Washerwoman's Dream Page 5

  Winifred was excited, wondering how her father would react to her mother’s new dress, but to her disappointment, when they got home Louisa folded it in tissue paper and placed it in a box under the bed. She hung Winifred’s plain grey flannel and brown head-cloth dresses behind the door. Winifred had tried them on, looking in her mother’s mirror. The brown head-cloth, with long straight sleeves, hung limply from her shoulders and she felt it made her look drab and ugly and the grey flannel prickled her skin. She knew it was no use complaining. She would have to wait until she was grown up before she could hope to have nice things like her mother.

  Her father didn’t ask to see her mother’s new dress or even about how Louisa had spent the money. He was intent on his preparations for leaving England. There was so much to organise and only a short time to do it. Once he had made up his mind he could see no reason to delay. He secured a berth on one of the Black Ball Line ships which was willing to accept land orders in exchange for passage to Australia.

  Within a few weeks everything was ready, their few possessions packed, including Wilfred’s paintbrushes, which he knew he would need to get him started in his new land. He put their furniture into store, planning to send for it once he was settled.

  The night before they were due to leave he tucked Winifred into bed and kissed her, ‘No more rats on the roof, no more stink from the soap works. Soon we’ll be in a place where the sun shines all day and where stars spangle the night sky like diamonds.’

  4

  SAYING GOODBYE TO ENGLAND

  THE CHILD HAD MIXED FEELINGS about the trip. On the one hand she wanted to please her father; on the other she shared Mrs Watkins’s fears about the perils of sea travel. She was also disappointed that she had to leave school, where she was doing so well. There had been the chance of becoming a teacher, but now that was gone. But she welcomed an escape from her parents’ quarrels, sharing her father’s feelings that once they were in Australia her mother would be happier and become a different person.

  On the day of departure, after a tearful farewell with Mrs Watkins the day before, Winifred stood on the wharf watching passengers going aboard — families laden with assorted bundles; women holding fretful children, clutching babies in shawls; men struggling up the gangplank, anxious to get settled before the ship left the channel and started rolling in the open sea.

  Women carrying baskets of apples and oranges added to the din with their calls of ‘Juicy oranges, rosy apples’. The lavender sellers joined in: ‘Who’ll buy my lavender? Lavender a penny a bunch.’ Others with armfuls of hand-knitted woollen shawls importuned travellers at the foot of the gangplank, urging them to ‘Feel the quality, m’lady, real Shetland wool. There won’t be nothing like it where you’re going.’ And the muffin man was there with a tray of muffins on his head, ringing a bell and calling, ‘Fresh muffins! Fresh muffins!’

  Winifred watched as two nuns in black habits and wimples struggled with a cabin trunk and a small hand organ until an elderly man in a tweed suit came to their aid. Winifred thought he would burst the buttons on his waistcoat as he lugged the organ under one arm and pushed his portmanteau with his foot, making slow progress up the gangplank, his face red with exertion and his chest heaving, until at the top she saw a man lean forward, take the organ and place it on the deck. He helped the old man on board and then went to the assistance of the two women.

  Winifred stared at the nuns with curiosity. One was fresh-faced and young; the other had a face like a withered apple, with splotches of colour on each cheek. Winifred wondered why they were moving to Australia. She couldn’t imagine spending weeks on board with these ‘papists’, as her father called anyone who was a Roman Catholic. ‘We’re British,’ he would say, ‘we have our own Queen. They take their orders from Rome.’ It was something the child wondered about but did not understand.

  The nuns and the old man disappeared from sight and the child turned her attention back to the wharf, watching as someone threw an apple core into the water. She turned when she heard her father’s voice. ‘Come along now, Winifred. Don’t stand there gawping.’

