Not the Same Sky (21 page)

‘It’s a thistle,’ they said together.

‘Ah, but which kind?’

‘Don’t know. Tell us.’

‘It’s melancholy thistle, would you credit that, melancholy thistle.’

And who were they to argue, perhaps it was and perhaps it wasn’t.

And so every night Julia danced, not too much hardship to that. She performed in the halls where men came to wind down from the misery of their disappointment, or came to mark a joy they had just seen, a possibility of great money that would see them and their families safe for as long as they lived and longer. A man came to draw her dancing. She collected more secrets and hid them safely. At nights or early mornings, the women sometimes sang their own song, to the flickering of their own candles. It told who they were and how they’d got there—it demanded understanding, it lamented what others might see in them, but with a slap of thigh it let the world know the things they knew and the intentions that only they could see. They wouldn’t sing it for men—you had to be able to keep something for yourself. Sometimes Julia whistled and it never brought a storm on her.

And still she danced. Until, in time, she tired of this place too and decided to go back up to Queensland for the gold rush there.

‘Have you got money now?’ the woman who shared her room asked. It was only when a person was leaving that you could ask that question.

‘Some,’ Julia said. ‘Some.’

They wished her luck as she took off. She passed the place where they were making the new Botanical Gardens, signalling an intention to stay. From the carriage she could see lines of coloured flowers bursting out into the heat, sucking it into them and getting brighter. After days and days of travelling, they stopped to refresh themselves in a place called Yass. That’s the place she thought. She could have sworn she saw faces that she had seen before. But she thought it wise not to find out. The girls out here would not have lived her kind of life. I wonder what they’re at. Honora, that was the name of one of them. Honora, yes.

‘There are a lot of children about,’ she said.

‘Indeed there is,’ the man coming back from getting gold said.

‘Plenty of room, plenty to eat,’ he added.

‘It would stop you thinking too,’ Julia said.

The man looked at her and then away again—a woman like her could be dangerous. She thought she would see Sydney again on her way—see if it had grown or if she liked it better now. See perhaps if she wouldn’t want to come back there when she’d found some more gold. Or she might try to join a wandering theatre. Or she might try to be a fortune-teller. She could make up plenty of stories. She passed through Sydney on an October evening in 1858.

Julia went down to the harbour—no harm in having a look. It was as busy as she remembered. People walked past carrying picnic baskets. She wondered if she might see anyone she knew from the ship, it was a fleeting thought, surely most unlikely, but she couldn’t help thinking of them on their first day. She wondered which of them would die first. This wasn’t like her. Such thoughts didn’t bother her often. A man very like that fellow Charles Strutt walked away from her at a distance.

‘Hey Strutt, there’s no danger at all.’

The man turned. He could have sworn that he heard a voice he knew from somewhere. But all he could see were well-dressed proper women, so it couldn’t be the voice he thought he recognised. Julia turned her face north once again. She turned her face into living whatever might happen. They would all have to continue doing that.

CHAPTER 26

The business that was taking Charles Strutt to Sydney could be made to coincide with the Civic Ball. There was talk there would be ice there. Already they could get ice in Melbourne, for that was where the ships from Canada came in first, laden with their cargo, cut clean from Canadian lakes. Ice much superior to any from other parts of the world, and certainly would never be bettered by any other kind. It was not always possible to keep it frozen for the last journey to Sydney, but there was talk this time. The presence of ice enhanced the attractions of a ball, cooled the air and the drinks, and added to the splendour of the evening.

