Girl of Shadows (10 page)

Friday had told her about James Downey getting himself a maid of all work, and Sarah had been wondering how Harrie felt about it. A prostitute, too. Actually, an ex-prostitute according to Friday, but Sarah expected the news wasn’t sitting comfortably with Harrie. Well, she’d been warning Harrie for months Downey would lose interest if she continued to spurn him, and obviously now he had, because what bachelor paid an attractive girl to live in and just starch his collars?

Harrie flapped her hand in a half-hearted attempt at dismissal, then nodded and choked out another sob. ‘That, and Matthew Cutler.’

Sarah frowned; the name was familiar. ‘Who?’

Upstairs raised but muffled voices could be heard.

‘Matthew Cutler, the other gentleman on the
Isla
. Remember, he gave Friday his address to give to me?’

‘Oh yes, your admirer. What about him?’

Harrie’s face, already pink from weeping, flushed a deep red. ‘I’ve invited him to afternoon tea. This Saturday.’

Sarah gasped and laughed at the same time. ‘Harrie Clarke, you hussy! How forward of you! And you, of all people, Miss Prissy-Skirts!’

‘Oh, don’t,’ Harrie pleaded.

‘Will you actually go?’ Sarah knew what it must have cost Harrie to ask Matthew Cutler, and what measure it was of her jealousy regarding James.

‘Yes. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘That’ll teach him, won’t it?’ Sarah said.

‘Who?’

‘You know very well who. You can’t fool me, Harrie.’

Harrie stared at her, opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again and concentrated on folding her handkerchief into a neat, ever-diminishing square. On the floor above something thumped, and a door slammed.

Finally she said, ‘Well, he should have thought twice before taking on a whore as a house girl.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘Harrie, this isn’t like you. You don’t even know this girl. She might be perfectly nice.’

Harrie’s sour expression clearly conveyed her appraisal of that likelihood. ‘And there’s another thing. I saw Bella Jackson in Princes Street, when I went to see Matthew. And she saw me. It … it unsettled me.’

‘God, really? That must have given you a fright.’

‘If she knows what we did,’ Harrie said, her voice rising, ‘why doesn’t she damn well
do
something? This waiting and waiting for something to happen is sending me
insane
.’

Sarah moved around the table and gave Harrie a quick hug. ‘Hush, love. And I know. I think that’s the point. It’s supposed to.’

Eyes filling with tears again, Harrie looked up at her. ‘But I don’t know how much longer I can stand it, Sarah. I really don’t.’

‘Leave the clearing up for a minute, Harrie,’ George Barrett said. ‘Sit down. I’d like a word. Go away, kids. Shoo.’

Harrie glanced at Nora, who raised her eyebrows, mystified, and sat down again at the small dining table around which the Barrett family and Harrie squeezed themselves at meal times.

‘I’ve had an idea,’ George announced.

Oh no, Harrie thought; George often had ideas, frequently to do with making money, and they weren’t always good ones. The most recent had involved using the skins from rats caught by Angus the cat to manufacture gloves, hat-bands and purses, and passing
them off as articles made from ‘genuine’ tree-bear hides to a vendor in George Street market. Being of inferior quality they’d quickly disintegrated and the stallholder was still vigorously pursuing a refund of his investment.

‘What is it this time?’ Nora asked warily.

‘It’s regarding Harrie’s remarkable talents as a pattern-drawer,’ George said. ‘Hannah, I said
go away
! I can see you over there!’

Harrie knew it couldn’t be to do with her designs he’d said he was sending to England — they would take four months to get there by ship, and any potential response at least another four months to arrive back.

‘I was down on the waterfront today, near the Commissariat Stores,’ George went on, deliberately not looking at his wife, whose face had taken on a very pinched expression, her mouth a straight, white line. ‘And I happened to run into a friend.’

‘Really?’ Nora said contemptuously. ‘What was her name?’

Harrie felt herself reddening. According to Friday, there was a brothel of very ill repute on lower George Street near the Stores; surely Nora couldn’t be alluding to that?

‘It was Leonard Dundas, actually, Nora,’ George replied, though his own face had gone pink. ‘He was telling me he’s so busy at the moment he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s getting more and more coming into the shop and can barely keep up, and was saying he’d like to offer more variety but doesn’t have the time to develop that side of the business. So
I
thought, well, we’ve got the perfect remedy to that problem right here, haven’t we?’ He beamed, thrilled by his own cleverness. ‘I had a word and he’s willing to pay, and given how good Harrie is at what she does, we’ll be quids in. We’re going to see him this afternoon.’

