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| ISBN-13: | 9780702258183 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | University of Queensland Press |
| Publication date: | 11/23/2015 |
| Sold by: | INDEPENDENT PUB GROUP - EPUB - EBKS |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 400 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
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Women on the Rocks
A Tale of Two Convicts
By Kristin Williamson
University of Queensland Press
Copyright © 2003 Kristin WilliamsonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7022-5818-3
CHAPTER 1
My Independent Life Begins
Sevenoaks, Kent, April, 1819
Spring has come early this year. Crocuses and daffodils are blooming in the garden all around our cottage. I am awake early because today is my birthday and I have come to a decision. I unlatch the casement, lean out of the attic window and sniff the cool air. I can hear church bells in the village below. Today is the last day of my childhood: I am fourteen, old enough to leave all this behind me.
Soon I will put on my cloak and bonnet, walk down the muddy road to the village and up the other side of the hill to Elmtree House and knock on the brass door knob at the servants' entrance. The housekeeper, Mrs Frayne, who is round and red-cheeked, will let me in with a smile and take me into the kitchen which smells of newly baked bread and apples. Perhaps she will offer me a mug of cider after my long walk. And then I will tell her the good news ...
'Mary! Stop him hurting me! My arm. Awgh, my arm!'
I pull my head back inside quickly. 'Charley, let her go!'
My young brother is twisting my sister's arm up behind her back and she is squirming to get free. My other sister is hitting him over the head with her pillow. They are still in their nightdresses as it is Sunday and there is no school. The beds we share are all rumpled where the children have been jumping on them, fighting with pillows. Feathers are floating like moonbeams in a shaft of pale light from the open window. I should be cross with them because it is I who will have to mend the pillows and remake the beds but I cannot be cross today because of my secret. Church will not begin until eleven and by then I'll be back from Elmtree House and no one will be any the wiser.
Charley loosens his grip and Sarah springs away from him, hurling herself back into bed with Meg. The twins giggle and snuggle down under the covers. Charley looks at me as if we are the only wise ones. I do not blame him for teasing Sarah. She is a fretful, whining child because she is often ill and must get what she wants and he is the only boy in a family of four women, which must be tiresome for him.
'While Mother's still asleep, let's collect the eggs and make pancakes to surprise her,' I say to Charley.
I wrap myself in an old shawl, take his hand and we creep downstairs, trying not to let them creak. Pancakes are a treat, only served on Sundays or birthdays. The hens have laid only three eggs but there is plenty of lard, milk and flour and we can use the last of the honey to sweeten them. We set about our business quietly, Charley giving me little sidelong smiles for he is pleased to be my assistant. He is growing tall suddenly and his breeches are too short although they've been let down three times in six months.
When I am at Elmtree House I shall be able to use the money I earn for new breeches for him, boots for the twins, a warm cloak for Mother and thatch for the cottage roof. There are so many things we need. I know Mother will be disappointed that I am not taking the dressmaking apprenticeship she has tried so hard to arrange for me, but there is almost no money in a three-year apprenticeship and I do not think we can manage for so long without it.
When the pancakes are ready I dash outside to pick one perfect daffodil to lay beside Mother's platter. She likes beautiful things. I pour fresh goat's milk into her favourite china teacup with faded violets on the rim, and tell Charley to take the Sunday breakfast in to her. The rest of the pancakes can be kept in the pan by the stove until the twins get up. I tell him I am going for a walk to 'welcome the Spring' before church and he looks at me again as if he knows I have a better plan, but nods and smiles to himself and says nothing. He is a smart boy for ten — I wish he could stay at school at least another year.
I have not been to school but Mother has taught me to read and write as well as sew buttonholes and mend stockings. I have no training for the position I wish to apply for at Elmtree House but Mrs Frayne knew my father before he was taken from us and she has told me that once I reach the age of fourteen, if I want to earn wages, I have only to come to the servants' entrance and knock. I have been waiting almost a year for this day.
When I knock it is not Mrs Frayne who opens the door and I draw back in fright. It is a thin woman with a nose like a beak, small pink eyes and a mouth that seems to have just tasted vinegar. Her voice is a low rasp so that I have to learn forward to catch what she is saying: 'No hawkers here. Away with you!'
I shake my head. I look down at the bunch of crocuses I have brought for Mrs Frayne. 'I am not selling flowers.'
'Then what do you want?' she snaps.
'If you please, Ma'am, I have come to call on Mrs Frayne.'
'She hasn't been housekeeper here for six months. Why do you want her? Are you a relative?'
'No, Ma'am. She said that if I were ever in need of a position as housemaid, I might call on her. I am fourteen years old today, which Mrs Frayne told me was the right age to begin my training.'
The thin woman stares at me as if I were a nasty insect. I think she is going to slam the door in my face. I thrust the flowers at her. 'For you, Ma'am.'
She bursts into a cackle which is perhaps a laugh. I am not sure. My knees are trembling and my hands as well. The crocuses shake their heads. She takes them from me.
