3

At the sound of Jamie’s voice, Brigid’s hand jerked, marring the page she’d been writing on with a black line. “Now look what you made me do. Eejit.”

Not in the least bit interested in the state of her diary, Jamie barely paused. “Bejaysus, Breeda. What you feckin’ have to go and do that for?”

She was still angry with him, just as he was clearly angry with her, but that didn’t stop her. She checked his black eye and the cuts and grazes on his face. Then she took his hands in hers and turned them over to look at his bruised and bloody knuckles, but seeing the damage was superficial tossed them aside again.

He glared at her furiously, not yet able to let go of his rage. “But I coulda had him, if you’d let me.”

“Aye. That you could,” she snapped, her Irish accent getting broader as their fight progressed. “I saw the glint in your eye, but where would that have landed you, I ask ye, Jamie. Where? I’ll tell you where, you bleedin’ eejit. In the gaol, that’s where. And then that angel of yours wouldna wanted nothing more to do with you after laying into her brother. Did you t’ink o’ that?”

Jamie, stayed by her words, rubbed his hands back and forth over his head. “Ah, no. I did not. But ’twasn’t my fault he came at me ... And mayhap you’re right, but the fight was mine, not yours. You shouldna interfered.”

“At least this way she’ll feel sorry for you and he’s the one in trouble. But you should be thanking me – not cussing me. Now go away and leave me be awhile.”

Jamie looked at her fondly. “Aye, I probably should bless you. You took an almighty chance coming between us. You could’ve got a real belting.”

“Ah, you’re a brave ’un, our Breeda, and I thank you for that. For thinking of me.” He hesitated, his eyes taking in her pose. “You look tired. Are you well?”

“Well enough,” she attempted a weak smile. “Don’t fret. I’ll be grand. Away you go, now.”

Brigid stared out to sea, her diary neglected in her lap, as the sound of Jamie’s footsteps disappeared.

“Excuse me.” A soft voice intruded seemingly only moments later, but the sun had moved while Brigid had been daydreaming. “Are you Miss O’Brien?”

Brigid jerked her head up to see a young woman in front of her. “I am that. And who might you be?” Although she had a strong suspicion she was the girl Jamie was so keen on.

“I’m Maggie O’Neill.” The young woman started to extend her hand and then withdrew it, clearly uncertain about her reception. “May I speak with you awhile?”

“I wanted ... I wish to speak with you about ... um ...” She stopped, her eyes skittered right and left as if she would find the right words written in the air. “It’s that brother of mine, you see.” The girl’s hands shook as she struggled to speak. “I, um, Michael is ... well, I thank you for putting an end to it. And I ... that is ... I’m gae sorry. He shouldna. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

Brigid sat silently and waited for her to finish, wondering why she’d slipped into local idioms after the polite, rounded voice she’d first used.

“Where are you from, Miss O’Neill? That’s no Irish accent I’m hearing.”

“Ah. Noo, it’s a wee bit mixed up. I were born in County Antrim, but Faither took us back and fore to Scotland for work so I grew up in both countries.” Maggie bent her head and cleared her throat several times. Next time she spoke, her speech had returned to its formal tone. “I must get out of the habit of slipping into dialect when I’m nervous. Forgive me. I should know better.”

Brigid instantly distrusted the chameleon-like character of the girl, but she’d promised Jamie to be polite. “Why should you need to know better? What’s wrong with the way you speak?”

“My employer, Miss Jenkins – may she rest in peace – always said that if we wanted to get on in the world, we had to speak proper, I mean, correctly.” Brigid watched as Maggie took in a deep breath and sighed. “It was so much easier while I was living in England. I was with people who spoke like that all the time, but now I’m finding it too easy to slip back into what is natural.”

“So why did you leave then, if everything was so good?” Brigid said, echoing the question Sally had asked earlier. She hadn’t intended to be so sharp with the girl and was startled to see Maggie’s eyes fill.

“I had no choice.” Head bent, she stared at the sandstone-scrubbed deck beneath her feet.

