SYDNEY COVE, 18 MAY 1789
The crash woke her. She sat up on her pallet of dried bracken and unwrapped herself from her blanket. The storeroom was in darkness.
She had no candle to light her way in the dark. Only the Governor had any candles left now. The meat from the wild animals in this wretched place was too lean to provide any fat for more, or even to make slush lamps. But she knew where the door was. She fumbled for the opening, then ducked through the cold outside into the warmth of the kitchen.
At least there was light here, a red glow from the fire. She bent and threw on more wood and prodded the coals with the poker. The flames flared. A blob of sap burst into tiny sparks.
She straightened and looked around.
One of her — the Surgeon’s — precious china bowls lay shattered on the floor; the cold potatoes it had held were scattered about the room. She stared at it in dismay. There was no way to get another bowl till the next ship came — if it ever did. And even then it mightn’t bring crockery.
What had happened? Had that native boy tried to steal it? Would the Surgeon blame her?
Perhaps she could glue the pieces together … but there was no glue. Not for half the world away.
A shadow moved in the corner of the room. It leapt from the back of the Surgeon’s chair onto the table, then perched on the sack, peering at her with its big black eyes.
She grabbed at it. The o’possum leapt once more, over the hearth this time. She heard a scrabble as it tried to climb the chimney, its scream as it burnt its paws. Black and sooty, it fell back to the hearth — her clean scrubbed hearth. Black eyes stared at her again then made a dash and tried to climb the wall.
Even in the firelight she could see the soot across her floor and up the wall.
She bit back a scream, but not soon enough. She heard the Surgeon stir.
‘Maria?’ He stumbled from his room, his long nightshirt and cap white in the firelight, holding his musket, the one he gave his shooter to hunt with. He peered at her. ‘What are you doing, girl? I thought it was thieves.’
The o’possum squeaked and ducked into the sack. The sack gave a wriggle and then was still.
‘The beast! The horrid, horrid beast!’
The Surgeon took in the scene, then made a strange sound. It took her a few seconds to realise he was laughing again.
‘Oh, child, if you could see your face! Now put the china away where it will be safe.’
Where? she wondered. The kitchen had only a few shelves tacked to its rough cabbage-tree walls, as well as the table, the chair, the hearth. There were no cupboards to keep a wild creature out. She’d have to lug it all into the storeroom with her.
‘Sir, will you … take care of him … tomorrow?’
She meant wring the beast’s neck. Kill it. Put it in one of those big glass jars, like the snakes and the other creatures he had preserved.
‘When I have time. There are more important things just now than preserving an o’possum. Pick those bits up, girl, before someone cuts their foot on them.’ He shut the door behind him.
The moon had climbed high in the doorway by the time Maria had finished taking the china into her room. She cast a look of dislike at the silent sack.
Soon, she thought. Soon the creature would be gone for good.