Beneath the Southern Cross Page 3

  ‘Grandfather Thomas is lonely, my dear,’ she said as gently as she could, ‘particularly since Grandmother Anne passed away, and he romanticises the past as if it were something of which to be proud.’ She couldn’t help it, the bite of disapproval returned to her tone. ‘Believe me, it is not, James. It is a shameful thing.’

  ‘Don’t turn the boy against his grandfather, Mary.’ Richard’s remonstration was mild but it was there. He rarely questioned his wife, leaving the governing of the household and the upbringing of their two children in her capable hands. He agreed that it was only right, for the sake of the children, to distance themselves from his father’s past; he had even agreed, ten years previously, to her suggestion that they change the spelling of their name to Kendle so it could not be traced to the shameful records of those who had arrived in the colony in chains. But Richard would not have his wife malign his father of whom he was not only fond, but to whom he was deeply grateful for the assistance given him upon his marriage. Indeed, without the family business and the lands at Parramatta which Thomas had transferred to his son’s name, it was doubtful Mary’s family would have agreed to the marriage at all. ‘My father is a good man,’ Richard insisted, ‘and we owe him a great deal.’

  ‘I am not turning the boy against his grandfather,’ Mary replied a little tightly, ‘and I am fully aware of the debt we owe, Thomas.’

  There the discussion ended and, as usual, Mary had the last word.

  But several weeks later Richard surprised her by insisting that James and his older sister, Phoebe, accompany her on a shopping expedition to Sydney Town.

  ‘They are to meet their grandfather,’ Richard announced. ‘I must insist upon it, Mary.’ He sensed that she was about to argue the case. ‘They barely know him, it is not right.’

  Mary wondered momentarily whether she should do battle, but reluctantly decided against it. Damn the old man, she thought.

  If Mary Kendle could have had her way, her children would remain forever in Parramatta, and all ties with the Kendall side of the family would be severed. It was nothing personal, but for the good of her children’s future they must be brought up as exclusives, of free British stock. Not only was their paternal grandfather an ex-convict, he believed in equality. Thomas Kendall maintained that prisoners who had served their sentences, and emancipists such as himself who through good conduct had been prematurely granted pardon, should be openly and immediately accepted into respectable society. Worse still, he believed in equality for the ticket-of-leavers, those convicts who had been granted a certificate from the Governor entitling them to seek their own employment and living quarters. The fact that applicants for a ticket of leave required a long record of exemplary behaviour, character references, letters of surety, meant little to the exclusivists. Ticket-of-leavers were still convicts. They were still serving their sentences, and it was a crime against society that they should be entitled to mingle freely.

  To many in the colony, the views of Thomas Kendall and his ilk were outrageous and dangerous, and although Mary swore she bore Thomas himself no ill will, she was protective of her children and thoroughly convinced that no good could come of their connection with their grandfather.

  Mary would allow her husband to have his way. Just this once. Her acquiescence would please him and maintain the peace, and a visit to the old man could do little harm, so long as the children were not left alone in his company. But she determined that such visits were not to become a habit.

  ‘I shall not be accompanying you, my dear,’ Richard announced to her further annoyance. ‘The purchase of dresses and bonnets does not interest me as it does you and Phoebe. Besides,’ he added, flashing her his most winning smile, ‘I would be of little use, my taste is lamentable.’

  Always elegantly attired, Richard’s dress sense was faultless, and he knew it, just as he knew that his charm, as usual, would have the desired effect.

  Mary laughed. ‘You are shamelessly obvious, Richard.’

  ‘Of course I am my dear. I am afraid I really am too busy to accompany you however,’ he apologised, ‘and I see Father and Matthew regularly on business trips to town. You don’t mind too much do you?’

  ‘I suppose I have no option.’

  ‘And you will enjoy Emily’s company,’ he added, ‘you always do.’

