Girl of Shadows (3 page)

Harrie reached for the sugar. ‘Well, try not to think about Esther Green today. This is supposed to be a celebration. Come on, drink your tea before it gets cold.’

‘Yes, here’s to us.’ Friday raised her cup. ‘One year down.’

They clinked cups.

‘It doesn’t feel like we’ve been here a year already,’ Harrie remarked. ‘It’s been bad, some of the time, hasn’t it? But apart from that, it hasn’t really been as awful as I imagined it would be. I actually
like
where I’m assigned now. I like the Barretts.’

Friday agreed. ‘Look at me. An ordinary old whore, and I’m earning ten times more than I did in London.’

Sarah made a rude noise. ‘You’re barely twenty, and you’re so popular the cullies have to book a week in advance.’

‘Though you’re not supposed to be doing that,’ Harrie reminded her. She helped herself to a scone from the lower cake plate, inspected it, took a bite and said through it, ‘Imagine how much less you’d be making if you really were a hotel housemaid.’

Friday waved her hand vaguely. She’d got away with it for nigh on a year now, and fully expected to continue to do so.

Harrie let the matter pass, as she always did. They needed the money and, if Friday weren’t working as a prostitute and Sarah weren’t stealing jewellery from Adam Green, there wouldn’t be any.

‘You should have a pastime,’ she said to Sarah. ‘Something to keep your mind occupied, so you don’t worry so much. Then you might not have such awful nightmares.’

‘A pastime? What a good idea,’ Sarah said. ‘If only I’d paid more attention to the straw-plaiting lessons at the Factory.’

Friday giggled. ‘What about pin-prick pictures? Or you could press wild flowers. That’d be satisfying.’

Harrie frowned, but Sarah laughed. ‘Paper-work or quilling?’

‘Shell-work?’ Friday suggested. ‘You could have your own shell grotto.’

‘What about papier-mâché?’ Sarah added, getting into the swing of it. ‘Or feather-work or wax flowers?’

‘Knitting, knotting or tatting?’

‘Butterfly collecting?’

‘Playing the harp?’

‘Stop it, you two,’ Harrie said, laughing herself now. ‘I mean it, though, Sarah. It wouldn’t do you any harm to have a pastime. What about embroidery? I could draw some really nice patterns for you. Mr Barrett is thinking of sending some of my designs to England to calico-printers and lace workers he knows there.’

‘Is he now? Well, you’d better make sure you get paid for them if he does,’ Sarah cautioned.

‘Well, of course I will,’ Harrie said, who hadn’t thought about that at all.

Sarah chose an Eccles cake and cut it in half, poking at the fruit inside with the tip of her knife. ‘It’s nice of you to think of me, Harrie, but I don’t want a pastime. I’m too busy.’

Friday raised a sly eyebrow. ‘Working out how to get your own back on Esther the Cow?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Oh, Sarah.’ Harrie sighed heavily. ‘She’s just a bitter, spiteful woman. Try to ignore her.’

Friday suggested, ‘Have you tried a horseshoe over your bedroom door?’

‘To ward off Esther? I hadn’t thought of that,’ Sarah said.

Harrie tittered.

‘No, though that’s not a bad idea.’ Friday poured herself more tea. ‘I meant to keep the nightmares away. It’s a pity you can’t shift them onto her, isn’t it? That would teach her.’ Her face lit up. ‘Actually, that
would
be a good idea! She could have mine as well, and be haunted by the gallows
and
Keegan.’

Sarah stared at Friday for a long, thoughtful moment. Then her mouth twitched in the beginnings of a rather unpleasant smile. ‘Harrie, are you still dreaming about Rachel?’

‘On and off.’

‘Good dreams or bad dreams?’

Harrie took a long time to reply. ‘Well, good, I suppose, because I still get to see her. But bad, too, because when I wake up I remember all over again she’s gone.’

‘Why don’t you come calling and tell me about it?’ Sarah suggested. ‘When Esther’s listening.’

Harrie frowned. ‘What for? You already know. And why does Esther have to be listening?’

‘Sarah Morgan,’ Friday demanded. ‘What are you scheming?’

Sarah pushed her cup and saucer away and crossed her arms defiantly. ‘I
am
going to teach her a lesson. For stopping me from saying goodbye to Rachel, and for being such a bitch.’

‘But what’s that got to do with my dreams?’ Harrie asked.

‘While Esther’s flapping her big ears, you can tell me that you think Rachel’s haunting you in your sleep. Which isn’t
really
a lie, is it? And I’ll tell you it’s the same for me. Then after a few weeks we’ll tell each other she’s haunting our daylight hours as well, and that Rachel must want …’ very slowly, Sarah leant forwards ‘…
vengeance
!’

Friday and Harrie both jumped: heads at nearby tables turned.

