Alley Urchin Page 2

  Emma loved her work here, and she took a great pride in all of her duties. Mr Thomas himself had remarked on more than one occasion, ‘You’re a born trader, Emma . . . you’ve got a real knack for it.’ Emma was grateful that she had been assigned to the trading post, for she did feel so much at home, serving the customers, making up the orders and keeping the books for Mr Thomas. It wasn’t so very different from being a clerk at her father’s cotton mill in Lancashire. Sometimes, when the sun had beaten down mercilessly all day and the stream of customers continued from early morning to closing, when Emma’s feet ached and her back felt as stiff and uncomfortable as the ladder she might have to run up and down a dozen times a day, Emma was glad to crawl back to the small room she and Nelly shared, at the back of the stables. It was a hard life, with each day as demanding as the one before. But Emma poured herself heart and soul into her work. Mr Thomas was a good employer and lately, he had been shifting a good deal of the more confidential duties on to Emma’s shoulders, so that, besides keeping the stock-book up to date, she was often responsible for the accounts ledger, and even for cashing up and securing the takings.

  One particular evening, Emma had overheard a raging row between Mr Thomas and his son Foster who, she knew, bitterly resented his father’s increasing dependency on her. Afterwards, she had respectfully pointed out to Mr Thomas, ‘I don’t want to be the cause of bad blood between you and your son.’ His immediate reply was to inform her of two things. Firstly, that he was obliged to spend as much time as possible with Mrs Thomas, who ‘is a delicate and refined creature who unfortunately does not enjoy good health’, and secondly, ‘if she had been able to bear me another son . . . or even a daughter of your calibre, I might be fortunate enough to lean on them. As it is, Emma . . . I have a worthless son who thinks it more natural to take rather than to give.’ Here, the weariness melted from his craggy features, and in its place was a great tenderness. ‘Then, I have you, Emma. And though the hand of fate was so cruel as to condemn you to this land a convict . . . I can only bless my own fate, for having deigned that you should be assigned to me.’ On this last word, he had turned away before Emma could see how deeply he had been affected by the vehement row with his son, and the added burden that Emma might decide to seek employment elsewhere, which, having earned her ticket-of-leave, she had every right to do. Some time later, her heart filled with compassion at this good man’s dilemma, Emma made it her business to explain to him that she would not desert him. He spoke not a word, but touched her gently on the shoulder and when he turned away, it was with a brighter, more contented light in his dark eyes.

  Thinking about it all, Emma later reflected on her assurance to him, which amounted to a promise. She thought also about her determination not to desert Nelly. As she dwelt on it more deeply, it became apparent that she was enveloped in a prison other than the one to which Her Majesty’s Government had despatched her. It was a prison within a prison, made by her own hand, and one which by its very nature would thwart her plans towards absolute freedom and her eventual return to England. This above all else burned fiercely in Emma’s heart. She knew with every breath in her body that her day would come. That wonderful exhilarating moment when she would embark on the ship which was destined to carry her over the oceans to the other side of the world. To England! To the ‘friends’ who had cheated and betrayed her. And, with God’s help, to Marlow Tanner . . . the man whose child she had borne and tragically lost. The man she had loved then, and whom she had loved every waking moment since. Oh yes, that day would surely come. Until then, she must count the hours and be frugal with every penny she earned. Above all, she must thank God for the love and devotion of a dear, dear friend, and count herself fortunate to have the confidence, loyalty and trust of another. She wouldn’t let them down. Not even in the face of a no-good like Foster Thomas.

  Some two hours later, Emma had completed the laborious task of taking account of all stock, both in the general store and in the huge outer barn, which doubled as a warehouse. Afterwards, when coming back into the small office at the rear of the store, she put the heavy ledger on to the bureau and commented to Mr Thomas, ‘That consignment of goods from England is overdue. Another twenty-four hours and we’ll likely be sold out of candles, boots and general harness. And another thing, Mr Thomas . . .’ Emma quickly finished her final entries into the ‘Urgent’ page of the ledger, before emerging through the office doorway and into the store. There she assured herself that Mr Thomas was attentive to what she was about to say. Then, taking off her dusty pinnie, she replaced it with a freshly laundered one from beneath the counter and continued, ‘I do wish you would think about what I said some time back . . . about taking up a lease on one of the more substantial warehouses on Cliff Street. That old barn isn’t secure, as well you know it, Mr Thomas, and there’s a lot of money tied up in the goods stored there.’

