Beneath the Southern Cross (20 page)

James shook his head. What an outrageous remark, how could Anne suggest such a thing? His own father and the black housemaid! For James recalled now that Murrumuru had been a servant in their house.

‘But could they have done so, Father, would it have been possible?' Anne was persistent, she would not let him drift away. ‘Could she have been his mistress?'

Suddenly the memories flooded in. A kaleidoscope of images. How old would he have been—fifteen? sixteen?—when he and Phoebe had noticed a rift between their parents. It had been around that time that Murrumuru had left the household. ‘I prefer white servants,' had been his mother's only explanation. Most
vivid in the myriad of pictures which tumbled through James's brain was the face of Grandfather Thomas, head upon the pillow of his deathbed, begging for an answer. ‘What did I do to your mother, James? How did Iruin her marriage? Why has she condemned me?' It had been Thomas Kendall who had brought Wolawara and his clan to Parramatta. It had been Thomas Kendall who had given them the land. And, of course, it had been Thomas Kendall whom Mary had blamed for the ruin of her marriage.

Everything was falling into place. James fought to retain his concentration, but was tiring from the effort. It all made sense now. Shocking sense, most certainly, but …

‘How unlike you, Anne, to be so cruel.'

Anne and Milly had both been so focused upon the old man, they had failed to hear the door open. Anne wondered how long her brother had been standing there.

‘Stop torturing the man, let him be.' Charles crossed to the bed and disengaged Anne's hand from her father's. ‘You must not squeeze his fingers so, he is very fragile. You of all people should know that.'

Anne rose guiltily from the bed and Charles took her place, stroking James's brow, crooning to him gently. ‘Rest now, Father, rest.'

‘So much to remember, Charles.' The old man was agitated. ‘So much to remember.'

‘Sssh, there, there. You must not distress yourself. Relax, Father, relax.'

The softness of his son's voice and the gentle touch of his fingers were soothing. James closed his eyes. He had been somewhere peaceful only moments ago. Where, he wondered. Ah yes, that was it. Swimming. Naked. Alone in his magic land beneath the silent canopy of mangroves, his toes trailing in the softness of the mud, the gentle suction of the water caressing his body …

‘That's it, Father, relax …' Charles's steel-grey eyes belied his soothing tone. Even as he stroked his father's brow, he glared hate at Milly who sat frozen on the edge of the chair.

As soon as Charles sensed that his father's mind had slipped away, he dropped all pretence. He rose from the bed and addressed Milly, quietly but with such menace that she dared not move.

‘My housekeeper iswaiting for you on the landing, she will see you out the servants' entrance, and you will never show your face here again, do you understand me?'

It was not only Milly who was frightened. Anne had seen Charles like this before, and it always terrified her. But something deep inside lent her strength. ‘Charles, we must know the truth,' Anne heard herself protest, amazed at her own boldness. ‘It is important for us all.'

‘We know the truth, Anne.' His eyes did not leave Milly's. ‘The truth isthis woman wants money, is that not so?'

Milly nodded, petrified but desperate. ‘Yes, sir, for my babies.'

‘Exactly,' he mocked her with his scorn, ‘for your babies.'

‘It is true, Charles,' Anne insisted, ‘everything she says—'

‘Anne, my dear,' he turned to his sister and spoke reassuringly, albeit with an air of condescension, ‘I am sympathetic to this woman's plight, you must believe me, and Mrs Marett will give her money, I have instructed her to do so.' He smiled his assurance. ‘Now we must let the poor creature go, we have terrified her quite enough.' To Milly: ‘You may go.' It was an order.

Milly slid from her chair and sidled out through the door as quickly as she could.

‘Charles, I don't know how much you heard but—'

‘I heard quite enough, my dear, and you must trust me in my judgement.' He stepped close to her and took her face in his hands. She felt like a mouse in a trap. ‘Iam the head of this family, am I not?' She nodded, but her glance flickered nervously towards the door. ‘The woman will be recompensed, have no fear.' His eyes were boring into her.

