The talented mrs greenwa.., p.22
The Talented Mrs Greenway, page 22
She pushed open the panelled door and approached a young man, head buried in a ledger, seated at a desk. ‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Reibey.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘And you are?’
‘My name’s Greenway, Mary Greenway.’ No Mary Merino here; his canny gaze would pick her lie in a moment. ‘I have an English promissory note which I would like to exchange.’
He scrambled to his feet. ‘I’ll see if Mrs Reibey is available.’
Mary wandered around the high-ceilinged room, the walls lined with paintings of trading ships, the name of each engraved on a brass plate attached to the frame.
By the time the young man returned she’d made a full circuit of the room and waited at the door, peering out into the bustling activity of George Street. ‘Mrs Reibey will see you now. Follow me.’ He led the way up a flight of stairs, knocked on the first door he came to and opened it without waiting for a reply. ‘Mrs Greenway, ma’am.’
‘Come and sit down.’ A plump-faced woman, with a pair of pince-nez balanced precariously on the bridge of her nose, gestured to the chair across the desk.
‘So, Mrs Greenway. Your husband is the architect, I presume. I’ve heard a fair bit about him. Governor Macquarie seems to think he’s got a lot to offer the colony.’
That was encouraging but how would she know? Perhaps she dined at the governor’s table—all well and good if you were a free settler with money behind you.
‘The situation has changed a lot since I arrived and now we have to deal with the aspirations of the free settlers and the military, who like to see themselves as a cut above us mere mortals.’
Mary narrowed her eyes; was she saying what she thought? Had this woman, Mary Reibey, come out here as a convict? Surely not. She looked no more than forty, with her thick brown hair, shot with occasional strands of grey, pinned practically in a low chignon. How to ask the question? The hawker had said she was one of the richest traders in the country. Not that she was once a convict. Curiosity bubbled like a cauldron. She couldn’t ask. It simply wasn’t done. ‘You’ve been in the colony for some time?’
A smile tweaked the corner of Mrs Reibey’s lips. ‘Indeed I have. I arrived in 1792 at the tender age of thirteen.’
‘But how …’ Mary waved her hand around the office, at the sumptuous desk with its leather insert, the comfortable chairs, the bookshelves housing row upon row of bound ledgers, the paintings on the walls, trading ships, and through the window men swarming like ants unpacking the latest cargo.
‘My husband died some years ago, leaving me with seven children and even more business interests. It seemed a shame to let all our hard work go to waste. Opportunities abound for a woman of education and talent, away from the uncompromising attitudes of England.’ Mrs Reibey rested her elbows on the polished cedar and propped her chin on her interlaced fingers. ‘Do you have a talent, Mrs Greenway?’
A flush heated Mary’s cheeks. Hardly a talent, nothing that could be mentioned in the same breath as this woman’s achievements. ‘Not what I would call a talent but an interest in architecture, that I share with my husband.’
‘Ah! You and Mrs Macquarie have something in common then.’
Mary couldn’t imagine she’d ever be in a position to find out.
‘She’s a delightful person and very interested in the architectural development of the colony.’ Mrs Reibey pushed back her chair, took a key from her pocket and placed it on the desk. ‘Shall we conclude our transaction?’
Mary handed over the promissory note.
‘Ten guineas, drawn on the High Street Bank, Bath. I can’t see that would be a problem.’ She held the paper up to the window and squinted at it through her pince-nez, twisting and turning it in the shaft of sunlight.
‘Hopefully in the new year you will be able to take such notes directly to the Bank of New South Wales.’ She gave a satisfied smile, which might possibly have been a smirk. ‘Despite the refusal of the Colonial Office in London to provide funds, we’ve taken matters into our own hands and raised the money through public subscription. The premises will be in Macquarie Street.’
Having unlocked the top drawer of her desk, Mrs Reibey counted out a variety of coins and notes and slid them across the desk before standing and holding out her hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs Greenway. If I can be of any further assistance, please don’t hesitate to call on me.’
With a polite smile, Mary slipped the money into the reticule tucked in her basket and made her way out of the office, her mind whirling at the variety of characters who called the colony home.
