1815
The new year brought with it a flurry of warm humid weather and Francis’s promised thunderstorms, but they did little to dampen his enthusiasm. He returned home after a summons to Government House, drenched to the skin and covered in mud but in remarkably good spirits.
‘Macquarie is most impressed with my portfolio, and the letter of recommendation from our good friend and patron, Admiral Phillip. He’s asked my advice on the Rum Hospital. I am to produce a report on the structure and he is now talking of a lighthouse. I suggested once again he might like to employ me as his public works architect.’
Mary slumped down on one of the upturned crates that served as a stool. Francis still appeared to have no sense of his position in the colony. ‘Was that wise?’
‘There’s no one else in the colony who can do the job, certainly not design the buildings Macquarie envisages. I am rather taken with his vision. He believes emancipated and reformed convicts should fully participate in business and society and the colony can be transformed by a large public works program. I am the man for the job.’ He brushed his sopping wet hair back from his beaming face. ‘I have no doubt further commissions will be forthcoming. It would appear I have his patronage.’
But as yet no official position. Mary bit her lip to prevent her words escaping. Was she being impatient?
The squawking and flurry of Hannah’s panicked chickens interrupted Mary’s thoughts and sent her through the door and into the garden. She still had no idea where Hannah had acquired the moth-eaten bunch of half-feathered fowl but after Hannah’s admission to her original sentence for duck stealing, she didn’t dare ask. No one in the colony questioned another’s past; it was one of many unwritten rules she had already learnt.
As she ushered the chickens into their pen she came face to face with a scruffy young boy waving a letter. ‘Thank you.’ She took the missive without offering a tip and the boy thumped off. The familiar handwriting sent a trickle of apprehension down her spine. Ripping open the seal with shaking fingers, she ran to escape from the pelting rain.
The letter brought the news that Admiral Phillip had, less than a month after she’d left England, succumbed to his illness. It also brought the information that all record of Francis’s trial had been destroyed. The slate wiped clean, just as Miss Bingle promised, and with it Mary’s own tomfoolery. There was also a reminder that it was still essential Mary didn’t divulge to anyone the degree of the admiral’s involvement in Francis’s trial.
She leant against the door jamb and exhaled a relieved breath.
Francis sat up a little straighter, his piercing hazel gaze riveted on her face. ‘Is there something you haven’t told me?’ The corner of his mouth quirked in a half-smile.
Mary twisted the scrap of paper in her fingers while she debated whether to tell Francis or not. Not the fact that the admiral had died, but the full extent of his role in saving Francis from the gallows. ‘I’ve received a letter. It’s not all good news, I’m afraid, and it will be in the Gazette by tomorrow, I am sure. Your friend and patron, Arthur Phillip, passed away last August.’
‘That’s a shame. Though he lived to a reasonable age considering the toll his time here took. I would have liked to thank him for his recommendation. Who is the letter from? I didn’t know you were on familiar terms with the family.’
‘It’s from Miss Bingle.’
‘Ahhh!’ Francis’s long, drawn-out exhalation hovered in the air. ‘Have you received regular correspondence from her?’
‘No, not at all. I wrote to tell her the boys and I had arrived safely and we were reunited, but nothing since.’
‘I should write to her. Thank her. After all, she was responsible for securing Phillip’s letter of recommendation which must have held sway with Macquarie, and I’m sure she would like to know Macquarie has promised me an official appointment.’
Colour rushed to Mary’s cheeks. Francis could not possibly write and thank Miss Bingle for the letter of recommendation; she might think Mary had revealed Phillip’s involvement in Francis’s trial and his reduced sentence. She fanned her face with the letter; she simply wanted the whole experience behind them, to get on with their new life. ‘This humidity is dreadful. Why don’t you give me the admiral’s letter and your early plans? I’ll keep them safe in my sea chest in case the governor wishes to refer to them again.’ Mary clenched her fist, trying to restrain her impulse to snatch up Francis’s portfolio.
‘Does Miss Bingle have any other news? I haven’t received any communication from Olive or John. They would most likely be interested to hear of our situation.’ He shuffled through the papers in his portfolio and passed over his earlier plans and the admiral’s letter.
Mary’s heart rate settled. ‘Miss Bingle has no additional news other than the usual Bath gossip which I’m sure wouldn’t interest you. I’ll write and thank her and tell of your commissions. Would you like me to write to your brothers?’
‘Thank you, my dear. I intend to immerse myself in this structural report for Macquarie on the Rum Hospital. It is a shambles. There are no classical proportions to the columns and the shaft is set all wrong in the base. Sarah Howe and her husband, George, want plans for a two-storeyed premises in Charlotte Place and I also must meet with Harris again. I have an idea for a geometrical staircase of stone once we have recast the old house.’ He interlaced his fingers and stretched out his arms above his head. ‘My first private colonial commissions must catch everyone’s eye.’
