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Brisbane
December 1886
Philip Harrison-Browne walked into the George Street property as if he’d only stepped out for a few hours, instead of the months it had taken him to go to England and back.
“Hello, son. You look pleased with yourself. Had a good trip?” Harry Browne stood up from behind his 18th-century partners desk to greet his son.
Philip shook his father’s outstretched hand and promptly sank into the leather-upholstered captain’s chair on the visitors’ side. “Not bad, all things considered.” Aware that it would annoy his father, he crossed his feet up on the desk.
As expected, his father frowned. “Haven’t learnt any respect yet, I see.”
Ignoring him, Philip took a cigar from the box, taking time to sniff it before he notched a V into the end with the cutter. Extracting his gold match-safe from his pocket, he lit a match on the striker and held it to the cigar, sucking rapidly to get the tip burning. “Leave off, Pa.” After returning the case to his pocket, he rocked back in the chair and blew a couple of smoke rings towards his father. “Don’t you want to know what I’ve been up to?”
Coughing at the fumes, Harrison Browne II, as he preferred to be known, waved his hand to clear the air. “Not really. I know you achieved what I sent you for. I have the paperwork.” He shuffled some papers on the desk to one side, opened a ledger and picked up a nib pen. His hand hovered over the inkwell. “What’s her name this time?”
“Brigid ... but she’s not important – not yet, anyway.” He almost felt guilty at dismissing Brigid so airily, when in fact he had much bigger plans for her than he was prepared to admit.
Harry scratched away in the ledger while Philip smoked, contemplating both his surroundings and his companion. His father had certainly developed a taste for the finer things in life over the years. From the original paintings on the wall of his fashionably decorated office to the Turkish rug, Harry lived life well these days. But it hadn’t always been like that.
Neither man spoke, each waiting for the other, but after admiring the well-made drapes pulled back from the window, Philip chose to sound out his father now rather than later. “I do have a bit of an idea though, Pa.”
“Mm. I’m listening.” His father continued calculating figures, dipping the pen in and out of the ink.
Removing his booted feet from the desk, Philip sat forward, eager now to impress his father. “I think it’s time to expand. Get some more exotic fabrics and laces, even employ in-house workers.”
Within a few moments Harry paused, eyes raised, pen held in mid-air. He put the pen down and sat back in his large swivel chair, folded his hands across his stomach and listened. Philip avoided the details, but described his ideas in depth, creating sweeping pictures from his imagination as to what the store could look like.
“Interesting,” his father said, when Philip finished. “Let me think on it.” He picked up the pen again, but before he resumed with the figures, he fixed his gaze on his son. “How does this Brigid fit into the picture?”
Usually, Philip didn’t care whether or how other people were affected by his schemes, as long as they benefitted him more, but something about Brigid had got under his skin. It didn’t make sense, even to him. He dropped his head. “I’m not sure yet. I don’t want her knowing too much about it all, at this stage.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Up to you. We’ll talk some more later. Meantime, go and do something useful. You can help Alf catalogue the goods.”
Philip ran his fingers through his hair, flicking it back as was his habit whenever he felt uneasy or things weren’t going quite his way, like now. He hated not getting his way.
As he hastened down the stairs to talk with Alf, their warehouse manager, he thought about how far his father had come in the last forty years.
At the age of 17, life had handed plain Henry Brown – without the ‘e’ – a tough blow. Despite his innocence, he’d been transported for seven years, accused of stealing medicine for his sickly widowed mother.
Once in Sydney, Harry was put to work in the stores, thanks to the legacy of Commander Arthur Philips, the first Governor of New South Wales. His idea was to use prisoners who could read and write to help run the new colony, so they could learn to do something useful with their life. Harry became a model, if shrewd, prisoner, and a good dealer, well liked by most people he came in contact with. Four years later, in 1842, he received his ticket of leave.
The bell tinkled above the door as Philip entered the warehouse.
“G’day, young guv’ner,” said Alf. The pair shook hands. “I’ve received the first bolts of cloth from the ship already. What other sort of stock should I expect?”
Alf, himself a former convict, had been Harry’s right-hand man ever since Harry had first arrived in Brisbane, at the age of twenty-four, with his Certificate of Freedom in his hands and big plans.
“I managed to get my hands on a lovely array of textiles and designs that are the pinnacle of fashion.” Philip described some of the men’s suiting and the ladies fabrics, as well as the hats and accessories he had purchased while in England. He watched Alf as he laid a couple of rolls of the new fabric on the counter to inspect the quality.