‘Vengeance for what?’ Friday said.

‘For being left to die alone in the Factory. For having no one to mourn her when she was buried.’

‘But that’s not true,’ Harrie protested.

‘We know that, but Esther doesn’t, and Esther’s terrified of spirits. She’s got hands and eyes and horseshoes and scroll whatsits all over the house. And crosses, and Jews don’t even have crosses.’

Friday started to laugh. ‘It’s a bloody good idea and it would serve her right, but there is one tiny problem.’

‘What?’

‘Rachel
isn’t
haunting you.’

‘Ah, but I can make it
look
as though she is, can’t I?’ Sarah replied excitedly. ‘A toppled vase here, a missing hairbrush there, odd unexplained noises. Don’t forget I’m quite good at creeping around without people noticing.’

‘And what’s Adam going to think about you scaring his wife half to death?’

‘Well, obviously I’ll have to do it without him realising it’s me.’

‘What if you frighten the shit out of him as well?’ Friday asked.

Sarah frowned: she hadn’t thought of that.

Harrie shook her head. ‘I don’t think you should.’

‘Why not?’ Sarah said. ‘You just said I should get myself a pastime.’

‘It’s disrespectful.’ Harrie fiddled with her teaspoon and wouldn’t look up. ‘To Rachel’s memory, I mean.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Friday said. ‘I reckon she’d think it was a hoot.’

‘Haunting, though,’ Harrie replied. ‘Spirits and the like. You should be very careful with that sort of thing.’

Especially, she thought, now that Rachel really
might
have come back.

Friday hurried back to the Siren’s Arms Hotel on Harrington Street down on the Rocks. It was supposed to be one of her days off but Rowena Harris had reluctantly admitted this morning she was too unwell to work in the attached brothel, so Friday had been rostered on in her place. She didn’t really mind: it was all money in her pocket — and in the Charlotte fund, carefully hidden under the floorboards in Sarah’s room.

Rowie, though, would have to do something about her bleeding: this wasn’t the first time she’d cried off and she’d only been working for Elizabeth Hislop for four months. Rowie reckoned it didn’t matter how many sponges she stuck up there it still leaked through. And she wasn’t malingering either; you only had to look at the poor thing’s pinched, white face to see the pain she suffered.

Friday smiled to herself as she thought of Sarah scaring the shite out of Esther Green. It certainly
would
serve her right. But the smile faded as she recalled the conversation that had given rise to Sarah’s latest scheme — the dreams fuelled by the awful power Bella Jackson wielded over all three of them. Bella knew they’d killed Gabriel Keegan, and Friday hated Bella even more than she’d loathed Keegan — they’d both been directly responsible for Rachel’s death — and the fact that Bella now controlled their fates made her blood boil every time she allowed herself to think about it. The
worst of it was the waiting. Bella had shown her hand in May: it was now September and nothing more had happened except that Friday, Sarah and Harrie had become increasingly sick with worry, wondering when and how she would strike.

Friday walked down the carriageway at the side of the Siren’s Arms and around the back to the cobbled courtyard, fanning flies from her face with her hat, and flicked a wave to the stable boy, thirteen-year-old Jimmy Johnson. He grinned and waved back. She poked her head into the kitchen, said hello to the girls working there, their cheeks red from the heat of the enormous cooking fire, then pushed open the hotel’s back door. The light in the little foyer was dim but she could hear noise coming through from the bar at the front, and the sound of Jack Wilton swearing nearby.

‘Jack?’ she called. ‘You need a hand?’

‘Nah, I’m right.’

He came around the corner struggling to roll a large beer barrel along the corridor, cursing again as it veered and banged noisily into the wall. ‘Shit, that’ll put a bloody great head on it.’

Friday dropped her reticule and hat and grabbed one end of the barrel; between them they steered it across the flags in the right direction, towards the bar.

‘You didn’t heave this out of the cellar yourself, did you?’ Friday asked, giving the barrel a shove with her palm to keep it going straight. ‘Where’s Al?’

Jack shook his head. ‘Me and him hoisted it up, but the bar’s flat out this afternoon. He had to nip back. I said I’d roll it along meself.’ He stopped and whipped open a door. ‘Quick, darlin’, now’s our chance.’

Friday laughed: it was the storeroom where Mrs H, who owned both the hotel and the brothel, kept the spare plates, cutlery and linen for the hotel dining room. She slapped Jack’s arm playfully. ‘You never give up, do you?’

‘Nope.’

‘I
told
you you’ll be the first to know if I ever change my mind.’

‘Not today, then?’ Jack said, crestfallen.

‘Not today.’

‘You’re missing the time of your life.’

‘No doubt I am.’

‘Ah well.’ Jack closed the door again.