‘You must obey me, Anne,' he said with infinite tenderness, ‘I have your best interests at heart.' Her face locked between his hands, her eyes locked to his, there was nothing she could do but stand, paralysed, feeling the warmth of his breath as he bent to her. ‘You must always remember that, my dear.' And he kissed her softly upon the lips. ‘Always,' he whispered as their mouths parted. Then he left her there, standing at her father's bedside, frozen, shocked into submission.

Milly did not receive any recompense. These were not Mrs Marett's orders. Terrified, she was bundled out the servants' entrance and told never to return.

Six months later her children were taken from her. She never saw them again.

As the commercial depression of 1892 spilled over into 1893, the voice of Henry Lawson, the boy from Grenfell, urged his fellow countrymen to be strong. No longer were they second-rate Europeans; he told them through his pen, they were Australians and should be proud of it.

For many it was difficult though. As yet more banks crashed and more companies became insolvent, as yet more rock-solid businessmen filed bankruptcy petitions in the courts and more pillars of society were charged with fraud, pride was a luxury many could ill afford. Particularly the burgeoning numbers of unemployed who, in the streets of Melbourne and Sydney, staged demonstrations to draw attention to their plight.

On Sunday 19 November, Paddy O'Shea and a number of his mates joined the three hundred strong who were gathered at the Queen Victoria statue in the centre of Sydney. The crowd milled for an hour or so, gathering forces before the march to the Centennial Hall, and the babble grew bitter as men voiced their opinions on the cause of the economic ruin.

The public service was overmanned, somesaid. The government departments were so clogged with red tape that public works were at a standstill. Others said it was the politicians getting fat on the taxpayers' money whilst families starved. Some said the depression was caused by flash speculation. Others maintained it was a punishment for the folly of excessive overseas borrowing. Everyone had an opinion, and by the time the march set off, the voice of disillusionment was vociferous and loud.

Paddy was amongst those at the head of the procession, behind the leader, who carried a huge wooden cross, nailed to which was the effigy of a man with the wounds of Christ smeared in red paint upon it. Above the head was a placard on which was written ‘Humanity crucified'.

As the procession started to march off, some of the bystanders voiced their outrage at the blasphemy, whilst others, sympathetic to the victims of the crisis, shouted their approval. But the bickering posed no threat of violence and, aside from a brief scuffle with police, the demonstration progressed peacefully to Centennial Hall. There voices were raised in protest and, at the culmination of the proceedings, the Reverend Bavin assured the gathering that God was sympathetic to their predicament, and to remember always that God loved them.

For Paddy it was not enough. God's love had done little for him, he thought. Like many, Paddy was angry. Very angry. The latest bitter pill he'd had to swallow had not been one of his own making.

He had not been responsible for the closure of the Standard Bank of Australia. And whilst many banks had closed, only to reopen again once order had been restored, the Standard Bank of Australia had not been one of them. It had closed its doors for good, it had gone forever, and with it had gone Paddy's money. His and Dotty's nest egg, their security for the future. And Paddy was powerless to do anything about it.

But he would not stand by and see young Daniel, ten years of age, taken from school, deprived of an education because he, Paddy O'Shea, could not buy books for his son. He would not stand by and see his beautiful eighteen-year-old daughter, Kathleen, dressed in rags. And, above all, he would not stand by and see his loyal wife grow thinner and more worn with each day, fretting, scraping together the pennies to feed her family.

Paddy was going to take matters into his own hands. He had a plan.

Paddy would not listen to any more empty promises of God's love. He would commit a crime, and he knew exactly who was to be hisvictim. Charles Kendle. He had made the choice several months previously. The day he'd bumped into Charles's sister, Anne Goodlet.

Every so often Paddy would walk up the hill from the pub to look at his mother's cottage. Just for old time's sake. On this particular day, huddled against a lamp post, the collar of his work shirt turned up against the light drizzle of rain, he watched as a neat woman, tucked beneath an umbrella, opened the gate. She stepped up onto the porch, shook out the umbrella and set it down to dry. It was then, as she took the front-door key from her purse, that Paddy realised, to his surprise, who the woman was.

He called her name. ‘Anne! Anne Goodlet!'

She turned, and he crossed to the gate. ‘Paddy O'Shea?' she queried.

‘The very same.'

‘I've not seen you since Hannah's funeral.'

