The Night They Stormed Eureka (3 page)

Sam bit down tentatively. There was sweetish brown sticky stuff inside. Her stomach growled appreciatively, despite the bits of hessian. Mrs Puddleham passed her another.

‘Good, ain’t they?’ the fat woman said proudly, her mouth full. ‘There’s precious few has as light a hand with treacle dumplings.’

Sam nodded. She wondered suddenly if she had ever eaten anything made with such love and pride.

‘No one makes dumplings like yours, Mrs Puddleham,’ Mr Puddleham rose to his feet and gave his wife a small, stiff bow. It seemed as though their safety had made him loquacious. ‘Mrs Puddleham is the finest cook in the colony, no, in the entire Empire. You should taste her quince pie and custard. As for her currant buns — Her Majesty herself doesn’t have buns like that on her tea table. And I should know.’

Mr Puddleham. Mrs Puddleham. Sam felt like giggling. It was such a formal way to talk to your husband or wife, but somehow it sounded like a caress.

The big woman blushed with pleasure. ‘Well, it’s a knack, I admit it. So, deary, you know who we are. What’s your moniker then?’

‘Monica?’

‘Now, now, Mrs Puddleham. There is a proper way to introduce ourselves.’ The little man gave another stiff bow, this time in Sam’s direction. ‘Mr Percival Puddleham, until lately Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s butler, at your service, miss. And may I present to you my esteemed wife, Mrs Puddleham.’

Mrs Puddleham giggled. She pulled at his hand, forcing him to sit on the grass next to her again. ‘Go on with you, Mr P. You eat your nice dumpling afore the ants get it first. He’s as thin as a hat pin, ain’t he, deary?’

Sam stared at the skeletal Mr Puddleham sitting with his wife, his knobbly knees and elbows pressed neatly together. She couldn’t see him standing all tall and butler-like,especially at a palace. ‘Were you really Queen Victoria’s butler?’

‘I was. And a greater honour no man can ever have. Except of course to be married to my dear wife here.’ His elbows were still stiff, and his neck straight as a rooster’s, but there was warmth in his eyes as he looked at his wife. He lifted the dimpled hand next to him and kissed it. Mrs Puddleham giggled again.

‘My name’s Sam.’

‘Ahem.’ Mr Puddleham coughed gently. ‘Sam is not a girl’s name, if you’ll excuse me mentioning it, miss.’

His wife nudged him. ‘Now you hush up, Mr P, and none of that
miss
stuff in case someone overhears. If she’s going to be a boy then Sam is a very good name.’

‘It’s short for Samantha,’ said Sam.

‘See?’ said Mrs Puddleham. She patted Sam’s hand. ‘And a very nice name it is too, deary. Like I said, we’ll ask no questions. We’re just grateful, ain’t we, Mr P?’

Her husband nodded.

‘Please … if you don’t mind my asking — what are
you
doing here? This is a long way from Queen Victoria’s palace,’ she added.

The Puddlehams shared a glance. ‘We are making our fortunes, miss, I mean, er, Sam,’ Mr Puddleham corrected, as Mrs Puddleham nudged him sharply.

‘Digging for gold?’

Mr Puddleham glanced down at his hands. His fingers were long and white. Even the nails were neatly trimmed,though there were what looked like new calluses across each finger.

‘Not us,’ said Mrs Puddleham, biting happily into another dumpling. ‘We know a lark worth two o’ that, don’t we, Mr P? Here.’ She shoved another couple of dumplings towards Sam. ‘You fill your belly, deary. We got plenty. No, let them as is good for nothing else do the digging, and we’ll get the gold off them.’

‘Not stealing?’ Had she saved a pair of thieves from a bushranger? Suddenly the dumplings felt like mud in her stomach.

‘Certainly not! Stealing? The very idea.’ Mrs Puddleham looked just a bit too innocent. ‘It’s me cooking,’ she added proudly. ‘Mr P and me runs the best cook shop on the diggings. We sells the food and they gives us their gold. Stew like none of them diggers have tasted before. None o’ your rat, neither, pretending that it’s chicken. Welsh cakes so light they float off the plate, and cold puddin’ on Sundays, seeing as how it ain’t right to cook on the Sabbath, not to mention most o’ the men bein’ on the grog Saturday night and still so woozy Sunday morning they’ll pay us threepence a slice. Wish the whole month were Sundays, sometimes, we makes so much for so little.’

‘Um, that’s wonderful,’ said Sam.

Mrs Puddleham nodded happily. ‘Another few months an’ we’ll have enough money to buy one o’ they fancy hotels down in Melbourne, with velvet seats in the dining room and a separate bed for every cove what wants one, with proper sheets and everything.’

