The Gentleman's Garden

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, upon occupying the space that Lieutenant Smith had recently vacated. ‘I interrupted you, Mrs Vale. Please continue.’

  ‘We were speaking of Mrs Bent,’ Dorothea explained.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Mrs Bent is much troubled by her husband’s health,’ said Mrs Vale, to whom illness was a prime topic of conversation. ‘She is very much concerned that he may be afflicted by dropsy of the chest if he continues on his present course.’

  ‘Ah,’ Captain Gill repeated, gravely. ‘Yes, that would be unfortunate.’

  ‘I believe that his condition has been aggravated by his disagreements with the Governor,’ Mrs Vale went on, fanning herself feebly. ‘The Governor is being very difficult. He refuses to give Mr Bent and Mr Jeffery Bent enough space for their new courthouse. They require the whole northern block of the new hospital, but the Governor insists that Dr Wentworth have it. All for himself, can you imagine?’

  ‘The Governor has offered Mr Bent the northern half of the main building, and two rooms in the southern block,’ Captain Gill pointed out. ‘The northern block was built for Dr Wentworth. It was not designed as a courthouse.’

  ‘Nevertheless—an entire building for one man!’

  ‘And for all his children.’

  Mrs Vale sniffed. She evidently regarded this reference to Dr Wentworth’s children as verging on the indelicate, since many of them had been born out of wedlock.

  ‘Mrs Bent tells me that Dr Wentworth could easily be accommodated in the southern block,’ she said.

  ‘At the risk of ejecting the assistant surgeons?’

  Mrs Vale looked offended. Beside her, Captain Miller (who had been discussing horseflesh with Lieutenant Hemsworth) came to her defence.

  ‘Wentworth has his pick of the hospital rooms,’ he said, ‘because Wentworth is one of the contractors. His claims would be laughed at, otherwise.’

  ‘You think so?’ said Captain Gill, still speaking very quietly and pleasantly. ‘But have you been invited into his house, Miller? It is in such a wretched state of decay as to be unsafe to reside in.’

  ‘Why should I enter the house of such a rascal? I would as soon frequent Mrs Waples’ establishment on Pitt Street.’

  There was a pause. Dorothea had no knowledge of Mrs Waples’ establishment, but realised that it must possess a very bad reputation indeed when she heard Captain Gill clear his throat, and saw Captain Miller flush. The latter officer was not one of Dorothea’s favourites. Heedless and abrupt, he was exactly the sort of man who would mention vulgar places in polite company.

  ‘In any event,’ he continued, rather hurriedly, ‘there is no reason why the lawyers should not have first choice. No reason except the Governor’s wishes.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Captain Gill replied, ‘there is every reason. I am informed that the rooms in the northern block are far too small to accommodate the business of a courthouse.’

  ‘Indeed? Then why should Mr Bent want the northern block?’

  Captain Gill shrugged. ‘I can only speculate,’ he said drily, ‘that Mr Bent and his brother might wish to make use of the coach house and stables that were built for Dr Wentworth.’

  Mrs Vale gasped. She straightened, and two hectic spots of colour appeared on her pale cheeks. ‘Captain Gill!’ she exclaimed. ‘That is a most ungenerous remark, sir! Kindly remember to whom you are speaking! Mr Bent is a very good friend.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Captain Miller, with almost a sneer, ‘Gill will hear no one question the Governor’s decisions. He would rather attack the motives of everyone else.’

  ‘Since His Excellency is my Commander in Chief, sir,’ Captain Gill rejoined, for the first time allowing a hint of steel to enter his voice, ‘I am only doing my duty, in that regard.’

  ‘Um—Captain Gill,’ said Dorothea, desperate to turn the subject. She was quite flustered; disagreements of this sort were, in her opinion, to be avoided at all costs. ‘I have been wondering if, in your position as Acting Engineer, you might have acquired, or perhaps secured the use of, any books on gardens?’

  ‘Gardens, Mrs Brande?’

  ‘Or—or agriculture. Farming. The cultivation of crops. But particularly gardens. The designing of gardens.’

