to the gunwales with his knees, and he could feel the waves flicking his back as the boat surged through the choppy waters. He was bearing half the weight of the swinger beside him and suddenly it appeared he could take the strain no longer. In a second, he was swept overboard. The other swinger went over the side too, and together they clung to the boat, their combined drag slowing it to a crawl.

The sails of
Merlin's Magic
luffed uselessly in the wind as
Wings of Honour
ploughed past the floundering vessel and raced to victory.

‘I told you so, Chris.' Charles's smile was smug and confident as his sister topped up his champagne glass. ‘Thank you, Anne.'

Christopher Pearce was glad he had done as Charles had suggested and put his money on
Wings of Honour
. He didn't know how Kendle had managed it but, as usual, his tip was a good one, and, as usual, one favour deserved another. Already he had his leader for tomorrow's column. ‘Charles Kendle's yacht flew home to victory in yesterday's spring regatta, proving that she is worthy of the proud store motto after which she is named.
Kendle and Streatham, Trading on the Wings of Honour
.'

 

In the back rooms of the Hero of Waterloo, Paddy O'Shea pocketed the five pounds Colin ‘Cocky' Shaw handed him.

‘We'll keep you on ice for a while, Paddy me old mate,' the cockney said. ‘Don't want the word gettin' round. P'raps the Autumn Race Carnival, what do you say?'

‘That's fine by me, Cocky,' Paddy agreed, and off he went to collect his winnings from the bookie with whom he'd placed a whole six quid, more than a fortnight's wages. But then
Wings of Honour
had been a sure bet.

These odd jobs were the cream on top of the milk, Paddy thought as, half an hour later, he walked up Windmill Street. A hell of a lot more lucrative than working the docks, and a lot more fun into the bargain. Now he could take his girls out for a Saturday night on the town, and he could give his old mother some ready cash to buy herself something nice. Not that she ever did, but they always shared the fun of his latest windfall.

‘You rascal, Patrick O'Shea,' she'd say. ‘What have you been up to this time?'

He never told her. ‘Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies, Ma,' he'd say with a smile and a wink.

Today was no exception. She opened the door of her cottage, he thrust two one-pound notes into her hand, and she said, ‘Where in God's name did this come from? I don't need this money. You take it right back, Patrick O'Shea.'

‘Come on now, where's a hug?' She was a big, bulky woman, despite her sixty-seven years, but he lifted her bodily off the ground. ‘Where's a hug for your only son?'

‘Put me down!' she protested. ‘Put me down, Paddy,' but she returned the embrace with equal fervour. Hannah Kendall O'Shea loved her son. He was an incorrigible, impetuous, reckless young man, just like her Daniel had been, and the adventurous spirit in Hannah loved him for it.

It had been that very spirit which had so attracted Daniel O'Shea to Hannah Kendall. He had recognised instantly a kindred soul.

‘You won't find better than me, Hannah,' he'd said when he'd asked her to marry him. ‘I'm amongst the best Mother Ireland has to offer.'

‘Oh, is that so, Daniel?' she'd laughed. ‘Then I should certainly hate to see her worst.'

‘You'd not regret marrying an Irishman, I swear.' It sounded like another boast, but the banter had left his tone. ‘We're a poor
country with little to offer those outside, except our very selves.' Daniel had left his beloved Ireland only the previous year, like many hundreds of others, to escape the potato famine. ‘And to those who take us into their hearts, we can bring magic.'

Hannah looked at him sceptically, he was a mercurial man, it was difficult to tell whether or not he was serious.

‘I tell you, girl, I'll make you laugh and I'll make you cry, but I'll never bore you. And you're a woman, Hannah, who should never be bored. You will marry me, won't you?'

The following day, just one month after their initial meeting, Hannah announced her impending marriage. Everyone, with the exception of her brother William in whom she had confided, was astounded. Her Aunt Mary was openly scathing when she heard the news.

‘The woman's mad to even consider marrying an Irishman,' she said to anyone who would listen. ‘Chances are he'll murder her in her bed.' Mary suffered the anxiety prevalent amongst the English upper class regarding the Irish. Then to William, upon his brief visit to the Elizabeth Bay mansion, she added ‘besides, the man's as poor as a church mouse, he's marrying her for her money.'

‘If that were the case, Aunt Mary, he could do a lot better,' William protested, ‘Hannah's hardly wealthy. None of we Kendalls are wealthy.' They saw little of the Kendle side of the family these days, which suited William. He found the Kendles' obsession with money and power made for boring conversation.

‘She has the cottage,' Mary retorted. Then, sensing her nephew's disapproval, she added, ‘Oh well, I suppose it's better she marry a ne'er-do-well, and an Irish one at that, than remain an old maid.'

When he was introduced to the family, Daniel didn't help matters by boasting, ‘I'm a happy man, 'tis a woman of property I'm marrying.' And Hannah laughed, knowing it was a deliberately provocative statement. Daniel cared nothing for the fact that her grandfather Thomas had bequeathed her his cottage in the Rocks. ‘Although,' he said to her privately, ‘'tis a convenient place to hang my hat.' Preferable, he admitted, to his one-room lodgings off the South Head Road. Daniel was employed as a labourer on the building of the new Victoria Barracks nearby.

