Sarah Thornhill. Kate Grenville
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bush and not too many rules about anything. Him and Pa would rather of been out in the yard with their pipes going, spitting on the stones. But they was trying to latch on to being respectable now, so they sat with the teacups and the scones and listened while Mrs Langland went on about her joints.
Langlands had a string of children. Took after Mrs Langland, pale and soft like cakes not given a hot enough oven. Charlie was a chubby fellow the apple of his mother’s eye. Next down was Sophia, not much older than me so everyone thought we’d be friends, but I couldn’t be bothered with her. All she could think about was what her dress was like, and if the ribbons on her bonnet matched her gloves, and how a girl should fix her hair to make the most of herself. Her lacy handkerchief peeked up out her bosom so it drew the eye, and she was forever dropping it to put some colour in her cheeks.
Knew all those tricks. Told me and Mary, only to make us feel like fools that we didn’t know.
Sophia was taller than she thought a girl should be so she never wore anything but flat slippers. Sat down when she could. If she had to stand, she’d kink one hip sideways. Mary said Ma had her eye on Sophia Langland for Will, but I pooh-poohed her. Why would he fancy a dull girl like Sophia Langland, when my handsome favourite brother could have his pick?
Then there was Jack. The oldest of the Langland children by six or seven years, and as different from the others as night from day. Jack’s mother was not Mrs Langland. She was a darkie, long dead. Ma told me, but it was no secret. Everyone knew that Jack was half darkie.
When Mr Langland went with Jack’s ma, New South Wales by all accounts was a rough place. Not much between a man and starvation and not too many women other than the native ones. A man did what was natural. As for the children that come along, the old hands like Pa and Mr Langland thought it nothing so very terrible. What counted was not if you were half darkie, so much as if you could handle an oar or split a log.
But things had changed. The ones that come later, and come free, drew the lines strict. Sent out and come free, white and black. Mr Langland was a churchy sort of feller now and had got himself a respectable wife. Wouldn’t like to be reminded he’d been happy enough once upon a time to bed a native woman.
Everyone knew about Jack’s mother, but no one said. It was like stealing a sheep or knocking a man down for the coins in his pocket. You didn’t mortify anyone by saying it.
Easy in Jack’s case because you wouldn’t pick him straight away. Dark in the face, yes, but the men who worked the ships all got dark. A heaviness round the brow. That might tell you. And the colour of his eyes. A greeny colour, very bright against his skin.
But he was no different from the rest of us. Talked about the blacks the same way everyone did. They were strange to him the same way they were strange to us. He knew Mrs Langland wasn’t his real ma. But he’d never known the native woman. She died when he was too young.
He was on the outer in that family, though. Called Mrs Langland Ma, but she had no warmth for him, and there was no love lost between Jack and his half-brothers and sisters. Didn’t know them that well, because he’d been away on the ships since he was a lad, didn’t have the easy life they’d had.
Jack was younger than Will by a good few years, he’d of been around fifteen when I first got to know him, and Will into his twenties. I was only a girl still, seven or eight. The two of them like brothers, everything about them on a grand scale. Both of them deep in the chest and wide across the shoulder. Black beards, and faces burnt from the sun and the salt. Worked side by side on Industry, Jack a match for many an older man.
When Industry put in to Sydney they’d stop with us till she sailed again. Come up the river on someone’s boat if they could, or on the new road, catch rides off the wagons. Jack would be with us for a night or two, then he’d borrow one of Pa’s skiffs.
Off to Langlands now, he’d say. Back in a few days.
That’s what he called it, Langlands.
Don’t think anyone at Langlands cared if Jack visited or not. But it was the right thing to do, visit your kin, so that’s what he did. Be back from Langlands a few days later, with us the rest of the time.
Pa and Jack sat by the hour with their pipes. Will with them sometimes, but more often away up and down the river visiting, a sociable feller our Will.
Jack knew as much about the weather and boats as Pa, but clever enough to make out he didn’t.
In for a bit of a blow, Pa would say and whether Jack agreed or not he’d say, Yes, Mr Thornhill, looks that way.
A rough unlettered man, but had a natural courtesy.
Pa thought Jack Langland was near as good as a son of his own. That Jack Langland, he’d say, good a man as ever you’d find. Honest as three men.
Ma not so warm.
Well Jack, here you are again, she’d say when he first arrived with Will. Be off to see your pa and Mrs Langland directly I expect.
Pa would come in very hearty. Your ma and pa can do without you for a time, he’d say. Stop with us long as you like, Jack lad.
We had a dog, white with dark speckles all over and silky black ears. Jack was always a soft touch for a dog. Now get away off! he’d say when it lay on his feet, and it’d stand up and turn round, but next thing it’d be lying closer than before. Wherever Jack was, that speckled dog would have its paws one over the other, grinning up at him with its black lips as if he was the best thing in the world.
~
Will and Jack kept us entertained of an evening, the fire flickering shadows about the parlour. The ship’s biscuits so full of maggots they was rich as a Welsh rabbit when you roasted them. The weather so hard the trees grew on a slant.
Get away, Johnny said. Pull the other one!
So Will and Jack stood on the hearthrug leaning sideways together being the trees of windy New Zealand, but we still didn’t know if they was having a lend of us.
Now what about the seals, Pa said. How would you go about the killing?
They’ll be on the rocks with a flipper in the air, Will said. Like they’re waving good-day. Get your stick, one good whack on the nose. Not spoil the skin, see.
Then what, Bub said. Peg them out or salt them down or what?
Peg them out, salt them down, the both, Jack said. Got to peg them out perfect to get the good price.
What would a skin be worth, Johnny said. Three shillings, four?
Five, Will said. What they pay for them in China. That’s with no marks on it.
You know they do got a pretty face, Jack said. Like a dog, only not so long in the snout.
Pretty face! Will said. What, you reckon it’s a pretty face do you Jack?
Not a thing I like doing, Jack said. When they fix you with that eye of theirs.
I pictured one of the dogs, only not so long in the snout. Whacking it on the nose hard enough to kill it.
Whyn’t you do another trade? I said.
Five shillings a skin, that’s why, Jack said. Man got to put something by.
That made us go quiet. There’d be plenty of money for the Thornhill boys down the track, but Jack would have to make his own way.
There was natives in New Zealand, but to hear it they was different as could be from the ones in New South Wales. Mad for fighting. Set against each other, tribe against tribe, the winners sitting down after and eating the losers. Tattoos on their faces all over, chin, cheeks, nose, everything.
Special clever man does it, Jack said. Gets a little chisel, little mallet. First time cut the skin. Second time put the ink in. Saw it done to a feller once. Tight as a bowstring, not to cry out with the pain of it.
Are they black? Ma said.
Not