  Obediently, she picked up her bundle of clothes tied in a grey blanket. She was wearing her flannel dress and on her head a grey woollen cap from which her brown curly hair escaped. Her legs were encased in thick black stockings and her feet seemed to swim in her stout black leather boots. It was serviceable garb, the garb of a working man’s child. Her mother had made no attempt to make her look pretty and she clutched no doll or toy as many of the other children did. Though she was not an engaging child, there was something about her that made her stand out — her wide grey–green eyes, perhaps, which shone with intelligence, a look that belied her age.

  Her father, holding a battered suitcase on one shoulder and a large bundle tied in a calico sheet in the other, hustled her up the gangplank. His paintbrushes and tools were in a tin box which he pushed with his foot. He glanced back and called to his wife, who was standing uncertainly on the wharf. ‘Come along, Louisa. I want to get settled, otherwise we’ll only get what no one else wants. It’s a long way to Australia.’

  The young woman looked up at the sound of his voice, then looked away again. Her fair hair was caught loosely in a knot at the nape of her neck and she wore the purple velvet dress with the matching felt hat. In her hand she held a bunch of daffodils.

  Winifred looked down at her mother, standing apart, pensive, withdrawn. For the first time the child saw her as a person in her own right and not just her mother. She was so different from the other passengers in their serviceable greys and browns, the girls wearing pinafores to protect their dresses, the boys in knee-length navy serge trousers or brown tweeds with stout grey flannel shirts without a collar. Standing there in her finery, swaying slightly as the crowd jostled past, Louisa seemed like some rare exotic creature, a creature who did not belong in this setting. And then she looked up, her face drawn and pale, her eyes hidden behind her veil.

  Wilfred called to her again. This time his voice was impatient. ‘Don’t hang about. Come aboard, Louisa. It’s time to say goodbye to England. We’ll be sailing soon.’

  Louisa moved forward, dragging her carpet bag behind her. Wilfred pushed his way down to meet her. He picked up her bag and, taking his wife by the arm, propelled her up the gangplank until they were side by side on the deck. For a few seconds they swayed together, the slightly built young man and the beautiful young woman, while Winifred stood watching them. It was as if she did not exist, they were so intent on each other.

  She saw her mother lean forward to say something to her father, but she could not catch the words. Winifred was surprised at his reaction. He staggered and clutched at the rail for support. Then her mother moved towards her and kissed her on the cheek. The child was conscious of the daffodils in her mother’s arms as the petals brushed against her face. They felt cool and gave off a fresh, clean scent which she was to remember all her life with a feeling of pain. Her last memory of her mother was of seeing her running down the gangplank, her high-buttoned boots clattering and the carpetbag bumping along behind her, a trail of daffodils in its wake, as she pushed her way through the passengers coming aboard. As Winifred watched, she disappeared into the crowd.

  Winifred turned to her father, feeling bewildered. He had his face hidden in his hands, his shoulders were shaking. She walked towards him as the funnel let out a huge shuddering blast. The ‘all aboard’ had gone a long while before and she had watched friends and relatives making their way down the gangplank, then stopping to gather on the wharf, calling, ‘Don’t forget to write!’ and ‘God bless you!’ while they wiped tears from their eyes.

  She wondered what it would be like to have relatives to come and see you off. She knew her father had sisters who lived in Taunton. But it was a long way from London, and she’d never met them. She’d seen a daguerreotype of her grandparents, but they were strangers too. There was a brother with his wife in Australia, but her father had no idea where they were
or even if they were still alive. So for the moment there were just the two of them … all alone in the world … no mother … no Mrs Watkins with her bread and sugar, or an apple with a spot of brown that she couldn’t sell. Winifred thought that perhaps it made them special, just the two of them, like people in a book.

  Winifred looked up as the funnel gave another loud triumphant blast and snorted out a cloud of black smoke. She heard the command, ‘Weight anchor’, and knew that the great adventure was about to begin. Suddenly she was seized with a feeling of apprehension. She walked across to her father and took him by the hand. ‘They’re pulling up the anchor.’

