steward knocked on the door and put his head round to ask, ‘Anything I can get you, sir? It’s mealtime.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
Bram intervened. ‘How about a tray of sandwiches and cakes, and a pot of tea?’
‘I’ll bring it right away.’
‘You can eat it,’ Ronan told his friend. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Well, I am.’
When it arrived Bram ate some of the food and cajoled Ronan into eating a little too. He continued to open the boxes and trunks, rendered speechless at how many clothes Mrs Maguire, bless her soul, had considered necessary for this voyage. ‘It doesn’t seem right for me to be doing this,’ he muttered at one stage.
‘Nor me,’ Ronan said, brushing the back of his hand across his eyes.
When they’d finished, he got out a bottle of cognac and poured them both a drink. ‘Slàinte.’
‘To your mother’s memory,’ Bram said quietly.
Ronan raised his glass and sipped, then sat down on the bed. ‘What are you going to do with those things?’
‘Sell them. They’re worth quite a bit of money. Do you mind?’
‘No.’ And somehow, he felt his mother would not begrudge them to Bram now. She’d always had a kind heart, even though she didn’t like Ronan being friends with people from the lower classes. Her servants had thought the world of her.
It didn’t escape his notice that Kathleen came nowhere near him, let alone offering to help sort out his mother’s possessions. She didn’t even send her maid.
After they’d finished, Bram stared at his new possessions and couldn’t help feeling a sense of elation. This represented more money than he’d ever seen or hoped to see in his life before. For the first time he began to wonder what opportunities he’d meet with in his new life, what he could make of himself. He was in an anomalous position with Ronan and it’d be the same with Conn, neither friend nor merely a servant.
But on his own, could he do more?
What if he earned enough money to buy himself a smallholding, or a shop, or found some other way of being independent? He’d talked to people on the ship who said others had made a fortune in Australia. Could he do it too?
He smacked one fist into the palm of his other hand. He could try, couldn’t he? What had he to lose? He’d left Ireland with only a few clothes and the family’s tattered Bible, which his mother had insisted he take, as eldest son.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath. If he ever had children, he didn’t want them to be treated like a possession of the estate owner, as he had been. He’d want them to be educated and free to make what they chose of their lives.
He didn’t need to make a fortune, which would be asking too much of fate, just a decent living. He wasn’t a stupid man but he’d never run a business, wasn’t even sure how to start.
But he could try, couldn’t he? Some of his travelling companions had worked in shops. He’d talk to them more carefully. There were self-improvement classes on the ship. He’d attend more of them, however boring they were.
He could try, couldn’t he?
The doctor came and stood beside Ronan at the rail the day after the burial. ‘It’s no use blaming yourself,’ he said abruptly.
‘But I am to blame. If I hadn’t come to Australia, she might still be alive.’
There was silence, then the doctor said, ‘I doubt it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘With cramp colic like that, most people do die, wherever they are. If they recover, it’s due to their own bodies not the doctor’s efforts. As I said when I first examined her, some doctors are starting to cut the abdomen open, but unless your mother lived in a city where there were skilled surgeons experimenting in this treatment, she’d not have been likely to be operated on and would still have died. And even with the wonders of chloroform to block the pain of an operation, a large percentage of patients die from sepsis, an infection carried, some think, by the
‘I’m not hungry.’
Bram intervened. ‘How about a tray of sandwiches and cakes, and a pot of tea?’
‘I’ll bring it right away.’
‘You can eat it,’ Ronan told his friend. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Well, I am.’
When it arrived Bram ate some of the food and cajoled Ronan into eating a little too. He continued to open the boxes and trunks, rendered speechless at how many clothes Mrs Maguire, bless her soul, had considered necessary for this voyage. ‘It doesn’t seem right for me to be doing this,’ he muttered at one stage.
‘Nor me,’ Ronan said, brushing the back of his hand across his eyes.
When they’d finished, he got out a bottle of cognac and poured them both a drink. ‘Slàinte.’
‘To your mother’s memory,’ Bram said quietly.
Ronan raised his glass and sipped, then sat down on the bed. ‘What are you going to do with those things?’
‘Sell them. They’re worth quite a bit of money. Do you mind?’
‘No.’ And somehow, he felt his mother would not begrudge them to Bram now. She’d always had a kind heart, even though she didn’t like Ronan being friends with people from the lower classes. Her servants had thought the world of her.
It didn’t escape his notice that Kathleen came nowhere near him, let alone offering to help sort out his mother’s possessions. She didn’t even send her maid.
After they’d finished, Bram stared at his new possessions and couldn’t help feeling a sense of elation. This represented more money than he’d ever seen or hoped to see in his life before. For the first time he began to wonder what opportunities he’d meet with in his new life, what he could make of himself. He was in an anomalous position with Ronan and it’d be the same with Conn, neither friend nor merely a servant.
But on his own, could he do more?
What if he earned enough money to buy himself a smallholding, or a shop, or found some other way of being independent? He’d talked to people on the ship who said others had made a fortune in Australia. Could he do it too?
He smacked one fist into the palm of his other hand. He could try, couldn’t he? What had he to lose? He’d left Ireland with only a few clothes and the family’s tattered Bible, which his mother had insisted he take, as eldest son.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath. If he ever had children, he didn’t want them to be treated like a possession of the estate owner, as he had been. He’d want them to be educated and free to make what they chose of their lives.
He didn’t need to make a fortune, which would be asking too much of fate, just a decent living. He wasn’t a stupid man but he’d never run a business, wasn’t even sure how to start.
But he could try, couldn’t he? Some of his travelling companions had worked in shops. He’d talk to them more carefully. There were self-improvement classes on the ship. He’d attend more of them, however boring they were.
He could try, couldn’t he?
The doctor came and stood beside Ronan at the rail the day after the burial. ‘It’s no use blaming yourself,’ he said abruptly.
‘But I am to blame. If I hadn’t come to Australia, she might still be alive.’
There was silence, then the doctor said, ‘I doubt it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘With cramp colic like that, most people do die, wherever they are. If they recover, it’s due to their own bodies not the doctor’s efforts. As I said when I first examined her, some doctors are starting to cut the abdomen open, but unless your mother lived in a city where there were skilled surgeons experimenting in this treatment, she’d not have been likely to be operated on and would still have died. And even with the wonders of chloroform to block the pain of an operation, a large percentage of patients die from sepsis, an infection carried, some think, by the
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