You must not believe that we learned the whole truth about John Lynch all at once. On the contrary, his story was revealed little by little, in the newspaper reports that slowly trickled out of Berrima. I recall how, before Lynch was tried for Landregan’s murder, he requested that a portion of his property be sold to defray the cost of his defence. (The Attorney-General, Mr Roger Therry, refused on the grounds that this property was ‘supposed to belong to some of the deceased persons whom he—the prisoner—was accused of having murdered’.) In the Herald’s account of the trial, published four days later, I read that Lynch only reddened once during the proceedings, and questioned the witnesses with a degree of ability ‘far beyond the expectations of those who saw them’.
The following day, another report appeared in the same journal regarding Lynch’s punishment. It described how Sir James Dowling, having placed a black cap upon his head, addressed the prisoner before pronouncing sentence. ‘It is now credibly believed, if not actually ascertained, that no less than nine individuals have fallen by your murderous hands,’ he said. ‘How many more have been violently ushered into another world remains unrecorded, save in the dark pages of your own memory. By your own confession it is admitted that as late as 1835 justice was involved on your head for a frightful murder, committed in this immediate neighbourhood. Your unlucky escape on that occasion has, it would seem, whetted your tigrine relish for human gore . . .'
‘I do wish they would stop going on about that wretched Thomas Smith,’ my mother complained, when she read this extract. ‘I cannot see what purpose it serves to keep talking about past events in such a fashion!’
I shared her feelings. It was a very difficult time for my family, and the repeated references to Thomas Smith were only making matters worse. No sooner had Lynch’s trial concluded than our own legal battles recommenced. Atkinson Versus Barton and Others was before the court again, with the Chief Justice ordering a complete examination of the financial management of the Oldbury estate since my father’s death. Then, just a few days after the hearing, John Lynch was hanged—though not before making a full confession. His foul deeds became the chief topic of conversation throughout the colony, much to our distress. I was disagreeably pestered at school; prurient curiosity drove many a well-bred miss to sidle up to me and ask, in a whisper: ‘Did John Lynch indeed work on your father’s estate, Miss Atkinson? Was he truly as terrible as they say?’
Now, you must understand the strain that I was under. For an entire month, my nights had been haunted by savage and bloody dreams. I had dreamed of a dark mountain—Gingenbullen— looming closer and closer. I had dreamed of something squirming beneath a pile of dead wood. Again and again, it was as if John Lynch had silently entered my room, a dripping axe in his hand; I would wake with a cry, my heart racing and my face wet. I could not erase my memory of his wink, which seemed to me like a kind of brand. For the first time, I found myself sympathising with George Barton, whose obsessive fear of John Lynch now seemed justified.
My new life in Sydney had driven away many of the Oldbury shadows for a time, but suddenly they returned in force. I began to dwell once more on the incident at Belanglo, wondering whether or not John Lynch had been personally involved. John Lynch had killed Thomas Smith—ostensibly because Smith had spoken too freely about the flogging of George Barton. But if Lynch had been implicated in the flogging, why had Barton not accused him later? Was it, as my cousin John had once speculated, because Lynch’s only involvement had been with the bushrangers actually responsible for the attack? Had they formed an alliance with Lynch so as to buy from him those items that he had filched from the Oldbury stores?
It was certainly possible. On the other hand, it was also possible that Lynch had indeed been present at the flogging, and had witnessed something that Barton desired to conceal at all costs— something shameful or disgusting, which my stepfather had no wish to see aired in court. What that mysterious ‘something’ could possibly be, I had no idea. And I could not bring myself to question Mama about it, because she was in such a nervous state already. Thanks to Lynch’s trial, and her own court hearing, and our problems with a drunken housemaid, my mother was inclined to lash out at the slightest little thing. Why, she had flown into an absolute rage one day because I had left a window open during a Brickfielder, and the howling westerly had coated our drawing room with dust. She had shaken me like a mop in consequence, and though she had apologised for it afterwards, her ire had made me wary. I feared to raise the subject of Belanglo. I was worried that it might send my mother into one of her black moods.
So I shared my concerns with no one. Certainly not with my sisters, nor yet with James—for Louisa was still unwell, and Emily was sensitive, and James was at a stage of development wherein he refused to speak of Oldbury at all. If the subject was even raised, he would stick his fingers in his ears and hum. He had thrown himself heart and soul into the world of Mr Rennie’s school, and would fix his attention on nothing outside it. His every waking hour was filled with marbles, mathematics, cricket, treasure maps, pocket-knives and naval jargon.
