2

Dawn was barely breaking when Brigid struggled from her bunk. The thin, lumpy mattress had offered little comfort, and she’d found the constant vibration and noise echoing through the subsections from the engines unbearable. Give her the silence of a rural night, the owls, the bleat of sheep or the odd snuffle from the pig, any time. And to make matters worse, those who had managed some sleep only added to the noise with their unfamiliar snorts and snores.

She dressed in her stays and petticoats, before wriggling into her best outfit again. The flared, boot-length skirt, with its softly draped overskirt and fitted, lace trimmed jacket, would prove practical for the journey. If she was to make her way in the new world she would need to look the part and less like a peasant girl.

Breakfast of a grey porridge with molasses, dry bread, and tea had been a quiet affair and soon over, thanks to the general air of self-consciousness and exhaustion that sat heavily over the room. Brigid washed her plate in marginally cleaner water, returned her utensils to her bunk and went in search of a quiet spot to write her diary, but people crowded all the open spaces. She despaired of finding anywhere to sit, but eventually a corner of a bench right at the stern offered a tiny area of privacy.

Wednesday, 20th October 1886

I’m that scared by the thought that my life will only exist on paper from now on. No one will read it other than me, and no one will understand or care. And I feel lonely knowing I can only talk to my family by letter. And they’ll take so long to reach home the news will no longer matter.

I’m real unsettled knowing Sally’s taken against the foreigners, especially the dark-skinned sailors, but I’m not so sure why. It’s the natural order of the world for everyone to look down on everyone else. I mean, even at home, the English landlords, with their fancy ways of talking, look down on us poor locals who tenant their cottages, and don’t care a bit. But then, my folks and others in the surrounding villages don’t trust the gypsy travellers who come every summer – but to me they brought change.

The gypsies came with goods that couldn’t be bought anywhere else, and music and dancing. I loved the fairs. I used to go wild about the fabrics and baubles even if I never had the money to buy them, and I joined in the dancing when the fiddler started up. They had adventure in their life that wasn’t in mine. I know I wanted some of that excitement, but now, with an unknown world ahead of me, my spirit fails me.

Is that what life will be like, each of us judging everyone we meet, fearful and unable to trust? As sure as sure can be, in this new land we are going to, we’ll have to get used to working alongside people different from ourselves if we are to survive. Dear Lord, give me the courage and wisdom to understand.

Brigid watched the passengers who walked past her: men in search of their wives or someone to talk to; women in pursuit of their offspring; two women deep in conversation; and a few sailors going about their duty. One couple, the woman obviously distressed, the man trying to comfort her with soft words, hurried by, oblivious to others.

I’m at a crossroads, I think, a place of decision. Somewhere people gather, meet newcomers and move on to a new life with those who fit, to form a community with shared values and ideals. Where will I fit in that greater plan, Lord?

I miss them all at home so much already but I don’t know what to write. Ma can only read a few words, and I’m not that close to Máire – she would never understand what I want to say to Ma about being my own woman; my darling Norah’s a little touched by the fairies; and Nellie’s far too young. As for John, well, he’s our father’s son and has no time for women’s gossip. I love them all, but writing how I feel ...

Dissatisfied, she slipped her diary into her pocket, deciding to find her way about the ship instead. She soon discovered the section reserved for First Class passengers was barred to her. She turned to retrace her steps and walked straight into a young man, impeccably dressed in the latest morning suit with a fashionable collar and cravat held with an elaborate pin.

He removed his top hat, gave a small bow, eyed her from head to toe and smirked. “It is entirely I who should be apologising to you. Forgive my sudden appearance. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s all right, sir. No harm done. Thank ye. I’ll just be on my way, then.” Brigid took a step to one side, but he blocked her path.

“No. No. Don’t go on my account. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Philip Harrison-Browne, at your service. And who might you be?”

“Honoured to meet you, sir.” She bobbed another curtsy. “My name is Brigid O’Brien.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss O’Brien.” He replaced his hat and adjusted his sleeves. “Would you care to walk with me awhile?”

Flustered now, she stepped aside again. “Oh, no. Thank ye, sir. But I couldn’t possibly. It wouldn’t be seemly, seeing as you’re from First Class an’ all.”

“I think you should let me be the judge of that.” He held his arm out, but she didn’t take it.

“Your modesty does you credit, Miss O’Brien. Very well. Let us say adieu for now. I’m sure we’ll meet again.” He tipped his hat and stood out of her way to let her pass.

Brigid hurried away, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder to see if he was still watching her.

Moments later, a noise up ahead attracted her attention. She rounded the wall of the saloon to see a crowd forming a circle on the open deck. Men were shouting and waving. Even before Brigid forced her way between them, she knew she would find Jamie in the middle. The sickening thud of flesh on flesh exploded in her ears as she popped up in the front row. Brigid didn’t recognise the man Jamie was fighting but took a guess it might be the brother of the girl he was dotty on. Stripped to the waist and a good half-head shorter than Jamie, the man was muscular and in a rage. He was a street fighter too, not short on dirty tricks.

