Behind the Sun (39 page)

Harrie picked up Bart and put him on a chair. ‘And you’re treated well there?’

‘It’s been all right so far.’ Friday gestured at the chaos in the parlour. ‘This looks a right mess. Things are going well then?’

Harrie lowered her voice and turned away from Lydia. ‘Very. Mrs Overton thinks I’m completely useless. She calls me clumsy and dull and says I couldn’t think for myself if my life depended on it. I’m a disgrace in the kitchen, too. I manage to burn something every day.’

‘So how long, do you think?’

‘A fortnight? Perhaps even sooner. The children are sweet, but Mrs Overton can’t cope with them. I’ll miss them.’

‘All we have to do now is find out where Sarah is.’

Harrie’s face lit up. ‘But I know where she is! We passed her the day I arrived, cleaning windows on George Street.’

‘Did you stop?’

‘I couldn’t, could I? And I haven’t been allowed any leave since I got here.’

‘Christ, Harrie, you’re entitled to
some
time off.’

‘I know.’

‘Well, demand it. Kick up a fuss. Can you remember where the shop is?’

‘Opposite the military barracks.’

Shouldn’t be too hard to find, Friday thought. ‘I bumped into someone just before, Matthew Cutler. You know, the other passenger on the ship, the one I belted?’

‘The one who tried to help Rachel?’

Friday nodded. ‘He asked me if I knew where you were.’

‘Me?’ Harrie looked startled.

‘I said I did, but if you wanted him to know, you’d get in touch with him.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘I don’t know. Anyway, he gave me his address.’ Friday gave Harrie a sly wink. ‘If you want it.’

‘Well, I don’t. I’m too busy.’ A sneaky look crept across Harrie’s face. ‘Unless he wants a kitten.’

Friday laughed when Harrie told her how she’d found the orphan, smuggled it in and made it a little sand box, which she kept hidden under her bed and cleaned out three times a day to minimise the smell. She’d tried feeding it cow’s milk pinched from the table but that had given it the shits, so now it was taking goat’s milk, which seemed to better agree with its digestive system.

‘Rachel will just love it, though,’ Friday said. ‘You do have some good ideas, Harrie. It’ll be good company for her, and keep the rats away.’ She frowned. ‘Unless she kills it while she’s having one of her fits.’

‘
Fri
day, what a horrible thought. Actually, if Mrs Overton found the kitten, she might send me back for that, mightn’t she? She hates cats. I could accidentally let it out.’

‘Wait ’til we’ve seen Sarah.’ Friday wrinkled her nose. ‘Christ, that kid really does stink.’

Lydia had moved, leaving Johanna on the sofa by herself. Harrie laid the baby on her back, lifted her gown and removed her napkin, setting it to one side. Expertly she wiped Johanna’s bottom, put on a fresh nappy and set her on the floor to crawl around.

Mrs Overton chose that moment to appear, bleary-eyed, her face creased from her daily nap. ‘I thought I heard voices. Harriet, who is this?’

‘I hope I didn’t wake you, Mrs Overton,’ Harrie said. ‘This is my friend Friday.’

Friday waved. ‘Hello, Mrs Overton.’

‘Harriet, who gave you permission to receive visitors?’

‘It’s all right, Mrs O, your husband sent me up,’ Friday explained brightly. ‘And I’m just leaving. See you on your next afternoon off, Harrie, all right? Send me a note, let me know when it is.’

Harrie reached for the soggy and full napkin, gathered the corners together, and headed for the stairs. Unfortunately the nappy fell open, depositing a large and squashy turd on the carpet.

Bart, who had remained remarkably quiet for the preceding fifteen minutes, let out a screech of glee, crying, ‘Jobbies, Mama! Jobbies!’

His shriek was almost drowned out by Mrs Overton’s. ‘
Harriet
, for God’s
sake
, it’s on the
floor
!’

Harrie flapped her hands ineffectually and turned in a circle before picking up the turd with a lace doily snatched from a side table.

‘Bye, Mrs O! Nice meeting you!’ Friday, her hands firmly over her mouth, could barely get down the stairs and out of the shop fast enough.