A constant heckling and buffeting greeted Mary the moment she set foot inside the Commissariat Store, where she found a quiet corner to give herself a moment to recover her senses and plan her route—salted meat, pork and beef. She’d happily give away both in exchange for fresh meat, but it was harder to come by, so it would have to wait until another day.
Rations kept a body alive but there were no luxuries. Enough flour and maize to make a gritty loaf of bread a day and a pound of meat, usually salted, less if it was pork, a paltry amount of sugar and a quarter of a pound of tea.
She waited patiently in the queue, her gaze darting this way and that. Some mangy turnips, onions and cabbage on the stall to her right. A strange assortment of dresses, fit for the theatre or a whorehouse—something Leah would relish—tumbling out of a leather trunk, and leaning against the brick wall next to the doors was a dilapidated pair of leather chairs which with a bit of love and polish would be a delight. The money clinked tantalisingly in her reticule.
She took two steps and stopped as the woman behind her elbowed her aside, then she changed her mind. Food first, luxuries later. ‘Excuse me.’ Mary nudged her way back into the line, refusing to acknowledge the string of words that would have made a sailor blush.
She whipped around.
‘Oi! Mary Merino. It’s me, Bill.’
Her pounding heart settled. The blue-eyed Hawkesbury trader. The very man. Her shopping could wait.
‘Bill. I was looking for you. I’m in need of seeds for my garden and some fruit trees. Have you still got that rag rug and those basins and bowls? Can you help me?’
‘Can you pay?’
‘Yes, I can,’ she huffed, willing the colour in her cheeks to fade. ‘I’ve just been to see Mrs Reibey.’
‘In that case, come with me. My dray’s out the back.’
Mary followed Bill through the throng and out behind the building where she’d first found him, her mind darting this way and that. If a thirteen-year-old girl could rise to the position of one of the colony’s richest traders then the world was at Francis’s feet. She gave a little skip and caught up with Bill. ‘Did Mary Reibey come to the colony as a convict?’
He let out a huge belly laugh. ‘Indeed she did, not any old convict either. A horse thief no less, dressed as a boy and calling herself James Borrow, to boot. They didn’t get wise to it until the doctor examined her after she’d been convicted. Mind you she doesn’t usually advertise the fact these days. You must have had quite a chat.’
‘We did. She’s a fascinating woman. She made me realise the opportunities women have right under our nose, if only we are brave enough to take them.’
‘I reckon you’re brave enough, Mary Merino. Come on, let’s see what I’ve got for you.’
As before, Bill’s laden dray was filled to the brim with anything and everything anyone could want. ‘Have you still got that bucket you wouldn’t sell me last time?’
He winked. ‘Might have something better for the architect’s wife.’
She groaned. So much for keeping Francis out of her dealings. ‘If you know who I am why did you call out to Mary Merino?’
He lifted his shoulders. ‘If that’s what you want to call yourself, that’s your business.’ His shrewd gaze made her skin prickle. ‘As you’ve just discovered there’s plenty who reinvent themselves. Besides, it suits you, Mary Merino. Just be careful—there’s a strict line between emancipists and exclusives, and God help you if you try to cross it.’
For goodness sake, what did it matter? They were all in this together, trying to do the best they could. In a show of bravado Mary thumped her hands on her hips. ‘Are you going to talk all day or are you going to sell me the goods I’m after?’
‘Depends what you want.’
And that was where she needed his help. ‘I want vegetables I can plant now, and fruit trees, oranges, lemons, apples, pears, whatever you can get me, and some chickens, point of lay pullets.’ Or so Hannah had informed her. ‘Not roosters.’
He lifted the lid of an old timber box, rummaged inside and produced a pile of folded pieces of newspaper. ‘Cabbage, carrot, onion, parsnip, spinach, turnip, swede.’ He thumped each one down on the back of the dray. ‘I’ve got seed potatoes, asparagus crowns, rhubarb too—come spring you’ll thank me for those. Get them in quick as you can, give them a start before the weather cools down.’
‘I’ll take them. What about fruit trees?’