Once free of the army’s constant surveillance, Harry found employment with Mr Wicklow, a wealthy general merchant who provided the ever-increasing numbers of free settlers arriving in Sydney with their much-needed household goods.
Harry had been a quick learner and mastered his trade well, thanks to his mentor. After rising to head of the drapery department, and wanting to learn the skills to run his own business, Harry even attended evening classes at the Sydney Mechanics’ School of Arts.
“Will we be needing new shelving or display cabinets, do you think, Alf? Especially for the new range of gloves.”
In those early years in Brisbane, Alf had the local know-how and practical skills that Harry lacked, but Harry had the ideas. Together, he and Alf set about establishing a mercantile business, just like the one Mr Wicklow had started in Sydney, only better – a place with class and style. To match that image, and wanting to put his past behind him now he was a free man, plain Henry Brown became known as Harrison Browne II. Taking his first small step to independence.
Alf rubbed his chin and thought about Philip’s question. “I think we can manage for now. I’ll move some of the existing ones around and see if that works first.”
He and Alf continued discussing the layout and the inventory, labelling, pricing, and stacking as they went.
Later in the afternoon, Philip rolled down his sleeves and retrieved his jacket, preparing to finish up for the day. “Before I go, Alf, I’d like your opinion. I’ve had an idea to branch out a bit. I’ve spoken to my father about it, but I’d be keen to know what you think.”
For the next few minutes, Alf listened to what Philip had to say about new departments and more staff, nodding now and then, just like his father had. “Well, maybe. Not sure it’s summat your pa would want to do. But let me think on it.”
He had hoped to pique Alf’s interest enough so that he would talk to Harry and promote the idea on his behalf, but Alf was too clever. He knew Harry’s ways too well to accept ‘the boy’s’ word. He’d just have to wait for the two of them to talk and decide whether to allow his idea to flourish or not.
Angry and frustrated, Philip went in search of a drink and some company. Normally after a long sea voyage, he would head to the obscurity of the Dunsmore Arms – a rather tired old pub about to be replaced, if the rumours were true – where he could get drunk with impunity. But today he was too keyed up for that and set out to find some old school friends, hoping they, at least, would back his ideas.
Hands in pockets, hat fashionably tilted to one side, he stood on the footpath and looked up and down George Street. He had two choices: turn right and go to the Transcontinental Hotel, situated just around the corner from where his old school once stood in Roma Street; or turn left and go to The Queensland Club. The club overlooked the splendid Botanical Gardens, and while both buildings were only two years old and both offered congenial surroundings, only one was suited to business.
He turned left.
The original Queensland Club had burnt to the ground back in 1870, and it had taken a long time to get another building under way, but the benefit was now his. The new club, opened in 1884 on the corner of Alice Street, was far superior, with accommodation and facilities second to none. Many a deal had been made while seated in the studded leather wing chairs, a fine whisky in one hand and a cigar in the other.
No sooner had he walked through the club doors than Hugh Paterson and Sam Barton greeted him.
“Oh, look who’s returned.” Hugh stretched his hand out in welcome. Like Philip, Hugh had been born in Brisbane; unlike Philip, Hugh’s parents were both free settlers.
While Philip had been accepted into the Brisbane Grammar School at the age of eight, when it opened in 1869, it had been a touch-and-go argument whether Hugh should go there or to boarding school in England. The friends were both glad Brisbane had won the day.
“You’re just in time. Join us for dinner, why don’t you?” Sam, another friend from school, shook hands, and the trio settled at a table.
In this new town, money and influence were bestowed upon those who would never have passed muster in the old country. Who you knew was as important as ever, but their background was no longer critical. The sons of ex-convicts and the sons of bankers could mingle side by side, based only on aspirations and acquisitions. What made the difference was their standing in the business world.
Philip flicked the napkin onto his lap. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to a good feed. I’m sick of salt beef, badly cooked fish – when they could catch any – and potatoes.”
He had succeeded quite well at school, mostly at business and mathematics, and he’d mastered enough of the arts, languages, literature and music, to give him a way with the ladies. His knowledge of the finer things in life proved a suitable fit to his business acumen, and his natural charm did the rest. Although, he had to admit, adopting Harrison Browne as his surname was proving a distinct advantage. He liked being Mr Philip Harrison-Browne instead of simply being Philip Browne, an unknown.
