Sarah Thornhill by Kate Grenville

had to tell him yes, he said. A little girl. Five or six year old.
    She’d be granddaughter to him, I said. And niece to me! What did he think, Jack, what did he make of it?
    He wants her, Jack said. Your pa wants her.
    Wants her, I said. How do you mean wants her?
    Says to me, she’s an orphan girl, he said. Best here with her kin. Wants me to fetch her. Not let her grow up a native, see. Thinks she’ll be better off here. Grow up white.
    Well and she is, I said. Half white.
    Half white, that’s right, Jack said. Half black too.
    Half black! I thought of a little girl with Will’s face, but skinny and raggy, living in a humpy, watching me ride along on Queenie.
    My niece. I was her auntie.
    Have a better life, wouldn’t she? I said. Here with us. With her kin.
    She got kin over there too, Jack said. Way they work things, everyone’s kin. I doubt they got a word even, for orphan.
    Turned my hand over, looked at the lines on the palm as if they’d tell him something.
    Damned if I know what’s best to do, he said.
    What’s her name? I said.
    He said a word that was no name I’d ever heard, to my ear nothing but noises strung together, gone as soon as he’d said them.
    Your pa wants it real bad, he said. Begged me, the tears standing in his eyes. But damned if I know. All’s I can think is, should of been me went down with that boat. Should of been me.
    But I wasn’t having that, and at last he let me take him in my arms.

B ACK FROM New Zealand, him and the girl, on a night of a sudden squall, the rain throwing itself against the house. They come into the parlour, Jack carrying the girl. Brought the night in with them. He gave me a smile, but his heart not in it. Put her down and she hung onto his coat like she’d never let go.
    She was little, five or six like Jack said, and dirty as you’d expect, coming all that way in the boat. A brown pinny on, and another kind of brown down the front where food or sick had been wiped at. Barefoot in spite of the wet and cold. Black hair hanging all over her face and her dark child’s hand fisted round the edge of Jack’s coat.
    Nothing of William about her that I could see.
    This the girl? Pa asked. You vouch, do you man? This the girl?
    Jack put his hand under the child’s chin, pushed her head up.
    Look Mr Thornhill, he said, see that face, that’s from your Will. Vouch or no vouch, this is the girl.
    He does not know vouch , I thought. But too proud to ask.
    It was true, she had a look of Will in the shape of her face. When he let go she looked down. You’d of thought she wasn’t breathing, she was that still. Like someone with the toothache hoping for the pain to ease.
    Glad to see you back safe, Pa said. And bringing her. I thank you for that. Will you take a glass with me now?
    Jack went to the chair and the girl stuck to him like a tick, four fingers and a dirty thumb latched round that edge of coat, head down as she shuffled with him.
    Going to fetch the girl had aged Jack, thinning him out in the face. And brought some kind of doubt over him.
    Now Dolly, Ma said, this is a poor orphan New Zealand girl. Will, dear soul that he was, he wanted us to take care of her.
    No, Meg, Pa said. Best we all know where we stand.
    Pulled the girl over to him in the armchair. She stood between his knees looking at the floor.
    This girl is Will’s child, he said.
    He was going to say something else. His fingers pressing the girl’s shoulder. His hands on her so big, I thought she’d be frightened, but she didn’t seem to be.
    Will’s child, he said again, as if the words gave him comfort. Mother a New Zealander, name of, what was her name again now Jack?
    Rugig, Jack said. Name of Rugig, Mr Thornhill.
    The girl heard her mother’s name in among all the talk she didn’t understand and her small dirty face lit up. But of course her mother was not here. Never would be. In this room her