Three

Our dray was sent to Mereworth the next morning, to collect my mother.

I did not understand why a dray should be necessary, until it was explained to me that Mr Barton’s injuries prevented him from riding—or from sitting up in the gig. When I asked what those injuries might be, I received no firm reply. ‘Mebbe it’s his back,’ said Eliza, vaguely.

We had wandered out to the stockyard to watch the bullocks being yoked. It was always a sight worth watching. I never ceased to marvel at the way those massive, horned beasts could be shoved this way and that, at a whim (though some of the men were more skilled in their handling than others). The mighty creatures having been yoked to their shaft, there would follow a great straining and creaking, and a shifting of weight that could be felt through the soles of one’s feet, and the wheels of the dray would slowly begin to turn. The effect was powerful, like a rainforest eucalypt being torn out by its roots. James, in particular, always liked to be about when the dray set off.

On this occasion, we followed it down to the creek before retracing our steps. Eliza then took us inside to eat breakfast. It seems incredible now, but I distinctly recall mentioning George Barton in my morning prayers. I asked the good Lord to ‘Please make Mr Barton well’, or something to that effect. I should have asked, instead: ‘Break thou the arm of the wicked and the evil man.’ I prayed for Mama as well, of course. And for our dear Papa in heaven—which I imagined to be like an enormous church, with God at the pulpit, and angels singing in the choir.

After breakfast, I helped Jane to salt and press the curd cheese, while Emily attended to her sewing, and James to his wheelbarrow. But we were restless, and disinclined to settle. Our ears were pricked for the rattle of the dray—though we knew full well that we could not expect to hear it very soon. James was quite maddening in his impatience. ‘When will Mama come?’ he kept asking. ‘Why is she not yet come?’ At last Bridget was forced to stuff his mouth with dried figs, to buy us all a little peace. Or to ‘tip ’im a sweetener’, as Bridget put it.

As the day warmed up, we retreated from the kitchen and sought shady nooks within the house. Though locked out of the cellars, we found some refreshment in the sitting room, because it received next to no sun in the morning. Oldbury, I should mention, was not like Throsby Park, or Regentville, or most of the other big houses built between Sydney and Goulburn around that time. No veranda graced its front or sides like a species of hat-brim; there was only a modest portico shading the main entrance. My mother always told us that the house was built in her honour, as a wedding gift, so perhaps it was for her sake that the front veranda was omitted. I am led to believe that English houses do not normally boast verandas, and my mother must have been homesick for England when she first arrived in this country. Perhaps my father built her a familiar sort of house, in which she could feel entirely comfortable.

At any rate, we were in the sitting room when my mother returned. Even Louisa was present, squatting on the floor with a selection of spoons. I had pulled a chair up to my father’s campaign chest, the top drawer of which folded down to make a little shelf, or desk, revealing a series of pigeon-holes and small drawers. (This chest, like most of our other fine pieces, was later sold.) As I struggled to complete my essay on batter pudding, I would glance out the window, eager to catch a glimpse of any approaching vehicle.

The human eye, however, has not the penetration of the human ear. Our dray was still out of sight when we were alerted to its proximity by the crack of a whip, and the distant urging of a teamster. Immediately, we all rushed to the western window; even Louisa joined the throng, and was nearly trampled by her heavy-footed siblings.

‘There! There, I can see it!’ Emily cried.

‘Where?’ For I could not. ‘Show me.’

‘There!’ She pointed. ‘Look!’

’ ‘Mama!’ shouted James, and ran to the door.

My mother was not mounted. That much was instantly apparent, and it unnerved me, though I could not have said why. She was sitting up on the dray beside the driver, while another man led her horse. Perhaps for this reason she was no longer clad in her riding habit. Instead she wore an unfamiliar morning dress of shirting stripes, and a straw bonnet.

It was not until I had almost reached the dray that I noticed Mr Barton lying behind her. He was stretched out under a blanket, and must have endured a very uncomfortable ride. Drays are not ideally suited to the transport of passengers. Even goods, when fragile, rarely survive them unscathed. I have heard a joke about a dairywoman sending milk by dray, and finding that it has reached its destination as butter.

‘Stand clear, children!’ my mother exclaimed. ‘Stay away from the bullocks! Eliza, make sure they keep their distance.’

Quite a crowd had gathered by the time the dray creaked to a halt. All the domestic servants were there, as were two or three assigned farmhands in duck trousers and neckerchiefs. Some merely stood watching, while others stepped forward to help. Henry offered his hand to Mama, whereupon she took it and dropped to the ground, her wide skirts bobbing like one of the transparent jellyfish that we saw much later around the wharf-piers at Port Jackson.

I ran to her, but James reached her first. She stooped to gather him up, and stretched out an arm for me. ‘Oh, my loves,’ she said, pressing us close. ‘Oh, my darling children.’