Harrie was alarmed; and Nora didn’t seem any happier.

‘That’s all very well, but what am
I
supposed to do if Harrie’s off working somewhere else? What about the children? What about
my
business?’

‘Well, you’ll just have to work harder, won’t you?’ George shrugged. ‘Lewis is almost three months old now — surely he doesn’t need your attention
all
the time?’

Harrie leant back in her chair, ready to dive out of the way if necessary. She’d seen Nora Barrett lose her temper before; it was a rare occurrence, but always spectacular.

Nora’s face was white, except for a vivid red patch on each cheek. She took a deep, controlled breath, her nostrils flaring. ‘No, George, if you expect me to continue with my business,
and
manage the children and the household without Harrie,
you
will have to help look after Lewis.’

George gave an incredulous laugh. ‘Me?’

‘Yes. You can have him on
your
side of the shop.
I’ll
feed him because I’m the one with the tits, but you can burp him and put him down for his naps and when he shits his clout,
you
can change it. And
you
can do all his bloody laundry as well.’

Harrie was astounded. Surely Nora didn’t mean that? George didn’t know the first thing about looking after an infant.

George shoved back his chair and stood up. ‘I’ve never heard anything so bloody ridiculous in all my life!’ Grabbing his hat, he marched across the parlour, kicked the wall for good measure, and stamped downstairs.

Nora and Harrie stared after him.

Eventually Nora said, ‘I’m sorry, Harrie. That’s been coming for a while.’

‘It’s all right.’ Harrie rubbed pointlessly at a jam stain on the tablecloth. ‘What exactly does Leonard Dundas do, Nora?’

‘Leo? Well, I believe he was a sailor for about thirty years, but these days he’s a tattooist.’

The lower end of George Street, terminating just prior to Dawes Point, was Sydney’s maritime heart. In recent years new wharves had appeared, extending like rigidly accusing fingers into Darling
Harbour at the end of Market Street and near Campbell and Goulburn streets, but the area below the Rocks continued to bustle with industry connected to the sea — warehouses, chandlers and provisioners, sail- and rope-makers, sailors’ lodging houses, pubs and brothels — and sheltered Sydney Cove bristled with ships at anchor.

Near the Commissariat Stores on George Street stood one-, two- and three-storey buildings, including the fire station and those that until not long before had housed the town’s first post office and the
Sydney Gazette
. The Stores themselves sat right on the water’s edge, waves breaking against the barnacle-encrusted pilings of the wooden walkway fronting the severe, triple-storey brick edifice. Nearby King’s Wharf reached a short distance out into the cove and, a little farther north towards Dawes Point, lay the dockyard and busy Campbell’s Wharf.

Leonard Dundas’s tattoo shop was on the west side of George Street, down an alley wide enough only for foot traffic, tucked into the side of a hotel named the Sailors’ Grave. According to George, who hadn’t stopped talking since they’d left Gloucester Street, Leo had been leasing the trio of small rooms for the past ten years.

The shop door was open but beside it, hooked over a nail driven into the mortar between the bricks, was a sign saying
CLOSED
. Across the doorway hung a curtain of dried bamboo reeds rattling gently in the afternoon breeze. Painted on the curtain was the most stunning image of a flower in colours of flame orange, bright yellow, indigo blue, purple and sage green. Harrie slowed to admire it but George barged straight through, sending the reeds skittering in all directions.

Harrie followed, preparing to adjust to dim light inside, but the interior was unexpectedly well lit. She turned in a circle and saw that a ledge had been built right around the wall at a height of about four feet, and on the ledge sat six Sinumbra lamps, three of which were blazing brightly.

The room was just large enough to comfortably accommodate an odd-looking Windsor chair with flat, wide arms, a waist-height wooden bench, a small cabinet, a full-length looking glass, two stools and, incongruously, an elegant wheeled tea trolley. On this were arrayed a collection of long needles, pots of colour pigment, squares of lint, paper, several drawing pencils and a bottle of what looked suspiciously like smelling salts. On the white-washed brick walls were displayed floor to ceiling an overwhelming selection of designs rendered on parchment, paper and fabric, including: hearts and daggers; anchors and sailing ships; pigs and roosters; mermaids and stars; swallows, bluebirds and eagles; sharks and whales; snakes and dragons; skulls and crossbones; turtles and octopuses; crossed cannon; flags of many nations; religious insignia; beautiful exotic designs made up of lines and swirls; and the words
HOLD FAST
in at least a dozen styles of script.