So the Puddlehams were rich? Or were going to be? A hotel with buttered toast, thought Sam. And maybe the shaggy dog …

‘Which is why we were headed to Higgins’s farm, miss, er, Sam,’ said Mr Puddleham, ‘when you so bravely rescued us. Mrs Puddleham and I need to buy more provisions. The prices on the diggings are scandalous, and it’s a day’s walk to the farm and back. So if you’ll excuse us we’d best be off there or we won’t be home before sundown.’

He stood up, swept off his top hat, and bowed. ‘My utmost thanks again for our deliverance. It is an honour to have met you.’

‘Oh.’ Sam shivered. They were so kind. And funny. Suddenly the thought of being alone in a strange place and a strange time was almost too much. But she’d handled the bushranger, hadn’t she? She could cope …

‘It — it was very nice to meet you too,’ she began, trying to match Mr Puddleham’s polite tone. ‘Maybe we’ll meet again —’

‘Meet again! What nonsense.’ There was an almost hungry look in Mrs Puddleham’s eye that Sam couldn’t understand, but she was determined too. The woman took a deep breath. ‘You’re coming with us. Ain’t that right, Mr P?’

The big woman looked from her husband to Sam then back again. This time her gaze was like a challenge to them both. ‘Like a daughter, seeing as how Mr P and me ain’t got no kith nor kin, nor chicks of our own, despite how much we’ve yearned for one —’

‘Ahem.’ Mr Puddleham coughed as though to stop any too-embarrassing confidences. ‘Perhaps we should give this some thought, Mrs Puddleham.’

Mrs Puddleham’s red hands pressed against her bosom. ‘No, Mr P. It’s right. You got to see it’s right.’

‘She’s
not
our kin,’ objected Mr Puddleham. ‘We don’t know who she is, Mrs Puddleham, or where she’s come from. She may have family of her own.’

‘No, I haven’t —’ began Sam, but Mrs Puddleham interrupted. ‘She’s headin’ to the diggings to make her fortune, just like us. She ain’t dressed up like a floozy, neither, so we knows her morals is good. An’ it ain’t right for a girl her age to be alone on the diggings. You knows that, Mr P. Sometimes we all of us needs a little help from others if we’re to get by.’

‘But, Mrs Puddleham …’ the little man’s voice trailed off. Something was going on between them, Sam decided. Something that didn’t need words said out loud.

‘I ain’t asked nothing o’ you, ever, have I?’ added Mrs Puddleham softly. ‘Not a golden wedding band, nor ribbons for me hair. An’ she’ll be useful. That Professor is as much use minding the pots as one o’ Her Majesty’s lap dogs. You’ve said yourself I don’t know how many times we needs another pair o’ hands.’

Mr Puddleham glanced over at Sam, then back to his wife, his face quite expressionless. Finally he sighed. ‘We must remember she is a son, at least until we are back in Melbourne, Mrs Puddleham.’

He hasn’t said yes, thought Sam. He just hasn’t said no.

‘Son or daughter, it’s all one,’ Mrs Puddleham’s big hand grasped Sam’s even more firmly. It felt surprisingly soft, despite its scars and calluses. ‘Come on now, deary. An’ don’t you worry none. ‘Cause there’s one thing I can promise you.’ She grinned, showing the gaps in her yellow teeth. ‘You won’t be goin’ hungry. All the stew you can eat, an’ brownie and some of my good damper toasted with butter and treacle … I’ll put some meat on your bones, you’ll see.’

Toasted damper, thought Sam. Her stomach clenched with anticipated pleasure, its hunger only just satisfied despite the dumplings. At least she’d got the buttered toast right.

She walked with the Puddlehams without thinking for a while. Mrs Puddleham’s hand still held hers. It was enough to have the bell-like tinkle of the birds above them, the hush of the trees. A wallaby glanced at them, then bounded off.

‘Good eating on them kangas,’ remarked Mrs Puddleham. ‘Long as you gets a young ‘un, o’ course.’

‘That was a wallaby, Mrs Puddleham, not a kangaroo,’ Mr Puddleham puffed slightly as he pushed the wheelbarrow.

‘Same thing. Just ain’t as much meat. You want me to take a turn at the barrow now, Mr P?’

‘I am obliged to you, Mrs Puddleham, but I can manage.’

Mrs Puddleham breathed in the air happily. ‘Smells like it’s just had its face washed, don’t it? Good to get away from the diggings for a bit. Like a walk in the park, ain’t it, Mr P?’

Mr Puddleham said nothing as he continued to push the barrow.

The track wound between the trees, splodged now and then with horse droppings. Long curls of bark crackled like cornflakes as Mr Puddleham pushed the barrow over them.

They’d walked for an hour or so when they heard footsteps. A group of men strode round a corner towards them. Two were dressed in bright shirts like the bushranger’s, with hats made from what looked like palm fronds on their heads and shotguns at their sides; one wore a suit made out of stiff once-white cloth. The other man was so stooped he walked like a crab, and his clothes were so ragged it was hard to see what they had once been.

