This Golden Land (21 page)

     When Hannah had discovered that the Concerned Citizen letters were forgeries, back in May when Mrs. Throckmorton had evicted her, she had sent a note to him, explaining that he no longer had anything to fear. She had received a letter in return, in which Dr. Davenport explained that he was closing his practice and sailing back to England to marry a cousin who was recently widowed and left with five children. He wished Hannah well, and said he would always remember their three months' association with fondness. She kept his statuette of Hygeia beside her bed.

     Also on her bedside table was Neal's photograph in a pewter frame. She still had not heard news of the
Borealis
or the fate of the Merriwethers at the Aboriginal mission, even though she had sent follow-up letters. And now she was worried about Neal, wondering if there was some way she could go back to Perth and look for him herself.

     For the moment, however, earning a living took priority, and as Hannah searched for the public notice board, she surveyed Kirkland's in awe. She had never been inside such a large establishment, and was amazed at the variety of merchandise crammed onto shelves, covering display counters and hanging from the walls. A sign on the main counter said, "We have everything. And if we don't have it, we can get it." Neatly piled next to it were imported newspapers: the London
Times, Punch
, the
Illustrated London News
, and the
Quarterly Review.

     There were displays of ladies' handkerchiefs and gloves, handbags and muffs, bolts of calico, cotton and silk in a surprising variety of colors, and a stack of men's work trousers proudly identified as "Kentucky Jeans From America." A glass confectioner's case was stocked with marzipan, peanut
brittle, cubes of thickened treacle, called "toffee," and Yorkshire pennies—little shiny black licorice buttons. Shelves were stocked with Charles Dickens'
Oliver Twist, Pickwick Papers
and
A Christmas Carol
, the books of Jane Austen, William Makepeace Thackeray, and Sir Walter Scott. Tennyson, Keats and Byron, the Collected Works of Shakespeare, and a sign saying "All the way from America" pointed to Melville and Richard Henry Dana.

     And then Hannah turned the corner from one aisle into the next and what she suddenly saw made her come to a standstill, her eyes wide in surprise.

     As Alice wound her way through the warren of aisles and shelves, she prayed she would find what she needed. Miss Conroy's suggestion that she cover her scars with makeup had proven more difficult to achieve than she had expected. Ladies did not wear cosmetics. There were encouraged to bite their lips and pinch their cheeks before entering a room, but use of pencils and rouge were scandalous for they were the mark of "loose" women. Although some commercial makeup was available, mostly manufactured in France—powders, bases, and waxes containing light, "natural" color—they were prohibitively expensive. Hannah and Alice had gone to the Victoria Theater on North Terrace to inquire among the acting company if they had any cosmetics to sell, but all jealously guarded their secret formulas and recipes. And so Alice continued to go out into the world with her scarred cheek and missing brow, with the bald patch on her scalp and the mutilated ear kept disguised with her own hair and maid's mob cap pulled low.

     When they had heard of a new store in town, announcing "many departments"—a new concept fresh from London—that sold everything from thread to gum boots, Alice wondered if they might carry makeup. As she perused enticing displays of needles and thread, buttons and yarn, tape measures and pins—as she walked down aisles stocked with candles and lamp oil, doilies and soap; garden seeds from England; coffee from Arabia, cocoa from Mexico, tea from India; blankets and basins; hand mirrors and
hair brushes; galoshes and sun hats, Alice came upon a large cork bulletin board, "For the convenience of our customers." Calling cards, adverts, announcements, and notices were tacked up, many placed by people looking for employment or offering jobs.

     Alice had once declared she would take any kind of work, but now she was not so sure. She had gone to one interview at a rich man's house near North Terrace where she had been admitted through the rear door and the lady of the house had conducted the interview in the kitchen, asking personal questions for the cooking staff to overhear. The woman's attitude had been haughty and snobbish, worse even than Lulu's, and she had begun to recite a list of prohibitions, should Alice be lucky enough to get the job, when it had occurred to Alice that she would just be entering into another kind of slavery. She had thanked the surprised lady, and left.

     Alice did not know what to do. Since breaking away from Lulu Forchette's grasp, she had felt adrift. For all of her twenty-one years, Alice Starky had been told what to do, what to eat, where to sleep. Not for a single hour in all her life had she been her own mistress. But now she was and she had no idea how to live. "You can be anything you want to be," Hannah had said. But what did that mean?

     Alice paused when a poster caught her eye. It was large and busy, and framed in a fancy decorative border. Large letters shouted: "Coming Soon to Adelaide, One of the New Music Halls So Recently Seen in London!"

     Alice read the words again. Her education was rudimentary, and as she had never heard of a music hall, she made sure she read it correctly. She was able to pick out a few words—magic acts, piano player, musicians, acrobats, jugglers, trapeze artist. One in particular jumped out at her:
Soloist singer.
"Requirements are fine voice and good looks. Female preferred."

     Alice struggled over the big word at the top of the poster. AUDITIONS. She didn't know what it meant, but she gathered from the rest of the information that it had something to do with entertainers trying out for acts to be performed on a stage. "Salary paid on scale according to talent and popularity. See Sam Glass, proprietor."

     Alice's heart began to race. Was it possible? Her hand went protectively to her scarred cheek, and her fingers fluttered at the ruffled edge of her white
mob cap as she pictured the stares of the imaginary audience, deaf to her voice because they were so shocked by her looks. People had told her that when she sang no one noticed her disfigurement. But was it true, or had they only been speaking kindly out of pity?