As for me, I would have warmly welcomed a complete immersion in school affairs. But even at school I was not safe from John Lynch. Jessie Knight’s influence meant that I had to endure an endless stream of questions with each new story in the newspapers—until one day, to my eternal regret, the strain of it overthrew me.
We were sitting together, she and I, at work on our daily journals. It must have been a Thursday afternoon. Mr Dodd had lately finished his lesson, and Miss Rennie had accompanied him out of the room for a moment.
Jessie put her mouth to my ear.
‘Will you write about John Lynch?’ she whispered. ‘For he was in all the papers yesterday.’
I ignored her. Around me, the room was filled with the scritch-scritch of sharpened pens on paper.
‘I wish that I had something half so thrilling to write about,’ Jessie continued, under her breath. ‘What have I to say, except that my sister suffers from a toothache? You may talk about your memories of John Lynch, and how you never would have thought that he was so very wicked. I suppose he was as charming as everyone would have him? Perhaps he made himself quite useful about the place, chopping wood and so on.’
Still I said nothing, though the blood was mounting in my cheek. She must have seen this. But it did not deter her.
‘I have asked and asked, and no one recalls anything about the first murder,’ she hissed. ‘The one on your father’s estate, Miss Atkinson. It was too long ago, though I am persuaded that you must remember the details. Was an axe used, do you know? Can you tell me why Lynch was acquitted? I have heard tell that a drunkard called Barton was involved, and I thought to myself—why, Miss Atkinson’s mother goes by that name—’
Miss Atkinson’s mother goes by that name—’ My hand moved, then. It seemed to shoot out almost of its own volition, driving the point of my nib deep into Jessie Knight’s plump wrist.
Her scream brought Miss Rennie rushing through the door.
‘What is it?’ our teacher gasped. ‘What happened?’
‘Oh! Oh!’ sobbed Jessie Knight. ‘She stabbed me! She hurt me!’
‘Who? Who did?’
‘She!'
‘Miss Atkinson?’
The sight of Miss Rennie’s face filled me with a deep, roiling shame. She looked at me in perplexity and disbelief, for I was quite a favourite with her, and had never before caused any trouble. Yet I could not defend myself; I was unable to form the words, which must inevitably have touched on tender subjects. So I stood there, mum, as Jessie displayed her wound.
‘Look! She has drawn blood!’ Jessie cried. ‘She pricked me with her pen!’
‘Is this true, Miss Atkinson?’
The pen was still in my hand. I threw it down and ran from the room. Down the stairs I ran, with Miss Rennie calling after me, until I reached the front door. Had it not been so heavy, I might have escaped my pursuer. But by the time I had dragged it open, and stumbled onto the street, Miss Rennie was directly behind me. She caught my arm before I could cross the road.
‘Stop! Charlotte!’
She was panting. I was panting. We stared at each other, while a passing labourer eyed us curiously.
‘Come inside, if you please,’ said Miss Rennie. ‘You know that you’re not permitted to leave the school premises.’
‘I want to go home,’ was all that I could choke out.
‘Why? What happened?’ she asked.
I shook my head. I could not speak.
‘Come inside,’ Miss Rennie repeated. ‘You must account for yourself, Charlotte. This is not the kind of behaviour that I would expect from you.’
So we returned inside, where I was left to sit in Mr Rennie’s study for the rest of the afternoon. At one point he came in with his daughter, and they pressed me for an explanation. What had inspired my sudden assault? Why had I been so angry? Having composed myself somewhat, I was able to reply. I said that Jessie had been cruel, and that I did not want to sit by her anymore.
‘Miss Knight can be naughty,’ Miss Rennie agreed. ‘But no words, however unkind, can merit such violence, Miss Atkinson. You know that.’
‘Physical reproof is almost always counter-productive,’ Mr Rennie agreed, gazing at me in a troubled fashion. ‘Beating is prohibited here for that very reason. A well-trained mind has no cause to employ such measures.’
‘I am very disappointed in you, Charlotte,’ Miss Rennie concluded. ‘And I shall have to consider what punishment you deserve.’
My eyes filled with tears. It seemed so unfair! Yet I was ashamed of my anger, which had alarmed me almost as much as it had alarmed Miss Rennie. The black tide had burst forth unheralded. It had swept me away, throwing down all my defences. I could not account for it.
When my mother arrived to escort me home, she was invited into Mr Rennie’s study. James and I were told to wait on the stairs while the school emptied and my behaviour was discussed. I do not know what Mama said in that room. Not the whole truth, by any means. But some excuse must have been offered, for the punishment that I eventually received was by no means onerous. It was simply a little extra work, and a day’s segregation from the rest of the class.
