“Mrs. White hates you, Harriet. I think it’s because you’re so pretty,” Elsie, the seventeen-year-old scullery maid said, examining an encrusted pan.

“Pretty!” Harry slammed a saucepan down on the sink. “I’m a wreck.”

Six days a week scrubbing and scraping for the tyrannical Mrs. White had seen to that. She pushed irritably at a wayward curl slipping out from under her cap.

Her cheek was still smarting from the slap she had received half an hour before, when the horrible old witch accused her of not making the entrance foyer gleam. If she were not so desperate for money, and a place to live that was close to the convalescent hospital, she would tell Mrs. White exactly what she thought of her.

“She hates it when you go off visiting your brother,” Elsie continued.

“I don’t care what the old witch thinks of me. Once Gil gets better we’ll be leaving Melbourne. I’ll never come back here again,” Harry vowed.

Her employer, Sebastian Littlejohn, carried his head high, and liked to think of himself as a respected pillar of society. The whole family wallowed in luxury while a sadistic housekeeper treated their servants like slaves. Harry scrubbed with vigour, wishing it were those hypocrites she was scrubbing off the face of the earth.

What she wouldn’t give to expose them for what they really were. The dark, mean, little rooms the servants shared in the attics and the dreadful, inedible food they were fed. They treat us worse than dogs, she thought viciously, whipping up her anger to give her the energy to keep on scrubbing.

Please, Gil, get better soon, Harry prayed desperately. I hate the city with its crowds of bustling people, noise and selfish, hypocritical society types.

The poverty was terrible in the poorer suburbs. She shuddered. On their farm they were poor but at least had plenty to eat and fresh air to breathe. The squalid boarding house in Collingwood, her first taste of Melbourne life, would haunt her for a lifetime.

Thank goodness it had been summertime when she stayed there. Judging by the damp smell of decay, the building would have leaked when it rained. Huge rats more than a foot long scurried around the back alleys, where rotting garbage and excrement from overflowing privies mingled, giving off the vilest of smells. Whole families lived in one or two rooms in buildings that were in such a state of decay, it was a wonder they hadn’t collapsed years ago.

We are definitely going to take those jobs advertised by Ross Calvert at Devil’s Ridge, she decided, wiping her brow. She couldn’t stand working here for much longer and pretending to be Gil’s kid brother would be a lark.

Cutting her hair and dressing in loose, baggy clothes to hide her feminine shape was simple. Getting up to an isolated mountain station like Devil’s Ridge was the main hurdle they would have to overcome.

“Do you want to go to a picture show with Ted and me?” Elsie asked, interrupting Harry’s train of thought. “He could bring a friend along from camp. That’s if the old dragon lets us off.”

“No thanks.”

Harry thought of the gangling, awkward Ted who was a cook at the Broadmeadows Army Camp. His friends were probably of the same stature.

“I won’t go out with a soldier, Elsie. They go off to war and get themselves killed or come back maimed. Anyway, after I’ve seen Gil I’ll hang around here in case they need help at the garden party. The old witch would make you stay otherwise, even if it is Saturday.”

“I don’t know how you can bear going to that hospital all the time, seeing those poor crippled soldiers. If something like that happened to Ted, I’d die,” Elsie finished off on a sob.

“It’s terrible, but I have to go, Gil needs me.”

They were once fine, dashing young men, Harry reflected, blinking back tears as she started scrubbing a baking dish encrusted with burnt cake. It was so unfair. The gallant warriors, blinded and limbless from the 1915 Turkish campaign on Gallipoli, were returning home. Not to a hero’s welcome, but to be shunted off to makeshift hospitals, hidden away so the public would not feel sickened by the sight of them. The papers, egged on by the politicians, only mentioned valiant battles and the glorious dead.

“Hey, you’ll scrub a hole in that,” Elsie said.

“Haven’t you finished yet?” Mrs. White minced over to her. She was a large woman with a rock hard face and beady eyes.

“No, there were heaps of them,” Harry answered back defiantly, while a trembling Elsie lowered her head.

“I warned you before, Missie.” She swung her hand and Harry ducked. “You curb that insolent tongue of yours or I’ll report you to Mr. Littlejohn.”

“Report away. Does he know how you brutalise your staff?” Harry met the look in her eyes boldly.

“Why you, you…” The woman was lost for words, but her eyes narrowed, becoming even meaner than usual. “Watch your tongue, or I won’t let you go and visit your cripple of a brother.”

“Gil is not a cripple, and you can’t stop me from seeing him,” Harry yelled back. “You’re a disgraceful woman. How dare you sneer at a wounded soldier?”