  Richard had never quite been able to comprehend Mary’s comfortable relationship with his brother’s wife, they were such opposites. Not that Richard himself disliked Emily, far from it. Indeed, he found her an extremely attractive woman, in an untidy way—most men did. With little regard for convention or fashion, Emily prattled disarmingly, apparently unaware of her sensuality. In the early years of Matthew’s marriage, Richard had even felt a little envious of his older brother. The foolishness of youth, he now thought, as he looked at his wife with comfortable affection. He had made a far finer match than his brother: Mary came from impeccable stock and was an exemplary wife and mother.

  He winked at his daughter Phoebe. ‘You and Hannah can play fine young ladies and have cakes at the teahouse in George Street.’

  Fifteen-year-old Phoebe, pretty, fragile, her father’s pride and joy, smiled excitedly. She liked her cousin. Despite the fact that Hannah was six months her junior, Phoebe deeply admired and envied her. There was a wild streak in Hannah.

  And who exactly will be looking after my son, Mary wondered. The old man? She looked steadily back at her husband, once more considering battle, but Richard continued, apparently oblivious, ‘And James will have William for company.’ Before his wife could contest the arrangement, he added with a note of finality, ‘The lad needs male companionship, my dear. Father and Matthew will entertain the boys whilst you do your shopping.’ For once, it was Richard who had the last word.

  The family gathering in Thomas’s front parlour went smoothly enough. Matthew had not yet arrived, but to Mary’s relief, the old man’s conversation was perfectly harmless. They chatted about the weather and commented on the stirring sounds of the drums and fife which could be heard from the nearby garrison.

  By the time she and Emily, together with their daughters, were preparing to take their leave, however, Mary was feeling distinctly agitated. Matthew had still not arrived.

  ‘Matthew was to look after James and William,’ she said rather pointedly to her sister-in-law.

  ‘Oh good heavens no,’ Emily declared, ‘it’s crop planting. He’s far too busy. As a matter of fact, I had quite a time of it persuading him to allow William the day with his cousin. Poor Matthew needs all the hands he can get at the moment, particularly as he refuses to accept the government’s offer of convict labour.’

  ‘Why?’ Mary was momentarily distracted from her dilemma. ‘If the government sees fit to support the market gardeners, why in heaven’s name should Matthew refuse cheap labour?’

  ‘He is of the opinion that convict labour should be employed solely by the government,’ Emily replied. She pointed a gloved finger forcefully at the ceiling, in imitation of Matthew in full tirade. “‘It is up to the free settlers to provide work for the ticket of-leavers and those who have served their sentences.”’ She punched the air with her fist. “‘They are in need of employment to set themselves up in their new lives, and it is our bounden duty to assist them.”’ Emily smiled about at the assembled company, proud of her performance and of her husband.

  ‘He’s a good man, Matthew,’ Thomas nodded approvingly.

  It was the sort of conversation Mary did not wish to encourage in the presence of her children. ‘But James and William …’ she said, ‘who will look after them?’

  ‘I’m seventeen, Aunt Mary,’ William laughed. ‘I’m perfectly capable of showing James the sights.’

  It was then that Thomas chimed in. ‘I shall look after the lads, Mary,’ he said with all the joviality of a favourite father-in-law. ‘We shall go for a walk, just the three of us.’

  The look of horror on Mary’s face gave Thomas a rush of perverse pleasure. H
e despised the beliefs of Mary and her fellow exclusivists. In a new colonial society, the evils of class distinction should have been left behind in the old country. The fact that social injustice and racial intolerance abounded in a new land where equality should have free reign upset him deeply.

  His smile was as benign as he could make it, which further irked Mary. ‘We shall have a grand day, shan’t we, lads?’

  ‘Oh please may I come with you, Grandpa Thomas?’ It was fifteen-year-old Hannah, the old man’s unashamed favourite. Thomas glanced hopefully at Emily who shook her head and laughed.

  ‘No, my darling, you may not.’

  Emily had told Hannah as much before they’d left for Thomas’s house. ‘I don’t want to go shopping with Aunt Mary,’ the girl had said, ‘she fusses so.’ Emily had stated emphatically that Hannah was to accompany them, but she had known that her daughter would try again. Hannah was incorrigible.