The waiter appeared with the wine and took Philip’s order. “I’ll have the crab entrée, the roast pigeon with oyster stuffing and fresh fruit salad with vanilla ice cream to finish. Thank you.”
While the others gave their orders, Philip poured the excellent red wine into three glasses.
“A toast: To friendship and prosperity.”
Hugh and Sam raised their glasses. “Hear, hear!”
Hugh’s family were bankers and always happy to talk investment. Harry was friendly with Hugh’s father after years of doing business together, but knew little of Sam’s family, except when his mother visited their store.
Sam’s grandfather had been an ex-convict, but generations later his family were now successful and wealthy graziers. Of the three, Sam was the only one who had boarded at school.
“You know what, old chap,” said Hugh, after Philip had regaled them with his latest stories of his trip to England, a journey he’d done most years since he’d turned twenty-one. “I’ve never been on a ship, nor has Sam here, and every now and then I wonder what it would be like, but you don’t do much to inspire a body into taking the risk.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, mate, but what do you want? Stories of great adventures, pirates and good times – or the truth?”
Hugh shrugged. “I’d like the chance for some adventure – and to see new places – instead of being at the bank every day with my father watching over my shoulder.”
Sam chuckled. “Don’t include me in your notions. I get enough excitement on the station, thanks. If the stock or the dogs don’t cause problems, the wildlife certainly will. Try sleeping out in the bush sometime if you want adventure. I come down here for a rest.”
The young men snorted at Sam’s stories of snakes, crocs in the river, dingoes and whatever other creepy-crawlies he could come up with to amuse them.
Hugh ordered another round of drinks from the passing waiter. “So tell me, what little filly took your fancy this time?”
Philip, feigning innocence, laughed. “Well, let’s see now. There was one ... or maybe two ...” He amused them with a racy story about the girls of London but avoided any mention of Brigid.
“Oh, come on. You must have seen someone who was more interesting.”
“No one worth talking about.” Philip flicked his hair back from his face and avoided the question.
After his time spent in England, he appreciated he lived a privileged life in Brisbane. The English treated him with a certain kind of respect when he visited the warehouses and factories because he had money to spend, but his was a lowly standing in that community. He would never be invited to socialise with any of the owners, being left to the whims of the managers. The girls he met were not the type to take home to his mother either. Was Brigid? Probably not.
Even while telling his story, matching Hugh’s raunchy jokes with smuttier ones of his own, Philip dreamed of his plans coming to fruition. Maybe Hugh and Sam could help him. You needed friends you could trust when it came to expansion such as he envisaged: someone like Alf.
“Sometimes I wish ...”
“Wish what, old man?” urged Hugh.
“Oh nothing. Just thinking about a conversation with my father.”
A thrill rippled through him every time he remembered the stories his father told him of his younger years. These days, there were times Philip would hardly give credit to those tales, if Alf hadn’t confirmed them. Harry had become strangely risk-averse.
In those early days, when Harry first arrived in Brisbane back in 1845, there had been little call for Sydney-type merchants. To get started he’d opened a pawnshop and sometimes found he needed to take on items that didn’t quite have the provenance to match, simply to get established.
“You mean stolen?” A youthful, wide-eyed Philip had asked. “Cor.”
Harry had been careful, of course. He had no intention of getting caught out by the law and ending up back in prison. The pawnshop had been a genuine business dealing fairly with those in need. He never double-dealt his own kind, but thanks to contacts in Sydney he began receiving items with a similar dicey provenance. He didn’t so much break the rules as bend them a little to his advantage.
The business began to change for the better when Mr Wicklow sent Harry a shipment of goods, damaged on their journey, which he considered unsuitable for sale in his Sydney store. Alf had repaired the furniture and household goods, while Harry cleaned the hats and gloves, and trimmed the best of the water-damaged fabrics and suiting, and sold them as ‘direct from Sydney’.
In his day, Harry could bluff his way around any problem. If there were stains on the manchester or drapery, he offered an extra length of haberdashery or a pair of gloves as recompense. He bought low and sold high. His reputation as a merchant grew until demand exceeded supply. Mr Wicklow put Harry in touch with suppliers in England. Word spread. Eventually the pawnshop was closed in favour of Harrison Browne Drapers, purveyors of high quality goods. It had taken two decades, but he’d achieved his goal.
