Behind the Sun (32 page)

‘What about Evie’s little girl? Who’s got her?’

‘One of Evie’s mates. I’d like to take her, too, so as not to split them up. But we’ll see.’

Friday appeared at Sarah’s elbow, waggling her fingers at Rosie and pulling the baby’s bare toes to make her smile. ‘Come on, we’re moving.’ She nodded at three women wearing keys at their waists. ‘Turnkeys.’

The women herded the unwieldy group towards the three-storey building. The entrance door was quite narrow and they had to go through one at a time. Once inside the foyer, bigger than expected and with a soaring ceiling, the turnkeys directed everyone through yet another door on the far side and out into a third walled yard. Small clusters of inmates stood about, watching the newcomers. They wore the same clothes as the turnkeys, though many were barefoot.

‘So they’re lags, the turnkeys,’ Friday remarked to Sarah.

Sarah’s expression was ambivalent. ‘Good and bad. Easier to bribe, harder to fool.’

There were also curious female faces peering through windows in the buildings at the end and on the right side of the yard, though the wall of the building on the left side was windowless and blank.

Mrs Gordon was waiting for them in the far corner, beside a flight of stone steps apparently descending into the ground.

She clapped her hands once again, then indicated a doorway in the wall to her right. ‘On my say so, line up and move in an orderly manner through the workshop to the storeroom to receive your new slops. I remind you again, take
only
what you require. Return here with your new items, remove
all
your clothing, children included, and in groups of twenty at a time descend to the baths and wash your personages and hair thoroughly. You can be assured that there are no males in this area of the Factory to observe you. Leave all your possessions including your old clothing here in the yard, take only your new slops down to the baths with you. Your personal, non-regulation clothing will be stored until you are assigned. The
wearing of non-regulation clothing at the Factory is
not
permitted.’ She gestured to a woman standing beside her. ‘This is Mrs Dick, one of my two assistant matrons. She and the monitresses will assist with the inspection. Now, please make a line.’

There was the usual shuffling and milling about that accompanies the formation of a queue, then the first women moved into the building Mrs Gordon referred to as a workshop. Harrie, Friday, Sarah and Rachel followed. In each wall of the workshop was a doorway — the entire Female Factory seemed to comprise a maze of walls and doorways — but the line snaked to the right into a storeroom whose wooden shelves held piles of folded clothing, the slops Mrs Gordon seemed so anxious should not be distributed willy-nilly. Two women behind a counter were getting into a muddle handing out the various items that made up the Factory uniform.

‘We don’t usually get such a large intake all at once, you know,’ one grumbled loudly as she pushed a pile of clothes across the counter. ‘And don’t come complaining if it doesn’t all fit. I can’t be held to blame for the sizing.’

By the time the girls left the storeroom their arms were full. Like everyone else they had sworn that the slops they’d been issued at Woolwich were falling apart, which was more or less true, so in effect they now had new wardrobes, if not very stylish ones. Outside in the yard Friday dropped her armful of garments on the ground and stood looking down at them.

It was more clothing than some of the women had ever owned, but the quality was poor. To wear on weekdays they’d received one drab serge over-petticoat, one drab serge jacket, one apron of factory-made linen and two calico caps. For Sunday best there were a blue gurrah over-petticoat, an under-petticoat of factory flannel, one white calico apron, two shifts, a long dress with a muslin frill, a red calico jacket, one pair of grey stockings, a pair of shoes, two checked cotton handkerchiefs, a straw bonnet, a white cap, and a bag in which to hold everything.

‘A lot of clobber, isn’t it?’ Friday observed. ‘Not exactly the height of fashion, though, eh. Can’t see me pulling many cullies in that lot. And how are we supposed to wear all that just on Sundays?’

‘I think we’re supposed to try to keep the best bits for Sunday and wear the rest during the week,’ Harrie suggested. ‘And you’ll be someone’s servant soon. You won’t have any customers.’

Sarah rolled her eyes at Harrie’s naivety. ‘Did you normally wear the latest fashions when you were working?’

‘No.’ Friday sat on the ground to try on her ugly new shoes. ‘These are too small.’

‘Then stop complaining.’

‘They might fit Janie, though,’ Friday said. ‘The soles are out of hers.’