But even more important than this occasion, Charles was going to surprise his wife. News had come to him of a lecture on music to be given at the Lyceum Theatre, followed by a concert of Thomas Moore’s songs on the evening of 5 October 1858. Margaret herself knew many of these songs and sometimes sang them at the piano in their drawing room. Charles considered himself fortunate and saw the procuring of the tickets as a token of his gratitude. It was not without difficulty that he had managed to get them. Because although they were available from Jeremiah Moore the stationer in George Street, Mr McMahon the perfumer, Tom O’Neill the confectioner, and Freehill the solicitor also on that street, as well as Daniel Donovan the tobacconist and Cleary the bootmaker in King Street, and now it appeared as well on Pitt Street at the Brougham Tavern, at the tailor Michael Riley’s or at the bookseller William Dolman’s, and too from Clinton in Hunter Street, Philip Walsh the grocer on Parramatta Road and J.G. O’Connor the printer out in Chippendale, it was nearly impossible to get tickets because of the rush on them. Everyone Irish of any note wanted to be there because the event was being hosted in aid of Archdeacon McEnroe’s Donegal Relief Fund, a fund set up to bring evicted tenants to Sydney. Charles kept himself informed of matters such as these.

And as well as the Irish, the English who were not completely antipathetic and who sang Moore’s songs in their own drawing rooms, wanted to be there too. As is the way with these things, momentum was created by momentum. It would be wonderful if he could manage to get some. Margaret would so appreciate it. But perhaps the ball would be sufficient. Of course the ball would be sufficient. Still, Margaret always read notices of theatre or concert visits. She read them as if they applied to someplace else, never with unreasonable longing. So, it was therefore even more important that he try every avenue possible. He wrote to his friend, George Winslow, and told him of their pending visit to Sydney and his desire to get tickets. Mr Winslow replied immediately, assuring him that of course he would do everything he could to oblige, always happy to be in a position to do a favour for his friends. It made life worthwhile, these small gestures of camaraderie. And soon a letter arrived to say that the tickets would be at George Winslow’s house and did they need a place to stay?

They decided they would accept the kind offer. The journey to Sydney was of course long, but one got used to that. And when it came to the last few hours, one could look forward to a bath. Soon they saw the purple appearance of Sydney in the distance.

After they cleaned up at their host’s house they went for a walk down by the Cadmans Cottage, where you could see silver twinkling on the water. The area was much cleaned up, Charles thought, and relaxed into his stroll. There were plenty of people out walking, taking the air. There were people who had no harbour on their streets and who, sometimes sick for it, came here to watch. They built pantheons of favourite viewing places. In particular they came in droves if they heard a ship was in, and there was one newly in this evening. The strollers watched as the boat disgorged dazed passengers, and some people waved at them. Only some of the passengers waved back, those who had already subconsciously understood the intricacies of exile and what new manners were required.

Many of the strollers were secretly trying to piece together what they had felt when their feet had first hit the ground, and perhaps checking if the dreams they had dared were still intact. Did they go home happier or sadder? It was a dangerous thing, this boat watching. And yet that sort of stride beside the harbour was also a strengthening moment—here they all were, a country full of people who had shared an extraordinary experience and carried it as if it was normal. They knew words that should only belong to seafarers, and brought them out occasionally, and shone them up, and threw them about on evenings like this. They timed their walk back so that Margaret would get to see the lamplighters at work, watching as they moved from lamp to lamp. She had been so looking forward to seeing the splendid gas lights in all the shops, and she was not disappointed. Later, they dined in the dining room where they had first met.

The table was laden with all the best food—the roast had been cooked not in the kitchen but in the local bakehouse, because there was much entertaining to be done in the next few days and the cook, an even-tempered woman from Wicklow, had decided that some tasks would have to be done away from their own kitchen. Food was served competently by one English and one Irish servant and all went smoothly, particularly so considering there was no Mrs Winslow present this evening, she having had a prior engagement that could not be altered.

In actual fact, Mrs and Mr Winslow had had a disagreement, a little more noisy than usual. It had begun when Mr Winslow had asked what on earth the hired help was doing at the end of the garden, staring out to sea.

‘Leave her be, she might be lonely today.’

‘Why particularly today?’

‘Oh, you must know that there are days which have no explanation. Surely even you, who has come here to own an entire country, sometimes get lonely for your own place.’

‘Well I cannot see that she has too much to be lonely about—when you’re poor is it not a relief to leave that place, why on earth would one pine for it?

‘The heart is not as easily organised as that.’

‘But then I swear she looks through me sometimes, as if she’s seeing beyond me, a blooming peasant girl. I find myself sometimes looking at my shadow in case there is someone else there.’

