The Ivory Rose (11 page)

The girl in the orange dress giggled and twirled her emerald-green boa.

‘Don’t be shy!’ jeered another boy. ‘Come on, prettikins, give us a kiss.’

Jemma’s eyes dropped to the ground and she hurried on, hoping to avoid confrontation.

‘Ya reckon yer too good for us, don’t ya?’ screeched another, cackling with mirth. ‘We’ll show ya not to be so snooty.’

The gang was now closing in on Jemma. Her eyes widened with fear, and she was breathing quickly, heart thudding. There were seven of them against one. She started to run.

The first boy caught her by the arm and dragged her close, breathing rum fumes in her face. He stank of body odour, cigarette smoke and rancid grease. He dug his fingers into her arm with one hand and picked up the ivory rose pendant on its gold chain between the fingers of his other hand.

‘That’s a pretty little trinket,’ he snarled. ‘Too good for a servant girl. Did ya steal it from yer mistress? I’d better take it from ya and see if I can return it to its rightful owner.’

Jemma’s arm ached from the pressure of his hand. She felt sick from his stinking-hot breath in her face and the menace in his tone.

‘Let me go,’ Jemma cried, snatching the ivory pendant back and pushing his arm away. ‘Let go of me at once.’

The boy shoved her roughly. Jemma stumbled and fell to the ground, knocking the breath from her and bruising her knees. The boys closed in. She was surrounded by a wall of pointy-toed boots that all looked ready to kick her.

‘Stow that. Don’t ya push me around, you little simpleton. I’ll teach ya some respect.’

Jemma curled into a ball, protecting her head. She was terrified. What were they going to do? Kick her to death? Kidnap her? How could this be happening? Her face stung where she’d grazed the ground.

‘Jemma! Jemma!’

From up the street, Jemma heard her name called and the sound of galloping hooves. The wall of boots shuffled and parted.

‘Good day to ye all, my lovely lads,’ cried a familiar, lilting voice. ‘My mistress has sent me to find our young serving lass. Looks loike she’s got herself lost again. Up ye come now, lass, before our mistress calls the constable again.’

Jemma sat up, dazed. It was Ned, of course, with his lovely Irish brogue. He was mounted on Butterscotch, bareback. He nodded to the lurking boys, who scuffed their boots in the dust. The girl in the crimson dress twirled her feather boa and smiled coquettishly at Ned. He ignored her, holding his hand down towards Jemma.

She struggled to her feet obediently, picking up the overturned basket. The boys nearest her moved away.

‘Climb up on that wall there, lass,’ suggested Ned. ‘Butterscotch is a bit high for you to mount from down there.’

Jemma’s legs were shaking as she clambered onto the wall. Would the boys attack her again? They were still seven against two. Ned pulled Jemma up behind him.

‘Grand. Hold on round my waist, lass. Butterscotch has a broad back – ye should not fall.’

Ned clicked his tongue and kicked his heels into Butterscotch’s fat belly. She ambled forward through the silent group of teenagers.

‘Are ye all roight then, Jemma?’ Ned asked in a worried tone. ‘Ye’r shaking like a field of barley in a breeze.’

‘Y-yes. I think so,’ replied Jemma, a sob of relief cracking her voice. ‘I thought they were going to kill me.’

Jemma sat up straight, feeling uncomfortable to be so close to Ned’s back with her arms around his waist.

‘What were ye thinking, coming up here in the backstreets?’ demanded Ned, his voice harsh. ‘Tis not safe for a lass loike ye. Those larrikins and donahs are naught but trouble. I hope they were just trying to scare ye, but when they have been drinking the very divil takes them, and no mistake. They do not care for anything except their foine clothes.’

‘Larrikins? Donahs?’ asked Jemma. Her voice was still shaky, but she was determined not to cry.

‘There are gangs they call larrikins that roam the streets, especially at night, drinking and making trouble. There’s not much work, and they cannot get jobs, but somehow they steal enough money to keep themselves and their donahs – their lasses – in fancy clothes.’

Jemma lapsed into silence, mulling over what had happened, curious to see all the sights of this unfamiliar world from the safety and height of Butterscotch’s back.

‘Poor lass,’ commented Ned, his tone soft again. ‘Lucky I found ye in time.’

Jemma suddenly realised that Ned had miraculously arrived just in time to rescue her. Was it a coincidence, or had he come especially to find her?

‘How did you know where I was?’ Jemma asked. ‘Why were you riding along Breillat Street just then?’

