Hannah

  HANNAH

  Raymond W Clarke

  First published December 2009

  Reprinted January 2015

  Copyright © Raymond W Clarke 2014

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-publication data

  HANNAH

  ISBN 978-0-9870595-7-4

  Australian literature – 21st century

  Australian Literature – Queensland – Raymond W Clarke

  Author: Clarke, Raymond Walter

  Title: Hannah/Raymond W Clarke

  Subjects: Clarke, Hannah – Fiction (historical. 19th.century)

  Dewey number: A823.4

  Cataloguing-in-publication data details are available from the National Library of Australia at www.librariesaustralia.nla.gov.au

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission in writing from the author Raymond W Clarke

  ISBN 978-0-9870595-7-4

  Cover by Jennifer M Clarke

  .

  The behaviour of an individual is determined, not by

  his racial affiliation but by the character of his

  ancestry and his cultural environment

  ----------FRANZ BOAS 1858-1942

  Appreciation . . .

  To my daughter, Jennifer Michelle Clarke, graphic designer, who supplied the cover.

  To other members of the Clarke family, both close and extended, I thank them for their input and encouragement in presenting the story of our colourful ancestor.

  This story is for all the descendants of the twelve children of Hannah and Daniel. This is where their roots began in Australia.

  Introduction

  The novel Hannah is based on incidents arising from the life of a convict woman, Hannah Stanley.

  Known dates of events that paralleled Hannah’s life form the chronological framework of the novel. Researching back two hundred years, searching for mentions of court appearances, details of her imprisonment in Maidstone Prison in Kent, the prison ship Canada and her life in Sydney Town in the early nineteenth century reveal only brief notations concerning Hannah Stanley/Clarke. Thus, like many convict records of that era, there is a dearth of personal information available to record and write for posterity.

  In the writing of Hannah, a novel of the historical genre, the descriptive scenes of imprisonment and early colonial life are portrayed in a realistic manner that Hannah Stanley/Clarke would most likely have experienced in that place and at that time. I believe this literary liberty brings depth to the characterization of Hannah and continuity to the pace of the story.

  Irrespective of the necessary degree of embellishment, in particular the dialogue, the writing of this novel is a realistic portrayal of the colorful convict era in the early nineteenth century of Australian colonial history and the adventurous lives of Hannah Stanley/Clarke and her children.

  Raymond W Clarke.

  Brisbane. Australia.

  December 2014

  Chapter 1

  DEPTFORD, ENGLAND

  January 1809

  Hannah hung her head as she bustled along Mill Lane. The wind streamed across the icy Thames, distorting her cotton frock into burlesque shapes and tore at her bonnet. She clutched the maidservant’s box tighter to her bosom and stepped aside to avoid old Jeremy, the beggar. ‘Nothing today, Jeremy,’ she shouted into the wind but she doubted that he heard, not with that threadbare old coat pulled up to cover his face and ears.

  She turned left into Coxen Lane, quickening her pace past the entrance to the Poor House. She hated the sight of the unfortunate wretches that slaved there, women without a man, never a farthing to bless themselves with and with no hope. It was in their faces every time she passed. Once she thought she saw the O’Sullivan woman peering out through a grimy, barred upstairs window. She’d waved but Kitty hadn’t responded. Perhaps she was too ashamed to acknowledge her place in the lowest rung of English society ─ part of the living dead. Poor deserted mother Kitty, her with them three young children and herself suffering from that deathly cough. God forbid she’d ever finish up there. She’d rather be dead.

  Hannah skirted around a barrow man, eyeing the tempting red apples. ‘Four a penny, miss,’ he coaxed, doffing his cap and even bowed but she moved on at a steady pace. She couldn’t afford to be late for this position that she desperately wanted. There was nothing back in Chatham for her now, except seasonal hop picking but she had to get away, didn’t she? She could have told her father about Uncle Jonas and what he’d tried to do but would he have believed her over his own brother? Still, she’d fixed him up properly, throwing the potage over his ugly, pox-scarred face. A fleeting smile came to her lips as she remembered the sight of his face as the thick potato soup streamed into his bushy white whiskers. She’d tried to explain to her father why she’d done it but his back-hander knocked her to the floor. She remembered the blood that poured from her nose and mouth and her poor ailing mother, weak with fever, screaming and blocking his further blows. Then he’d thrown her out, despite her mother’s pleas. ‘Be gone with you, brazen hussy, for what you’ve done to your kin. You’ve shamed this family.’