Loud warning shouts came from the men behind Brigid as the fighter threw a sly kick and tripped Jamie. He fell but rolled out of the way just as the man was about to leap on top of him. With his opponent sprawled on the deck, Jamie grabbed him from behind, hauled him to his feet, twisted him around and punched him square on the nose. The man’s head snapped back. Blood spurted. He staggered. Jamie grinned, his face gleaming with sweat.

“You’ve got to help me stop them,” begged Brigid of the burly man wearing a cap next to her.

“Why, lassie? They’re even enough matched. We could do with some action; summat to talk about.”

“You don’t know my cousin. He’s a clever one and will wear the fella down afore he finishes him off. We’ve got to stop him. Please?”

The man looked around to see if he could get backup, but the crowd was too engrossed and too fired up to think about interfering. He shook his head at her. “Sorry, lass. It’s too risky.”

Brigid frowned at the two fighters dancing around each other and sized up the space between them. She dived forward and put herself in front of the other man, but only managed to yell “Stop” in the split second it took for him to push her to one side. At the sight of her, Jamie held back a millisecond too long, which allowed the man to deliver the knockout punches: first to the stomach then an uppercut to the jaw, laying Jamie out flat. The older man spat at his rival, picked up his shirt and disappeared through the crowd.

Shaken, but unhurt, Brigid scrambled across the deck towards the prone Jamie. She knelt beside him and smoothed his hair back from his sweaty forehead to inspect the damage. “I’m sorry, Jamie, I am that, but I just had to stop you doing anything silly.”

All around them the crowd booed and jostled while the bookies, eager to pocket the losing bets, were reluctant to hand over any winnings.

She briefly considered who the favourite might be but really didn’t care. “I’ve seen you look worse, boyo. Come on now. Up ye get, Jamie.”

Jamie didn’t stir. She started to get to her feet, thinking she would try to pull him up to a sitting position, at the same time as a bucket of briny water was thrown over him, wetting her as well. She spluttered from the unexpected deluge. Fire burned in her eyes as she looked up to see one of the foreign sailors standing over her holding the empty pail.

He put it on the deck, placed his hands palm to palm and, with a little bow, apologised. “Forgive me. I obey orders.” She followed his eyes to where the steward watched.

“Allow, please,” the strange man added politely. He stepped forward, grabbed Jamie by the arms, pulled him upright, tossed him over his shoulder and marched off.

Brigid scurried behind, pushing her damp hair out of her eyes. She didn’t see the sailor until he barred her from following Jamie as he was carried down the ladder to the decks below.

“The doctor will do that, miss. ’Twouldn’t be safe, believe me.” The look on his face brooked no argument.

“Who is that man?” Brigid pointed down the companionway to where she’d last seen Jamie, his head bouncing on the shoulder of the sailor.

“Him? He’s a lascar from India, ma’am. Will that be all?” He tipped his cap to indicate the conversation was over.

With no other option, Brigid reluctantly returned to her quarters at the rear of the ship. She’d have to be patient and wait for Jamie to reappear, which wouldn’t be until the morrow at least. She prayed he’d be all right and not too mad at her.

Wednesday, 20th October 1886

I’m so out of sorts with that much on my mind. I was right cross after that lascar man threw the water. It might have helped Jamie, but I had to change out of my wet clothes. I know he didn’t mean to wet me, but that doesn’t change anything. I’ve had to put on my work clothes while my good ones dry out. I hope they are not ruined; I’ve got nothing to replace them.

I can see what Sally means about foreign people. He was polite enough, but up close he made me nervous. He shielded his eyes and his face showed nothing. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Now I’m worried about my things. I hope nobody takes any of them.

I counted the girls in our section and I reckon there’s over seventy of us – that’s near half our village. To see them all together like this makes me realise I didn’t know I’d grown up with so many people, if you add in all the little ones, and the nuns and the others at the school. But I don’t know what to make of all these yet.

Some of them are mighty sociable with total strangers. Like Sally – she could talk the hind leg off a donkey. I’m not so good at small talk with people I don’t know, but then I’m not as bad as Annie and Lettie who rarely speak to anyone apart from each other. It’s like they have a secret language. One will start saying something and the other will finish it. I’ve never come across the likes of it before. As for the two women in the next bunks, I have as little to do with them as possible. And I haven’t seen that Englishwoman again – the one Sally and I sent off.

But what bothers me most is our Jamie. I’m that vexed with him. Why did he have to go acting the maggot so soon and get to milling on our first day? And after he promised me. What am I going to do? I can’t mother him all the way to Australia, and goodness knows what will happen to him after that. If he gets to brawling, he’ll be in big trouble. Ah, Jamie. You’re such a worry.

But he’s not the only one worrying me.

That man – Harrison-Browne he said his name was – gives me the fidgets. With all his fancy ways, what does he want with the likes of me? Sally says I should hobnob with him some more so I can get to know the ladies and sell my lace. It seems a bit dishonest to me, and I’m not at all sure I want to ... encourage him. He might get the wrong idea.

2

Hobnobbing and Fighting