Not the Same Sky (17 page)

On the following morning he went to Pitt Street to conclude some personal business with George Winslow, a pleasant fellow county man, who had an enthusiasm for Charles to remove himself here permanently. A businessman, originally from County Clare, was visiting from Melbourne. He was accompanied by his daughter and was about to take his leave as Charles arrived. That was the measure of George Winslow—as broad a constituency as possible, so long as it led to profit.

‘Do stay. You should meet Charles. He’s off again next week, out on the—what’s the name of the ship?—back to the seas.’

Introductions were made—Thomas Ryan and his daughter Margaret Bridget. Perhaps it was the hangover of last night’s conversation or perhaps it was that Charles had remembered about the poetry when approaching the door, but the accidental brushing of the hand of Margaret Bridget sent an unfamiliar jolt through him, as if the glove had a flame in it. He blushed. He knew immediately what poetry he would like to read. Margaret—it would be better to use only one name—wished her father to continue the conversation that he had been having with Mr Winslow. Unfortunately, it had already been over before this stranger had come in. Luckily, her father and Mr Winslow were too insensitive to notice how flustered she had become. But not completely flustered. The confusion was mixed with some sort of inexplicable determination.

The men began again a desultory conversation, and by way of Mr Winslow moving to the next business, he invited all of them to dinner on the night before Charles’s departure. Dinner and a small dance in his drawing room. I should hope so, thought Margaret, wondering what on earth gave her the right to think that.

On the night of the dinner, Charles and Margaret, placed in opposite seats, appeared to listen attentively to what was being said to them by the guests at their respective sides who were unaware that they were not being accorded their full attention. They were listening instead to the amplified words of each other and, by doing so, learned what was necessary. Indeed, they could have been accused of veering their conversations in the direction required to mete out these bits of glowing information, of raising their voices so they could carry across the busy table. There was no doubt they would dance. The first was nervous and jagged, punctuated with stiff conversation. What if they were completely wrong about the feeling they had each suffered and enjoyed since their first meeting? By the second dance they had eased into a rhythm that could be seen in the mirror, both made momentarily speechless by the perfection of it. This will do nicely, thought Margaret. This will be the first time I have asked her to dance, thought Charles. And he knew he would always ask her in the same manner—hold his hand out, draw her to him, guide her to the floor, then pull her body slightly into him.

It was possible for Charles and Margaret to have a walk together before he boarded his ship. They strolled briefly down Queen Street. Her dress rustled, he held himself upright, and they conducted themselves as was proper. Here was someone Charles hoped might understand.

‘You would think that one could forget them.’

‘Oh, I hope not. That would be too much to forget.’

Thank God. And his future opened up before him.

‘It’s not that I remember each one individually, or indeed that I think of them every day. But when I don’t think of them, I feel I have let them down.’

Margaret was not in the least jealous of this intractable bond. Remarkable, she thought to herself.

‘And were they all chambermaids?’

‘Well, they were all nothing. They had not begun to be what they might have been.’

‘Oh yes, I forgot their ages.’

‘And they had no choice once they came here, of course.’

Her dress continued to swish.

‘I could have been nicer to them. I should have been,’ Charles added.

‘How?’

‘Oh, maybe showed more interest in their getting haircuts … things like that. Been less dismissive.’

‘I’m sure you weren’t. Dismissive I mean. You had to run a ship. I’m sure you have nothing to regret.’

‘Yes, but regret doesn’t follow logic.’

They walked on, keeping silence to that statement.

‘And will they all have remained chambermaids?’

‘Yes. They were all hungry and alone. So I’m afraid that will have determined their fates and defined what they will be. It does not matter what differences in intelligence or desire there was between them.’

‘Poor things. And frightened too.’

‘But their children may be able to be what they were supposed to be. Those who make it.’

‘I hope so.’

It was an uncommon conversation to be having. Perhaps it was her nationality that made it possible.

‘What age were you when you were brought here?’ Charles asked.

‘Fourteen.’

‘So you will remember?’

‘Yes. And I will have to see what may become of those memories.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe they will make me a good teacher, I could put them to use. But then I had my parents with me to hide bad things from me, spare me from the dark. I was exposed to nothing but good, so I can afford my memories.’

Charles sighed. ‘Yes, normality can afford such a privilege.’

‘I only once asked if I could go home,’ Margaret said.

They came to the end of the street and turned back towards where Margaret’s father’s carriage was waiting.

‘My father is interested in a hotel in Goulburn. Do you know where that is?’

‘Yes,’ said Charles, and sighed again.

He changed the conversation to more immediate matters. When they reached the carriage Charles informed her of his departure time and his expected arrival date of the return ship.

‘I will write to this address?’ he questioned, pointing at Mr Winslow’s house.

‘No, this one.’ And Margaret handed him a slip of paper, already prepared and written on. He liked that. It gave him such hope. He leant and kissed her glove, not sure what was allowed. There was that shock again.

‘Until then.’

Margaret’s father hurried across the street and looked at Charles. It was a shrewd look and garnered as much information as the few seconds allowed. Charles waved as the horses drew away in a fine film of dust.

Charles stood on the street long after the carriage had rounded the corner. The glimpse of his future made him think of his past. What, for instance, had he done this past year? For the past few years? Had the sensibilities of his parents destined him for this? He remembered his father speaking to him one evening as he looked at the sky—the young Charles had followed his father’s eye, expecting to be told about the stars. But his father said, ‘Some people drink, I pray.’

