Daughter of Australia (9 page)

A
t the turn of the century, Perth could not compare to its splendid rivals across the continent, but to Ghan this was the biggest city in the world. And as he left the bush behind and passed the houses that grew in size and frequency and proximity to one another, he entered the city as a man braces for a hurricane, with body stooped and eyes shielded.

In no time, the buggies and weighted supply drays and the formidable Cobb & Co stagecoaches swallowed up the humble noises from his horses and wobbly wagon. The momentum of the city shook from all sides, assaulting Ghan's senses until direction blurred. The reins pulled tight, wrapped under his strained knuckles as he worked to hold the panicked horses against street-savvy carriages and trams that honked like geese and veered close, blasting exhaust, gray and heavy, into their nostrils.

Ghan grabbed his hat, wiped his face with it, traveled the streets until he found the Dayton Hotel, as large and grand as a ship, a line of black buggies lining the entrance. He took his place in the queue.

A man dressed in a dark gray suit with tails and a large top hat ran from the gilded doors, blowing hard into a whistle. “Get out of here!” he shouted. “Where you think you're going with that thing?”

Ghan grimaced at the red-cheeked man, the whistle an inch from his lips again. “Pickin' up my passenger!” Ghan hollered.

The man scoffed, “No guest here is riding in the likes of that! Go on now. I don't have time for games. Move this bloody thing out!”

“Not leavin' wivout my passenger,” Ghan said stubbornly. “Go on an' look him up. An American—last name Fairfield.”

“Fairfield, you say?” He turned and blew his whistle until a sweaty bellboy came fast as a lapdog. “Go see if Mr. Fairfield's expecting anyone?” Then he turned back to Ghan and pointed his finger. “Five minutes, then I'm calling the police.”

Before the deadline passed, a man with a white suit, white hat and trim, neat white beard sauntered from the wide doors looking at a pocket watch. His arm linked with a thin woman who was a full head and shoulder taller. The whistle blower bowed to the couple and bent to hear the man, nodded with innocent surprise before pointing sharply at Ghan and blowing madly into the whistle. The other buggies pranced forward, made a U to the end of the line. “Christ, 'ere we go,” Ghan muttered.

Before Ghan could descend, the bags were loaded on the wagon. The tall woman, dressed in blue silk with layers of fabric in darker shades of the same, was stiff, looked older than she probably was. A white-gloved hand pressed against her lips. She didn't try to hide her disgust and glared at her husband, pulled her arm out of his.

“Now, now,” Mr. Fairfield said appeasingly.

“Don't ‘now, now' me! Where's your carriage?” She didn't give him a chance to answer and tapped the shoulder of the top-hat man. “Where's his carriage? I would think your hotel would have better sense than to leave the lane open for vagrants.”

Instinctively, he put the whistle in his mouth like a pacifier, and she slapped it from his lips. “I want an answer, not a whistle from your blow toy!”

“Eleanor, please,” Mr. Fairfield soothed as he took her hand. “We spoke about this. They'll never give me a fair price if they see me riding in on one of those coaches. Besides, it's only a short trip.” He prodded Ghan with peaked eyebrows. “Isn't that right, sir?”

Ghan cleared his throat. “Be there by nightfall.”

The man winked gratefully, turned back to his wife. “You see, dear?”

Her lips twisted back and forth. “I don't like it. I don't like it at all, Owen.” She set her eyes on Ghan and turned her mouth in unbridled revulsion, spoke as if he had no ears instead of one. “You don't even know this . . .
this man
. He could rob you blind, then leave you stripped at the side of the road. Then what would you do? For God's sake, Owen! I'll be a nervous wreck.” Her American accent was rough and stern, loud like a man's.

“I'll wire you from the train station. All right?”

She stuck out her chin. “You'll wear your hat? I won't be seen with a human beet as a husband, you know.”

“Of course, dear.”

She tapped her foot. “You'll wire me from the station?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Four weeks? Not a day more?”

