Not the Same Sky (22 page)

Eventually Charles and Margaret retired to their bedroom. They were not aware of the fact that their window was open until they overheard the voices coming in to them on the salty wind. It was impossible to be sure to whom they belonged.

‘The Irish Famine will always be one of those events that has a divisive effect, in that country as much as anywhere else. There cannot be a collective memory about it for that would presume everyone experienced it in the same way, which is certainly not true. Of course they will always have another country to blame, whereas our convicts won’t.’

‘Yes, it is always easier to have an outside place to blame.’

‘And of course it is true that a lot of them did die.’

‘More than a million they say.’

‘And more than a million departed the country too.’

‘Perhaps we could have avoided some of those.’

‘And then, of course, there are Charles’ girls.’

‘They will be forgotten.’

‘Well yes, if they are successful they certainly will, because they will blend in and will not be remarked upon.’

‘I’m sure that most of them were sad to leave but glad to be gone.’

‘And the ones he took to the country … no place that for a nervous type of woman.’

The men laughed.

‘But he does go on. He will not allow us to forget them.’

‘Of course, he married one.’

‘No, not one of them, just Irish.’

Charles made for the window and closed it loudly. The voices stopped—either because the closed window prevented them coming into the room, or because the men had realised they were overheard. Perhaps it would have been better to stay in a hotel, the Orient, near Argyll Street. Next time, certainly.

But the next day brought its own delicious to-ing and fro-ing, getting ready for the ball, and Mrs Winslow made a huge fuss over Margaret. They went into a room together and did something to their hair and then Margaret joined Charles in the bedroom to put on her dress. He pretended to be busy with his own apparel but he secretly watched the event of Margaret’s clothing. He went down to the drawing room before she was completely ready so he could be there to watch her come down the stairs and be ready to put her arm on his. Mr Winslow commented that there was nothing like a ball to bring out the best in everyone.

‘It’s the thought of dancing,’ he said. ‘Did you know that Captain Cook made his crew dance a hornpipe before he gave them their ration of rum?’

Mr Winslow was like his wife in that he collected bits and pieces of obscure details. They both used them like nest linings to create a life that mattered here.

‘And what about making their own ballroom out of ice!’

Margaret had heard about that. Two ships had met in the Antarctic and a piece of ice formed between them, which could be used for passage between the vessels. The sailors set to work so that they could celebrate the New Year. They carved an ice ballroom, ice seats for the captains, a table with steps down to it, a female figure near one ship, a male near another. And they had their dance. She pretended not to know the story, so that she could be told it again. Mrs Winslow liked Margaret.

The coach was brought to the side of the house and there was much ado to get the ladies into it without harming shoes or dress hems. Mrs Winslow was dressed in an Empire gown, while Margaret’s was an ivory silk. Both wore gloves—Mrs Winslow’s white, Margaret’s a deep yellow—and their headdresses were elegant and sparkled in the evening light. They carried their decorated fans easily in their hands. The men looked handsome. They couldn’t avoid doing so in their crushed hats, black dress suits with silk lapels, shining waistcoats and on Mr Winslow, a shining white tie. He also had a pocket watch and it was difficult to know whether one should remark on this or not. When seated in the carriage, Margaret thought this perhaps the loveliest part of the night, only themselves to appreciate before being overwhelmed by the festivities, and yet still the excitement of the future evening hanging in the air.

When they arrived, there was one whoosh of greeting and delight as people, perhaps not out often enough, set to enjoying themselves. The hall was decorated with shrubs and flowers hung from the walls. No detail had been ignored. The tables luxuriated in a fine display of food, everything you could possibly imagine, and there was champagne, wine, yellow and claret, as well as the usual sherry, port and brandy. And yes, there was ice, adding that final sparkle. The ladies floated to a room to freshen before the dancing. There was much talk about dresses, most of it joyous and benign.

‘A
soie ondeleuse
? I ask you! Still, it’s wonderful.’

When the music started there was a general rush to the floor. The programme had set out the dances for the evening: quadrilles, among them the Conlon, the newly arrived Lancers, the Caledonian, a mazurka, a great selection of waltzes and a medley polka. Most of the couples who took to the floor were more than proficient—at least one of them having at some time or another been to a dance master, so therefore capable of passing on the steps. Or indeed the men might have had occasion to dance with each other—perhaps on the ship out—if their own women had not been met yet. The single men eyed the single women with great appreciation, and the women were happy to glory in this, some of them engaging in the practice of fan talk to attract a man who might have caught their attention. And so the night wore on with remarkable vivaciousness. By the time the kitchen staff could be relieved for a few hours, the dance outside had already started, a competent caller with his nose to the window informing all of the exact steps, or as near as possible, that were being performed inside. And among the staff who joined in with great gusto—there being nothing like a dance to relieve tiredness—were a number of young Irish women. One was seen to stare at Charles Strutt, but before she could point him out she lost sight of him in the whirl of the dance.

It was almost five o’clock in the morning before the tired revellers returned home. A light breakfast was had and then all retired to a glorious, happy sleep. The next day involved a leisurely picnic, a small amount of prepared food being brought to a patch beside the harbour and laid out on a tablecloth. All looked at the water and carried on an easy conversation. The lecture and music would, tomorrow evening, round off a wonderful visit. Margaret had been delighted and amazed when Charles told her about the tickets. They repacked the picnic basket. Charles could have sworn he heard a familiar voice as they did this. No. It couldn’t be.

