January 1886

I want to speak to you. To tell you what happened after you left. I had a daughter. Called Mary, after you. I heard you died somewhere in Sydney. I had lost you before then though. I wish we could go back to the island. We didn’t know that it would change everything. Since then the years have stretched thinly like a rubber band pulled tight. The days are shorter and harder. I want to spring back to the beginning.

I am alone. Except for George. He is my fourth husband. He never comes into my room. He listens on the landing. There is no one left. Our sisters, Henrietta and Caroline, married and left with their husbands. I have not heard of them for many years now. And our parents and our brothers are dead.

Do you remember the day we sailed? When I close my eyes I hear the swell of the sea slapping the side of the boat as the breeze pushes us along. I see too the long dark tentacles of cloud stretching across the sky and smothering our sun.

Middle Island 1835, Dorothea Newell

Dorothea knew it would be safer on the mainland than on some island in the middle of nowhere. Not that it made any difference. She and her sister Mary would have to do what everyone else did.

She saw how every time the swell rolled around the point and broke over the wreck of the Mountaineer, the sea claimed a little more of the damaged vessel. She felt heavy with dread at the thought of leaving the narrow beach, defined by smooth, steep rock on either side, in a small whaleboat. The natives had been friendly, showing them the freshwater lake behind the sandhill and how to dig for the root of an edible reed. But Captain Jansen wanted to leave. He said there were too many of them for the whaleboat to make it to the Sound. They would leave for an island where there was a sealer’s camp. It was to the east not far from the coast. Jansen said the sealer had a large whaleboat and supplies and he could help them return to the Sound. Dorothea watched his mouth open and close as he spoke. She felt like a wooden doll that was being worked by an unseen hand. Her sister too was stultified by fear. They watched the men load the whaleboat with casks of water and what was left of the hard biscuit. The kegs of flour and brandy that had been taken from the wreck before the tide came in were placed in the middle and slightly to the front of the boat for balance. Two men went back up the beach for the sail, which had been their shelter in the corner of the bay. She and her sister were told to get in. They helped each other. The sail was pulled up the mast and they rowed past the steep headland and out into the open sea where the canvas caught the wind.

The boat slid into the deep troughs of the swell. It was like being in a valley of the sea where at the bottom there was no horizon. Dorothea’s stomach felt as though it was full of foam. She wondered if the whaleboat would come up the other side before a wave curled over the stern and pulled them in. After a while she closed her eyes, feeling the moisture seep into her skin. If the sea chose to take her, would she die from the cold or would she have to drown? The boat came up the other side and her eyes opened and fixed on a rock somewhere along that hazy line that separated the sea from the sky. She realised that in three days of sailing she had barely moved except when they hauled up on the beach at night. The rock loomed larger. It was in the middle of a strip of grey land. There was a white beach to one side. The whiteness was bright after so much blue and grey.

Dorothea took the rough hand of the young man without looking at him. She held her skirts above her ankles and clambered over the side onto hard sand. Her fingers were stiff from clutching the rough timber of the boat and it was an effort to straighten her legs. She tried to moisten her lips with her tongue but it stuck to her teeth. Her sister stumbled as she was helped from the boat. Dorothea took her arm to help her and to steady herself. They both shivered as they walked a little way up the beach. Mary started to weep hot tears that drew lines down the salty veneer of her face. She glanced over her shoulder at the black man by the boat. His stare was steady, his eyes blank but hard beneath his heavy brow. She looked to the younger man and saw the sickly smile in his eyes as they shifted with excitement from her to her sister. She had never seen anything like them before: the big man with his shiny black skull and broad frame draped in animal skins, and the young one, lank hair falling to his shoulders and strips of trousers flapping around his ankles. Her eyes watered and she looked away, blinking against the shimmering figures that moved across the sand. She squeezed her sister’s hand but her grip had lost its strength.

Mary began to breathe quickly.

‘I need something to drink.’