Slowly, hesitantly, Maggie started to tell her story. “Faither died some years ago. My brother Michael – and his wife what’s passed now – and his two girls lived with our mother. But then Mam fell ill.” Maggie lifted her head and looked straight at Brigid, searching for understanding. “It was as if the whole world had turned against me all at the same time.”

Before Brigid or Maggie could say anything further Sally strode along the deck towards them. “Ah, there you are. I’ve been searching the whole ship for you.”

Maggie made to leave, but Sally blocked her way. “Oh hello, then. Who might you be, I wonder? Don’t think I’ve come across you before.”

“Maggie O’Neill. Please excuse me.” She stepped to one side and made her escape.

“What’s up with that one?” Sally pursed her lips, watching the girl disappear around the corner.

“No matter. Tell her family’s no use to anyone. Come on, lass. There’s some deck games going on, and I’ve got my eye on a sailor.”

Monday, 25th October 1886

We’ve settled into a routine of sorts as we’ve got further from England. The weather’s been dry and the sea’s calm so far, thank the Lord, and I’m surprised I’ve not felt at all seasick – others are. But I am finding it mighty warm.

A lot of folk spend more time on deck where it’s cooler than below, but the officers say we can’t sleep up there, more’s the pity. And with so many people on board it’s nigh on impossible to find a quiet spot; there’s always a body or two hovering around. But there’s one thing I can say – there’s such hope on board, it’s a joy to share. Everyone is expecting Australia to give us a better life.

We’ve lots of food, mostly meat and praties, but it lacks taste. They’re right stingy on the salt, but it’s regular as the clock. I think most are eating for something to do, instead of something to enjoy. Some complained at the start, but cook swore his head off at them. The grumbles soon stopped after that and cook’s a bit friendlier since. The bread’s fresh made, so I’m happy about that.

Sally has taken the upper hand and likes to say what is what. She and I have become friends – you need friends on this ship. It gets mighty lonely at times. I do Sally’s hair when I can, but it’s got a will of its own with all those curls.

The sisters Annie and Lettie quietly stick together and have so far not upset Sally, but I’ve not got to know them much. They’re an odd pair, who speak little, and we can’t hear them when they do.

Then there’s Wilhelmina, the German woman who is tall and heavy built and called Minnie. I tried to speak to her once, but she has such very little English that neither of us really knew what the other was saying. Minnie found a few women who spoke her own language and somehow managed to shift the woman from Denmark, who’d taken the top bunk, to another place so she could share with Rosina, one of her newfound fellow countrymen. Since then, Minnie and Rosina have kept to themselves, as much as Sally will let them. She niggles at them all the time about how much room they take up. We’ve had a bit of music to help cheer us up a little, and most seem happier than they were. I enjoy the dancing.

I wish I could tell Ma I say my daily prayers like I promised. We had church this morning with Father Flanagan. He’ll be leading the weekly service and will give us news of what’s happening aboard and what to expect up ahead.

The days passed peaceably enough as mothers chattered over the wash barrel or entertained the younger children while the older ones found their own mischief. She wished she could tell some of them salt water was no good for the cloth, but Brigid found honing her skills alongside the other women who did handicraft a daily pleasure.

Agnes and Ester, who shared quarters in the midships with their spouses and children, had formed an early friendship and were soon spending their days together creating or teaching some of the younger women. Brigid liked to help them, glad to pass on her skills.

“I’m so sick of the sight of water. When are we going to reach land?” grumbled Agnes, her fingers flying as she crocheted.

“We saw land a few days back when we came through them straits. What were they called?” asked Ester, without raising her head from her embroidery.

“Gibraltar,” replied Brigid. “And we can’t be that far away from the next stop. The ship needs to fill up with coal and water, so I was told.”

Agnes snapped her head round to glare at Brigid. “That wasn’t what I meant. Seeing it in the distance ain’t the same. I wanted to see what the people looked like and how they lived.” She stood to adjust her position and flap her skirts to let some air circulate before sitting again. “My, it’s hot.”