16 October 1829

Friday had seen him walking down Argyle Street twice now: once when she’d been sitting in the parlour idly looking out through the drapes, and again when she’d opened the window to air her upstairs room after a customer had departed. Both times her heart had almost leapt out of her chest. His profile and swagger had been unmistakable and the sight of him had sent a bolt of rage right through her. Another afternoon she’d seen Amos Furniss go past. She’d moved out of sight when he’d looked up and didn’t think he’d seen her, but it had been an unpleasant shock; she’d assumed he had gone back to England on the
Isla
. What was he doing still in Sydney Town?

Since then she’d made a point of watching for Keegan, worried he would come into the brothel and that she might have to service him. He wouldn’t know who she was; she doubted he’d recognise
anyone from the
Isla
, barring perhaps Rachel. Even the thought of lifting her leg to him made her want to vomit. Also, it might be useful to find out where he lived.

When he actually did come in, at first she didn’t know whether to hide or attack him with a kitchen knife.

She did neither. She was coming down the stairs when she saw him standing in the hallway, hat in hand, talking to Mrs H. Her heart thumping, she backed up and sat down on a step to listen.

‘I’m looking for something a little special,’ he said, ‘and I’m hoping it’s a service your establishment might offer.’

‘And what might that be, Mr Coroglen?’ Mrs Hislop replied.

You lily-livered bastard, Friday thought. What’s wrong with your real name?

‘I’m interested in girls,’ Keegan said.

‘I have girls here. Very beautiful girls.’

‘I mean young girls.’

‘How young?’

‘Twelve,’ Keegan said. ‘Eleven. The younger the better.’

There was a long silence before Mrs Hislop replied brusquely, ‘Then I’m afraid you’re in the wrong house, Mr Coroglen. I don’t cater to men of your tastes. Good day.’

She crossed the floor and held the front door open for him. The very public front door, Friday noticed, stifling a snort. Keegan set his hat back on his head and left.

This evening she had a feeling in her bones Keegan would come sauntering down Argyle Street again.

She glanced at the carriage clock on the dressing chest, wishing the man grunting away on top of her, Mr Leech, would hurry up and finish. Mr Leech was fifty-five years old, half bald, and had bad teeth and a pizzle like a pair of peanuts still in their shell. Also, his wife apparently didn’t believe in intimate relations except for the purposes of procreation. His children, he’d told Friday, were aged thirty and thirty-two.

Friday moaned realistically, sped up her hip action and dug her fingers into Mr Leech’s skinny rump. He obliged by increasing his own thrusting, politely taking his weight on his bony elbows, his shiny pate level with her chin. The bed began to squeak and Friday made a mental note to mention it to Mrs Hislop; perhaps Jack the coachman, who also did odd jobs and worked behind the bar, could come and have a look at it. And while he was at it he could tighten the latch on the bedside cupboard — that was a bit loose, too.

At last Mr Leech came to a shuddering halt, collapsing with his face buried between her breasts. Tempted to flick him off and leap off the bed, Friday lay with gritted teeth, patting his back. It took him several minutes to recover enough to roll off her and sit up. Friday checked the clock again; he had eight minutes left.

‘That was wonderful, my dear,’ he said, still out of breath. ‘You really are the loveliest specimen of womanhood I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing intimately.’

Yes, yes, Friday thought, get your kecks on and piss off. ‘Thank you, Mr Leech. You’re a very fine figure of a man yourself.’

He laughed gaily. ‘Surely you jest, my dear.’

I certainly do. Friday watched as he staggered around trying to get his feet into his trousers, then took ages fiddling with the laces in his shoes. The moment he said goodbye, leaving an extra sovereign for her on the dressing chest, she dashed to the window, just in time to see Keegan appear at the intersection of Harrington and Argyle streets, whistling and swinging his cane. He hesitated, as though considering which route to take, then turned down Argyle.

