Orphans of the Storm (4 page)
She turned away from the rail and headed for the cramped little cabin she was sharing with three other girls. As yet, she knew nothing but the names of her travelling companions, but she guessed that they would grow to know one another well over the course of the long voyage. She had bought a thick notebook in which she intended to keep a diary of her experiences and now she went and sat on her narrow bunk and fished the book out from her canvas holdall. She was halfway through a description of her tearful parting, first with her family and then with Anne, when another thought occurred to her. She was off on what was undoubtedly going to be an adventure, though whether good or bad she could not yet say, but poor Jess, who had stood by her through thick and thin during the war years, was left behind. The work she was doing was hard and could be satisfying, but it was only work. I’ll write her a long, newsy letter, adding a bit each day, and post it as soon as I get the chance, Nancy told herself. Of course I shan’t be able to give her an address other than the Sullivan homestead, but I’ll tell her to address her letters to the Walleroo station and then her reply will be there to greet me when I arrive. Oh, what a marvellous idea; it will be the next best thing to being met by dear old Jess herself!
Jess had handed in her notice at the hospital a couple of days after Nancy left. She had already obtained a position as private nurse to an old lady of eighty-two, who lived in a large house off Lancaster Avenue, so she had no financial worries for the job was live-in. In fact she would be better off, for her employer, Mrs Bellamy, would provide all her meals and uniform. Despite her age, and the painful rheumatism which made it necessary for her to employ a nurse, she was a lively and intelligent woman and Jess had looked forward to starting her new job.
When she had received Nancy’s note begging her to forget their dreadful quarrel and asking, somewhat diffidently, if Jess might like to journey to Southampton to see her off, she had been absolutely furious. How had Nancy dared make such a suggestion! As though she, Jess, would waste her time and money travelling all that way when she had much better and more important things to do. Besides, she told herself that she did not want Nancy’s friendship; what was the use of a friend who lived thousands of miles away? Their letters would take a couple of months to reach their destination and Jess knew enough about Nancy to be pretty sure that, having made up her mind to go to Australia, her friend would not turn round and come back to England without giving her new life a real chance. So she had not even replied to the note but had scrumpled it up and thrown it in the waste paper basket.
It was a fine, sunny day in spring. Daffodils danced in Mrs Bellamy’s neat garden and Jess, who was growing fonder of her employer with every day that passed, had put a tiny vase of violets on her breakfast tray before carrying it up to her room and placing it tenderly across her knees. ‘It’s a lovely day, Mrs Bellamy,’ she said as she did so. ‘If you feel up to it, you might enjoy a ride in the bath chair. You’ve not been down to Sefton Park since the Cheerfulness narcissus came into bloom and their scent, when the sun is on them, is delightful. So if you feel like an outing . . .’
Mrs Bellamy agreed that it would be lovely to leave the house for an hour or so and Jess hurried downstairs. She was turning into the breakfast parlour when the post came through the letter box. There were four letters for her employer and one for herself which had been forwarded by the hospital and Jess did not even have to glance at the handwriting to know it was from Nancy. She thrust it into her pocket as a maid emerged from the kitchen with a tray carrying Jess’s own pot of coffee and rack of toast. Jess took the tray, then handed her employer’s mail to Gladys and asked her to take it to her mistress. Then she turned into the breakfast parlour, sat down in her usual chair, and pulled out her letter. She was tempted to throw it straight into the fire, but perhaps because she was so happy in her present job, or perhaps because all women are curious, she slit open the envelope and pulled out several sheets covered in Nancy’s clear, elegant handwriting.
Nancy’s letter began with an account of her voyage and went on to describe several ports which she had visited in company with the three other girls who had shared her cabin. Then she described her excitement over reaching Sydney, the beauty of the big, modern city and her surprise and delight when, descending on to the quayside, she was approached by a tall, fair-haired man who introduced himself as Andrew Sullivan.
He had recognised me from my photograph and had come a great distance to meet me so that I should not feel myself a stranger in a strange land
, she wrote.