‘Ain’t got none today. You can put in an order. You want them bare rooted to plant in winter.’
Bare rooted? What in heaven’s name did that mean? Did trees grow if their roots were bare? Where was Hannah when she needed her? She’d know, or she’d know who to ask. ‘I’d like orange and lemon trees.’
‘Leave them till the soil warms up again, in spring.’
‘Right, I want two of each.’ Especially the orange trees, in memory of Mr Bent who unknowingly had provided her with succour and comfort in the time of her greatest need. ‘Next time you’re here.’
‘Can’t guarantee I’ll have them next time. You’ll just have to call in.’
She balanced her basket on her hip and reached for the seeds.
Bill’s warm hand came down on hers. ‘Payment first. That’ll be two shillings for the seeds and five for the trees.’
‘That’s daylight robbery.’
‘No, it ain’t. It’s Sydney Town prices. Want them or not?’
‘Two now, the other five shillings when I get the trees. Unless you’ve still got the bucket and the rag rug.’ She glared into his eyes, trying to ignore the twinkle of amusement.
‘Right you are.’ He dropped the seeds into her basket package by package. ‘You’ll want some good strong fencing, too. Keep the ferals out.’
‘What ferals? We don’t see many kangaroos in George Street. We’ve got fencing.’ She pulled out two shillings and offered them in the palm of her hand.
‘Human kind, not the animal variety. If that lot grows, you’ll have enough to feed the neighbourhood. Why don’t I call in and drop off the rug. I haven’t got it with me today.’
‘And the buckets?’
‘Them too, and I can check the fencing at the same time. You can show me where you want to put the fruit trees.’
Mary tucked the seeds down into her basket, more to give herself time to think than anything else. There was something about his brash manner that made her trust him, and he certainly seemed to know his way around town. ‘Thank you. That would be very helpful. We live on the corner of …’
‘George and Argyle, Redfern’s old barrack.’ He grinned down at her.
Twenty-Three
Mary pushed aside the town plan and wiped the damp hair from her forehead. She couldn’t think straight since summer had arrived in an explosion of hot, humid days. ‘Hannah, I’m going to take a walk. I promised Francis I’d have this plan finished but there’s something wrong with the coastline. I need to go and have a look. I’ll take Frankie with me—a birthday treat, it’s not every day a boy turns three. We’ll see if there’s any fish to be had at the same time. I quite fancy a pie.’
‘Are you sure? George and William can keep an eye on Frankie, and Caroline’s asleep.’
‘No, Hannah, I’m determined. Please go and call Frankie for me while I find my bonnet.’ She collected her basket and tucked her sketchpad under the chequered cloth and within a matter of moments was outside with Frankie’s sweaty little hand clasped in hers, to prevent him dodging out amongst the carts and barrows and getting trampled. Only a few weeks after she’d arrived in the colony a poor little boy had been run over and hadn’t lived to tell the tale. Some said it was the governor’s carriage, but there was so much scuttlebutt in the colony a body never knew who to believe.
‘Come along, Frankie. We’ll walk over to see the ships and then go down and see if we can find the fisher women. You can have a play on the sand and paddle your feet. What do you think?’
He turned his shining face up to hers and nodded furiously. Despite their restricted diet his ruddy cheeks, clear skin and bonny good health put the two older boys to shame. At his age they’d been pale little things but life in the colony had its advantages. The children all seemed to thrive, as long as they didn’t come to grief around the bustling port.
Their walk took them past the Commissariat Store and the wharves and then across the Tank Stream, each with their thumb and forefinger clamping their noses. Frankie darted ahead towards the rocks on the point and barrelled straight into two immaculately dressed gentlemen leaving the governor’s Domain.
‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ she puffed as she pulled up short. ‘Mr Bent, good morning.’ And, unless she was very much mistaken, the tall, burly man with him was his brother. She smoothed down her skirt and waited for an introduction.
Silence hung as Frankie shuffled his feet and the two Mr Bents studied her as though they’d narrowly missed treading in an offensive pile of animal droppings. ‘Are you acquainted, Jeffery?’ The other Mr Bent peered down his aquiline nose and sniffed.
