One of Us Buried by Johanna Craven (year 2 reading books TXT) 📕

on the bar with account books opened in front of him. I hoped he would be too engrossed in his paperwork to judge me.

“Rum,” I said, my voice impossibly small. “Or whisky, or… whatever it is you have.” I dug a coin out of my pocket and sat it on the bar. A humoured smile flickered within his beard.

He filled a tin cup and sat it on the bar in front of me. “Only our finest for you, lass.”

I snatched it up and scurried into a corner, trying to disappear into the long shadows that lay over the tavern. I took a gulp of the liquor. It was as dreadful as it had been in Parramatta, but I felt a hint of tension begin to slide from my shoulders. When I dared to look up, the barman was peering across the room at me.

“I don’t bite,” he chuckled, nodding to the rows of empty stools in front of him. I hesitated. I didn’t want to be judged. But I was beginning to drown in my own chaotic thoughts. I knew the company would do me good. I carried my drink over to the bar and slid onto one of the stools.

The barman sat his pencil in the fold of his account book. “You find the fellow you were looking for then? Mr Owen?”

I sipped my drink. “I did. For all the good that did me.”

“What you doing here?” he asked.

“Looking for work.”

“His Majesty send you over?”

I felt my cheeks colour. I knew well I did not need to answer – what would I be doing in this place if I hadn’t been hauled out on a prison ship? As a convict woman I was barely a novelty, of course. But I couldn’t shake the shame of it.

Avoiding the barman’s eyes, my gaze drifted over the scrawled numbers on his ledger. I pointed to one of the sums at the bottom of the page.

“That’s wrong.”

He chuckled. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t trust a lag to do my books.”

I straightened my shoulders indignantly. “You’ve not carried the two,” I told him. “You’re out by twenty pounds.”

With a look of reluctance, he glanced down at the page. Irritation flickered across his eyes as he scrawled the correction on his ledger. “I was never one for arithmetic,” he said, cheeks reddening beneath his beard.

I couldn’t help a smile of self-satisfaction.

In the morning, he found me in the kitchen of the tavern. I was hovering by the fire, waiting for the kettle to boil.

He folded his thick arms across his chest. “Papers?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Pardon?”

“Your paperwork,” he said impatiently. “I need to see it. Make sure you ain’t a runaway.”

I pulled out my ticket of leave and shoved it into his hand. “Why’ve you decided now that I’m a runaway?” I asked. “Because you’re annoyed I corrected your arithmetic?”

He said nothing, just skimmed over my paperwork. He folded it messily and held it back out to me. Gave a half-satisfied grunt.

“Can you pour a drink?” he asked.

I hesitated. Was he offering me work? “I can do your books,” I ventured boldly.

He snorted. “I already told you, I don’t want no government lass rifling around in my accounts. I said, can you pour a drink?”

I allowed myself a smile. It had been worth a try. I thought of the woman from the factory who had poured drinks at the tavern in Parramatta. Never in my life had I imagined myself doing such a thing. But how hard could it be?

“Of course I can,” I said.

The barman nodded. “Good,” he said gruffly. “A lass behind the bar gets men through the door.” He turned to leave, then looked back at me. “Name’s Charlie,” he said. “I don’t like laziness and I keep things clean. And I don’t need no help doing my books. You can start tonight.”

I smiled to myself as I lifted the kettle. Hoped Charlie’s accounting errors would fall in my favour.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“He is under no obligation to maintain her longer than she suits his inclination. There arises a very heavy national expense, as these women with their children are constantly likely to be turned out of doors; poor, friendless and forsaken.”

 

Rev. Samuel Marsden

A Few Observations on the Situation of the Female Convict in New South Wales

1808-1817

The next morning, I went straight to the Rocks. I’d spent the evening behind the bar at the Whaler’s Arms, learning my way around barrels of the Rum Corps’ finest, and pouring ale that looked remarkably like dishwater. I’d not made it to bed until long after midnight.

But I’d woken with the dawn, eager to tell Lottie of the position I’d secured. To tell her she and Willie were welcome to stay with me for as long as they needed it. Tell her she had a chance at a life outside that filthy kitchen. Somehow, I would see to it that we both survived this place.

I found her on the street outside the kitchen, dunking her shift in a washtub. She was barefoot in dirt-streaked skirts, brown hair hanging loose on her shoulders. Willie was bleating in the basket beside her. At the sight of me, she stood up from the tub and wiped her hands on her apron.

“I’ve found work,” I told her. “A place to stay. There’s room enough for you and Willie. You ought to—”

“Don’t be mad,” she cut in. “I’ll not think of it.”

“Why not?” I’d not for a second imagined she might refuse.

She planted a hand on her hip. Her eyes held nothing but bitterness.

“What am I to do all day?” she demanded, swatting a platoon of flies away from her face. “Sit around in your room while you earn a living?” She shook her head. “No. I’m