Now, twenty years later, Philip was the one seeking expansion.
“Do you want me to tell your father you spend as much time with the tarts as you do on business?” Sam asked teasingly, dragging Philip back to the present. “Would he keep you home, then?”
“Don’t be daft. As long as I do the trade, he doesn’t care what I get up to.”
But Harry cared about his business. Queensland welcomed its first free settlers in 1842, a mere three years after the transportation of convicts ceased and the penal colony at Moreton Bay closed. Brisbane had been nowhere near as grand as Sydney in those early days and struggled to get established. It had been a rough, raw town, but the numbers kept growing and, more importantly, free settlers with their wives and families began arriving in ever-increasing numbers.
A few years later, many of those transported were considered free men, with a Certificate of Freedom to prove it. Even prisoners serving a life sentence received a ticket of leave. By 1850, the majority of the population lived their lives with impunity and opportunity. Harry was only too pleased to help kit out both ex-convicts and newcomers with the items they needed.
Philip had never told his friends any of these stories. These days his father was an honest, respectable citizen of high standing in the community and would never stoop to bend the rules again. He’d made his point, and his money.
Now Philip wanted his turn.
He wanted someone like Alf – Harry’s go-to for all problems – someone who would back him up through thick and thin. He listened as Hugh and Sam discussed investments, livestock prices and shares – topics he found boring.
“Enough of this business talk. There’s got to be something more exciting in life.”
“Such as?”
Philip shrugged. “I dunno. Anything.” Should he mention his plans? His idea was in want of roots, or maybe wings, he wasn’t sure which, but since neither his father nor Alf had given him the confidence to think it would work, his mind gnawed away at all the problems.
Even though Hugh prompted him, he changed the subject, again. “Don’t mind me. Just feeling a bit undone by the journey, I suppose. Let me tell you about a night I had.”
As the evening wore on, the three friends became more raucous as Philip’s make-believe stories of his conquests with the women grew. Some of the older members peered around the wings of their chairs at the noisy trio. The steward was even obliged to ask them to lower their voices.
“Shush now, Hugh,” warned Sam. “You’ll get us thrown out of here if you’re not careful – and I want to stay here, even if you don’t.”
“What’s your problem, Mr Goody Two-shoes?”
“You’re making too much noise, Hugh. Whisper when you speak.”
Hugh rolled his head to one side and pointed a wagging finger at Sam. “How would we manage without your guiding hand? Trip over your big foot, I suppose.”
“More likely your big mouth,” quipped Philip. “Now, are we going to stay here and get drunk or see if there are any pretty ladies about?”
Bets were taken as to which of them would find a suitable ‘lady’ friend first, but since they were already three-quarters cut, they chose to stay and finish the job.
Unexpectedly, Hugh leaned forward, teetered and put a hand on the table to steady himself. Blood-shot eyes glared at Philip. “What you are hiding?”
Philip was nowhere near as drunk as Hugh, but his friend’s acuity sharpened his wits. “I’m not hiding anything.”
Sam, the least affected of them, also looked at him with an amused expression. “Hiding might not be the right word. But there’s something you haven’t told us.”
Philip flipped his hair back, poured another drink and eyed Sam cautiously. Hugh was more like him, a bit of a gambler, who wanted more from life than their fathers could give them. Sam seemed content to live amongst the cattle and the dust. But Philip trusted Sam. He was steadier.
Maybe he should give them something to speculate on. “I’m thinking of branching out on my own.” He paused, wondering how much more to say. “Unfortunately, Pa has other ideas.”
Hugh snorted. “I’m not surprised. Your dad’s got you wrapped around his little finger.”
Philip bristled. Hugh had voiced exactly how he felt: controlled by his father, always having to ask for permission to do anything yet sent on interminable errands like a toady. He had no intention of admitting it – not even to those he considered friends. Some things were too private.
“Not really.” Philip tried for nonchalance, sipped his drink and lit a cigarette. “I’ve been biding my time, learning the ropes, but I think I’m ready to try my hand at something new.”
“About time, I say,” said Sam. “You always did have great ideas when we were at school.”
He was right. Even as a youngster Philip had an outstanding ability to see an opportunity, and an uncanny knack of appealing to people’s sense of greed. They got something from the arrangement, but he always kept the best part of the deal for himself.
“I could be interested in investing in what you’ve got planned,” Sam added.
