Bruny Island Girl

By Max Cutcliffe

In the year 1879, William and Jane Burns from Durham, England, migrated to Newcastle, Australia, in the hope of finding a better life for themselves and their two children, Joseph, aged three, and Elizabeth, aged one. Stormy seas, interspersed with weeks of boredom, made their three-month-long voyage on the sailing ship, William Stonehouse, anything but pleasant. William, like his father, was a coal miner and found work easily in a Newcastle colliery. During this time, he befriended a German immigrant, Wilhelm Zschachner, and learned that a new coal discovery had been made in the state of Tasmania. The thought of moving to Tasmania was challenging to the Burns family now that they had two additional children. Nevertheless, they repacked their furniture and treasures brought out with them from England and moved to remote Bruny Island, off Tasmania's southeast coast.

Here, they were true pioneers. Between working the new coal mine, William and his still-increasing family cleared a parcel of land on Coal Point and built themselves a cosy home from axe-split palings. Sadly, William died young after a rock fall at the mine, forcing Jane to become a midwife in order to keep the family together until they reached adulthood and married. Joyce - the 'Bruny Island Girl' - was born in 1899 to Louisa, one of Jane's daughters, and this book tells the story of her remarkable life on the island before marrying Cecil Cutcliffe. Max Cutcliffe is one of their sons and the author of this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781528966023

Max Cutcliffe

Max Cutcliffe grew up in Hobart, Tasmania, with his mother (the Bruny Island Girl); his father, Cecil; three brothers; and a sister. He frequently chatted with his mother's mother, Louisa, who also lived in Hobart. In his youth, he frequently journeyed back and forth to Bruny Island and stayed with his ageing Uncle Joe at Clifton, where his mother was born and lived until she married Cecil. Years later, from his many notes and from family knowledge, he put together a manuscript that he called Bruny Island Girl. He wanted to preserve the history of this pioneering family from England, even though they had now all passed on. In recent times, his partner, Cath Morris Williams, read his manuscript and suggested that he should try and have it published. And so he did. Cath's help in editing the manuscript is greatly appreciated. Max Cutcliffe's mother was a quiet lady, so it is hoped she approves her son's actions and is happy to have her name, and that of her English pioneering family, live on for many years to come through this book.

Book preview

Epilogue

About the Author

Max Cutcliffe grew up in Hobart, Tasmania, with his mother (the Bruny Island Girl); his father, Cecil; three brothers; and a sister. He frequently chatted with his mother’s mother, Louisa, who also lived in Hobart. In his youth, he frequently journeyed back and forth to Bruny Island and stayed with his ageing Uncle Joe at Clifton, where his mother was born and lived until she married Cecil. Years later, from his many notes and from family knowledge, he put together a manuscript that he called Bruny Island Girl. He wanted to preserve the history of this pioneering family from England, even though they had now all passed on. In recent times, his partner, Cath Morris Williams, read his manuscript and suggested that he should try and have it published. And so he did. Cath’s help in editing the manuscript is greatly appreciated.

Max Cutcliffe’s mother was a quiet lady, so it is hoped she approves her son’s actions and is happy to have her name, and that of her English pioneering family, live on for many years to come through this book.

About the Book

In the year 1879, William and Jane Burns from Durham, England, migrated to Newcastle, Australia, in the hope of finding a better life for themselves and their two children, Joseph, aged three, and Elizabeth, aged one. Stormy seas, interspersed with weeks of boredom, made their three-month-long voyage on the sailing ship, William Stonehouse, anything but pleasant. William, like his father, was a coal miner and found work easily in a Newcastle colliery. During this time, he befriended a German immigrant, Wilhelm Zschachner, and learned that a new coal discovery had been made in the state of Tasmania. The thought of moving to Tasmania was challenging to the Burns family now that they had two additional children. Nevertheless, they repacked their furniture and treasures brought out with them from England and moved to remote Bruny Island, off Tasmania’s southeast coast.

