Behind the Sun (34 page)

‘Ah, shite.’ Friday swept her hair back off her face. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘Take her to the hospital,’ Sarah suggested. ‘The doctor might give her some laudanum.’

Friday frowned. ‘Nancy said he was useless.’

‘He still might give her some laudanum.’ Sarah asked Harrie, ‘You’ve not heard anything from your Mr Downey?’

Harrie shook her head, unable to meet Sarah’s eye. Writing to James Downey had been a long shot, she’d known that, but he
had
offered his help, and she really thought he might at least have sent a note back, even if only to say he couldn’t come to the Factory himself but suggesting what they might do. But there had been nothing, and her imaginings regarding what he must have thought when he’d read her letter were humiliating. A convict girl sending someone like him a note asking for help — it was outrageous when you thought about it. If only she
had
thought about it — properly — before she’d sent it. She felt horribly embarrassed and, under that, deeply disappointed.

‘Typical,’ Sarah said.

Rachel let out a howl that sounded uncannily like a dog’s. It was eerie and disturbing and everyone turned to stare.

‘Right, come on.’ Sarah pulled her up off the ground. ‘We’ll try the hospital.’

But the pain in Rachel’s head had grown so monstrous that everything else had burnt away. All she knew now was a primal rage and a desperate need to feel nothing at all. She tried to bite Sarah’s hand, but Sarah dodged her and took a firmer grasp on her arm. Harrie gripped her opposite wrist and together they made for the entrance to the dormitory building, on the other side of which lay the hospital. Friday followed, glaring at anyone nosy enough to follow the little procession, which was almost everyone.

Mrs Dick stormed out of the dormitory building to meet them. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ She whipped a watch out of her
pocket and tapped it hard enough to break it. ‘Work starts in two minutes.’

‘To the hospital. She’s sick,’ Sarah said, nodding at Rachel slumped between them, panting, her head bowed with pain.

‘Can she not speak for herself?’

‘No, actually, she can’t.’ Fear and worry made Harrie bold. ‘She has a blinding headache.’

‘Well, you haven’t, have you? And neither have you, or you,’ Mrs Dick added, pointing at Sarah and Friday. ‘So get to work. She can make her own way to the hospital. I assume she still has control of her legs?’

Rachel slowly raised her head and said in a querulous voice, ‘Mrs Dick?’

‘What?’ Mrs Dick put her watch away. ‘Quickly, I’m busy.’

‘Why don’t you fuck yourself, you dried-up old minge.’

Mrs Dick gaped at her.

‘And I
do
have control of my legs.’ Before Harrie or Sarah could stop her, Rachel wriggled out their grasp, stepped forwards and kicked Mrs Dick on the shin as hard as she could.

And then she was off. She shot into the dormitory building and a moment later glass shattered as a teapot crashed against one of the few unbroken windows of the second-class dining room.

A great cheer of approval rose from the women in the yard and Mrs Dick, bent double over her throbbing leg, scrabbled for her whistle and blew on it until her face turned scarlet. But Friday, Sarah and Harrie barely heard as they tore after Rachel.

They clattered into the foyer just in time to see Rachel disappear up the stairs, her skirt hoisted so she could run faster. They thundered up after her into the first-floor second-class dormitory, where she dashed across the floor and came to a halt beside a broken window in the far corner.

‘
Stop!
’ Sarah bellowed, to Friday and Harrie as much as Rachel. ‘She’ll do something stupid!’

She did. She raised her right leg, kicked out the wooden mullions in the bottom half of the sash, then leant out so far it seemed certain she would fall, cutting her right arm on the shards of glass that remained in the frame. Friday launched herself across the room and tackled her, knocking her away from the window and onto the floor.

Rachel screamed like an animal, kicking out at Friday, scratching and spitting and swearing and punching, and managed to wrench herself out of her grasp, leaving half of her poorly constructed Factory jacket in Friday’s hands.

Sarah threw herself onto Rachel, but Rachel, with extraordinary strength, shoved her off, dashed past Harrie, knocking her over, and raced out of the room, drops of blood spattering the floor behind her. A second later there were raised voices, then echoing shouts, then nothing at all.

Friday, Sarah and Harrie staggered towards the doorway, Friday wiping her bloodied nose on her sleeve.

On the landing outside the dormitory door was more blood, but no sign of Rachel. Terrified of what they might see, they leant over the balustrade.