Hiding his elation, Philip drew on his cigarette, carefully flicking the ash into the crystal ashtray. “Would you? I’d like that. Can we talk in more detail? When it’s convenient, of course.” He hoped the right mix of enquiry and intensity showed in his voice. He wouldn’t want to rush things, but then if he doubted Sam’s purpose or ability, he might lose him altogether – and he had to get someone to listen to him. “How long are you in town?”
“I’m here for two more nights. Let’s talk in the light of day.” Sam nodded towards Hugh, who had fallen asleep. “Right now I think we’d better get him up to bed. Are you staying here tonight?”
“Ah, no. I’m off home. I’ll need to speak with Mother in the morning. I’ve been away for months. She’s expecting me.” Family was important to Sam, so Philip was happy to pander to his whims if it would help his cause.
“Fair enough,” replied Sam, smiling. “Can’t disappoint our lovely mothers, now, can we? I’m in business meetings for my father most of the day. How about we meet here, say four o’clock? We can talk and have dinner to follow.”
“Excellent!”
Between them, they roused Hugh sufficiently to guide him up the grand staircase and into his room. Philip bade Sam a good evening and elected to walk the three miles home to the Browne house in Spring Hill.
He had a lot to think about.
* * *
Brisbane
December 1886
“Are you Brid-get O Bryn?” The man standing at the entrance to the Immigration Depot spoke slowly and deliberately.
Brigid had carefully dressed in her best outfit, which showed off her handmade lace on the collar and V-inset, a complete contrast to his shirtsleeves, baggy trousers and wide-brimmed hat. She spoke politely, emphasising the correct pronunciation. “I am Brigid O’Brien, that I am.”
He looked her up and down, finally fixing his eyes on hers. “I don’t care what yer name is. You’re to come wi’ me.”
Brigid had spent a miserable eighteen hours in the draughty, dilapidated old building waiting for word of the ship’s arrival to reach her new employer. To her mind, the dingy, dirty facilities were worse than on the ship, and the food rations were limited to day-old bread and chewy dried meat. Now it seemed this ill-tempered man was here to fetch her. All in all, the welcome had not turned out to be as reassuring as she had wanted, despite the sunshine.
Uncertain who the man was, and confused by his attire, she wasn’t going to be put off by his surly manner. In an attempt to quell her nervousness, she held her back ramrod straight and stared back at him. “And who might you be?” she demanded.
After surviving her worst fears and losing all she valued, she’d willed herself to begin this new life on her own terms, confident in her ability. How she’d come to that decision had been a painful battle. It warred against everything she’d been brought up with, but since she’d reached rock bottom already, there seemed only one way to go.
“Name’s Collins,” he drawled. “Lady Fiona’s fetch-and-carry man. You comin’ or not?”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr Collins. Can you help me with my trunk, please?”
He looked from her to the trunk sitting on the verandah and back again and made some sort of noise Brigid took to mean displeasure. When she made no move, he reached forward, pulled the trunk towards him and, turning around, hoisted it upon his back. He headed off down the steps towards the wagon without waiting for her.
Brigid picked up her carry bag, draped her coat over her arm and followed.
The dray was no different to those she’d seen in Ireland, with two large wheels in the middle and pulled by a horse as unkempt as its driver, but she judged it to be a little longer. The bench seat up front was hard and unsprung – as they invariably were.
As the dray made its way along busy Queen Street, her eyes followed a smart-looking gig as it passed by. One day she hoped she’d be able to travel in a vehicle like that, with a lovely padded seat and a canopy to shield her from the sun. Thinking about the way the sun beat down on her despite the early hour, she was glad she’d worn her large-brimmed hat, rather than her bonnet, after all.
“So what do you do, Mr Collins?” Brigid turned her head to and fro trying to take in all the surprisingly fine buildings with footpaths and verandahs lining both sides of the street. She hadn’t expected Brisbane to be so built up. In her mind, she was coming to a small town like Ennis, but these buildings were grander, newer, yet somehow different from anything she’d seen at home.
“What I’m told.” The driver clicked his tongue at the horse and steadily steered it around another wagon parked outside the general store.
Rather taken aback by his abrupt manner, Brigid tried a different approach. “Can ye tell me what I should know, now I’m here? There are a lot more buildings than I ever imagined. What else should I expect?”
The single-storey homes she saw were mostly built of wood, whereas the public buildings were stone or brick.