Maybe I’ll do both from now on, Charles thought, and walked with a featherweight heart in the direction of the ship.

In May 1854 Charles married Margaret Bridget Ryan born Ennis, County Clare, in Geelong Church of England church. And on that morning it was impossible not to briefly think of those other girls from Clare.

CHAPTER 22

In the beginning time had been slow for Honora, which was no harm. She needed it to be like that. She was seventeen when she arrived in Yass. She had to try to cure herself of the journey. She didn’t want to remember any of it, particularly the leaving—the part before the journey started. Every moment of those weeks leading to that day was so long and full of unexpected thoughts. She did have an aunt who came to visit the day before she left. She had also left Florrie and Dan—Florrie in the workhouse, but with a possibility of leaving because Dan had been promised work building the wall around the landlord’s house. That’s what Florrie had told Honora. The others were in America. It would be best not to think of them either, because, as far as she knew, America was even further away from here than Ireland. Although there were some people who said it was nearer. There were questions that sometimes came to her but there was no one to ask. At least no one she could trust completely. Not yet.

In her first week she had asked if it was the same moon as at home. The question had plopped out of her mouth unexpectedly. The house manager had laughed out loud. Honora blushed. But he had not answered her. Maybe he didn’t know himself. She couldn’t ask that question again.

After the leaving was done, there was England. The strange smells of the port, all those other girls, some who knew one or two others, but most who knew no one. Then there was the warm bath. Then the journey itself. As each day passed, Honora could forget the bad more easily, elevating and elongating the better moments. School. The growing order. Holding hands dancing at night. The diminution of fear. The abatement of nightmares. The disappearance of the tic from her face. Soon, if she tried hard enough, she could filter out any memory that was harmful to her. What was the point in keeping it? And who could she tell? Perhaps while she was doing this she should also try to forget the death of her parents. She thought that forgetting them might diminish the constant pain at the stem of her throat. And maybe she could forget the deaths of her neighbours and her aunts and uncles. Already she had mixed up whether some of them had died or gone to America. It should be possible to forget. It was surely the best thing.

And it should be possible here because nothing was the same. The language was a little like the English she had learned at home, and a little more like what she had learned on the ship. But so much was not the same. The potatoes all seemed flavourless—the ones at home had not been like that, before they died that is. The first part of forgetting was to think of this new place as home. Yass as home. She said it to herself, felt the strangeness of it. But it would have to do.

She rose early in the morning. She got dressed and ready for the day, and made her way to the kitchen. She learned the ways fast. Once breakfast was over, it was important to know how many farm workers would be in later, if the shepherds would be coming, what was going on outside on the land and in the nearby mill. It was also important to fit in and around all the other staff—something Honora found easy to do. Easier than when on a moving ship. She lived with her thoughts and would talk later, when they wanted her to join in. She did not see much of her master now she was settled. She was still embarrassed, although he had told her not to mind. Sometime after her first few weeks he had walked through the kitchen. If he had not asked her how she was she would not have collapsed into tears. Her shoulders had fallen down into her chest as she had gulped for air and whimpered.

‘Oh dear,’ her master had said to no one in particular.

Cook dried her hands and came to her. She must have seated her, because when Honora came to she was sitting on a chair. She looked shyly about, but her master was gone. Then Cook left for some moments. She could hear mumbling outside. What if they told her she had to go? Was there any place to go? But Cook came and said that the master thought she should get ready, he was going to town and would take her to see one of the other girls. Cook fussed her out of the door into the yard. The horses smelled as they had on the road from Sydney.

Honora sat in the corner of the carriage, all her body tightened up. But her master talked in streams as if nothing was wrong, so gradually she loosened her muscles and felt better. They passed the people who were calling to collect the newly arrived post. Honora would have no business there. And then she thought, she could write to Florrie and Dan again. The last one might not have arrived. And even if they were away from the workhouse, that would not matter, Miss Lillis would bring them the letter, she was sure she would. Honora gulped. A hiccup was coming on. She swallowed. Maybe the thing to do was to swallow her memories if they were making her eyes wet. She could save money from her pay and send it to them so they could come here. Imagine that. She swallowed again.

‘Here we are,’ her master said.

They had stopped outside a red house. There were fourteen windows in the front. Honora counted them as her master made his way to the door. The black verandah iron gleamed in the sun, the wood creaked and whispered as it dried up in the heat. Underneath the verandah she could see the cool darkness. The master came back to the carriage after a quick chat at the door.

‘Come this way,’ he said, and led her round the back.

‘I will be two hours,’ he said, as they reached the back of the bank.

Honora and Teresa Furey saw each other and fell over themselves. Although they had not known each other well on the boat, they had talked in the camp on the way down here, not much, but that didn’t matter now. Now they knew each other. The two masters smiled. They were both of the view, which was not always held out here, that kindness was a light load to carry, that one did not have to be as harsh as the earth, that there was joy to be metered out.

Four hours of talking were done in two, some of it whispered. The heat, the rivers without water, their kitchens, their bosses, their luck.

‘We’re lucky,’ Honora said.

And if a God heard, he must have shaken his head in wonderment.

‘I think so too,’ said Teresa. ‘Some of the others might not be so well done by.’

‘And how do you hear?’

‘There’s an Annie in my kitchen and she brings news in every day. Funny, I’m mixing up some of the girls’ names now. If I could see them I wouldn’t.’