Alley Urchin (27 page)

‘News travels fast round here,’ returned Marlow in a friendly voice. ‘But yes . . . I
am
looking to sign on, for Singapore if I can find a ship that’s bound that way.’

‘Well now, mate . . . I reckon you’ve struck lucky, because there’s a clipper due on the morrer . . . the
Statesman . . .
belongs to the Lassater Line. I’m looking to sign on myself.’

‘Oh aye?’ came the caustic comment from a nearby table. ‘Well, you’d best be quick about it, the pair of you! There’s a rumour going about that Mrs Thomas has set her sights on putting Lassater’s outta business.’ He laughed out loud, and straightaway there were others, making similar observations and enjoying the whole thing, seemingly at the expense of Lassater Shipping. ‘Well, for my money,’ said one, ‘I’ll back Mrs Thomas. If past experience is anything to go by . . . the poor buggers don’t stand a chance.’

‘I reckon there’s a lot of truth in what they say, mate,’ the Darwin fellow told Marlow. ‘There have been rumours right enough, and if it’s right that Mrs Thomas intends moving into the shipping business . . . the big boys had best keep their wits about ’em. She’s a sharp one, that.’

Marlow had heard of Thomas Trading, because they were rapidly making an enviable name for themselves wherever goods were bought and sold. But now he was intrigued to know more about this ‘Mrs Thomas’ who, according to the talk here, was a formidable force.

‘She’s well respected round these parts,’ obliged the Darwin fellow. ‘Never been known to cheat nobody . . . gives a fair price and always deals above board. Oh, there was a Thomas Trading Company long before
she
came on the scene. Roland Thomas had built a nice little business up for himself, but that’s how it would have stayed . . . a “nice little business”, if he hadn’t married again.’ Pausing, he took a swig from his jug of grog and made a noisy celebration of licking it from his lips, before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and continuing. He described to Marlow how poor Mr Thomas had suffered one thing after another. First having his wife killed by robbers, then being forced to throw his only son out on to the streets. ‘Rotten to the core, that one,’ he said, with disgust. Then he outlined the events which followed, of how Roland Thomas’s son, Foster, had gone from these parts to roam the outback. ‘There was even talk that he’d taken to robbing and the like . . . though of course nobody ever really knew.’ All they did know was that some six months ago, he came sauntering into Fremantle, boasting about having made a wad of money and that he wouldn’t rest till he’d put his father outta business and claimed what was rightfully his. ‘Some folks reckon he doesn’t
only
mean the Thomas Trading Company, which is signed over completely to Mrs Thomas should anything happen to her husband, but that he’s got his eye on another prize! He’s a bad bugger . . . a real bad bugger. Furious he was, when old Roland up and wed the girlie who worked in his stores . . . but, if you ask me, that was the best thing Roland Thomas ever did! He’s a good man, and it was a crying shame when he took a bad fall which crippled him. Still . . . that wife of his, she treats him like a lord . . . always the best for her husband, and that’s a fact.’

‘Mrs Thomas . . . she runs the company, does she?’ Marlow had never heard of any woman actually running such a company, and he was intrigued by the fascinating story he was being told.

‘Runs
it?’ The Darwin fellow gave a small chuckle. ‘Why, she made it what it is today! And I’ll tell you summat else, bucko. I reckon she’ll not stop there, oh no. Not if she’s a mind to go into shipping!’ He took another swig of his ale. ‘And that ain’t bad, is it mate? . . . Not for an ex-convict who was shipped out here at the tender age of seventeen.’

‘An ex-convict?’ Marlow was astonished. ‘She’s English?’

‘Through and through. Emma she’s called . . . Emma Grady as was . . . convicted of having a part in killing her husband, Gregory Denton. Oh, it’s well known . . . but it’s hard to believe that girlie killing anybody.’ The Darwin fellow turned to see if Marlow was still listening and to exaggerate the point he was making that Emma was incapable of ‘killing anybody’. But his companion was long gone, having been struck with shock by what he had heard, and consequently being desperate to escape outside, where he might breathe the fresh air and compose himself enough to reflect more sensibly on the news of Emma, news that had devastated him.