“Aye, ’tis. Clammy like.” Ester flapped her hands in front of her highly flushed face and appeared quite put out.

“Maybe we should in sit the shade, it’d be more comfortable,” suggested Brigid.

“But the shady side of the ship is the windy side and I hate the wind. No, we’ll stay where we are.” Agnes was adamant.

Nobody moved; their hooks and needles flashed back and forth unabated until the murmur of voices grew afresh.

Brigid didn’t bother to point out that the wind shifted and could blow from any direction, or that the shady side of the ship was dependent on the time of day. Agnes was a creature of habit so nothing would move her, and the other women accepted her decision without dispute.

“So where’s we stopping next then, Breeda?” asked Annie, the more vocal of the quiet sisters, to fill a lull in the conversation.

“There’s some islands called Galite in the Bay of Tunis, today, then Malta ...” began Brigid.

“I don’t like the look of those clouds coming towards us. I’ve never seen them move so quick,” Agnes interrupted, and craned her neck around to see where the dark cloud was coming from.

“I’m starting to feel right queasy an’ all,” agreed Ester, lifting her head. Like a rabbit coming out of its burrow, she jerked her head left and right to see what dangers might be lurking.

One woman put a hand out to steady herself; another leaned into the next as the ship seesawed through the surging swells. Voices stilled. Nervous eyes scanned the horizon.

“Ooh, I don’t like it. Why’s it doing that?” Annie’s querulous voice didn’t help steady anyone’s nerves.

“I was told Galite had an eruption last month making the sea swell. Maybe that’s got something to do with it?” suggested Brigid, hoping a reason for the extra surge might ease their minds – and hers. The one thing she feared more than being alone was the power of the ocean. It had taken many a fisherman from home to his death.

“How come you know so much, missy?” She guessed Agnes had a nasty side, but until now it hadn’t been directed at her.

Everyone turned to stare at Brigid. The hairs on her arms stood on end at the unnecessary hostility.

“Aye. And why would anyone tell a slip of a girl like you anything?” Another voice joined in – someone she didn’t know – an older woman with a dark scowl.

Brigid flushed and tears threatened. Her stomach turned in confusion. She dropped her head and clenched her fists to steady her nerves, feeling the sticky sweat beneath her fingers as blood pounded through her veins. If she was to make a new life, she could not – no, she would not – let others stand over her.

“There’s no need to be nasty. I’ve done you no harm. I asked a sailor and he told me.”

She gathered up her belongings and, with a brief nod of farewell, gracefully but determinedly made her escape.

Brigid edged her way unsteadily around the bow to the other side of the ship, only to walk headlong into the windstorm. Overhead, the darkened clouds moved closer, swirling and changing shape as they travelled rapidly across the sky. A strange smell of damp metal and salt twitched her nose, and she shivered, despite the humid air.

For the next day and night the seas heaved up and down like lungs gasping for oxygen. The wind howled at a frightening pitch and buffeted those hale enough to attempt to stand on deck. Waves washed over the bow as the ship plunged headlong into the next trough, sending even the hearty below.

The horizon disappeared sickeningly with each nosedive, while sailors strung storm ropes from one end of the ship to the other for people to hang on to – saving more than one life as the ship rolled first to one side, then the other.

Weakened, people took to their bunks, trying to still their rebellious stomachs. The air reeked of vomit and anxiety. Fear spread its insidious wings.

“Our Father who art in heaven ...” began the murmur of numerous voices not far from where Brigid lay. Above it, “Hail Mary, full of grace ... ” followed in waves as the familiar chant grew louder. In need of comfort, she added her cry to theirs.

“Hail Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death ...”

Harmoniously, the chant rose and fell. Voices came and went as it was repeated again and again, calming her alarm. Foreign words Brigid didn’t understand, but familiar because of their cadence, intermingled with the pulsing rhythm of the prayer.

From nowhere it seemed, Miss O’Reilly, the matron, appeared and moved easily from berth to berth, her soft tone offering succour to those who needed it most.