They did, which was fortunate, as only the first three dozen women received new shoes before the store ran out of footwear.

There was no sign of Mrs Gordon now; Mrs Dick gave the order for the first group of women to go down to the baths. There was some initial grumbling and reluctance but they stripped and, carrying their slops, descended the steps, the late afternoon breeze raising goose bumps on pale skin scarred from prison sores and other mishaps, and here and there birthmarks and tattoos. Before the head of the last woman had disappeared below ground the monitresses — who behaved exactly like the turnkeys at Newgate — began to go quickly and efficiently through the women’s possessions and discarded clothing, raising shouts of protest from those still waiting. It soon became clear that money was the prize, as any discovered was swiftly deposited in a large leather pouch.

Harrie, looking on anxiously, whispered, ‘Friday, where’s our money?’

‘It’s safe, don’t you worry. Oi!’ Friday shouted to one of the turnkeys. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Mind your own business,’ came the reply.

‘Like hell I will. I’ll wager that ends up in the matron’s pockets,’ Friday said loud enough for Mrs Dick to hear.

The turnkey shook her head but didn’t look up from her task. ‘Benevolent Society, to help the destitute.’

Friday let out a yelp of laughter. ‘We
are
the bloody destitute!’

The corners of the girl’s mouth twitched, but she refused to be distracted.

Friday glanced at Bella Jackson, standing still as stone watching the proceedings, her two trunks nearby, new prison clothes piled on top. She wondered how much chink Bella had stashed away but suspected it must be a lot, and felt a surge of satisfaction at the thought of what she would lose if she hadn’t been smart enough to take precautions regarding the inevitable search. Though no doubt she had; she was mean but she was far from stupid. As she watched, Bella retrieved a tiny pot of rouge from a pocket, dabbed a little on her lips, then walked across the hard-packed dirt of the yard in her smart boots towards Mrs Dick. A short conversation ensued and Bella’s trunks were searched immediately, revealing to a fascinated audience her finery and other luxury items such as lengths of gorgeous dress fabric no one had seen before, and several beautifully beaded reticules and shawls. No money was found, either in her luggage or on her person, after which Bella sat down on a trunk and opened her parasol.

Friday’s mouth fell open. Was Bella not going to be made to bathe? She must have bribed the assistant matron, which no doubt was the reason for opening her trunks. The cow must have stuffed her dosh up her fanny, too, though Friday didn’t know how anyone could fit in much more than she’d done, which she was finding most uncomfortable.

The turnkeys went back to going through the sad little piles of possessions, and the first group of women emerged from the baths dressed in their new slops, the fabric clinging to them damply. The next lot stripped and went down, Friday, Harrie, Sarah and Rachel among them.

The baths, filled with cold silted water from the river, were in a dank, gloomy subterranean room lit by smoking oil lamps. Rachel, groggy from the laudanum, squeaked as she stepped in, but when Harrie began to splash water over her she revived rather quickly. The girls used the lumps of cracked, hard soap lying about to wash themselves and their hair; it didn’t lather well but it was certainly more satisfactory than washing in salt water. Even so the experience of bathing underground in the half-dark was thoroughly unpleasant and they got out quickly, dressed and hurried back up the steps, vowing not to go down there again. There was a trough in the yard — surely that would do for washing in future.

They emerged into the sunlight to see Harrie’s basket being rifled, and two of the half-dozen bottles of laudanum intended for Rachel being passed to Mrs Dick.

‘
Stop!
’ Sarah shouted. ‘That’s medicine. You can’t take that.’

‘Medicine for whom?’ Mrs Dick said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘Whose basket is this?’

‘It’s my basket and that’s mine too so give it back,’ Harrie said, snatching a bottle out of Mrs Dick’s hand.

‘How dare you?’ Mrs Dick said and slapped Harrie’s face.

The bottle slipped from Harrie’s hand and smashed on the ground.

Rachel fell on her knees next to the puddle rapidly soaking into the dirt. ‘It’s
my
medicine!’ she wailed. ‘For my headaches and I
have
to have it and you’ve just wasted a whole bottle, you fucking old
cow
!’

