Bridget Crack Page 2
It had been this way, she was sure. She had not come far off it. Not that far. So where was it? She turned around. Trees and bushes, no break in them. How could a track just go? Just disappear? Panic wrapped its hand around her guts and squeezed. Behind her there was a noise—a branch cracking. She spun around. Her heart jumped like a frog in a bottle. Kangaroo. Just a kangaroo. That’s all—just a kangaroo. She walked a few yards, stopped. The track was close. Close by here somewhere. It had to be. She had been on it not long ago.
She walked one way then another. Branches snagged her dress and scratched her arms. Her foot went down into a hole. She fell forward hard, got up again, walked a few paces and stopped. Twilight. A pale gold moon presented itself, called forth an army of stars. She hit the side of her fist into the tree trunk next to her. ‘Bugger you! Bugger you. Bugger you. Bugger. Bugger.’ She slid down to the base of the tree.
...
The sounds were of birds, a thump thump as a kangaroo made its way through the forest. Every direction looked the same—glimpses of grey sky through a net of leaves and branches.
She pushed her way through fern and cutting grass, there being no top to the hill, only an ongoing mess of scrub that scratched her, hooked her, tripped her. She fell and lay there among it all, her body given up to it until her will rose up biting and she was moving again.
She ran until her chest hurt and her breathing was hard. She stopped halfway up another slope. Around her damp rock leaked silence, preached cold, stubborn stillness. Wet shadows lurked in cracks big enough for someone, something, to hide in. Scraggly trees clung to the sides of rock, their roots pushing down into shallow dirt collected on ledges and in crevices. Their thin branches hung at queer angles, shivered in a whisper of wind.
When she stopped again she was in a gully, a rock wall behind her, a trickle of water running down it. Opposite her the slope was dense with trees, dark playing around their trunks. Her dress was torn, there was a gash on her leg, blood stuck to the shredded stocking around it. She licked the water then sat down against the dry end of the wall. Above her clouds laced with pink and orange drifted, the day out there taking its time to die its pretty death.
She ate a piece of damper, pulled her knees in close to her chest.
...
Morning light crept over her face like a spider, and then again the scrub grabbed at her, stroked her, pawed at her like a many-armed monster. She fought it until she was too tired to fight and it bit into her, took her down into its dark bowels where she wandered again until she must have found her way back to the creature’s mouth because there below her was a plain with a flock of sheep grazing on it. She hurried down the slope, falling, grabbing onto tree trunks as she went. Sheep stared at her with their queer round eyes, their dirty arses retreating. She walked, trying to find something the sheep belonged to. Must be. Must have been something, someone.
A cloud approached the sun, slid over it. Rocks turned dull, blue hills faded to grey, the grass lost its shine and the wind grew cold. Another cloud moved in, silent and steady, a massive grey hand reaching out and suffocating the sun until it was nothing but a weak and passive glow. The landscape cowered. A gust came up that almost pushed her forward.
The sky continued to darken and then a few large drops fell and seconds later a curtain of rain came down. She stood under a tree while the rain pounded the ground like a child in a tantrum, and then stopped just as quickly as it had started. The clouds churned and rolled and turned a thick dark grey. Sodden sheep looked up from their grazing, ran through a sheet of water that sat over the land. She trudged over the wet ground while the cold wind ruffled the sky and blue appeared like something new and daring.
In the darkness she sat in a hollow tree, the shawl pulled tight around her.
Sea. Sea until there was nothing but sea. Until it had stolen everything that had come before so that all of life might have been a dream brushed away, painted over by strokes of blue and green. Cold rough sea, sea ironed flat by a baking sun; the sameness, the stillness of it like hands over a person’s ears.
Bridget had crawled up the ladder out of the darkness and stood on the ship deck squinting, looking around at the tree-clad hills flanking the river. They were anchored in a bay, at the head of it a beach, and beyond that a cleared area of land in which there was a smattering of buildings. Beyond the clearing, a mountain; a lump of a thing like an animal lying sleeping, back to the sky, cloud clinging to it, a skirt of hills around it.