A soothing male voice started to sing, his strong incantation piercing the thin partitioning. “Hail Queen of Heaven the Ocean Star ...”

Above the din, children cried and begged their mothers for comfort, but if she listened hard, Brigid could still hear the man singing: “... save us from peril and woe.”

“Shut that bleedin’ child up afore I kill the little monster,” someone yelled through the dividing wall.

“Don’t you go threatening my Arthur. It ain’t his fault. You lay one finger on him and I’ll swing for ya, that I will.”

More shouting. Over it all, the prayers and hymns continued accompanied by sounds of crashing and thudding. Anything not tied or weighted down slid haphazardly around, banging into walls, furniture or people, who yelped in pain. Brigid’s head thumped louder, she shivered in the clammy, damp air and wished for the salve of sleep.

“Stop that noise. Oh, please. Stop.” A girl’s voice: begging, rising, sharp.

“Stop now. Stop, I say. That’s quite enough of that talk.” Miss O’Reilly calmly asserted her authority. “We need to support one another during this time. We must wait out the storm and make the most of what strength we have.”

Matron soon directed those with hardier stomachs into caring for those incapacitated, and organised the necessary clean-up. Soon the smell of carbolic soap filled the air, replacing one stench with another only slightly more tolerable. Tortured stomachs turned as the acid bit into the back of the throat. Those who couldn’t reach the bathrooms on deck or didn’t have the strength to hang on to the rail or rope on the way resorted to using the fire buckets, which then had to be emptied. The task was not pleasant, but no one argued with Matron.

Brigid fitted neither camp. She managed to hold her own but couldn’t stay on her feet long enough to do anything to help anyone. Yet, thanks to Miss O’Reilly’s calm manner and orderliness, the panic soon abated. Voices quieted, and Brigid drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Another day and night passed. The strange Maggie, Jamie and the gentleman from first class haunted her dreams.

They’d been at sea for nine days. The remaining forty-seven days and nights stretched before them with nightmarish intensity as the terror returned.

Most people tried to avoid the nerve-wracking trek to the toilet and washhouse on the forward deck, but eventually need outstripped dread. Brigid eased herself up the ladder and was instantly buffeted by the howling wind and drenched by the cresting waters. Swallowing the rising bile of panic she edged her way along the rope. The ship suddenly dived under yet another massive wave and she was knocked off balance, landing with a hefty thump.

“Help ... Help ...” she yelled, desperately clinging to the now-slackened rope. Her arms, stretched painfully in their sockets, extended behind her head as her feet slid under the bottom rail and dangled over the edge. “Oh Lord, save me ...” she sobbed. “Oh. Mammy ... Mammy ... help me.”

Soaked through and shivering, she gritted her teeth and pulled on the rope with all her strength until her booted feet found traction. Frantically scrabbling backwards away from the edge, with her hands still locked over the rope, she curled into a semi-foetal position. Bits of flying wood from the smashed bathroom and washhouse crashed about her before being swept away by raging water and angry winds. She wrapped an arm over her head for protection and turned the other way.

She screamed. Not more than a few feet away lay a man with blood pouring from his head. She stared at him, fascinated by the way his blood mingled with the seawater, diluted and changed colour as it washed away. She screamed again.

Unable or unwilling to let go of the rope for one second, she twisted and turned until she could pull herself to her knees and manoeuvre into a sitting position, the rope across her lap and her back against the hatchway wall. Bile rose in her throat time and again, until she choked. With her breath coming in rasping gasps, she closed her eyes and waited for her pounding heart to ease.

After a few moments, her head began to clear and her breathing settled. She opened her eyes again and stared at the man, his body bent awkwardly against the bollard that prevented him from being washed overboard. Feebly, she tried to gather her wits but, too afraid to let go of the rope to go to him, she sat motionless, her skirt billowing with the waves that continued to wash over the deck.

