ABBY (An excerpt)

A novel Based loosely on true events

 

 

 

 

 

" ABBY" ( Excerpt from first chapter )

Marvellous Melbourne

1895

A scourge as swift as winter nightfall, had the residents of Brunswick by the scruff of the neck exposing human frailty at its most devastating. The hushed cry of hopelessness had become a daily lament as distraught mothers powerlessly watched their children die of Diphtheria; a hideous curse that showed neither compassion nor preference as it slithered through the cracks of every run-down house in Garcy street, the centre of which, was a constant inferno of contaminated linen and clothing.

The stench of the billowing smoke transformed the normally busy thoroughfare into a backstreet of shadows and uncertainty; still the frenzied infection raged. On the day of Robert Blake’s ninth birthday his father died, and within a week his two brothers also perished. The small boy’s fear escalated as the people he loved were taken from him one by one. The only doctor assigned to the area was powerless. Large kettles of water simmered on stoves slightly relieving the distress of sufferers, whose throats had all but closed up. Robert failed to understand why he and his mother had escaped a visit from the grim reaper. ‘Am I gonna get it too mum?’

‘I don’t know, but you and I are getting out of here. I don’t want you to worry about a thing, haven’t I always looked after you?’ He scanned the squalor that was their home. ‘Yes.’

‘Don’t dilly dally, go and put your things in a bag, I’ll be back soon.’ Robert did as he was told; he had become hardened to the offensive stench that filled his nostrils. There was a better place out there somewhere and it seemed that his mother was to be his ticket out. Any connections he had to Garcy Street went to the grave with his father and brothers.

The Blake’s were only one of the many needy families who lived on the wrong side of a well-defined line with no middle ground. People were judged according to the state of their appearance and which church they attended. The list of priorities in the Blake household was long; pretentious extras were never considered. 

Robert’s father had always set a solid work example by claiming hard-to-find odd jobs that afforded the family rent payment and one modest meal a day. The growing city was crowned “Marvellous Melbourne” by the wealthy, but to the destitute freezing in winter and sweltering in summer, there was nothing “marvellous” about it.

A neighbour had slipped Robert’s mother an address in Fitzroy; it was the only option for her. She was an uneducated woman with a nine-year-old child in tow and had convinced herself that what she was doing was necessary. After the pauper burials there had been no time to mourn. ‘Come on Robert hurry yourself, I’ve arranged a home for us thanks to Mrs Drummond, I’m to start work today.’

‘What kinda’ work mum?’

‘Cooking and cleaning…what does it matter? Your belly will be full and that’s all you need to know.’

‘Will I be going to school?’ Robert’s eyes were veiled with uncertainty, but having always been told sternly that “only sissies cry” he held back the tears.

‘Of course, and a fine school it is.’ He thought fleetingly about her ability to keep moving, she was strong and he put complete trust in her and silently vowed never to give her cause to worry.

Much of Melbourne’s vice such as the opium dens of the Chinese quarter and the red- light districts were well known as the seedier side of the city. Gentlemen of good breeding frequently visited the latter; they were always eager to pay big money for the kind of short-lived thrill they would never find at home. Those men were under the false impression that their twisted behaviour stayed beneath the covers of the brothel beds, but although their timid wives did not know detail, they met for tea weekly and ridiculed their weak husbands with contempt.

Every one of the ladies had been told by their frosty mothers to be demure about their husband’s indiscretions; they were mice stuck in a rut of obedience. Their tea parties were anticipated with the promise of fruitful chatter. They played pot shot guessing games that were both amusing and degrading. Their “dry-as-dust” lives were invigorated for a short time as in the privacy of their beds they cried softly about the sacrifice of “unsuitable” lost love; an eternal pipe dream never experienced.

Robert’s new home was a terrace house of three levels. He thought it was beautiful, luxurious. Opulent drapes trimmed with gold tassels trailed onto the thick Persian floor rugs of red and dark blue. Bright furnishings of thick velvet, the unmistakably clean aroma of furniture polish, huge potted parlour palms their saucers brimming with water, lanterns and ferns… he stood gaping at its magnificence. ‘Shut your mouth Robert lest a fly makes its home in your hollow tooth!’ 