It wasn’t what she had expected. She didn’t know what she had expected, but not this. Emily Reid, a small birdy-looking woman, said she’d heard it was a good place, that a convict woman could marry a gentleman, that there was plenty of food.
A few weeks into the trip the girl in the bunk above Bridget had died, open eyes staring straight up, stunned, as if she’d seen God as she died and was surprised by the look of him. Sarah Merchant’s baby cried all night and after a week of diarrhoea it died too, was thrown overboard wrapped in white cloth. Bridget curled herself up opposite the bunk where Sarah Merchant was quiet. Up on the deck she hoisted her dress out of the bucket. Salt water dripped onto her boots as she stared at the quivering horizon.
...
The ship sat in the bay for two days, the third morning like the one before: cool and overcast. Fog hung over the river and a fine drizzle fell, the shouts from the shore dulled, muffled by the kerchief of moisture that waved across the bay.
As Bridget stood on the deck a colder breeze came up, turned the shiny surface of the river to matt. There was a break in the thin cloud, a patch of sunlight on the water where white gulls bobbed under rays of gold light, grey turning an eerie brown all around them. She crossed her arms against the breeze, looked around at the forest-cloaked hills that followed the river all the way up and then spread out from the bay in any and every direction. She had never seen anything like it. Was this it? The good place?
On the beach two soldiers pushed a boat into the water and three men stood on the beach watching, each of them dressed in black. Two of these men wore high hats, appeared lifeless there, black sticks in the muting grey. There was a wave from one of the soldiers and then the sticks came to life, walked down the beach and climbed into the boat.
Across the ship deck women stood in groups, their chatter rising.
‘Quiet! I said quiet!’ The ship superintendent, gold buttons crawling over his red coat, shining like rare beetles. ‘When your name is called you are to come forward.’
‘Catherine. Adams.’ The superintendent’s voice strained to reach out over the deck.
When Bridget’s name was called she looked behind her, seeking Beth, an older woman who had been in the bunk above Sarah and whose company Bridget had kept for most of the voyage. Now Beth met Bridget’s gaze, nodded, her face solemn.
...
The town square was full of waiting men and their carts. In the middle Captain Marshall stood with five other gentlemen who were chatting about the price of this and the value of that. At the sound of the women coming up the slope from the bay the men ceased their conversation and turned to look. ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Captain Marshall, cutting short the conversation with the man who stood next to him.
The superintendent appeared first, followed by a motley group of women. They stopped in front of the commissariat building and Marshall noticed one of them in particular—she stood a little to the side of the group, her head raised slightly as though she was smelling the air, testing it for a scent. The superintendent was speaking but this girl appeared not to be listening at all. She had now turned her head to one side and was looking down towards the bay—not at the bay, but beyond it, and it was as though she was looking at, or seeing even, a world that lay far beyond the landscape in front of her. A breeze came up and flicked at the waves of light brown hair around her face and it seemed to be that tiny movement, that almost imperceptible flurry, that triggered the girl to return from whatever she gazed upon—for she now turned her head
forward and in that split second of the head turning her eyes regained their former sharpness. And her gaze, when it fell on him, was full and direct. It was because of all this that Marshall did not hear when the superintendent called his name, and it was only when he repeated it, his voice sharp with impatience, that he stepped forward. Another name was called, and to his surprise the woman who had caused his momentary lapse of concentration stepped forward also.
The superintendent held out a quill and a book. ‘This one’s yours, Captain Marshall, if you’ll sign here.’
...
Marshall stood aside as the girl climbed up onto the cart. Once seated next to her he took the liberty of glancing sideways at her face. She was seated looking dead ahead of her, her back held straight and her head tilted slightly so that the side of her jaw met the world fractionally ahead of the rest of her. Marshall shifted in his seat, cleared his throat and took up the reins. ‘Bridget, is it? Your name?’