The first days of March brought relief from the scalding heat. Mary threw her shawl around her shoulders and tucked the ends into the belt she’d taken to wearing around her skirt, blessing Leah once again for her foresight. Slippers and a velvet pelisse were no good in Sydney Town. Sturdy boots and a serviceable skirt were what was needed to navigate the stinking refuse-ridden streets. She may be a free settler, but these clothes marked her as a convict. Whatever her status it was immaterial. She had Miss Bingle’s promissory note burning a hole in her pocket and the remains of the money Mudd and Leah had pressed on her. As with all things, Miss Bingle had been proved correct: promissory notes, foreign coins, rum and barter were all an acceptable substitute for coin, despite Macquarie’s innovative attempt to establish a local currency. The ingenuity of his plan made her laugh. He’d converted forty thousand Spanish dollars, sent out by the Colonial Office, into local coinage by having the centres stamped out, creating ‘holey dollars’ and ‘dumps’ but as with everything in the colony there simply wasn’t enough to go around.
She elbowed her way in through the crowded marketplace, holding tightly to baby Frankie while William and George swung like pendulums from Hannah’s hands.
‘The free market’s out the back; that’s where they have all the interesting stuff. Do you want to have a look?’
Quite why she hadn’t visited before she had no idea but since she’d received Miss Bingle’s letter the weight of concern over their future had lifted and now that work had commenced on Harris’s house, and Francis was due to receive a sizeable commission, she could at last think beyond their hand-to-mouth existence. ‘Yes. Perhaps we can find some cheap pots and pans. Maybe even some beds. I’m sick of sleeping on the floor.’
Hannah led the way towards the back of the cavernous building and there, spilling out into the lanes, they found the free market. The place bulged with goods and chattels, fruit and vegetables from as far afield as Parramatta, Windsor and the rest of the Hawkesbury—not that she had any idea how far afield that might be, because she’d hardly set foot beyond George Street.
A blast of hot air brought her up short: wagons and drays parked in higgledy-piggledy profusion, men standing alongside, some even balancing on the seats throwing their arms around, shouting themselves hoarse, spruiking their wares, to the amusement of a couple of redcoats lounging against the back wall. She definitely needed iron bedsteads; it would be sheer luxury to sleep off the floor away from the rats, snakes and cockroaches that invaded the house despite Hannah’s vigorous cleaning. Two for the boys, preferably another for her and Francis, and something for poor Hannah—she never complained but Mary knew she lived in fear of the snakes. They also needed some more seating and a small table for Francis to use as a desk, more pots and pans—it was impossible to cook a decent meal for the six of them with only the old camp oven and the kettle she’d discovered in the privy.
‘Hannah, can you manage Frankie and the boys?’ She stopped at a crammed dray and sneaked a look from beneath her straw hat at a tall, rangy young man perched above her, arguing with a girl with a large basket dangling from her arm.
‘Sixpence’ll see you clear.’ The young man squatted down and held out his hand for the coins. The girl lowered her eyelashes and gave a pretty smile before handing over the money.
‘See you next time.’ He straightened up. ‘And how can I help you, my lovely?’
‘Take the boys over there, Hannah, against the wall.’ She handed Frankie over and waited until they’d moved away then faced the hawker. ‘I’m looking for some beds, a bench seat or some stools, a small table to use as a desk, buckets, brooms, pots and pans and …’ She threw her hands up in defeat.
‘That’ll set you back a pretty penny or four. Don’t take credit like they do in there.’ He tossed his head back towards the Commissariat Store. ‘Makes no matter to me whether they’re supplying your food and clothing—or not. This is the free market.’
‘I can pay …’ Her hand stalled. No point in showing the man her money until she was sure he had what she needed, though from the look of the dray he had just about everything anyone could desire. ‘Can you deliver the goods?’
‘Can organise a barrow boy. Now show me what you can use, and we’ll agree on a price.’ He swung down from the dray and landed soft as a cat beside her.
Ten minutes later the pile alongside the dray had grown to enormous proportions. ‘How much will that cost?’
‘You’re looking at around ten shillings I reckon.’ He scratched at his chin and eyed her with a look that suggested he’d wasted his time.
‘Ten shillings?’
‘Got enough to furnish a mansion there.’
‘I’ve got eight shillings. English shillings.’ The remainder of the money Mudd had given her. How she wished they hadn’t had to pay the wretched turnkey for Francis’s belongings.