Out of the murk, sailors appeared from all directions. Amidst loudly shouted commands and one gruff query to check she was not injured, Brigid lost sight of the man behind the mass of bodies as they took him away. Another pair of sailors, headed in the same direction, nearly tripped over her outstretched legs while carrying a young boy whose leg stuck out at a sickening angle. It was Arthur. She’d seen him a few times hanging around his mother in the women’s handicraft group. Poor boy, she thought.

Some time later, the pain in her hands awakened her from her stupor. She eased her grip, waiting for sensation to return to her fingers before she got to her feet and inched her way aft, back along the rope, in search of the relative calm of the single women’s quarters below deck. Tears of exhaustion blurred her vision as she struggled to open the door against the wind and the ship’s relentless pitching and rolling. She eventually opened the door enough to squeeze through, only to lose her footing and slither and bounce her way down to the bottom of the ladder, landing in a heap.

She was only vaguely aware of the hands that grasped her and stripped her of her wet clothing. Someone forced a liquid down her throat before the world turned black.

By the time they reached Malta on 29th October, a mere day later, the storm had abated. The sailors were out and about as if nothing had happened, busy loading extra coal and new supplies, and repairing the damage.

Brigid opened her eyes to find Sally seated on the edge of the bed, watching her. “My, you gave us a scare. I thought you were a goner. Truly, I did. How ye feeling now, lass?”

Brigid forced her lips into a semblance of a smile and tried to move. “Ah ... rather stiff and sore, that I am. But I’ll live. Was it you who helped me?”

“Aye. Me and the matron. Good ol’ stick, that one. Kept everyone in line. Gave you some stuff to help you sleep.”

“Oh. Hmm.” Her head felt so heavy for a moment she couldn’t think what was vexing her. She tried to change her position and groaned with the pain.

“Easy now, hen.” Sally helped her to sit up and pushed her coat behind Brigid’s back. “There, now. Better?”

Brigid nodded. She covered her face with her hands as memory returned. “I saw a man up there, bleeding heavily from his head. What happened to him? Or was I imagining it?” She rubbed at her temples to ease her head.

Sally didn’t pretend. News of the man’s death had spread rapidly. “Nay, lass ... you didna imagine it. Wee laddie’s name was Niels Pederson from Denmark. Bashed his head in, he did. Reckon he was dead before he hit the deck. Weren’t nothing you nor nobody could do about it, so don’t you fret none. But better news about young Arthur; his broken leg’s been set and he says it dinna hurt much any more. The doc says it’ll take some weeks to heal but ’twill mend by the time we’ve landed.”

“What, like you? There’s a few wi’ bruises, but nothing more, but I tell you the last two days has seemed like a lifetime down here. Everyone’s that pothered. It’ll take days yet for nerves to settle. Oh, I dried your clothes and they’re in your bag – they’ll need a bit of mending. And that cousin of yours is asking after ye. But Matron sent him away.”

Brigid tried to stand, but Sally put her hand on her shoulder. “Sit still, lass. I told him ye were fine. Just to give ye a while.”

Brigid’s bruises developed rainbow hues as the days passed, her muscles stiffened and she ached in every bone. She slept uneasily, and time moved slowly.

Sunday, 31st October 1886

Shut up down here, I don’t know what’s gone on in the last few days, and I’m that worried.

That girl Maggie Jamie’s hankering after be a weird one, and her brother Michael has fair taken against him. I kept my eye on them for more than half a week before the storm and all seemed fine, but I can’t be sure all is still well.

Whatever Maggie said to her brother I may never know, but Jamie and him shook hands and agreed to ignore one another. Long may it stay that way, although I’ve not seen much of our Jamie since.

The two of them manage to find ways of bumping into each other at every opportunity, even though she’s got her poor motherless little nieces to look after. And Jamie behaves more like an excited puppy most of the time, but I can’t help worry Maggie is playing a game.

She wants to be friendly with me and I’ve learnt something about her. I know she’s been living away from home, working as a companion maid or some such to a spinster lady in England since she was fourteen. Maggie likes to copy her way of speaking, and says she learnt a few things about how their world worked.