  Holding a rag to her nose, Hannah had fled the kitchen, not wanting to look at them. She’d gathered her things, shoving them into a calico bag while the hubbub from the kitchen continued. Only brother John had been supportive. ‘Don’t worry, sister mine. Be strong.’ She’d hugged him as the tears fell, knowing there was no turning back and walked down the muddy track, not looking back until she came abreast of the huge poplars bordering Mr. McPherson’s fine manor. There, she stopped and turned to look back. At the gate of the farm, the tiny figure of her brother stood, watching. He waved and she acknowledged it before walking on, tears falling in synchronism with her steps. Angrily, she swiped at saturated cheeks. Where would she go, to London perhaps? She knew nobody but the thought cheered her somewhat. London had jobs, so they say. She’d swung the bag to the other shoulder and walked on . . .

  There was a commotion up front on Butt Lane. Two women of the streets wrestled on the cobblestones in front of the tavern, clawing each other, yanking hair and screaming obscenities. A crowd gathered and yelled encouragement. The women fought, bit and gouged at eyes, ears and mouths. Blood flowed freely smearing their faces into grotesque gargoyles. ‘Stop this, you sluts,’ bellowed John O’Shanahan, the rotund proprietor of the Merseyside Tavern. ‘May the Saints preserve us. Go and fight somewhere else and not on my doorstep.’

  He kicked one of the threshing bodies with a well-polished boot. ‘Be gone.’ The contestants unresponsive, he ordered a lackey to get some water and emptied the bucket over the half-naked bloody fighters. Cowed and wet, they staggered to their feet, glared with hate at each other before they disappeared into the crowd.

  ‘Fun’s over, but there’s plenty fine, cheap ale inside,’ cried John O’Shanahan, a born promoter, ‘in my cosy, warm tavern.’ The crowd laughed but only a few fingered sparse coins in their pockets and moved to enter his inn. He shot an admiring glance at Hannah and raised a battered top hat. ‘Hullo, my beauty, a pleasant sight you are, to be sure.’ Hannah rolled her eyes. ‘Hope to see you later, love,’ he shouted at her fast vanishing back.

  ‘Not bloomin’ likely,’ Hannah muttered and crossed over into Brookmill Road. Everyone in Deptford knew of John O’Shanahan’s philandering with the lassies. How his wife Ruth put up with him is beyond belief but maybe she had nowhere else to go and then there are the six O’Shanahan children and recently she’d heard Ruth was pregnant again, the poor woman. They say the Pope’s behind this, ordering good Catholics to breed more and mor
e papists.

  Hannah stepped nimbly between a barrow cart and a shiny carriage pulled by four shiny black horses. She watched as they proudly strutted down Brookmill Road, triggering instant vision of the farm at Chatham and Sarah, the lovely old grey mare. Her eyes misted as she became aware that those happy days had gone forever. Her father had seen to that. As the carriage passed, she glimpsed through the open curtain a gentleman and his lady. The lady gave her a patronizing appraisal and puckered her face.

  She passed over the road to avoid the crowds in front of the Gutter Buildings and the courts. She couldn’t avoid any delay. She was almost there. What was it again? Number six, wasn’t it? Lewisham Way loomed ahead and the Rose of Tralee tavern down on the corner. More Irish, she thought. There is no shortage of them in Deptford, that’s for sure. The roofs of the elite Brunswick Place loomed above the tavern as she turned into Lewisham Way and beyond, six expansive houses, all looking the same, long sloping roofs covering solid brick structure and pretty, winding entrances visible through the huge grilled gates. This was it. Brunswick Place, they called it — a haven for the rich. She opened the gate with some difficulty, entered through and closed it behind her. On either side, roses bloomed in colorful profusion. An old man rose with difficulty from amongst them, rubbing at his back. ‘Hullo, there, love. Ye be the new maid servant?’