'Come in and let me take a look at you,' she croaks and pushes me inside. We do not go to the warm kitchen. She sits me down on a hard chair in the hallway which is dark and smells of furniture polish. She lifts my chin to the light, pushes back my bonnet and stares hard into my face. Then she takes my hands in hers and turns them over, rubbing them and poking them. I am afraid they are not rough enough, for apart from milking our goat, collecting the hens' eggs, weeding the garden and doing the washing, I do no manual labour at all. She says nothing. I wonder if she is about to look at my teeth. I suppose when you are about to employ someone you want a good return for your wages.
I am relieved when she moves away from me. 'Mrs Frayne retired. I am Mrs Burton. I am housekeeper at Elmtree House now.' She narrows her eyes and squints at me as if she would like to squeeze secrets out of me. Then she snaps suddenly, 'As you have no training your wages will be board and one pound a month.' She pauses to see my reaction. I nod enthusiastically. A pound a month is a fortune to me. 'If you are unsatisfactory or give less than a month's notice when you wish to leave you will get no reference and will never be able to find another position.'
'Thank you, Mrs Burton.' I am beaming with pleasure. 'And which will be my day off, please?'
The Housekeeper stares. 'Day off?' She spits the two words out as if they are poison. 'Day off? So you wish to go gallivanting in the village, eyeing off farmers' boys, do you?'
'Oh no, Ma'am! I only wish to see my family, who live not two miles from here. Once a week on Sundays, if you would be so kind, Ma'am.'
The vinegar look returns to her face. 'And what makes you think that a servant without training deserves a whole day off every week, girl?'
'My father, before he was taken, worked as a blacksmith and employed two men who were always allowed to go home on Sundays. People like to be with their families on the Sabbath. All kinds of people, whether they are servants or not. Do you not think it so, Mrs Burton?' I am babbling but I only want to explain my meaning so that I do not offend her.
'Your family habits do not interest me, girl,' she snaps. 'You astound me. Do you think that a grand house such as this can be closed up like a blacksmith's shop just because it is Sunday? Who do you think will make the beds, iron the clothes, empty the slops and clean the Master's boots?'
I am silent. I think to myself, perhaps the Master could wear different boots on Sunday ... but of course that is a foolish thought. 'I understand, Ma'am.'
'I am glad that you do. You will start tomorrow morning at eight. Do not bring too many belongings. The room you will be sharing is small.'
I hesitate but my curiosity gets the better of me. 'Who will I be sharing with, Mrs Burton?'
'Maria Wilkinson. She has been a servant in the house for six months. She is sixteen.' Again the lips contort as if she has tasted vinegar. 'What is your name, girl?'
'Mary Jones, Ma'am.'
'If your work is satisfactory, Mary Jones, you will be allowed a day off once a month but it may not always be a Sunday. Do not be late tomorrow.'
I walk quickly down the gravel path between the avenue of elms. As soon as I get outside the tall iron gates I begin to skip. I am about to earn my own money. My life of independence has begun.
'Oh Mary, you have broken my heart!' My mother is pale and her hair lies in damp tendrils on the pillow. I had expected a few tears but not this wailing. I knew she would be hurt that I had chosen to work as a servant for wages when she had planned a different life for me, but I never guessed she would be distraught.
'I have worked so hard to make a good connection with a respectable dressmaker who has at last agreed to take you on as her apprentice, and now you have thrown it all away!'
'Thrown what away? Receiving a few pence for going almost blind sewing buttonholes night after night as you do, Mother?' I speak more harshly than I should but the sight of her, all blotchy and pathetic, makes me angry.
'Foolish girl! After three years of buttonholes and seams, you would have become a dressmaker yourself, making clothes for fine ladies who would pay a small fortune and regard you as a friend, or at least as indispensable.'
'Three years! Too long for us to be scrimping and saving while the debts mount up until we're all starving or out on the road!'
The younger children have crept down the stairs to listen. They hang back in silence. They know the seriousness of our situation.
'The landlord expects us to keep the cottage in good order and if we don't fix the roof he will throw us out. You know that, Mother. Why do you pretend it isn't so? Why do you think I place every pot and pan we own beneath the leaks each night? To stop us drowning in our beds! The damp does nothing to help Sarah's chest and no doctor will come here unless he sees money first.'
Mother turns her head away and begins sobbing again. I sit down on the bed and gently stroke her hand. 'Mother, you work late into every night sewing shirts, dresses, shifts and bonnets for the village people but often they don't even pay you.'
'They are poor too.' She turns her head back to look at me as if I am a stranger. 'Have you no heart?' This stings me and I do not answer. 'At least we have food to eat,' she says.
'We grow a few onions and potatoes. If the hens do not lay and the goat goes dry we will starve. When I am boarding at Elmtree House there will be one less mouth to feed and I shall earn a pound a month to help the family!'
'And we will not have you at home to lift our spirits. Oh Mary, what has happened to our little family since your poor father was taken from us? I never thought the day would come when a daughter of mine would become a common servant. My father will turn in his grave.'
'Don't cry, Mother. Here, eat this.' I give her the last pancake although it is cold. 'You need not get up to go to church today. Stay here and sleep. I will take the little ones.'
She buries her head in the pillow. She will have a good wail while we are gone.