  Her father turned his head and, dropping her hand, gripped her by both shoulders. ‘If anyone asks, your mother is dead.’ He shook her violently and she struggled to break free. ‘Your mother is dead — dead — do you understand? Dead, I say. You must never mention her name again.’

  Winifred could feel her teeth chattering; a cold wind had sprung up and she was very afraid. She thought of the long voyage ahead and the stories she had read of shipwrecks, of storms and sea serpents and one-legged pirates who came aboard and made the passengers walk the plank. Then she thought of Mrs Watkins and the day she told her that the gypsies might take her and she’d never see her mother again. It was something too awful to think about and she began to cry.

  Her father released her. ‘You’re cold, child. Let’s go below and find a spot to spread our blankets. I’ve got some muffins and a bottle of raspberry cordial in my bag.’

  5

  ALL AT SEA

  THE SHIP ON WHICH THE Oatens sailed was crowded, the sleeping quarters for the steerage passengers were uncomfortable and cramped. Out of England they ran into bad weather and many of the passengers became seasick, including Wilfred. Accustomed to a father who had always been strong and able to care for her, Winifred became alarmed, especially as his sickness seemed to drag on long after the high seas had abated and the other passengers were eating and moving around on the lower deck enjoying the sunshine and the balmy weather.

  She wondered what would happen to her if he died. She would have no one. The thought preyed on her mind but she had no one to tell her fears to. Then one day while she was sitting alone, Sister Angela, the older of the two nuns she had watched coming aboard, sat beside her and took her by the hand. ‘You are always on your own, little one. Have you no one travelling with you?’

  Winifred gazed into a pair of grey eyes, a soft upturned mouth and a wizened old face that wore a gentle smile.

  ‘Only my father and he’s sick.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  ‘He’s been seasick and he’s still not right. I’m worried that he might die,’ and she burst into tears.

  She felt Sister Angela’s arms about her and heard her say, ‘We will pray to Our Lady to make him better. But first dry your eyes,’ and she held a handkerchief to Winifred’s nose and said, ‘Blow.’ The child did as she was told and wiped her eyes, looking with surprise at the old nun in her severe black habit and wondering why she reminded her of Mrs Watkins when they were nothing alike.

  ‘You’d better take me to your father.’ Sister Angela gathered her long black habit into her hands so that it swept clear of the deck and clambered down the steep steps to where Wilfred was lying on his grey blanket, his eyes sunken, his unshaven face gaunt and pale. Sister Angela bent over him. ‘Peace be with you,’ she said, then turned to the child. ‘Fetch me a basin of water and a towel.’

  When Winifred returned, Sister Angela dipped the towel in the water and washed her father’s face and hands and then undid his flannel shirt and sponged his chest. ‘Don’t worry, child,’ she said to Winifred, who was standing watching, worrying in case her father got angry with her for talking to papists. But she was even more afraid that he might die.

  As if reading her mind, Sister Angela said, ‘Don’t worry. I nursed with Florence Nightingale in the Crimea. I know about these things. Your father is weak. How long since he’s eaten?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Winifred replied.

  ‘Go and find Sister Beatrice. Ask her to bring some gruel.’

  Under the ministrations of the two nuns Wilfred Oaten recovered enough to walk on deck, and the sea air gradually revived him, bringing the colour back into his cheeks. He didn’t seem to mind when Winifred sat with the two women while they read the Office or told her about God and his angels and the mother of Jesus. On Sundays when the nuns brought out their hand organ and conducted a service, playing while the steerage passengers sang hymns, Wilfred joined in. It was as if he knew how hard it was going to be to raise his young daughter without a woman by his side.

  Though the sea air revived Wilfred physically, it was a long while before he stopped grieving for his wife. He kept his own counsel and Winifred never confided in the nuns, who took it for granted that the child’s mother was dead.

  Winifred made one other friend on the ship. It was the old gentleman she had seen helping the nuns carry their gear on board. She was busy with her book and pencil one day, writing a story about mermaids in a magic cave beneath the ocean, when she saw a shadow beside her and looked up. ‘Well, young lady, I’m glad to see you at your lessons.’