I know I should have realised what a huge country Australia is – Mr Sullivan had told me so in all his letters – but I had not realised how long it would take us to reach the Walleroo from Sydney. First we had to catch a steamer which took us, extremely slowly, up the coast. Then we caught a train, which was also very slow. Dear Jess, I won’t describe the journey to you because, to be honest, a good deal of the scenery, though strange at first, was also very boring. The heat on the train was intense, the food available of the plainest, and we were plagued by flies which descended on us in huge numbers every time the train stopped at a station, which was often. However, Mr Sullivan did his best to entertain me, telling me the names of all the trees, flowers, birds and animals we saw whilst travelling and trying to put me in the picture as regards the homestead and staff at the Walleroo.And now, Jess, I must tell you the most important piece of news. Andy – I must call him Andy now – and myself were married before we left Sydney. Truly, Jess, Andy is a good man and I know you would like him. Neither of us pretends to be in love but we like one another very well and I am sure we’ll grow even fonder as time goes by. Dear Jess, I can imagine your face, but please don’t be cross, or think I acted impetuously, though I suppose I did. But it would have been very difficult to undertake this long journey as an unmarried woman, accompanied only by a bachelor; for Australians are every bit as conventional as English folk and would have expected me to have a female companion. Also, Andy says we would have had to travel all the way back to this town – the one I’m writing from – in order to get married and Andy’s brother, Clive, has already been in charge for far too long. Andy is obviously worrying in case his brother can’t cope.Andy manages the cattle station for a Mrs Briggs, who is very old and lives a great way away, down on the coast. She has one daughter, who is not in the least interested in the Walleroo, so the arrangement is that when Mrs Briggs passes on, the daughter will sell the property to Andy and his brother. So you see, dear Jess, that it is vitally important to keep the station in good heart, both for Mrs Briggs’s sake and for the Sullivans’ future.Oh dear, I do hope I’ve made you understand how difficult it would have been to delay our marriage until we reached the cattle station. Andy did not try to persuade me to marry; he simply set out how things were and left me to make up my own mind.We are, at present, staying in a small hotel before starting on the last leg of our journey. Andy suggested that I should spend the day writing letters home, since if I were to leave it until we reach the cattle station, we would have to wait for the mailman’s visit before the letters could be despatched. The mail is delivered once a week and any letters we may have written are collected at the same time. The pack horses cannot deliver parcels, only letters and small packets, so when a parcel arrives, someone from the Walleroo has to drive to the railway station to pick it up, which is almost a hundred miles away!I am hoping there will be a letter from you waiting for me when we reach the homestead. You are such a generous person, Jess, so I’m sure you will forgive me for my part in our quarrel. I said some dreadful things which I certainly didn’t mean, and I long to hear from you.All my love,Nancy
Jess propped the letter against the toast rack and poured herself a cup of coffee. It was not fair! If only Barney hadn’t died! She did not have Nancy’s longing for a baby, but she was beginning to realise that, fond though she was of Mrs Bellamy, she did hunger for a home and a man of her own. But not badly enough to go to the other end of the earth, she reminded herself. She was not that desperate. Mrs Bellamy often suggested that she should take an evening off and go out with her friends from the hospital, but so far Jess had not done so. Slowly, she reached for a round of toast, spread it with butter and marmalade, and began to eat. No, it wasn’t fair. Nancy was married to a man of some importance, who would eventually be the owner of an enormous cattle station. She would be mistress of the Walleroo homestead; the word homestead had already conjured up a picture in her mind’s eye. It would be a long, low building, whitewashed and roofed with cheerful red tiles. There would be roses round the door and the house would be set amidst trees and rolling hills. Every window would be framed by pretty curtains, the floors would be luxuriously carpeted, and there would be servants who would run to do Nancy’s bidding and adore their beautiful intelligent mistress, with her ash-blonde hair and big blue eyes. Yes, Nancy had landed on her feet, there was no doubt of that.
