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 now.
‘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