Here, they were true pioneers. Between working the new coal mine, William and his still-increasing family cleared a parcel of land on Coal Point and built themselves a cosy home from axe-split palings. Sadly, William died young after a rock fall at the mine, forcing Jane to become a midwife in order to keep the family together until they reached adulthood and married. Joyce – the ‘Bruny Island Girl’ – was born in 1899 to Louisa, one of Jane’s daughters, and this book tells the story of her remarkable life on the island before marrying Cecil Cutcliffe. Max Cutcliffe is one of their sons and the author of this book.

‘Bruny Island’, as it is known today, was originally written as ‘Bruni Island’, named after the early navigator Bruni D’Entrecasteaux. ‘Bruni Island’ became ‘Bruny Island’ after the name was anglicised prior to 1920. In the early dialogue of this book, the local residents refer to the island as ‘Bruni’, the only known spelling of the word at that time.

Dedication

In remembrance of a pioneer’s daughter,

loving mother

and grandmother.

Copyright Information ©

Max Cutcliffe (2019)

The right of Max Cutcliffe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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 of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528966023 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Prologue

Two kilometres beyond The Neck, the South Bruny Island Road branched left to Adventure Bay and right to Alonnah. I asked my ageing mother, Joyce Cutcliffe, for guidance, but for a moment, she seemed hesitant and delayed answering a little longer until bidding me turn the car left. Until now, she had been bubbling with enthusiasm about the newly paved road from Barnes Bay, the new houses and farms along the way, the tourist facilities at The Neck. But now, quite suddenly, she seemed to retreat within herself, grow pensive, perhaps even a little nervous. Further ahead, however, between breaks in the trees, her still youthful eyes swept across the broad, silvered waters of Adventure Bay to fasten on the familiar curved back of Penguin Island. She knew that the high-wooded headland adjacent to this tiny isle hid the sheer cliffs of Fluted Cape and also the rough Tasman Sea that pounded this inhospitable shoreline. We climbed from a wet, forested gully to cleared land again, to another new farm, another freshly painted homestead; then her excited eyes concentrated on the road directly ahead.

Slow down, son, she almost whispered, we’re coming to Coal Point. You can pull off the road just ahead.

Mother remained quiet in the parked car for a short time before deciding to open the door and step out onto the seemingly deserted road. She crossed to the other side and looked momentarily for a familiar crossing over the deep gutter, but seeing one no longer existed, simply propelled her 80-year-old body across the narrowest point and strolled up to the open gate of the property that once belonged to her beloved grandmother. She placed a hand on the gatepost and rested a while, allowing her eyes to wander across the surrounding scene that still held so many fond childhood memories for her. She raised a dilapidated letterbox lid and stared for a long time into a maze of cobwebs—at some treasure of the mind that only she could see or understand.

I stood close behind her, waiting to lend support when the truth of the tragedy dawned, when her arms would fly up in despair, when the tears would flow freely. I watched her eyes dart ahead to a pair of lifeless chimneys, a burned-out water tank, an area of black ashes and charred timbers that had only recently stopped smouldering—all that remained of a pioneer’s home, the last connecting bond with her early life of so long ago.

The grief I expected never came. Instead of tears, a slight smile spread across her face. For the moment, I was mystified, but when she released her grip on the gatepost and turned to proceed up the still visible garden path, she whispered something that greatly surprised me, yet those words suddenly made the situation abundantly clear. I’ll go and see if Gran’s home, she said quite simply. My undaunted mother was obviously intending to ignore the scene of devastation before her, and, instead, proposed to view the old house and garden as she had known them for most of a lifetime. She would view the scene ahead only through the eyes of her memory.

The remains of the garden ahead were waist deep in thistles and unkempt grass and surrounded by a dilapidated paling fence that allowed the neighbour’s cattle to roam inside at will. But Mother would remember her Uncle Joe’s vegetable garden when it flourished with greenery and easily sustained the whole family. This was the way she was seeing it now. She walked a few steps, then stopped on the path and looked right to where her uncle had grown his prized cabbages. At one time, there were neatly laid out plots of carrots and lettuces and runner beans that tried to climb skywards, beyond the ends of high tea-tree poles. Then, she turned her head left to remember a large plot of potatoes, rows of peas, cauliflower and tall raspberry canes that had flourished out of control along the fence. She stopped and looked about her, took a deep breath, rekindled her thoughts and allowed the atmosphere that seemed to overwhelm her to be absorbed. She was really home again—home to her birthplace. In her mind, the old homestead was exactly as it had been while she was growing up. This was where she had known true happiness, where she had milked the cows, picked the apples, cooked the family meals, and played with her old tomcat.

