Great Historical Novels (42 page)

The warden who is assigned to the spinning room is not unfriendly and is finally answering my questions, now that she sees that I can still spin as fast while she’s talking quietly to me. I’ve learnt that the only market for Parramatta cloth in Australia is for prison clothing. I suppose much of the
population of Sydney is clothed in it, then. It is heavy, brown and dowdy, of course, but it is warm. It is winter in Australia while it is summer in Ireland, which still confounds me. I am always cold.

We were set to work the day after we arrived spinning the fleece that comes from the sheep stations north of Sydney. The settlers are paid in cloth, and around four pounds of fleece yields a yard of cloth, so there’s not much in it for them once they’ve paid the surplus of one pound to the government for the cost of manufacture. The Crown is making money from our labour! And this is called free trade.

There are other officers who aren’t as friendly as the spinning-room warden. Nora has now been sent three times to do hard labour in the grounds, for no more than a sideways stare and a grumble. There is no satisfaction in grumbling when you are made to break stones and dig the hard earth as penance. We are denied tea and sugar for minor offences, and I’ve gone without for my blessed interestedness, otherwise known as asking questions of the wrong warden.

The spinning room is dim and airless with a smoky fire at one end. There are several women I know working there – Jane and Nelly and Agnes, and Nora when she isn’t being punished. Pearl is always close by Nelly in a willow cradle that someone gave her, and the baby is growing fat and sweet in spite of the misery around her. Nelly’s soldier has applied to make her his wife. I hope she can leave before Pearl grows out of her cradle.

The women who cannot spin pick the bracken and dagsfrom the fleece, or card the spun wool. The yarn is woven somewhere else in Parramatta, by male convicts on manual looms. Weaving is considered to be men’s work, even here,
as though the simple mechanism of a loom is beyond female comprehension.

There are no mills to provide the power for mechanised looms here. It seems that there are precious few in the entire colony. I occasionally think of what Ryan said to me the night he died, when he came to my room. I thought then that it was a dream. He said it was up to me to send a shipload of Australian wool to my mother. Well, here am I spinning the stuff, but I’m damned if I can see how this gets me any closer to shipping it. The oily feel of the fleece and the action of twirling the yarn between my fingertips onto the spindle is such a familiar action that I cannot keep my thoughts from Greystones. I’ve given up on trying to banish thoughts of home because it is only in imagination and memory that I feel alive. My body is always either cold or tired or hungry. I can conjure all sorts of things now. A meal of porter, coddle and soda bread with Annie Kelly’s yellow butter and blackberries with thick cream. Sometimes I can almost feel the cloth that I once wore and, very rarely, I catch a glimmer of a pattern in my mind’s eye, as though it were dancing just out of reach.

One last thing and then I must sleep, because the bell rings at daybreak and we have only minutes to be ready and at breakfast in the refectory. It is too miserable to be sent to the spinning room hungry as well as cold. The female factory has other functions, besides the spinning of coarse wool. It is a wife market, too, because free men can select a wife from amongst the convict women. None are obliged to leave with their suitors, thank Christ, but I hear that most do, just to be rid of the place.

Agnes has discovered a roaring trade in buttock and twang and, since she means to run her own place when she’s
free, she is keen to have some experience of an Australian brothel. Prostitution is the only means to afford a life outside of the factory, if you have no other skill, and the reason for the number of inmates who return pregnant. Many of the women who are allowed outside the grounds use their leisure time earning a bit extra at their second job. I hear there were several established brothels in Parramatta. I have considered the possibility myself, but am too unskilled.

28 July 1841

I have met a real Australian now, though I wouldn’t tell anyone but you. I’m certain that it was the same gentleman we saw from the Parramatta River the day we arrived, and now I know why he seemed familiar. I’ve seen him before. I saw him first in the photogenic drawing at Cloak Lane. He was the figure amongst the trees. I swear that it was he. I would say this to none but you.

