15

It was summer but the weather in London was cold and the sky was storm grey. More dark cloud rose from tall chimneys stacked throughout the city like remnant branchless trunks from a long-gone forest. Around the port were children thinner than Hilda had ever seen, sleeping in corners with paper beneath them to protect them from the damp and a younger sibling across their laps for warmth. Bonny, in his beret, his woollen black jacket buttoned high at his neck, said it was not as he had imagined. It was not the place for a queen. He asked, ‘Where is she? How can she let her people be cold and hungry?’

A carriage awaited them at the docks, arranged by the director of the Crystal Palace, a man dressed in a tweed sack coat, a tie of pale grey, and black trousers. Was everything in this city grey, Hilda wondered? Surely not the Crystal Palace. Advance payment for performances at the world-renowned venue had provided the remaining funds necessary to finance the crossing.

‘So, you bring me your Caliban?’ the director said, looking over a silver-framed monocle.

Louis shook his head. ‘I am afraid I don’t follow you, sir,’ he said. ‘My English … Well, there are gaps in my knowledge.’

‘Yes, of course, my apologies. I am playing with you. Quoting you Shakespeare. The Tempest. I am sure the man you have brought me is nothing like Shakespeare’s freak.’

The Englishman turned his attention to Bonny, who was watching a boy beg for a piece of bread from a well-dressed man.

‘No doubt the Aborigine has picked up some of the finer points of civilisation by now,’ the director said. ‘How long have you been on the continent?’

‘Thirteen months,’ Louis answered. ‘Germany mostly. And France. After this we will go to Basel, Switzerland, then back to France, to Lyon.’ Hilda shifted her footing. Again, he had not told her the details. Why Basel? Why Lyon? She had thought London was the end of the touring and did not dare catch Bonny’s eye.

‘After that, Bonny will be desirous of returning home,’ Louis added, looking at Hilda. ‘If my daughter appears surprised it is because I am yet to tell her of the final stages of our tour.’ He rested his hand on her forearm. ‘It was at Herr Hagenbeck’s request, Hilda.’

He took from his pocket the papers from Professor Virchow and handed them to the director. ‘But let me assure you, Bonny is still authentic.’

‘Well, he looks the part to me,’ the director said, passing back the papers and shaking his head to indicate they were unnecessary. ‘It is a shame it is just him. The girl has remained in France, you say?’

‘Yes.’ Louis folded the paperwork and returned it to his waistcoat pocket as they stepped into the carriage. ‘She has found herself a husband.’

The Englishman raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah, the French … I should not be surprised.’

As they went to board the carriage, the director was tapped on the shoulder by a young, full-figured woman with red lipstick. She introduced herself enthusiastically, her hand on the older man’s arm. The Crystal Palace director adjusted his tie and smoothed his moustache. With a cursory smile he waved Hilda, Louis and Bonny into the carriage, and proceeded to converse with the woman for some time on the pier.

‘When will I see the Queen?’ Bonny asked Louis in English.

Hilda looked to her father, uncertain how much of the previous conversation Bonny had heard, distracted as he was by the bleak new surroundings.

‘The director has been generous,’ Louis whispered in German. ‘We just need to perform for him first, as a courtesy. It will not take long.’

‘Papa … make sure you extend courtesy to those closest to you, as well as those who are distant,’ Hilda said in the same language.

‘Do not insult me with such comments, Hilda.’ But Hilda could see that her father saw the truth in her words. He added, ‘We are in London, are we not? At Bonny’s request!’

Louis craned back his neck to marvel at the Crystal Palace’s soaring curved roof, a looming structure of plate glass and cast iron that rose one hundred feet above their heads. The unlit building shone and Hilda wondered if her father, too, was thinking of a giant nautilus shell. She wished Dorondera were here to see it.

‘The venue is most impressive,’ Louis said.

The director looked about him proudly. ‘It is not quite as impressive as the original, built for the Great Exhibition, but it serves its purpose well. Indeed, there are plans to house another colonial exhibition in a few years. A great Indian pavilion amongst others. That throne there will feature.’ Hilda looked at the bejewelled carved-ivory throne the man was pointing to. ‘The Queen herself was given it by the colony and says it is very comfortable.’ The director winked. ‘She has lent it to us for display.’