All in all, I was treated justly. And I was never again obliged to sit beside Jessie Knight, nor to share a book with her. Yet I had lost some small portion of Miss Rennie’s high regard; her estimation of my character shifted, and she took to watching me carefully. As for my mother, her approach—as usual—was more direct. On our way home from school, she said to me: ‘You appear to have learned some very bad habits from Mr Barton. It is something we must break you of, if you do not want to be hauled before the Police Courts one day.’
‘She kept talking about John Lynch,’ I mumbled. ‘She was trying to make me angry.’
‘And she succeeded, did she not? It was her victory. If you had merely knocked your ink-well onto her dress, you could have called it an accident and been no worse off. You should think before you act, Charlotte. You should follow Miss Rennie’s advice, and eschew violence. It will not benefit you.’
This sounded very handsome coming from my mother, whose own impulsive conduct had left us shackled to George Bruce Barton, and who had spent a large part of the previous four years throwing things at him.
I knew better than to say so, however.
‘If Mr Barton comes back,’ I remarked sulkily, ‘a few cutting words will not deter him. Maybe we shall be forced to use pen-nibs. Or fire-irons.’
‘Nonsense,’ said my mother. ‘We shall simply summon the police.’
Unfortunately, my mother was over-confident. The police were not summoned on the occasion of Barton’s next appearance. For the circumstances were too awkward, and Mama was too proud. As far as I am able, I shall attempt to describe what happened.
And you will excuse me if I am indelicate. I shall try not to be. Let me only remind you, to begin with, that my mother was still married to George Barton. Though separated from her, he retained certain rights over her property and person.
By law, she was unable to exclude him totally from her life.
To proceed, then: the meeting between them took place after the School of Industry Bazaar, which was held every year at the end of April. You may not be acquainted with the old Female School of Industry. It was one of the Macleays’ pet schemes: a school for girls who were either orphaned or badly neglected, and whose situation might otherwise have forced them into lives of immorality. Some twenty boarders were housed at the school, ranging in age from seven to fourteen. They were often to be seen walking about Sydney in two straight lines, all dressed alike in white bonnets and blue frocks. Under the supervision of a respectable matron, they learned how to knit, sew, spin, cook, and master all those other household accomplishments necessary to a competent domestic. As a charitable institution the school was very popular with Sydney’s most elegant ladies, many of whom taught at and managed the place. They also took out subscriptions, but cannot have raised all the funds required by this means. So every autumn, the school held a fancywork bazaar—which my mother never failed to visit.
My sisters and I generally went with her. The 1842 sale saw James in attendance as well, though I cannot remember why; perhaps he was hoping to watch some cricket being played in Hyde Park. If so, he was disappointed. We saw nothing of interest in Hyde Park, and therefore headed straight down Macquarie Street towards the School of Industry, which was accommodated in a large, two-storeyed building beside the old hospital.
My own fancywork was never of a high order. For this reason, I had not contributed anything to the bazaar—as several of my school-fellows had done. All across Sydney, for many weeks, ladies young and old had been working away at pincushions, antimacassars, handkerchiefs, collars, purses and slippers, in anticipation of the great event. I must confess, I never quite understood why it should be so popular. Granted that the cause was a good one. But if so many ladies were so adept with the needle, why did they all rush to buy items which they could so easily have manufactured themselves?
Perhaps it was in order to mix with other ladies of a higher station. The remaining Macleay sisters were always in evidence at the bazaar, as were the Governor’s wife, and the Bishop’s wife, and Mrs Mitchell, and Mrs Mitchell’s eldest daughter, and a host of lesser satellites. Even the Macarthurs could be seen there, if they happened to be in town. My mother, I am sure, attended purely for the company. Where else could she—an impoverished widow with an irregular reputation—have exchanged polite chit-chat with some of the colony’s leading female citizens? For the ladies of the Management Committee had no choice but to be friendly and encouraging. They were required to watch the stalls and praise the work, and if such employments put them at the mercy of eager, ill-bred women, then they could do very little to repel unwanted overtures. I distinctly recollect how, at the 1842 bazaar, my mother cornered Mrs Margaret Innes (nee Macleay), and for the price of a pincushion-cover of imitation Brussels lace was able to converse with her for a quarter of an hour about the exotic specimens planted in Mr Macleay’s garden at Elizabeth Bay House.
I myself found nothing equally useful to do. With my sisters and brother I wandered about the big, airy classrooms, squeezing through clusters of gossiping women and admiring the delicate handiwork festooned everywhere: the beaded purses, the embroidered bolster-covers, the crocheted tablecloths. After a while, I took my siblings out into the garden, which was quite large, and bounded by a picket fence. Here we collected grass for the cow, and stared into the grounds of the hospital until it was time to go.
