Beneath the Southern Cross Read online

  From stage actor and international television star to blockbuster best-selling author, Judy Nunn’s career has been meteoric.

  Her first forays into adult fiction resulted in what she describes as her ‘entertainment set’. The Glitter Game, Centre Stage and Araluen, three novels set in the worlds of television, theatre and film respectively, each became instant bestsellers.

  Next came her ‘city set’: Kal, a fiercely passionate novel about men and mining set in Kalgoorlie; Beneath the Southern Cross, a mammoth achievement chronicling the story of Sydney since first European settlement; and Territory, a tale of love, family and retribution set in Darwin.

  Territory, together with Judy’s next novel, Pacific, a dual story set principally in Vanuatu, placed her firmly in Australia’s top-ten bestseller list. Her following works, Heritage, set in the Snowies during the 1950s, Floodtide, based in her home state of Western Australia, and Maralinga, have consolidated her position as one of the country’s leading fiction writers. Her eagerly awaited new novel, Tiger Men, will publish in November 2011.

  Judy Nunn’s fame as a novelist is spreading rapidly. Her books are now published throughout Europe in English, German, French, Dutch and Czech.

  Judy lives with her husband, actor-author Bruce Venables, on the Central Coast of New South Wales.

  By the same author

  The Glitter Game

  Centre Stage

  Araluen

  Kal

  Territory

  Pacific

  Heritage

  Floodtide

  Maralinga

  Tiger Men

  Children’s fiction

  Eye in the Storm

  Eye in the City

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Beneath the Southern Cross

  9781742741840

  An Arrow book

  Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060

  www.randomhouse.com.au

  First published by Random House Australia 1999

  This Arrow edition published 2000, 2007, 2011

  Copyright © Judy Nunn 1999

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any

  person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by

  any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the

  statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording,

  scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior

  written permission of Random House Australia.

  Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at

  www.randomhouse.com.au/offices

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

  Nunn, Judy

  Beneath the Southern Cross / Judy Nunn

  ISBN 978 1 86471 253 7 (pbk).

  A823.3

  To Susan J. Mackie, the most understanding, most encouraging and most demanding friend a writer could have. Thanks Suzie, for the imprisonment, for the delivery of writer’s lunches and for the homegrown blooms of inspiration.

  I would like to especially thank my friend and researcher, Robyn Gurney, and my husband, Bruce Venables, both of whom have been with me every step of this long and interesting journey.

  A special thanks also to Jane Palfreyman, Kim Swivel, Dr Grahame Hookway, William J Bailey and Colin Julin.

  Of the many research sources explored by both Robyn Gurney and myself, I would like particularly to recognise the following publications:

  The Sydney Language, Jakelin Troy, Australian Dictionaries Project/Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies, 1993.

  Sydney Cove, John Cobley, Angus & Robertson, 1987 edition. Sydney, An Illustrated History, James Murray, Lansdowne Press, 1974.

  This Was Sydney: A Pictorial History from 1788 to Present Time, Suzanne Mourot, Ure Smith, 1969.

  The History of Australia, Volume 5, Manning Clark, Melbourne University Press, 1981.

  The Official History of Australia in the War of 1914–1918, Volume 1, C. E. W. Bean, Angus & Robertson, 1921.

  The House of Wunderlich, Susan Bures, Kangaroo Press, 1978. Shopkeepers and Shoppers, Frances Pollon, The Retail Traders’ Association of NSW, 1989.

  The Australian People and The Great War, Michael McKernan, William Collins Pty Ltd, 1984 edition.

  For Love or Money, Megan McMurchy, Penguin Books Australia, 1983.

  Surry Hills, The City’s Backyard, Christopher Keating, Hale & Iremonger Pty Ltd, 1991.

  Kings Cross Album, Elizabeth Butel & Tom Thompson, Atrand Pty Ltd, 1984.

  A Day Before Yesterday, Abe Davis, A. Davis, 1978.

  Cover

  By the same author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Imprint Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Family Tree

  Epigraph

  PROLOGUE

  BOOK ONE

  THE COLONY

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  BOOK TWO

  THE CITY

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  BOOK THREE

  THE NATION

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  BOOK FOUR

  THE DREAM

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Preview of Elianne

  BONUS CHAPTER SAMPLER

  PROLOGUE

  Tiger Men

  Other titles by Judy Nunn

  Random House

  Port Jackson I believe to be, without exception, the finest and most extensive harbour in the universe and at the same time the most secure, being safe from all the winds that blow. It is divided into a great number of coves, to which His Excellency has given different names. That on which the town is to be built is called Sydney Cove. It is one of the smallest in the harbour, but the most convenient, as ships of the greatest burden can with ease go into it, and heave out close to the shore. Trincomale, acknowledged to be one of the best harbours in the world, is by no means to be compared to it. In a word, Port Jackson would afford sufficient and safe anchorage for all the navies of Europe.