  ‘Oh, Emma!’ Mr Thomas raised his finger and thumb to tickle his mutton-chop whiskers absent-mindedly; it was a peculiar habit of his whenever he seemed slightly amused. ‘Do you think we’re about to be robbed?’ He chuckled aloud and, bending his back, he grasped the comers of a box of carbolic soaps with his two hands. He swung the box upwards, before bringing it down in a flurry of dust, on to a shelf he had just cleared. ‘Or mebbe you’ve got a notion that some rascal creeping about at night has the intention of putting a match to it, eh?’ He chuckled again. ‘You’re a little scaremonger, that’s what you are,’ he declared with a broad and confident smile.

  Emma was not amused. Nor would she be dissuaded from pointing out the errors of continuing to store valuable goods and equipment in such an insecure and vulnerable place. ‘There are “rascals” enough who might well put a match to anything, if it suited their purpose!’ she reminded him. ‘You know as well as I do that there are certain unsavoury characters in Fremantle who wouldn’t think twice about razing that barn to the ground, after helping themselves to a good deal first.’ When Emma saw that, at last, she had his serious attention, she went on quietly, ‘Oh, Mr Thomas . . . I’m not saying as they would, but you’ve seen the strangers about of late . . . diggers and bushmen . . . some new to the area, and some looking even rougher than the worst convicts sent to break stones on the road. Wouldn’t it make sense to house your more valuable goods at least, in a small secure lock-up on Cliff Street?’

  Pausing a moment longer in his work of setting out the blocks of soap in a fetching grey display, Mr Thomas played one lip over the other, biting first at the top, then at the bottom, while he quietly pondered Emma’s suggestion. Wasn’t she right after all, when the goods were hard come by, and cost a fortune to ship out from England? Then, once out on the high seas they were at the mercy of every wild storm and natural disaster that a ship might encounter on its long voyage. She was right! Emma was right. Some of the stuff . . . shovels, pickaxes, and good working tools were going out as fast as he could get them in. There had been guarded murmurs about little pockets of gold being found here and there, and that was no doubt the explanation. All the same, merchandise was an increasingly valuable commodity hereabouts, and a person could never be too careful.

  ‘You do see why I’m so concerned?’ asked Emma, her shrewd business instinct telling her exactly the thoughts going through her employer’s mind. ‘I can arrange it . . . if you’ll trust me to do the job right,’ she offered, knowing only too well that his mind was lately taken up with his wife’s unfortunate illness. Emma felt sorry for Mrs Thomas, who had never gone out of her way to make friends, was a very private person and, unlike Mr Thomas, kept both Emma and Nelly at a distance. The only person who enjoyed her confidence, other than Mr Thomas himself, was the blacksmith’s spinster daughter, Rita Hughes. Rita pampered her every whim and saw to her every need, for the small weekly payment of a few shillings. Emma suspected that Nelly was right in her observation that ‘Rita Hughes has one eye on Mrs Thomas . . . and the other firmly fixed on Foster Thomas’! Adding, to Emma’s disapproval, ‘Though if ye
r ask me, she’s well past it and gone sour.’ When Emma protested that that was a cruel thing to say, Nelly was quick to point out, ‘Huh! T’would be even more cruel if he took a fancy to her! What . . . a fella the likes o’ Foster Thomas would mek her life a bleedin’ misery.’ Emma had to agree.

  Emma was convinced that poor Mrs Thomas had withdrawn into herself on account of her husband and son forever being at loggerheads. At one time she had doted on her only son. Now he showed little interest in his mother, and she showed none in him. All the same, Emma suspected that her heart was quietly breaking.