The girl seemed to look towards him and then look again, as though the first time she might have thought her senses deluded her. She recovered quickly, however, as he had already come to see was her habit.
She nodded.
On the side of the road two soldiers were speaking to a filthy, stumpy man with long dark hair that hung in clumps around his face. He opened and closed a gummy mouth, jumped up and down on one leg, arms swinging wildly. One of the soldiers pushed him and the man fell back into the dirt. The two of them stood laughing as the man tried to scramble to his feet.
Marshall saw her watching the scene. ‘It’s not altogether like England but some things don’t change—not really,’ he said, and laughed. He heard the strange and fake sound of his laugh, almost as though he had not himself generated it. He’d no idea what had set him so on edge.
He looked forward at the horse’s head, which remained quite steady while the black mane flung upwards and then rested again on the neck in rhythm with its gait. They were headed up Elizabeth Street to New Town and to his home, Rosebury House. ‘There is another girl already,’ he said. ‘She cooks principally, and assists with the children. It’s the cleaning I believe she needs help with.’ He drew a breath and waited, strangely nervous of her reply.
She only nodded once again. It was a slow nod, quite thoughtful, as though throughout it she were considering what she might say if she had not chosen only to nod.
‘My sister is the children’s governess,’ he said, ‘but she is not at home a lot of late. She has her own interests.’ He leaned towards her slightly as he said it as though sharing a secret, or a joke with a companion and gave a short laugh. He saw that she removed her hands from her lap, where they had both been resting palm down against her thighs. Now she crossed her arms and then pulled herself up a little higher in the seat.
...
The house sat at the top of a rise looking down over the bay. It was two storeys high, stone steps leading up to a wide, decorated front door and muslin curtains framing the windows.
Bridget got down off the cart, relieved to be away from the man and his nervous laughter. A girl appeared from around the side of the house.
‘Ah, Mary, thank you. If you would take care of Bridget.’
‘Course, sir.’
‘Come with me,’ she said, ‘round the back.’
From London, Bridget thought. The girl was short and walked quickly but with small steps.
‘Only found out yesterday we was getting a new girl, don’t tell me nothing only a convict I am, not like I’m running the place or nothing. Be lost without me they would. It’s me what’s in charge ’cause the missus trusts me and now that Jane’s needing more time—sick of the children, she is,’ the girl said. She looked back at Bridget, conspiratorial. ‘Still, don’t blame her none for that. They’re so spoilt I’d tan their backsides if I could, only you can imagine the stink the missus’d kick up if I so much as touched ’em. Edward likes his milk warm but if it’s too hot, he won’t drink it…’
The woman talked on while Bridget walked behind her around to the back of the house, where there were two stables as well as two other timber buildings off a yard. The door to one of the buildings was open and she followed Mary in. The ceiling was low and the room dark, a fireplace in the corner and a table in the middle. ‘This’s the kitchen then.’ Back out in the yard she pulled open the door to the other building. ‘Sleep in here. Not too bad really; a bit cold this time of year, but I’ve seen worse. I mean, you shoulda seen where I had to sleep in the last place. Get a wool mattress here, only straw at the other place, and not just gaps like this, but bits of the wall missing and only one blanket with all that.’
She motioned to a pile of clothes on a stool. ‘Those are yours. The water in the bucket there’s warm. When you’re clean come back to the house.’
Bridget pushed the door shut. There was no window but the gaps between the boards let in shards of light. Through the gaps she could see flickers of movement in the yard, heard Mary walk past. She stood there in the room, waited until there was stillness outside, then pulled the dress over her head, paused before taking off the petticoat. She dropped it on the floor, a slight breeze on her breasts.
When she tipped water over her head the taste of salt was sharp in her mouth.
...