The man shook the reins over the back of his horse. “Heat and flies and hard work.”
Brigid was already aware of the flies – they’d buzzed around her constantly all through the previous day and last evening. As she waved her hand to keep them from settling, she decided they were just as annoying this morning. “Surely life must be better than that?” Brigid used her bright and cheery voice. “Isn’t that what we’re told. A land of opportunity?”
The horse plodded its way along the street, passed by multi-passenger coaches, four-person broughams, and two-seater phaetons, drawn by various numbers of horses that clip-clopped their way about their business. Dust rose from their hooves. People came and went from doorways, and energy filled the air.
“For some, maybe,” the driver grunted, settling back into silence.
Brigid began to feel sweat on her forehead and down her spine, thanks to the steamy air; even the gentle breeze was hot. The cool shade beneath the curved iron roofs of the verandahs, which provided protection from the sun on most of the houses, beckoned her. She imagined sitting somewhere like that doing her lacework.
Soon they passed down an avenue of tall trees with peeling bark. Their sparse leaves fluttered in the air, but they provided little shade and even less respite from the heat. In the distance, she could see palm trees like those they’d seen in Port Said. Everywhere she looked, the place seemed strange in many ways, yet familiar at the same time.
A few turns later and up a steep hill, Mr Collins pulled the horse to a stop under one of the large trees lining the street. “This is it, miss.” He climbed down from the wagon, lifted her trunk from the back and put it on the ground by the picket gate leading to the front garden. By then Brigid was standing on the footpath wondering what would happen next.
“Whose place is this?” She gazed up at the large two-storey, three-bay house with an upstairs balcony adorned with ornate iron lacework and balustrade.
“Dunno the lady meself. ’Twas told her name was Browne.”
He climbed back onto the wagon and picked up the reins.
“What do I do?” she called out, when she saw he intended leaving her on the side of the road.
“How would I know? Try knocking on the door.” He flapped the reins over the horse’s back. “Get along, now,” he clucked and the animal plodded off down the street.
A short flight of steps led to the front door recessed under the verandah that ran along the front and side of the house. Brigid left her trunk where Collins had dropped it, hoping she’d find someone who could help her carry it, and walked up the path. Standing a few feet from the front door she considered using the rear entrance, but not seeing any way of getting round the back she walked up the steps and gave the knocker a sharp rat-a-tat.
A few moments later, a matronly woman dressed in black opened the door. Her eyes were small but sharp. She inspected Brigid from head to foot in a second.
“I’m Bri ...” Her voice caught in the back of her throat, and she put her gloved fist up to her mouth while she cleared it. “Pardon me,” she said, remembering the training the nuns had given her about how to speak and introduce herself. “I’m Brigid O’Brien. I believe Mrs Browne is expecting me.”
The unexpected transformation that came over the woman when she smiled put Brigid at ease. “Come in, girl. Come in. It’s good to see you arrived safe and sound. I’m Mavis Johnson. Now, where are your things?”
Brigid stepped across the threshold into the hallway that smelt of beeswax and fresh-cut flowers. Adjusting her eyes to the darkened space, she placed her carry bag on the floor and rolled her coat up on top of it. A hallstand, two upright chairs and a narrow table with a vase of assorted flowers and greenery filled the foyer next to the staircase leading to the upper floor.
“I’ll get my Jack to bring your trunk in, but right now Mrs Browne is looking forward to meeting you.” Mavis led the way down a wide, wood-lined passageway and into the kitchen at the back. A tall, upright woman wearing a full apron, and the sleeves of her cotton blouse rolled up, was kneading dough.
While the cooler air at the front of the house had been refreshing, the heat in the kitchen nearly threw Brigid off balance, even with the door and window thrown wide open. The woman wiped her forehead with her arm and, watching Brigid from the corner of her eye, carried on kneading.
“So you’re Brigid. I hope your journey wasn’t too arduous. I know they can be, and they are all terribly tedious.” She paused to thump the dough on the table a couple of times, generously sprinkled more flour around, picked up the rolling pin and began to flatten the dough. “Mavis will show you to your room. Get yourself changed – there’s a uniform for you – and come back here when you’re ready. You’ve a lot to learn about life in Australia. It’s greatly different from home.” She straightened up once the circle of pastry was large enough to fit the pie dish Brigid had spied on the table among piles of fruits and vegetables. “That’s beautiful lace on your jacket. Did you make it?”