When Mother reached the charred remains of the old house, I wondered how she would react. But she never faltered. She stepped onto what was once the front veranda, glanced right to where her grandmother’s rocker and uncle’s chair had always stood, then continued another step to the front door. She steadied herself, turned right and walked into what was once her grandmother’s bedroom. The twisted slat springs and burnt iron supports of an old four-poster bed were all that remained. She strode across to this and rested a hand on the one standing post, then looked down as if checking to see whether her gran’s patchwork quilt was drawn evenly and wrinkle-free across the blankets, and that her pillows were well plumped with the embroidered corners placed the right way up. So often she had told me about this. Mother then turned, as if studying the crochet-work pictures hanging from the traditionally papered walls, checked the lace curtains covering the multi-paned window and eyed the doilies on the heavy cedar chest of drawers that only her gran ever opened. And when everything seemed in order, she left, stepping cautiously over the ashes of the passage to where once stood the living room.

She smiled. In her mind’s eye, Uncle Joe had rotated the pictures once again. General Gordon’s victorious ride into Khartoum was usually prominent on the east wall above the large open fireplace, but it must have fallen into disfavour once again, as it was now hanging above her grandmother’s favourite armchair on the south wall. The Charge of the Light Brigade presently took pride of place above the mantelpiece. Her uncle’s kerosene lamp still dangled from the ceiling hook above the round, polished centre table, and the old wind-up gramophone sat atop a pair of dove-tailed kerosene boxes, stuffed with a good supply of records—records that had given cheer to the family through the years, as their music and songs echoed through the house until every word and every scratch was familiar and anticipated.

My mother had told me she seldom entered her uncle’s bedroom because he felt this was his only refuge from the predominance of females in the house. But today, she must have felt bold and stepped left of the chimney through what was once the doorway into his former sanctuary. The room had been small and narrow and reeked of tobacco smoke that had stained the curtains and wallpaper around his single bed, right up to the ceiling. A wardrobe he had assembled from rough-cut boards once stood just inside the door and had contained a smart sea captain’s uniform, and the better clothes he sometimes wore on his visits to Hobart. But his everyday clothes, seaman’s books and other treasures that he had accumulated since his boyhood days in England would have been stuffed inside kerosene boxes and covered with brightly coloured cloth purchased from Maori bazaars while trading in New Zealand.

My mother retraced her steps to the site of the passage, then carefully picked her way through a carpet of ashes to where a doorway once led into her own room. For a moment, she imagined she heard the old grandfather’s clock her uncle had stored there when he could no longer tolerate its quarter-hourly celebration of musical gongs in the front room. Or its grinding wind-up sequence prior to sounding a relentless bombardment of hourly strokes that might well have been heard as far away as the Zschachners’, their next-door neighbours. A double bed once stood against the window where she had slept with her cousin Edna, and a single bed, piled high with spare mattresses and blankets, was always placed against the other wall, in readiness for her mother or sisters’ use whenever they visited from Alonnah. A large double wardrobe had stood against the inner wall and contained her neatly hung clothes on one side and Edna’s in a heap on the other. Two kerosene boxes on the floor once housed another old gramophone that her uncle had brought her back from Adelaide and also the meagre supply of records she had so dearly treasured.

Mother’s greatest emotional challenge would come as she entered the charred remains of the kitchen where she had spent so much time cooking for her grandmother, Uncle Joe and Edna, and for the rest of the family whenever they rode in from Alonnah for an occasional visit. But the smile on her face never waned. She moved carefully through the burned debris, rested a hand on the surviving caste-iron stove, and, again, let her mind rekindle the memories that had now centred so heavily around her. Her stare moved towards the area where the kitchen cabinet once stood, where I retrieved some fragments of crockery that lay among the charcoal and handed them to her. She rotated them slowly in her hand. One piece was from a Willow pattern dinner set that had survived her grandmother’s journey out from England, another was a fragment of a cup and saucer set that had been given her as a birthday present, others were pieces of everyday crockery that she had laid on the table more times than she ever cared to remember.