But there was no sign of Leonard Dundas.

George took off his hat, ducked through a doorway and called, ‘Leo? Leo, it’s George Barrett!’

Something stirred overhead. Harrie heard feet creaking down wooden stairs and a moment later a man followed George into the room.

He was tall, perhaps five feet ten or eleven inches, wiry, muscled and old. His long hair — tied back in a cue — was silver-grey, as were his moustache and short beard. The skin on his face, hands and arms, revealed by the rolled sleeves of his grey shirt, was so weathered it resembled tanned leather and deep creases lined his face and surrounded his pale grey eyes. He wore a small gold hoop in each ear just below a miniature tattoo of a star, and on one forearm was a very faded image of a turtle. His long feet were bare; on one was tattooed a pig and on the other a rooster.

‘Leo, this is Harrie Clarke,’ George announced.

Leonard Dundas eyed Harrie disapprovingly. He wiped his hands on his faded duck trousers and grudgingly offered her the
right one. Across the tops of his fingers were tattooed the letters
FAST
; on the fingers of his left hand she glimpsed
HOLD
. She shook the hand gingerly; already she didn’t like him.

‘This is a lass,’ he barked at George.

‘I know,’ George replied cheerfully.

‘You said it’d be a lad.’

‘I’m not sure I made mention either way,’ George said quickly. ‘But think of the advantages, Leo. She’d be a drawcard, don’t you think? A pretty face like hers?’

Harrie cringed inwardly; she felt like a cow George Barrett might be attempting to sell in Campbell Street’s new cattle market.

‘I couldn’t have a lass here.’ Leo looked Harrie up and down again. ‘Not one like her — not with my customers. Too rough.’

‘But you could advertise the designs as having been drawn by a girl, though, couldn’t you? Think of the novelty!’

‘Can’t see that helping,’ Leo snapped. ‘Women are unlucky at sea.’

Harrie noted George’s smile getting more and more strained.

‘Well, could you at least give her a trial?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘Could she not even do just one tiny sketch? She’s very good.’

Leo crossed his arms, eyes narrowed. ‘If I let her draw something, will you leave me alone to get on with my work?’

George was already at the tea trolley gathering up paper and a pencil. He thrust them at Harrie. ‘What do you want her to draw?’ he asked Leonard.

‘What the hell does it matter? I don’t know. A mermaid will do.’

Offended by the rudeness of both men, Harrie said, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’

‘Why not?’ George demanded, his voice squeaking slightly as the easy profit he’d envisioned from this venture fluttered ever closer to the window.

‘Because I’ve never seen one.’

The corners of Leo’s mouth twitched.

‘What
have
you seen, then?’ George asked in desperation. ‘A goat? You must have seen one of those. Yes, draw a goat.’

‘No.’ Leo shook his head. ‘What sailor would want a bloody goat tattooed on his arm? Be reasonable, man.’

‘An angel?’ Harrie suggested. ‘I could draw one of those.’

Leo’s interest was finally piqued. ‘Oh, you’ve seen an angel, have you?’

‘I might have.’

‘Is that right? Well, away you go, then.’

Harrie sat in the wooden chair and, resting the paper on the wide arm, worked for five or six minutes. She drew Rachel’s lovely face, long silky hair and lithe body, but when she came to the wings she found herself sketching an enormous pair of bat wings rather than those you would expect to see on an angel. The effect, however, was somehow right. She handed the finished image to Leo Dundas.

He studied it for some moments. ‘Have you ever seen something called the
Book of Kells
?’

Harrie said no.

Opening the little cabinet, he ferreted around among the books and papers inside then passed her an illustration. Harrie gasped; it was possibly the most breathtaking image she’d ever seen.

Leonard said, ‘The
Book of Kells
is the most beautifully illuminated manuscript in the history of man. This is a hand-painted reproduction of a single page. Do you see the triple spiral at the bottom there on the left? Can you copy that?’