“What on earth is going on, Mrs. White? I can hear this yelling out in the hallway.” Mr. Littlejohn stood in the doorway of the kitchen, a fat, pompous little man in a too-tight suit.

“This lazy little chit was being insolent to me.”

Shaking off Elsie’s restraining hand, Harry turned on him. “This evil old witch is slinging off at my brother. He’s a wounded soldier from the Turkish campaign, surely he deserves some respect?”

“Quite so. I’m sure Mrs. White didn’t mean any disrespect, Miss…um…er…”

“Harriet Martin. Of course she did.”

He backed out of the kitchen. Anything to avoid a confrontation, you henpecked, cowardly fat toad, Harry thought with disgust. He was only home early because the family was having a little soiree. Cucumber and cress sandwiches, miniature pies and pastries, tea and coffee, all the delicacies rich people indulged themselves with.

“Right, I’ll fix you, my girl.” Mrs. White pushed the door shut to block out any noise.
She grabbed Harry, slamming her against the brick baker’s oven, holding her there with the weight of her body while administering several chopping blows to her head and neck. The woman had the strength of a maniac and Harry felt as if she was being decapitated. This attack was the most shocking thing she ever endured, but she stood her ground. I won’t cry out. Old witch can kill me, but I won’t beg for mercy. She gritted her teeth, trying desperately to fight the swirling mist coming down over her eyes. From a million miles away she heard Elsie’s terrified sobs.

When Harry regained consciousness her head was throbbing, she couldn’t focus her eyes. It must be nighttime because it was so dark. She tried to move, every bone in her body ached. She must have been unconscious for hours.

Gingerly, she rolled over, dragged herself into a sitting position. It wasn’t nighttime as there was a sliver of light coming from under a door. She was shocked to find herself in the cellar under the kitchen. Dear God, Mrs. White had thrown her down the stairs. Would she leave her there to die? Vicious old witch was capable of anything.

“Calm yourself, Harry Martin, don’t be so ridiculous.” No one knew she was here. All Mrs. White needed to say was she up and left, and no one would be any the wiser. Elsie knew, but would she be too cowed to say anything?

There was no one to miss her except Gil. God, she wanted to scream, but knew it would be useless. On hands and knees, she crawled towards the steps leading to the door and started banging on it. After only a few tries she realised this was hopeless, the door was a solid wooden one. She was virtually entombed until someone let her out.

Gil would be waiting, wondering why she did not come as she normally did. Would he feel she had washed her hands of him like the army? Think that she couldn’t be bothered with him anymore? Was even ashamed of him? Something like this could be the catalyst for him to completely break down. His poor troubled mind was poised on a knife’s edge, Harry thought frantically. Why did she deliberately defy Mrs. White? Why couldn’t she just have done what she was told for once?

* * * *

Private Gilbert Martin sat in the garden of the Convalescent Home waiting for Harry to arrive. It was not like her to be late. For the last few weeks she had been regular as clockwork.

He had worn his uniform today, so they could go for a walk outside the hospital grounds. He fretted until finally he could stand it no longer. Rising to his feet, he started across the lawn, waving to Sandy O’Donnell who sat in his wheelchair with a rug covering the stumps of his legs.

I should stop feeling sorry for myself, concentrate on getting better so we can get out of Melbourne. Harry hates it down here in the city. I have to forget what happened over there.

He had lain out in no-man’s land for two days before being dragged into one of the trenches. It took a few more days for him to finally make it to the Casualty Clearing Station. Maggots gnawing at the stump of his shattered hand saved his arm, maybe even his life, by eating out the gangrene. At the hospital in Heliopolis the army surgeon amputated his hand a couple of inches above the wrist.

“You’re lucky, soldier. This is your ticket home,” he said.

Lucky! He didn’t think so, but Harry did. Brave, resourceful Harry, with her reckless plans. They couldn’t possibly take those jobs with Ross Calvert, no matter how good the pay was. It was sheer madness to even consider it.

“Private Martin.” One of the nurses rushed up to him. “I’ve had the strangest message from someone called Elsie, a maid who works with your sister.”

“What’s wrong with Harry?”

“The girl said something about her being locked in the cellar by the housekeeper. I must have misunderstood. Of course, she sounded terribly upset, almost hysterical.”

“I’m going around to see what’s happened. That old bitch of a housekeeper hates Harry.”

“You can’t. Matron wouldn’t allow it.”

“Look, it’s only five minutes away. I’ll be back before she even knows I’m gone. Please,” he said in a wheedling voice, staring at the nurse with wide eyes.