  ‘The designing of gardens,’ said Captain Gill, thoughtfully, adding after a pause: ‘I must confess, Mrs Brande, that I have no such book to offer you. But I understand that Mrs Macquarie possesses a small library of useful books. It is quite possible that she brought from England a pattern book of garden designs. Shall I make inquiries for you?’

  Dorothea replied that she would be most grateful. Then the talk moved to safer subjects—fruit trees, apple jam, the weather—as a restlessness seized those members of the group who were not satisfied to sleep off the effects of their meal. Soon Charles approached, and urged Dorothea to join him; he was intending to take a short walk. According to Lieutenant Madigan, there was a very fine aspect to be enjoyed from the top of a neighbouring promontory. The approach was neither too steep nor too heavily wooded, and the Molles were eager to attempt it.

  Dorothea demurred.

  ‘In this heat?’ she said. ‘Charles, only consider …’

  ‘It will be cooler up there,’ he replied, pointing. ‘This inlet is sheltered, but up there you will feel the sea breeze.’

  ‘My dear—’

  ‘Come,’ he said, and she capitulated, knowing how deeply he resented being defied in public. A little party was formed, led by the Colonel and Mrs Molle. Canteens of water were distributed. The cricket game was interrupted as young officers, in a somewhat hilarious mood, acknowledged the departure of their commander.

  Lieutenant Madigan led the way. It was he who picked a path between rocky outcrops and twisted tree roots. (The ground was so rocky as to prohibit a very dense undergrowth from forming.) Here and there, the rocks—which Captain Wallis identified as ‘freestone’ or ‘sandstone’—had been weathered into remarkable shapes, sometimes assuming the appearance of a wave, sometimes hollowed out so that miniature caves had been formed, sometimes presenting a jagged profile not unlike that of a man, or beast. The children picked up curious seedcases, many of them also bearing a strange resemblance to some monstrous countenance. But despite the distraction that these objects provided, the little ones soon began to protest against the length of the walk—whereupon they were permitted to ride on the shoulders of Lieutenants Smith and Cox, and in the arms of Assistant Surgeon Bush. Captain Wallis, who painted pictures, spoke with authority on the views to be enjoyed around Sydney Cove. Mrs Molle reminisced about Egypt. Colonel Molle, who was rather stout, fell a little behind, and eventually called a halt.

  ‘Let us catch our breath,’ he advised, ‘before attempting the steepest ascent. Where are those canteens? The ladies, of course, will precede the gentlemen. A sip of water, Mrs Brande?’

  Refreshments were enjoyed as the company rested. Glimpses of blue could be discerned through a canopy of leaves, but sea and sky were still, for the most part, concealed by it. There was a strange, spicy smell in the air. Mysterious birds chattered and whistled around them. Dreamy Captain Wallis surveyed one ferocious looking tree with interest, but the rest of the party confined their attentions to each other, making polite conversation.

  Lieutenants Smith and Madigan, in particular, were anxious that Dorothea should be comfortably seated. They dusted off a slab of rock with their handkerchiefs, made solicitous inquiries, and were altogether so pointed in their attentions that Charles seemed to take offence. In any event, he took Dorothea’s hand, and bade her follow him—so she assumed that he was offended. But when he had conducted her around the edge of a stony cliff, to a situation that was out of sight of their companions, he stopped and kissed her.

  ‘Charles, no!’ she squeaked. ‘The children might follow!’

  ‘Let ’em.’

  ‘Charles—’

  ‘Hush.’ He pulled her along, and she stumbled after him, not sure whether to be d
elighted or distressed. He had been drinking—that much was clear, for she had tasted rum on his breath. Presumably, she thought, some of the other officers had secreted flasks of spirits about their persons. And it occurred to her that, had he not been drinking, he would not have been so amorous. He was always at his most attentive when he had been drinking.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, pushing her—pressing her—against a wall of rock, ‘I wish we could stay for a while.’

  ‘Charles, wait—’

  ‘You have a lovely colour in your cheeks. You should walk more often.’

  ‘Charles, that smell! What is that smell?’

  He had been too preoccupied, until that moment, to have paid it any heed without prompting. But now he wrinkled his nose, and released her.