She turned to place the fragments on the pine kitchen table, that she had dutifully scrubbed once a week until it appeared almost white, but hesitated and instead placed them gently on the stove. The bentwood chair she remembered beneath the northern window had often been her chosen seat, it allowed her to enjoy the morning sun when there was sewing to do or to watch the rain beat in when the sky flashed with forked lightning and thunderclaps rumbled noisily around the heavens.

Where the back veranda once stood now lay the buckled remains of an old tin bath that Mother remembered learning to hate during the cold winter months—so much so in fact that she created an ‘in-and-out’ record that only her cat could possibly have beaten. When her gran was away, she sometimes cheated and bathed from a dish of warm water in the kitchen or in her room if Uncle Joe was about. Often the bath also became a storage bin for her uncle’s vegetables, and sometimes a prop for both their bicycles. It was amongst the ashes of this veranda that I picked up the remains of a fire-scorched cameo brooch and showed it to Mother. She snatched it from me, scrutinised it closely, then clasped it tightly to her breast. For the first time, I watched tears well up in her eyes. It’s nothing, she said softly. But I wondered.

Beyond where the house once stood, the property continued over cleared paddocks to the old coal mine, which had once provided employment for Adventure Bay’s early pioneers. But Mother showed little interest in walking that far today. Instead, we wandered around the back yard, looking into rusted water tanks and collapsed sheds for mementos of her family’s colourful past.

The old dairy was of particular interest, for it was here she or her mother regularly separated the cream from the milk and made butter and sometimes cheeses that were hung in calico bags from the veranda rafters to mature. They had also corned their own meat. In those days, there had been three cows they not only had to milk but to keep from stealing apples from the trees when the branches hung so temptingly low.

Mother was now noticeably tiring. She sat on a log and directed my gaze out over Adventure Bay to The Neck and beyond to Cape Queen Elizabeth and even distant Mount Raoul. The sea had turned silvery blue and rose and fell noticeably, like the breathing of a sleeping giant—a scene Mother had awakened to countless times during her early years on Bruny, a scene she had sometimes stared at until the stars and moon had crept into the heavens and turned her thoughts to more fanciful things. She was now smiling broadly; perhaps some joke had crossed her mind that she wanted to share. Did you know, dear, she began quietly, "…if you stare long enough out to sea, beyond Penguin Island, and really concentrate, you’ll surely see Captain Cook’s two ships swing into the bay and drop anchor. Perhaps they’ll even fire their cannons! She looked up at my puzzled expression and laughed. Mr Pybus," she said simply, but her brief explanation left me none the wiser.

It’s already half past one, I reminded my mother. If we’re going to visit the Bligh Museum for a couple of hours, perhaps we should leave now.

The museum, oh yes, we intended going there, didn’t we? She thought about this for a moment, then slowly shook her head. No dear, I think I’m too tired for that right now. I’d prefer to just sit here in the sun and rest awhile. But you go. Fetch me a rug from the car and something to read, and I’ll wait here while you learn a little more about the island. I’ll be very comfortable with my back against this log."

I brought her the rug and some cushions, and a few travel pamphlets she might enjoy, made certain she wore her sun-hat and seemed content, then bid her farewell for a couple of hours while I drove down to the village of Adventure Bay. She would probably fall asleep in a short while, and with so many memories of her past around, she would undoubtedly find plenty to dream about.

Joyce Burns aged 20

Joyce aged ten

Joyce, Jenny and Pauline

Jane and Louisa Burns

Louisa Burns Jane (Granny) Burns

Joseph Burns aged 25

Joseph Burns

Clifton. House on Coal Point

Cecil Cutcliffe

Chapter 1

Quiet Corner

Mummy! Mummy! I can see Uncle Joe’s boat coming in. It just sailed around Penguin Island and is heading for the jetty. Can I go and meet him?