He nodded. ‘You are living in her cottage?'

‘I own it now. I have done so for nearly a year.'

It was not a boast, there was no triumph in her tone and Paddy felt neither anger nor envy. He had long accepted that he had lost his mother's cottage through his own stupidity.

‘That's good,' he saidsimply. ‘Ma would be pleased.'

Anne found it a very generous statement. Touching too. ‘For goodness' sake, come on out of the rain,' she said, ‘it's going to pour down any minute.' He joined her on the front porch. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?'

‘It would be a pleasure.'

She opened the door into the hall and he followed her through the formal front parlour and into the living room. In one corner stood a dressmaker's dummy clothed in a girl's pretty ball gown, beside it a table with boxes of beads, fine satinribbons and lace. Against the far wall was a large desk upon which sat books and papers, inkwells and pens.

‘You are a dressmaker, Anne?' Paddy asked.

‘Goodness no, I do not have the skill.' It was modesty speaking—Anne had a good eye for design and was a talented embroi-derer with a number of regular customers. Customers who would have their daughters' ball gowns and wedding dresses embroidered by no-one other than Anne Goodlet, whose work was known for its detail and delicacy. Anne's wealthy clients were referred to her by Howard Streatham; it was the least he could do as she refused to accept his financial assistance. ‘No, Paddy, I merely embroider and lacework the finished article.'

‘And you are studying, I see.' Paddy gestured to the desk.

‘No, I take notation.' He appeared a little bemused. ‘There are many people who cannot write and who will pay to have their letters written for them.' She was aware that he was surprised to discover she was working. ‘And I teach reading and writing,' she continued, ‘just the basicskills, as my pupils are mostly children, and immigrants with a poor knowledge of English.' It was important to Anne that Paddy should know she earned her own living. ‘It does not make me a rich woman but I manage to get by.'

Paddy was indeed surprised, he had presumed that her brother Charles was supporting her. He declined her offer to sit in the front parlour whilst she made the tea. ‘I should feel far too grand,' he said, ‘and I'm in my work clothes, it wouldn't beright.' He gestured to his clumsy boots and heavy duty trousers.

Paddy was always in his work clothes these days, but it didn't mean he was working. Each morning he would queue up with the others, sometimes for hours, only to be turned away with, ‘Nuthin' today, fellas, sorry.' Every now and then he'd be one of the few lucky ones to get a day's work, but more often than not he'd miss out, most of them did.

He followed her into the kitchen and watched her bustling around efficiently. What a remarkable change, he thought. Where was the timid colourless creature she had once been? There was an animation about her now, a healthy bloomin her cheeks, a strength of purpose in her actions. Anne Goodlet was a woman no longer unsure of herself.

‘How is your family, Paddy?' Anne enquired, deciding that Paddy O'Shea did not look at all well. Although his body was still huge, still strong, it was apparent that he had lost weight. His face was gaunt and there was worry in his eyes.

‘Fine, fine. I have a son since last we met. Ten he is now. I called him Daniel after Pa, but he gets called Dan mostly.'

They talked about his family whilst she made the tea and then they sat by the living-room windows looking out at the rainwhich was coming down in sheets now. So heavy was it that they could barely see past the little courtyard to the harbour beyond. Strange, they agreed, how summer was Sydney's wettest season.

Talk of the weather and other niceties dwindled as Paddy stared, distracted, out of the window. What was he thinking, Anne wondered, and she decided to be direct. It was an ability she had only recently acquired.

‘Is something troubling you, Paddy?' He looked at her. ‘You seem alittle worried.'

‘These are hard times, everyone's worried.' He realised that his reply had been brusque, even rude, and that she was genuinely concerned. ‘I'm sorry,' he said gently, and he told her about the bank.

Anne was so obviously sympathetic to his plight that Paddy found himself pouring out the whole story. The stupidity of his gambling, the forced sale of the cottage, the collapse of the bank. It was a relief to talk so openly.

‘Tis a devil of a thing, Anne, the gambling lust. Had I not succumbed to it, I would have had no need of the bank, never did trust them anyway. I would still own this very cottage.' He realised how insensitive hisremark must have sounded. ‘No offence intended, I assure you,' he hastily added. ‘If I can't own the place myself, you're the first person I'd wish to see have it, I swear.'

