A Tattooed Heart (11 page)

Leary really didn't care for the note of raw hope in her voice. He nodded. ‘Can't tell you exactly when, but. Depends on me business.'

‘What will you do there?'

‘Nothing you have to worry about, all right?' he said sharply.

‘I'm just asking. I might be able to help.'

He sighed as she poked at her stew with her spoon. Her mouth was doing that clamped shut thing and she looked like she was slipping into one of her sulks. He didn't want to get offside with her — he couldn't afford to, he'd be needing her soon — so he said, ‘You can help when the time comes. When I get back.'

‘Why?' she asked. ‘What'll be happening then?'

He made himself reach across the table and playfully touch the end of her nose. ‘Wait and see.'

10 August 1832, Sydney Town

Harrie was out of sorts. James was in an extremely good mood and wouldn't tell her why. It had started the previous night. A man
had come to the door to see James: she'd thought it was something to do with a patient so she'd taken no notice, but James hadn't gone out. Instead, he'd returned to the parlour and resumed his seat in his favourite chair near the fire, grinning his head off. She'd begun with polite enquiries as to the reason for his apparent delight, which had yielded nothing but more beaming smiles, then she'd descended to threats of kicking his shins if he wouldn't tell her, but still he'd remained infuriatingly tight-lipped. And it had been no better this morning.

Even more baffling, he'd taken the day off work, something he almost never did.

‘I thought we might go into town today,' he said brightly as he buttered a slice of toasted bread. ‘Have a look around, perhaps do some shopping.'

‘But you don't like shopping,' Harrie said.

‘I don't mind it sometimes. Or, I know! We could take Charlotte down to the wharves and show her the ships. She likes the ships, doesn't she?'

‘The wharves? That's hardly an outing for a small child.' Harrie stared at James as he continued to smile away to himself. What was he up to?

‘In fact,' he said, ‘I'll go and tell Daisy to get her ready to go out, shall I? Are they upstairs?'

Harrie thought briefly about warning him that Daisy was very likely in the middle of Charlotte's potty training, but decided not to. That'd teach him to keep secrets from her. ‘In the nursery, I think.'

James shovelled in the rest of his toast, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and trotted off.

James didn't bother to knock on the nursery door, which was slightly ajar, and went straight in. The room was somewhat over-heated by the fire roaring away in the grate, and a deeply
unpleasant smell tainted the air. Clad only in her woollen vest, Charlotte pointed triumphantly at a chamber pot on the floor and crowed, ‘Look, Daddy! I done a turd!'

‘Charlotte!' Daisy reprimanded, red-faced.

Obligingly, James looked. In the pot was a solitary, rather firm, little stool. Perhaps the child needed dosing with castor oil. ‘Jolly well done, Charlotte. Though we say “I did, er, a turd”, not “I done a turd”.'

‘I'm sorry, Dr Downey,' Daisy said, wrapping Charlotte in a towel and plonking her on the bed.

‘Not to worry, Daisy, it's a natural function. Though probably best to encourage her to use the word “stool”. Or perhaps “bowel motion”.'

Daisy went even redder. ‘Yes, sir. Were you wanting something, sir?'

‘Can you get Charlotte ready to go out this morning, please? I thought we'd all go to town, you included. I've a surprise planned for Mrs Downey. I'll tell you what it is because it's going to affect you, but you have to keep it under your hat, all right?'

Daisy nodded, a little wary.

‘Mrs Downey's younger siblings are arriving by ship this morning.'

‘Ships!' Charlotte shouted, clapping.

‘And they're coming to live with us. Isn't that good news?'

Daisy gave an ear-piercing squeal of excitement. James knew that Harrie talked so often about her brother and sisters that Daisy probably knew as much about them as he did himself. Then her face fell somewhat as she rather transparently calculated how much work three more people in the house would generate. He waited for signs of protest, but none came.

‘That'll be lovely for Mrs Downey, sir. And you. And madam,' Daisy said, nodding at Charlotte. ‘There'll be plenty of folk for her to play with now.'

‘You're a good girl, Daisy Miller. I thought, given the extra housework, an increase in your wages will most definitely be in order. We might even take on another pair of hands. We'll see how it goes, shall we?'