I think Maggie is after a husband who can provide her with those finer things in life she’s seen. But what does she want with our Jamie? He’s the kindest and most generous-hearted and hard-working soul you could ever wish for, but knows nothing beyond a farming life and labouring with his hands. I can’t see it working out between them, but feel helpless.

Then there’s that toff from first class. He’s been following me, I’m sure of it. We seem to meet up nearly every time I’m up top. He always says hello, wishes me well and goes on his way, but then he seeks me out again when I’m alone and stops to chat or watch me making lace.

And he says such nice things about me. All in a polite and proper manner, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how I should behave around him. I’m all aflutter.

Gradually, life on board returned to its monotonous rhythm as they sailed onwards. The sea became a millpond as the barometer climbed higher with each passing hour. Beads of perspiration shone on every face, and people began to shed as many clothes as modesty allowed. Most simply sat in a semi-trance to conserve energy, in whatever place afforded them shade or a slight breeze.

During the storm, meals had become a random event instead of the regimented affair they had got used to, with only bread, biscuits and dried meats readily available – not that many were in a fit state to eat anything. Now the seas were calm and stomachs had returned to normal, mealtimes were restored but most people found it too hot and ate little.

In the end, her need to be out in the fresh air rather than in the stuffy, unbearably hot confines below deck pushed Brigid to get up. Gritting her teeth, she forced one foot after the other up the ladder. By the time she reached the deck, her face was red, her breath came in short gasps and her legs trembled with the effort. She sat down in the shade, happy to watch people while she rested.

Closing her eyes, she listened to the susurration of wind and waves and voices around her. A shadow crossed her face, paused, moved on. She opened one eye to see what had caused it and was startled to find Philip Harrison-Browne standing a few feet away, smiling.

He doffed his hat. “I’m pleased to see you up and around again, Miss O’Brien. I hope you are recovering from your ordeal.”

“Aye, I am, thank ye, sir,” she murmured. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she looked up at him. “Ah. I’m ... I wasn’t ... Forgive my appearance ...” Dressed in a simple cotton skirt and fitted lace-edged blouse, Brigid felt at a disadvantage.

“It’s I who should ask for forgiveness – for my intrusion. I just wanted to see how well you were faring. It would be a shame if that pretty smile disappeared.” He winked, donned his hat and walked away.

She was at a loss to think what she should make of such behaviour and was about to move somewhere else in case he returned when Maggie found her.

“Oooh, I’m so pleased to find ye at last. I wanted to talk to you. The girls have been a real worry. I came to ask y’re advice, but then I heard what happened. You’re lucky to be alive, I hear.”

“I’ll be right as rain again soon enough. What about the girls? Wouldn’t Miss O’Reilly or the doctor have been better people to ask?”

“Suppose so.” Maggie shrugged affably. “I just didn’t think. Laura and Jane were right ill, but they’ve bounced back since the waves have gone. Even the heat doesna bother them. They’re eating an’ all now but I can hardly touch a bite.”

“Me neither. But the broth is good. And a cup of tea’s refreshing, I’ve found.”

Maggie didn’t comment, just stared out to sea. Brigid didn’t really want to know what Maggie was in a dither about – she needed time to think about ‘that man’ and focus her energies on getting better – but good manners demanded she ask.

The girl shrugged slightly. “There’s so much time to think on this ship and I’m that anxious about what’s been and what’s to come.”

Brigid sighed. It seemed Maggie intended to get something off her chest and had chosen her as the sounding board. “What made you decide to go to Australia?” urged Brigid, hoping to encourage the girl to speak freely.

Brigid sighed again. One-word answers would not get them anywhere. She tried afresh with a more leading question. “What did he have to do with it? Didn’t you tell me your ma was sick?”

Maggie nodded and bit her lower lip, surreptitiously wiping her eye. “It’s a long story.”

“Aye, well, time is the one t’ing we have. How about you start at the beginning?”

Brigid eased herself into a more comfortable position, rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes again.