  ‘I’m writing a story.’

  ‘May I see it?’ the man asked. She handed it to him and watched his face while he read it. She had seen him walking on the top deck and talking to the sailors but she did not know his name. Now he said, ‘My name is Smithers … and I think you’re a very clever little girl.’ He patted her on the head and pulled a tin out of his pocket. ‘Have a peppermint.’

  Winifred took one and found it so hot that her mouth tingled. She pushed it to one side with her tongue, and as soon as he resumed his walk, dropped it overboard, wondering if it would make the water taste like peppermint.

  After that they often had a conversation and he showed her his telescope, once letting her look through it at a whale spouting in the distance. He told her about the equator, that it was an imaginary line running around the earth, and she laughed, imagining a real lion running in circles all the time. ‘It’s always hot near the equator because of the angle of the sun. Days and nights are the same length. It gets dark very early.’

  Gradually, as the ship approached the equator, the passengers changed into cooler clothing and spent more time on deck, often sleeping there to get a breath of fresh air. Winifred changed into her brown head-cloth but the tight sleeves made it hot and uncomfortable, until Mr Smithers suggested to Sister Beatrice that they cut them off. ‘We can always stitch them on again,’ Sister Beatrice said and she unpicked the seams so that the child felt cooler.

  There was often lightning on the horizon and sudden showers of rain that swept over the salt-encrusted deck, washing it clean and sending the passengers scurrying for cover. Once the rain had passed, the air would be lighter, but then the harsh tropical sun would bake the decks again so that the waves of heat rose from the timbers, together with the stench of rotting seaweed and dried salt.

  Sometimes on hot nights, surrounded by other people tossing and turning restlessly, Winifred would lie awake looking at the stars that seemed very close, and once she saw a shower of shooting stars. Mr Smithers had told her about the dog star and one night he showed it to her through his telescope. ‘It’s real name is Sirius and sailors can use it to plot the course of their ships.’ The sight of it was a comfort to the child who imagined that it was shining for her alone. Other times as she lay awake Winifred would listen to the boards of the ship creaking, the water rushing underneath as the vessel steamed through the dark, the call of a night bird and the sighs and groans of other passengers. Sometimes she would hear her father call her mother’s name, but she never knew whether he was awake or asleep.

  Outwardly her father appeared to have made a full recovery from his illness. His face had tanned and he looked healthy, but he was still in the grip of a deep depression and kept to himself. If it had not been for the attention of
Mr Smithers, Winifred would have been very lonely. She did not join in with the other passengers as they played shove-halfpenny on deck or dangled a fishing line from the stern to give them some fresh fish and a change from the monotony of hard biscuits with salt beef. The apples and oranges that people had brought on board had been eaten. During the afternoon the women sewed or did embroidery and sat in little groups gossiping while the young children played around their feet.

  It was Mr Smithers who talked to Winifred of things she had never thought about before. ‘See that bank of cloud. It looks like a flock of sheep … they’re called cumulus, a big round mass of clouds, one on top of the other. They look as if you could walk on them but they’re only water. Water the sun draws up and then drops again as rain.’ And on windy days he would point out the long white clouds racing across the sky. ‘God’s picture gallery … see that alligator chasing a bear.’ Often by the time she found it the wind was already drawing it into a different shape. ‘There’s always something to see in the sky,’ he would say as he offered her a peppermint, which she no longer spat in the water because she had become accustomed to the peppery taste.

  Once he pointed to the horizon. ‘See how it looks as if it’s curving away? Once men thought the earth was flat and if you sailed too close you fell off the edge and got eaten by monsters.’ He laughed such a merry laugh, which set his watch chain rattling and his round stomach wobbling behind his waistcoat, that she couldn’t help laughing too. ‘Now we know that if you keep sailing in the same direction you’ll come back to where you started.’