A New World Read online

  Copyright © Jane Smith

  First published 2020

  Copyright remains the property of the authors and apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission.

  All inquiries should be made to the publishers.

  Big Sky Publishing Pty Ltd

  PO Box 303, Newport, NSW 2106, Australia

  Phone:1300 364 611

  Fax: (61 2) 9918 2396

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.bigskypublishing.com.au

  Cover design and typesetting: Think Productions

  Proudly printed and bound in China by Hang Tai Printing Company Limited

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Creator: Smith, Jane Margaret, author.

  Title: A New World / Jane Smith.

  ISBN: 978-1-922265-07-4 (paperback).

  Series: Smith, Jane Margaret. Carly Mills, Pioneer Girl ; bk 1.

  This does more than acknowledge our female trailblazers. It teaches our daughters about them in a delightful and entertaining away. Gold!

  Madonna King

  author and journalist

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 The Shawls

  Chapter 2 Mrs Chisholm

  Chapter 3 The Shed

  Chapter 4 The Plan

  Chapter 5 Night

  Chapter 6 Rats!

  Chapter 7 Rise and Shine

  Chapter 8 The Emigrant’s Friend

  Chapter 9 The Wharf.

  Chapter 10 The Female Immigrants’ Home

  Chapter 11 Another Plan

  Chapter 12 Bush

  Chapter 13 The Farm

  Chapter 14 Scared

  Chapter 15 Be Strong!

  Historical Note

  Q & A with Caroline Chisholm

  ‘Are you nervous?’ Dora asked.

  ‘No,’ Carly replied. ‘Should I be?’

  Dora tipped her head to the side and thought for a moment. ‘I suppose not,’ she said at last. ‘It’s not as if you’ll never see your home again.’

  A lump swelled in Carly’s throat. She was a bit nervous, now that she thought about it. In a couple of months, she would be leaving her family’s farm at Apis Creek to go to boarding school in Brisbane. She would move far away from everything she knew – her parents, her little sister, the horses, the cattle, and the dogs – to live in the city. She had no idea what it was going to be like. She wasn’t used to cities. And she most certainly wasn’t used to being apart from her family. ‘I will miss it,’ Carly said in a small voice.

  ‘Of course you will,’ Dora replied with a kind, gap-toothed smile. ‘You’re a country girl. But the city’s not so bad, is it?’

  Carly stopped and looked around at the harbour. She was visiting family friends in Sydney for the school holidays, as a special treat before starting high school. It was a sparkling, hot summer’s day. The Harbour Bridge formed a perfect silver arc through a blue sky, and the sun shone upon the water. Hundreds of boats – big and small – bobbed and glided about the harbour, and people bustled here and there upon the wharf.

  Carly grinned. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not bad at all.’ A wave of excitement suddenly washed over her. ‘OK,’ she said eagerly. ‘What next?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Dora, pushing her glasses up on her nose and peering at a guidebook. ‘What about the Botanic Gardens?’

  ‘... sure,’ said Carly. She wasn’t really interested in gardens, but she was just getting to know Dora and didn’t want to disappoint her. Dora and Carly’s mothers had been best friends when they were at boarding school. The girls had met once or twice before, but never spent time together without their parents. This trip to Sydney was a real adventure for Carly. It was her first time on a plane, and her first time in Sydney. Her parents had driven her to Brisbane and she had flown to Sydney by herself. She felt very grown-up. And now, here she was, in the big city without any adults!

  Dora was a Sydney girl, and being in the city was no big deal for her. Carly was trying not to show how deeply the sights impressed her.

  ‘Great,’ Dora said, pointing. ‘Straight down this street and then left.’

  Carly happily trotted along the busy street beside her. Dora was short and freckled and wore brightly-coloured and mismatched clothing: a floral shirt and green patterned skirt, with ankle boots and yellow socks. Her red hair was pulled tightly into pigtails. Carly had never met anyone like her before.

  ‘What’s that building?’ Carly pointed across a wide, busy courtyard.