Her father was a clergyman who left her nothing more than the violet-rimmed china tea service, a mahogany sideboard and an oak table with six balloon-backed chairs. We have already sold the furniture and part of the tea service. Only four teacups remain. Mother wants to leave one to each of her children when she dies, she tell us. Poor Mother. She is so fond of fine things. When she married my father, the blacksmith, her father, the clergyman, barely spoke to her again. I only met my grandfather once. I thought him gruff and bad-mannered. He asked whether I was literate and as I was only five I said I did not know. He then scowled at my mother, passed me a large black Bible and told her, 'If you cannot afford to send her to school, at least teach her to read and write at home.' My mother promised she would do so. She kept her promise. We are the only children in the village who are literate. Charley and Meg have each had a year at the village school and hope to continue for another but Sarah is too ill. Poor families do not often send their children to school.
Winter is back this morning and there is a thin layer of ice on the puddles as I hurry up the hill to Elmtree House with my bundle. I have brought only a few clothes, some small keepsakes, my Bible and a book of poetry. I am feeling excited and cannot wait to meet the girl I am to share a room with — Maria Wilkinson. I have no friends my own age in the village as Mother does not like me to mix with what she calls 'common' girls.
As I pass around the side of the house to the back I notice there is a fine kitchen garden with fruit trees, vegetables and strawberry beds. In the fields beyond I can see cows grazing and some sheep but no goat. Goats like ours live on scraps, but these sleek cows and fat sheep seem hardly to bother cropping the grass, there is such an abundance of it. I wonder about the family that lives in this grand house. I have heard in the village that the Master, Mr Robinson Doake, is a gentleman farmer, with a bailiff to run his estate and collect the rents from his tenant cottages. He has a wife and two grown-up daughters — they are on a visit to Bath at present. I wonder if they have a library with many books.
I have just met Maria Wilkinson and she is rather wicked! We are to share an attic under the roof at the top of the house. We have a bed each, a luxury I have not enjoyed before, and a washstand and dish for ourselves and one candle, although we must not burn it for long, so my Bible and poetry reading must be brief each evening.
Maria is full of mischief. I had been afraid she might be stern as she is two years older than me and properly trained, but she is kind and so pretty that it is hard not to stare at her. She has dark hair, green eyes, red lips and a perfect complexion, almost as pale as a lady's. As she shows me how to perform my tasks she makes such fun of everything that I find myself weak with laughter. She is clever mimic and has the gentry down perfectly. The Master swaggers when he walks and twirls his riding crop, the Mistress leans forwards and fusses with her shawl, twisting it in her fingers, and blinking her eyelids as fast as candle flicker. As for the Misses Doake, according to Maria, they have certain habits which are rather crude. I cannot wait to see what these might be. Maria herself is quite shockingly bold in her speech, using coarse language I would not expect to hear from such a dainty, innocent looking girl. Perhaps she overhears men in the ale house as she hurries past on an errand. It is only when her betters are not watching that she imitates their speech, their walks and manners. When they are near she is careful to lower her eyes and act respectfully.
She tells me that my clothes are a disgrace. I look like a gypsy, she says, and as soon as I am paid I must have a new frock. In the meantime she has lent me one of hers. When we went to the village to do errands for the mistress she showed me the whorehouse. It looked like an ordinary cottage to me, but Maria swears there are two women there who do nothing but lie on their backs all day wearing fine silk and having a servant bring them meals in bed and prepare baths of rosewater and milk while they wait for gentlemen callers.
Maria herself appears very popular in the village, I notice. She is cheerful to the shopkeepers, and of course Mrs Robinson Doake always pays her bills on time. It is a pleasure to go into a shop and not feel shy about accounts that are overdue. (I hoped to catch sight of one of my sisters or Charley on an errand for my mother but sadly I did not.) Maria has her admirers in the village. The young man at the brewery where we delivered the order for cider seems quite smitten by her, but Maria called him 'a dolt' and said she could do much better than him in the marriage stakes. Why should she waste her time on a 'blithering idiot yokel'?
When we were delivering the order for the house at the grocery shop the shopkeeper asked Maria to read it out to him so that he could check that the goods were on his shelves, and she blushed and handed the list to me. Realising that she could not read, I took it from her quickly to save her feelings. On the way home she said, 'It is better to live by your wits than have learning, Mary. Never forget it.'
I feel sorry she has not had the chances I have had and perhaps when we know each other better I shall offer to teach her reading and writing. I sense she is very proud. She has no love for her parents who live far away up north near Leeds. She told me she never visits them, that they are 'low scum'.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Women on the Rocks by Kristin Williamson. Copyright © 2003 Kristin Williamson. Excerpted by permission of University of Queensland Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Map of Sydney, 1836,Other Books by Kristin Williamson,
Title Page,
Dedication,
Part I - Rural England 1819,
Part II - To London,
Part III - Sydney Cove,
Part IV - The Female Factory,
Part V - Reunited,
Part VI - The Rocks,
Part VII - Prosperity and Tragedy,
Part VIII - Visitors From New Zealand,
Part IX - Resolution,
Acknowledgments,
Author's Afterword,
Imprint Page,