The following evening torrential rain poured down, but the carriages were successfully brought as close to the Lyceum as possible, and when all were seated, Mr Denihey began his Master of Ceremonies role by introducing J.H. Plunkett Esq. MP, who was to deliver the lecture. People made themselves comfortable. In his opening remarks the lecturer gave a general appreciation of music—its delights as a spiritual recreation from incessant labour and a great source of renovation for the fatigued mind for those involved in more intellectual pursuits. He then did a European tour of music, landing on lessons for children, the promiscuous attendance of professors and amateurs alike at musical events in Germany, the human voice as instrument, and the architecture of music. He informed his audience that he was not one of those who condemned polkas, waltzes, quadrilles, mazurkas and light music, which came as much relief to those who had attended the recent ball. Mr Plunkett had an idea that people in the bush, far removed from society, would also benefit by playing some instrument. Why even the common shepherd would never feel lonely if he could play a flute under a gum tree. There was a slight drawing in of breath by those who had met the same shepherds and fancied this was a matter of opinion. He quoted Dr Burney, who in his history of music had remarked upon the disadvantages under which ancients laboured.

The Egyptian flute was only a cow’s horn, with three or four holes in it, and their harp or lyre had only three strings; the Grecian lyre had only seven strings, and was very small, being held in one hand; the Jewish trumpets that made the walls of Jericho fall down, were only rams horns, their flute was the same as the Egyptians; they had no other instrumental music but by percussion, of which the greatest boast made was the psaltery, a small triangular harp or lyre with wire strings, and struck with as from needle or stick, their mebut was something like a bagpipe; the timbret was a tambourine, and the duletmar was a horizontal harp with wire strings. They had no written music; scarcely a vowel in their language and yet (according to Josephus) had two hundred thousand musicians playing at the dedication of the temple of Solomon.

Well, be that as it may. People were glad they had made themselves comfortable. After some time Mr Plunkett got to the point of the evening, Ancient Music of Ireland. And the night took on a new life of its own, particularly when, to the relief of some, the singing began, beautifully rendered by the men and women who had accompanied Mr Plunkett on stage, and who were doubtless now well and truly ready to give their vocal cords an airing. The singing of ‘She is Far from the Land’, created a particular silence of its own, followed by rapturous applause. As the voices soared, any discomfort felt at the length of the lecture was quickly forgiven on the grounds that it was the lecturer’s first outing. The night concluded with a rendering of ‘The Harp that Once through Tara’s Halls’, and when the reporter from the
Sydney Morning Herald
ran to check details with some of the concertgoers, he would have no problem finding plenty who knew all the words.

It was while they were departing the theatre that Charles came face to face with Anne Sherry, who was accompanied by an older woman. Anne became very flustered, which Charles put down to the surprise meeting. But at the door she drew him aside and hurriedly spoke, ‘The woman with me is my mother.’

‘But I thought your mother was dead?’ said a surprised Charles.

‘My mother had been sent out as a convict before me and I was not sure if she was still alive, but we have recently been reunited,’ Anne said, formally.

She and her mother were wearing thoroughly interesting hats. Maybe Margaret would like one like that?

‘But that is wonderful news.’

‘Yes, except …’ and here Anne’s eyes filled with tears, ‘I told Honora Raftery that my mother was dead. It seemed the right thing to do, to fit in. But then when I saw what it really was to be certain that you had a dead mother, I felt ashamed. That’s why I couldn’t go to Yass.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Charles. ‘But surely she would understand,’ wondering, as he said it, if indeed she would.

‘Perhaps you should write to explain,’ he said, as gently as he could, considering that Margaret and the carriage were waiting for him and there would surely be such a jam in this rain.

‘Maybe,’ Anne Sherry said. And then added, ‘But I don’t know where she is, nor Julia Cuffe either.’ She hurried back to her mother.

‘I could try to find out,’ Charles shouted after her disappearing navy coat.

CHAPTER 27

It was Margaret who brought it up with Charles, more than a year later, two days before they were to visit Sydney again.

‘Maybe you should try to meet one of them or even two, you couldn’t meet more than that. It might put your mind at rest,’ she said.

Charles looked at her with surprise—she could be full of such practical ideas at times.

‘Why not?’ she questioned.

Indeed why not. That is what he would do, he thought. He would meet Anne Sherry first, although no doubt that would not be her name now. Still, it should be easy enough to locate her. He had the contacts.

So Charles set about finding her. Once married, and now twice married, he was lucky to find her after two name changes. A person could get completely lost like that. And so he came to stand at the door of a tidy house, some streets back from Pitt Street. He had decided not to inform Anne of his visit, he felt she might find a way not to see him if she had warning, she had run away after the concert. Maybe she had spoken to him on impulse with the shock of seeing him and then regretted it. Of course it might have been the rain. He remembered the rain. Or the man standing behind her. He knocked on the door. Anne opened it, a baby slung on her hip and followed by other children, who came out to look at him quietly. He did not like to count how many there were. She looked at him for a moment, then said, ‘Come in, come in.’ But Charles knew she was flustered by his presence. Probably it was unfair to call like this.

‘No, no. I was passing,’ he lied. ‘I thought I would tell you that I will bring a letter to Honora Raftery if you wish to write to her. I can call again this time tomorrow?’

He suddenly felt foolish. But Anne Sherry smiled, a wide happy smile.

‘That will be nice. Yes, that will be nice,’ she said.

‘So, I will see you tomorrow,’ Charles said, hurrying back to his carriage, thinking his visit might bring up unwelcome memories.

But when he arrived the next day she brought him in to a good front room. She already had teacups laid out. She pointed at them but Charles said, ‘No, no thank you. Really I have to get on.’ He was aware this might be a difficult conversation, how could he not have thought so, how could he have thought he could turn up here as if she was still his business. Perhaps she found it an intrusion. They both sat down. Anne looked out the window at the trees dripping with an unusual shower.