‘This way,’ Mary said, leading her down a wide hall. She opened the first door they came to. ‘This’s the dining room. That there is a portrait of the master’s father. Distinguished-looking, isn’t he? But they all are in those paintings, aren’t they? I mean, you wouldn’t pay someone if they did a terrible picture of you, would you? And even if you did you’d most likely not put it on the wall, so in the end you can’t tell a lot from them really at all—unless you believe the likeness, that is.’
She shut that door and continued down the hall opening and shutting doors, and then on up the stairs. ‘The master’s alright, he is. Not like her. She’s more annoying than hives, I’ll grant you, and there’s no relief—not like with hives, what at least you can itch. He’s an officer, you know. He’s in with the gov’nor, helping find the bushrangers. I mean, he’s not that important, but…’
Mary opened another door, the room inside spacious and light. On a rug in the middle there were two children, one boy about four and a girl, younger, as well as a lady who was struggling to get the boy’s boot on. She looked up at the two people in the doorway.
‘A new girl,’ Mary said. ‘Bridget her name is, missus.’
The woman stood up. ‘Hello.’
‘These two here are Edward and Sophie,’ Mary said, and the boy who stood on one leg holding on to the woman’s shoulder looked blankly at Bridget while the little girl kept focused on the doll in her lap.
Mary pulled the door shut behind them. ‘That’s Jane, the master’s sister. We’d best get back downstairs, there’s visitors coming.’
...
In the kitchen Mary gave her potatoes to chop, prattled at her the entire time.
Bridget put the knife down on the table. She had to get out of the room.
‘Where are you going? Come back here, you—’
But Bridget was out the kitchen door, into the yard, where over the roof of the house the mountain towered. It had been hidden in cloud before, but now the cloud had cleared to reveal the columns of rock that decorated its face.
A man appeared around the corner of the house. Short already, he was made shorter by the hunchbacked way he carried himself and his gait took him almost as much from side to side as it did forward, making his progress painfully slow. He rocked his way along, looking at the ground, muttering to himself.
‘Not daffodils there, for blarney’s sake, pansies. Pansies, pansies, pansies. “Oh, no pansies under the rosebush, I find the look of it quite common.” She finds the look of it common. I’ll give her common. Should put my hand up under that dress, give her a bit a this crooked ole finger, eh? I’ll give her common.’ The man chuckled. ‘See how she likes a bit a freshly turned soil up her royal pi
nkness. Pansies, hmph.’ He spat on the ground next to him and finally looked up. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What?’
The man squinted at her. ‘Who the hell are you?’
From around the front of the house she heard the sound of horse’s hooves on the gravel.
‘She sent you out here, did she? What’s she want now? S’pose she’ll want birds next—the right birds, not the birds that live here, no, no, them’s no bloody good. You wait and see: she’ll make him ship over a whole load of sparras. You wait and see, she will.’
He pulled a plug of tobacco out of his pocket, broke off a piece and put it in his mouth. ‘Want some?’ Held it out to her between callused fingers crisscrossed with dirt-filled cracks.
She shook her head.
He shrugged. ‘New are ya then? New, I s’pose.’
‘Bridget! Bridget!’ Mary had her head stuck out the kitchen door hollering.
The old man smiled and his eyes got lost. ‘Oh, don’t keep her waiting; she’ll claw your eyes out that one will. Possessed she is, possessed.’
...
Mary put the knife down and pushed a loaded tea tray across the table. ‘Take this. In the dining room.’
She took her into the house and along the hall and pointed at a door on the left. ‘In there.’
The door was closed but Bridget could hear voices inside. She jammed the tray between her waist and the doorframe, turned the door handle with her right hand, then used her foot to push it. The teapot and cups slid but stopped before the edge. She tipped the tray back the other way slightly and went into the room.
When she came in, Marshall, who sat at one end of the big table, looked up. The other man glanced at her then back at Marshall as though waiting for him to speak. For a moment Marshall said nothing.