Dorothea released her. She looked into her sister’s face seeing the sweat on her forehead even though they faced the wind. Exhaustion was smudged beneath her eyes. The black man had his back to them, talking to Jansen. When she approached, Jansen draped his arm across her shoulders.

‘My love,’ he sniggered.

‘Is there any water? My sister is poorly.’ Her voice was flat.

She could feel the sealer’s dark eyes upon her. He smelt like a fox.

‘Follow the edge of the rock. There’s a well at the back.’

He pointed to the corner of the beach where the sandhill sloped into a low ridge towards the granite. A clump of wattle grew there and behind it was stubby bush, coloured red and gold and green.

Although they couldn’t see the camp from the beach, they could make out a track around the wattle where thin gold leaves blanketed the ground. They followed his directions, keeping to the edge of the granite as it went inland. The bush was on their left and grey-black lumpy rock striped with shallow gullies on their right. Their feet trampled dried-up plants that hadn’t survived the summer and dry yellow lichen which clung tenaciously to life at the base of the granite. Just when they were beginning to think the track led nowhere, they glimpsed something through the trees and caught the familiar smell of a smouldering hearth. A gap in the wattle turned into a path to a large timber and stone hut, which was built on the edge of a thicket of tall paperbark trees. They came to a wall and followed it around to the other side where they were surprised to discover that attached to the building was a shelter like a verandah which opened out into the clearing. Bedrolls and piles of skins were kept underneath it. A door at one end led to a kitchen. At the other end was an entrance to a storeroom that contained barrels and skins. From the rafters hung dead animals: wallabies, geese and a large lizard. A big paperbark tree and a tall eucalypt with a straight smooth trunk sheltered the clearing. Beyond both trees the ground sloped sharply upwards. It was the sandhill that hid the hut from the eyes of anyone on the beach. It was a well-built hut, better than their house at the Sound. And it was so sheltered. Not a whisper of wind stirred below, although the tops of the trees shook now and then with the occasional gust.

They remembered the sealer had said the well was around the back. From where they had been standing on the beach, he must have meant the side of the hut that faced inland. So they walked around the hut, alongside the kitchen wall and then to the stone fireplace and chimney that jutted out from the corner of the south-facing wall and into the paperbark thicket. A path of hardened black sand wove in and out of the pale trunks of the trees and through them they glimpsed the ring of granite rocks at the end of it. They lifted the wooden cover. Leaves of the canopy above were reflected in the well’s still depths.

The water was soft and icy in their cupped hands. So sweet, it trickled down the sides of their mouths and wetted the fronts of their gowns. Mary splashed her face and tried to rub the salt from her skin. A rush of wind rustled the leaves above. There was a muffled booming sound of distant surf crashing on rock, and the haunting, echoing call of a bronze-wing pigeon. Dorothea undid her bonnet and her shawl. Her clothes felt oily and damp. She took the pail from her sister and filled it as full as she had the strength to carry, then tipped it over her head. Gasping, she grinned at Mary through a dripping veil, her thick brown hair loosened and falling about her face. She handed her sister the pail.

‘Tis cold,’ said Mary but took it anyway.

Although their features were similar, Mary was slighter in build and her hair was dark. They were both thin, their skin drawn tightly across their cheekbones. When they were soaked, Dorothea noticed a track leading through the trees and followed it into the sunlight. The track led them to the granite rock without going back to the hut. It took them further south past another small clearing to their left where there was a dome-shaped dwelling and the charred remains of a small fire. There was also a small garden enclosed by a brush fence. Sheltered from view, they lay down to rest. The heat of the rock radiated through their skin and into their chilled aching bones. They gave in to it. Soon the silence was broken only by their gentle breathing, the scurrying of little lizards through the debris at the base of the rock, and the insistent but intermittent buzz of an insect.

‘Dorothea.’

As the sound left Mary’s mouth it seemed to linger in the air for a moment.

‘Mmm.’

