‘Now, eat up and then get to work,’ Mrs Chisholm said. ‘We’ve got to have this place spotless by evening. I’ve got a scrubbing brush and a bucket of water for you. You can start on the room next door.’
Carly could see that Mrs Chisholm had already been hard at work. The walls in the room they had slept in were clean, and every surface had been dusted. There was no sign of the rats. She picked up the bread that Mrs Chisholm offered (a fresh loaf, she noticed – thankfully not the rats’ leftovers!) and started to eat. She’d have preferred a bowl of cereal or – even better – a plate of bacon and eggs, but she didn’t have a choice. A more serious problem was that she was busting to pee. No way was she going to use the pot that Mrs Chisholm offered to her. She’d just have to hang on.
‘Well, now,’ Mrs Chisholm said briskly. ‘I must go out and buy poison for those rats. I’ll leave you to start scrubbing. The Devil makes work for idle hands.’
With that, she was gone. Carly looked around and sighed. How will I ever get this place clean? Her mum always made her do the vacuuming and dusting during school holidays. Carly usually complained about it, but those jobs seemed like picnics now, compared with this one.
She sighed again, undid the little buttons at her wrists and rolled up her sleeves. No use complaining. She bent to pick up the scrubbing brush, and a corner of her shawl fell into the bucket of water. She pulled it out with a huff. The shawl would only be in her way and she didn’t want to get it dirty, so she slipped it off her shoulders.
And the world spun and went black.
‘Have you heard of Caroline Chisholm?’ Dora asked.
Carly waggled her head as if trying to shake water from her ears. ‘Huh?’ she said.
Carly and Dora were strolling down the city street, only a few metres from the crossing where they had paused at the lights. Carly looked down: t-shirt, shorts and joggers. No corset. She patted her hair; it was hanging long and straight down her back.
‘I said: have you heard of Caroline Chisholm?’
‘Um ... yes,’ Carly replied. What was going on? Dora didn’t even seem to have noticed that she had gone. Time seemed to have stood still. Or did I simply imagine the last twenty-four hours?
‘She was a real legend,’ Dora said. ‘We learned about her in school. She used to greet immigrant women when they got off the ships, and she looked after them in a home she set up.’ Dora stopped and pointed to a building. ‘See that plaque there?’
Carly looked where she was pointing.
‘That tells you all about it. The home that she ran for the women used to be right there on that spot.’
With her heart thumping, Carly read the inscription on the round, green plaque upon the wall. It said:
Caroline Chisholm, the emigrant’s friend’, opened the Female Immigrants’ Home on this site in 1841. During a major period of free migration, Mrs Chisholm worked to improve conditions for women migrants on their arrival in the colony.
1841, Carly thought. Well, that answers one of my questions.
‘Do you ever wonder what it would have been like back in those days?’ Dora mused.
‘... mmm,’ said Carly. Then she bit her lip and turned to her friend. ‘If you could go back in time to find out, would you do it?’
‘Heck, yes,’ Dora replied. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
Carly nodded slowly. The shawl was still in her hand, fluttering in the breeze. She looked at Dora: her freckles and stiff, red pigtails and gappy teeth; her odd, bright clothes and her open, confident smile. She knew that Dora was a girl she could trust.
‘Dora,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t think I m crazy—
‘Why?’ Dora tipped her head and gazed at her. Her red-rimmed glasses made her eyes big and shiny. ‘Are you OK? You look as if you’re going to puke.’
Carly shook her head. ‘I’m OK. It’s just ... can you take the shawl out of your bag?’
Dora rummaged in her bag and pulled out the crumpled shawl.
‘Now,’ Carly said. ‘Trust me. On the count of three, we both put our shawls on.’
‘OK,’ Dora whispered. ‘But why?’
Carly leaned closer to Dora. ‘You said you’d like to go back in time?’
Dora nodded.
‘Then trust me.’
Dora spread out her shawl and held it up. Her eyes were full of questions.
‘Ready?’ Carly asked.
Dora grinned.
‘OK. One, two, three!’
The world spun again and came back to rest in 1841.
They were standing at the wharves in the middle of a flurry of activity. Great sailing ships sat on the waves out in the harbour, and little rowing boats ferried to and fro. Men in boots and caps and high-waisted pants with braces strode about the docks carrying sacks and boxes, while dirty, ragged children scurried amongst them.
Dora stood, staring at it all with her jaw almost down at her knees. Carly burst out laughing. Dora looked hilarious. She was dressed in a pale yellow gown with a great ballooning skirt, and a white frilly bonnet. Her hair was no longer in pigtails but done up in a bun with a plait looping down under each ear. Her funky, red plastic glasses had gone, and a pair of round lenses held together with wire sat upon her freckled nose.
Dora looked down at herself and back at Carly. ‘Holy moly,’ she said.
The wharf was busy; a ship had just come in and its passengers were filing out across the gangplank. They looked dazed and shaky. When they stepped onto land, most