     As her heart continued to race, and she felt excitement steal through her bones, Alice made a note of the date when the try-outs were to be held. October 10th. Six weeks away. Would she be able to fix her face in time?

     Hannah could hardly believe her eyes as she approached the impressive display of commercial and manufactured medicines. Like most people, she visited a chemist when she needed something for a headache, a rash, or an upset stomach. But it required a prescription from a doctor, and then a visit to a chemist shop, and then there was the waiting time while the ointment or syrup and elixir was made up, and sometimes it could be a long wait if the chemist was busy.
These
medicines, however, appeared to be already prepared and ready to buy.

     One display of bottles was topped by a sign that boldly declared, "Absolutely Safe and Healthy Childbirth with No Danger to Mother or Baby!" Hannah looked at the bottles of red liquid, which were labeled, "Dr. Vickers' Anti-Sepsis Compound," and her eyes widened. Had someone found a formula before her father had? The label said nothing other than "use of this miracle compound will guarantee safe and healthy childbirth with none of the dangers and sicknesses that attend such a blessed event."

     She picked up one of the bottles and held it to the light. What
was
it?

     Uncorking the bottle, Hannah lifted it to her nose. There was no scent. She removed her glove and dipped her finger in, bringing it to the tip of her tongue. No taste.

     She frowned. It was just colored water. How, then, could the label and this big sign make such a preposterous promise?

     Recorking the bottle and replacing it, she scanned the other medicinal offerings which covered the counter top: boxes, packets, tins and bottles of medicines of all kinds—elixirs, nostrums, tonics, and remedies—in liquids,
powders, syrups or creams. Crowning one pyramid was a hand-lettered sign that said, "Safer than leeches! No need for unpleasant purging! Avoid doctors' fees! Cheaper than the chemist!"

     Hannah looked at
Dr. Brogan's Cure-All.
The label promised to eradicate everything from pimples to gout, and also worked as a hair restorer, stomach settler, and menstrual regulator. "A generous dose of cocaine in every teaspoonful, guaranteed!"

     She noticed that some labels did not list ingredients while others boldly promised generous amounts of cocaine, opium, and alcohol. And if a product bore a person's name, it was always preceded by "Doctor" or "Professor."

     
Dr. Doyle's Infallible Worm Destroying Lozenges:
"They cure where others fail."
Prof. Barnard's Health Tonic:
"Contains over 60 ingredients including rare snake oil!"
Dr. Palmer's Female Pills:
"Guaranteed to calm a distressed womb."
Swami Gupta's Elixir of Life:
"Proven in India! Will definitely eradicate all forms of cancer."
Dr. Harrow's Fertility Tonic:
"A baby in every bottle!"

     Hannah had had very little exposure to commercial medicines. Bayfield's chemist made up prescriptions from doctors, selling only a few manufactured medicines. Occasionally a traveling salesman would come through the village, selling miracle cures from the back of his wagon, but Hannah's father cautioned his patients against buying such "humbugs."

     A gentleman came up the aisle just then, a thick-set man in a neat black suit and shiny bald head, with a bushy black and gray beard framing rosy lips. He introduced himself as Mr. Kirkland, owner and proprietor of this fine establishment. "For whatever ails a body," he boasted as he waved a hand over the medicinal offerings, "I have the cure."

     "This is most impressive," Hannah said, a bottle of
Cocaine Tooth Drops For Children
in her hand.

     "Indeed it is! As you can see, these come with guarantees. A chemist can't guarantee that his medicine will work. And these cost a lot less than what a chemist mixes up for you. Save time, too, no going to the doctor first."

     But how, Hannah wondered, could all these medicines promise cures when not even a doctor could? And then she realized: They couldn't. Now she knew why her father had called such products "humbug." They were
nothing but fakery. But there was no law against it, and the public, desperate to cure their aches and pains and ills, believed the printed word.

     Mr. Kirkland pointed out that he carried health books, too. Hannah picked up a manual on "Care of the sick in Home." She turned to the chapter titled,
Giving the Patient a Bed Bath.
"When patient is too sick to be removed from the bed for a bath, bring basin of soapy water to bedside and, using a cloth, wash the patient starting with the neck, washing as far down as possible. When that is done, start with the feet and wash up as far as possible. When that is done, wash possible."

     She picked up another,
Safe Child Delivery
, and scanned its contents. "Step One: when the mother goes into labor, send all gentlemen out of the house. Step Two: place the mother behind a privacy screen." Hannah could not believe her eyes as page after page of useless information went by. There were no specific details on how to assist with a delivery, no advice for cases of emergency, and certainly no mention of using clean linens and washing one's hands. The manual was mostly about keeping the mother cheerful and optimistic. "Ply her with plenty of spirits, whether gin or rum, although wine will do."

     "These books and medicines are my biggest sellers," Mr. Kirkland said proudly, clasping his lapels as if he were a politician looking for votes. "Folks come in from the country and buy up all they can. Some farms are so remote that people there never see a doctor. They have to make do for themselves."

     A stranger came up the aisle just then, tipping his rain-soaked bowler hat and saying, "Greetings, friends. Farley Gladstone, at your service." He handed them each a damp calling card, inscribed:
Dr. Gladstone, Painless Dentist.