‘What are we going to do?’

Mary rolled onto her side and looked at her sister who lay on her back, eyes closed to the sun.

‘Don’t know.’

‘How are we going to get back?’

‘Don’t know.’ Dorothea sighed and sat up, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the brightness of the afternoon light.

‘He’s not going to take us.’

‘Who?’ asked Dorothea.

‘The sealer.’

Dorothea shrugged and said: ‘Perhaps there’ll be a trader.’

‘That could be months.’

‘There’ll be ships that pass here.’

‘Do you think so?’

Dorothea paused and took a deep breath in an attempt to stave off a sick feeling at the bottom of her stomach. ‘We’ll get back to the Sound,’ she said.

‘In that boat?’

‘Look, the thing is we’re here. We didn’t drown. We have each other. Jem’s with us and you have Matthew.’

‘He’s a savage.’

‘Who? Your husband?’ She smiled briefly.

‘No, that man, the sealer.’

‘They’re all savages,’ muttered Dorothea.

Mary sighed and looked down at the rock, flicking the pale green lichen with her fingernail.

‘Matthew’s alright. At least he doesn’t hit me.’

A pigeon burst noisily from the undergrowth. They both jumped.

Dorothea watched her sister as she lowered her head onto her knees and she remembered the night Matthew had come to their house at the Sound. He called out from the doorway that he had bread and cheese and grog. From her place by the fire she had wondered what the occasion was. She came into the room for entertaining, pushing aside the piece of canvas that hung in the doorway. Mother was sitting unsteadily on her stool, as she seemed to do more often, scattering snuff over her knees. Matthew was standing inside the door, jiggling the coins in his pocket. He said he had money for a gown. Father took the bottle from him and broke the bread and cheese. He filled two glasses with glowing amber and they swallowed together. She fetched Mary and Henrietta and they stood with their backs against the wall. He would choose Mary.

There was no money in the new colony but that didn’t stop Matthew from wanting to sever his ties with the man who had brought him from England. All of sudden he noticed other indentured servants abandoning their masters for land of their own. Although he couldn’t afford it, he wanted to be able to say that he was no longer a servant of the Resident Magistrate’s household. Jem, his new brother-in-law, told him the stories that he had heard down at the harbour. Of where there was money to be found. When the captain of the Mountaineer sailed into the harbour offering for just three pounds a passage to the east, Matthew was easily persuaded. While they were preparing to sail, Dorothea decided to go with them. She hadn’t wanted her sister to leave and neither had she found work after her mistress’s husband died of consumption. And Captain Jansen had offered her a free passage. He had also promised to buy her a gown.

Dorothea looked up and watched tufts of cloud arch over the endless blue. One passed over the sun and suddenly it was cool. They gathered up their shawls and put on their bonnets. As they retraced their steps Dorothea, who was walking ahead, untied her bonnet again. Mary caught up with her.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I don’t want it.’

The ties were crisp with salt and had rubbed a sore under her chin. She threw it into the bush.

‘But you can’t.’

Dorothea came around the side of the hut and almost walked into the man who had directed them from the beach. Mary bumped into the back of her. Dorothea wished now that she had kept her bonnet. At eye level was silver fur and hard black skin. She looked up. He had a purple scar under his eye.

‘You found the well?’ His voice sounded in his chest.

Dorothea nodded.

‘Get some water for tea.’

The sealer turned away. She stood there for a moment clasping her hands, squeezing them until they hurt and then letting go. Mary nudged her. They peered through the doorway into the kitchen. The room was full of eye-watering smoke. A long trestle table stood in the middle. Along each side of it was rough wooden seating. The air was heavy with a strong rancid smell that reminded Dorothea of the stench of dull-eyed fish at the end of market day. The floor was paved with lumps of granite that had been dug into the black dirt. There was a doorway into another room. But they didn’t go through it. Dorothea reached for the poker that hung at the side of the fireplace and stoked up the fire while Mary went to fetch the water. She looked over her shoulder, half expecting him to be standing behind her, but he must have gone through the other doorway which was shielded by a piece of canvas.