Friday threw on her robe over her fancy satin corset, snatched the sovereign from the dressing chest, burst out of her room and pounded down the stairs. At the bottom she turned left and headed out the back door and across the yard past the privy and the drying line to the alleyway. Running as fast as she could, breasts bouncing painfully and bare feet slipping on the mossy cobbles, she barged past Mr Leech, almost knocking him over.

Then she realised she didn’t have a key to the gate.

‘Quick, Mr Leech, the key!’

Thrilled beyond words at the sight of Friday’s wild hair, bare legs, exposed crotch and heaving bosom, Mr Leech thrust his key at her.

She opened the gate, flipped the key back at him, tightened her robe around her waist and ran across the yard to the stables.

‘Jimmy? Jimmy! Where are you?’

The boy appeared, startled. ‘What is it, what’s wrong?’

She showed him the sovereign. ‘Want to earn yourself a quid?’

Jimmy’s eyes lit up.

‘All you have to do,’ Friday explained, ‘is follow a cove. I want to know where he lives. Can you do that?’

Jimmy, who had been transported for picking pockets, nodded confidently.

‘Good. Keep out of sight, though, eh.’

She described Keegan and said he would probably be on George Street by now. Jimmy nodded again and took off.

Toby was larking about with his spindle and ball outside the shop when Harrie returned from collecting Mrs Overton’s new shoes from the bootmaker. He was supposed to be sorting through the fruit boxes for fruit that had gone over, but as usual was skiving off.

‘You’re in trouble,’ he said as Harrie passed him, and flicked the spindle so the ball on its piece of string flew at her.

‘That will make a change, won’t it?’ Harrie said brightly. Most children she liked, but Toby she could take or leave. He was a surprisingly shiftless boy, given the inherently decent character of his father.

She traipsed up the stairs to find Henry and Susannah Overton sitting in the parlour, clearly awaiting her return. The other children were nowhere to be seen. A covered wicker basket sat on the floor
at the end of the sofa, emitting plaintive little squeaks. Oh dear, Harrie thought, they’ve been in my room.

‘Here are your new shoes, Mrs Overton.’ She placed the parcel on the armchair.

Mrs Overton pointed to the wicker basket. ‘Would you care to explain the meaning of this?’

Harrie bent down and opened the lid. ‘It’s a kitten.’

‘I jolly well
know
it’s a kitten, Harriet. There’s cat mess all over the ground outside your bedroom window. I discovered the wretched creature hiding in your bed,
under
your bedclothes.’

Harrie wondered who had tipped her off, though only Toby would have done it to deliberately cause trouble.

‘And that’s not all,’ Susannah Overton went on. ‘You went out the other night, didn’t you? And don’t deny it. One of the children saw you coming home.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Harrie admitted. It was true. She’d crept out on Monday and gone to meet up with Friday and Sarah.

‘It wasn’t your evening off; you know that.’

Harrie nodded and made an effort to look contrite. It wasn’t difficult: her half-day off was on Sundays, and the Overtons could barely spare her that, between the shop and the children. She’d felt quite guilty.

Henry Overton said, ‘You were with that red-haired girl from the Siren, weren’t you? I knew she was trouble the moment I set eyes on her.’

This was the confrontation Harrie had been angling for since she’d arrived, so she pushed it as far as she dared.

‘No, sir, I was out with my man.’

‘Your
man
!’ Mrs Overton looked aghast. She turned to her husband. ‘Henry, this really is the last straw!’

January 1830, Parramatta Female Factory

James Downey rode through the outer gates, dismounted and passed the reins to the porter. This worthy was one of the few males working within the Factory walls, though only William Tuckwell, Sidney Sharpe and Mrs Gordon’s husband regularly passed through into the Factory proper.

‘See that he gets water, will you?’

The porter nodded; the day was suffocatingly hot and the doctor’s horse dripping with sweat, a dirty cream lather rimming both girth and bridle straps.

James crossed to the inner gates and waited as the portress opened one side for him. ‘Mrs Dick said to tell you Rachel Winter’s in the hospital again.’