Brigid stood mutely watching and listening, taking in the details of the compact yet highly functional kitchen. The large central table served as the workspace, and some delicious aromas she couldn’t quite place were coming from something in the modern oven.
“Lost your tongue, missy?” nudged Mavis.
“Ah, no. Sorry, ma’am,” said Brigid blinking rapidly. “I was distracted, but aye, I made the lace ... Thank ye for asking. Um, pardon me if I speak out of turn, but ... are you Mrs Browne?” Brigid couldn’t understand the order of the place. Mavis was hovering behind her doing nothing, while the lady of the house seemed to be doing all the work.
Mavis and Beatrice Browne chuckled at Brigid’s confusion. “Were you expecting some sort of lady? If you were, you’ll be mighty disappointed. This isn’t like the home country, lass. We all started out in this mess together, and we’ll work it out as we go along. I like to make my own pastry, that’s all. Mavis is the cook here, but I like cooking when I’m in the mood, and have time. Jack looks after the garden, that’s Mr Johnson, but there’s still plenty to do. Now run along and put something lighter on before you melt away.”
“Don’t you fret none,” Mavis encouraged as they trudged up the wooden staircase at the back of the house. “Mrs B is a generous and easy-going employer. Back home she’d not been one of the upper class and she isn’t here either, but the master, he likes her to have help so she has free time to do ladylike things around town. Helps the business, he says. There’s only the two of them most of the time, until the young master comes home.” She stopped at the far end of the narrow corridor. “This one’s yours.”
Brigid gasped as Mavis opened the door to her room. The attic rooms at the back of the house were small, painted white. With a heavy white cotton coverlet on the single wire-framed bed, the room shimmered with light. The other furnishings were sparse – a washstand with a pitcher and ewer set, and a chamber pot, a dresser and a chair – and the white muslin curtains framing the sash window overlooking the rear garden utterly thrilled Brigid. “I’ve never been in such a room like this,” she admitted. “It’s beautiful.”
Mavis agreed. “You’re a lucky girl. There’s your outfit, hanging behind the door. Don’t be long.”
As soon as Mavis had closed the door behind her, Brigid spun around with her arms extended and her skirt swinging, thinking she would burst with joy.
The uniform she was expected to wear was far too big. She had to roll the waistband of the light blue skirt so she wouldn’t trip over the hem, and the matching long-sleeved, collared blouse would need a lot more pin-tucking to make it fit well. Brigid tied the strings of the full white apron tightly around the front, which at least helped pull in the excess fabric. After she’d hung up her best dress and folded the rest of her clothes neatly into the drawers of the dresser, she made her way downstairs again.
“Is that a bit cooler?” Mrs Browne greeted her. “I like to keep up with the fashions, but we have to be practical. It’s too hot for the fabrics and styles we knew back home. Oh dear, it’s a bit big, isn’t it. But my, that colour suits you. Your eyes are so blue now.”
Brigid flushed at the compliment. “I can take it in to fit.”
“Clever girl. Mavis will find you a needle and thread.” Mrs Browne finished her pastry and went to wash her hands under the pump over the sink in the scullery. “Mavis, you can fill the pie now. And we’ll have a lettuce salad and some baked tomatoes to go with it, and don’t forget Mr Browne’s potatoes.”
“Very good, Mrs B. And how about some tapioca for pudding?”
“Excellent. Thank you, Mavis. Now Brigid, follow me.”
The rest of the morning disappeared in a whirl of instructions as Mrs Browne marched her through the downstairs – the parlour, the dining room, the conservatory and then the garden. She was introduced to the herb and vegetable patch, the fruit trees and on past the flowerbeds and shade trees to the stables at the back. Brigid could hardly take all of it in – there was so much to look at.
“What shall I call you, ma’am?” Brigid scurried along behind her long-striding employer, who continued rattling off descriptions and explanations. “It’s just I’ve never heard people use first names before, ’cept they be family or the same class.”
“I can’t stand ceremony, but my husband insists that we maintain some sort of standards. You’d better call me Mrs Browne. Although Mrs Johnson does shorten it to Mrs B when we’re working together. You can too – if there’s just us, mind. Don’t let Mr Browne hear you.”
They re-entered the house, past the scullery and straight into the kitchen.
“Right, Mavis, I’m sure you have tasks for the girl while you get luncheon ready. Mr Browne will not be joining me today, so I’ll eat in the conservatory.”