Maggie’s voice was soft as she began her tale. “It all started before Miss Jenkins passed. You remember, I said I worked for Miss Jenkins.”

“Well, Michael wrote and said I was to come home. Ma needed me, he said, to look after her. His wife – Eliza – was with child again and couldn’t cope with the added strain.” Maggie scoffed. “I knew it weren’t that. It was more like Ma wouldn’t let the woman near her. She didn’t like Eliza one little bit. She mighta been little, but that one had a fearsome temper. But, I couldn’t leave ... Miss Jenkins was old and frail and slipping from this life. I couldn’t just leave her.”

Alarmed, Brigid’s eyelids shot up when Maggie gripped her arm. Brigid turned to look at the girl whose eyes bored into hers.

“You must understand. I couldn’t leave her alone. She had been good to me and ... I’d ... I’d grown quite fond of her, and ... she ... she didn’t have anyone else.”

Maggie got up and paced the deck in front of Brigid, getting more agitated by the moment. But she sounded false, too agitated and too intense for Brigid’s liking. Loyalty was one thing, but this show of passion was something else.

“Then, about two months later, Miss Jenkins died. For several days, me and the other servants didn’t know what to do next, but then this man turns up. He says he’s the lawyer handling the estate for the family who wanted to sell up.”

Maggie abruptly stopped her pacing and sat next to Brigid. “I didn’t even know she had family. They never came to see her when she was alive.” Just as suddenly, she was on her feet again. “Anyway, I was dismissed along with the cook and the handyman, but they never gave us any references – because they didn’t know us, they said.”

She stopped pacing and stared out across the ocean, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the rails. Brigid waited, listening to the cries of the seabirds and watched as one swirled and dived with the current of air. Maggie’s thoughts seemed to drift away with the bird as her eyes followed its path high into the sky.

After a moment Brigid spoke. “That hardly sounds fair, I know, but it’s not unheard of. What happened next?”

“Oh ... when I finally got home Michael tells me Ma had passed.” Her fevered voice raced on. “I was so shocked. He never even bothered to tell me when it happened! I couldn’t believe he’d do such a thing, but it was that wife of his, I reckon. Even so, I’ll never forgive him. Never. No matter what.”

Brigid was disturbed by Maggie’s obvious bitterness and animosity towards her brother. Why was she here with Michael if she was that angry with him? As if hearing the unspoken question, Maggie barely paused for breath. “So there I was with no job, no references and my mother gone. I was already grieving, and then the blow of my mother’s death on top of everything ...”

By this time, her tears flowed steadily and she mopped at them ineffectually with a lacy handkerchief.

Brigid stood and put her arm around the girl’s shoulder to comfort her a little. “I’m right sorry to hear it, that I am.”

Maggie gave a weak smile. “I had no time to even think about it before Michael tells me I have to stay and help Eliza. They had the two girls, you see, but they’d lost another and were worried for the new one about to enter the world. So I stayed. We rubbed along well enough, but she ended up treating me more like her maid with all the work I had to do. She was nothing but lazy.”

Maggie stopped speaking, and took a few shuddering breaths. Brigid found a clean hanky and gave it to her. Maggie wiped her face and blew her nose, which seemed to restore her a little.

“Not long after she went into labour things started going wrong. I sent for the midwife, but she couldn’t come straight away; by the time she got there Eliza was bleeding badly and even the midwife couldn’t stop it. We lost them both that night. It was a little boy too. Michael was fair spooked and got oh so angry. He stormed out of the house and didn’t come back till the next day.”

Brigid’s eyes watered and her heart thumped at the sad story. She took back her initial reservations. The girl had certainly had a rough time. She needed a friend.

“That’s a rare painful story, Maggie.” A moment’s silence passed while Brigid thought of something more heartening to say. “But I remember, when things got bad at home, my dear old granny used to say ‘we must not dwell on what’s done, but look to what’s ahead. That way lies hope’. I used to take comfort from her words. Maybe you can too.”