Friday smiled, more to herself this time, and turned back to the barrel. Jack Wilton was Mrs H’s driver, handyman and part-time barman, very good-looking and a bit flash. He’d been after her for a shag ever since she’d arrived: she hadn’t capitulated and was never likely to. She had no intention of doing it for nothing and he couldn’t afford what she charged. Also, she suspected he genuinely fancied her and had high hopes, and she couldn’t have that. On the other hand, she had a fair idea he put himself about, so she didn’t feel too bad about constantly turning him down.

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s get this where it belongs.’

Together they rolled the barrel into the noisy, crowded bar and up to the pumps behind the counter. Jack gave Friday a quick peck on the cheek by way of thanks and she left him and Al to it.

Upstairs in the hotel’s accommodation wing Friday unlocked the door to the room she’d occupied since she’d been assigned to Elizabeth Hislop, sat on the bed, untied the ribbons on her delicate suede pumps, inspected the damage and tossed them into a corner. It was ridiculous: they were new on today to go with her striped blue dress and were ruined already from traipsing around streets full of potholes and stones and horseshit. Why she couldn’t just wear her comfortable, black leather lace-up boots she didn’t know. Being only six months old they were in reasonable nick, replacements for the pair she’d dropped in the cesspit behind the Bird-in-Hand after the incident with Keegan. She couldn’t see what was wrong with her usual low-necked, purple and indigo and red and yellow dresses, either. She
liked
bright colours and lots of ventilation, especially when the weather was warm.

But Mrs H had decided the cullies would pay even more if Friday looked like she had class. Friday wasn’t so sure about that. For a start she wasn’t even
in
her street clothes when she was with her customers, but Mrs H insisted Sydney was such a small town that she could quite easily bump into them when she was out and about, which was probably true, actually. And for another start, Friday
knew
she didn’t have any class, and never would. Also, in her experience, men most fancied the girls who were nothing like their dreary, prudish, dried-up — stripy-dressed — wives. But Mrs H was her boss, and her job was tolerable and she was making lots of money, so if she had to wear boring clothes and stupid footwear, then she supposed she would. And she did quite like her new hat.

She spent five fiddly minutes opening the covered buttons at the side of her dress so she could wriggle out of it, pulled off her stockings, and tugged down her half-petticoat and left it in a heap on top of her dress on the floor. She’d never worn drawers or a corset — she’d never known a female who did, outside of work hours — and couldn’t see why she should start now. They were horrible things, stays; her waist was already neat enough, and she didn’t need anything to push up her tits — they did perfectly well by themselves.

Collecting her pipe fixings from her reticule, she sat on her bed in her shift and tamped tobacco into the bowl, lit it, luxuriously puffed out clouds of blue, subtly flavoured smoke, then lay down. She had to get ready for work soon but before she did she’d grab a few minutes’ rest.

This was the nicest room she’d ever had. The window faced east and welcomed the sun first thing, there was plenty of space, it was full of nice things and, best of all, there was only her in it. Harrie had made her dainty stuffed cushions for the chair and the bed, a quilted cover and a floor rug. As a thank-you present, Friday had bought her a very fancy sewing box — dark coromandel inlaid with mother-of-pearl with a bronze handle shaped like clasped hands,
and filled with mother-of-pearl sewing implements, each in its own little compartment lined with red silk. She knew that when Harrie had decorated Sarah’s room, Sarah had made her a delicate locket of silver and black enamel to hold Harrie’s precious strands of Rachel’s hair. Sarah had even paid Adam Green for the materials, albeit with chink she’d made from fencing bits and pieces she’d robbed off him. But it was lovely at last to be able to give each other nice things, after all the deprivations they’d endured.

It worried Friday, though, Sarah’s stealing: surely her boss must have noticed things were going missing? She never took much; a pair of gold earrings here, a few small loose stones or some gold wire there, and she knew how to cover her tracks, but it had been going on for a year now. He
must
know, surely?

He certainly fancied her. Friday had seen the way he looked at her when he thought no one was watching, and it was pretty obvious. But what if he was biding his time and planning to blackmail her into doing something she didn’t want to do, such as lifting her leg for him? Friday knew Sarah very well now, and it would really kill her to have to do that. It wasn’t, Friday believed, that Sarah had taken against men; she just didn’t want
anyone
that close to her. She was such a prickly little person.

On the other hand, Friday could definitely see the attraction for Adam Green. His wife Esther was a well-put-together woman but, God almighty, what a harpy! Mouth like a cat’s arse, bitter as dandelion greens,
always
bitching and complaining. Sarah was quiet, very smart, witty when you took the time to listen to her, and really rather attractive herself with her shiny black hair, slanted glinting eyes that could mesmerise you if you weren’t careful, and that mysterious scar on her face. No, she didn’t blame Adam Green at all for fancying her. But if he ever did anything to hurt her, Christ, he’d better bloody well watch out!