  FROM THE RECORDS OF SURGEON GENERAL JOHN WHITE, 1788

  It was a moonless night, the night it happened. Which felt strange to young Thomas Kendall. The most successful forays for a warrener usually took place when the moon was full. Then the warrener could hunt out the burrows with ease, net the openings, send in the ferrets and set the lurcher on the rabbits, the dog, too, needing the light of the moon
to pursue its quarry through the bracken.

  But tonight Thomas and his father were not hunting rabbits. They were not wearing their warreners’ smocks. And their lurcher, faithful old Jed, had been left at home.

  ‘It be a bigger prize we hunt tonight, Thomas,’ Jonathan Kendall had told his son, ‘and you must say naught to your mother.’

  Since the age of ten, Thomas had hunted with his father. He had learned how to press his ear to the earth and listen for the sounds of activity beneath the surface. He had learned to handle a shovel, to dig deep and fast, three feet in a matter of seconds, to get to the rabbit before the ferret moved off with it. And he had learned to huddle and gut his catch with swiftness and precision—the butcher was always pleased with the Kendall delivery. ‘A pleasure to see,’ he’d say, ‘rabbits hulked proper—no mess, good and neat.’

  Now, nine years on, young Thomas Kendall was a warrener as skilful as any on the Norfolk Brecklands. But this moonless night was different. As he crept along the banks of the Little Ouse River on the outskirts of the village of Thetford with his father and Bill ‘Ferret’ Bailey, young Thomas knew that a crime was about to be committed.

  Beneath his ragged overcoat, tucked in the crook of his arm, was a large cloth bag. ‘Hide it, lad, hide it,’ his father had said as he handed it to him, and Thomas had noted both Ferret and his father stuffing similar bags inside their coats. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open and your wits about you.’

  They turned away from the riverbanks and cut through a grove of birch trees. Was it poaching they were up to, Thomas wondered. But they hadn’t told him to bring his staff, he would need his staff if they were to go poaching.

  He was distracted by a badger. Apparently oblivious to the presence of the men, it trotted along beside them, head down, hindquarters swaying flirtatiously side to side like an overweight coquette. Thomas liked badgers. After several moments, however, the badger paused to listen, body motionless, nose twitching, aware of danger present. They left the animal behind and Thomas’s attention once more returned to the men. In the instant they broke out of the grove, he realised their intent.

  The road to Norwich was to their left. In the darkness ahead was Burrell and Sons Works, and to their right, surrounded by lavish trees and gardens, was the home of the Widow Pettigrew. A brief thrill of shock ran through Thomas. So that was it! They were about to go thieving.

  He said nothing as they straddled the low stone wall. He said nothing as they approached the house, keeping well under cover amongst the elms and oaks, maples and sycamores, but his mind was racing. This was a mad thing his father was contemplating. Was the widow at home tucked up in her bed? Were the servants in their quarters at the rear? There was no light visible, but that meant nothing. To rob this house was the action of a madman.

  Thomas had few misgivings about the robbery itself, the widow could certainly afford to be relieved of some of her possessions, and if these were his father’s instructions, Thomas was duty-bound to obey. But for the first time in his life he found himself questioning the wisdom of his father’s actions.

  ‘Saturday is the servants’ night off,’ Jonathan whispered, as if divining his son’s thoughts, ‘and the widow goes out to dine with friends in the village.’

  ‘I’ve watched her,’ Ferret added. ‘She leaves at dusk and doesn’t return till nigh on midnight.’

  They were around the side of the house where a large window frame with small thick panes of glass was set into the knapped flintstone walls. Thomas watched with admiration as Ferret drew a cold chisel from his coat pocket and levered the window open with comparative ease. It was a skill born of long practice. Ferret was an expert, Thomas realised. Then, one by one, they clambered over the sill.

  Inside the widow’s house they crouched in the darkness while Jonathan struck the flint of his tinderbox and ignited three tallow candles. As the light filled the room each man stood, candle in hand, and looked about in silence.

  On the mantel stood an ornate porcelain vase, several fine china ornaments and a pair of silver candlesticks. In a glass cabinet were a silver salver, a cutlery service and a set of goblets. A carved wooden chest in the corner was opened and revealed sets of linen and lace—sheets, towels, tablecloths and napkins.

  ‘I told you so.’ Ferret was the first to speak. He grinned greedily, his yellow teeth gleaming triumphant in the gloom. ‘A haul fit for a king.’ He crossed excitedly to the fireplace. ‘Jonathan, look!’