  ‘I tell you what’ – Mr Thomas’s voice cut into Emma’s thoughts – ‘leave it with me, Emma. I’ll bear in mind what you’ve said.’ Beyond that he would not be drawn. Except to promise that the shop takings would not in future be kept upstairs in his room for up to a week at a time, as had become the habit of late. Emma did not agree with his belief that such large sums of money must always be to hand. ‘The captains of the pearl-luggers want always to be in and out in a hurry, and, if I’m to keep up with the competition to buy the best pearl-shell in, then I need to have cash to hand at any given minute.’ It worried Emma. But this was his trading post, not hers, and she mustn’t forget her place.

  Neither Emma nor Mr Thomas could have known how tragically Emma’s fears were about to be realised, before the hands of the clock had turned full circle!

  ‘Sat’day’s my favourite day!’ exclaimed Nelly, leaning over the ceramic rose-patterned bowl which was rested atop a cane-bottomed chair. ‘Once we’ve reported to the authorities we’ll have the rest o’ the day . . . and all tomorrer afore we’re back in the shafts.’ She gave a loud ‘Whoopee!’, punched her fist in the air for the sheer joy of it and, scooping her two hands deep into the bowl, she splashed the water on to her face, neck and ears. ‘I fancy a fella!’ she chuckled through a mouth full of water while peeping at Emma out of one cheeky brown eye.

  ‘Away with you!’ laughed Emma, who was patiently waiting for her turn with the bowl. ‘If you intend walking along the jetty with me, you’d best curb your urges for a “fella”. The way you’re going on, my girl, you’ll be marched to the top of the hill, where you’ll be clapped in irons and thrown in a prison cell, so every poor “fella” will be safe from your clutches.’ When, mockingly holding her wrists together and limping as though shackled, Nelly started towards her, at the same time making an eerie wailing sound, Emma grabbed up a towel, held it out before her and, amidst much laughter, launched herself at Nelly. In a minute the two of them were rolling about the floor helpless with laughter. Then a kick from Emma’s leg sent the cane-bottomed chair into such a violent swaying fit that the water in the bowl slopped first over one side, then the other. Convulsed by new fits of giggling, Nelly and Emma made to grab the chair, causing it to overbalance completely as the bowl shot forward to empty its entire contents, drenching them both. ‘Bleedin’ Nora!’ shouted Nelly, scrambling to her feet and proceeding to shake herself like a dog. ‘I’m bloody soaked!’

  Subdued by the initial shock, Emma got to her knees and looked up at Nelly, all the while coughing and spluttering, her long chestnut hair hanging limp and bedraggled over her shoulders. When she saw Nelly’s outrage and witnessed her frantically shaking her long skirt while at the same time swearing and cursing enough to frighten hardened criminals, Emma thought of her own ludicrous position and an old saying sprang to mind – ‘Oh dear God, the gift to gi’ us, to see ourselves as others see us.’ In a minute she had fallen back to the ground and was laughing out loud.

  ‘Yer silly cow!’ yelled Nelly, throwing the damp flannel at her. ‘I only wanted a cat-lick . . . not a bleedin’ bath!’ Whereupon she too began roaring with laughter. It was quite some time before they had regained their composure sufficiently to clean up and refill the bowl with fresh water for Emma’s wash. Unlike Nelly, Emma preferred to strip down to her camisoles for a thorough scrubbing and, having rolled about the floor, then been doused with dirty water, Emma took longer than usual at her daily ritual.

  Some time later the two of them emerged from the stables. Having discarded her grey work-frock with its over-pinnie, Emma looked delightful in a plain blue dress with a small bustle on the skirt and crisp white frills about the cuffs and neck. Her thick chestnut hair was well brushed and drawn into a shining, most fetching coil at the nape of her neck. Her face was bright and lovely and her strong grey eyes brimmed with the steadfast confidence that set her apart from others.