My mother was not much given to emotional outbursts, nor to wild expressions of devoted attachment. Normally hers was a more temperate affection. So while gratified by her trembling voice and flushed cheek, I was also alarmed—especially when I saw a very thin scratch under her eye that had not been apparent the previous morning.

‘You have hurt yourself, Mama,’ I said. ‘You have scratched your face.’

‘Just an ugly old ironbark,’ my mother replied, scooping Louisa out of Eliza’s arms. ‘It tried to snatch off my hat as I rode past. How is she, Eliza, is she well?’

‘Well as I ever saw her, Mam.’

‘Good,’ said my mother—but her voice was faint, and her tone distracted. Mr Barton was being helped from the back of the dray. I could see at once that there was nothing wrong with his legs. It was the upper portion of his body that seemed to pain him. He moved stiffly, with many an involuntary wince and suppressed groan. Having reached the ground, he shook off his attendants, as if the touch of their hands was entirely too much to bear.

My mother went to him, still carrying her youngest daughter. For a moment they stood together, and my mother’s hand was on his arm, and his head was bent close to her ear. Something about this attitude bespoke an intimacy that I had not hitherto suspected. Indeed, the contrast between his expression as he spoke to my mother, and his tone as he addressed the hovering servants, was startling. ‘Would you be flogged for yer idleness?’ he suddenly demanded, turning on them with a violence that must have jolted his wound. For he grimaced, and my mother winced in sympathy.

She watched him head for the veranda, as if concerned that he might stumble. Only when he had glanced back, and reassured her with a crooked smile, did she finally attend to her children.

‘Mama,’ said Emily, ‘did you see Uncle John?’

‘I did,’ my mother replied, her thoughts clearly pursuing another course. ‘Eliza!’ she went on. ‘Tell Jane to make up the bed in the guest-room.’

Eliza nodded. James, who was holding my mother’s hand, asked if there was to be a visitor.

‘Mr Barton is our visitor,’ my mother informed us, moving towards the house. ‘He is too ill to return to Swanton just yet.’ (Swanton, the overseer’s cottage, lay about half a mile to the east.) ‘We must make him comfortable here until he has recovered. You must all be very good, and leave him alone, and not make much noise.’

‘What happened, Mama?’ I thought it high time that some explanation was offered. ‘Did Mr Barton fall from his horse?’

It is fortunate that our overseer did not hear this artless question. He was already inside the house; we had still to reach the veranda. My mother stopped. She took a deep breath, as if to steady herself. But all she said in reply was: ‘Have you eaten your dinner?’

‘No, Mama,’ said James.

‘No, Mama,’ said Emily.

‘Then go and wash your hands, and I will speak to you in the dining room. Go. Quick march. I shall be with you directly.’

If this was a promise, it was soon broken. My mother did not appear in the dining room directly. Though our salt beef arrived, and our poached eggs, my mother kept us waiting and waiting. Eliza was there, and she offered one mild explanation after another: Mama was washing, or resting, or perhaps attending to Mr Barton.

‘But what about our lessons?’ Emily protested. ‘We have missed our morning lessons.’

‘They’ll keep,’ Eliza replied, though she was hardly qualified to judge. At last she went to seek direction from my mother, returning with Mama’s apologies. My mother had a headache, and would speak to us when her health improved. In the meantime, we should be very quiet, and very good, and not stray too far from the house. ‘Mebbe later, if she wants some tay, you can take it to her,’ Eliza promised.

To our disappointment, no demand for tea was forthcoming. My mother kept to her bed all afternoon, forcing Louisa to take her afternoon nap in the nursery. The rest of us were forbidden to go upstairs in case we woke Louisa, or disturbed my mother, or worried Mr Barton, who was currently occupying one of the back bedrooms.

For a while we drifted about, peeling bark off eucalypts and digging holes in the dirt. At last I went into the kitchen, where Bridget was assembling a tray for Mr Barton. He was hungry, she said; he wanted white bread, and some brandy in his tea. Upon asking if I might take up the tray, I was denied this honour. (‘Wit dose little arms, Miss? Oh, no.’) So I gathered some flowers for a small bouquet, and insisted that they be taken up with the tea. ‘Because we are very sorry that Mr Barton is ill, and wish that he was better,’ I explained.

I also racked my brains for something that Mama might appreciate, wishing that I had a pot of calf ’s-foot jelly or a pair of embroidered slippers to give to her. In the end I concluded, glumly, that keeping the others quietly occupied would be the most useful gift of all. So I played the Captain’s part until bedtime, when my mother finally emerged from her room.

We children were in the nursery, having our faces washed and our hair attended to. Perhaps we were a little noisier than we should have been; the sight of my mother standing in the doorway, with her finger to her lips, immediately silenced us. She was wrapped in a plaid shawl, and her face looked pale and bruised.