He was standing behind an enormous old tree when we were sent to collect firewood after supper in the grounds. If he hadn’t moved, then I would have thought him part of the tree, because his limbs and his fur cape blended so well into the bark in the twilight. It was as if he was waiting for me. A foolish notion, I know. I would have made a sound, but he put a finger to his lips. He greeted me in English, of sorts, and asked me my name and the name of my ship. If he
was
real, rather than a shadow, then I can’t imagine how he got into the grounds, so I suppose he was a spirit of some kind. This place is swarming with them.

Our property is locked up in one of the stores, to be returned to us when we receive either a ticket of leave, or an offer of marriage. It was easier than I expected to get to my trunk. There are no firm rules against inspecting your own property, and I’ve had my eye on the soldier who guards the stores, and I made sure that he also had his eye on me. The stores are large sheds, made of rough, untreated timber with a corrugated iron roof. The guard is no more than a pimply youth who wears his serge tunic with so much pride that I can tell he’s not yet had reason to think ill of his profession.
I smiled at him last time I was collecting firewood and then I decided to try something. I walked right up to him and asked him if I could see if my trunk was safe. It was almost that easy. He wanted a kiss, of course. I gave him a good kiss on the lips, but he must have thought he could have more, and his hand wandered until I had to slap it away. He was disappointed but, thankfully, kept his part of the bargain. The building is the size of a barn and is stacked from top to bottom with the sorriest collection of luggage you’ve ever seen. There are cracks between and across the wall timbers and a dusty lattice of sunlight fell like a net of light across walls stacked with the belongings of the displaced.

There is an alphabetical system of sorts in place, so we knew where to search, and narrowed it down to looking for a brown card label with my name on it. My old trunk looked shamefully handsome amongst threadbare sacks and patched-up carpet bags and wicker baskets. The soldier pulled it across the floor towards me, and I felt afraid to open it, as though it were Pandora’s box. It is too much a reminder of the past.

The boy had the good grace to go and wait by the door while I took the little key from around my neck and fitted it into the padlock. At first it wouldn’t turn in the lock because it was so rusted up from the sea crossing. But with enough fiddling it sprang open. Inside were the chattels of a forgotten life. I hardly dared touch the pretty gowns and shawls, stays, petticoats, hats, boots and stockings. They belong to someone feminine, refined, not to me with my red raw hands and flea-bitten ankles. Who packed my belongings so carefully and lovingly? It could only have been Antonia. I touched my paints and my ink as though they were lost treasure, and then I saw something else I’d forgotten; the
purse where I kept the few guineas I had saved. It felt heavier. The guard was smoking and not paying me any attention, so I opened the clasp. I counted at least seventy sovereigns in silver. More than I ever earned. 

Parramatta Cloth

Jarrah was standing just out of reach of the light from the lantern on George Street, looking pleased with himself. Michael shook his head. ‘You actually
found
her?’

Jarrah shrugged and smiled, his teeth as white as lamps. ‘She found me, boss, behind a grandfather tree, then the wombat woman shouted at her.’

‘She got in strife, then?’

Jarrah nodded. ‘That’s a bad place.’

‘Damn right. I don’t know how you got so good at finding people. It’s quite a talent.’

Jarrah shrugged. ‘Too much noise here,’ he jabbed his bony finger at Michael’s head, ‘means you don’t hear this,’ he said, poking his belly. ‘Dangerous. You still got that knife?’

‘Of course,’ Michael said. The knife was in his boot and he didn’t go anywhere without it. Jarrah had made it for him. He’d seen a big shark or two in his time, but he had no idea how Jarrah got hold of the tooth of one. It must have been a beast, by the size of the tooth. Michael used to wonder what it was about white men that interested Jarrah enough to work for the constabulary, but then Calvin told him how they’d met. Jarrah was only a boy when his parents were hunted and shot by some young constables who thought the life of a black man was as worthless as their own souls. When Calvin found out what had happened, he had the killers tried for a different
unsolved murder and they were returned to London to rot in Newgate or face the gallows. Rough justice was what most people got here.

Jarrah turned to go. In a blink he would dissolve into the shadows.

‘So I’ll see you by the lagoon at dawn?’ Michael called into the dark.

