be got to lie down beside the baby, although he was exhausted, close to tears, his voice gone high and querulous. Thornhill had hoped that he and Sal would be able to go back to the fire and talk, stitching up the nine-month’s gap in their lives, but the only way Willie would go to sleep was with Sal beside him, so the three of them lay down side by side. Sal had the last edge of the blanket. Thornhill was on bare dirt, listening for Willie to become quiet.
At last he felt Sal shift against him. He’s gone off, Will , she whispered. Poor little bugger .
They had not touched, other than that touch of leg against leg, up till now. He felt a kind of shyness: Sal had had her own voyage, invisible on the other side of the bulkhead, and who knows where she had arrived?
He thought she might be feeling the same. Her shoulder pressed against his and her leg was lining itself up alongside his, but diffidently, as if by accident. He could feel the warmth of her,her flesh and skin. He felt her hands moving over his chest and up to his face, working to remember the husband she knew.
Thank you Mrs Henshall for declining the indulgence , she cried, trying to whisper but blurting it out on a laugh, and in that moment she was with him again, that cheeky girl, his Sal, finding poor Susannah Wood funny. He laid a hand along her thigh, turned to her so he could dimly see her face, that he loved so well. He knew that she was smiling.
And Mrs Thornhill , he said. I got to thank her too, pet . Her fingers threaded themselves into his and squeezed hard. He heard that she was crying: but smiling too, crying and smiling both at once. Will , she whispered, and tried to say more, but the touch of their hands was all the words they needed.
~
The first morning, Thornhill wondered if the black man he had confronted in the darkness had been only a dream. By daylight, the memory of their conversation— Be off! Be off! —was hard to believe.
It was easier to turn to the familiar, this speck of England laid out within the forest. Sydney looked foreign, but in the ways that mattered to the Thornhills it was the Thames all over again. It had no means of surviving except for the thread that bound it to Home. The authorities hoped for crops and flocks eventually, but in the meantime the settlement turned inwards, towards the ships that brought the necessities of life. Between the wharf and these ships full of flour and pease, nails and bonnets, brandy and rum, the boats of the watermen plied backwards and forwards just as they had done on the Thames.
Thornhill seemed to have been pulling on an oar all his life. It made little difference whether the water on which he did it was called the Thames or Sydney Cove.
He worked for many masters but in particular for Mr King, who had built one of the stone storehouses that had floated inThornhill’s vision that first day. Alexander King was a tidy fellow with tiny ears flat against his head and a dimple in his chin big enough to lose a boot in. He was a cheerful sort of man who took satisfaction in amusing people, and Thornhill always obliged. His laughter was all the more sincere for knowing that the joke was on Mr King.
Mr King had a finger in many pies, but the one of immediate interest to Thornhill concerned certain casks, containing certain fluids precious in the colony, which Mr King had caused to be brought on ships from Madras, from Calcutta, from the Indies. Mr King would come down in the morning, stand on the wharf in the sun and, with a list in his hand, punctiliously count the casks on their way to the Customs men: so many of Jamaican rum, so many of French brandy, so much Ceylonese gin. Paid up without a murmur, smiling as he did it, because he knew that other casks, not appearing on his list, were being looked after by night. That was Thornhill’s job: privily to convey those casks from the ships to a bay around the point from the settlement, where they were safe from the grasping hand of the
At last he felt Sal shift against him. He’s gone off, Will , she whispered. Poor little bugger .
They had not touched, other than that touch of leg against leg, up till now. He felt a kind of shyness: Sal had had her own voyage, invisible on the other side of the bulkhead, and who knows where she had arrived?
He thought she might be feeling the same. Her shoulder pressed against his and her leg was lining itself up alongside his, but diffidently, as if by accident. He could feel the warmth of her,her flesh and skin. He felt her hands moving over his chest and up to his face, working to remember the husband she knew.
Thank you Mrs Henshall for declining the indulgence , she cried, trying to whisper but blurting it out on a laugh, and in that moment she was with him again, that cheeky girl, his Sal, finding poor Susannah Wood funny. He laid a hand along her thigh, turned to her so he could dimly see her face, that he loved so well. He knew that she was smiling.
And Mrs Thornhill , he said. I got to thank her too, pet . Her fingers threaded themselves into his and squeezed hard. He heard that she was crying: but smiling too, crying and smiling both at once. Will , she whispered, and tried to say more, but the touch of their hands was all the words they needed.
~
The first morning, Thornhill wondered if the black man he had confronted in the darkness had been only a dream. By daylight, the memory of their conversation— Be off! Be off! —was hard to believe.
It was easier to turn to the familiar, this speck of England laid out within the forest. Sydney looked foreign, but in the ways that mattered to the Thornhills it was the Thames all over again. It had no means of surviving except for the thread that bound it to Home. The authorities hoped for crops and flocks eventually, but in the meantime the settlement turned inwards, towards the ships that brought the necessities of life. Between the wharf and these ships full of flour and pease, nails and bonnets, brandy and rum, the boats of the watermen plied backwards and forwards just as they had done on the Thames.
Thornhill seemed to have been pulling on an oar all his life. It made little difference whether the water on which he did it was called the Thames or Sydney Cove.
He worked for many masters but in particular for Mr King, who had built one of the stone storehouses that had floated inThornhill’s vision that first day. Alexander King was a tidy fellow with tiny ears flat against his head and a dimple in his chin big enough to lose a boot in. He was a cheerful sort of man who took satisfaction in amusing people, and Thornhill always obliged. His laughter was all the more sincere for knowing that the joke was on Mr King.
Mr King had a finger in many pies, but the one of immediate interest to Thornhill concerned certain casks, containing certain fluids precious in the colony, which Mr King had caused to be brought on ships from Madras, from Calcutta, from the Indies. Mr King would come down in the morning, stand on the wharf in the sun and, with a list in his hand, punctiliously count the casks on their way to the Customs men: so many of Jamaican rum, so many of French brandy, so much Ceylonese gin. Paid up without a murmur, smiling as he did it, because he knew that other casks, not appearing on his list, were being looked after by night. That was Thornhill’s job: privily to convey those casks from the ships to a bay around the point from the settlement, where they were safe from the grasping hand of the
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