Not the Same Sky (6 page)

A new man joined the desk, his job to peruse the health certificates each girl held in her hand. He also glanced over the references—these were not needed yet, they were for the journey’s end. Although this had nothing to do with him, it was easier for him to imagine that time than it was for anyone in the line before him. This ease came because he knew that ships left and arrived, he had seen the certainty of it. He did not have to do the journey to know that. These were the advantages of this sort of job, at this time, at this port, where ships came and went in dizzying patterns, to and from places you might never have heard of. And couldn’t remember even if you did.

Eventually all were accounted for, so the girls and the few others were ushered into a depot, a kind of shed. The other passengers, who were not like them, boarded the ship. Mr Charles Strutt came into the room. The girls looked at him, but didn’t register him particularly—he was just another English man.

Charles was not in top form, shaky after a bout of influenza. He was also rather apprehensive about taking charge of so many girls for such a voyage, and displeased because he had just been informed that his fare back was not guaranteed. Still, when the dregs of the influenza passed, he was sure he would be fit for the task. He had, in fact, felt moments of almost cheer on the train from Paddington despite his original plan of only one trip.

The memories of his previous journey had created a life of their own, rendering his desk job less attractive. To his amazement he had found himself spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about the achievements of sea travel: the satisfaction of filling in the log before sleep, the thrill of overcoming a few days rough weather. He found that he couldn’t exactly remember the sensation of battling a full-blown storm: the brawl of the wind, the bashing of the waves, the rolling from sky to water. He had started to buy papers that gave good reports about developments in boat travel. He now checked the shipping news as often as he could. His ears were tuned to the ramifications of the weather at sea, not on land where he lived. He found himself thinking of easing into Sydney at dawn, even while undertaking the most menial of tasks. He found himself wondering what the quay was going to be like when it was completed. Semi-Circular Quay, though it would be shortened to Circular Quay. Had the men’s work noises already started to fill the air? Did evening passers-by not remember when there had been only muted sounds? Had the clash of the sounds of men and tools overcome the cries of the birds and the creaking of the boats? Surely not.

Charles had often let himself dream of his previous journey, so in truth it had been a pleasant surprise when he had been summoned to discuss the possibility of being a surgeon-superintendent again. There was no reason why he shouldn’t do it. So here he was. Although the irritating symptoms of his illness cast a shadow over the proceedings, the closer he came to the smell of the port, the more his happiness increased. He walked towards the ship full of controlled excitement.

Charles’s first task was to find Mr Foulds, the Depot Superintendent, in whose overall care the girls had been since arriving from Ireland. He had been overcome with a moment of despair when he looked at them, now almost ready to board. They looked so wet, he thought. Or cold, maybe cold. And famished. He would have to start without Mr Foulds. Then, under supervision, he commenced his next task—the examination of each girl. This he proceeded to do in a small room to the side of the depot. He became shocked at the temperature of some of them. With a touch of his hand to their forehead he could ascertain that they were both hot and cold, clearly roughed by the boat journey. And he was not too happy with the hair of some. He took meticulous notes, coming to his conclusions silently. He called to Mr Foulds then and told him that no way could some of these dirty and cold girls continue aboard without baths. They were dirty he said because of the conditions of their travel, and cold for the same. He wrote bath prescriptions for most of them—hot baths, be sure—and also ordered a number of haircuts.

‘Just haircuts,’ he said. ‘Not scalping.’

The girls had now noticed him but deferred judgment.

The baths were readied in a designated room, and their hair was cut. A new heat came into the shed. Charles examined them again, not individually, but as a group. He looked carefully.

‘They appear a decent enough set of girls,’ he said, to anyone who was listening.

CHAPTER 7

The afternoon and evening crept on, the minutes ticking by towards embarkation. There was the occasional flurry of what could be called gusts of hysteria, but they faded quickly and inexplicably, just as fast as they had erupted. These flurries of high-pitched noise sounded as if a flock of birds, noticing autumn, had swooped down and made sharp sudden complaints, then flown away again unexpectedly. Charles went on board first and set about the job of organising sleeping places. In this he knew he would make some mistakes, but altering places would be a last resort. The girls would know that order and certainty were to be the rules here. The inhabitants of each bunk would now know each other, for good or for bad.

He consulted the list he had made, some of it tentative, allowing him to make occasional snap decisions. He was now as ready as he could be for this voyage. He knew the girls were not, but there was no turning back now, the trajectory of their futures, of their lives, was about to take off. He could hear the voice of a girl carried on the wind. ‘We’re not going in that thing,’ she said, in amazement. She must have been pointing to one of the small boats that brought provisions to the ship.

‘No, that’s ours,’ another said, waving a hand at a bigger ship.

‘Or so someone told me. It’s not that bad really,’ she said, doubtfully.

‘Well, it’s bigger than what we came in this far,’ another girl said, deciding to try out a sprig of optimism.

The girls gathered together on the deck. When the final whoosh was made—‘That’s the last,’ shouted a sailor—a bewildered silence descended. Charles stood before them with his list and called them closer together. They did as he said, eventually. As he ticked off numbers, they took their places in the new line, which was weaving under the myriad of ropes and flapping sails. He was occasionally distracted by how childlike most of them were. Too young to be alone. But this was not his business. They were here now. He would address the older ones—some of whom were almost twenty. Maybe they could look after the younger ones. He began to rearrange, he would put one twenty-year-old beside a younger girl. But that didn’t work as he soon ran out of twenty-year-olds.

‘Shush, shush, let me think.’

He began again. His influenza had not yet dissipated. ‘Shush, hush, you over there, stand out.’

A girl said, ‘Shush, shush, let him think.’

