‘Oh, no,’ Dora began, ‘I’m not—’
‘Welcome, welcome!’ Mrs Chisholm beamed at them. ‘No luggage again? Never mind, come with me. I'll have you settled in and find you jobs in no time.'
Dora raised her eyebrows at Carly, and Carly shrugged. There was no point explaining. If they told Mrs Chisholm that they were not immigrants but were time-travellers from the twenty-first century, she’d think they had lost their minds.
The girls introduced themselves. The Irish girl’s name was Sophie. She told them that she was an orphan and that she hoped to find work as a servant. She was only sixteen. She didn’t know a single soul in the colony.
Mrs Chisholm showed them into the Home proudly. Weeks must have passed since Carly was last there, for the change was astonishing. Each of the rooms had been cleaned and fitted with beds and small cupboards. The gaps between the slabs had been blocked up and the rooms were cosy and comfortable.
‘No more rats,’ Carly said, and Mrs Chisholm grinned. ‘Not one,’ she said.
There were dozens of women at the Home. They were all young and cheerful, and they greeted the newcomers warmly.
‘You’ll want some supper,’ said Mrs Chisholm, pulling stools out for the girls to sit upon. ‘And then we can talk.’
Supper. Carly wished she had taken the opportunity to eat something decent in her brief return to the present. ‘... bread?’ she asked, hoping the answer would be ‘no’.
‘Yes, bread,’ Mrs Chisholm replied, smiling. ‘And potatoes. I know how you Irish girls like them, Sophie.’
As they ate, Mrs Chisholm talked. ‘You’ve come at a good time,’ she said. ‘Just in time for my next scheme.’
Carly took a bite of cold boiled potato and washed it down with some water. She hoped the water was clean. Sophie was shovelling potatoes into her mouth as if she hadn’t had a good meal in months. She probably hadn’t. Carly felt bad about being fussy over food. If potatoes and bread are good enough for Sophie, she thought, they should be good enough for me. She chewed and swallowed. It was OK. Not brilliant, but OK.
‘A lot has happened since you were here last, Carly,’ Mrs Chisholm went on. ‘After our night here with the rats, I wrote to Governor Gipps and told him that I had found the shed to be perfectly suited to my purpose. In the end, he agreed to let me have it. The government gave us linen and furniture, and my friends donated money, and within a week of setting up, we had ninety or so girls staying here! It has been a huge success. Even young men want to stay here, but I don’t allow that. I must protect the girls.’
‘You do great work,’ Dora said through a mouthful of bread. ‘I’ve heard about how you even bring homeless girls in from the streets and find them homes and jobs.’
‘You’ve heard about my work?’ Mrs Chisholm was surprised. ‘All the way from Ireland?’ Then she peered closely at Dora. ‘You don’t sound Irish. I can’t quite place your accent. Where are you from?’
‘Tell us more about your plans,’ Carly cut in.
‘Ah, yes, my plans.’ Mrs Chisholm beamed. ‘You see, girls, there are too many people in the city and not enough jobs. But at the same time, the people out in the country are crying out for more workers. They want labourers and servant girls. But they can’t find those servants, because they’re all stuck in the city!’
‘So you want to take the girls out into the country and find them jobs,’ said Dora.
‘Well, yes, exactly!’ said Mrs Chisholm. ‘How did you know? You are a very bright girl, Dora.’
Dora blushed and smiled. She had clearly been listening in her history classes.
Carly rolled her eyes.
‘We have two problems,’ Mrs Chisholm explained. ‘One: getting the girls to the country to find employers. Two: training them for work. Most of the girls who come here are young, poor and inexperienced. They have no skills.’
‘Like me,’ said Sophie. She had finally wolfed all her potatoes and joined the conversation.
‘Don’t worry, dear,’ Mrs Chisholm said, clearing away Sophie’s plate. ‘While you are under my roof, you will learn skills.’
‘So, what’s the plan?’ Carly asked.
As they were talking, five or six young women drifted into the cosy room and sat with them. Some of them knitted as they chatted, and others sewed.
‘We leave this afternoon,’ Mrs Chisholm said. ‘I have arranged for some bullock drays to take us west. We will stop at some farms – places where I know the owners are kind and honest – and see if they can offer work.’
‘I’m not going!’ a dark-haired woman shouted from behind her knitting.
Startled, Carly jumped and turned to look at her.
The woman’s brow was wrinkled in terror.
‘Now, Emma, we’ve been through this before,’ Mrs Chisholm sighed. ‘You will be quite safe.’
‘Not with all them bunyips and bushrangers out there, we won’t!’ cried a blonde girl in the corner.
Carly and Dora exchanged amused glances.
‘Bunyips aren’t real,’ Dora said.
‘How would you know?’ the blonde girl retorted. ‘You’ve only been here five minutes.’
‘And what about the bushrangers?’ the girl called Emma joined in. ‘They’re real enough.’
Fair enough, thought Carly. She knew about bushrangers. She knew of at least two of them who had passed through Apis Creek – where her farm was – back in the gold rush days. She knew that it was best not to mess with bushrangers.
‘They will not harm us,’ Mrs Chisholm said calmly. She turned back to Carly and Dora. ‘Farmers bring their wool into town on bullock drays. They take them back empty. It occurred to me that they might as well take the girls on their drays – and it won’t cost anyone a penny. I arranged for a dray to take some girls yesterday, but they refused to go. They were afraid. We have another dray waiting