‘I don’t believe we are.’ He gave a curt nod and stepped around them.
Mary stood, mouth gaping, as their loud conversation carried on the breeze. ‘The convict architect’s wife and one of her brats unless I’m mistaken.’
‘I trust they’re not heading for the Domain. I shall have words with Macquarie. It really isn’t suitable, the riff-raff making use of his private gardens.’
Mary gritted her teeth, restraining the impulse to charge after the man and remind him he’d as good as sought her company as a fare-paying passenger aboard ship. So much for planting an orange tree in his honour. Then Bill’s words came back, something about strict lines between emancipists and exclusives and God help anyone who tried to cross it. It seemed he was right, and attitudes changed the moment a person hit Sydney Town. ‘Come here, Frankie, this minute.’ She grabbed at his hand and towed him along the path.
It wasn’t until they’d clambered around the rocks and covered the first stretch of sand that she stopped and shaded her eyes. Farm Cove was empty. No sign of the fisher women or their canoes. There’d be no fish pie tonight. Maybe they were around the point. Her stomach gave a rumble of disappointment. ‘I’m sorry, Frankie, no fish pie today.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘You can take your boots off now.’
It was a perfect spot for the children, with no waves to speak of, just the gentle movement of the water in the protected cove. With the place to herself she settled down on the sand, her back against one of the rocks. Frankie dropped down beside her and struggled out of his boots—he was such an independent child, forced by his two older brothers to look after himself or be left behind. ‘Push your trousers up above your knees but don’t get them wet. That’s as far as you can go. No water to touch your clothes. Do you understand?’
He nodded furiously and took off across the sand. She waited until he’d found a spot at the water’s edge and dropped down to dig in the sand with a handy stick then delved into her basket and brought out her sketchpad.
She swung around, gazing up at the lie of the land with her eyes half closed, bittersweet memories surfacing as she imagined a grand mansion, in the style of Manali, overlooking the sweeping vista. Pencil in hand, she made the first few tentative lines. It was so long since she’d drawn for pleasure, and then instinct took over and she lost herself in the drawing as before her eyes the house took shape—part Manali, part pure imagination, on the rise above the cove.
When she next lifted her head her breath snagged, and her stomach lurched.
No sign of Frankie. He’d vanished.
A pile of sand and his stick marked the spot where he’d been digging. She leapt to her feet, pulled off her bonnet and scanned the stretch of sand back towards the Tank Stream.
Nothing.
She cupped her mouth. ‘Frankie! Frankie!’ Dropping her hands, she whirled around in the other direction. And there, almost out of sight, were two small boys running and chasing, arms spread wide like the gulls swooping across the water, droplets of water falling from their hands, glinting in the sunlight.
Unsure whether to be angry or relieved, she tucked her sketchpad into her basket, picked up Frankie’s boots and made her way down to the water’s edge.
‘Boys. Boys. Come here.’ Finally, her voice carried and Frankie stopped in his tracks. He turned to his little friend and then pointed at her and together they ran across the sand, their feet flying, kicking up the sand in their wake. They screeched to a halt in front of her, breathless and laughing.
‘You’ve found a friend.’
The boy scuffed his booted feet and looked down.
‘What’s your name?’
He looked up at her through pale lashes. Much the same age as Frankie, maybe a little younger, fair hair longish around his narrow face, a shadow of guilt on his sharp features. He most certainly wasn’t one of the boys who hung around the wharves making a nuisance of themselves and stealing anything that wasn’t tied down. The boy’s miniature velvet coat flapped in the breeze and his pristine white shirt spoke of wealth, more in keeping with Captain Piper or the Harrises and their lavish lifestyles.
‘Lachlan! Lachlan!’ A plaintive cry drifted down the beach. It came again. ‘Lachlan! Lachlan!’ The rising note of hysteria laced the breeze. One she recognised well enough—a mother’s panicked tones. She took Frankie’s hand in hers and grabbed the other boy before he could run away and marched them towards the woman. ‘Did you not tell your mama where you were playing?’