  ‘Good God,’ he said, grimacing.

  ‘Come away.’

  ‘Wait here.’

  ‘Charles!’ She raised her voice as he moved from her. He was sniffing the air like a hound. ‘Come back, Charles, something is dead!’

  But he continued to advance, skirting the base of a low cliff that eventually resolved itself into a jutting shelf, beneath which a creamy hollow, or cave, had been formed by the actions of wind and water. Here he stopped, abruptly, and uttered an exclamation of disgust.

  ‘Charles?’ Dorothea was very anxious. ‘Come back!’

  He did so, his fine features distorted by an expression compounded equally of repugnance and resentment.

  ‘A native,’ he said, upon reaching her. ‘A dead native.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Filthy creatures. Leaving their dead exposed to the flies. Unspeakable.’

  ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘Do?’ said Charles. ‘What else, but retrace our steps? I am not tempted to remain in this vicinity, even if you are.’ He caught her arm, and hurried her along. Dry leaves and sticks crackled beneath the soles of her flimsy shoes. ‘There is not a quiet place to be found in this accursed country,’ he continued, ‘that is not in some way soiled or defiled.’ (Clearly, his resentment was gaining ground.) ‘A nice spot for dalliance, I must say!’

  Dorothea stumbled and nearly fell. Then she saw a face, and her hand went to her bonnet, which had been somewhat dislodged by clawing branches.

  ‘Why, Mrs Brande!’ Colonel Molle exclaimed. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘A dead native,’ said Charles, answering for Dorothea. ‘Up there, in a cave.’

  ‘A dead native?’

  ‘Left to rot.’

  There was a horrified murmur, although one of the children broke into cries of delight.

  ‘May we see? May we see?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Molle, firmly.

  ‘I was planning to proceed in that direction,’ Lieutenant Madigan pointed out, in worried tones, ‘but if we must pass a corpse …’

  ‘It is out of the question,’ Mrs Molle declared, and her husband agreed with her.

  ‘An unsuitable sight for the ladies,’ was his view on the matter. ‘Is there no other way up, Madigan?’

  ‘Sir, not that I know of.’

  ‘Then we must return to the beach.’

  No one raised any objection—indeed, no one dared. The party retreated, clumsily making its way back down the rugged incline that it had so painfully scaled not long before. Scrambling over fallen boughs, clutching her husband’s hand, Dorothea wondered why they had come in the first place. To admire a view, she had been told. But a view of what? Of Sydney Cove? There was nothing to admire in Sydney Cove.

  Unless, perhaps, it was surveyed from a distance. From a distance, neither the convicts nor the state of the roads could be discerned. From a distance, the bristling foliage had a gentler, softened appearance, and it was impossible to smell the odour of slops, dung, butchers’ yards or tannery waste. From a distance, Sydney’s houses looked white, and its gardens looked green. Only at close quarters could the depraved cast of its inhabitants’ physiognomies be made out.

  Dorothea recalled that, on first sighting, New South Wales had appeared to be a very lush and fertile land, brimming with promise. Not until it was examined with close attention was the startlingly arid and unyielding quality of its soil finally discovered. It seemed to her that the very nature of the land was such that only disillusionment could be derived from it. Either one remained satisfied to admire it from afar (as she had admired the high, wooded ground enfolding the beach) or one ran the risk of encountering all kinds of shocks, reverses and disappointments—such as dead natives, for example.

  ‘I was never very sanguine about this picnic,’ she remarked, a long time later, as Charles helped her into one of the bigger boats. ‘If it had not been spoiled by a dead native, it would have been spoiled by something else. Snakes. Escaped convicts. A thunderstorm. No matter where you go in this country, some kind of doom prevails. There is no escaping the essential ugliness of it.’

  Charles said nothing. He was sunburned, of course; it seemed that the very light of New South Wales was dangerous.

