A HAZARD OF HEARTS (15 page)

Miraculously the storm had ceased. The wind lost
its force while thunder and lightning rolled on inland, leaving a wrack of
cloud and a fitful moon to light the damage left behind. But Pearl had turned
her back on the wreck. Her inner voice fell into rhythm with her kicking legs.
Concentrate. Push. Kick. Grip the spar with unfeeling fingers. Check Jo-Beth’s
face was out of the water. Peer over the next wave. Concentrate. Push. Kick.

Her cold hands slipped from the spar and she
floundered, thrashing about wildly until she could hook her arms over the piece
of wood that was all she had. She peered despairingly ahead, seeing only the
ravening waves falling upon the rocks. Her head, so heavy. Her face, cut and
stinging. Her throat raw with salt. Were her legs still there? She couldn’t
feel them. Surely she’d drifted in a bit more. What was that ahead in the
waves? What was it?

A moment later she identified the object as a
cask, bobbing madly, with three people clinging on while attempting to climb up
on it. But it couldn’t support their combined weight, and now they were
battling for life, one with an arm around another’s throat while the third man
took advantage of the throttling to raise a marlin spike and strike. Pearl’s
spar tumbled with her down into a wave hollow and when she emerged there were
only two men clutching the cask. Two heads turned towards her, their
expressions frighteningly blank. Suddenly Pearl could feel her legs again. She
kicked hard, trying to steer her unwieldy spar away from the men.

‘Hey. Wait. Help us.’ The voice was rough,
imperative.

Pearl wanted to say she had no energy left to
help anyone, that the spar couldn’t hold a third person, but her voice wouldn’t
come.

‘Chink bitch. Get her.’

A pair of naked arms stretched out to grasp the
spar, dragging it dangerously down in the water. Pearl felt her braid gripped
and jerked as the sea closed over her. The next moment she was afloat again, in
her ears a furious chattering and the man’s curses as he struggled to free
himself from Peanut’s clinging paws. Pearl’s hand snaked under her jacket. A
second later the man gave an anguished howl and floundered backward, his
bloodied knuckles to his mouth. Peanut leaped to Pearl’s shoulder as she raised
her knife, waiting. But the man was already two yards away making clumsily for
the keg, his curses swamped in the seas breaking over him. His companion waited
with the marlin spike raised. Then a wave hid them from Pearl’s view.

She checked that Jo-Beth was safe before sliding
the knife back into place, utterly exhausted. It was too hard, too far to go.
She had nothing left in her. Yet when she next craned her neck over a wave top
the shore had risen up to meet them. Rocks menaced to the left but a trick of
the current had taken the spar closer to the beach where sand sloped up to
rough grass. She kicked feebly, feeling the undertow suck at her body. Now the
waves had flattened and lengthened into combers, building to a peak as they
entered the shallows. She felt herself lifted and flung forward, her toes
scrabbled on shingle, then she was dragged back. So near, yet beyond her reach.
She couldn’t make it.

Again the spar with its burdens was lifted and
thrown onto the shore then hauled agonisingly backward. Pearl could only lock
her arms around the timber and moan as she saw safety slip away from her. It
was so pointless. She’d escaped the sinking ship, battled her way back to the
surface, found Jo-Beth, fought off the desperate sailor to eventually reach the
shore – and it was all wasted effort. She couldn’t make it without help.

And then the gods reached down to pluck her from
the gates of death. People were running down the beach – men with lanterns and
ropes and grappling hooks rushing into the surf to grasp her, to lift the spar
and Jo-Beth with her lolling head and closed eyes and race them up onto the
land.

Pearl let her own eyes close. Hard hands under
her armpits squeezed her battered ribs and a scream died in her throat. Through
fading senses she heard voices exclaim, ‘What’s that around her neck? It’s a bloody
monkey. A monkey! I ask you.’