Ned laughed, twisting his head around to smile at her. ‘I do no’ usually ride bareback in the back lanes,’ he chuckled. ‘I saw you heading off to do your chores in Booth Street, but loike the daft lass ye are, ye went completely the wrong way. I thought of what Agnes would
do to ye, and thought I had better follow ye and set ye straight.’

Jemma blushed, furious at being called daft. Luckily, Ned could not see her face behind him.

‘By the time I bridled Butterscotch I had lost sight of ye, then I remembered ye said ye’r folks lived in Breillat Street, so I thought I would have a quick look there – and there ye were, taking on a whole gang of larrikins by ye’rself.’

Jemma took a deep, shaky breath. ‘Thank you, Ned,’ she murmured. ‘It was kind of you to follow after me. I’m very glad you came along just when you did.’

‘Not at all, lass,’ Ned replied. ‘I seem to be making a habit out o’ rescuing ye loike a damsel in distress. Now I am going to rescue ye from the wrath o’ Agnes and give ye a lift up to Booth Street. We’ll canter through the backstreets to make up some time, so hold on toight.’

Ned clicked and Butterscotch broke into a trot, then a lumbering canter, like a huge rocking horse. Jemma clung on tightly to Ned’s waist as the decrepit cottages and derelict hovels of the backstreets sped behind them.

As they made their way towards the main intersection of Annandale, where Johnston Street crossed Booth Street, a bustling crowd began to grow.

Jemma watched, entranced as the scene unfolded.

The wide roads were swarming with horsedrawn traffic – drays, carts, chaises, carriages, sulkies and buggies. Pedestrians and bicycles darted amongst the traffic. Fashionable women wore large feathered hats, long skirts and jackets with puffed leg-o’-mutton sleeves, while poorer women wore more practical versions, their heads covered with simple shawls or bonnets. Men wore caps or bowler hats and dark three-piece suits. The road was dusty and rutted, paved with timber blocks and littered with steaming piles of pungent horse manure.

A steam tram trundled down Booth Street on its iron rails, horn blasting to clear the way. Jemma stared at the lively
chaos, reluctant to get down from the security of Butterscotch’s back.

‘Hop down here and get ye’r chores done,’ instructed Ned. ‘I will wait for ye and give ye a roide back to Rosethorne, but hurry or I will be late getting back to harness the horses for the mistress’s afternoon visits. Mind the trams now, lass. They cannot stop quickly, and every week some poor soul gets killed tryin’ to run in front o’ one.’

Jemma did as Ned suggested, picking up a parcel of ribbon and thread from the haberdashery and then visiting the apothecary.

The apothecary was a dark treasure trove of shelves piled high with bottles, boxes, canisters, jars and packets. The air smelt of dried herbs, strong alcohol and something sweet and sugary.

‘Good morning, young lady,’ said the teenage lad behind the carved wooden counter, winking at her. ‘Can I help you?’

He had a red, pimply face, ears that stuck out like jug handles and brown hair slicked back with grease. Jemma smiled in return and handed him Miss Rutherford’s note. He quickly perused it and gathered up six small brown bottles and a couple of cardboard packets of pills, which he neatly wrapped in brown paper and string.

‘I’ll put that on Miss Rutherford’s bill then, shall I?’ asked the apothecary’s assistant.

‘Thank you,’ replied Jemma, taking up the parcel and placing it in her basket.

As she was leaving the apothecary, she recognised the striking, white-haired gentleman from the first day she arrived. She stared at him, trying to think why he looked
vaguely familiar with his wild mane of hair and his smart black suit and waistcoat. A flashback came to her of a formal black-and-white photograph in her history book.

The gentleman noticed her staring and politely raised his top hat.

Then a look of recognition flashed across his face.

‘Good morning, young miss,’ he greeted her. ‘I know you. Aren’t you the young lady who was knocked down by Miss Rutherford’s carriage last week?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Jemma. ‘And I think I know who you are? Aren’t you Sir Henry Parkes? The Father of Federation?’

A beaming smile spread across the old gentleman’s craggy features. ‘Well, that’s a quaint title, and it would be a huge honour if it were true, but alas, despite all our efforts, federation of the Australasian colonies seems as distant as ever.’

Jemma smiled warmly. ‘Oh no,’ she contradicted, a twinkle in her eye. ‘I think the states will vote for federation in just a few years. In fact, Australia will celebrate the new century by becoming a Federation on New Year’s Day, 1901.’