  ‘You can see Grandpa Thomas any time you wish, Hannah, you must let the boys have a day with him on their own. They can talk men’s talk.’ Emily winked at Thomas. ‘Whatever that is.’

  Mary turned her horrified gaze to her sister-in-law, but Emily was utterly oblivious to it. ‘Now come along, Mary, the sooner we complete our shopping the sooner we can have tea and cakes and I am eager to hear all the gossip.’ It was true the bond between the women was Mary’s chatter, mostly slanderous, about the Parramatta landed gentry and her husband’s wealthy business associates. Mary had the freedom of knowing that the stories would never get back to Richard’s influential friends, and Emily the novelty of hearing people spoken of in a way no farming person on the Surry Hills would ever speak of their neighbour.

  There was little Mary could do, but at the door she hissed to the old man, ‘You are not to fill James’s head with your nonsense, Thomas; he has led a sheltered life.’

  It was then that Thomas had decided to tell the boys whatever stories they wanted to hear. The bawdier, the gorier, the better.

  ‘You lads go on ahead,’ he said as they walked through the Botanic Garden, ‘I shall keep my own pace. And take your jacket off, James, ’tis far too hot to be wearing a jacket.’

  He watched as the boy hesitated then took off his smart checked jacket and carefully folded it over his arm. Mary obviously didn’t like her son being seen in public in his vest and shirtsleeves. He looked so vulnerable, Thomas thought, beside his older cousin. William, bareheaded, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms well muscled and brown from toil in the sun, already had the body of a strong man. Like his father, Matthew. Both boys reminded Thomas of his sons, but James painfully so. James, awkward in his smart felt hat with its checked ribbon band matching his jacket, could have been Richard at the same age. Richard had always been painfully self-conscious, even as a boy.

  Much as Thomas wanted to blame his daughter-in-law for the hurt his son had done him, he knew that Richard was equally at fault. Richard was too easily dictated to, by both society and his wife—which were much the same thing, Thomas thought grimly. To him, Mary typified the ignorance and bigotry of the British middle class.

  Richard Kendall’s denial of his family name had been one of the cruellest blows Thomas had ever been dealt. Crueller than his banishment from his mother country, for he had paid for his crime and embraced his new life. But to what crime did he owe his son’s denial?

  ‘Kendle sounds the same, Father,’ Richard had said, ‘so we are not really changing the name as such, merely the spelling. You cannot expect us to emblazon a convict name in gilt lettering on the sides of our coaches, it is simply not good business.’ Richard misinterpreted his father’s silence as misunderstanding. ‘The coach service from Sydney Town to Parramatta is becoming famous,’ he continued. ‘Surely you must admit we need a name which can be respected.’

  Nothing more was said on the subject, but it broke Thomas’s heart.

  Anne tried to soften the blow. ‘Richard loves you dearly, Thomas; he intends no hurt.’ And when Thomas refused to be mollified, she continued in her characteristically direct fashion. ‘As his mother I should perhaps not say it, but Richard is a weak man. He always has been. He does not have your strength, my love, neither yours nor Matthew’s. It is why I have always approved of his marriage; it is why I insisted you sign over the coach business and some of the Parramatta lands to him.’ By now she had Thomas’s undivided attention; in fact, his jaw was agape.

  ‘Much as you may dislike Mary and much as we may both disagree with her views,’ Anne continued, ‘she is a strong young woman and Richard needs such strength. He’s a superficial man with little depth of character, and I do not believe for one moment that he would survive with a weak wife.’

  Thomas had finally found his voice. ‘You always told me he was sensitive.’

  ‘Yes, that is what I told you.’ She had given him one of her impish smiles and kissed him. ‘So do not let the weakness of his actions break your heart, my love, for that is all they are, the actions of a weak man. Forgive him.’

  Try as he might, however, Thomas had not been able to find it in himself to forgive Richard, and from that day on he had seen his son through different eyes.

  The old man and his grandsons left the mudflats of Woolloomooloo Bay behind them and started to climb the Darlinghurst Hill. The windmills which lined the Darlinghurst Ridge were picturesque, contributing to the description of Sydney as a town of windmills. Some of wood, some of stone, some operated manually, some mechanically, the windmills endlessly churned out the flour for a colony chronically short of adequate supplies.