‘It is the Queen’s chair?’ Bonny asked.

‘Yes,’ the director said, amused. He turned to Hilda’s father. ‘And you will be showing him only here? Not at the small halls – the penny gaffs? I ask because it will change the way he is seen if he is shown in those establishments alongside the Elephant Man and the like. The Crystal Palace is no freak show. We have a reputation …’

‘No, just here,’ Louis said.

A man in a long black coat approached, bowed a hello and tipped his hat. He extended his hand to Louis, then shook Bonny’s and Hilda’s hands in turn.

‘Ah, is there no escape from the Quakers?’ The director’s tone was teasing. He turned to Louis. ‘This is Dr Edwards, quite well known in certain well-meaning circles.’

The doctor began speaking directly to Bonny. ‘I would like to invite you to my home for a meal.’ He paused. ‘I belong to the Aborigines’ Protection Society, a group interested in the welfare of people such as you. Purely philanthropic work. To help you … Anyway, if you would like to join me for a meal, I can tell you more. There will be some other guests from our organisation and others to which I am affiliated. What do you say?’

Bonny turned to Hilda, but before she could translate the garbled introduction, her father was answering.

‘I, we, would be delighted,’ he said. ‘Is there likely to be a journalist amongst your group?’

Hilda tried to breathe through the tightness in her chest that was becoming a familiar and involuntary reaction to her father’s misguided comments.

‘A journalist?’ the Quaker asked.

‘I could perhaps arrange one …’ Louis offered.

‘No, sir, thank you, but we will make our own records,’ the Quaker said.

‘Take our own impressions. I don’t intend for this to become an occasion for the newspapers, which so often misrepresent our intentions. So often the people themselves, too.’

‘You’re thinking of the articles of –’

‘There have been many unquestioning and heavily opinionated portrayals,’ Dr Edwards interrupted, shaking his head. ‘Dickens himself was a prime offender. His account of the Zulus for one: “I have not the least belief in the Noble Savage … I call him a savage, and I call a savage a something highly desirable to be civilised off the face of the earth.”’ The man rubbed his chin and appeared to be trying to gather himself. ‘He was not a well-educated man. He based his opinions on pamphlets and the sensational accounts of travellers.’ The Quaker looked at the stack of brochures in the showman’s hand. ‘I take nothing away from his work as it relates to the urban poor, but, it has to be said, he did little for race relations.’

‘My mother would have agreed with you,’ Hilda said, turning to her father, but he was looking at the floor.

‘Well, as Dickens has been dead for over a decade,’ the director said with a laugh and a hand on the doctor’s shoulder, ‘there is no chance of him attending.’

Hilda turned to speak with Bonny but couldn’t see him.

‘Papa?’

‘He’s there,’ the Quaker said, pointing to the throne where Bonny was sitting.

15 June 1883

I am still trying to make sense of what just occurred, for a great deal has suddenly and devastatingly changed – and not just for Bonny but between Papa and me. I had once thought Papa may wish to read this journal one day, but I am no longer writing this with him in mind.

I will start from the beginning of the evening, the moment we entered Dr Edwards’ modest but fine house, his face shining at us kindly from the door, his hands folded warmly in welcome over my own. I saw Bonny’s face light up at the reception, even more so when Dr Edwards led us to a dining table that was immaculately dressed in white linen and set with silverware and china plates. Two carved wooden candle holders featuring climbing vines adorned either end of the table, and Dr Edwards explained that they were a gift from an African man who had fashioned them during his stay in London.

Dr Edwards, we learned, is unmarried, and I had to quickly hide my disappointment that there was not a daughter to meet, someone my own age with views that I might have shared. A knock at the door saw the Quaker retreat and I had a moment alone with Papa and Bonny. It was heartening to see Bonny smiling.

‘He is a kind man,’ I said of Dr Edwards without needing to. Bonny is more perceptive than one hundred of my fathers it shames me to admit.