“Not a second past.”

Mr. Fairfield craned his neck and kissed her on the cheek. “Good-bye, dear.” Then the whistle man took his hand and helped him onto the deck next to Ghan.

Out of the corner of his mouth, Mr. Fairfield whispered, “Just drive.” Ghan stirred the horses quickly and the American mocked surprise with the sudden thrust, gripping on to the sideboard. He blew a kiss to his wife. “Love you, dear. I'll wire you at every stop.” Ghan peeked back long enough to see Mrs. Fairfield pull her lace collar higher up her throat and scan the street, mortified she might be associated with the old wagon and cripple.

Ghan ignored his passenger, held his breath as he worked the horse through the choking streets. Sweat poured from his forehead as he dodged men and beasts and the moving, burping metals weaving around them, his concentration so tight between his blinders that he only saw what was directly in front. The outskirts of town grew steadily, widening and revealing more sky above buildings, buildings that were finally beginning to shrink instead of tower.

The two men rode in silence through the changing lanes of city and country. Ghan's eardrums opened from their clenched state and welcomed the fresh air, where sounds did not bounce over one another and boom in between buildings and hooves. The wagon crested a small hill and its slight rise made the city feel a million miles away. Ghan finally allowed his lungs to expand in the wide space. His body slumped and he pushed his hat high upon his head.

“Don't care for the city, do you?” asked his passenger. Ghan looked up, startled. Mr. Fairfield sat erect, watching him. His back did not touch the seat and his hands kept company on his lap. The man laughed. “Your shoulders were creeping past your ears, man.”

Ghan consciously lowered his shoulders, relaxed his muscles. “Just not used to it.”

Mr. Fairfield stretched like a lazy cat in the sun. He unbuttoned his jacket and threw it into the wagon bed, then unsnapped his stiff collar with a sigh and threw that into the dirt. He rubbed his neck. His fingers found the turn of the thick onyx cuff links and plucked them off, shoving them deep into hip pockets. Left to right, he rolled up his sleeves, then pulled out a pouch of tobacco and pile of papers. He sprinkled the tobacco onto a sheet, rolled it tight and licked the seal. “Smoke?” He offered it to Ghan, who shook his head again.

“Yer wife's right.” Ghan eyed the man's white forearms. “Sun'll burn yeh crisp.”

“I'll manage,” he said good-naturedly. “I'm not supposed to smoke, either. She says it makes me smell like a chimney.” He rubbed a sulfur match on the splintered wood and brought the blue flame to the pinched end of the cigarette. “I plan to smoke every inch of the journey.”

“Fair dinkum. Yer right as a man,” Ghan said.

“Spoken like a true bachelor, Mr. . . .”

“Ghan.”

“Ghan, huh? You a Turk?”

“Naw. Used to drive the camels like the Afghans.”

Mr. Fairfield nodded and continued, “Of course, my wife is right about most things. But sometimes a man doesn't want to be right. He wants to be wrong and wants to try and get away with it like a snot-nosed adolescent. Silly, I know. Childish, but I can't help it. At the end of the day, I take my scolding and a kiss on the forehead.” The feebleness of voice was left back in Perth and his accent was light and carefree, if not husky. He smoked between easy smiles. “You ever been to America, Ghan?” he asked.

“Naw. Never been outside Australia.”

“Well, I've been around the world several times over and I'll tell you something, Ghan: Australia and America are about the most similar two countries can be.”

Ghan tried to soak in the comparison.

“It's true,” Mr. Fairfield explained. “Our two countries are the infants of the world, half sisters, really. We share the same mother England, but she got loose hips and invited men from Europe to father the rest of us until we're such a melting pot you can't tell who's got whose blood anymore. Except for the natives, of course.”

Ghan listened to the accent, the flow of speech, the quickness and confidence of the man's tongue, as much as he did to the words. Maybe it was three days without company, but Ghan liked the way this man talked, liked the blend of words, their foreign dance.