It was most unlike Mr Winslow to have thoughts like these, and even more unlike him to put them into words. He looked at his wife and creased his eyes, which he now did continuously every day, as if creasing his eyes might shut out some of the violence of the sun, she thought. Why, when he was asleep and his entire face was at rest there were white lines in the tanned skin.

‘She may be resentful. I’m not saying that she knows she is, but she may hold us responsible for her loneliness.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, whose side are you on? It’s not as if we were the cause of her hunger back home.’

Mrs Winslow thought it best not to look at her husband when she said, ‘Well …’

And the argument had increased and the noise had risen and Mrs Winslow had ordered the coach. She was going to visit a nearby friend, she had never done that before—upped and gone to visit without prior warning—and Mr Winslow was trying not to worry.

‘But she will be here tomorrow. Indeed her coach may be back before night.’

Margaret was glad of that, not only because she liked Mrs Winslow, but also because some of the conversation among the men could become disagreeable late in the evening. For instance there was the commissioner now and the man sitting next to him –

‘Countries like those, what do you mean countries like those?’

‘If you don’t know what I mean …’

‘No, what do you mean, do you mean countries where everyone does not want to be you? Maybe even countries where nobody wants to be you?’

The men laughed. Yes it could be funny, but Margaret was never sure when the conversation could take a turn, or why. A remark very similar to all the others could suddenly change the temperature in the room.

‘Ah, Charles, we’re discussing native populations, what to do about them. You know, in theory, we do not believe that Aboriginal land can be legally possessed if it is occupied, but practice is another thing. Yes, an entirely different matter altogether,’ the commissioner remarked. ‘It is not always possible to get a definitive agreement on what constitutes
terra nullius
.’

‘If they haven’t put up fences, how could we know what they own?’

‘But they don’t believe in fences, have never seen the need.’

‘Well, that’s a pity for them. If they had known we were coming they might have.’

There was more laughter.

‘But the theory still remains that we are not illegally taking land. We do not do that.’

‘Ireland, William, Ireland.’

‘Well, yes, but that’s a different story. Ah, Margaret, how do you find the sauce?’

The men tried to rein in their conversation, but it had taken on a path of its own now.

‘In the course of my studies of the recent period I am left with many questions, I am also left with appalling pictures, some of which take a lot of brandy to shift. Of course I know we don’t have to think about these things here but …’

Charles had heard this man speak before, this historian. He hoped the conversation could be changed. And just as he wished, the noise of a carriage pulling in to the side of the house could be heard above the clatter of dinner. Mr Winslow looked particularly relieved. Within minutes Mrs Winslow had breezed into the dining room.

‘I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘I hope you can accept my apologies.’

She smiled at her husband and he smiled back. And she had all sorts of wonderful news. Caroline Chisholm was back in Sydney, doctor’s orders, to get away from the inclement conditions in Kyneton. She had been very unwell when they arrived, had had to stay put in the hotel in York Street, too ill to move further. But now she was improving and Mrs Selby was organising some way to get the Chisholms some money, because of course they’d spent all theirs on everyone else. She is not eating well and said that she longed for some Irish food—it was the best she ever tasted, she said, all the way from Ireland when they were in India. Florence Nightingale is writing a book on nursing. Charles Dickens, you know that novelist, he has given money to Caroline, apparently he is very fond of her, Mrs Winslow had not known that before. And did you know that Thomas Moore was party to burning Byron’s papers, that’s the concert you are going to, is it not? Elizabeth Street is named after Governor Macquarie’s wife—Mrs Winslow had thought until tonight that it was after the English queen—you never know what’s out there to be learned. And she, Elizabeth Macquarie that is, was related to the Duke of Argyll, you know Argyll Street, also part of the Campbell Clan. The Duke you know was friendly with Harriet Wilson, and she turned to Margaret and whispered, ‘You know the Harriet Wilson who was friendly with Lord Byron and the Duke of Wellington and the Prince of Wales …’ Margaret didn’t know, but was very glad to have Mrs Winslow here whispering to her. And the men were not terribly interested so they pulled out their chairs and made to retire to another room.