  ‘Yes, I hope so.’ Hannah hoisted the job box higher up on her hip and smiled.

  ‘Well, you are a bonny one, I must say.’ He pointed with his spade. ‘Around the back ye go. See that elm tree. Turn to the right then. I’m Johnathan by the way.’

  ‘I’m Hannah.’

  ‘Hannah? Not another one? God help us. Still, pleased to meet ye, Hannah, and good luck with the job and . . .’ His thick silver eyebrows rose in emphasis, ‘the mistress.’ A wave of a wizened hand and his frail frame dipped back into the rose shrubbery.

  Hannah rapped with the large ring knocker on the wooden door. Under the oak, a large dog chewed on the leg of an animal. She took a deep breath, aware of penetrating eyes that never left her and massive jaws that crunched the bone to splinters. Nervously, she knocked again.

  ‘Morning.’ A dark-eyed young woman in a maid’s uniform stood in the open doorway and surveyed her with interest. ‘Ah, you must be the new one, then?’

  ‘I’m Hannah Stanley. I’m here for—’

  ‘Come in. The mistress will see you in the drawing room. Yes, that’s it, through the archway there. Put your box down. You’d better not sit down yourself until she comes. That’ll annoy her. Hey, I’m a Hannah, too. Hannah Porter.’ The two women called Hannah touched hands and smiles but Hannah Stanley suddenly was alone as Porter’s hurried footsteps faded away on the thick carpet.

  The woman who bustled through the drawing room archway was middle-aged, her dress of fine embroidered muslin, a pleated bodice with long tight cuffs and gilt buttons supplemented by a broad lace collar at her neck. Shiny black hair severely laid back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Hannah eyed the thin lips and piercing, unfriendly eyes and felt a flutter of fear. ‘Sit.’ The woman pointed at a hard straight-backed chair, and lowered herself onto a well-cushioned, cerise-colored sofa. ‘Well, you want to work for me, do you?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Dawson, if it pleases you, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, it may or it may not. We’ll have to see, won’t we?’ She sat back, scrutinizing Hannah from head to toe. ‘At least, you look clean, not like most of them.’ She sniffed and her eyes narrowed. ‘The cook said you’re a country girl. Why aren’t you back in your home picking hops or whatever?’

  ‘I was . . . on a farm, ma’am, but I wanted a change.’

  ‘So like many of you lot . . .’ Mrs. Dawson pursed her lips. ‘You come into London looking for a good time. Tell me, you’re not with child, are you?’

  Hannah flushed. ‘No, I’m not. I—’

  ‘Now, just what have you been doing since you left your happy home in . . . where was it again?’

  ‘Charing.’ She couldn’t say Chatham. Maybe Mrs. Dawson would check with her family and then all would be lost.

  ‘Charing?’ The lips tightened, thoughtfully. ‘Well? What about work?’

  ‘I’ve been doing some sewing for Mrs. O’Brien in Butts Lane.’ This was partly true and kindly dear Rosie O’Brien would always back her up.

  ‘What makes you think that you can deal with in-service? Sewing is just one thing. What else can you do? What about mopping, ironing, washing and polishing and many other duties? Need I go on?’

  ‘I can do any type of housework, Mrs. Dawson. Working on the farm, I had to do about everything.’

  ‘Humph, everything you say? What is in that box at your feet?’

  ‘My sewing kit, comb and brushes, some changes of—’

  Mrs. Dawson stood and beckoned Hannah to rise. ‘That’ll do, Stanley. I’ll have to call you that to differentiate from your namesake, Porter. You’ll get your lodgings here and one shilling a fortnight, Sundays off so you can go to church. You aren’t a Roman Catholic, are you? ’ She watched Hannah shake her head and nodded.

  ‘Good, you may start. One last thing, Stanley, any gentlemen friends of yours in my house and out you go. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Dawson, thank you.’

  ‘Go and find Mrs. Dunn, the housekeeper. She’s in charge of you and Porter and she’ll tell you your daily duties so do precisely what she tells you, unless I instruct you otherwise.’ Mrs. Dawson strode to the archway and turned around. ‘I want people in the Dawson residence who work well and know their place. You could have a good life here if you remember that.’