James thanked her. That wasn’t good news, but neither was it unexpected. Rachel was well into her third trimester of pregnancy and, though the confinement had progressed with surprisingly few problems, the heat must surely be taxing on any expectant woman, never mind someone who suffered the magnitude of headache she did.

Since October, he had ridden out to Parramatta once a month on a Sunday to visit her, even though she was Mr Sharpe’s patient, not his, and to talk to Harrie about her progress. He was more
than happy to do it. He was also happy to work as many hours as he was offered at the surgery in Pitt Street where he’d recently taken a position. Well, perhaps not happy, as Emily’s death still weighed very heavily on his mind — willing was probably a more appropriate word. He found the work filled his days and sometimes even his evenings, keeping at bay the loneliness he at times feared would overwhelm him.

To be truthful, he went out to Parramatta to visit Harrie as much as he did Rachel. Harrie had been so kind after Emily had died, which had only made his feelings of guilt worse. Some weeks after he’d received Victor’s and Beatrice’s letters she had appeared at his hotel on a Sunday afternoon to tell him she was very sorry to hear of his bereavement. She’d handed him a posy of flowers, which to his embarrassment had brought tears to his eyes, then burst into tears herself, apologised, said she didn’t like to see people she cared for in pain, apologised again and left.

He’d resigned from the navy in October, having decided to stay on in New South Wales as he and Emily had planned. There was no real reason to return to England now — he would only be reminded of what he’d lost. He’d written to Beatrice explaining his decision, and to Emily’s mother and father, and to Victor, whom he’d asked to stay on at the house in Kensington indefinitely. Someone had to look after Tara. He hoped they would all understand his decision, even if they couldn’t entirely forgive him for staying away.

He removed his hat and gloves, used the gloves to mop the sweat from his brow, and entered the hospital.

Rachel was in a bed near an open window, though there was no breeze to speak of. Harrie sat next to her, wiping her face with a wet rag.

‘Good afternoon, Harrie.’

‘Hello, Mr Downey.’ Harrie dipped the rag into a bowl of murky-looking water, wrung it out and draped it across Rachel’s forehead.

He gazed down at the patient. Her belly looked huge because she herself was so tiny. In actual fact, according to Mr Sharpe, the foetus was a normal size. The rest of Rachel was very thin, her arms and legs almost spindly, her face pale and her closed eyelids a transparent, smudged blue. Her breasts, however, had enlarged, getting ready to feed her baby, due in nine or ten weeks.

‘Asleep or sedated?’

‘Sedated,’ Harrie replied. ‘Another headache. Mr Sharpe wanted her in the hospital because of the heat. He says her pulse is too fast. He fears a burst blood vessel in the brain.’

James nodded; it was a possibility.

Harrie, he knew, had been returned to the Factory at the end of October for failing to perform as a domestic servant in a satisfactory manner, though he found that hard to believe. Harrie, with her thorough and capable work habits and constant willingness to please? He had asked her what had gone wrong but she’d eluded his questions with a guile he hadn’t previously suspected of her and he had not broached the subject since. Whatever had happened was clearly, she felt, none of his business.

Since then she had been working in the Factory hospital as a nurse, a position she had managed to secure with his previously written recommendation supported by a private word from him with Mrs Gordon. It wasn’t until December that it occurred to him that Harrie’s failure to perform on assignment and her subsequent desire to work in the hospital — where Rachel Winter was a frequent patient — might be connected. It gave him new insight into Harrie Clarke’s character, though he couldn’t fault her for her apparent duplicity as she had been motivated by loyalty. It had also amused him, and he appreciated that, as very little had lately.

He moved to the head of the bed and gently lifted each of Rachel’s eyelids. Her left pupil appeared normal, perhaps a little large but that would be the effects of the laudanum, but the right was fully dilated to the extent that only the narrowest rim of blue was visible
around it, and the sclera was shot with red. The eye had been in the same condition the month before. He let the eyelid close again.

‘It looks awful, doesn’t it?’ Harrie said.

‘I don’t expect it’s painful, however. You were in Newgate Gaol together, weren’t you?’

‘That’s where we met, the four of us.’