  On the table by the open hearth stood an ivory snuff box, a hand-carved humidor, a brass pipe-rack and a pewter jug with matching tankard. All preserved in memory of the widow’s late husband who had died barely six months previously. Widow Pettigrew still wore black and, in church on Sundays, her mourning veil.

  ‘She’s even kept his coat,’ Ferret cackled as he dropped his own threadbare garment and donned the heavy wool greatcoat which was draped over the armchair. ‘A big man, old Pettigrew,’ he added, the coat hanging off his scrawny frame.

  ‘We’d best get to work.’ Jonathan Kendall was already stuffing the silver candlesticks into his cloth bag. ‘Thomas lad, you go upstairs. The widow’s bedroom. It will be to the left.’ Thomas hesitated. ‘Ferret’s kept watch these past three Saturdays,’ Jonathan explained, ‘he says that the upstairs light in the room on the left is the last to be snuffed at night.’

  Thomas turned to do his father’s bidding.

  ‘Satin and lace and fine leather gloves fetch a good price,’ Jonathan instructed. ‘And feather bedding. And mind you check the dressing table,’ he added, ‘for that’s where she’ll be keeping her jewels and trinkets.’

  Holding his candle aloft, Thomas stepped out into the main hall and up the stairway, each wooden step creaking alarmingly. Turning left at the top, he crept to the door at the end of the corridor and gently turned the knob.

  As the door swung slowly inward, Thomas heard a noise. A noise he recognised. It was the noise he himself made when he was with Bertha in the little back room at the alehouse, passion mounting, nearing his release.

  The light of the candle illuminated the room and he saw them. The naked man, buttocks pounding. Grunting. The woman pinioned beneath, invisible but for her bare parted legs high in the air and her hands clutching at the man’s back.

  The scene froze for one shocked instant. Then the grunting stopped. The man turned. The woman screamed. And Thomas dropped his candle and ran.

  In the darkness he groped for the bannister railings and all but fell down the stairs. He heard the man in pursuit, saw the glow of candlelight ahead, thrust open the door to the lounge room and gasped, ‘Run! Run!’

  But Ferret and Jonathan had heard the commotion. Ferret was already halfway out the window and Jonathan, realising there was no time for all three of them to get out, grabbed his son. Together they pressed themselves against the wall by the door to the hall so when, with a howl of fury, the naked man appeared in the open doorway, he failed to see them in the half darkness.

  ‘Now!’ Jonathan yelled as the man entered the room, giving an angry growl at the sight of Ferret halfway out the window. Father and son dived into the hall and made for the main doors. ‘Run, lad! Run!’

  My God! Jonathan registered in the second he turned back to check that his son was close behind him. My God, but it’s young Captain Pettigrew!

  Fletcher Pettigrew also turned, momentarily indecisive as to whether to pursue the felons running for the main doors or the man escaping out through the window. Then he noticed that the man at the window was wearing his coat. With another furious roar he launched himself at Ferret.

  Upstairs, in her bedroom, Mathilda Pettigrew clasped the fine linen bedsheets about her naked body and whimpered. She was not fearful for the safety of her lover. Fletcher Pettigrew was renowned for his skills in combat; the fact that he was naked and wore neither blade nor pistol was immaterial, fisticuffs would suffice. But did this mean that her secret was to be made public? Was the whole village about to know that
she had been intimate with her dead husband’s brother? That she had indeed been intimate with her husband’s young brother for a full year before Ezekiel Pettigrew’s tedious, lingering illness finally took him to his long-overdue grave?

  They had been so careful, she and Fletcher. After Ezekiel’s death, Mathilda had regularly visited her lover on Saturday nights when the servants were dismissed. She had dined publicly with friends, then gone to his rooms afterwards. And occasionally he had come to the house. On foot. After dark. Always entering through the servants’ entrance at the rear. No-one had been any the wiser. And now, because of a common, grubby thief, her dreadful secret was sure to become public knowledge.

  Mathilda Pettigrew had no cause for concern, however. When, three days later, Jonathan and Thomas Kendall, along with Bill Bailey, were arrested and held in Thetford Gaol to await sentence, the virtuous reputation of the Widow Pettigrew was of little concern to them. A crime such as theirs would demand one sentence and one sentence only. The gallows.

  Their incarceration in the poky little gaolhouse on Market Street was not prolonged. Soon after their arrest the town of Thetford came alive, as it did these two special weeks of every year, for the Lent assizes.

  People flocked from miles around. The local gentry returned to take up residence in their townhouses. Business was good. The hotels were full, copious amounts of ale and liquor were consumed, and numerous entertainments were held, the crowds delighting to the bawdy vaudeville and rustic classics performed at the theatre in White Hart Street. And throughout the festivities there was the constant excitement of men and women being sentenced to death, transportation or incarceration.