  She vanished, leaving Hannah standing beside her job box and wondering where on earth she would find Mrs. Dunn and the kitchen. As Hannah moved down a passage way, she had a premonition that life would never be the same for her now she’d entered the employ at Number Six, Brunswick Place.

  ‘Stanley, get in here. What do you call that?’

  ‘What? ’

  ‘Don’t what me, you insolent young thing. You know what I’m talking about quite well.’ Mrs. Dawson pointed with a scarlet-tipped finger to the chamber pot under the master bed. ‘The pot, you silly girl, it hasn’t been emptied.’

  Hannah paled. ‘Oh, I forgot. Sorry.’

  ‘Fix it, Stanley, now.’ Mrs. Dawson hurried to the door. ‘I think I’ll let you go, you and your namesake. Porter’s as bad as you are if not worse—’

  ‘But that’s the only thing I’ve ever done wrong.’ Hannah eyes locked on her mistress’s back. ‘You forget all the extra work that we have been doing getting ready for the spring season—’

  ‘Spare me your melodramatics, Stanley.’ She waved at the pot and continued the tirade as Hannah bent to the task. ‘Leaving a stinking chamber pot here until mid-morning! Well, I never in all my life . . . it is certainly lucky I came in when I did. What would the master say if he had seen that?’

  Hannah rolled her eyes. She was tempted to hold her nose and give her something else to complain about. It’s your stinking shit and piss, you horrible old hag. Empty your own smelly pot. That’s what she wanted to say but she needed the job for existence. What else could she do?

  ‘Don’t just stand there like a deaf mute, Stanley. Get moving.’

  ’ Yes, ma’am,’ Hannah responded as her mistress pointed to the door.

  ‘Rotten bitch.’ Hannah silently mouthed the words as she stepped gingerly down the wide staircase.

  Porter stood at the base of the stairs, arms akimbo, wide smile on her homely features. ‘Get taken short, did ye, love?’

  ‘Shut up, Porter,’ Hannah blurted. She pushed past her but couldn’t resist a giggle.

  Hannah looked across the scarred kitchen table at her namesake. It was mid-afternoon and the maids were taking an unauthorized break. Mrs. Dunn, the housekeeper, sat at the head of the table in her usual position as head of the household staff. She spooned two more spoons of raw sugar into the already sweet tea and
eyed the two maids with some unease. ‘Mind you, you scheming young misses, if you hear the sounds of the carriage or the horses clip clops, ye had better get back to ye tasks quick smart because if the mistress catches ye in here at this time of the day, I’ll get a mouthful. She paused to watch the fat cook stirring the stew on the stove. ‘And you two will be thrown out on the streets, so it pays to keep your flippin’ ears open. Ye ken?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Dunn,’ chorused the two giggling maids.

  Porter took a freshly baked oatcake from the tray and bit into it heartily. ‘Ah, ‘tis heaven indeed. These are fine,’ she directed at the cook’s back but got no response. Porter shrugged and turned back to the housekeeper. ‘Tell me, Mrs. Dunn, if ye don’t mind me askin’, how long have you been working here in this happy number six Brunswick Place?’

  Mrs. Dunn leaned back and stretched. ‘Sometimes I think too long but let me see now. Thirteen years, I think. Yes, it was back in the old century . . . I believe it was in ‘96 or was it ‘97? No, it must have been ’97 ‘cos I was in Bristol with my dear departed husband in ‘96.’

  ‘Have you always worked for her, you know the mistress?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘Not always. The current Mrs. Dawson only came here three years ago. She’s his second wife, you know.’

  ‘She’s a witch,’ Porter declared and looked around for support or an argument.

  Hannah nodded in strong agreement. ‘That she is.’

  ‘Be careful what you say,’ Mrs. Dunn raised her apron and wiped her lips. ‘The walls have ears here.’ She looked pointedly at the suddenly inert cook and rolled her eyes. ‘Just do your job and keep ye trap shut, that’s my advice to both of ye.’