‘Not to look after Charlotte, though,' Daisy said quickly. ‘That's my job.' Realising what she'd said, she clapped a hand over her mouth and added a muffled, ‘Begging your pardon, sir. Only if that's all right with you.'

James laughed. ‘I wouldn't dare separate you. Both Charlotte and Mrs Downey would . . . What is it they say? Have my guts for stockings?'

‘Garters, sir.'

‘That's it, garters.' James kissed the top of Charlotte's silverblonde head. ‘Bundle her up in something warm. It's cold out today.'

An hour later, after the breakfast things had been seen to and a successful search conducted for Charlotte's missing mittens, they were on their way. Harrie was in a thoroughly grumpy mood by then as it seemed that even Daisy had been infected by whatever wonderful good humour had overcome James. Every time Daisy looked at her she smiled hugely, as though she knew something Harrie didn't. It was infuriating.

They set out along Hunter Street, Charlotte in the lead — ‘I walk, Mama!' — stopping every few feet so she could examine something. At this rate, Harrie thought irascibly, they wouldn't get down to the cove until sunset. By the time they reached George Street, however, Charlotte insisted she was tired so James picked her up, and so far had had his hat knocked off twice as she pointed energetically and waved at passers-by.

Then they had to stop so James could dash into his friend Matthew Cutler's place of work.

‘What do you need to see Matthew for?' Harrie asked as James gave her Charlotte to hold.

‘He might want to come with us. I won't be long.'

‘To look at ships?' Harrie called, mystified, after his retreating back. Scowling, she turned to Daisy. ‘What
is
going on, Daisy? Do you know?'

‘No, ma'am,' Daisy said, not meeting her eye.

Harrie finally snapped. ‘Look, how many times have I told you not to call me that?'

‘Sorry, Mrs Harrie.'

‘Mama grumpy,' Charlotte said.

‘Yes, love, I bloody well am,' Harrie agreed. ‘Everyone seems to have gone mad. Especially your father.'

At that moment Charlotte's father was marching triumphantly into Matthew Cutler's small office, which he shared with two other architects. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. Matthew, they've arrived!'

Matthew stared up at him. ‘Who?'

‘The children! Harrie's brother and sisters. The ship was sighted outside the Heads last night and they'll be dropping anchor this morning. We're going down to meet them.'

‘God, really? That's exciting, isn't it? Does she know?'

‘No, it's still a surprise. I thought you might want to come with us, given the hours you've spent listening to me going on about it.'

Matthew looked at his watch. ‘I can probably pop out for a little while. It's just about midday.'

He grabbed his hat and coat and followed James outside, where he greeted Daisy and a sour-looking Harrie. As usual, Charlotte cried, ‘Maffew!' and threw her arms around his neck.

‘What's all this about, Matthew?' Harrie demanded.

‘I feel like some fresh air. I think I'm getting a headache. It can get quite stuffy in that tiny little office.'

He winced as she harpooned him with the filthiest look.

They set off again along George Street, listening to Charlotte chatter away enthusiastically and frequently nonsensically about all she could see, then turned down Suffolk Lane towards King's
Wharf. For some reason, a crowd had gathered on the shore, mostly of men, Harrie noticed. A ship was slowly being warped in, two men labouring sweatily on the long handles that turned the capstan at the end of the wharf.

‘Ship!' Charlotte shrieked.

Harrie put her finger in her ear in case there were more screams to follow.

‘She really likes ships, doesn't she?' Matthew remarked.

James joked, ‘Perhaps she'll be a sailor when she grows up.'

Over my dead body, Harrie thought, unpleasantly reminded of her own disastrous encounter with a sailor. The ship, she saw, was named the
Florentia
. Had she seen something in the papers about a vessel bringing women out under some sort of emigration scheme? No, that ship had been called the
Red Rover
, though there certainly seemed to be quite a few women on the deck of this one. She realised with a flutter of distaste why all the men were here. Why on earth had James wanted her to see this?

The towering bow of the ship almost connected with the end of the wharf, and men with long poles rushed to redirect the slowly gliding hull alongside the quay, then secure the vessel with ropes. There was a further flurry of action and the gangway was lowered. To initially enthusiastic cheers from the crowd that soon faded to disappointed grumbles, men, women and children began to disembark and lurch comically along the wharf, unaccustomed to terra firma after so many months at sea.

‘James, why are we watching this?' Harrie demanded.

