The Bark Cutters (29 page)

Claire Whittaker glanced with pride at her new oyster-grey gloves as she twitched the two dappled mares with a short riding crop. The horses increased their pace at her touch, the wooden wheels bouncing the open dray down the dirt road. A small trickle of perspiration ran down her spine, the wetness also gathering at the nape of her neck. She patted a few stray tendrils of hair flat, glancing at the feathery occupant confined in a rickety wooden crate in the tray behind her. Some bargaining had been required to obtain tonight's evening meal. Indeed at one stage Claire considered sausages to be a more modest choice. Her favourite butcher in George Street certainly would have rescued her if her patient yet persistent haggling had failed.

A number of carriages passed her by. Two small sedans and a larger ebony-coloured coach that was packed high with suitcases, parcels and large bags stuffed with mail. Inside, a female passenger held a white handkerchief to her nose. Claire smiled at
the driver cursing in the late morning heat then, with practised efficiency, manoeuvred between a cart stacked with coal and another larger dray hauling lengths of timber. With a flick of the reins she directed the horses into a small rutted street.

Within moments the bustle of the main thoroughfare was far behind her and her horses trotted quietly along the tree-lined dirt road. Claire passed a child, a stray dog and an olive-skinned white-turbaned man. At this last figure she looked over her shoulder. He was seated in an open carriage, dressed in a grey suit and accompanied by a burly driver of similar heritage. This unusual sight drew her attention until she stopped outside a small wooden terrace house. Tying the horses to the hitching post, she lifted the beige wool of her skirt, clasped her rattan basket and jumped down, landing with a light thud. By then, the turbaned man had gone, however the housekeeper, Mrs Cole, was already out the door of the terrace, and frowning.

‘Where have you been, Miss Whittaker? Your father has been asking for you this past hour.'

Claire gave Mrs Cole a consoling glance as she latched the small gate behind her. Since their recently changed circumstances, her father had become both demanding and more inactive, as if no longer having to worry about money and food had rendered him useless. ‘I am sorry, Mrs Cole, however I have purchased fresh lemons and oranges at the market and I have duck for dinner.'

‘Duck, well good heavens.' The woman rubbed her hands together as if in anticipation.

‘You do know how to prepare it, Mrs Cole?' Having finally managed to buy one she dearly hoped Mrs Cole could manage the slaying of the poor creature.

Mrs Cole gave her best imitation of annoyance by lifting her dimple-marked chin skywards. Bustling past Claire she hurried her wiry frame out to the dray and collected the wooden crate
under her arm. ‘He's a mite scraggly.' She pointed a crooked finger through the wooden slates. ‘Ouch, and a biter.'

The duck began squawking loudly. ‘I think you've offended him, Mrs Cole.'

‘The next time you're wanting a duck, do tell me, Miss, and I'll fetch one myself for you on my usual rounds. There's no need for you to be doing the housekeeping now.' Mrs Cole looked grimly at dinner. ‘This will be my pleasure,' she assured Claire. ‘I'll send Humphries to bed the horses for the day.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Cole.'

‘He'll be making some find lard for my cakes and, oh, I can taste him on a bit of bread already.'

In the small musty parlour, Claire drew the new rose red curtains against the midday heat and turned up the kerosene lamp on the mantlepiece. The light flickered before settling down to a strong glow and the familiar acrid scent strung out across the room. Removing her bonnet and gloves, Claire paused to check her reflection in the mirror. An oval, flushed face, framed by a thick mane of black hair tied back with a bold scarlet ribbon, stared back at her. With a minimum of fuss Claire shook her hair free before retying it and turning her attention to her father.

He lay dozing in his favourite chair, an old, unstable contraption that had barely managed the trip from their small holding on the outskirts of Parramatta to their new home. On a round hardwood table by his side sat a copy of the Bible and a number of unopened letters. Claire settled the worn travelling rug over his knees, carefully prising his reading glasses from his hand.

‘So you've managed to wake me then?'

‘Sorry, Father.' Removing the fawn crocheted cover from the water pitcher, Claire poured two glasses, passing one to her father.

‘Your mother made that.' He held out his fingers for the small cover, his fingers feeling the weight of the miniature green beads,
which, sown in myriad strands along its circular edge, helped to keep the small piece of material in place. His fingers held onto the material tightly and then he passed it back to Claire.

‘I miss her too, Father.'

He took a sip of water, ignoring her sentimental tones. ‘You've been out?'

‘To the markets. I purchased a duck for dinner. Mrs Cole is seeing to it now.'

‘An extravagance.' Her father admonished with his customary raised eyebrow.

‘One which we can now occasionally afford,' Claire chided gently. Months ago they had ventured into George Street, she in search of a position with her father as chaperone. Unable to handle the upkeep of their small holding on the banks of the Parramatta River and with her father's fading health, Claire had considered it their only option. They had sold their allotted acre with its two-bedroom house and rather formidable vegetable garden and moved into town. With hard work Claire hoped their circumstances would improve, especially when she became companion to a widowed lady of means. It was after the move to their current address that Claire learned by letter that she had somehow managed to gain a benefactor.