“Australia and America are huge,” continued Mr. Fairfield, addressing an invisible sea of listeners. “Got our towns and best land in the east and west, and dry land—the wheat and desert—in the middle. We both got the best beef cattle in the world and the toughest men herding them. No difference between our cowboys and your drovers—tough, sun-baked men as quick and handy with a whip as with a whore. Those are men who are men, who make mateship a religion. I'm a lady comparatively.” Mr. Fairfield stopped suddenly and cocked his head. “I'm not chatting your ear off too much, am I, Ghan? Give me the word and I'll shut up.”

They were quiet for a minute before the man started up again, languidly this time. “It's nice being in a country where they speak English.” Mr. Fairfield turned to Ghan. “Know what makes our accents so different? Australians always sound like they're asking a question and Americans always sound like they got the answer.” He laughed hard. “Yes, sir, Americans got an answer for everything.”

The American put his shiny calf leather shoes on the footboard. “You've never heard of me, have you?”

Ghan shook his head.

“Would it surprise you to know that most people have? You see, Ghan, I'm a very rich man,” he said without affectation. “Never set out to be rich, though. Studied to be a geologist. Always had a fascination for rocks and earth, the streams of minerals and the pressures that can harden rocks into diamonds or soften them to oil. Seems I had a knack for sniffing out hot spots. Before I knew it, I had a copper mine in Utah, a coal mine in Pennsylvania and a silver mine in Nevada. Got mines all over the world now.

“So, that brings me to why I'm here with you,” Mr. Fairfield explained. “I'm looking to expand in Australia. I've been watching this gold rush with open eyes. Saw the same thing happen in California not long ago and I know where this is leading.”

“Afraid yer too late,” Ghan noted. “Bush is already burstin' wiv big minin' companies. Can't be too much gold left.”

The American nodded in agreement. “Exactly, my friend. I don't want the gold. All these men working with their picks are blind to anything but the gold. Let them keep it. I want the nickel, the ore, the stuff that don't shine but the stuff the world needs way more than gold.”

Mr. Fairfield pulled an elbow back, inspected him. “What's your manager like? Mr. Matthews.”

Ghan rolled his eyes. “Bastard's a piece a work.”

“How so?”

“Lazy. Mean fella.” A sly look crept across his face. “Guess yeh can't blame 'im.”

The man leaned forward expectantly. “Do tell!”

“Well, Mr. Matthews got a big ol' house not far from the mine an' his wife is always comin' down sayin' this or that is broken—pipes, waterspout, door hinge. Always wiv the whinin'. So, Mr. Matthews gotta dig up a miner from the pit an' send him to the house.”

The American scrunched up his face. “Can't the guy fix his own place?”

“S'not his house needs the fixin', yeh see.” Ghan gave a sharp wink. “Mrs. Matthews gets the servicin', if yeh know whot I mean.”

“You're pulling my leg.”

“Strike me down dead if I am! Each bloke sent to the house comes back skippin' like he got a mouthful o' sugar. She ain't picky, either. One day, Matthews sent one-eyed Earl over an' when he got back, his one eye was stretched so full wiv twinklin', yeh thought the scarred one gonna pop wide open!”

“That's a good story, my friend.” Mr. Fairfield closed his mouth, clicked his tongue against his teeth and raised his eyebrows mischievously. “A very good story.”

The men sat silently for a spell, sucking in thoughts and breathing them back out through the nose. “Mind if I ask yeh somepin?” Ghan scratched the stub of his missing ear. “Why'd yeh bring yer wife wiv yeh? Ain't she gonna be all alone?”

“She's heading to an orphanage up the coast from Geraldton.” The skin of the man's face sagged, his voice quieted. “We're adopting a little girl.”

E
leanor Fairfield arrived at the orphanage with an entourage of high, stiff collared and scissor-trimmed mustached men. The three lawyers surrounded her in a triangle of dark gray suits, but the woman rose in the middle, long and thin, dressed in green emerald from ankle to throat, a ribbed line of white lace blooming under her chin, and it was not hard to tell who held the power.