  ‘That?’ Dora said, raising her eyebrows at a tall, grand sandstone building. ‘That’s Customs House. They have museum exhibitions in there. Want to have a look?’

  ‘Sure,’ Carly shrugged.

  They walked across the courtyard and through an arched doorway into the foyer. There were people everywhere. A group of tourists was being led around by a woman with a clipboard, and men in overalls were pushing boxes around on trolleys. A woman hurried past and bumped into them.

  ‘Sorry,’ they all said at the same time.

  ‘Can I help you, girls?’ the woman asked in a tight voice, as if helping them was the last thing on earth she felt like doing.

  ‘Can we see the exhibition?’ Dora asked.

  ‘I’m sorry – not today,’ the woman replied. ‘We’re in the middle of a big clean-up. We’re changing exhibitions and moving things out.’

  ‘Oh,’ Dora said, disappointed. ‘Thanks anyway ...’ but the woman had already gone.

  A man trundled past with a trolley full of boxes and disappeared through a door that said: ‘STAFF ONLY’.

  Carly saw something flutter to the ground. ‘Hey!’ she cried, pushing her way through the crowd. There was a pile of fabric on the floor. She bent to pick it up and found two identical pieces of material. They were triangular and edged with lace. The fabric was soft, delicate and a faded orange colour – perhaps yellowed with age.

  ‘Shawls!’ Carly said. She looked around for someone to hand them to. The only people she could see were tourists.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Dora, squinting at the fabric. ‘They look old.’

  Another man with a trolley pushed through the staff door.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Carly said to him, ‘someone dropped these.’

  ‘Those old things?’ the man said, barely looking at the shawls in her hand. ‘Probably getting rid of them anyway. Keep ‘em, if you like.’

  Dora and Carly looked at each other. The man hurried off. Carly slowly handed one of the shawls to Dora, who tucked it into her carry bag with a shrug. Together, the girls walked back out of the building and onto the street.

  The gardens weren’t far away, but the girls took their time walking there. There was so much to see! Dora pointed everything out patiently to Carly along the way.

  Carly hadn’t been quite honest when she said she wasn’t nervous about boarding school. In fact, she was terrified. But Dora’s friendliness and the excitement of the city were helping her to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. The city sights took her breath away. The buildings were tall and glittering, and there was more traffic than she’d ever seen in her life. In between the modern office blocks were elegant old sandstone buildings that hinted at the city’s past.

  They came to an intersection and stopped at the traffic lights. They were taking ages to change. Carly gazed at an old building on the far corner and wondered what the street would have looked like in the olden days. She stroked the shawl. It was soft and fragile and spotted with age. She tried to imagine herself wearing it with a long, wide dress, back in the days when horses and carriages rode through the cobbled streets. Sh
e flung the fabric around her shoulders ... and then everything went black.

  When the light returned, everything had changed.

  It was as if someone had switched stations on the radio; the sounds were completely different. The whooshing of cars, the honking of horns, the rumble of buses and the beeping of traffic lights had all gone. They had been replaced by the clopping of horses’ hooves and the rattling of carriages. Carly gazed about with an open mouth. The glassy skyscrapers had all disappeared! In their place were low sandstone buildings, golden and grand. The traffic lights had vanished. There was also an odd smell in the air: horse poo.

  People were striding about, but they looked nothing like the people that Carly knew. They weren’t in business suits or pencil skirts, or the shorts and t-shirts of tourists. There were men with whiskery sideburns and moustaches wearing top hats and waistcoats and long, flapping coats – in spite of the heat – and high boots. There weren’t many women. Carly saw only three or four, and they were flouncing about in dresses with huge bell-shaped skirts and tiny waists. Their hair was tucked up into bonnets. Around their shoulders they clasped shawls just like Carly’s.