  Nelly, however, did not present such a striking picture. Oh, it was true that her thin brown hair had also been brushed with vigour. But, being under closer scrutiny of the prison authorities, and on more than one occasion having earned the punishment that dictated her locks be shorn, her hair did not enjoy the length that might cause it to lie smoothly against her head. Instead, it stood up and out in little wispy bunches which gave her the odd appearance of having just received a fright. Not being one for dainty things and ‘feminine fripperies’, Nelly was therefore proud of her heavy buttoned boots which came up to her calf. At one time, when Emma had pointed out that there was no need to wear such clumsy, uncomfortable things in the heat of the summer sun, Nelly had been adamant that she would wear nothing else. ‘I’d wear an even longer pair if I could get me hands on ’em,’ she retorted; ‘I ain’t having no bloody snakes nor spiders running up my legs!’ However, she did gratefully accept a brown calico dress which had, until recently, been Emma’s best one. It was of the very same style that Emma was wearing now, except the frills at the cuffs and neck were black instead of white. Also, Nelly was some inches taller than Emma, therefore the ankles of her boots were visible to the world, even though Emma had twice let the dress hem down for her. But, all in all, she was presentable and, as she put her arm through the crook of Nelly’s elbow, Emma cared not who might look down on her friend. The prospect never worried Nelly either!

  ‘Mind you’re not on the streets after the curfew bell!’ the duty officer warned, simultaneously noting down their intention to stroll along to Arthur’s Head. As they hurried away, he took his eyes from the book and fixed his suspicious gaze at Nelly’s retreating figure. ‘I wouldn’t mind betting a week’s grog that you’ll be in trouble before long, girlie . . . it’s about that time,’ he chuckled, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair to take a long choking draw from his clay pipe; he was soon engulfed in great billowing clouds of smoke.

  Following the old tramway route, Nelly and Emma sauntered along at a leisurely pace . . . down Henderson Street, along Essex Street and down towards the bay. ‘This is the time of day I love best,’ said Emma, shielding her eyes with the back of her hand as she looked upwards to where the seagulls soared above them. In spite of the fact that she was imprisoned in this vast, sparsely-inhabited island of Australia, Emma could not help but be deeply drawn towards its primitive beauty. There was an awesome savagery about it that struck at the heart and inspired the mind. It was a land of turquoise seas and vivid blue skies which merged together on the horizon, creating a sense of greatness and eternity. No mere human eye could ever hope fully to comprehend the vastness of it all, for in every direction the sky stretched, never ending and seeming to engulf those insignificant specks below, who both feared and marvelled at its majesty. Immediately inland from Fremantle to Perth, the landscape was sandy and gently undulating, relieved here and there by weird and wonderful trees, patches of shrub and rapidly growing signs of denser civilisation, with a number of the original timber and bark-roofed buildings being constantly replaced by the more permanent brick and stone buildings. There were also a number of splendid examples of architecture, such as the round-house and other buildings constructed by the convicts. The lunatic asylum, the road-traffic bridge and their own prison were such landmarks.

  There were creatures here such as Emma had never seen before – kangaroos, brilliantly coloured birds, and even camels brought in from the desert countries. Most were friendly, but there were those which were not,
such as certain snakes and spiders. Also a number of the dark-skinned natives whose resentment of the white man’s intrusion on their shores was not entirely appeased. And everywhere the nostrils were assailed by the fresh pungent smell of the sea, so marked as to be almost a taste on the tongue.

  Intent on appearing friendly towards a group of aborigines, two of whom were dressed in their traditional kangaroo-skin boukas – the other, a young male, wearing European trousers – Emma was startled by Nelly’s jubilant cry as her attention was drawn in another direction. ‘Look at that . . . the buggers are naked!’ Whereupon she gripped Emma by the arm and propelled her in the direction of Bathers Bay. ‘They’re naked, I tell yer . . . bare as the day they were born. We’ve got to get a closer look, gal!’ she told Emma in an excited voice, her brown eyes laughing, mischievously. ‘It’s been a while since I saw a fella in all his prime an’ glory!’