How do you know it’s your Uncle Joe’s boat, Joyce? replied the handsome woman in a dark, button-up dress that trailed in the garden dust. His letter only said he might be home from New Zealand before the weekend, but with the bad weather we’ve been having lately, he could be another few days yet.

Because it’s got two masts and a big black sail on the front. I know it easy.

Oh, very well, dear, you can go, but take Pauline and Jenny with you. They’re playing over on the sawdust heap. I’d also come, but I have to feed your baby brother and get your father’s tea ready for when he comes home from The Mill.

Louisa Delahunty was a busy lady. She also remembered that she had promised to help her neighbour scrape the ugly dance notices off the Social Club’s porch. If she didn’t do it soon and lodge a complaint with the council, they would continue pasting unsightly notices on those walls forever. It had been a horrid New Year’s Eve dance at any rate, most of the men had got drunk and the women went home in disgust at the stroke of midnight.

Joyce looked up at the youthful face of her mother, into her restless blue eyes, and wished that this lady could find the time to keep her own unkempt hair as tidy as she always did her children’s. Mr Kiel said The Mill will make lots of money this year, Mum, and they’re going to mend the holes in the road and fix the jetty.

The Mill? Of course, The Mill will make lots of money, my sweet, but it’s unlikely your father or any of the other workers will ever see any of it. We’re not likely to move from muddy little Adventure Bay to a big marble mansion up in Hobart, you know, not in 1907 or any future year. Not unless we win Tatts! Run along then, dear, and bring your Uncle Joe over for a cup of tea before he goes home.

Joyce had celebrated her ninth birthday last month in July and had finally received the new boots she had been promised for Christmas. She was immensely proud of them and naturally reluctant to get them muddied, so instead of taking her usual short cut over the back fence to The Mill, she walked up the grassy edge of the main road to where the company’s tramline crossed it to the jetty. A short stroll to the left brought her within sight of the sawdust heap. Pauline! Jenny! She called to her sisters. Uncle Joe’s boat is coming in. Mummy says we can go down and meet him.

Two tiny bodies immediately bobbed up, shook the sawdust from their long dresses, and scrambled down to meet their older sister.

Oh dear, you children are in such a mess. If there was time, I’d send you both home to wash. Let me comb your hair, Jenny, it looks like a floor mop. Uncle Joe’s boat is inside the bay already and should be tying up at Quiet Corner jetty in a few minutes. Pauline, you’re five now, Jenny’s only three; you shouldn’t let her get into such a mess. Where’s your boots, Jenny?

At home. I don’t need ’em when I play in the sawdust. Look, I see the boat already. Hurry up. I hope he remembered our presents.

The children skipped along the sleepers of the railed section of tramline, crossed the muddy Adventure Bay Road, and ran out onto the long pylon jetty, used almost exclusively by the Gray Brothers Timber Company. On each side of the pier, the dazzling white sands of the beach merged with the clear, gently lapping water of the tranquil bay, then changed gradually in colour, as the depth increased, to a light translucent blue. Further out where the sea was deep and olive green, the children’s imagination saw sharks and sea monsters lurking in the hidden depths. Shoals of tiny garfish darted to and fro among the mussel-encrusted pylons.

Another ship was already berthed and loading timber, congesting the area with men and horses. Sail-makers had busied themselves attending to last minute repairs on torn sails draped across the end of the pier. The girls stood out of harm’s way, amongst the men, and watched as the incoming barque quietly furled its sails and skilfully drew alongside the pier. A sailor on the ship’s bow shouted a warning, followed immediately by a mooring rope thudding down onto the pier. Other men hurried to haul it in. Another rope followed, then another—their uncle, Captain Joseph Burns, would be at his busiest just now.

There’s Uncle Joe now, Joyce said quietly, knowing better than to attract his attention at this crucial time. See him walking towards the front of the boat?

I wish he’d wear proper captain’s clothes, remarked dark-haired Pauline. Except for that silly peaked cap he wears, he just looks like any other sailor dressed in black. They all look pretty dirty to me!