Beatrice Browne strode off along the corridor. At the same time, footsteps could be heard bounding down the stairs. Shortly after, voices travelled along the hallway to where they worked, but they couldn’t discern any words.
“Sounds like the young master is home,” said Mavis. “I didn’t hear him come in last night. Must have been real late, but his mama will be pleased to see him. She has a real soft spot for him. Pop along and ask if he is wanting luncheon. My hands are wet.” Mavis carried on chopping the vegetables while Brigid hovered in the doorway looking hesitant. “Go on, girl. Get a move on.”
Brigid tiptoed along the hallway on edge about interrupting their conversation. The voices had moved into the parlour, and she tentatively knocked on the open door. To her left, a man stood with his back to her, his arm resting on the mantelpiece. Mrs Browne sat facing her in the wing chair on the other side of the fireplace.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Pardon me, ma’am. Mrs Johnson wants to know if the gentleman is staying for luncheon,” she muttered in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Come closer, girl, and speak up.”
Brigid took two steps into the room, bobbed an awkward curtsy and, keeping her eyes glued to the pattern on the rug, repeated the question. “Ah, yes. Philip, this is our new maid. Do be nice to her. Now, are you staying for luncheon?”
At the mention of his name, Brigid’s heart began to thump so loudly she could hear the echo in her ears. She raised her head slightly, her mouth partly open. Surely, it couldn’t be the same Philip. Life wouldn’t be that cruel.
He turned, tugged his jacket into place and swept a lock of hair back from his face, the way she’d seen him do so many times. She stared at that heartbreakingly familiar face, and her dreams shattered in the seconds it took for him to recognise her. The fleeting expression was wiped from his face in an instant.
Time seemed to stand still between them until he tipped an almost imperceptible nod in her direction.
He turned to his mother. “Thank you. Yes, Mama, I shall stay.”
“Very well.” Looking back towards Brigid, who had dropped her gaze once more, Mrs Browne sent a message back to the kitchen.
“Please tell Mrs Johnson to set the table for two. We shall eat in the dining room after all.”
Brigid bobbed again and fled.
––––––––
She spent the rest of the day in a state of anxiety. Fortunately, Mavis was too busy to notice her helper was distracted. Brigid managed to complete all the tasks asked of her without dropping or burning anything and was thankful she’d not been told to serve at luncheon. The chore of doing the dishes in the scullery gave her plenty of time to think.
She couldn’t just leave – she had nowhere to go and knew no one, let alone had any money – but how could she stay in the same house as Philip, now he’d discovered her here as a maid? She crossed herself several times in the course of the afternoon when the notion she might have to wait on him, as well as his mother and father, entered her mind. Holy Mother of God! What should she do?
Days passed and she began to relax a little. She was yet to meet the distinguished Mr Browne and she hadn’t seen Philip again either. Her chores were mundane and kept her in the back reaches of the house. Later in the week, when she was putting the scraps out and collecting fresh vegetables from the garden, she heard her name being called.
“Brigid.”
She looked around trying to work out where the whispered call came from but couldn’t see anything.
“Brigid.” Philip’s voice reached her. “I’m behind the hedge. No, don’t look. Just carry on what you’re doing and listen. I don’t want my mother to know about you yet.”
“Why are you talking to me at all? Go away and leave me be.” Her hands were shaking; she wasn’t sure whether anger or despair was the cause of her distress – whichever, the situation was ridiculous.
“I was so surprised to see you, I didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry I pretended I didn’t know you.”
She finished emptying the scrap tin and started to pick some peas and beans, placing them in the open basket. “You don’t need to pretend no more. You’re the young master and that’s all there is to it.” Moving to another garden bed, she knelt to dig up a few onions and two large beetroot.
“But don’t you want to do all those things we talked about?”
Briefly, she let herself imagine the impossible. “Aye, I do.” Her voice was barely audible. She shook her head, stood up and dusted off the front of her apron. “But it just can’t be, so don’t think on it no more.”
Picking up the now heavily laden basket, she added two ripe tomatoes to the stack and started to walk towards the house.
“Don’t you believe it. I still have plans for you, Miss Brigid.” Philip’s voice sounded full of promise, just as it had on the ship. But now the situation was hopeless.
Tempted to turn around to look at him, she saw Mrs Browne watching her from the conservatory window. She blanched but kept walking, increasing her stride to get into the house and out of sight as fast as possible.