  She was so astonished that it took a while to realise how uncomfortable she was. She started to notice that it was hard to breathe. Her chest and belly felt strangled, the way they had felt after Christmas dinner when she had eaten too much while wearing her favourite shorts that she didn’t want to admit she’d grown out of. She looked down and nearly fainted in shock. Just like the women bustling about on the street, she was covered in a shoulder-to-toe gown with a domed skirt! The tightness about her middle, she realised, was a corset! She put a hand to her head. Her long, straight brown hair was twisted up into a bun. There was a frilly bonnet on her head.

  Carly gazed about in a panic. Dora wasn’t there. What on earth is going on? She had a vague feeling that it had something to do with the shawl around her shoulders. Carly wondered if she should be scared. Everything was so strange! And yet ... she felt more excited than afraid.

  She stepped onto the road. No one took any notice of her. She took a deep breath – she was used to the smell of horse poo – and crossed the road. She wandered down the street, gaping at the sights.

  ‘Hello there,’ said a posh English voice. ‘Are you lost?’

  Carly spun around. A lady smiled at her. She was tall and dressed in a long, brown gown with a white lace collar and white frills at her wrists. She had pale skin and grey eyes and reddish-brown hair that hung in ringlets at each side of her face. She was carrying a big carpetbag that made Carly think of Mary Poppins.

  ‘Um,’ said Carly. Confusion had taken her voice away.

  ‘Never mind, dear,’ the woman said. Her voice was warm and musical, but firm. ‘I’ll look after you. Have you just come in on a ship?’

  ‘... er ...’ said Carly.

  ‘You poor dear – it’s frightening, isn’t it? You do look awfully young to be travelling alone. I suppose you haven’t any parents. Come with me – come, come, don’t worry.’ The woman strode off, leaving Carly stunned by the side of the road. Then the woman stopped and turned back. ‘But where’s your luggage? Oh, never mind, we’ll find you supplies. Heavens!’ she put a gloved hand to her mouth. ‘Where are my manners? I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Mrs Chisholm. Caroline Chisholm.’

  ‘I’m Carly,’ Carly croaked. ‘Carly Mills.’

  ‘Well, Carly,’ Caroline Chisholm smiled and clasped her hands together. ‘Welcome to Australia.’

  ‘You’ve come at rather an awkward time,’ Mrs Chisholm said as they scurried down the street. ‘I hope you don’t mind a bit of discomfort?’

  ‘Uh ... no ...’

  ‘Good girl. I’d normally take you home, but today is the day to put my plan into action. I’m terribly sorry. You won’t be in luxury, but at least you’ll be safe.’

  Carly stared dumbly at the woman by her side. Mrs Chisholm was about her mother’s age, she guessed, although with fashions being what they were, it was hard to tell. She walked with a very upright posture. Carly realised that it was probably the corset that held her up so stiffly, and that she probably looked just as awkward herself.

  The woman seemed kind, but nothing she said made any sense.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Chisholm said, as if reading Carly’s thoughts. ‘I haven’t explained, have I? It’s just that I’m terribly excited. Come with me and I’ll tell you when we get there.’

  Carly nodded and followed the strange woman for a block or so, until they reached a squat, ugly shed.

  ‘Ta-dah!’ announced the lady by her side.

  Carly said, ‘... um?’

  ‘You’re very shy, aren’t you?’ Mrs Chisholm said, and patted her on the arm. ‘It’s a good thing to be cautious. Less likely to get into trouble.’

  They were standing in front of a timber slab shed, about ten metres long and looking as if it had seen better days. Mrs Chisholm pushed the door and it creaked and groaned as it opened. It was very dark inside. Carly put a hand to her nose; the smell was awful.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Mrs Chisholm.

  They went inside, lifting their heavy skirts and stepping carefully on the uneven earth floor. The building was divided up into several tiny rooms, each only about the size of her mother’s walk-in wardrobe.

  Mrs Chisholm nodded and appeared to gather her strength. ‘It will do,’ she said.

  Carly finally found her tongue. ‘It will do for what?’ she asked.