“Mrs. Fairfield,” greeted Father McIntyre as she emerged from the group. “Welcome.”

She offered the priest her hand, gave a limp bend of the wrist as a handshake. Scanning the priest, she made obvious note of the wrinkles in the cassock, the day-old stubble. “Father McIntyre,” she acknowledged. “This is Mr. Newton, Esquire.”

The two men shook hands and she did not bother to introduce the other two lawyers clutching matching black leather briefcases locked with brass clasps. Father McIntyre swept the way with his hand. “Shall we?”

Eleanor Fairfield rivaled Father McIntyre for height. She was not an old woman, but she held the toughness of old meat in the set jaws of her face, and had there been no expression she could have been described as pretty; however, a rigid line ran from her hairline down the bridge of the nose and spread to curveless lips, squeezing away any natural beauty.

“What part of America are you from?” asked Father McIntyre, trying to make up for his slovenly appearance.

“Pennsylvania. Pittsburgh.”

“Ah, yes. I've heard of it.” He smiled dully as he pulled two wooden chairs to wing the leather ones already planted in front of the desk.

“So,” he began formally. “I understand you would like to adopt a child from us. A girl, is that right? Do you have an age in mind?” The words had become mechanical.

“I'm interested in meeting Leonora.”

“Leonora?” Father McIntyre blinked.

“We've been researching the children available for adoption all along your West and believe she is best suited.”

“Why is that?”

“It's not important,” she said, flicking her hand. “Is she bright?”

“Yes.” He tensed with her tone. “Very bright.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She leaned her shoulders back slightly. “I'd like to meet her now.”

Father McIntyre cleared his throat. “I must tell you, Mrs. Fairfield, there's an adoption pending for Leonora.”

“Why wasn't I aware of this?” she snapped at Mr. Newton. The man twitched and glared at the other lawyers, each slumping. Mrs. Fairfield rolled her eyes, turned back to the priest. “No matter. I'd like to meet her.”

Father McIntyre found himself standing and moving like a trained puppy down to Sister Louise's class. He opened the door in interruption, nodded to the nun and motioned to the little girl in the back row. “Leonora, please come with me.” The children watched her closely as she passed between desks and took Father McIntyre's hand.

Back in the office, he introduced her gently: “Leonora, this is Mrs. Fairfield. She was interested in meeting you.”

Eleanor Fairfield raised her chin above the lace and passed her eyes over the girl. “Turn around, please!” she ordered.

With shuffled steps, Leonora turned in a small circle.

“She's pretty,” the woman assessed with certainty, not compliment. “How old are you?”

Mrs. Fairfield cocked her head at the child's silence. “I asked you how old you are.”

“She's eight.” Father McIntyre smiled softly at the girl. “She's very shy, Mrs. Fairfield. She rarely speaks.”

“Well, I suppose that could actually be a benefit. A quiet tongue is better than a loose one.” She passed her eyes over the girl again. “All right. You may go.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “I've seen enough.”

Leonora searched the priest. “Thank you, Leonora,” he said. “You can go back to class.”

When the door closed and the child's footsteps had faded away, Mrs. Fairfield folded her hands. “I'll take her.”

Father McIntyre disliked the woman, the fact settling affirmatively in his lower abdomen. “I already told you, Mrs. Fairfield. . . .” He paused indulgently. “Leonora is unavailable.”

Her eyes glinted. “You did not say she was unavailable, Father McIntyre. You said she had an adoption pending. Be clear with your words, sir,” she warned.

“To me,” he said with his own warning, “they clearly mean the same thing.”

“Has a contract been signed?”

“Yes.”

“How much did they pay?”

He squirmed before the words came. “A good home for a child is payment enough.”

“Huh!” She smiled for the first time. “Then she is quite available.” She tapped her purse. “I'll pay twenty-five thousand dollars for her.”