Once outside, Marlow just walked, with no particular destination in mind. He was like a man in a trance, possessed of a nightmare which seemed to be choking the very life from him. Emma! His darling Emma! Transported as a convict! The things he had been told by the Darwin fellow raced through his mind and churned his stomach, until he felt physically sick. ‘Oh, Emma!’ he murmured with a voice that was both savage and tortured. ‘How could I know? Oh God . . . I should never have gone away . . . never have left you, my darling.’ His thoughts careered back over the years, to the night when he and Emma had found such perfect and wonderful love, when he had taken her to himself and she had given both heart and soul to him. He thought of how desperately he had pleaded with her to leave her husband and come away with him. What he had suggested was morally wrong, he knew that at the time, and he knew it now. He remembered the anguish he had put Emma through, by asking such a thing of her, and oh, he had loved her all the more because of her loyalty. But now he was forced to ask himself whether his selfish act might have triggered off a life for Emma that eventually proved to be unbearable.

Marlow tormented himself with all of these things, but in his deepest heart, he could never believe that Emma had taken a hand in killing her husband, Gregory Denton. She had a temper. Yes, he knew that well enough, and she was frustratingly stubborn. But she was also kind and loving, with the greatest loyalty and compassion, these were the very virtues in her that he so adored. In his travels he had known other women, fought with them, and slept with them. But he had never loved them. How could he, when his heart would always belong to Emma? Emma, who was
here.
And
married
! It was all too much at once, far too much for him to come to terms with.

As he walked, Marlow felt as though he were in a frenzy. What should he do? Should he go and see her? Back came the answer. No! He must not do that, because she had been through enough. And she had been through it alone, because he had not been there when she needed him most. How could he ever forgive himself! Also, Emma was married, and heading a thriving business. He was not surprised that she could build up such a concern, for she was always known for her tenacity and ability in that way. But
married
! Did that mean that she had forgotten him, that the glorious love they had shared, and which was still so alive in him, had meant less to her? He had no way of knowing, but the longer and deeper he dwelt on it, the more despondent he became.

Instinctively, as always when he was deeply disturbed, Marlow headed for the sea. There was something in watching the waves roll over, and listening to the peculiar sound they made, that had the greatest soothing effect on him. He had no intention of going back to the tavern just yet. He had a need to be alone, and there was no sleep in him now. He wondered whether he might ever again feel the need for sleep.

The daylight was being slowly covered by the darkness as, his thoughts in a turmoil, Marlow headed towards the far end of South Bay, where he hoped to find a quiet, isolated spot where he could sit awhile and think over the events which, even now, he could hardly believe. But it was
true
. It must be true.

As Marlow walked with a determined stride, yet not in a hurry, towards South Bay, Emma – who
was
in a great hurry – rounded the corner from the direction of Arthur Head. She saw the figure some way along South Bay. In that split second her heart leaped, and her every instinct urged her to turn back before it was too late. Yet she could not. She could turn back now no more than she could deliberately stop breathing.

All the same, the sight of that figure brought Emma to a standstill, and a tremendous surge of panic went through her. It was
him
. It was Marlow. But he was changed. Older. Yet he was not changed. The long years rolled away. Into her mind’s eye came the image of how he had been. The way his strong, lithe figure had moved, that rich black hair, and the way he had had of holding his head erect and looking straight ahead as he walked: all of these characteristics were long etched on her heart and as familiar to her as the act of putting one foot before the other. It was also true that she had come to love her husband over the years. But in a very different way, a tender, compassionate way. Not at all in the all-consuming, passionate way in which she loved Marlow.

She watched him now, and her heart was paralysed. Time had frayed his youth, and there were lighter shades in his hair, and a slower purpose to his step. But the essence that was Marlow remained strong. She wondered at the manner in which he had arrived here. But then, she knew he had gone away to seek his fortune all those years before. Australia was an exciting place to be now. It was only natural he would find his way here. In her heart she gave thanks for it.