Sam felt terror prickle up her back. Were they bushrangers too? But Mr Puddleham doffed his top hat to them.

‘Fine day for it, Mr Puddleham,’ said one of the men, touching the brim of his own strange hat.

‘It is indeed, sir,’ said Mr Puddleham majestically.

The bent man grinned. ‘You want a few roo tails if we gets some, ma?’ he asked Mrs Puddleham, peering up lopsidedly to look into her face.

Mr Puddleham coughed. ‘Mrs Puddleham, if you please,’ he corrected.

The man’s grin grew wider, showing worn grey teeth. ‘O’ course. What were I thinking? You wants some kangaroo posteriors, Mrs Puddleham, ma’am?’

Mrs Puddleham’s mouth pursed up like a currant. ‘You keep your kanga tails to yourself, Banger Murphy. I’ll have you know I serve good mutton in my pots, an’ if anyonesay I don’t — well, he won’t get a bit o’ my spotted dick, that’s all I got to say, no matter if he gives me a whole nugget in return.’

‘You serving spotted dick again this Sunday, Mrs P?’ asked one of the other men hopefully. He was small, with fallen cheeks and a strange slackness around his mouth when he spoke. No teeth, thought Sam. She’d never seen anyone with no teeth before.

‘I might. So you behaves yourself. Full o’ currants, my puddin’ is, and rich enough to give you the strength to dig yourselves a whole barrel o’ gold.’ She gave the men a royal wave as they doffed their hats to her.

‘Kangaroo tails,’ she muttered as the men vanished down the track. ‘Not that I have nothing against a few roo tails,’ she added to Sam, ‘but only to give flavour to the mutton like. Ain’t no point the whole diggings knowing what goes into my pots, is there?’

Sam was silent. The men obviously knew the Puddlehams. Maybe the bushranger knew about them too? Knew they’d be coming this way. Knew that they’d be carrying gold.

And who was Lucy?

This world was suddenly as complex as the one she’d left. Maybe the past only seemed simple, she thought suddenly, because all you knew of it was what was written on the page. But what about the bits you didn’t know? That no one had written about?

The three of them stopped to drink from a stream, a thin trickle among ferny banks, then Mrs Puddleham and Samwent behind the trees to go to the toilet. It was easy for Mrs Puddleham, thought Sam — she just had to crouch down and her skirts hid what was going on. Sam had to pull her jeans around her ankles and leave her bum bare, which made her blush, even though the only onlookers were a pair of magpies. Almost the only onlookers. She fastened her jeans to find Mrs Puddleham watching her.

‘You best make sure you use a chamber pot in the tent when we get back to the diggings.’

She gazed at Sam’s shirt, then shook her head. ‘And I think you need this too, deary.’ The big woman lifted the hem of her petticoat. There was a tearing sound, then she pressed a long length of grubby ruffle into Sam’s hand.

Sam looked at it, bewildered. ‘What should I do with this?’

‘Tie it round there,’ Mrs Puddleham indicated Sam’s breasts under her shirt. ‘To keep yourself flat like. Not that there’s much to show yet, but some men have sharper eyes than others, if you get my meaning. You’ll be growing bigger soon enough too,’ she added complacently, ‘with my good cooking in you. And it’s not like it’s for long. When we have our hotel in Melbourne we’ll have you in pink silk and lace. Pink’s me favourite colour,’ she added. ‘But it don’t go with me red cheeks, and that’s a fact. But it’d look a picture on you, deary.’

Yuck, thought Sam. She took off her shirt. Mrs Puddleham looked curiously at Sam’s bra as she began to wrap the cloth firmly around herself, but she made no comment. Perhaps, hoped Sam, Mrs Puddleham thought the bra was just another way to hide her breasts.

‘Mrs Puddleham …’

‘Best to call me Ma,’ said Mrs Puddleham.

‘Ma … ‘ It was embarrassing seeing the pleasure suddenly flow into Mrs Puddleham’s eyes. ‘Why did you come to …’

Help! she thought. Was Australia still called New Holland? She couldn’t even ask what year it was, or what goldfield they were near, in case they thought that she was crazy. She compromised with ‘. why did you come here? If Mr Puddleham had such a good job with Queen Victoria, I mean.’

Mrs Puddleham snorted. ‘What’s a life of bowing and scraping, even if it’s to a queen, against a hotel o’ your own, with velvet chairs? Slept ten in a room, them butlers did, even at the palace, and no time to yourself even on Christmas Day.’

‘Did you work at the palace too?’

‘I was Her Majesty’s cook —’ Mrs Puddleham stopped. She stared at Sam for a moment. The flush crept up her cheeks again.