‘Have you indeed.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, I reckon if we take this out …’ he bent down and pulled out an enamel basin and one of the three buckets she’d chosen, ‘… I can do it for nine shillings—since it’s English coin.’ The corner of his mouth hitched as though he was having trouble controlling his smile.
Her face flamed. What a fool she was. She should have asked him the price of each item. The sooner she remembered thieves and swindlers populated the colony the sooner she’d get ahead. Sucking in a deep breath, she thumped her hands on her hips and glared at him. ‘I bet you didn’t charge the young girl those rates.’
‘Susie? Yeah, but I know her. Works for Mr Lord. He’s reputable.’
‘And I’m not?’
‘I don’t know you. You look like a convict, emancipist at a push, but speak like an exclusive, and they don’t come down here, they send their dogsbody. You want to be careful; there’s no love lost between the two. Macquarie does his best but the free settlers reckon they’ve got a God-given right to rule the roost.’
‘My husband …’ She clamped her lips closed, didn’t give him the opportunity to react. ‘I’ve got sterling, shillings and pence. No holey dollars or dumps. I want all of it and the services of a barrow boy, and you can throw in that rag rug you’ve got over there. My money’s as good as anyone’s.’
‘Show us the colour then.’
She licked her lips, wrenched the pouch from her waistband and emptied the coins, a scattering of shillings, pennies and farthings into her hand. ‘That’s all I’ve got.’
‘Nope. That’s not going to do it. Forget the rag rug, and those buckets.’ He reached down and threw them back onto the dray.
Damn the man. How was she supposed to make a home without the necessities of life? Well, maybe the worn, faded rug wasn’t a necessity, but it reminded her of the one in the kitchen at Manali. She eyed him warily. Could she trust him? Had she any choice? She slipped the folded note from the cuff of her blouse. ‘It’s a promissory note, drawn on the bank in Bath.’
‘Is it indeed.’ He tried to whisk it from her fingers, but she tightened her fist and snatched her hand back. He made no attempt to ask for the money, just peered at her this way and that. ‘From the West Country, then?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Just got here, from the West Country. Date on that’s not twelve months yet.’
She thrust the promissory note back in her sleeve, suddenly concerned it would somehow reflect on Francis. What would happen if his wife was found flashing promissory notes around the free market?
The man pinned her with an intense gaze, and she saw what she hoped was honesty in the depths of his eyes, eyes that reflected the blue waters beyond the harbour. ‘Give me the coin you have, and the goods are yours, but not the rug and I’m not touching the promissory note.’ He narrowed his eyes and peered at her, making her cheeks flush. God, she felt guilty, as though she’d forged or stolen the wretched thing, and she’d done nothing. ‘You want to take that to Mrs Reibey; she’ll know if it’s worth the paper it’s written on.’
Was he implying it might not be? She wouldn’t be foolish enough to indulge in another act of forgery. ‘Mrs Reibey?’
‘Mary Reibey, you’ll find her at her new premises, 12 George Street. One of the richest traders in the colony. Runs the business since her husband died. Got a finger in more pies than I can count.’
Mrs Reibey. A woman, a trader! If she cashed the note the extra money would make all the difference to their life. New clothes for the children, a change in their diet, a new shirt and cravat for Francis, even another coat; she’d noticed his frayed cuffs only a day ago.
‘Well, what do you want to do?’ The hawker studied her, almost as though he could read her mind.
‘What about the barrow boy?’
The man stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Seconds later a half-starved urchin with a barrow almost bigger than he was appeared by his side.
‘The lady wants this lot delivered.’
‘Where to, miss?’
‘The girl will show you.’ She gestured to Hannah; Frankie was tucked into her shoulder and her other hand grappled with the two boys. ‘Load it up.’
‘Hannah, will you show the way and take the boys home. I have some business to attend to.’
‘Oi! Not so fast, you haven’t paid me yet.’
‘Off you go.’ She gave Hannah’s back a push, then turned back to the blue-eyed hawker. If a woman could be a successful trader in this topsy-turvy place, then she would refine the art of bargaining. ‘Right, let’s get this sorted.’
With a smirk, and a tip of his chin, he grinned at her. ‘How do I know to trust you, Miss …?’
Greenway hovered on the tip of her tongue, and she bit it back. Did she really want to admit to who she was? She hadn’t done anything wrong, Miss Bingle had given her the note, but who would believe her? Any repercussions would come straight back to Francis. If he was blamed, he’d be accused in a flash, labelled a second offender, and carted off to Norfolk Island or sent to work the mines of Coal River, any one of the dreadful places of punishment Hannah kept going on about.