Sir Henry laughed merrily. ‘Well, aren’t you a charming soothsayer? I hope that you are proven right, although I wish that it might happen sooner than that.’

Jemma thought back to her history lessons.

‘No – the states all squabble over who will have the most power,’ Jemma explained. ‘They suspect New South Wales of a conspiracy to seize power from the other states. Then, of course, Sydney and Melbourne fight over which of them should be the capital, because they both believe
they should be the most important city in Australia. In the end, we’ll have to build a whole new capital city part way between the two of them.’

Sir Henry’s grin grew even wider. ‘What a wonderful idea! That would solve so many problems. It’s ridiculous – it’s five years since all seven British colonies met in Melbourne and agreed in principle to an Australasian Federation, but since then the arguments have gone around and around in circles.’

Jemma wrinkled her forehead in confusion. ‘Don’t you mean six colonies?’

‘Seven, including New Zealand,’ explained Sir Henry.

‘No,’ Jemma replied with a giggle. ‘New Zealand will
never
agree to become part of Australia.’

Sir Henry frowned. ‘Do you suppose not? Having separate colonies is so inefficient. We have no hope of defending ourselves against the Russians or French or Germans – they could invade us at any time. Plus, the differing tariff systems are ridiculous, as are all the separate train gauges.

‘If you were travelling from Melbourne to Brisbane, you’d have to get off and change trains every time you crossed a border, and wait while they unloaded and reloaded every box, parcel and envelope … Ridiculous!’

Sir Henry suddenly remembered who he was speaking to. ‘Forgive me, I do prattle on when I start discussing politics. I don’t get the chance quite so often, now that I’m retired. Thank you, young lady, for a very interesting conversation. I do so hope you are right about the Federation. It’d be my dearest wish to see such a thing come to pass.
A united Australia would be the Queen of the Pacific. I just pray that I’m alive to see the day.’

Jemma felt a twinge of sadness. Sir Henry wouldn’t live to see the day Australia formally became a nation.

‘In a hundred years, young Australians will learn about you at school,’ Jemma assured him.

Sir Henry looked at her oddly and raised his hat to her with a smile.

‘What is the world coming to when even the nursemaids are talking politics?’ demanded Sir Henry. ‘Next you’ll start preaching to me that women should be allowed to vote. Don’t fill your head with too much nonsense. Remember, it is a woman’s honourable destiny to reign supreme in the home, leaving men to rule in the world of business and politics.’

Jemma laughed, thinking of her world of the twenty-first century.

‘Not for much longer,’ she promised him. ‘One day Australia will have a female Prime Minister.’

‘Heaven forbid!’ exclaimed Sir Henry Parkes. ‘What a ludicrous notion!’

Sir Henry strolled off down the street, raising his hat to acquaintances, nodding and calling out pleasantries. Jemma grabbed her basket of purchases and hurried towards Ned, dodging bicycles, pedestrians, urchins and beggars.

Ned was waiting, his face creased with concern. ‘Whate’er have ye been doing, lass? We really had better hurry now.’

They cantered down the backstreets in silence, Jemma’s arms clasped around Ned’s waist. He pulled up at the bottom of Piper Lane.

‘Tis best if ye walk from here,’ Ned suggested, twisting around to face Jemma. ‘Old fire-breathing Agnes will have a lot to say if she thinks ye’ve been roiding with me. No “fraternising” allowed.’

Jemma nodded and slid off Butterscotch’s back.

‘Thanks again, Ned.’

‘Do no’ mention it.’

Ned rode up the lane, then paused and turned back over his shoulder. ‘Are ye going to Kentville on Sunday afternoon?’

Jemma looked confused. ‘Kentville? Do you mean Kentville Avenue?’

Ned laughed, tossing back his head of black curls. Jemma flushed again at his laughter, thinking he mocked her.

‘No, ye daft lass,’ Ned replied. ‘Kentville is the grand house that belongs to John Young. This Sunday he has a band playing. He opens the gardens and people come from all over Sydney by tram and ferry to wander in the grounds, play bowls, skittles, archery and billiards. Have ye tried archery? Tis grand.’

Jemma thought what fun it would be to escape the drudgery of life at Rosethorne, even if it was just for an afternoon.

‘That sounds wonderful,’ cried Jemma, then her face fell. ‘But I don’t have any money.’

‘Ah, do no’ fret,’ scoffed Ned. ‘T’will be my treat. I will meet ye on the corner o’ Piper Lane after lunch on Sunday.’

Jemma nodded, clutching her basket as Ned rode away. She stared after him, her thoughts churning.