‘That eye, the pupil, can you recall if it was enlarged then?’

Harrie dipped the rag again and reapplied it. ‘Nothing like it is now.’

‘But you noticed a difference?’

‘I think so. A little. I can’t really remember, I’m sorry.’

A woman cried out for a nurse and Harrie went to her. James watched as the patient vomited, partly into a bowl but mostly on herself and her mattress. Harrie began to clean her down.

The hospital was full beyond capacity, a result of accommodating the overflow from Parramatta Hospital and sometimes even farther afield, further reducing the minimal level of care provided.

Other than women lying-in, the patients suffered from a range of maladies, most commonly dysenteria, anasarca, ulcers, opthalmia, abscesses, debilitas, syphilis, febris, and psora, as well as broken bones and wounds from accidents and fighting. The nurses were all Factory inmates and neither was the midwife salaried — only Sidney Sharpe had advanced medical qualifications. The hospital environment was not sanitary, and in weather conditions such as those of January 1830, the stink of suppurating wounds, vomit and faeces was nauseating and the flies that accompanied it a constant, droning pest.

James carried a second stool over to Rachel’s bed, sat down and lifted her delicate wrist, noting that the bones had mended as well as could be expected, and took her pulse. It
was
somewhat rapid.

Harrie washed her hands and came back.

‘Does she still believe the baby is her lover’s?’ James asked.

‘Yes, she does. And she still thinks he’s coming to get her.’

‘Even when she’s lucid?’

‘Yes. And I don’t think there’s any point telling her otherwise any more, do you? It just upsets her. She’s got it fixed in her head and nothing will shift it.’

‘And she’s never remembered anything of what really happened?’

Harrie looked down at Rachel. She straightened the hem of her shift. ‘Sometimes I do wonder, but if she has she’s never said.’

‘It isn’t unusual for a particularly unpleasant experience to be permanently erased from the mind. And her head injury has no doubt contributed to her memory loss as well.’

Harrie said, ‘You’ve a loose button. Would you like me to sew it back on for you?’

James glanced down and saw that a button was indeed dangling precariously from his coat. ‘Please, if you don’t mind. Thank you.’ He removed his coat — mourning black, like the rest of his costume — and gave it to her.

From her apron pocket she took a long bone reel with three different coloured cottons on it, opened a compartment at one end and extracted a needle, threaded it with black cotton, and very deftly reattached the button, biting off the thread when she’d finished. James tried not to stare at her teeth, which were small and even and not discoloured at all, or at her smooth, full lips. She pulled on the button to test her handiwork for strength, then handed the coat back.

‘Thank you, Harrie. I appreciate that.’

‘You’re welcome, Mr Downey.’

‘I ran into someone from the
Isla
the other day. Matthew Cutler. You might recall he was a paying passenger. Pleasant young fellow. Asked me if I knew where you could be found. I’m not sure why he thought I would know.’

‘Yes,’ Harrie said. ‘Friday spoke to him not long ago, in the street on the Rocks.’

‘Perhaps you have an admirer.’ James said it in jest, though actually he didn’t find the notion particularly amusing. And
possibly neither did Harrie, because she looked embarrassed. ‘How are Friday and Sarah faring these days?’

‘Sarah’s still at the jeweller’s. I’m not sure she and Mr Green’s wife get on very well, but, well, you know yourself what Sarah can be like. Mr Green seems to be happy with her. And Friday is fitting in nicely at the Siren’s Arms.’

‘She’s a domestic servant there, isn’t she?’

An expression James couldn’t quite fathom flickered across Harrie’s face. ‘Yes. They do accommodation and meals. She and Sarah come out to visit Rachel when they can, which isn’t often because the round trip by coach takes all day and neither of them gets much time off. Friday’s been out more often than Sarah has.’

‘Yes, it must be difficult. When Rachel’s time comes, would you like me to be on hand, or are you happy for Mary Ann Neale to manage the delivery?’

Harrie smoothed Rachel’s hair back from her damp forehead. ‘Well, I suppose it depends on what state she’s in. Mary Ann has delivered dozens and dozens of babies, and if Rachel’s lying-in is straightforward she should be able to manage, shouldn’t she?’