If she, Jess, should do as Mrs Bellamy suggested and go to a dance, or some other social event, what sort of young man was she likely to meet? The war had left everyone weary and dispirited. Jobs were difficult to find – as were unmarried men – and money was short. And anyway, she told herself briskly, you had a chance of a better life in Australia, the same as Nancy, but she took it and you didn’t. You said you’d never forget Barney, never love another. You really ought to eat your words, tell Nancy you’re sorry for the things you said. But she knew she would not. Nancy had abandoned her, left her to loneliness and spinsterhood; she would never forgive her old friend for that, not if she lived to be a hundred.
‘Well, Nancy, there it is! Not bad, eh? The boys knew what time the train would arrive and how long it would take Abel to drive back from the station, so they’ll have gathered in the yard to meet you. Yup, I can just about see them from here.’ Andy chuckled and squeezed Nancy’s hand. ‘They’re that excited, you’d think they’d never seen a white woman before, though of course Mrs Delaney is white. See her? She’s standin’ right by the front door.’
Nancy murmured that she could indeed see Mrs Delaney and smiled inwardly at Andy’s feeling he had to point her out for, in the sea of faces, only one woman was white. Nancy guessed that the tall young man with the gingery hair must be Clive, her new brother-in-law, and that the elderly man with the seamed sunburnt face and stooping shoulders was Tom, who had been manager here but had retired several years previously, staying on as a helper when needed.
The buckboard, an uncomfortable springless vehicle with no canopy to shield one from the burning sun, skidded to a halt in the middle of the yard, and everyone surged forward. ‘This is my new wife and your mistress,’ Andy shouted to the assembled company, as he helped Nancy down from her seat. ‘You must tell her your names when she serves out your wages on Sunday morning. Now you’d best go about your business. Supper may be a little late but I dare say you realised that.’ He turned to Nancy. ‘There’s only one of the gins works in the house and that’s Violet . . .’ He indicated a fat black woman, with an enormous white grin and tiny bright eyes, who bobbed a half-curtsy whilst grinning broadly at Nancy. ‘She helps Mrs Delaney with the cooking and cleaning. There’s a deal of cooking because, obviously, we feed the entire staff and their families.’
As the staff began to scatter, Mrs Delaney, who was leaving that day to go and live with her married daughter in Cairns, moved forward and held out a strong, workworn hand. ‘How do you do, missus,’ she said gruffly, in a broad Irish accent. ‘I reckon you’ll be wore out after your journeyings so I’ve made so bold as to set out some fresh clothes on your bed and to cook a tasty dish for supper. The shower is charged up, so if you’d like to come wi’ me, I’ll take you to your room.’
Nancy murmured something conventional whilst her eyes roved with disbelief across the homestead. It was built of corrugated iron and looked more like a gigantic garden shed than a house. It was a single-storey building, built on a slight rise, and completely surrounded by hard-packed earth and fenced-off paddocks, though the paddocks themselves, at this time of year, were bare of grass. She looked wildly up into Andy’s face and saw, with astonishment, that there was pride in his eyes.
‘Go inside, hon,’ he urged. ‘We’ve done all sorts to make you feel at home – whitewashed the walls, put some mats down, prettied the place up a bit. But see what you think. I’ll let Mrs Delaney show you round while I get a report from Clive; learn what’s been going on.’
Cautiously, Nancy went in through the front door and entered a large room with a tiny, uncurtained window. It was floored by some sort of cement upon which two large rush rugs had been spread. There were four easy chairs, all obviously homemade, a long wooden table and two benches, and an enormous sideboard upon which stood a motley assortment of china and glass. Nancy looked round her rather helplessly. Despite the fact that evening was coming on, the room was stifling. What was more, when she looked up, she could see the wooden beams upon which the corrugated iron roof was set, and the lack of a ceiling, she guessed, made the heat worse.
‘Nice, ain’t it? We were going to put a ceiling in here, like what we done in your bedroom, but there hasn’t been time. Still, I dare say you can do it in the wet, when there’ll be more help about the house,’ Mrs Delaney said. She opened a creaking door and indicated another room. ‘This here’s your bedroom. What do you think?’
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