Uncle Joe says it sometimes takes two or three weeks to sail from New Zealand, and that the sea is usually very rough. I don’t suppose they have much time for washing their faces and clothes.

Fifteen minutes later, little Jenny began jumping up with excitement. Look, he’s seen us, he’s seen us; wave to him, Joyce!

The three girls waved joyfully. Their uncle grabbed a rope and swung agilely up onto the ship’s gunwale. Hello, my pretties, he called. What a pleasant surprise! Hang on a jiff while we make fast, I’ll join you then… You’d better move off the pier, though; the boys will be tossing their knapsacks down and making haste to get home.

A half hour later, Captain Burns scooted down the pier on his bicycle into the arms of his three loving nieces, picking them up one at a time and swinging them around until everyone became giddy. He laughed and tried to hug all of them at once. The girls giggled and danced around their favourite uncle, exuberant that he was back with them again after his long sea voyage.

You need a shave, joked Pauline, and if you’ll let me trim your moustache and wax it, I’ll make you look more handsome, a bit like our King Edward.

More like the Kaiser, you mean, laughed their uncle. No thanks, girls, this year’s fashion is to curl up the ends a little—you’ll see when I get spruced up. Come on, let’s visit the cottage and see what your mum’s up to.

But what about our presents? asked Jenny with a serious frown on her usually mischievous face. You said you’d bring us presents from Noo… wherever you’ve been.

Joe’s face lit up again as he brushed back his dark thinning hair. You think I forgot, eh? Just because I’m nearly 40, with lots of wrinkles from the sea, doesn’t mean my memory’s failing. Let’s see what’s inside my sack. Ah, yes, a little Maori doll for a pretty little Jenny, and a couple of nice greenstone necklaces for Joyce and Pauline. I hope they appeal to my pretties?

The kisses were more heartfelt this time. Joyce then hitched up her long dress before struggling to pick up her uncle’s bicycle, then led the way down the puddle-strewn road to a cluster of deteriorating mill cottages on The Flats. The others trailed along, hand in hand, their happy chatter and laughter announcing to their neighbours Joe’s homecoming.

Louisa Delahunty emerged from one of the cottages and waved an arm in greeting. Welcome back, Joe; did you have a good voyage? Did you meet any pretty Maori ladies?

Joe laughed and kissed his sister before speaking. A good trip? Yes, I suppose so, Lou. We got our hardwood cargo into Port Littleton on time and brought back nearly twice as much softwood. The company should turn a tidy profit from our hard work. But that Tasman’s a rough stretch of sea, my dear, and some of the crew were seasick from day one. I felt a bit queasy myself.

Somebody has to sell our timber, dear brother. The families on Bruni depend on that for a living now that the coal mine has closed. Otherwise, all we have left are fish and apples and a scattering of dairy products. Do we still have that freestone quarry over on the channel?

Joe laughed. You’re a bit behind the times, my dear. If you mean The Quarries over at Little Taylors Bay, they closed some 40 years ago. The place was full of Irishmen and convicts, but it’s true, they helped boost the island’s economy. Some of the freestone blocks they cut weighed five tons and were used in building the Melbourne Post Office. Anyhow, Lou, the way Gray Brothers are pushing their tramlines further and further back into the hills, we can bet on timber related jobs for at least the next couple of decades. But forget all this business talk, how are you and Frank managing?

Louisa poured the tea and looked around the tiny, drab kitchen to see that her children had occupied themselves with their crayons. I’m a bit worried, Joe, not for myself but for the kids. These cottages are just too damp to live in for any length of time. Frank says this one is better than the one we lived in at Catamaran for six years, and he’s probably right, but they’re all full of mildew and are rotting away at floor level. With so many people getting tuberculosis these days, I can’t help worrying.

Well, if your husband wasn’t such an obstinate Irish cuss, you could all be living on Coal Point with Mum and the rest of the family, or what’s left of the family. I was quite sad when our sisters, Elizabeth, Jane and Mary, fled the coup to get married, and last year, brother, Ted, left to marry Ursula Leale. Now Florrie says she’s had enough of Bruni’s isolation and intends moving to Hobart. In a month or so, there’ll only be Mother and myself left. We’d love to have you and the family move in with us.