After agonising over what to do, how to approach him, and what she might say when he looked at her with those intense dark eyes that had always seemed to reach into her very soul, Emma was plagued with doubts. Would he even want to see her? Did he still love her in the way that she loved him? Or had he forgotten her? After all, it was some sixteen years since that wonderful, unforgettable night when she had conceived his child, and, when she refused to leave with him, he had gone away wretched. It was even possible that he might still be bitter and would never want to see her again.

For another moment, Emma’s courage began to desert her. But never being one to accept defeat or to turn away from life’s cruelties, she began walking, this time with more urgency, towards the curve of the beach round which Marlow had by now disappeared.

It was the most beautiful evening. The air was warm, yet cooled by the incoming breeze, and the sea lay still and glistening like a stretch of sky littered with sparkling stars. Here and there the soaring seagulls were beginning to seek a haven for the night, and their cries were strangely subdued, making a weird haunting sound which softly echoed in the twilight. The sky was the deepest blue, streaked with ribbons of white and black, and on the horizon where the sun was already going down, the myriad of colours shot the sky purple and red.

It was a most awe-inspiring and magnificent sight, which lifted Emma’s spirits as she drew nearer to the figure hunched on the small rise of cliffs beside the beach. He looked a lost and forlorn soul, and Emma’s heart went out to him as, softly, she came ever nearer. She wondered how much of a shock it would be for him to discover that she was here, in this place, and it crossed her mind how uncanny was the hand of fate, which had torn them apart so long ago, only to bring them together on the other side of the world. Life was a strange and unpredictable thing, she thought. It also occurred to Emma that Marlow may well have returned to England at some time or another during his travels, and maybe he did know something of her fate. It was
possible
, because she remembered how sensational her trial had been and the great interest it had aroused, because of her relationship to Justice Caleb Crowther.

When Emma came close enough to see the strong profile of the man she loved, and even sense the utter despair which was so evident in his manner, all the determination and courage she had mustered drained away. She must not go any further, for she loved him too much. She was married, committed to a life which had been shaped for her here, so how could she bring herself to cause this man any more pain, which, if he
still
loved her, she would certainly do. In all of her life, Emma had been called upon to make many painful sacrifices, but none of them . . .
none
of them was ever so painful as the one she must make now, as slowly and reluctantly she turned away. She had seen him, almost touched him. It was another poignant memory to carry her through the years. And yet . . . and yet.

Lost in thoughts of Emma, and agonising over their cruel destinies, Marlow felt the deepest despair. But then, of a sudden and for no reason that he could ever recall later, every instinct within urged him to turn his head to look over his shoulder in the direction of the small narrow beach path which over the years many footsteps had trod. What he saw there was the very image which had flooded his mind this past hour, which had brought him both joy and torment, and which was now hurrying away. After all this time, he couldn’t really be sure, but something in his heart told him that it was Emma! Not a girl any more. Not young. But his lovely Emma all the same.

In the same moment when Emma heard the soft, rushing footsteps coming up behind her, she heard also the sound of her name, soft and caressing like the breeze, and filled with such longing that it made her heart turn over. ‘Emma.’ It was Marlow’s voice, and it struck at her like the blade of a knife, bringing shock, surprise and a sense of something awful. Yet at the same time, it was something else entirely, rippling through her being with delicious urgency and making her want to cry.

When she stopped and the hand touched her shoulder, she shivered, afraid to turn round, yet compelled to do so. Lowering her head and keeping her gaze to the ground, she moved her body until it was facing his. She saw the long, black-clad legs, and the boots on his feet all spattered with sand; she felt the warmth and presence of his body, and her heart reeled beneath the gentle touch of his hand on her shoulder. Yet she kept her gaze to the ground, because, however much she longed to look up and see again that strong, handsome face that she knew so well, she dared not, for though she was exhilarated, she was also afraid, and that fear betrayed itself in the trembling of her hands which now Marlow took tenderly in his own. ‘Look at me, Emma,’ he softly urged, and the voice that she had remembered was just the same. It touched her heart so deeply that, without her even being aware of it, the tears ran from her eyes and spilled down her face. Still she dared not lift her gaze to his.