When Dr Edwards returned, he brought with him two other men, fellow Quakers we were told, equally pleasant in their disposition and courteous to Bonny. We were invited to be seated and a young servant brought us bread and soup. Dr Edwards then took from his jacket pocket a small box, which he opened and handed across the table to Bonny, who regarded the contents carefully. It was a bracelet bearing a crest. I will attempt to faithfully relate here the conversation that unfolded.

‘It is for your arm,’ Dr Edwards said, demonstrating by encircling his own forearm with the fingers of his opposing hand. Bonny pointed out the emblem to me, the two overlaid stars, red on black, and I was proud of his attentions.

‘It is the Quaker sign,’ Dr Edwards explained, and the two men he had invited bobbed their heads in agreement. ‘A small gift to say thank you for coming to my home.’

Bonny dipped his head in appreciation and fitted the bracelet around his wrist. He then told Dr Edwards in English that what he wanted most, however, was to see the Queen. He said he would be seeing her very soon and that that was why he had travelled so far. He explained that his people were dying and that the ‘white strangers’ wanted the Badtjala to leave K’gari, but that he hoped the Queen would use her power to make it safe for them to stay.

Dr Edwards looked at Papa, his brow knitting into a deep frown. The other Quakers at the table conversed with shakes of their heads. Dr Edwards straightened his serviette before raising his face again to look at Papa.

‘You didn’t therefore think to come to England at a time when Her Majesty was in the country?’

I felt my stomach drop at those words and a chill moved through me.

‘She is away for some time,’ the man continued.

I could not bring myself to look at Bonny.

‘She isn’t here?’ my father asked.

Dr Edwards appeared vexed. ‘No, sir. She has just today arrived in Germany, with her daughter. She is there for two months I believe, perhaps longer.’ He spoke as if this were common knowledge and with an irritation I had not expected he had within him. ‘It has been in all the papers.’

I again feel myself reddening for having missed this apparently well-known fact. I had trusted Papa to ensure that this, of all his plans, would be realised. But no. I must have cupped my hands over my nose and mouth there in the Quaker’s home, for Papa put his hand on my forearms and attempted to draw them down, as if I were embarrassing him. I wanted to scream but instead told him that we had to wait here, in England, until the Queen returned. I have failed Bonny miserably and the truth of that is like a knife in my stomach. I should have insisted on purchasing an English newspaper before leaving France instead of relying on Papa’s accounts. I had let myself be distracted by my feelings for Bonny, my constant brain chatter of whether he still cares for me, if he ever truly did. In consequence, I have unwittingly forsaken his greatest wish.

‘The Queen is not here?’ Bonny asked in English, crestfallen.

Dr Edwards looked at him directly, and I sensed a genuine sadness in the man. ‘We will do what we can as a society to further your cause, but you will need to wait some time if you want to personally make your case to the Queen. Two months, I understand, if the journalists are to be believed. Perhaps more. Or go to Germany.’

‘Unfortunately, we are expected in Basel, then Lyon,’ my father said. He looked at Bonny. ‘I am sorry. I didn’t know the Queen was travelling. We will come back. I promise.’

How could Papa say any of this? I watched as Bonny grew despondent.

Afterwards, when I asked Papa, he insisted that he had no knowledge of the Queen’s travel plans, but I struggle to believe this. Is he lying to me and to Bonny?

Now, as I sit up in bed, on the opposite side of the room to my father, the moon is lighting up his sleeping face as it used to do on K’gari. I am plagued with questions. Had he not purchased a newspaper that day in Paris because he did not want me to learn the Queen would be abroad? Had the income-generating opportunity to perform Bonny at the Crystal Palace – which, from the conversations I have overheard, seems a more lucrative arrangement than even Papa expected – meant that he had not wanted to change his plans? Is he driven so simply by greed? Or did he truly not know? I had assumed Papa had had some correspondence with the Royal Palace regarding our visit. Have I believed my father competent when he is not? Perhaps I do not know my father at all.

I can see into Bonny’s side room where the light is still on. I want to go to him but, just as I cannot look into my father’s eyes, it seems Bonny can no longer look into mine. I would not blame him if he did not forgive me for this.