‘I expect so. Mr Sharpe tells me she’s a very competent midwife.’

‘Shall we discuss it next time? She’ll only have six weeks to go by then.’

James stood and collected his hat and gloves. ‘Yes, we shall. And perhaps you could also consult Mr Sharpe for his opinion?’

Harrie regarded him with embarrassment, then giggled. ‘I’m not her doctor, am I? I keep forgetting.’

James allowed himself a smile, finding unexpected joy in this new, less formal relationship — it could almost be called a friendship now, though in his most private moments he was prepared to admit he yearned for more. She was changing: her confidence was growing and she seemed more at ease, more settled. He liked it.

Rachel was in the sky far beyond the pain in her head, the delicate membranes of her wings catching the wind and suspending her high above the Factory, her precious cargo nestled within her fur-covered belly. She delighted in the way that one twitch of her wrists tilted her wings this way and that to take advantage of the breeze, her tidy little ears open to every sound.

Far below lay the Factory grounds, stark and ugly. The main buildings formed a long rectangular compound, the penitentiary end abutting the river. Surrounding them were the yards, and beyond the solid outer walls clustered the houses and gardens of Parramatta township.

But for now no wall was high enough to keep her captive. She circled and circled, riding lazily on the breeze, free of pain and fear, content to wait until she knew she would have to return.

February 1830, Sydney Town

Friday called for Sarah at two o’clock sharp, the bell over the door chiming as she entered the shop. Sarah gave a low whistle.

‘Well, don’t you look the well-to-do tart?’

Friday did a twirl, the skirts of her new, hydrangea-blue muslin dress fanning out prettily. The sleeves were full above the elbow but fitted to the wrist, and the waist was snug, the bodice ending in a point. The neckline was wide and low — Sarah noted Friday had declined to wear the lace pelerine collar that would usually accompany such a daring cut — and her hat was a startling confection trimmed with feathers and copious loops of ribbon.

‘Pretty, isn’t it? I thought I’d treat myself.’

‘The colour suits you.’ Sarah felt positively dowdy in the plain, sage-coloured dress Esther Green had purchased for her to wear as a uniform, but then she’d never been one for flaunting her charms. You had to actually possess them to flaunt them. She put on her small straw hat, not bothering to check the angle.

‘Adam, I’m off out now!’

Adam Green appeared, his eyebrows lifting slightly as he caught sight of Friday’s ensemble.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Woolfe.’

‘Mr Green,’ Friday replied silkily.

‘Don’t be too long, Sarah,’ Adam said as he lifted the hatch in the counter for her. ‘Esther will be back by four o’clock.’

‘I won’t.’

Outside on George Street, Friday teased, ‘“Adam”, is it? Sounds cosy.’

‘Oh, don’t be an arse,’ Sarah snapped.

‘He fancies you.’

‘He does not.’

‘He bloody does.’

‘You’re full of shite, Friday Woolfe. Now, where shall we go? I’ve only got two hours. And I need to see Skelton.’

‘Skelton? That sounds promising. Tea shop, I thought.’

Skelton’s pawnshop was on Upper Pitt Street, tucked between a tailor and a gun maker. They’d almost arrived when Friday noticed they were being followed by half a dozen filthy, undernourished dogs.

‘Don’t turn round, but there’s a pack of dogs behind us.’

As Sarah looked two darted past, faced them and growled.

‘Don’t look them in the eye, they’ll attack,’ Friday warned.

Sarah dug in her shopping basket and pulled out a heavy wooden cosh about eighteen inches long.

‘Bloody hell, where did you get that?’

‘Bought it.’ Sarah slipped her hand through the wrist strap and swung it at the nearest dog’s head, shouting wildly.

The dog retreated a few steps then stood its ground, barking. The others, growling menacingly, moved closer.

The door of the pawnshop opened and Mr Skelton emerged carrying a fowling piece, which he fired at the dogs. They scattered
in all directions, yelping and howling, then ran off, peppered with shot.