‘Yes, boss. I’ll be there.’ Jarrah’s grin flashed before he disappeared completely, and Michael continued on his way to the Rocks. He and Jarrah had a little errand to run for Calvin, tracking the missing sailor who knew something about the dead Quaker.

Maggie seemed pleased that he’d decided to ‘stay a spell’ even though she didn’t believe it was just to print one more pamphlet. She knew him too well to ask questions, though. The less she knew, the better for everyone, and she wouldn’t even lose her rent when Michael eventually left. The Stanhope was to be taken over by a Belfast penny-a-liner who’d had a desk at the
Sydney Herald
briefly, before he’d written something cynical about the governor and the cedar trade.

‘Evenin’, Michael.’ Maggie had her feet up on the kitchen table and was smoking a cigarillo and reading a copy of
Pears
’. She imported them for entertainment and loved to tut-tut and shake her head over London frivolity. But at the same time she was examining every detail with deep curiosity; more than was necessary for a woman with such little use for clothing. The slippery cloth of her house gown was hanging either side of her legs, showing her pink stockings and white thighs. Michael couldn’t always command his gaze. His eyes had their own interests.

‘Evening, Maggie. What news?’

‘Oh, I’ve something you’ll like.’

‘That right?’

One of the girls wandered in wearing only stays and frilly bloomers. She poured a cup of stewed tea from the iron kettle, and winked at Michael suggestively before she left. He sighed heavily. ‘I’m not a fucking saint,’ he called after her, but she just giggled and wagged her arse at him.

‘It’s finally picked up down at the junction,’ said Maggie. ‘One of the Smith boys was in seeing Fran, full of rum and talk, and said he needed extra because they’d soon be working all the nights God made and he wouldn’t see a cunny for that long.’

‘How long?’

‘Well, Michael, for a boy that age, a week might seem like he’s being a saint, whereas for you, it’s taken years.’

‘That’s amusing, Maggie. And thanks for the tip.’

‘That’s not all. There’s someone been asking after you down at the quay.’

Michael was immediately alert. ‘Who?’

‘A ship’s boy, according to my man. His name’s Albert and he came in on a transport called
Rajah
.’

Michael stood up. ‘That’s something needs attending to directly. I’ll be back before you close your shutters – I’ve some work to do downstairs.’

Maggie shook her head and tut-tutted. ‘I’ll leave the back door on the latch. Be careful, would you?’

The Portcullis at Circular Quay was the most popular of the seafront taverns because it was the first to refill its casks with Jamaican when a ship came in from the South Americas. Michael still habitually stayed clear of the public houses along the quay which had once reminded him too much of freedom.

The room was dim, with too few lanterns hanging from the
rafters. It smelt as rank as any place full of seafaring men, in spite of the rum fumes and tobacco. Michael ordered a jar, then packed his pipe and settled in to listen to the talk. There were several barefoot lads in canvas breeches behind him, proud of their adventures on various trading craft and transports, and someone was boasting about an encounter with Chinese pirates. The
Rajah
was the only vessel Michael knew of that had recently had a run-in with a junk. He sauntered over.

‘Evening, lads.’

‘Evenin’ to you,’ said the only boy brave enough to speak. The others looked as though they expected trouble.

‘Which of you lads came in on the
Rajah
?’

‘James here was the steward,’ said the boy.

Michael turned his attention to an older, sunburnt lad who looked worried. ‘I hear there was some trouble on your transport?’

‘That’s right, but we saw to it,’ he said with false bravado.

‘I’m not talking about the pirates, I’m talking about the murder.’

The boy looked frightened. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

‘Do you know where I can find the ship’s mate, Albert?’

‘He’s a wharfie. He’ll be at the last pier. There’s a clipper put in from Ceylon.’

Michael left the tavern and walked along the quay. The yellow gaslight lent the activity along the wharves an eerie, jaundiced rhythm. There was only one other ship in, besides the one at the end of the quay, but there were still navvies heaving sacks and crates about, and a herd of merino getting in the way of everything.