Just before the sun disappeared, golden light edged the scrub at the top of the sandhill and softened the men’s harsh features. Some of them sat on tree stumps and logs, while others sprawled or squatted in the dirt in front of the verandah. A small fire spat and crackled in the middle of the clearing. Occasionally one of them would lean over towards it and take out a stick to light a pipe. Flasks of drink were shared and the sound of their voices rose and fell like the waves, which could be heard, more loudly now, crashing on the beach.

Dorothea and Mary watched the Aboriginal women tend to a pot over the fire. Although the air was dense inside the hut, they preferred it to the atmosphere outside and the voracious stares of the men. One of the black women added dark bloody meat and a vegetable that looked like a yam. The other two chopped and sliced at the other end of the table, their breasts swaying against their dusty bellies.

Dorothea found their nakedness disturbing. She thought that they should wear clothes like the natives at the Sound. It made them less like savages. She remembered the day the black women were given their red flannel dresses. She had been on the shore with Mary, looking longingly at the clothes worn by the women who had just arrived from England, when a wooden crate was lifted off the pilot boat. It was hacked open there on the landing and they could see it was full of red fabric. They were told it had been sent by a group of English society ladies and a duchess to protect the modesty of the natives. Later that day the black women were rounded up and brought down to the harbour. They came in small groups, some shrieking with laughter and others giggling shyly as they held up the dresses and inspected them closely. A few put them on. The magistrate told them that they had to wear them if they wanted to come into the settlement for tea or flour or sugar. When the women left, Dorothea remembered thinking how strange it was to see flashes of red between the trees as they slipped back into the bush.

Occasionally the two women at the end of the table looked up but just as quickly they turned away again. Dorothea tried to catch their eyes. After a while she looked at Mary.

‘Are you hungry?’

‘I think so.’

The last time they had eaten was in the whaleboat. They had shared bits of mouldy biscuit between nine of them. Now there was just a knot where Dorothea’s stomach was. But the juicy smell of meat stewing caused her mouth to moisten and the knot to unravel.

She mused, half to herself: ‘What is it, do you think?’

The sealer entered and glanced over.

‘Tammar stew.’ It was hard to read his expression. ‘I taught them to make it. They use the wallaby on the island. They call them tammar.’

Dorothea looked at Mary and then back at him and asked: ‘What are their names?’

He stared at her and she wished she hadn’t spoken.

‘Who?’

‘Their names.’ She nodded towards the fire. ‘The women,’ she added almost under her breath.

He walked over to the tallest of the three and grasped her short matted hair. He turned her to face them.

‘Dinah. Say hello to the fine English ladies.’ His tone was sarcastic.

She glanced up briefly and mumbled something.

‘She can speak like you if she wants to.’ He gestured with his other arm. ‘This one’s Sal and that’s Mooney.’

Sal giggled, revealing a wide white grin. Mooney looked at the floor. Dinah continued to stare ahead at some point on the wall behind them. At that moment Matthew, Mary’s husband, appeared at the doorway. He looked around and then went to stand behind Mary. He placed his hand at the nape of her neck, his eyes on the other man. Mary looked down at her hands, which were clasped tightly on the table. No one moved. Dorothea watched an ant as it crawled along the edge of the table. Matthew straightened.

‘I’ll be outside,’ he said.

The light in the room had dimmed. The sealer appeared as a shape in the other doorway. He had put on a shirt with sleeves torn from the shoulders. It hung over the animal skin wrapped around his hips. He reached for a lamp that was hanging from a hook on the wall. He placed it in the middle of the table and filled it with oil. Lit, it illuminated his broad forehead, shadowing his eyes and deepening the lines that ran down the side of his nose to his mouth. He had shaved with his sealing knife, leaving behind a few shiny dots of congealed blood on his neck and at the back of his skull.