Friday wriggled on the bed cover, relishing the feel of fresh, soft cotton against her bare calves and heels. She glanced at the
little clock on her night table and started: bugger, she’d be late if she didn’t hurry up. She pulled off her shift, poured water into a bowl and lathered fancy scented soap in her hands. After giving her face, armpits, groin and feet a quick wash, she dried herself and sat naked at her dressing table.

She opened a shallow drawer and fished out a bottle of gin and took a long swig, then put it to one side. Now, her face. First a dash of rice powder to cover the freckles on her nose and a dusting of Pear’s White Imperial Powder everywhere else, including across the tops of her breasts, for a bit of a pearly glow, then a sweep of Bloom of Roses on her cheeks. Not too much, though, or it looked a bit much against her hair. She took another gulp of gin to steady her hand then opened a little pot of lampblack mixed with oil and, with a tiny sable brush, painted a thin black line above her upper eyelashes. Some girls applied it directly to their lashes but she didn’t: it tended to end up all over your face by the end of the night, and anyway her lashes were quite dark and lush enough without it, despite her naturally red hair.

She put the lid back on the pot so it wouldn’t dry out and contemplated her assortment of lip preparations. Which would it be tonight? Rose Lip Salve, Rigge’s Liquid Bloom or the vermilion lip rouge? She never kissed her cullies under any circumstances, but despite that and no matter what she used it came off — how quickly depended on what she was being paid to do. The vermilion was her favourite because it was so bright; that would do. She outlined her lips with another little brush and filled them in, then blotted carefully with a square of cotton.

She knocked back another enormous swig of gin, shuddered as it went down, burped, dabbed oil of violets on her throat, breasts, belly and in her bush, and crunched a breath pastille.

‘Ah, you look lovely,’ she said solemnly to the glass. Grabbing her hairbrush — never a comb; a comb always got stuck, her hair was that thick — she worked on a section at a time to untangle the
knots that seemed always to congregate at the nape of her neck, and twisted and pinned up a few fat, gleaming strands so it fell becomingly. Then she shrugged back into her striped dress, not bothering with her shift.

She opened all three doors of her clothes press and stood frowning at the shelves, then chose two corsets — one in pale green silk, which she didn’t like wearing because it was itchy against her skin but looked nice, and one in finest white linen — and two pairs of fancy white lawn drawers you could almost see through. She always took at least two of everything as some cullies could be very messy. To go with them she selected a pair of green silk satin slippers, and from the hanging compartment of the press a lavender muslin robe with an embroidered border of indigo and white flowers and green leaves. Mrs Hislop owned everything, but the garments were at Friday’s disposal for as long as she remained assigned to her and working in her brothel. As she would have to carry everything down the little alleyway that connected the Siren’s Arms on Harrington to the brothel on adjacent Argyle Street, she folded the lot into a basket, grabbed her reticule and, jamming her feet into her comfy black boots, clomped out of her room into the corridor.

Two doors down she knocked loudly. ‘Rowie? It’s me, Friday.’

Without waiting for an answer she went in. Rowie lay dozing on her bed in a shift and robe, a cloth-wrapped hot-water bottle pressed against her belly.

‘How are you feeling?’

Fatigue discoloured the skin beneath Rowie’s wide grey eyes, her coal-dark hair looked lank and her skin was pale and slightly greasy. ‘A lot better. I should be able to work tonight.’

Friday didn’t think so. She rummaged in her bag and passed over a package. ‘Here’s your medicine.’

Rowie sat up, wincing, and opened the parcel. Inside was a bottle of laudanum, a paper twist of barley sugar and one of lemon drops.

‘To cheer you up,’ Friday said.

Rowie smiled. ‘They’re my favourites, too.’ She eased the cork from the laudanum and drank straight from the bottle. The action reminded Friday so much of Rachel she had to look away. ‘Has Mrs H said anything?’ Rowie asked.

‘Not to me.’ And she hadn’t, but Friday knew Rowie wouldn’t last much longer in Elizabeth Hislop’s house if her problems on the rag continued to interfere with her work. Mrs H was a fair employer and a decent-hearted woman, but she was running a business and wouldn’t carry staff. ‘Have you always had troubles down below?’

Rowie shrugged. ‘Comes and goes. Before I started here I’d had five or six months when everything was good. I’m getting pretty sick of it, though. My mam says to have a baby. She says that’ll fix it.’

‘That’s a bit drastic, just to stop a bit of bleeding. Is your mam here, in Sydney Town?’ Friday knew Rowie had a ticket of leave, but hadn’t heard she had family in New South Wales.

‘No, but she sends me letters. Well, the neighbour does. Mam can’t read or write. She’s always telling me to marry a decent man,
not
like my father, mind, and settle down and have a family.’