“Hope. Yes, that’s it. I need hope. That’s why ...” Maggie’s eyes sparkled with possibility before she dropped her gaze. Dabbing at her nose, she furtively glanced at Brigid from beneath her eyelashes.

Her voice quivered as she took up her story again. “You see, things got more wretched after that. The day after the funeral Michael came home to say he’d booked passages to Australia.” She raised her distraught, tear-stained face towards Brigid, her voice stronger, aroused. “I didn’t know what to think, and he wouldn’t even talk to me about it. Not that I had any idea what I wanted to do, or where I could go. He was the only family I had left ... but then he just said he was the man in the family and I was to do as I was told.” She stopped to gulp air into her lungs. “So here I am – nursemaid to his two girls and him bossing me around all the while – with no idea where my life is going any more.”

Brigid sympathised. They’d both been forced into emigrating by circumstances beyond their control, but something made Brigid uneasy. Something Jamie told her, about how Maggie had stood up to her brother and how she’d told him not to pay Michael any mind. That he couldn’t boss her around. Her initial distrust of the girl resurfaced.

“That’s why I wanted to talk with you ... about your Jamie. He’s been a right help. He’s made me laugh and think better of myself. So I’m hoping you won’t mind if he and I get ... um, friendly.”

Cunning minx, thought Brigid, trying to get me on side. “Can’t say I know you well enough to say, but Jamie is his own man now. If it’s what he wants.”

Maggie grasped Brigid’s hands and came over all smiles. “Oh, thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me. I must go tell him.”

Before Brigid could speak, the girl walked briskly away with no sign of the distress she had shown only minutes earlier. Brigid stared after her.

Tuesday, 2 November 1886

We’ve been at sea for nearly two weeks, and I no longer feel as fearful as I once did. If I can survive that storm, I can survive anything. I can’t imagine anything worse happening, and that gives me hope.

My bruises are healing, but the more I think about what happened during the storm, the more I give thanks to Our Lord for saving me. I could easily have gone over the side. He must have been watching over me and given me the strength to hold on as long as I did. I wonder why He wasn’t watching over that young man who was killed when he struck his head. I can still see him lying there beside me. It haunts me that such a young life has been cut short. Why him and not me? The priest did his best and gave him a grand send off, but his young brother was that distraught. I felt very strange as they dropped the body, tied in a canvas bag, over the side. There’s something not quite right about it in my mind, but the captain said there was no other choice in this heat.

A bout of whooping cough broke out amongst some of the children. We were told two little ones died, but the women in the single quarters didn’t catch it. We said prayers for the wee souls. There are several clergy on board, and plenty of chance for people to clear their minds and hearts with prayer and confession.

The routine of ship life helps break up the long days, but the journey’s been something to endure not enjoy, despite some fun times.

Mondays have turned into washdays. Our fresh water is kept for drinking water, so we have to use seawater the sailors scoop up with buckets. But it makes the clothes very stiff and scratchy.

Tuesdays I spend making lace with the other women. We can get into a grand set-to on the worth of the various forms. My crocheted Clones lace and my needlepoint Kenmare lace are finer than most, although there are others like me who can do several different styles. I’ve watched women stitching the fine-drawn needle-made Limerick lace, while others do the appliqué work of Carrickmacross. One or two can do Mountmellick embroidery with its padded and raised flowers. We all hope to make money from our products amongst the wealthy when we reach Australia.

Wednesdays, the clergy run classes for the older children. I’ve started helping them to learn to read and write. Thursday is a sad day. I will write a letter home every week, knowing I can’t send it, but I’ll feel closer to Ma and the others when I do. I miss home so much: the gentle rain, the spongy mosses underfoot, the soft colours, even the smell of the peat fire, but mostly I miss Ma’s comforting presence.

Fridays are the oddest of days with little to do that’s different, and Saturdays are when we have games; in the evening we often have a singsong.

I don’t want to think about my worries with Jamie and Maggie today.

Nor about Mr Harrison-Browne who is becoming persistent.

3

Misgivings