The black women left and they ate their meal undisturbed. Pushing her plate away, Dorothea reached across the table for her sister’s hand. Her eyes glittered in the light of the lamp as she looked back at Dorothea.

‘How do you feel?’

Mary shrugged in a way that suggested even that was an effort.

‘Jem said there is a tent in the trees near the beach.’

They stood in the shadow of the verandah, looking out to the clearing. Three men sat against the trunk of the eucalypt, legs stretched out in front of them. Some were lying in the dirt having unrolled their bedding. The sealer was talking to a man they hadn’t seen before. His beard was long and thick, an animal-skin cloak around his shoulders. He was sitting with legs bent, arms resting on his knees. One hand clasped a clay pipe, which he used now and then to stab the air. He used the other hand to tug at his beard. They were both talking in low voices, heads close together. The man with the beard glanced over at Jansen and stood up. He walked to the edge of the clearing where another small fire burnt healthily. The Aboriginal women were squatted before it. Mooney poked a stick into the coals. The man leant down and took her arm. He pulled her upright and led her towards a bundle of skins beside the wall.

Their brother left the fire and walked towards them.

‘Jem,’ Dorothea called out softly. ‘Jem.’

‘Bleedin’ Jesus, Sis, you give us a fright.’

‘Can you take us to the tent?’

‘It’s through there.’

‘Please Jem.’

They disappeared quietly through the trees. Dorothea looked back. The thin pale trunks of the paperbark trees glowed in the moonlight. They half circled the camp and looked like silver bars. She hurried to keep up. Through a gap in the bush she could see the beach. The wind had dropped and the silky sea unfolded towards the mainland where a path was lit by the moon. Near the island it rippled silver and dispersed into flashing bits of light that caught the top of the waves as they swelled and tumbled onto the sand.

Jem said something to Mary that Dorothea couldn’t hear.

‘I said I’m going out tomorrow with Anderson.’

‘With who?’

‘The sealer.’

‘What for?’

‘Sealing, what do you think?’

‘Are they all going?’

‘Don’t know … that James Manning told him I wanted to work. He says he’ll pay me when he takes a load to the Sound.’

Jem left them in front of the tent. It had been erected beneath wattle trees that were bent over by the wind. From the entrance they could see the edge of the rock that led out towards the headland and to the beach. She could see that they would be sheltered from most weather and they were fortunate tonight for it was warm. Wattle leaves covered their floor and smelt musty. They would sweep them out tomorrow but for now they used the loose canvas from one side for a mat. Taking off their shoes they lay down, covering their bodies with their shawls and lying close together for comfort.

Dorothea woke with the hand of her sister grabbing her arm tightly. It was night and there were voices. Drunken voices of men. She recognised Matthew’s voice.

‘She’s my wife.’

There was scuffling and branches were broken. Someone fell heavily and grunted.

‘There … now get off.’

Matthew crawled on his hands and knees into the tent, breathing heavily. The air saturated with the cloying smell of alcohol. His hand grabbed Mary’s thigh. He leant on it and pushed himself up. She gasped and wriggled to shift the pressure.

‘Mary,’ he said hoarsely.

He reached over her stomach to the other side of her waist and pulled her towards him. There was no resistance and he lay heavily across her, grunting as he did so. He fumbled about with her skirts, tugging them up under his legs, and opened his trousers. Mary made a small sound. His breathing quickened.

Someone was outside. Dorothea’s breath caught at the back of her throat. Matthew froze and then knelt between his wife’s legs. He leapt up and crashed through the entrance of the tent and then there was a slapping sound, the sound of skin on skin and silence. Matthew returned and lay beside his wife. Mary let go of her sister’s arm. Dorothea had been comfortable before but now she noticed that underneath her right shoulder there was a lump in the ground and a place in the small of her back ached. She turned on her side, away from her sister, and listened to the shoosh of the waves.