‘Hush, my dears,’ she murmured. ‘Remember that we have a sick guest.’

Emily clapped her hands over her mouth. James ran to Mama, and buried his head in her skirts. My mother nodded at Eliza, who immediately withdrew, bearing Louisa on her hip.

‘Will you say our prayers with us, Mama?’ I asked.

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘Will you tell us a story?’ James begged, his voice muffled by layers of wool and cotton.

My mother hesitated. She disengaged herself from James and went to sit on his bed. All the while her brow was working; she seemed to be settling a point in her mind. I did not like to see her so irresolute. It was contrary to her nature, and it scared me.

At last she spread her arms, inviting us to sit beside her.

‘I shall tell you a story,’ she said, ‘but only because I want you to know the truth. You might hear the servants talking, and no doubt they will say all manner of foolish things, which will frighten you, and I don’t want you to be frightened.’

‘Frightened of what, Mama?’ said Emily.

‘Frightened of bushrangers.’ My mother took a deep breath. ‘You see, children—poor Mr Barton was attacked by bushrangers yesterday.’

I felt deep within me a sudden lurch of fear. James, however, seemed almost excited.

‘Like Blunderbuss Jack?’ he inquired, and my mother blinked.

‘Like what?’ she said.

‘Oh, don’t pay him any mind,’ I interrupted. ‘Please tell us what happened.’

‘Yes, tell us!’ cried Emily.

‘Shh.’ My mother was frowning. She spoke less firmly than usual; there was a strained and almost startled look in her eye, which, along with her slightly abstracted manner, seemed to suggest that she had not properly come to grips with recent events. ‘You see, children—it was very bad, of course—very bad—but I am quite safe. And Mr Barton, too,’ she added. ‘Mr Barton will recover. So you must not be frightened.’

‘They did not hurt you, Mama?’ Emily wailed.

‘No, no.’ My mother swallowed, pressing her close. ‘They hurt Mr Barton.’

‘Oh, Mama!’

‘Shh. Don’t cry, Emily. It serves no purpose. I am well, as you can see.’

‘But poor Mr Barton!’

‘Yes. Poor Mr Barton.’

‘Did they shoot him?’ asked James, whereupon my mother flinched. Visibly, she flinched.

It should be understood that my mother never flinched. She would snap, and even shout on occasion, but she never flinched.

I was so shocked to observe it that I lashed out at my brother in fear.

‘Be quiet, James!’ I snarled, at which my mother urged us all to calm ourselves.

‘Now, you must be sensible,’ she said. ‘There is no need to fret, because the police will catch these men.’

‘Have you told the police, Mama?’ I wanted to know.

‘We have sent a message to Bong Bong. The Chief Constable has been informed.’

‘I hope he shoots them!’ This was not my better self speaking, but I was very angry and frightened. The thought of my mother being threatened by bushrangers was more than I could bear. ‘When he catches them, I hope he shoots them!’

‘Charlotte, this is not helpful. You are alarming your brother.’ It was true. James had begun to cry. ‘Come, be still. Listen to me.’ Though Mama’s voice cracked, she cleared her throat and pressed on bravely. ‘What happened was very bad, I cannot deny it. We were bailed up, Mr Barton and myself, by two absconders with guns. And they struck Mr Barton, and they took our money. I tell you this, children, so that you will know the truth, and not be misled. Also, I want you to realise that, while our sufferings were great, they would have been much worse had we not prayed to God for deliverance. God is our refuge and our strength, my loves. We should never despond, however painfully we may be situated— because God can, when he sees fit, extricate us from the greatest of calamities. As He did with Mr Barton and me.’

‘I love God so much, Mama!’ Emily sobbed. ‘I love Him because he saved you!’

‘And you should thank Him for it, Emily. We should all thank Him, from the bottom of our hearts.’

We then knelt together in thanksgiving, my mother guiding us through our prayers. It made us more tranquil, I think. It certainly calmed me. Yet for all that, we were loath to let my mother go after we had crawled into bed. James begged her for a song, and Emily for another kiss, and I sought reassurance.

‘Where was it, Mama?’ I demanded. ‘Where did it happen?’

‘A long way from here,’ she replied.

‘But how far?’

‘They will not come to the house, Charlotte.’ My mother spoke firmly. ‘You can rely on that.’

‘But—’

‘You have nothing to fear. It is all over. Now go to sleep.’

She was wrong, of course. It was not all over. And we had everything to fear. Even now, I don’t know if she was lying or simply mistaken. My mother often lied, though more often than that she simply omitted. Hers was the art of deceitful silence. One of her favourite Proverbs was: ‘Even a fool, when he holdeth his lips, is counted wise’.

She certainly never spoke of the attack again—not to me, at any rate. She simply refused to discuss it.

There were many, many things that she refused to discuss.