Behind the Sun (43 page)

But this time none of those precautions had been taken, and Harrie had been denied the chance to tend to Rachel’s body in a way that might have helped to ease her grief.

‘We should write to her family,’ Friday said at last.

‘I have.’

Friday nodded gratefully. ‘I want to see her.’

‘I don’t think you do,’ Harrie replied shortly, and told her what James Downey had done.

Friday was horrified. ‘That’s
awful
! That’s…Christ, I don’t know what it is.’

They stared at each other.

Grief making her harsh, Harrie added, ‘She’ll be stinking by now, too. They say the mortuary isn’t cold enough and the weather’s been hot. They took her away yesterday. It won’t be Rachel any more.’

‘Well, can I see the baby?’ Friday asked.

Harrie nodded. ‘We named her Charlotte. Janie’s bringing her soon. Could Sarah not come today?’

‘Esther Green wouldn’t let her. Sarah’s roaring.’

‘Poor Sarah, she only saw Rachel once after she left. She’ll be heartbroken.’

‘She is. She was desperate to say goodbye. I’m glad I’m not walking in Esther’s shoes. Sarah harbours a mean grudge.’

Janie arrived with Charlotte and embraced Friday, almost squashing the baby between them.

As Friday took Charlotte and gazed down at her little features, her face crumpled again and fat tears plopped onto Charlotte’s head. Quietly she began to sing a lullaby. She sang as tunelessly as
ever, and couldn’t remember all the words, and that only made it even more poignant.

Janie and Harrie exchanged a startled look.

‘She reminds me,’ Friday whispered.

Harrie touched the tattoo on Friday’s left forearm that spelt out
Maria
. ‘Of her?’ she asked gently.

Friday nodded. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. ‘She was three months old. I left her alone while I went out to work. Just for an hour. When I got back she’d died. I don’t know why.’ She looked up at Harrie. ‘We won’t leave this one alone, will we?’

Harrie squeezed her hand. ‘No. We won’t.’

Although the day was warm, rain fell steadily and the skies were low and the colour of a dirty sixpence. From where Friday stood beneath the shelter of the lychgate to St John’s Cemetery, Parramatta, she could see the mound of mud next to the open grave. She would, she expected, be the only mourner as Harrie and Janie couldn’t leave the Factory and Sarah had again been denied time off.

Finally the black wagon bearing the coffin rattled down O’Connell Street and turned in through the gate. Friday stepped aside then followed it to the graveside where the chaplain waited, his damp vestments and cassock clinging.

The undertaker and his assistant unloaded the coffin with practised ease and manoeuvred it over the grave onto the straps, where it sat while the chaplain droned hurriedly through the short service.

Really, how
are
the dead raised up? Friday wondered idly, only half listening as rain dripped off the brim of her hat. Or do they never properly go to sleep?

She stared past the coffin into the watery grave, thinking about all the things Rachel had wanted. There would be no pretty dresses now, no cakes, and no Lucas. And no more laughing, darling, difficult Rachel.

Because of Gabriel Keegan.

The chaplain finished, closed his soggy bible and signalled for the coffin to be lowered. Friday dropped three white roses into the grave and turned to leave.

James Downey stood a short distance away, hat in hand, rain trickling down his face. He gave her a brief nod.

She stared at him for a moment then walked away.

April 1830, Sydney Town

When Harrie informed Mrs Dick she refused to pay any more garnish to keep her position as a nurse in the Factory hospital, Mrs Dick told her she would lose it; there were plenty of other inmates willing. Harrie said fine, they could have it. They were welcome to the endless crooked dealings, too, and the desperate misery of the place, and the sad songs of home, and the furtive, night-time couplings in the dormitories — all of it. Harrie had had enough.

She was reassigned to George and Nora Barrett, who lived towards the Middlesex Lane end of Gloucester Street on the Rocks. It was slightly embarrassing, as their house wasn’t far at all from the Overtons’ grocery, and Harrie had already been sent in to buy a few things and Henry Overton had been behind the counter, but all he’d said was, ‘Good morning, Harriet,’ so she had said, ‘Good morning, Mr Overton,’ and that had been that.