‘It seems you are to have an education, my dear.'

Claire spluttered. ‘An education?' She took the letter retrieved from her father's breast pocket, pausing to study the letterhead: Wilkinson & Cross – Solicitors. Under her father's impatient gaze she scanned the contents written on the fine parchment.

‘Heavens.'

‘There is more, my dear. Have you not got to the part referring to the piano?'

‘A piano?'

‘Father, I don't believe it.'

‘I myself feel the same for I have no idea where the instrument should be placed.'

‘Father,' Claire laughed, ‘a piano.'

‘I did in fact venture out this morning …'

‘By yourself?'

He gave an impatient cough. ‘I ventured to Messers Wilkinson & Cross in order to establish the name of …'

‘And,' Claire asked with feigned patience, ‘who is it?'

‘They told me nothing more than before. You, my dear, made an impression on a wealthy personage, whom it would appear has decided to make you his project.'

‘His project!' Claire objected indignantly to the word. She was most certainly not anyone's project.

‘Mr Wilkinson's words, Claire, not mine. As for me, it appears I am simply along for the ride.'

Claire patted her father's hand. Mrs Cole had pointed out only recently that Claire's patron had to some extent made her own father redundant. ‘It is a ride we shall be taking together, Father.' He fashioned a smile of sorts, one of stubby, ground teeth.

It seemed most peculiar to Claire that a person would chose to be her benefactor, yet keep their identity secret. What was to be gained from such a venture when the very grateful recipient remained unable to thank the person who had changed her life? Claire no longer needed to retain her position as companion to the aged Mrs Medway, nor clean or cook. These facts alone were sufficient enough to render her days blissfully free of obligations, a thought that at once worried and intrigued her, for how would she fill her days? Evidently her benefactor thought likewise, for now she was to be educated.

‘Tea, Mr Whittaker?' Mrs Cole arrived with a tray of biscuits to accompany the steaming beverage.

‘I'm to be educated,' Claire announced brightly. ‘A private tutor.'

Mrs Cole gave a nod indicative of approval. ‘A fine life you're leading now, Miss.'

‘Thank you,' Claire's father accepted the tea and reciprocated with a letter. ‘For you, Mrs Cole.'

Mrs Cole examined the handwriting. ‘It's from my sister. I've not heard from her since …'

Claire waited expectantly for the rest of the sentence, which was not forthcoming. Her father rested his teacup and saucer on his knee.

‘I'll be seeing to dinner then.'

With Mrs Cole's departure, Claire strung her fine eyebrows together in thought. ‘That was a little strange, Father.'

‘Indeed. Still we can only trust your benefactor in his judgement of our new housekeeper.'

Having appeared with her baggage and a letter of employment courtesy of Wilkinson & Cross, Mrs Cole could hardly be turned away. Within a day she had firmly ensconced herself in the small maid's room behind the kitchen. Two months later Claire was left wondering how she had ever managed the house, the cooking,
the buying of foodstuffs and the caring of her father. ‘The fact remains we know little about her, Father.'

‘On the contrary, my dear Claire, we know she can cook.'

After the excitement of the day Claire found the stringy richness of the duck strangely dissatisfying. Having not tasted the flesh before she was surprised how quickly she found herself wishing for some of her mother's vegetable broth and a hunk of doughy bread to accompany it. She settled herself in her small room on the second floor of the terrace. A window opened out onto their cramped rear yard and Mrs Cole's fledging vegetable garden. Beyond was a laneway which ran between the rear of their house and their neighbours'. During the day she would sometimes come up to her room to look down upon the happenings in the lane: young scallywag children playing in the dirt, couples arguing, and the coal vender wending his way through the laneway maze. In the distance she could hear the night-carts rattling as they travelled through the streets, emptying the buckets of refuse from the outside toilets. Next door her father snored loudly, his nose making an intermittent humming noise between gasps of laboured breathing.

Climbing from her bed Claire knelt beside the small window, her eyes drawn to the stars hanging above her on a stretch of black velvet. No matter how she tried she could not recall a kind deed which could have manifested itself into their current good fortune. There were any number of friends and acquaintances, whom, in the course of a week, she would run into, and on occasion she may have run an errand or assisted someone in some manner, but none was wealthy enough to be the client that Wilkinson & Cross referred to so mysteriously.

‘And now I am to be educated,' she whispered, remembering her dear mother with her readers and chalk board and the limited education she herself had to work with. Claire pinched her arm firmly, biting her lip at the pain. None of it was
a dream, especially the weekly money for food and rent. Yet it was the thought of playing the piano that delighted her, for truly it was a talent that belonged to the upper classes.

‘The upper class,' Claire repeated. If only her father had accepted the offer of better accommodation, but on that subject he would not be moved.

‘I am capable of providing a roof for my daughter,' he announced firmly to her ceaseless pleading.

Claire said a quick prayer and returned to her bed. She would work hard for both her father and her patron, as her future was still unknown.