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

I’d never bothered to correct him; to tell him I was no miss; that I carried my dead husband’s name, as well as his guilt. There seemed little point.

He nodded to the corner of the bar where one of the men was gesturing wildly. A fat cloud of cigar smoke hung over his head. “Have you ever seen such a pitiful display? Those men ought to be ashamed of themselves, behaving this way in front of a woman.”

“I think she quite likes these pitiful displays,” said Charlie. “Always with her ear to the ground, ain’t you, Nell? Always keen to know what’s happening.” He winked at me. “She thinks we don’t notice.”

Flynn chuckled. “Is that so?”

“Here.” Charlie took a fresh ash tray from beneath the counter and handed it to me. “You want to catch an earful you can take this over to them.”

I took the ashtray and set it on the men’s table, collecting the old one with its overflowing cigar butts, and as many empty cannikins as I could bundle into my arms. Oblivious to my arrival, the men continued talking over one another.

“Watch your damn mouth, boy,” one of the soldiers was hissing. “Or you’ll be at the coalmines before you know it and that farm of yours’ll be nothing but dust.”

“It’s as it always is,” I said, as I returned to the bar and dumped the empty cannikins in the trough. “The Rum Corps are the ones with the power. The rest of us just go where they lead us.”

Flynn emptied his glass and took his top hat from the counter, pressing it on over his thick grey hair. “They’ll be pulled into line soon enough. Bligh’s cut from far too strong a cloth to let them keep up their run of the place.” He bobbed his head at me as he made his way towards the door. “Take care, my dear. Keep that ear to the ground. You never know what you might hear.”

I smiled, turning back to the trough to scrub out the empty glasses. The door creaked and thudded as several of the men left, a momentary quiet falling over the bar.

“I remember you,” said a voice behind me. I whirled around to see a young soldier sliding onto a bar stool. “You’re a Parramatta lass. Blackwell’s lodger.”

The words made heat blaze through me. I both did and didn’t want to be Blackwell’s.

“How d’you get down here then?” he asked.

“I have my paperwork.” I reached into my pocket. “If you wish to see it, I—”

He waved a hand dismissively. “’S’all right. I was just making conversation.” He slid off his jacket. “Ale, if you please.”

I poured him a glass and sat it on the counter. The soldier’s face had a faint familiarity to it. I remembered him standing on the edge of the green while the two Irishmen from the chain gang were flogged. “Lieutenant Harper,” I said.

He nodded. “That’s right.”

“You’re a long way from Parramatta.”

“I’ve come downriver with the fishing party,” he said. “We’re to head back up north in the morning.”

“And you managed a decent haul?”

“There’s fine kingfish in Sydney Cove,” he said, gulping down his ale. “Government stores’ll be well stocked when we return.”

There was far more I wanted to ask him about, of course. The rebels and their uprising. The rebuilding of the burned-out factory, and whether the women from the spinning wheels had roofs above their heads. Above all, I wanted to ask him about Blackwell.

My missing him was a deep ache inside me.

I opened my mouth to speak; nothing but casual questions of course. Is he well? Will you pass on my regards?

But it felt dangerous. Felt as though speaking of him would stoke a fire that needed to burn out. Perhaps even then, hidden somewhere at the back of my mind, I knew that having Blackwell in my life would destroy me.

*

Later that week I went back to the Rocks. It had been almost a fortnight since I’d last seen Lottie, and each night I fell asleep thinking of her crammed into that squalid kitchen with her baby in the basket beside her.

I made my way down the alley and peeked through the door into the kitchen. Lottie was sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, Willie held to her breast. Healthy, as far as I could tell. As safe as could be hoped for.

I hurried away before she could catch sight of me, and wove through the alleys towards the market. Carts were crammed into the streets, loaded with potatoes, with cabbages, with hessian bags of grain. An enormous brown horse nudged my shoulder as I passed.

I bought a loaf of bread and hunk of cheese, and tucked them into my basket.

A faint tug on my skirt. I whirled around and caught a small hand reaching into my pocket. I grabbed the wrist of the young, dark-haired girl. I guessed her no more than nine or ten. Her eyes widened as I tightened my grip.

“I didn’t take nothing,” she said hurriedly. “I swear it. Not a thing.” She spoke with a forced confidence but I could see the fear in her wide blue eyes. I loosened my grip a little.

“What do you need the money for?” I asked. “Food?”

She nodded.

I let go of her wrist and reached into my coin pouch. Handed her a couple of shillings and a little of the bread.

She crammed the food into her pocket and tightened her fist around the coins. Gave me a tiny smile of thanks.

“Wait,” I said, pressing a hand to her shoulder before she could dart away. “Do you have somewhere to sleep? Someone to take care of you?” I couldn’t shake the fear that when night came, she would disappear into the