She tossed a quick look over her shoulder. Hannah and the barrow boy had disappeared through the stores, nowhere in sight. ‘Mary …’ She looked across at the dray next to them, stacked high with fleeces, some bundled and marked for London from a Mr Macarthur in Parramatta, or so the stencilled letters said. ‘Mary.’ What were the sheep called? They’d spoken of them on the voyage out over the captain’s table. ‘Mary Merino. Thanks for your help. Are you here every week?’
‘Not every week. You bought those things as is, there’s no returns.’ He stuck his hand out and she emptied the coins into his large palm.
That wasn’t the reason she’d asked; it was more that she’d rather deal with the same hawker if his goods proved satisfactory. ‘I might be needing other items for the house, and I want to plant some fruit trees and a vegetable garden. Where do you get your stock?’
‘Here, there and everywhere. From Sydney to the far reaches of the Hawkesbury.’ He rammed his hat down and climbed back into the dray. ‘Always here in the same spot. I’ll see what I can do.’
With a smile Mary patted the promissory note safely back inside her sleeve and fastened her shawl. She could do this. She could deal with these convicts and ticket-of-leave men with no difficulty at all. Now to find Mrs Reibey.
It was only when she got out into the fresh air and her thoughts cleared that she paused. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to go and see this Mrs Reibey immediately. She’d been foolish to show the promissory note to the hawker, even to take it with her. It was all she had left and although they wouldn’t starve thanks to the government rations and the money Francis would earn from his private commissions, she might well have need of it. She plonked down and rested her back against a pile of sandstone waiting to be carted from the quarry.
By the time Mary returned home the light was fading and there was no sign of the barrow boy. Her purchases balanced precariously against the front wall of the house. She’d rather hoped he would help cart everything inside. ‘Hannah! Tell George and William to come out here and give me a hand.’ She pushed open the door. ‘Oh my God! What is that smell?’ Mary clasped her stomach and inhaled deeply. ‘It’s fish. Fish pie. Where did you get it?’
‘Bloke down at the Three Squares gave me a fish on the way home.’
‘Gave it to you?’ Mary shot a look at the boys sitting at the table, their faces scrunched in concentration as they practised their letters, knowing full well there’d be no leaving the table until they’d completed their page. ‘Boys, you can leave your work on the condition you go and bring in some of the things outside.’ Not needing to be told twice, they vanished in a flurry of arms, legs and whoops of delight.
‘Why would someone give you a fish?’ Mary studied Hannah’s flushed face, which had nothing to do with the heat from the fire. ‘You promised …’ She let the words stall. The last thing she wanted was to have a conversation about Hannah’s recreational time within the boys’ earshot. George was already spending too much time down at the wharves and becoming far too worldly. ‘I’m sorry, Hannah, you’re doing your best. I know.’
‘I didn’t do nothing improper, just gave him a hand when we were passing. Me grandaddy used to have a trawler at Portsea, I know all about gutting fish. The bloke said he’d got some oysters and fish from the natives and I liked the sound of it so I gave him a hand.’
‘Oysters too? I’ve been dreaming of oyster pie and roast pigeon.’ Mary rubbed her hand over her belly.
‘Oyster pie.’ Hannah rolled her eyes, flopped down on the stool then shot back to her feet. ‘We could have oyster pie if we were brave enough.’
Mary’s stomach rumbled in appreciation. ‘And how are we going to manage that?’
‘We’ll go and buy our own—from the natives.’
‘We couldn’t. It’s too dangerous.’
‘We won’t be going anywhere near any men. It’s the women that do the fishing. They’re down at Farm Cove in their canoes, early in the morning. I reckon if we take the boys, talk woman to woman, they ain’t going to do nothing to hurt a child.’
Mary inhaled. ‘Oysters. What I wouldn’t do for an oyster pie.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll go and round up the boys and we’ll bring the goods in, if you can settle Frankie. Francis will be home before long.’
The following morning Mary tripped into the kitchen. Hannah stood over the big black pot throwing in the usual mixture of faded root vegetables. ‘I dreamt of oyster pie last night.’
Hannah’s red face grinned at her through the steam. ‘Then we’ll go?’ Without waiting for an answer, she untied the cloth she’d wrapped around her waist to protect her already splattered skirt. ‘Come on, boys, leave your books. We’re going for a walk.’
George and William didn’t need to be told twice, and neither did Mary. Francis wouldn’t be back until two o’clock at the earliest. ‘I’ll get Frankie and my bonnet.’
An hour later, having carefully skirted the stretch of shoreline where the military took their baths, they reached the edge of the sandy cove, where small waves lapped at their booted feet. Half a dozen bark canoes drifted on the calm waters and a low humming sound filled the air. ‘Can you hear that, Hannah?’