It was a good assignment, Harrie thought. George Barrett was a tailor and made men’s and boys’ suits and shirts and had a shop on the ground floor below the house. His wife, Nora, was a sempstress of some renown and was supposed to be busy making the sort of dresses women with a bit of spare money could afford, but had her hands full with their children — Abigail, who was seven,
Hannah, five, and Samuel, three. And she was expecting again. Nora thought Harrie an utter miracle because she was good with children, had some experience as a midwife (Nora felt at thirty-six she was getting too long in the tooth for childbirth and wasn’t looking forward to the arrival of number four) and could sew and embellish beautifully.

The Barretts were both ex-convicts, as were so many people who lived on the Rocks, and had built up their business together and were prospering. Harrie told them when she arrived she’d been transported for stealing silk and embroidery thread, and that she’d done it on the spur of the moment because she was desperate to start her own dressmaking business. She wanted to be honest from the outset but it sounded feeble once it was out, and she wondered if she’d made a mistake. But George had assured her the past was the past and as long as she didn’t steal anything from them, they would all get along nicely. And so far they were. They’d even accepted Angus, busy earning his keep as a ratter.

Her days were full and she was grateful as there was little time to sit and mope about Rachel, though at night in her attic room she lay in bed, the twist of silver-white hair clutched in her hand, and wept. She knew Charlotte was safe with Janie. As long as Janie continued to receive a regular supply of money, she could give Charlotte — and Rosie — everything they needed for now. Harrie couldn’t contribute the way Friday and Sarah did, not at present, but one day perhaps she would. In the meantime she had a position with a family she liked, at least half a day off every week, she was doing a little sewing again, and Friday and Sarah were nearby.

But things were still not right with the world.

‘I know where he lives. I’ve known for a while.’

‘How did you manage that?’ Sarah pegged one shoulder of yet another of Esther’s expensive lawn nightgowns to the drying line. ‘Pass me another peg, will you?’

Friday obliged. A still, pale face looked down at them from an upstairs window. ‘We’re being watched.’

‘Esther? She hates it when you come around. She doesn’t think servants should have friends. Especially loud drunk ones.’

Friday puffed on her pipe. ‘I got my boy Jimmy at the Siren to follow him, then I followed him myself. A couple of times. He’s staying at a gentleman’s boarding house in Phillip Street.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘A couple of blocks that way on the other side of the stream.’ Friday waved a hand vaguely over her shoulder.

Sarah selected another garment. ‘Have you ordered the headstone yet?’

‘Yes. It’ll be a few weeks. Still quite soon, though, don’t you think?’

‘No, I don’t. And neither does Harrie.’

They fell silent. Over the past month they’d said all they wanted to say about Rachel and any more talk of her death would be like jabbing at a raw and pus-filled wound. A small lizard darted out from behind the drying line pole and skittered across the cobbles, disappearing beneath a rock. Sarah hung up the last of the washing then turned to face Friday, eyes hard, her mouth a grim line.

‘Will we, then?’

‘I say yes.’

‘When?’

‘When can you get away?’

‘I’d have to sneak out, so it doesn’t really matter to me.’

‘Monday then?’

Sarah looked at her hands, red from the washing. ‘Will we tell Harrie?’

‘I wasn’t going to,’ Friday said, ‘but now I’m not so sure. She still feels very sad, and angry, about Rachel.’

Sarah grunted. They all did.

‘She won’t say so, though.’ Friday shifted on the upturned pail she was sitting on. ‘I’m wondering if it might, you know, help her settle.’

‘Seeing justice served, you mean?’

Friday nodded. ‘She wouldn’t have to do anything.’

‘She’ll worry we’ll get found out.’

The sash on the upstairs window rattled up and Esther Green’s fair head emerged. ‘Sarah!’ she shouted down, ‘I’ll thank you to get back to work!’ The sash slammed back into place.