The shadows were growing long, by then. We were all very hungry. Though we passed a man selling fresh prawns, my mother would not stop; she was always nervous of being left by the omnibus and having to traverse the wilderness of the Woolloomooloo valley on foot, exposed to every cutpurse lurking therein. By the time we reached home, it was all of five o’clock. We had missed our usual dinner hour, and were keen to partake of some tea. Our cottage, I should tell you, was set in a garden full of flowers, enclosed by a hedge of china rose and a picket fence. Its front door opened directly into the drawing room, which in turn led into a kind of library through double doors. From there a back hall ran past the dining room and various sleeping chambers; at the rear a flight of stone steps led down to the kitchen, laundry and servants’ room, with a well-room and larder on the other side. There was also one small room that could be reached off the front veranda, and we used this as a study.
Not luxurious accommodation, by any means. The wallpapers were execrable, the servants’ quarters were damp, and the chimney in the library smoked with every hard northerly that blew. Nevertheless, it was not a bad little house. And we were happy enough to reach it that day after the bazaar, for a chill breeze had sprung up, and we were none of us dressed for the cold.
Imagine our horror when Mama pushed open the front door, and we found ourselves looking at my stepfather.
He had cast himself onto the only upholstered chair in our possession. There was dried mud all over his boots, and he wore no waistcoat. He was smoking a pipe, and nursing an old issue of The Mirror.
We froze on the threshold.
‘Aye, stop there and let the cold in,’ he snapped. ‘Here is the meanest fire I ever saw, and you must fill the room with frosty winds!’
‘What—what is the meaning of this?’ my mother stammered, without moving.
‘Come in and I’ll make it plain,’ George Barton replied.
We could do nothing else, though we were reluctant. As my mother divested herself of bonnet and gloves, she instructed us to ‘go and fetch Mary’—causing Barton to utter a terse guffaw.
‘You must drag her if you do,’ he said. ‘The dirty wench is in Lushington, and was already on her spree when I arrived. It was as much as she could do to admit me—I believe she all but broke her neck on the stairs. Had I been a low sort of creature, Ma’am, you’d have no property left by now. She would have let in a stray pig, or an armed bushranger, with just as little ceremony.’
My mother hesitated. Clearly, she was uncertain as to whether she should leave her children alone with such a man as George Barton, or send us off to witness a scene of squalid debauchery somewhere down the back of the house.
At last she decided in favour of the known quantity.
‘Wait here,’ she instructed, and vanished.
It was a truly awful moment. My siblings and I stood together against a wall, as Barton surveyed us contemptuously through his pipe-smoke. I must have been scowling, for he remarked, ‘You do not improve any’, before fixing his gaze on my brother. ‘And what have you been about today, in yer fine brass buttons?’ he sneered. ‘Paying afternoon calls, I’ll warrant.’
James said nothing. It was Emily who replied, having taken to heart my mother’s strictures on politeness in company.
‘We have been to the fancywork bazaar,’ she squeaked.
‘Hah!’ Barton threw back his head in a snort of derision. ‘I’d have expected nothing less. Fancywork, i’faith! And did you purchase for yerself a pretty set of satin slops, my fine little man?’
‘We have no money for such things, as well you know,’ I interjected, pressing my brother’s arm. ‘You will find no money in this house, nor one single treasure.’
‘Aye, just scraps and rubbish,’ Barton declared, his eyes sweeping across our tense forms. He meant to imply, by this action, that we ourselves were of little value. And I took exception to his tone.
‘Why are you here?’ I demanded. ‘I told you—we have no money!’
‘And what makes you think I need it?’ he rejoined, just as my mother re-entered the room. She looked flustered, but adopted a commanding manner nonetheless.
‘Off you go, children,’ she instructed. ‘Go to your rooms and stay there.’
‘What about Mary?’ I wanted to know. ‘Is she drunk again?’
‘That is not your concern!’ said my mother sharply. ‘Obey me at once, if you please! I want you each to write an account of the bazaar in your daily journal. And do not come out until I give you leave.’
‘But—’
‘Now, Charlotte!’
I could hardly object. Yet I withdrew as if my feet were weighted with lead, throwing many a backward glance over my shoulder. As I shut myself in my bedroom, I heard Barton inquiring about my mother’s one-thousand-pound legacy.
Behind me, Emily said: ‘I am so hungry, Charlotte.’
‘So am I,’ was my brusque retort.
‘What about tea? Will Mary bring it?’
‘Mary is drunk,’ remarked Louisa, settling herself onto the window-seat. I shared a single bedroom with both my sisters. My mother occupied another, while James had been given the smallest for his own.