Despite their own generous legacy, the Kendles had been critical of Thomas's last will and testament. The cottage should not have
been left to Hannah—property was never left to female descendants, certainly not when there were male heirs. But Hannah knew the bequest was a declaration of love. Her grandfather had given her his precious cottage, the cottage where they had sat together in the little back garden overlooking the water, he dictating his stories and she recording them in her journal.

Now she sat in the same little back garden with her son, looking out over the same water but at a very different view. Massive tall ships rested in the haven of Sydney Cove—the great wool-clippers which she loved to watch race into the harbour—and dozens of windjammers were berthed beside the horseshoe-shaped sea-wall of semi circular quay. The sea-wall, which served as a quay along the entire waterfront of Sydney Cove, was a masterpiece of engineering construction but Hannah found it quite absurd that these days it was referred to as Circular Quay; the term really didn't make sense at all.

Directly below the cottage lay the tangled mess of the Rocks. Still a den of vice, still home to drinking and gambling and whoring, it was home also to the many who now lived in the tiny terrace houses which marched in rows down the hill. Washing was strung from garden to garden; neighbours exchanged produce grown in their little vegetable plots, a carrot here for a turnip there, a tomato or two for a lettuce. A strong community spirit existed amongst the residents of the Rocks.

‘Do you want to join us tonight, Ma?' Paddy strode about, looking oversized in the small courtyard of the garden. He was elated, and Hannah wondered just exactly what it was he'd been up to. She hoped he wasn't gambling again, his wife would leave him if he was. Dorothy was a tough little woman and she'd threatened to do so before. Hannah knew her son could survive without his wife, but she would take the child, and the loss of his little girl would destroy him.

‘Just the four of us,' he said. Then, arms wide as if he were about to burst into song, ‘Dotty, the light of my life; Kathleen, the jewel in my crown; and you, the best mother a man ever had. Me and my three girls, out for a Saturday night on the town.'

Hannah laughed loudly, as Paddy had known she would. The pose and the brogue were pure Daniel O'Shea. But even when it was not a deliberate ploy to delight his mother, there was an Irish
lilt to Paddy's voice. Born and bred in Sydney, he was Australian all right, and proud of it, but he was proud of the half of him that was Irish too.

‘Come along, Ma, what do you say?'

‘No, no, dear. All that walking, it would be more than my knees could take. Besides,' she added before her son could insist, ‘there is an orchestral recital this evening, to celebrate the third anniversary of the Garden Palace, and I am to accompany Anne.'

‘Ah,' Paddy mocked, ‘fraternising with a Kendle, as I live and breathe.'

‘She may be Charles's sister but she is not a Kendle,' Hannah insisted. ‘She is a Goodlet.'

For thirty years Hannah had disassociated herself from the Kendles. She hadn't even attended the funerals of Mary and Richard. If Daniel O'Shea was not good enough for the Kendles, then the Kendles were not good enough for her. They were money-grabbing and power-hungry, and she disliked both her cousin James and, from the little she'd seen of him, his son Charles. She felt sorry for James's daughter Anne, however, and from time to time arranged outings with her. Daniel had died three years ago, around the same time as Anne's husband. The tenuous bond of widowhood existed between the two women but little else, apart from Hannah's genuine sympathy. Barely over forty, Anne was a tragic figure. Lonely and isolated. Living with her brother Charles and his family, she was totally reliant upon his charity.

‘Ah well, Mother,' Paddy felt an urgent desire for a large foaming glass of ale, ‘if you wish to play the good Samaritan, and to a Kendle of all people, I shall leave you to it.'

Hannah felt lonely when he'd gone. Or perhaps it was simply boredom. If her knees weren't so painful she would venture out more. She hauled her bulk out of the chair, she'd make herself a nice cup of tea and stop feeling maudlin.

The trouble was, for all of her life Hannah had felt useful. Needed. She'd been useful on the farm, working alongside her brother. ‘As good with a pick and shovel as any man,' William had told her often enough. But then the farm had gone and William had sold up and headed for Ballarat, joining the hundreds in their mad rush for gold. No matter. By then she'd been needed by Daniel. ‘I'd be lost without you, girl—how many times had
he said that? But now it seemed to Hannah that there was nobody who needed her. Oh, Paddy loved her right enough, but he had a family of his own.

No wonder she'd grown fat and lazy, she chastised herself as she plonked the old iron kettle on the wood stove and stirred the glowing embers in the grate. She really should make some effort. Perhaps she'd go and see her brother William's son. Surry Hills wasn't far away and she had always been fond of her nephew Samuel. But then Samuel Kendall, too, had a family and was busy carving a life of his own since his return from the goldfields, why should he welcome a fat old lady on his doorstep?

Hannah sat staring at the harbour long after her cup of tea had grown cold. She hardly noticed the changing light until the grandfather clock in the hall chimed seven and there was barely time enough to wash, dress and get to the Garden Palace for her meeting with Anne.

 

After a number of ales with the Irish contingent at the Lord Nelson, it was approaching dusk when Paddy set out for his home in Woolloomooloo. Down the hill, past the Sailors' Home, aright-hand turn and he was in the heart of George Street.