‘Bitch,’ Sarah said. ‘She was a lag herself, you know. Seven years for forgery.’

‘We won’t get found out,’ Friday said. ‘It’s commonplace round here, just like it was commonplace at home. He’ll be too shamed to complain about it and it’s what he deserves.’

‘And he’s out and about every night?’

‘Seems to be.’

‘This Monday night?’

Friday stood and dusted off the back of her skirt. ‘Monday.’

On her way back down towards the Rocks, Friday spied Bella Jackson’s curricle travelling along Bridge Street, approaching the intersection with George. Galvanised into action, her heart thumping, she elbowed her way through a group of pedestrians gathering on the corner to cross the road.

Bella noticed her and said something to her driver, who had slowed the horses for the turn, and he suddenly sped up again. She was going to get away!

Friday was standing behind a man gripping the wooden handles of an enormous barrowful of fresh produce from the George Street markets. So she shoved him; he staggered out into the road, sending an avalanche of onions, squash and sweetcorn across the intersection. The horses, unnerved by the vegetables rolling in all directions, shied and reared, eliciting cries of alarm from onlookers, which only unsettled the animals further.

As they backed down the street, nostrils flaring, Friday lunged towards the curricle, jumped up onto the little iron foot step and grabbed hold of Bella’s fashionably puffed silk sleeve.

‘
Murderer!
’ she screamed. ‘
Bloody stinking murderer!
’

She lashed out with her other hand and caught Bella across the side of the head, sending her hat flying.

‘
Get off!
’ Bella shrieked. ‘
Get the fuck off me!
’

She wrenched her arm away and retaliated with an enormous roundhouse punch to the jaw that knocked Friday off the step and sent her sprawling in the dust. The horses, still retreating in panic, responded to a fierce crack of the whip and leapt forwards, narrowly avoiding Friday, their hooves slashing and trampling the spilled produce. Onlookers scattered as a moment later the curricle cut the corner and turned onto George Street at speed.

Friday slowly got to her feet, gingerly feeling around her jaw for loose teeth. Everyone was looking at her, including the man with the barrow.

‘What are you staring at?’

‘You pushed me!’

‘I did not.’

‘What about my sweetcorn and my onions?’

‘Oh, fuck your onions.’

Friday and Harrie stood on the corner of Bridge and George streets, Friday with a shawl draped over her head hiding her distinctive hair and Harrie wearing a plain bonnet.

Friday had gone to see her yesterday and told her what she and Sarah were going to do: it wasn’t fair, she’d decided in the end, to leave her out. They were all in this together and had been from the very beginning — and Harrie should be able to choose whether she wanted to be involved or not. To Friday’s surprise, Harrie had said straight away she was in. There had been no dithering, none of Harrie’s usual ‘what ifs’, just a hard, flat, ‘I’ll be there.’

And she was, looking nervous but determined.

‘You didn’t have any trouble getting out of the house?’ Friday asked.

‘No, I didn’t.’ Harrie sounded surprised. ‘I worried myself sick all last night and today about it, whether to pretend I was poorly and go to bed early and climb out of the window, or just disappear for a few hours and hope I wouldn’t be too badly punished for it. But in the end I decided to say I had a sick friend and could I have an hour off to visit, and Mrs Barrett said yes. It was that easy and now I feel guilty.’

‘Well, do something nice to make up for it tomorrow, then.’ Friday waved an enormous mosquito away from her face. If that made Harrie feel guilty, how might she feel after tonight?

It was just on the cusp of true darkness when she spotted Keegan ambling along George Street, twirling his cane and lifting his hat to passersby. Ignoring her suddenly pounding heart, she pulled Harrie into the shadows and they waited until he’d crossed the road where it opened onto the plaza in front of St Philip’s Church and turned down Bridge Street.

He didn’t notice them. When he was roughly five yards ahead they stepped out and followed him, walking casually but confidently, two women out for an evening stroll. The moon was in its first quarter and partly occluded by scudding cloud and did little to help them avoid the potholes, and street-lamps were few and very far between, but tonight’s activities were best performed in shadow.