New methods are always unpopular. It was
Elly’s axiom, and she went ahead with her changes, ignoring any opposition not
founded on sensible argument. One of her first decisions was to stop scrubbing
the ward floors. Meeting amazed stares from her staff she explained how such
methods only allowed the organic matter from feet and breath to be absorbed
into the floor; but by planing the timbers and saturating them with linseed
oil, then polishing with beeswax and turpentine, the floor could then be
cleaned daily by using a brush with a cloth tied over it. Any spillages could
be washed off immediately with soap and water and the place dried.

To Elly’s great surprise, the Board approved the
expenditure on materials, probably in the hope that she would cease her
constant petitioning over the drains. The only difficulty was housing patients
from a whole ward during the alterations. She was still pondering the logistics
of tents in the courtyard, when she received an unexpected visit from Paul
Gascoigne.

Paul paused in the doorway to survey the cramped
office then, at Elly’s invitation, wedged himself into the chair opposite her
desk. Morning sunlight fell across it, burnishing the scarred wood to
honey-gold, highlighting the piles of documents and journals pushed to one
side. It also highlighted the bleakness of the room.

Elly herself had a no-nonsense aspect she
cultivated for the benefit of her staff, helped by a severe uniform of dark
serviceable twill with stiff collar and cuffs and a bonnet with a deep frill covering
her neck at the back, to hide her cropped golden head. She aimed at neatness
and propriety, hoping to overcome the disadvantages of youth and the good looks
remarked upon often enough by others.

‘So this is your lair, Madame Fox.’

Elly, suspecting she was being patronized, and
annoyed at the way her pulse had leapt at his appearance, smiled sweetly. ‘You
compliment me. Wiliness is a necessary attribute for a woman seeking any kind
of office, and as you see, it’s achieved its purpose – almost. I plan to be
fully installed as Matron by the end of the year.’

He said swiftly, ‘I do mean to compliment you. Such
a demanding post is not easily achieved, but I believe you will do it.’

‘Thank you.’ Elly was dismissive. ‘Tell me how
your campaign progresses. I see
The Empire
is busily deriding Mr
Wentworth’s schemes for a colonial aristocracy.’

Paul shrugged. ‘He and Henry Parkes have never
agreed on any point, so I fear the warfare can only escalate. Parkes is for the
common man, wielding his newspaper in the common man’s service, and his own, of
course. He wants to enter the Legislature as a member for one of the Sydney Districts.’

Elly was thoughtful. Despite her avowed lack of
interest in politics, she kept herself abreast of local matters. ‘He is a
forthright man, with some influence.’ She turned her vivid blue eyes on Paul
with deliberate persuasiveness. ‘You said he was your friend. Might you not
induce him to apply pressure on the Legislature to help the hospital?’

‘Ohhh, no.’ Paul held up his hands in mock
horror. ‘We’re not trying a fall with the gentlemen of the Board of Directors. They’re
far too powerful. They’re also known as the stagnant barons. You’ll never shift
them, no matter what pressures you apply.’

Elly, scenting real possibilities, would not be
put off. The changes she wanted could only result from pressure on the Board,
and somehow she had to find the means of applying such pressure. She’d use
anybody or anything that could help. ‘Your Mr Parkes might be a match for them.
Stagnant pools, and barons, may be stirred up with the right sticks.’

Paul shook his head. ‘There are so many more
vital matters needing our attention. Henry Parkes is a busy man.’

‘What could be more vital than the common man’s health?’
Elly’s mildness hid a spark of irritation. Who in this world wasn’t busy? What
kind of an excuse was that? She could make allowance for lack of energy in
someone ill or debilitated, but a young, volatile newspaper proprietor, dedicated
to betterment of his town, could surely make time for its citizens’ health
needs.

She thought Paul’s smile condescending.

‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘It’s the vote
that will give the common man power to change all the other ills in his life. We
must channel every bit of our energies into the fight for universal franchise,
no matter how long it takes. Once we can get our men in next door the changes
will come.’

His reference to the northern building which
housed the Colony’s Legislative Council Chambers failed to impress Elly, who
had little faith in the goodwill of legislators.

‘Hmph! While in the meantime the males you
intend to enfranchise may watch their families suffer and die for lack of the
most basic health care. If that’s your idea of a brave new world you may keep
it. Now, I have a great deal of work to do, so if you’ll excuse me...’