The girl wore a blue hat and the rim of it fell too far over her eyes. Either it was made for a bigger head or she had become even thinner since leaving the workhouse.

‘Now, let me see …’ Charles shouted out names and pointed those named towards the entrance and down to the hold. Someone else down there would look at the number and place them beside their sleeping spot.

‘Stand where you’re told until I’m finished,’ he said.

‘This is our room,’ a girl shouted up when she had reached the hold. And so it would be called their room.

‘It’s down here below the boat,’ she called up.

‘Shh … that’s enough.’

The matron moved along with the list to sort the sleeping spots. Girls looked at her as she read out the names, wondering when they would be called—they were getting used to lists. Places were given to Honora Raftery, Anne Sherry, Julia Cuffe and Bridget Joyce. Charles had noticed her early. She had a delicate look. Her bonnet was still white and had a satin ribbon. Her hair did not need to be cut. She did not walk, but inched her way forward. She was not the sort of girl a person would normally notice, the quietness of her would put her at the back of any line of vision. When he spoke to her, she either pretended not to be listening to him or she really didn’t hear him. Her gaze was so far away it was painful and could stop the task that needed to be done. He could not contemplate it. But there were moments when it mended itself and she looked straight at him, briefly, before finding another distance. He put her beside Honora Raftery, because he had noticed her too. He had noticed Julia Cuffe, who made a noise every time she moved, and whose very presence dared him to do or say what, he did not know. But he had others to think of, so many others. Anne Sherry was placed next to them in the bed because she was standing beside Honora Raftery. ‘It won’t be too bad,’ Honora said, looking at their bunk. She had shared a bed before—there were ways to make it less crowded. She touched the bed cover and turned her back on the others, she would have to learn not to think about Florrie.

‘You can take off your bonnets,’ Matron said.

The job was done as best he could. When the last girl had been shepherded down, Charles briefly looked into the hold to make sure the matron and sub-matrons had their jobs under control. He would now visit the other passengers—four families from Desertcreat, Tyrone, from Castledermot, Kildare, from Kilnoe, Clare, and from Banagher, King’s County. One of the women, Mrs Johnstone, was pregnant. Charles had to believe the baby was not due until after the completion of the journey, although he was not sure. There were also six single females from various counties, and the Dublin widow with her two children. These grown-ups might act as ballasts to the behaviour of the young girls. He hoped for this, but his mind did not have time to contemplate how that might work. And although this business created its own struggle, it also created an air of authority, which was useful, not only for its own sake and the order it imposed, but also because it relieved him of any nervousness he might have felt. When he accepted the post, he had not understood how shocking the picture of them would be.

Charles went to his quarters. It was a small room but with adequate space so long as he kept everything shipshape. He noticed the desk in the corner, always a comfort to see the makings of an office, he thought. He laid out his clothes first, then his papers. He found his log, his personal diary, got his pen ready and sat down. He would have to think more about these girls, make some sort of plan. He had read stories of some of their predecessors, hauled into open courts by their employers and handed back to the authorities. Humiliated. And worse to come, perhaps. One could not think of the perhaps. Too much despair got in the way of action. The ministry had not given Charles newspaper cuttings about the arrival of the ships that had preceded him, but rumours had come to him, and he had thought it best to appraise himself of the current opinions so he was prepared. But now he was not so sure. The articles before him were mired in a vitriol of a kind his soul found hard to take. They not only showed a lamentable level of sectarian bitterness, but also manifested a barefaced hatred of these helpless orphans. How could one have so much hatred for those with so little power? No power, be honest, he said aloud to himself, not an ounce of power. It was hard to imagine that men sat in paper offices in new cities and poured out these words. That a man could sit with his belly full and let slide off his pen such squalid insults. How could that be? One editor delighted himself by saying that their domestic expertise might stretch so far as to know the inside from the outside of a potato. He thundered on, picking up new insults with every dip of the pen. He poured scorn on everything about these newly landed girls: their place of origin, their beliefs, their tongue, even their looks. He feared that if they bred children the looks would pass on. According to him they were useless, stupid, ignorant and unmanageable. Charles pushed the papers to the back of his desk and wiped his hands. This was more than unpleasant. Such casual hatred was debilitating. He pulled the papers back across the desk in one motion and tore them into shreds.

He felt somewhat better. There would be action here, on his ship. And these girls would show them when they got there. He would fill their days up as best he could, which would be hard because they were their days, not his. Just because he would be beside them in close quarters for such a long time, did not mean he could live their days for them. But about one thing he was determined—he would train them. Come hell or high water, he would train them so they would be fit to work. Not only would they be able, they would know what was required of them. Three months might not be enough time, minus days of seasickness, but it would have to do. There was no reason they could not learn the rudiments of domestic duties. There was no reason why they wouldn’t want to. He would also feed them and build them up. They would be grateful for their training, it would make their lives better when they got there. And they would be liked better for that. No employer would bring any of them into court to hand them back. At this point in his effusive plans, the girls became his. Not
the
, nor
those
, but
his
.

He took out his translated books. They might help. His mother had the title for the book she was just beginning. His mother and father were in Italy now—where the sun cast perfect evening shadows that sank into calm nights, allowing the day to spring open with more sun and to follow a rhythm, a perfect rhythm. The name of his mother’s book was, at least for the moment: ‘
Nature and Attributes of the Feminine Soul
’. Where were the feminine souls? They were not easily seen today, but they were there. And they could be trained. Charles didn’t know the girls also had to be healed, cured of what had happened them. But even if he had known, he couldn’t have done anything about it. His parents in Italy. The perfect evening shadows. He got up from his desk with a sigh, this would not do. He must begin.