At one point Keegan glanced over his shoulder, and raised his hat. ‘Good evening, ladies!’ he called. ‘Pleasant night for a walk.’

‘Good evening, sir,’ Friday replied, almost crapping herself.

Still following him they turned into Bent Street and crossed the road where, to allay suspicion and catch their breaths after the steep incline, they stopped to admire a bush in a front garden.

Unfortunately there was a pig tethered beneath it: it grunted at them and they almost died of heart failure. Nerves and fear
conspired to make them burst into snorts of hysterical, mirthless giggles.

Keegan had by now also crossed Bent Street and turned into Phillip Street.

Friday and Harrie, recovered, followed.

Ahead, a short distance along Phillip Street, a barely discernable figure materialised, the shape resolving itself into Sarah as she stepped out of the shadows.

Keegan strode on obliviously, houses and cottages on large plots lining both sides of this end of the street, interspersed with sheds, several small warehouses and a lumber yard. Weak lamplight glowed in several of the dwellings, but the commercial properties were dark and silent.

He raised his hat to Sarah, who nodded in reply, but as she passed him she swung around and struck him hard across the back of the head with the cosh she’d concealed at her side.

His hat flew off and he went down like a sack of spuds, knocked senseless.

‘Quick,’ Sarah urged, ‘get him off the street.’

Harrie and Sarah took an arm each, Friday his feet, and together they hauled him down to the far end of an alleyway between a long shed and piles of stacked timber, and dumped him on the ground.

Where he immediately began to come around.

He moaned, his body curling up defensively and his hands going to the back of his head. He peered blearily up at them but it was clear he didn’t recognise them. Friday lowered her shawl to give him a clue.

‘You don’t remember us?’ she demanded.

‘Should I? What the
fuck
do you think you’re doing? I’ll be reporting this straight to the police.’ In the diluted moonlight his face was bleached of colour, and the blood on his hands looked black.

Friday felt a savage fury rise up in her. ‘Go on, do it! And we’ll report how you raped Rachel Winter, then shoved her off the foredeck of the
Isla
and nearly killed her!’

‘Oh. That.’

‘Yes,’ Friday said, aiming a good, solid kick at his thigh, ‘
that
!’

He winced but replied, ‘Do your best. No one will listen. Why would they? Whores and bitches, the lot of you.’ He clutched the back of his head again and grimaced. ‘Including your stupid little friend.’

Harrie moved closer and Friday could see she was almost incandescent with rage. ‘Don’t you call her that! She doesn’t deserve that! Who the
hell
do you think you are?’ Then she deliberately stepped behind Keegan and booted him in the kidneys. He arched backwards like a slater in a hot fire grate, his face contorted with pain.

Friday, to be honest, was shocked. She shot a look at Sarah, who gave the tiniest shake of her head. What did that mean? Let Harrie get on with it, or stop her?

While Keegan’s spine was bent Sarah took the opportunity to kick him in the crotch. The impact made a satisfying thud. He whiplashed the other way, clamping his hands over his groin. Then he vomited.

He didn’t shout for help, though. He was so bloody arrogant, Friday thought, he still didn’t think he
needed
to shout for help.

He muttered something and Harrie leant in. ‘What?’

‘She was useless anyway.’ He coughed and spat. ‘I paid well over the odds.’

Friday yanked his head off the ground by the hair, her face inches from his. ‘Who? Who did you pay?’

‘The whoremonger.’

Harrie gave a small cry, as though she’d been physically hurt, then, her teeth bared, kicked Keegan again, this time in the chest. His hands flew up and he rolled into a ball.

‘Harrie!’ Friday grabbed her sleeve and yanked her away. ‘Don’t! What are you doing?’

Harrie jerked her arm out of Friday’s grip. ‘Paying him back!’

‘No, this is for me and Sarah to do.’

‘No, it’s for all of us, because this is for Rachel, and she was ours. She’ll
always
be ours.’