‘I'm sorry,' he said, settling a hand on her shoulder. ‘I suspect the crowd's here for the
Red Rover
. That's due in shortly as well. But just wait.'

She did. A few minutes later a small group of children made their way down the gangway. As they stepped off the wharf, one came right up to her and, grinning hugely, said, ‘Harrie, it's me, Robbie.'

She stared at him, suddenly dizzy, her heart pounding, almost unable to comprehend what she was seeing. ‘Robbie? Robbie!' She glanced at the two girls with him and screamed, ‘Anna! Sophie! Oh my God, James, look!'

James could only smile at her like an idiot.

The children rushed at Harrie, very nearly knocking her down. She burst into loud tears and drew them into her arms, hugging them fiercely.

Charlotte protested mightily, her voice rising to a wail. ‘Mama. Mine mama!'

Harrie, sobbing so she could hardly talk, let her death grip on Anna, Sophie and Robbie ease slightly. ‘But . . . what . . . doing here? You've . . .
grown!'

They had, too. When she'd last seen them they'd been little children aged eight, seven and six, but now Robbie was twelve, and almost as tall as her. His dark hair had been neatly cut and he wore good woollen trousers, a white linen shirt, a waistcoat and jacket, and sturdy boots. The girls were equally well dressed, in long-sleeved dresses with white pinafore aprons and laced boots, and pretty bonnets. They looked adorable, so neat and clean and tidy. Then it struck her — how could they have afforded to outfit themselves so smartly? This was followed by an even more disconcerting thought: why had she not noticed their clothing straight away? Had she become so accustomed to comfort and luxury?

Extracting himself from Harrie's grip, Robbie said, ‘It were your husband. He sent for us.'

‘What?' Harrie was stunned. She turned to James. ‘Did you?'

‘Er, yes. Just before we were married. You missed them dreadfully. And your mother had passed on, so I thought . . . well, why not? What's three more?'

‘Oh, James, you darling.' Harrie threw her arms around him and hugged him to within an inch of his life.

‘Mama!' Charlotte shrieked.

Harrie took her from Daisy and parked her on her hip. ‘Hush, sweetie, it's all right.' Addressing Sophie, Robbie and Anna, she said, ‘Chickens, this is Charlotte. Charlotte, say hello to —' She stopped as a rather amazing thought occurred to her. ‘Yes, I suppose you are, aren't you? Charlotte, say hello to your Uncle Robbie and your Aunt Anna and Aunt Sophie.'

‘No.' Charlotte stuck her thumb in her mouth.

Harrie laughed. ‘She's just being shy. She only turned two in March.'

‘She doesn't look like you,' Anna said.

‘Well, she wouldn't. We adopted her.'

Sophie gently squeezed Charlotte's foot, which Charlotte snatched out of the way. ‘Her hair's pretty. Like snow.'

She fell silent and she and her brother and sister stood shuffling their feet uncomfortably. Harrie belatedly realised why. ‘Oh! I'm sorry, loves! This is my husband, Dr James Downey. Your, um . . . You can call him . . . James, what should they call you?'

‘We've got a da,' Robbie blurted.

And a fat lot of use he was, too, Harrie thought, walking out and abandoning the three of you, not to mention me and Ma. Anyway, James wouldn't be their stepfather: he was their brother-in-law.

‘I don't know,' James said brightly. ‘What about . . . James?'

Harrie blinked. That was uncharacteristically familiar of him. Usually he was quite a stickler for formalities.

Robbie stuck out his hand and muttered, ‘Thank you, Mr James, for paying for us to come here to be with Harrie and that. We're obliged.'

Obliged? Just ‘obliged'? Harrie, though her eyes filled again at his attempt at grown-up behaviour, felt a prickle of unease at Robbie's vaguely churlish behaviour. What was wrong with him? Perhaps he was just nervous.

James shook Robbie's hand. ‘I'm very pleased you decided to come, Robert. I hope you and your sisters find a happy home here with us.'

‘Maybe,' Robbie said. ‘It weren't that good in London. Not for the girls, anyway.'

Sophie stepped hastily in front of her brother. ‘We're very, very grateful to you, Mr James. It were hard for us at home, 'specially after Ma died. We all missed Harrie something rotten and we never thought we'd ever see her again but here we are, so, um, thank you.'