‘They’re singing as they fish. And see the smoke? They have a little fire in the base of the canoe to cook their catch. Look over there.’
Mary followed Hannah’s finger to the fringe of the cove where several women crouched, pulling oysters from the rocks, while a group of children leapt into the water, their lithe bodies sparkling in the sun. ‘It seems strange to see so many women and children. It makes me realise that there are an awful lot of men in the colony, and very few women.’
‘I want to swim.’ William thumped down on the sand and stripped off his shoes and stockings. George followed suit.
‘No swimming.’ Not yet, not until she was convinced they wouldn’t cause a problem by encroaching on the women’s territory. ‘Take your boots off and you can paddle in the shallows.’
The boys streaked off across the sand.
‘What should we do, Hannah? Shall we just wait here and see what happens?’
‘Won’t have to wait long.’ Hannah tipped her head in the direction of the rocks where a woman had hefted her open wooden trug onto her hip. With a quick glance over her shoulder at her friends she set out across the sand. ‘Let’s stay here. We’re not doing nothing wrong, just watching the children, same as what they’re doing.’
The humming sound increased as the woman drew closer, drifting in across the water. All the other women sat in their canoes or on the rocks, their eyes firmly fixed on the woman walking across the sand. She dropped to her heels and offered the trug, full to the brim with oysters, their shells still wet, glistening in the sun, the pristine scent of the salt and brine strong. She pushed them towards Mary, then with a flick of her wrist she prised one of the oysters open and offered it.
Mouth watering, Mary took the shell and tipped the oyster down her throat. The subtle fish flavour mixed with the fresh taste of the ocean filled her mouth and she swallowed it down with a gasp of pure pleasure. Better than the muddy offerings she’d eaten at home. ‘Oh, we have to have some.’ She reached out to the trug. ‘May I buy some?’ She gestured with her hand and felt in her pocket and remembered that she hadn’t a single coin with her.
The woman barked out a laugh and shook her head, then offered the trug again.
She couldn’t take the oysters, that wasn’t what she’d intended.
‘Leave it be.’ Hannah gestured to the group of women who’d been harvesting the oysters from the rocks and now gathered in a semi-circle around them. ‘I don’t think this was a good idea.’ Hannah shot to her feet and took off towards the water. ‘Boys! Come back here.’
Mary struggled to her feet. She didn’t sense any danger, just a feeling of goodwill. Women talking, sharing. Two other women stepped forward and dropped more oysters into the trug and pushed it into Mary’s hands while another bent and chucked Frankie under the chin before they drifted off across the beach, back to the rocks.
The wonderful fresh smell filled Mary’s nostrils.
‘Come along, boys.’ Hannah wrangled the boys up the beach, their annoyance clear in their grumbles. ‘I don’t think we should have done that. Now they’re going to expect something in return if we come again.’
‘I’ll bring some coin next time.’ She bent and picked Frankie up from his nest in the sand. ‘Let’s go home. Have we got enough flour to make some pastry? Francis loves oyster pie, he’ll be thrilled.’
Mary rinsed out her mouth and spat into the bushes outside the privy. There was no doubt about it. Her body had never lied before so why should it now? She pulled back her hair, fastened it in a loose knot and made her way to the kitchen.
Hannah’s smiling face greeted her despite the ruckus. ‘Porridge it is, again. I’m sorry, but we haven’t …’
Mary covered her mouth and swallowed down the threatening bile.
‘Oh, you’re not well. Come and sit down.’ She pulled out the chair and Mary sank down thankfully. ‘Hurry up now, boys. Give me your bowls; you’ve got a few minutes to play out in the yard and then it’s time for your lessons. George, make sure William and Frankie wash their hands.’ Hannah shooed the boys outside. ‘Now what is it? Can’t be the oyster pie because Mr Francis is already out and about no worse the wear and neither are the boys, or me for that matter … Oh.’ Her hand came up to her mouth. ‘You poor dear.’
Any thoughts Mary had of keeping her secret fled on that one ‘oh’. She took the wet cloth Hannah handed her and wiped her face. ‘It seems I am in a delicate situation.’ A laugh bubbled up. ‘It’ll pass. It always does.’ She’d suspected she was carrying and prayed every night it would be a girl. A confidante, a friend, someone to help her as she aged. ‘Do you think you could see to George and William’s lessons this morning. They’ve got a page of their copy book to do and a sheet of numbers. What I need is some fresh air and exercise.’
‘No, you need to go and lie down. We don’t want you straining yourself.’
‘Believe me, Hannah, after three children I know how matters progress.’