  Dorothea foresaw a gloomy evening ahead.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SOME TWO WEEKS AFTER the picnic, Mrs Molle arrived at Dorothea’s house bearing a parcel from Mrs Macquarie. Within the parcel, carefully wrapped, was a book entitled The Gentleman’s Garden, by E. M. Wells. In the note accompanying this volume, Mrs Macquarie expressed the hope that ‘Mr Wells’s fine work’ would prove to be ‘Useful and Instructive’, adding that she herself had no immediate need for it, and that Mrs Brande should therefore feel free to retain the book for as long as she might require its ‘Invaluable Assistance’. In a postscript, Mrs Macquarie added that the portion of the book dealing with picturesque designs was most illuminating.

  ‘How kind,’ said Dorothea, leafing gingerly through page after page of elegant engravings. ‘How very kind.’

  ‘Being at present in Parramatta,’ Mrs Molle observed, ‘Mrs Macquarie was unable to deliver the book herself, though according to Captain Gill she would have liked to.’

  ‘How very kind.’

  ‘She is very kind,’ said Mrs Molle. ‘A good-hearted soul, though she has grand ideas.’ As Martha withdrew from their presence, carrying an empty tray, she added: ‘What ails that girl of yours, Mrs Brande? She looks positively seedy. So pale, and her manner so abrupt.’

  ‘Oh—Martha has been ill,’ Dorothea replied. ‘I am sorry, but she is afflicted by a recurring headache, or so she tells me.’

  Mrs Molle assumed a sceptical expression.

  ‘Are you sure that she is not increasing, Mrs Brande?’

  ‘Oh.’ Dorothea flushed. The possibility had crossed her mind, albeit briefly, when pondering Martha’s peculiar conduct after her own miscarriage. ‘Of course, that did occur to me—’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But I have asked her, and she assures me that she is in no such condition.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mrs Molle, and dropped the subject. They discussed instead the possible arrangement of Dorothea’s garden, and Dorothea took her friend to see the vegetable plot, wherein feathery sprigs of Surrey carrots, entwining peas, crimson rhubarb and the first, green spears of the onions were scattered across the symmetrical, loamy beds. She was very proud of her vegetable plot. Daniel, she explained to Mrs Molle, was quite devoted to it, and appeared to possess a natural talent for coaxing plants out of the earth.

  ‘Though a pump-maker by trade,’ she observed (her enthusiasm perhaps causing her to speak too freely), ‘he has an aptitude for gardening which can only be derived from his inheritance. He tells me that his grandparents were farm labourers.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Molle.

  ‘As you can see, he has been trenching and ridging other portions of the garden. I fully intend to bring it all, every inch, under cultivation. I wish to have a shrubbery, a lawn, a herb border, flower beds, fruit trees—all tastefully arranged in the modern manner.’

  Mrs Molle nodded. ‘An ambitious plan,’ she said, ‘but not unattainable, if proper attention is given
to the enrichment of the soil. I understand now why your Daniel has been seen about the Rocks. My maid tells me that she encountered him collecting manure in the streets. A clever idea—was it your own?’

  ‘It was his,’ Dorothea replied. She had not enough familiarity with the streets of Sydney to have noticed that they abounded—particularly in the Rocks—with horse manure, duck droppings, and the excrement of cows, pigs or sheep being led to slaughter. Upon acquainting her with this fact, Daniel had recommended that they make use of an otherwise wasted resource.

  Though the suggestion disturbed her, Dorothea had been unable to object to it on any grounds save that of her own vague sense of unease. It was not, after all, as if she were obliged to scour the streets for ordure. That was Daniel’s job.

  ‘He has only resorted to such an expedient as many as two—perhaps three times,’ she mumbled, whereupon Mrs Molle smiled broadly.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It cannot be an easy task. My maid declares that your man was being pursued by an absolute flock of urchins—by which I suppose her to have meant those horrid children who positively swarm around the dirtier parts of this settlement, like flies around a cesspit. One sees them throwing stones on the wharves, and burning stumps on Brickfield Hill.’

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ Dorothea said, in bewilderment. ‘Why were they following Daniel?’

  ‘I should think to torment him, should not you? Tormenting others seems to be their main ambition in life.’

  ‘But why?’ Dorothea was still utterly perplexed. ‘How? For what reason?’