Below, in the foyer, stood Mrs Dick, Mr Tuckwell, several turnkeys and others in a circle. On the floor, face down, her hair fanned out like a silver nimbus, and so very, very still, lay Rachel.

Being Church of England, Harrie stood on the Protestant side of the first-class dining room for the Sunday service, eyes closed, hands tightly clasped in prayer. Friday was a Catholic though she hadn’t been to church since she was seven, but it was a wet day and rain was coming in on the Catholics’ side so she’d joined the Proddies. Sarah thought it all a load of rubbish but attendance was compulsory so she loitered near the back, gazing out of the window at the wet yard while the chaplain droned on.

As the women jostled out of the dining room at the end of the service, a turnkey tapped Sarah on the shoulder.

‘Are you Harriet Clarke?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I am,’ Harrie said.

The turnkey said, ‘You’re to go to Matron’s office right now.’

Harrie’s heart thudded wildly: it would be about yesterday, she was sure. It had been her fault. She should have taken better care of Rachel and she hadn’t. Tears welled in her eyes, already sore and puffy from weeping, and she blinked hard. Perhaps it was the constabulary come to arrest her.

She took a deep breath and stepped out into the rain, dodging puddles as she crossed the yard to Matron’s office next to her apartments.

She ducked into the porch, knocked on the door and stood waiting nervously next to a sodden cape hanging on a hook. When Mrs Dick opened the office door, Harrie’s gaze flicked past her to the other occupants — Mrs Gordon and James Downey.

Her shock at seeing him was followed immediately by a wave of relief that left her feeling quite light-headed, coupled with a disturbing lurch of her heart. Seeing his honest, open face again felt a little bit like coming home, and the feeling gave her a jolt of alarm. He was soaking wet from the waist down, the fabric of his trousers clinging disconcertingly to his muscled thighs, and his hat and gloves, resting on a side table, were dripping onto the floor. The golden hairs on the backs of his hands were standing up in the room’s chill air, and there was a small leaf or something stuck to the side of his face. She wanted to wipe it away for him. How inappropriate of her. The thought made her blush.

‘Come in, Harriet,’ Mrs Gordon said.

Mr Downey stood. ‘Good morning, Harrie. I’m very sorry to hear about Rachel.’

Harrie stepped inside and, finding no vacant chairs, stood near the door.

‘Have my seat, though it’s probably wet,’ Mr Downey offered.

Mrs Gordon frowned, Harrie noted. The expression on Mrs Dick’s face was a busy combination of disbelief, annoyance and deep disapproval.

‘Thank you.’ Harrie sat. The chair
was
wet and she felt her bum growing damp through her skirt immediately.

‘I dropped by on the off-chance that I might observe Rachel’s progress,’ Mr Downey said to Harrie.

She breathed an invisible sigh of relief, grateful he wasn’t going to let on she had written to him.

‘As my hospital assistant aboard the
Isla
, you will recall I was experimenting with a new therapy regarding management of her brain injury. Mrs Gordon is of course aware of her fall on the voyage out, which is recorded in the ship’s muster.’

Harrie nodded like the village idiot. She was aware that the only thing entered onto the ship’s muster, or manifest, was that Rachel had had a bad fall — nothing about the rape or Keegan pushing her off the foredeck. All of
that
Mr Downey had decided to include only in his report to Governor Darling, for fear of tainting not just Rachel’s chances of finding a satisfactory assignment, if in fact she was fit enough, but those of all the convict women transported on the
Isla
.

‘So I am extremely sorry to hear of yesterday’s tragic incident,’ Mr Downey went on, his face grim. ‘Mrs Gordon has informed me of the Factory policy regarding contraband and Mrs Dick has recounted her version of the laudanum being confiscated, and what occurred yesterday. But I’d like to hear your version of events, Harrie.’

‘Version?’ Mrs Dick snapped. ‘There are no
versions
. There is only the truth and I have already told you that.’

‘I accept that, Mrs Dick,’ Mr Downey said. ‘But I understand that Harrie and her friends were in the dormitory with Rachel before the accident?’

Mrs Dick nodded reluctantly.

‘Then I would like to hear what happened there. And also how Harrie perceived the confiscation of the medicines.’