The downstairs was all froth and bubble, especially in the night as he slept. Every day a freshly cooked spread was brought to the upstairs attic room where he and his mother lived. He was alone much of the time and missed his father who had been truly blessed with wisdom, he had answers to every question. Without exception his boys thought he was a genius and listened keenly as he told long stories with such breathtaking realism that a brightly coloured picture had been etched into their imaginations about the days of the “wild colonial boys” in particular the thieving and murdering Kelly gang whose leader Ned was captured in 1880 and hanged at the age of twenty-six. Robert also craved the teasing and rough play of his brothers, which confused him; he had always thought he hated that.

At the new posh school his classmates tormented him, following him home loudly branding his mother a w***e. Robert, knowing the meaning of the insult, saw no reason for it and had dished out a few blood noses in her defence. Hell has to be a better place to spend six hours a day. The badgering never let up, he was relentlessly teased about his unsuitable clothes and felt wretched being the only one without a uniform. For as long as he could remember his mother had told her husband and sons: “Clothes do not make the man.” She wasn’t often wrong, but she had been wrong about that. For several months he had thought that his mother supported them both by cleaning the enormous house and felt sorry for her. He slept soundly upstairs where it was quiet and some distance away from the muffled seduction that took place in semi dark bedrooms downstairs.

Robert felt a need for fresh air on a hot Saturday night in January when sleep wouldn’t come. He had been told that under no circumstance was he allowed to venture downstairs after nine pm, but had never seen the sense in that. He skipped down the split-level staircase and was drawn to the lowing, cow-like groans coming from one of the rooms. He gingerly opened the door to a room that reeked of alcohol and saw His mother wrapped around a dribbling, slimy bloke; it changed his perception of women forever.

He had only seen something remotely similar on a dirty postcard that sharky, one of the boys in Garcy Street, carried around in his pocket.

Robert and his brothers had been given a brief lecture about “loose” women by their father, but not one of them could ever have imagined their mother like that.

The boy was frightened, ‘are you alright mum?’

‘Of course I am you idiot…. grow up! What do you think pays for that fancy bloody school you go to huh?’ The tone she used was out of character, and showing no modesty or remorse she stood naked, hands on hips in front of the stunned boy, her squinted eyes daring him to speak. There was an icy moment between mother and son that could never be thawed; his anxiety turned to fiendish hostility. ‘You want to do this…you like it, everyone at school was right, you are a w***e.’ It was the last time she saw her son; not that she ever spent one minute looking for him

.

Deep shame enveloped him. He ran until he was spent not realising that he was still in his pyjamas. He had always been afraid of dark streets and his vivid imagination would without fail provide him with clear illustrations of what lurked around corners. He squatted thinking he would not be seen, but hearing footsteps he crept down six or seven concrete steps that led to an unlocked door. Relieved he went inside, found a remote corner and huddled there trying not to think. The room was damp, but because the night still carried the heat of the day the puddles of water under his bare feet soothed him. He had been so proud of his mother, treasured her and deemed her untouchable; the appalling truth brought uncontrollable waves of sour bile into his mouth.

Robert hid in that corner for two days, hungry and aching with discomfort he sat behind a large barrel in his own urine. During that time he had heard deliverymen talking and discovered that he was in the cellar of a Collingwood pub. When the hotel owner found the boy trembling with fear, Robert thought he’d be booted out, but the man offered him the job of cellar boy, no questions asked. He said he would pay him a wage of two shillings a week and that he could keep any tips he was given. He also said that it was no skin off his nose if he wanted to continue living there. ‘There’s food in the kitchen… just ask the cook…how old are you boyo?’ The tall man peered at him through the thick glass of his spectacles.

‘Nine sir.’

‘I’ll find ye some clothes.’ The man spoke in a mixture of Irish brogue and broad Australian lingo, Robert nodded gratefully. ‘What’s the name of this place sir?’

‘The Settlers Inn.’ Robert thought it was a good name and liked its owner, whose copious beer belly hung heavily over his belt. He worked hard at impressing the old man who had introduced himself as Daniel Ryan. The following day a pile of well-worn clothes, blankets and pillows were thrown on the cobblestone cellar floor. ‘Much obliged Mr Ryan.’

‘Winters comin’ I don’t want ye gettin’ sick, haven’t got the time or the know how to play nursemaid to a carrot-headed scallywag like you.’ The old man wondered what kind of mother would let her kid stray like that, but decided he didn’t want to get involved, instead he would do what he could for the boy while he remained under his roof.