Joyce brushed her long fair hair aside and looked up from the picture she was colouring on her slate. Can we, Mum? she asked. I’d like to live up on the hill with Gran. She has nice grassy paddocks to play in.

You were born there, my sweet, and were only two when your father decided he was going to make his fortune at that horrible mill in Catamaran. So, we moved there. Six years later, we spent our last shilling moving back again. But it’s true, we were always happy up at Clifton. I wouldn’t mind returning.

Then talk to Frank. He’s got three kids to consider now. No sense paying rent to Gray Brothers when you can share a much bigger house for free.

Frank’s a very independent man, Joe, as Irish as they come, but… all right, I’ll try and persuade him. The children’s health has to be our first consideration. There would be disadvantages, though: Here we have a school only a stone’s throw away, and, as you know, I have to get the children started there as soon as possible. We have the post office and library almost next door and also the Social Club, which we use for dances. Who knows, one day perhaps, Adventure Bay will even have a proper general store.

But, Lou, Clifton’s less than two miles from here. The children will enjoy the walk; a bit of exercise every morning won’t harm any of them. Have a word with Frank when he comes home. I’m sure you can convince him. I must go now. Mother probably saw the ship coming in and will be expecting me for tea.

After the family’s evening meal, Louisa sat by the fire in the tiny smoke-stained living room with her unshaven, spindly husband of six years and explained what her brother had offered. I know you cherish your independence, Frank, but it would be healthier for all of us if we lived up there on Coal Point.

Frank squeezed another half glass of beer from one of the bottles he had recently refilled at Kaden’s store and refrained from uncorking another. You’re damned right, Lou! Isn’t that why I left all those bigots in Ireland, isn’t that why I sailed out here to The Antipodes in search of the freedom to do what I wanted? Back there I was a slave to the old man’s depraved whims—even got hauled over the coals for sneaking down to the corner tavern.

But, dear, Clifton will soon be virtually empty. When Florrie moves to Hobart sometime before Christmas, there’ll only be Mum and Joe left, and Joe’s away at sea much of the time. Mother’s 60 now; you get on well with her, don’t you?

Please, Daddy, interrupted Joyce, there are lots of nice sunny paddocks to play in up there. Down here, it’s always wet and muddy.

Mind your business, girl, I’m talking with your mother.

Joyce turned sorrowfully away and continued playing with her new necklace. She loved her father, but could never understand why he was often more curt with her than her sisters.

Frank thought about the proposal for another minute. At least if we moved up there, we wouldn’t have to pay this blood-sucking company five bob a week rent. I’ll think about it. Come on, I’m tired. We’ll all go to bed now.

Next morning was a typical winter’s day on Bruny Island—cold, heavily overcast, with rain drifting down from the hills, but despite this, Joyce felt an urgency to get outdoors for a few hours to escape the smoke-contaminated confines of the cottage. She hurried through her regular house chores while her mother took care of the baby, then asked if she could go for a walk along the beach.

Then take Pauline with you, dear, it’s too cold for Jenny, and be careful crossing the road—some of those mill carts race along The Flats as if they were competing in the Melbourne Cup.

Adventure Bay Beach was Joyce and Pauline’s sanctuary, where they often imagined they were the only people living in the whole world. Joyce loved the sea. She loved the sea more than anything else she could think of. The playmates built sandcastles on the beach, dug holes with pieces of whalebone, and fought desperate battles trying to hold back the incoming tide. But today was too cold for such play. Instead, they ran together for short distances and wrote their names in the grey-white sand, then gazed for long spells of time out across the green pounding sea.

England’s over that way, Joyce advised her sister as she scrawled an arrow in the sand. That’s where Gran and Uncle Joe come from.

And King Edward, too. I wonder if he’s married and has children like Mum.

I don’t know, Pauline, that’s one reason I want to start school. Maybe the teacher would learn us some of the things we don’t know.

Mum never went to school, and she knows everything, and Gran never went, too. Schools are just for playing where the teacher looks after you instead of mothers. Come on, let’s walk over to the school and have a look.

In minutes, they had