  As they walked, Thomas wondered whether young James was weak like his father. If so, how long would it take before self-consciousness became affectation, before social decree outweighed matters of principle? Not long, Thomas thought, living under the same roof as that woman. Well, today young James Kendle would learn a thing or two, the old man would make thoroughly sure of that.

  Upon reaching Rushcutters Bay, Thomas led his grandsons beside the small stream which ran down to the harbour until it was lost in the swamp of rushes beside the bay. It was here, towards the eastern end of the cove, that Wolawara and his family lived in their hut amongst the reeds and spinneys.

  They were at the edge of the clearing, twenty yards or so from the hut, when they were distracted by a rustling noise in a clump of nearby bushes. As they turned to investigate, a man leapt out at them with such swiftness and aggression that James gave an involuntary cry of alarm. Instinct told him to run, but Thomas and William were standing their ground, so the boy stifled his fear and edged closer to his grandfather instead.

  The man rolled his eyes and, in the blackness of his face, the whites of his pupils shone with a madness that terrified James. Twice he sprang towards them, emitting a growl from the back of his throat like an animal intimidating its prey.

  Thomas appeared unmoved and William, after a nervous glance at his grandfather, continued to stand his ground. James’s feet were rooted to the spot; he doubted whether he could have run if he’d tried.

  The man changed his tactics. Slowly he started to prance about them, knees bent, arms extended, palms upward, in a clumsy, uncoordinated dance. He was mumbling now, although the words were incoherent. And his manner was no longer aggressive, his eyes no longer mad. In his ragged shirt and breeches, and stinking of rum, he was in fact a pitiful figure.

  ‘Massa, gim me rum. Rummerry good.’

  The fear in James subsided. So this was Wolawara, he thought with a surge of disappointment. His mother had been right after all. Grandfather Thomas’s native friend was no more than a drunken beggar.

  ‘Good day, Yenerah,’ Thomas said, although he made no move to give the man money.

  The Aborigine did not heed the greeting, continuing to importune with his parody of a dance. ‘Rummake me drunk like a gemmen. Rummerry good.’

  ‘Wuruwuru!’ The voice, with an angry edge, was one of authority, and the drunken man turned to face the figure which had appeared at the
door of the hut. They all did. An imposing Aboriginal man in a red soldier’s coat stood before them. In his middle sixties, grey-bearded and stern, he was not a big man, either in height or build, but there was a command about him which was impressive.

  ‘Wuruwuru!’ he repeated. ‘Dadadadadadadada!’

  The drunken man stared back for a second, then turned his gaze to the ground. He scuffed his bare feet in the dirt for a moment or so. ‘Yanu, yanu,’ he muttered, before shuffling pathetically off into the bushes.

  There was silence as they all watched him go.

  ‘Stay here,’ Thomas muttered to the boys, then he walked up to the hut and offered his hand to the man in the red coat.

  ‘Wolawara, gamaradu,’ he said. The two men shook hands.

  ‘Ngandu, Thomas,’ Wolawara said, ‘Ngandu,’ and there was an infinite sadness in his voice.

  ‘No harm is done,’ Thomas replied. ‘Gamarada, gay, gay.’

  James watched, awestruck. ‘Grandpa Thomas is speaking his language,’ he whispered to William. Never before had James heard a white man talk to a native in anything other than New South Wales pidgin English. ‘I’ve never seen anyone do that before.’

  ‘And you never will again,’ William replied quietly with obvious pride. ‘It is the native tongue of the Gadigal people, a clan of the Dharug, Grandpa told meso.’

  Ignoring the boys, the two men squatted on the ground beside the hut.

  ‘We must stay here until we are asked to join them,’ William instructed. ‘And you are to tell no-one that Grandpa Thomas speaks their tongue, James. No-one. Only Hannah and I know, and now that he has let you into the secret, you must never breathe a word.’

  James nodded, still staring, eyes like saucers, at his grandfather squatting in the dirt with Wolawara.