Tilly Sweetrick
Every morning before we left the hotel, I inspected every Lilliputian. We had to dress carefully for court. We had to look as innocent as the day. The boys wore dark shorts, black stockings and white shoes and they’d brushed their fringes so much that the hair stuck to their foreheads. We girls wore our best dresses with black stockings and either black boots or white sandshoes to match the boys.
The High Court was grander than the Maharajah of Mysore’s old palace, with its turrets and towers, and barristers in black gowns flapping across the dusty courtyards. We climbed wide stairways and walked along black-and-white tiled corridors lined with dark wood panelling to reach our courtroom.
Little squares of coloured light fell from the high windows and speckled our white dresses with patches of red and green and gold. We sat in a group, the fans spinning lazily above our heads and the polished benches growing warm beneath us, and watched our fate unfold.
Mr Ruse had organised us a most delicious barrister, Mr Browning. He and Mr Bowes found witnesses from all over Madras who spoke in our favour. The only witnesses that the Butcher had been able to find to speak on his behalf were his little toady bacha, Lionel, and that old chamcha, Mr Shrouts.
When it was finally the Butcher’s turn to take the stand, after weeks of evidence, he positively writhed in the witness box.
Mr Browning tore him to shreds. Every tatty little piece of the Butcher’s follies and mismanagement was brought to light and every lie exposed. When Mr Browning started to question the Butcher about our education, you could see a ripple of disgust move across the gallery. It was hilarious. The more the Butcher tried to defend himself, the deeper he dug his own grave.
‘The bigger girls taught the little ones in the afternoon,’ he said.
Ruby and I looked at each other and smirked.
‘But you claimed in an interview with a newspaper reporter in Calcutta that Myrtle Jones was a teacher registered with the Australian government.’
‘All right,’ admitted the Butcher. ‘I said Myrtle was a teacher for advertising purposes.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ asked Mr Browning.
‘When she was asked, she was to say she was a schoolmistress. Look, she’s not been much with the Company so she ought to be educated. I’ve seen her write her name – she’s not a complete fool.’
Myrtle looked a little hurt at this, but some of us stifled a giggle. She did have simply the worst handwriting.
‘The success of the company depends on the goodwill of the public,’ continued the Butcher slowly, as if he was explaining something to a crowd of idiots. ‘Stories of gross cruelty or improper conduct on the part of a manager would affect our success, so of course I will defend our public interests. Meddlesome people have interfered but this company is of a professional standard. I’ve had no trouble anywhere else.’
‘I believe the Police Commissioner was called to investigate in Bombay?’ said the lawyer.
‘That was because of a meddlesome person from Melbourne. The report emanated from Melbourne, not Bombay. Can’t you see, the girls are lying?’ the Butcher almost shouted. ‘Ruby Kelly and Matilda Sweeney wanted to go back to Melbourne to work in the variety shows. That’s all. They are lying to have their own way.’
‘Miss Kelly and Miss Sweetrick, whom you refer to as “Sweeney”, are not the only children who have given evidence of your immoral behaviour. Other children have said that you hit them and took money to buy drink.’
The Butcher gripped the balustrade of the witness box, trying to contain his rage. He leaned forward and spoke so slowly it seemed he was having trouble breathing.
‘They are lies. None of the accusations are true.’
‘Are you suggesting that Miss Poesy Swift is a liar?’
I could feel Poesy stiffen in her seat beside me. Thank goodness the Butcher didn’t look at her as he replied. It would have unravelled the witless girl.
‘She’s a lovely child,’ said the Butcher. ‘And an asset to the company.’
‘Can you suggest why clean-minded children should speak against you?’
Arthur looked straight at Ruse. ‘Some dirty-minded people set them to do it.’
‘Who are the dirty-minded people you refer to?’
‘I can’t say,’ said Mr Arthur, but he glared at Mr Ruse as if he wanted to set him on fire with the fury of his gaze.
‘What reasons do you suggest led these people to act?’
‘To get the Lilliputian Company on the cheap. To steal my company and my livelihood from me.’
I wanted to yawn then. I was so sick of him. I wanted to walk right up to the witness box and yawn in his face. They were going over and over the same old thing. But then they got to the part where Iris was ill and was taken home and the Butcher shot himself in the foot. Mr Browning detailed how the Butcher carried Iris out of the theatre and put her in the gharry. Then he looked up and asked, ‘Do you often carry the girls about?’
‘We carry the smaller children home on our shoulders when there is no gharry to take them,’ replied the Butcher.
‘Did you ever carry Eliza Finton?’ asked Mr Browning slyly.
The Butcher jumped up in his seat. ‘How dare you! How dare you make such a suggestion.’
Mr Browning looked even slyer and foxier. ‘Why do you get so angry?’
‘How dare you imply I would carry her in public! She is a grown woman.’
‘She has her hair down her back in the style of a girl. Answer the question.’
‘No!’ shouted Mr Arthur.
The judge banged his gavel for the hundredth time that morning and ordered Mr Browning to take a different line of questioning, but Mr Browning said he was finished with the witness and would like to call Mr Ruse to the box.
When the Butcher slipped past Mr Browning’s table we saw him mutter something, and then Mr Browning jumped to his feet. ‘As the witness passed me he called me a “dirty ruffian”,’ he announced.
‘I did not,’ said the Butcher stiffly.
There was much argument and to-ing and fro-ing and then the judge said he hadn’t heard it either but he cautioned the Butcher anyway. I’d never realised how childish grown-ups could be.
It was lovely to see Mr Ruse in the witness box. He looked so much more intelligent than the Butcher. He presented his evidence in a calm, well-spoken manner and the judge nodded sagely as Mr Ruse was asked to relate the details of what happened on the night of the strike. Of course, he told the truth. But the Butcher couldn’t bear to hear it. He leapt to his feet and shouted at the top of his voice, ‘You took them away by a show of force!’
‘I never laid a finger on you,’ said Mr Ruse.
‘As if I’d be fool enough to provoke violence when you had twenty of your cronies to back you up!’
‘I am not a kidnapper. I have never heard of a more ridiculous accusation in my life.’
‘You’ve stolen those children from me. Poisoned their affections.’
‘You poisoned them yourself,’ countered Ruse in disgust.
The judge banged his gavel for order and the turbaned court officers came bustling to the front to lead the Butcher away.
I was enjoying myself immensely until I turned to look at Poesy. I should have realised the Butcher’s flattery would unhinge the child. Her eyes were brimming with tears but it wasn’t because of him. She was looking straight at Eliza and Lionel, the lover and the lackey, huddled together on a bench behind the Butcher’s babu vakil.
We were so close to victory, I couldn’t bear the thought of Poesy spoiling things. For all those interminable weeks, as the weather grew hotter and hotter and Mr Ruse grew more haggard and we waited for the trial to end, we had managed to stick by our stories. If Poesy withdrew her statement now, it could make the trial drag on even longer. The Butcher would never win but we would sweat for weeks to come if she didn’t keep her mouth shut.
I watched Poesy carefully as Daisy climbed into the witness box. Because Daisy had told her story so many times to so many audiences, Mr Browning had convinced the judge to allow her to give evidence before the whole court, rather than interviewing her ‘in camera’. She looked so small as the little gates swung open and a court officer lifted her into the witness box. She had to stand on a chair to be seen over the railings.
When Daisy began to speak, Poesy did the most irritating thing. She covered her ears with her hands and shut her eyes, just like a wretched monkey. She couldn’t have drawn more attention to herself if she’d screamed. I grabbed her arm and twisted it hard. I wouldn’t allow her to spoil our triumph.