Robert’s aim was to keep the job until he had saved enough money and found within himself the kind of unflinching boldness he would need to make his way alone. His duties were not too taxing and mostly consisted of mopping floors and polishing the bar. He had demonstrated his worth and was called on occasionally to work behind the bar pulling she-oak, the popular name for colonial beer, and as it turned out he was good at it. He had worked at the hotel for eight years saving most of his wage. He took advantage of the drunken sods when they offered generous tips, stuffing the money into an old sock and hiding it in an empty cellar barrel covered with hessian sacks. He kept an ear to the ground and became well informed about the riches to be made in central Victoria. The scruffy weather beaten men drinking at the bar came to trade their gold pieces for cash. The more they drank, the more they talked… ‘They’re trippin’ over nuggets the size of watermelons.’

Robert had suffered at the hands of some of these men. There had been a group of four or five perverts not fussed about gender, in fact Robert knew that even the dogs, if they couldn’t get out of the way fast enough, were subjected to acts of sodomy. Robert was mostly able to dodge their unwanted groping; he loathed them and was driven to put himself in a secure enough position to get out of there. He had learned that sex was not just a pastime, but for many a need as urgent as the call of a full bladder; his thoughts strayed unwittingly to his mother.

He often wondered if Mr Ryan knew what really went on in the cellar of the Settlers Inn at night, and had given some thought to letting him know…but that would have made him a boy, and by then he saw himself as a man. He could have spent his nights in a comfortable bed at a fine hotel like the Tankerville Arms where men of letters stayed, but at threepence a night it would eat into his savings and before he knew it he would be an old cellar boy with a life unlived.

Once his stash passed the hundred pound mark he thanked Daniel Ryan with sincere appreciation and hitched a ride on the back of a gold diggers wagon with the money secure in his boot; he was headed for Central Victoria. Thoughts of his mother had on occasion disturbed him, but as the slow clip-clop of the horse and the fresh spring breeze calmed his muddled head he resolutely told himself that she no longer mattered; she never would again.

Robert reached Castlemaine four days later and found work immediately at one of its many hotels. He spotted a livery stable where he had asked the blacksmith if he would loan out a horse for a fee. ‘I surely will son, just mind that you take good care of him now.’ Whenever he had time Robert would ride the bush trails with a dogged determination geared towards buying land not too far from Maryborough. And indeed he purchased twenty-five acres at a cost of one pound per acre from the government land authority, a good property with a flowing creek; he was truly happy for the first time in almost ten years.

According to popular opinion anyone could buy a piece of land in these parts and find gold just beneath the surface, however, if he had taken a closer look he would have seen that all the government land had been well picked over. When the day of freedom dawned he bought a pickaxe, shovel and wheelbarrow, quit his job and set about building a stone three-room cottage within access to the creek where crystal-clear water rippled gently over the stones. He also erected two large corrugated iron tanks to collect rainwater. While digging the boulders out of the hard ground he was actively looking for gold, but found only powdery alluvial stuff that couldn’t be separated from the dirt no matter how hard he tried. Apparently the Chinese had found a way, but they weren’t in a rush to talk about it. Robert was frustrated beyond words, he had imagined his bush block would yield a rich return, but it had nothing to offer him. The thought of wasted funds infuriated him and for some time he was in a rut about what to do next. He had become an experienced bartender by then and managed to secure a job at one of the finest hotels in Maryborough. He spent most of his earnings on a permanent room at the establishment and the rest on alcohol; he became a laughing stock. After seven years of backbreaking barrel lifting and bar work he was fired for punching a customer senseless, the lout had branded him a lame brain with a worthless piece of land and no money sense; it was a verbal attack that unleashed years of repressed rage in Robert and consequently he was given a solid kick in the arse and thrown into the street by the publican whose customers were always right.

He met Mary Hurst on that day, when in the pouring rain he lay face down in the mud. She sat him up gently, and taking a clean handkerchief from inside her coat sleeve, wiped his forehead with the genuine love and care that a good mother would show her only son; he was instantly smitten.

Mary was an only child. Her mother had died in England at the age of forty. Her father was lonely and determined to immigrate to Australia. He realised his dream when both he and his daughter stepped aboard a large sailing ship headed for Port Philip Bay. He was always crowing that the climate would be better for his bronchial condition. Not once had the old b*****d asked Mary whether she liked the idea. Within ten years he died of pneumonia. Melbourne had not been as warm as expected.