  Mrs Chisholm beamed at her. She marched into one of the rooms and Carly followed. Mrs Chisholm placed her carpetbag upon a pile of boxes and brushed her hands together like a woman who meant business. There was an old packing chest in the corner of the room. Mrs Chisholm pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, dusted the chest off, sat and patted the seat beside her, inviting Carly to sit. ‘Let me explain,’ she said.

  ‘We’re going to sleep here tonight,’ Mrs Chisholm announced.

  Carly looked around in horror. The shed was dim and dusty and smelled rank. It had a dirt floor and a bare tin roof with no ceiling. The rooms were tiny and full of boxes and crates, and there was not a kitchen or bathroom in sight. ‘Is this your home?’ she asked at last. Her voice was faint.

  Mrs Chisholm laughed. ‘No, child. It’s not my home.’

  Carly nodded and looked around. She thought she heard something scuttling.

  ‘I have a plan,’ Mrs Chisholm began. She leaned closer to Carly and her eyes grew wide with excitement. ‘And this place is where it begins. You see, this country is in a crisis. Too many young women like you are coming here from across the seas, unprepared and alone. They arrive here with little money and no friends or family, and they find a city that is full of men with evil ways. They come here expecting to find work, but they have no skills. And then they learn that there are no jobs. They have nowhere to go! Many of them end up homeless, living on the streets. Or else they are so desperate that they take jobs with bad men who cheat and abuse them and treat them like slaves. They come here from Britain, expecting a wonderful new life, but all they get is poverty and loneliness and despair.’

  Carly nodded, speechless.

  ‘But I am going to change that!’ Mrs Chisholm beamed at her. ‘For a few years, since I arrived in this country, I have been going to the docks to greet these poor friendless women as soon as they step off their ships. I help them to find places to work and live. Sometimes I take them into my own home. But things are so bad in the mother country that now they are coming in greater numbers every day. I can’t look after them all in my home!’

  Something rose up in Carly’s memory. During a history class at school, the teacher had spoken about an immigration boom in the nineteenth century. There was something about poverty and famine in Britain driving people away to seek better lives, and something about the Australian colonial governments paying to bring more people to their shores. Carly had been daydreaming about her horses at the time. She wished she’d paid more attention n
ow.

  ‘So I wrote to Governor Gipps,’ Mrs Chisholm went on. ‘I told him that I wanted to establish a home for female immigrants. A place where they could stay the moment they arrived. A place where they would have food and shelter; where they would be safe and where they could live while kind women helped them to find suitable jobs.’

  Carly’s mouth fell open. ‘And this will be the place?’

  They looked around – at the dirt and the cobwebs, and the cracks in the walls. Then they both burst into laughter.

  ‘It’s not quite what I had in mind,’ Mrs Chisholm admitted. ‘But the Governor didn’t much like my idea. I pestered him, but he didn’t want to give up any of the nicer government buildings. I suggested this one, because it wasn’t being used, but he doesn’t think it will do.’

  ‘Well,’ Carly said, ‘it is a bit—’

  A bit neglected? Yes, it is. But we can fix it up. That’s what I told the Governor. And then I told him that I would spend a few nights here to prove that it was liveable. So here we are!’

  ‘Here we are,’ Carly repeated. Her horror had faded, and now she felt a tingle of excitement. It was hard not to be caught up with Mrs Chisholm’s enthusiasm. After all, she told herself, how bad can it be? It’s no worse than camping.

  Actually, it was quite a bit worse than camping.

  For a start, Carly had never camped while wearing a corset and petticoat before. And while camping trips had always meant barbecued sausages, followed by hot chocolate and marshmallows toasted over a fire, Carly found herself now reduced to eating bread and drinking sour milk. Worse: although it had been high summer when she had walked the streets of Sydney with Dora, she now found herself in winter — without any heating! The wind whistled in through the gaps between the slabs of the walls and chilled her to her bones.

  Neither was there any light to speak of. When darkness fell, Mrs Chisholm lit a candle and placed it upon a packing box. ‘Isn’t this cosy?’ she said, as the candlelight flickered upon the cobwebbed walls.