But he had chosen to join his sisters, and sat huddled by the empty grate.
‘My journal is in the library,’ Emily observed. ‘Where is yours, James? In your room?’ She looked around nervously. ‘Who will fetch them?’
‘No one,’ I replied. ‘Do something else.’
So they did. James picked at the Indian matting on the floor, while Emily rearranged the shells on the mantle. Louisa, for her part, occupied herself with a description of the School of Industry Bazaar.
As for me, I gave an account of the bazaar that reflected my state of distraction. ‘Went to the Female School of Industry,’ I wrote. ‘Bought pincushion cover. Mr Barton was at home on our return. He must have bullied Mary to admit him—perhaps in exchange for rum. Mama has sent us away.’
All the while, I was listening hard. Every so often a raised voice would make us sit up straight, ears cocked. But there would follow another low murmur, or measured footsteps, and we would know not what to think.
The minutes dragged by. I heard a door shut somewhere close. I heard the jingling of keys, and the squeak of a window shutter.
‘Is He gone?’ Louisa finally asked.
I shrugged in reply.
‘It’s getting dark,’ Emily pointed out. ‘How can we write, if we have no candles?’
‘Maybe we should go and see,’ Louisa suggested, but James shook his head.
‘No!’ he gasped. ‘No, she told us to stay!’
‘But something might have happened—’
‘Nothing has happened,’ I said quickly. ‘We would have heard. There would have been fighting. You know what they are.’
‘Please, Charlotte.’ Louisa gazed across the room. She was only eight years old, yet already her eyes differed from the eyes of most children her age. Perhaps it was on account of the things that she had witnessed—or perhaps it was because of her bodily suffering. Whatever the cause, there was a resigned sort of wisdom in her steady regard. ‘Please, will you go and look? Or I shall. But you are much quicker at running away. You can say that I’m feeling ill.’
‘But are you?’ asked Emily, in troubled tones. ‘You’re not lying, Louisa?’
‘No. Oh no. I feel as if I might faint at any moment.’
‘Very well.’ I stood, and went to the door. ‘But you must back me up, all of you. No peaching. Is that clear?’
There were nods all round.
There were nods all ‘Word of honour?’
‘Word of honour,’ they chorused.
Satisfied, I took a deep breath, and let myself out of the room.
It was late. Dust motes drifted about in the last, orange rays of the setting sun, which penetrated one of our western windows and illumined a shabby patch of carpet in the hall. Everything was quiet. There seemed to be no one about. I checked the drawing room and the library, and was hovering outside the closed door of my mother’s bedroom when I heard a noise from within.
There can be no explaining certain connections that take place in a girl’s head, upon her abandonment of childhood. Childhood, I feel, is almost a state of mind; there are some who remain children up to the very point of marriage, or even beyond it, while others—the offspring of debauched and impoverished unions, for example—are never children at all.
You must remember that I was raised on a farm. It was a farm, moreover, staffed for the most part by coarse men of blunt manners. Yet only after spending four months at a ladies’ academy were my senses attuned to a particular consciousness that infected almost every conversation. Even talk about the School of Industry’s stated purpose, or the conduct of housemaids, made elusive reference to a form of union that I need not examine closely here, but which (I am afraid) very much occupied and perplexed all those young women whose stated destiny in life was a good marriage.
As I stood outside my mother’s bedroom door, listening to the sounds from within, I suddenly understood something that many girls never come to understand at all until their wedding night. From stray remarks gleaned among the convict huts at Oldbury, and the conduct of fowls in the yard, and the drunken ramblings of our housemaids, and the odd, sly titter at school, I pieced together an image (not absolutely incorrect) of the kind of congress in which my mother and stepfather were engaged at that moment.
It was not a pleasant picture. I reeled, and gasped, and was horrified. I knew not what to think. Such matters are very ugly for children even where domestic harmony prevails. Where it does not, and there is a possibility of enforced submission, even the strongest and most well-developed mind recoils.
My own mind, being only half-formed, could not begin to address the subject. I fled from it. Physically, I fled from it. I hurried back to my bedroom, and slammed the door. ‘They are busy,’ was all that I said. ‘They will call us.’ I do not know if my flushed cheek and breathless voice awoke any speculation in Emily or Louisa. I only know that, when they saw my face, something about it forestalled their questions.
It was getting on to half past six when my mother finally came to our door. She was dishevelled, and moved awkwardly. Her voice sounded rough as she told us that we might come out now and eat supper.
‘Mr Barton is gone,’ she said, and cleared her throat. ‘You have nothing to fear.’
As far as I am aware, it was the last time she ever laid eyes on him.