Father McIntyre froze, his eyes growing helplessly.

The woman smiled again. “That's a lot of money, isn't it, Father McIntyre? The church would give a priest a hefty promotion for bringing in that kind of money, don't you think?”

His Adam's apple rubbed against his collar. “I have no interest in personal ambition.”

“Of course not!” She laughed and met the crinkled eyes of the lawyers. “No man of God ever has eyes for himself.”

His face set sternly. “Believe what you want, but the children are my only interest.”

Eleanor Fairfield nodded slowly, a thin grin curving the corners of her mouth. “Then I suppose it would not interest you that you may be out of a job soon. Bishop Ridley is looking to close the orphanage.” Every pupil tracked the priest's face in the dense silence.

Father McIntyre's feet chilled below the desk. He did not breathe; his body did not shift; only his eyelids batted spastically.

The glint grew in her eye with the priest's pallor. “You've either made some enemies in high places or done little to please your superiors, Father McIntyre.” She petted the pearl buttons of the purse like it was a cat. “I'm sure twenty-five thousand dollars would show the Bishop that the orphanage is worth saving.”

“The orphanage is made of stone and mortar,” he answered quietly. “And can crumble into dust at God's whim.” He brought ice to his gaze and continued through clenched teeth, “A child is worth saving. Leonora
is
worth saving. Your money's no good here, Mrs. Fairfield. Leonora's happiness is not for sale.”

“Ah, such godly sentiment! I'm very touched, Father McIntyre.” A throaty cackle escaped the woman as she dabbed at an imaginary tear. “But what about the other children here? Surely, their happiness, their security, is worth something.” Her eyebrows rose sadistically. “Or perhaps . . . you hold special feelings for pretty little Leonora?”

Father McIntyre's lips blanched. “How dare you—”

“I speak purely of devotion, of course,” she interrupted, then swatted the air to clear it. She tilted her neck, studied him calmly. “Believe it or not, Father, we both want the same thing for Leonora even if our means might differ. I can provide her with a life most children could only dream of. She will have wealth. She will get a superior education. She will see the world and have a family name that is rich in heritage and esteem.” She paused. “You should be thanking me, Father. You know the fate that awaits orphans, especially girls like Leonora.”

A flicker of kindness lit her face only to be smashed by something that had no patience for empathy. “Let's assume for a moment, under some grace of God or blind stupidity, you deny us adoption rights for Leonora. You could keep her within your protective sight, but the age limit for residence is sixteen, so then what? Her options are to be married off to some vagabond with no future or to work as a barmaid in a seedy pub.”

“You forget about the couple who want to adopt her,” he reminded.

“And
you
forget that the people who come here are poor. She'll be put to work. It'll be a hard life for the child.”

The room fell silent. Father McIntyre felt the words, the truth of Leonora's future, like a pulse. A bead of sweat trickled from his temple and rolled under his ear. The hands of her destiny were shifting and he held the crank.

Eleanor nodded as if he had answered a hanging question. She relaxed her shoulders, tamed her voice. “The contract for Leonora's pending adoption is of no issue. Mr. Newton will find the holes in it and you won't face any liabilities even if the adopters decide to argue, not that they would have the money to fight it legally anyway. It's a non-issue really. Tell them whatever pleases you. It's no concern of mine.” She flapped the words off in the air like a bad smell.

“My lawyers will draw up our own contract and you will sign it, along with the Bishop,” she continued. “I'll be staying north of Geraldton for the next month. You can come there to sign the papers. At that time, all records on the child must be relinquished with no copies left behind. Are we clear?” She did not wait for an answer. “I'll send a tutor who will work with her until we depart in a few months. Leonora has two months to drop the accent and learn ours perfectly. She'll be taught proper etiquette and our family history. We haven't much time.”

“What if she can't meet your demands?” he asked bitterly.

“Why, Father,” she cooed. “Have ye no faith?”