So Harrie told him, resisting the urge to embroider her account of Mrs Dick meanly taking Rachel’s laudanum without a thought regarding the outcome. And she didn’t need to embellish what had happened yesterday; it had been horrific and the image was seared into her memory forever.

Mr Downey listened with his hands behind his back. The leaf on his cheek finally fell off.

‘So despite the fact that you were told that Rachel Winter had been prescribed the laudanum by me and that it was essential to her welfare, you confiscated it anyway?’ he said to Mrs Dick in a deceptively conversational tone.

‘Yes. I did.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘I thought she was lying. I thought they all were. I suspected they’d stolen it. If you care to recall, sir, most of these women are inmates of the Factory for lying in some form or another. And if they weren’t lying, I thought they would trade or sell it. Neither practice is permitted at this institution.’

Harrie kept her eyes on the floor; trading, selling and smuggling of contraband went on every day, and not just among inmates. Mrs Dick should know, having apparently feathered her own nest considerably.

Mr Downey said, ‘You were wrong, Mrs Dick, and your mistake resulted in yesterday’s tragedy. I believe you did Rachel Winter a grave injustice by depriving her of her medicines and, as surgeon superintendent of this shipment of convict women, I will be including my comments on this affair in my report to Governor Darling.’

Mrs Dick opened her mouth, then shut it again. Harrie felt deeply gratified at the expression of guilty trepidation that settled across her pinched features.

Mr Downey introduced himself; Sidney Sharpe, the Factory surgeon, shook his hand. He was older than Mr Downey, and shorter and fatter, and Harrie hoped he was equally proficient as a doctor.

‘What is your interest in this patient?’ Mr Sharpe asked, his tone clearly indicating that the real question was,
What are you doing in my hospital?

‘I prescribed her the laudanum after her initial injury.’

‘Ah. Yes.’ Mr Sharpe inclined his head towards Harrie. ‘I’ve been informed of the history.’

‘If she’d been allowed to keep it,’ Mr Downey said tersely, ‘this might never have occurred. I happened to drop by this morning to enquire regarding her progress.’ He frowned slightly. ‘Pardon me for asking, but how long have you been surgeon to the Factory?’

‘Just over twelve months.’ Mr Sharpe looked at Mr Downey shrewdly. ‘So no, I
wasn’t
in attendance during that business with Mary Ann Hamilton.’

Harrie noted that Mr Downey had gone pink and wondered why.

Mr Sharpe started walking. ‘I wasn’t here when she was brought in. Your ex-patient, I mean. I don’t live on the premises. I attend from one to three every afternoon, unless there is some sort of emergency. I was summoned yesterday morning just after nine o’clock. The patient has a gash to the ventral aspect of the right forearm, not too serious but requiring sutures, and a closed fracture of the right radius and ulna near the wrist. I’m astounded there are no other injuries, given the distance she fell. It is her mental state that concerns me, however. She is obviously deeply disturbed.’

He also explained that Rachel had been given a bed to herself, not because the hospital wasn’t crowded but because he had thought it very unwise to put another patient in with her. When brought in she had been foul-mouthed, noisy and, despite her injuries, violent.

He stopped at a metal bedstead topped with a thin mattress. On it lay Rachel, apparently asleep. Her right arm was splinted and
bandaged from above the elbow to the tips of her fingers. Blood had leaked through the bandage onto the mattress. Her left arm and ankles were manacled to the bed, and a rope had been passed around her chest and beneath the bed frame so she couldn’t sit up. A strong smell of urine suggested she had peed where she lay.

Mr Sharpe said, ‘We considered a straightjacket but decided against it because of her arm.’

At the word ‘straightjacket’ Harrie bit her lip. She reached over the bed-end and gently stroked Rachel’s bare white foot.

‘She was manic when she came in. She had to be sedated and I have recommended she be kept in that state for the time being. There will also be some pain in the wrist, of course,’ Mr Sharpe added.

Harrie had not been allowed to stay with Rachel after she had been brought to the hospital so there was a question she
had
to ask.

‘Sir, has there been, has anything else happened with…with her body?’

Mr Sharpe looked at her sternly from beneath bushy brows. ‘What do you mean, with her body?’

Harrie sent an agonised glance towards Mr Downey.

‘Perhaps the question Harrie is attempting to ask is has the patient showed signs of suffering a miscarriage? I believe she may have been with child?’ He raised his eyebrows at Harrie for confirmation.