Anne smiled, no offence had been taken. ‘It must have angered you dreadfully when Charles purchased it,' she said. ‘I was always surprised that you did not refuse his offer and wait for another.' She didn't register his stunned reaction as she continued, ‘But now of course I realise—the demands of the bookies would have necessitated a swift transaction.'

‘Kendle purchased it?'

‘Why yes of course. Surely you knew?'

‘No. The real estate fellow said it was a businessman. Ididn't enquire any further.'

Anne wondered whether she should tell Paddy the truth. Yes, she decided, he had a right to know. ‘Iam very much afraid,
Paddy, that you were the sole reason Charles made the acquisition. He boasted of it to his wife. “I have taught Paddy O'Shea a lesson”, that's what he told Amy.'

Paddy stared blankly at her. It had been late on a Friday night when Cocky's heavies had done him over. The cottage had been snapped up first thing Monday morning. He'd blessed his good luck at the time. But it had not been good luck at all. Charles Kendle had known all the while that the cottage would be on the market that very day. The realisation overwhelmed Paddy. It had not been the bookies who called in Cocky. It had been Charles Kendle.

‘I don't know how he did it,' Anne was continuing, ‘but he said that he had planned it, he boasted to Amy that he had. He hates you, Paddy, ever since you attacked him at Hannah's funeral. You humiliated him, and he won't have that.' She sensed his anger, and hoped she would have no cause to regret telling him all this.

‘You must not think of revenge, Paddy. Charles is a vindictive man, and powerful. It will do you no good to retaliate.'

Paddy wasn't listening. He had made a decision. Paddy would steal from Charles Kendle everything that was owed to him, and then he would steal more.

‘Please, Paddy, promise me,' Anne implored.

‘Promise you?' He forced his mind back to the present. He must not rush things, such a crime must be carefully planned, there was plenty of time. ‘Promise you what, Anne?'

‘That you will not attempt revenge. Charles could destroy you. And he would, believe me.'

‘Don't you worry, Anne,' he smiled his reassurance. ‘Don't you worry for one minute. Now tell me,' he changed the subject, ‘how did you come by ownership of the cottage? Your brother didn't give it to you, surely.' It was quite obvious from the tone of her voice when she spoke of him that Anne despised her brother.

‘Yes,' she answered after a moment's pause, ‘he gave itto me.'

‘What,' Paddy said scornfully, ‘from the goodness of his heart?'

‘No. Not from the goodness of his heart. But he gave it to me.' Paddy had been so open with her that Anne felt she owed him an explanation, but she could give him none. She could not tell him the truth. She could tell no-one the truth. ‘Would you like some more tea?'

‘No, thank you.' Her face was flushed, Paddy noticed, as she fiddled with the teapot. He had no wish to distress her. ‘The rain has eased,' he said, looking out of the bay windows. ‘I must be on my way.'

They parted warmly at the door, Paddy promising to visit her again. And Anne watched him from the front porch as, shoulders hunched, collar turned up, he walked down Windmill Street through the rain.

She thought of him a lot that night as she lay in her bed unable to sleep, and she wished she could do something for him. But even if she wanted to, she could hardly give Paddy back his cottage. It was all she had. Not only was it her one financial asset, it was her very sanity. Living alone in the cottage, Anne had come to know a freedom she had never before experienced. And she had come to know a person whom she had never known existed. A person called Anne Goodlet, who was no longer a mere shadow existing on the periphery of other people's lives.

Anne was convinced that the cottage had saved her life, for during the two years prior to her move, there had been days of such black despair that she had found the task of living almost beyond endurance.

It had all started the day of Milly Kendle's visit, when Charles had kissed her and left her standing beside her father's bed, paralysed with shock and shame.

Anne did not know for how long she remained standing there, all she knew was the hideous realisation that her brother desired her. ‘I have your best interests at heart, Anne,' he'd said, but she had seen far more in his eyes than sibling affection. As he had lowered his face to hers, she had seen lust in his eyes. Then his lips had brushed hers with a lover's touch, leaving her in a state of dazed horror.