Mary was alone, but far from lonely. She was happy making her own decisions. She hated the clamour of Melbourne and made her way inland on foot along the well-known Calder highway looking for friendlier people and warmer weather. She was offered a very welcome ride now and again, usually when she was dog tired and ready to collapse. She was the kind of girl who oozed grit from every pore. She wandered off the highway into thick bushland, just to see where she would end up, and it was then that she almost tripped over Maryborough.

She noticed a woman sitting on a bench beneath the largest spreading tree she had ever seen. The lady was openly distressed. Mary sat beside her. ‘Hello I’m Mary Hurst.’ The woman’s heartfelt tears unsettled Mary’s usual cheery mood. ‘What’s your name?’ When the woman ignored her Mary thought she’d been impudent. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’ The woman looked at the girl’s beautiful features. ‘ My God I was miles away…I’m Georgia Kenny.’ Treading carefully Mary managed to extract information that explained the woman’s distress and within minutes had secured a nursemaid’s job that entailed caring for Mrs Kenny’s ten-year old son. The poor woman had lost her husband only a few months prior and was worn out from the constant attention needed by her sick child. ‘What’s wrong with him ma-am?’

‘No-one seems to know Mary, but there’s one thing for sure he’s heavy and difficult to handle… do you think you’re up to the task?’ Remaining unencumbered, Mary’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes ma-am, I love children.’

‘Then it’s settled. I firmly believe that you’re an angel from heaven.’ Mary was happy to take the compliment. ‘Thank you ma-am.’

‘Call me Georgia won’t you?’

‘Georgia.’ She said the name with such a dreamy expression on her face that the older woman had to stifle a giggle.

Mary worked most nights and at times wouldn’t have a break for a week or more; it all depended on Georgia’s own health. Consequently Robert and Mary saw each other an average of an hour or two per week for twelve months, which didn’t fit in with his plan to sleep with her, besides she had told him that she was a good girl and that he could forget about romps in the hay until they were married. He cursed her behind her back for taking the moral high ground and stopped seeing her, thinking she would come crawling on all fours begging him to take her home; that never eventuated. Robert became more aggressive and had a giant chip on his shoulder; the years had been a stern teacher and he had, with some difficulty, tried to curb his behaviour, but he was well known to the Maryborough police and spent more nights in the gaol house than out of it; Mary, because of her busy schedule, was never aware of this.

Robert asked her to marry him in March of 1913. In his haste to bed her it didn’t occur to him that her fervent ‘yes’ was anything other than love. They were married that same week; he did not know that Mary was in her fourth month of pregnancy. On their wedding day he showed her the cottage with pride, but her disappointment was evident. It was barely habitable. She did feel however, that given time she could make a difference. Mary’s pregnancy soon became obvious and a betrayed Robert went into a blood and thunder silence that festered and grew like a neglected wound.

Reviews

[Woody]

what language! wondefully penned. exquisite writing. great story.

[wordman]

this is an amazing story I really loved it I know I would love the book

[emmajoy]

What wonderful writing. You took me into a different world, Helen, wrapped fiction around historical facts, gave the boy then the man a realy believable past and present, now I want to move into the future with you. All your characters are true, both the sad and the sadder still. Seems Robert might have quite a mixed life ahead of him; will be interesting to see what happens from now on. This has some real meat to it..

[An owl on the moon]

You create such a deep ambiance... the colors and hues of the world in time gone by... So much within the characters come to life.. to light.. your descriptions make this such an emotive, gripping scene. One could get lost within your world.. and not want to be found.

[Keith]

Great read with almost lost langauge from our past 'haven’t got the time or the know how to play nursemaid to a carrot-headed scallywag like you.’. A reminder of the touch times of our gandparents.

[Wolfwind]

Beautifully rich with imagery and a real sense of emotion. The tale easily takes hold of the reader and blossoms in the mind and imagination as we ponder what is next upon the journey that has begun.

Always a pleasure to read your ink!

Aaron

[s.r.knight]

I think that this was written beautifully. I wish my scrawls could compare to this. The writing was so eloquent and flowed seamlessly. Well done. I'm jealous.