Looming over Rachel, Mrs Dick raised her hand again but Friday grabbed her wrist and said in her ear, ‘Touch her and I’ll beat you black and blue. And I swear, nothing you can do to me will be worse than what I’ll do to you.’

Fear flickering across her face, Mrs Dick slowly lowered her hand. Stepping away from Rachel she wrenched the cork from the bottle she still held and sniffed. ‘Opium. We don’t tolerate drug or alcohol intemperance here.’

‘No,’ Harrie protested, ‘it was prescribed for her by the ship’s surgeon. She has to have it.’

Mrs Dick clicked her fingers at the turnkeys. ‘Confiscate it.’

They did.

Rachel burst into tears.

When everyone had bathed, changed into their new prison clothes and been relieved of any money or contraband, they were herded back into the foyer of the three-storey building. On either side of the foyer, which had two stairwells, were ground-floor dining rooms, above which the dormitories occupied the first and second floors. From the foyer they ascended the stairs on the left side to the west wing, their feet clattering on the wooden risers until they reached the first floor. The first half of the group, including Harrie, Rachel, Friday and Sarah, were directed through a doorway into a long room while the rest — including Bella Jackson, thank God — continued up to the floor above.

The first dormitory was already occupied by approximately forty women, who stared with expressions ranging from apathy to belligerence, and perhaps a dozen small children. Some of the women were sewing, others were dozing; all were wearing various incarnations of the Factory uniform, though many were barefoot. They all sat or lay on the bare wooden floor. Piled against the only windowless wall were rows of thin mattresses, rolled up with a folded blanket on top of each. Many of the windows in the other three walls were missing their glazing, and there were no drapes or shutters.

Friday turned to a turnkey. ‘It’s full. It’s already crowded.’

‘So it is,’ the woman replied.

‘Well, what about upstairs?’

‘That’s full, too. You’re to get a mattress from Mr Gordon at the store in the front yard, if there are any, and bed down here.’

Friday dumped her stuff on the floor and walked across to a window. It faced north-west and from it she could see the yard
they’d just come from with its enclosing perimeter of workshops, empty of inmates now, and to the right of that another large yard where laundry hung to dry together with rows of something fluttering from frames that might be raw wool. In the ‘L’ formed by the two yards lay a high-walled compound she assumed was the penitentiary, containing a compact two-storey building and various outhouses. If she hung out of the window as far she could and craned her neck to the left she could see yet another yard, this one dotted with small, stand-alone buildings, and knew instinctively that these were isolation cells. Behind that, but still within the prison walls, was an area strewn with rocks and rubble. Hard labour.

Beyond was the river itself and on its far banks a grand house with neat, manicured gardens leading down to the waterway. What a lovely view for the occupants, she thought. She crossed the room and looked down onto the yard they had first entered and at the big gates that had banged shut behind them with such finality.

She sighed heavily. Parramatta Female Factory was smaller than Newgate, and didn’t smell as rank, and instead of a great bustling city beyond its walls there were trees and farmland, but it was, as had already been remarked, without doubt a prison.

That evening, after supper, Sarah appeared with a young woman in tow and sat her down on one of the two narrow and miserably lumpy mattresses shared by Harrie, Rachel, Friday and herself — all Mr Gordon, the storekeeper, said could be spared because of the current overcrowding.

‘This is Nancy Crouch,’ Sarah said. ‘She’ll tell us what’s what in here, the dodges and what have you.’ She looked at Friday. ‘For a shilling. I’ve already paid it.’

Friday nodded; it was a worthwhile investment.

‘Did yous come with a crew?’ Nancy Crouch asked. She was quite an attractive girl with wavy black hair pushed behind her ears, brown eyes, all her teeth and quite a good complexion. The skin on her neck below her left ear was marred by the tail of a
thick, purple scar, which she hadn’t bothered to conceal with a scarf, though other women were wearing them despite the rules about the uniform.

‘No, just the four of us,’ Sarah said.

‘Small crew.’ Nancy nearly but not quite sneered.

‘It’s
not
a crew. And it works fine for us,’ Friday said defensively.

‘What about the abbess upstairs?’

‘Who?’

‘The mot who come in with all the flash clobber?’

‘Bella Jackson?’ Friday shook her head. ‘Nothing to do with us. How did you know she’s a madam?’