Paul put out a staying hand. ‘Wait. I didn’t
mean to argue with you the minute we met again. What is it between us?’

Elly would not be mollified. Her cause was too
dear to her. ‘We are simply as diametrically opposed as Mr Parkes and Mr
Wentworth. We’ll never agree.’

‘I don’t believe it.’ He paused, then said
slowly, ‘I will be honest. There is another reason for my reluctance to become
involved in your battle – my career. In order to gain my objective, a seat in
the Legislature, I need the support of influential men. I must align myself
with popular causes, those which have some hope of success.’ When her lip
curled, he flushed. ‘Don’t look like that. I truly believe in the causes I
fight for. I simply can’t afford to take on one which will be viewed by my
patrons as time-wasting.’

He shot up from his chair and began to pace the
narrow room, hands thrust deep in his pockets, his mobile face alight with
purpose. ‘Do you realise Wentworth has been appointed head of a committee to
draw up the new draft Constitution? Do you know what that means?’

When Elly frowned his voice took on an edge. ‘No,
you neither know nor care that the whole future of this colony lies in the balance.
The decisions made in London in the next year or so, based upon the committee’s
recommendations, will determine whether we become a modern, vigorous example to
the world or merely mirror the old, class-ridden societies of Europe. We have
to fight for what we want. We have to fight the Wentworths and the Macarthurs
and your own Chairman of the Board, Deas Thomson. I haven’t the time for
anything else.’ He halted before her, spreading his hands, saying in a more
reasonable tone, ‘Your Board of Directors is powerful and entrenched. They’re
not to be taken on lightly. Perhaps, later...’

Elly rose and moved to the door. ‘You don’t have
to explain. I understand your position perfectly.’

Cursing under his breath, he said, ‘Look, will
you come downstairs to meet a friend of mine? He’s waiting for me in the hall,
not wanting to intrude.’

Elly hesitated. ‘What friend?’

‘A newspaper journalist, a radical. A man who
thumbs his nose at convention and says what he believes. Aha. I see that
interests you.’

She pondered the options, frowning. Her overfull
schedule versus the possibility of some public support. She had intended
approaching a newspaper herself, but if someone could speak for her... ‘Very
well. I’ll spare ten minutes.’ She swept out ahead of Paul.

Down in the hall she held out her hand as Paul
said, ‘May I introduce Mr John George Patterson, commonly known as “J.G.” or,
in certain circles, “that ruffian bloodhound”. J.G., you have the honour to
meet the Acting Matron of the Sydney Infirmary and Dispensary, Miss Eleanor
Ballard.’

Elly saw a slightly built man of around the mid-
thirties who walked hunched, his thin neck thrust forward as if in eternal
quest for information. The casual observer would have named him nondescript,
with pale hair, pale eyes, pale freckled skin made raw by the sun. But the
impish expression in those eyes commanded attention. Humour twinkled there,
plus a fine disregard for accepted custom.

 Not your commonplace man in the street, thought
Elly, but more as she imagined a leprechaun would look, spry and sharp, full of
mischief.

Aware of Paul watching, she said immediately, ‘I
believe you are a journalist, Mr Patterson.’

His voice was light, with a chuckle lurking
behind the most ordinary words. ‘I am indeed. I started in Melbourne but
The
Argus
disagreed with my policies; so I escaped to this fair city, where the
Herald
promptly blackballed me; so I had to settle for the well-known
clarion of the people,
The Empire
.’

Elly glanced sideways at Paul. ‘Indeed. So you
work for Mr Parkes.’

J.G. grinned. ‘I allow Mr Parkes to support me,
in return for the privilege of printing my expressed views on whatever topic
might arise.’

She had to smile. ‘I was told you were an
individualist, Mr –’

‘Don’t be saying it now. I’m J.G. to everyone.
And never listen to the rascal there beside you. I’m not a real journalist at
all. What I am is a gadfly to sting the politicians and gerrymanderers into
behaving themselves. I’m the colony’s conscience.’