An Innocent Masquerade. Paula Marshall
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remembered the morning, nearly a month ago, when their neighbour, Bart Jackson, had come visiting and her father had told him that he could see a way out of the cripplingly narrow and poverty-stricken life which was all that living on their barren farms was giving to them. They and their children deserved better than existing on the edge of starvation in a place where young Kirstie would never find a suitable husband.
‘We can sell our land, go to the gold field and make our fortunes,’ he said vigorously. ‘Jarvis, the banker from Melbourne, is only too willing to buy us out and sell them to some Melbourne bigwig with more money than sense. We can use the proceeds to outfit ourselves for the diggings. Come on, Bart, there’s nothing left for us here. What’s to lose?’
Bart, who had always followed Sam’s lead, thought that this was splendid advice, and they shook hands on it. After he had gone Sam walked into the kitchen to tell his eldest daughter this exciting news. ‘What do you think of going to the gold fields, eh, Big Sister? Ballarat, perhaps? They says there’s riches there for the taking.’
Kirstie, who had been known to her family and friends as Big Sister ever since her mother’s death in giving birth to little Rod, believed at first that her father must be joking.
‘I thought you was off to milk the cows, Pa, not daydreaming.’
‘No, Big Sister,’ he told her. ‘No more milking cows for me, I hope. I’m tired of working like an ox for nothing. We’ll sell up, and be off to the diggings as soon as possible.’
‘The diggings, Pa?’ Kirstie nearly dropped Rod, whom she had been spoon-feeding, in her excitement and horror at hearing this unlikely news. ‘What shall we live on there?’
‘This,’ he said, waving a hand at the few poor sticks of furniture in the room. ‘Together with the money for the farm it’ll give us enough for a stake, as well as for a couple of drays, digging equipment and a little something for food until we strike lucky. There’ll be young men there, perhaps a husband for you, as well—there’ll never be one here. Besides, others have made their fortune at the diggings—why shouldn’t we?’
Kirstie’s blue-green eyes flashed at him. ‘And others have lost everything—and I don’t want a husband, I’ve the family to look after and that’s enough for me.’
‘But it won’t always be, Big Sister.’
‘And we shall be leaving Mother’s grave behind us.’
‘Kirsteen,’ he said, using her real name for once. ‘She left us nigh on two years ago and staying here won’t bring her back. She had a hard life, daughter. I’d like a better one for you. You’ll live like a princess if we strike it rich.’
‘If…if…if…’ she said fiercely. Big Sister was always fierce and kind and hardworking. ‘It’ll be hard for the little ones in the diggings.’
‘You’re wrong there. The little ones will like it most of all. They’ll be free to run around, you see.’
Kirstie wailed in exasperation. She knew that it was no use trying to talk to him, he had already made his mind up before he had so much as said a word to her.
‘Don’t take on so, Big Sister,’ Sam said humbly. ‘I know it’s hard. Harder to stay, perhaps. The kids are wild to go.’
‘The kids don’t know any better. You do.’
Sam Moore gave a heavy sigh and sat his big body down on a battered chair.
‘Oh, Big Sister, can’t you see? It’s my last chance to have any sort of life. The farm killed your mother and it will kill you. You’re already getting her worn look and you’re still so young. Please say that you understand and will make the best of it. You’ve never failed me yet, however hard the road.’
This humble appeal moved her as his enthusiasm had not.
‘Dear Pa, if that’s how you feel, I’ll try to do my duty by you—but I wish that you’d spoken to me first.’
‘And now you know why I didn’t. Oh, Kirstie, I want to hear you laugh again—there’s not been much that’s jolly here lately, has there—?’
She was about to answer him when the door opened and Patrick ran in.
‘Oh, Pa, is it true what Davie Jackson is saying? That we’re all going to the diggings to get rich? Oh, huzzah, I say.’
After that she could offer no more opposition, however desperate she thought Pa’s plan was. The notion that simply going to the diggings would secure her a husband was laughable, but she could not tell him so. Why should a suitor there be any better than poor oafish Ralph Branson whose offer of marriage she had recently turned down? It just showed how desperate Pa was that he could offer her such a prospect.
Besides, she didn’t want to become a wife, since being a wife meant that you were simply a man’s drudge both in and out of bed. No, she would prefer to stay Big Sister and, later on, perhaps, the kind unmarried aunt who had no responsibilities to any man.
In the meantime, she would cease to criticise Pa and offer him all her loving support in this unlikely venture.
So here they were, Pa, Kirstie, Aileen, twelve, Pat, ten, Herbie, four, and Rod, two, bang in the middle of Melbourne with all their possessions loaded on to two drays, drawn by bullocks. Pa was driving one dray and Kirstie the other, with the Jacksons’ dray drawn up behind them.
Oddly enough, when they had started out it had been Pat who had burst out crying at the prospect of losing the only home he had ever known. In his young mind you could go to the diggings and still stay at home. To quieten him, and the little ones who had begun to roar with him, Kirstie gave Pat their scarlet and gold parrot to look after. When that wasn’t enough she sang them songs from back home in England, songs which Ma had used to sing.
‘That’s my good girl,’ Pa had told her quietly. ‘I knew that you’d not let me down.’
When they had reached Melbourne they had found it full of people like themselves, all making for the diggings. There was nowhere to stay or to sleep except in and around the drays whilst they bought further provisions, tents and equipment. The little ones ran wild, dodging in and out among the many tramps who were lying in the street, dead drunk and clutching empty bottles: ruined before they had even reached the diggings.
Two of them were lying where the Moore party was parked in front of The Criterion, Melbourne’s most expensive hotel. One was large with thick dark hair and a long beard and the other was red-headed and small. Both were ragged and smelled evil.
Kirstie sniffed her disgust at the sight of them, while Pa and Bart talked busily with those who seemed to know what ought to be done at the diggings if a fortune were to be made.
‘Just the two of you won’t get anywhere,’ said one burly digger. They were all burly, rough and good-natured, as well as free with their violent language, blinding and bloodying in front of Kirstie as though she were not there. ‘You need to form a small syndicate. A big chap would be best.’
The trouble with taking on a big chap, Sam thought, was that he might see the Moore family, tenderfeet all, as a suitable party for pillaging. Someone less powerful might be safer.
On the morning that they were ready to leave they had still not discovered any extra mates.
‘We’ll try to find someone when we get there,’ said Pa hopefully—he was always full of hope.
They were just hoisting their last load of provisions into Kirstie’s dray when a middle-sized Englishman, looking vaguely ill, came up to them. He was respectably dressed in clerk’s clothing and said diffidently, in a low cultured voice, ‘They told me at the store that you’re off to Ballarat and needed a chum to make up your team. My name is Farquhar, George Farquhar. They call me Geordie here.’
Sam looked sharply at him. He scarcely seemed the sort of chum they needed, but then the stranger said, ‘I can not only drive the dray, I’m good