“All right,” she relented, “don’t be long.”

Harry always said the beseeching, puppy-look would melt any woman’s heart so he often used it to get his own way. It’s still working, he thought with a grin.

How many times had he used this ploy to save himself and Harry from getting a flogging at school, after one of her mad pranks landed them in trouble. She was reckless, but had a heart of pure gold.

The summer sun felt hot on his head as he walked along, and he was sorry he wasn’t wearing his hat. Number forty-seven, when he finally found it, turned out to be a double-storied, red-brick mansion. There was fancy iron lace work on the balcony and verandah roof. He was sweating by the time he pushed the front gate open. Posh place, he thought, looking around the well-maintained gardens.

He was about to press the doorbell when someone called out to him.

“Gilbert?”

“Yes.” He swung around and saw a girl in a black maid’s uniform skulking around the side of the house.

“I’m Elsie.” She scuttled towards him. “I rang the hospital. Mrs. White’s done something terrible to Harriet. Hit her on the head and threw her down in the cellar.”

“What!”

“She bashed her and threw her in the cellar.”

“Hell. Where is the cellar?”

“Under the kitchen. Don’t say I told you. I can’t afford to lose my job.”

“All right.” Gil ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair to get control of himself. He felt absolutely murderous now.

“Littlejohn’s are having a garden party out the back. Go down the side here. Give me a couple of minutes to get to the kitchen.”

“All right. Thanks. We owe you.”

While he waited, rage built up in him. How dare they treat his sister in such a way? He should put the law on them. His head was aching, his stump throbbing from the phantom limb pains he sometimes got, and he felt as weak as a kitten.

As he made his way up the sideway he heard the murmur of voices, and high pitched female giggling. He homed in on the short, dumpy man in a white sac coat who fitted Harry’s description of Littlejohn.

“Mr. Littlejohn, I’m Private Gilbert Martin, I want to see my sister Harriet.”

“How dare you barge your way into my garden.” Sebastian Littlejohn suddenly noticed the neatly folded sleeve on the army tunic and his indignant tirade died on his lips.

“Have a seat, my boy,” a distinguished looking middle-aged man said. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m not.” Gil dashed a trembling hand across his damp forehead. “I’m at the Convalescent Hospital in Cleveland Street.” He slumped into a chair, feeling weak and sick.

“My sister always comes to visit me and she hasn’t turned up. One of the maids said the housekeeper bashed her and locked her in the cellar.”

“How preposterous,” Mr. Littlejohn protested haughtily.

“Well, where is she?”

“Sylvia, get Mrs. White immediately,” he ordered the maid who had just handed Gil a glass of lemonade.

“Your housekeeper has had it in for my sister ever since she arrived here, treats her like a slave.”

He drained his glass and stood up as a middle-aged woman in a grey dress minced up to them.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Littlejohn?”

“Yes, Mrs. White.” He moved away from his guests. “Where is this young man’s sister Harriet?”

“I don’t know, sir. She just said she was going out.”

“Lying bitch,” Gil shot out, ignoring the shocked gasps from around him. “I heard you bashed her, before throwing her in the cellar.”

“That’s not true.”

“All right, let’s go to the cellar.”

“If you will excuse us.” Mr. Littlejohn apologised to his guests. “It won’t take a moment for me to sort out this unfortunate misunderstanding.”

By the time they arrived at the kitchen, Mrs. White’s face was blanched, her belligerence fast evaporating. Mr. Littlejohn lifted a ring of keys off a hook, plodded to the cellar door and unlocked it.

“Help me, please.”

“Harry!”

“Gil.” She screamed his name, crawling up the steps on her hands and knees.

“Dear God, what is the meaning of this?” Mr. Littlejohn blustered.

Gil pushed past him and lifted Harry to her feet. She clung to him.

“I thought I was going to die down there,” she sobbed.

“Mrs. White, what on earth possessed you?”

Elsie dashed up and handed Harry a glass of water and she gulped it down.

“She was insolent and I lost my temper. I wasn’t going to leave her there very long.”

“You would have left me there until I died, you vicious old cow,” Harry accused, feeling brave now she was out in the light once more.

“No, I wouldn’t. I have to maintain discipline, Mr. Littlejohn.”

“Not like this you don’t. I’m sorry…um…Harriet. I don’t know what else I can say.”

“Get rid of that cruel old bitch,” Gil flared, “and give my sister any wages that are owing to her. She’s not staying here a moment longer.”

“I’d rather sleep in the street than stay another night here.”

“Look, my dear, I’ll be more than happy to pay your accommodation in a hotel for a few days, until your brother is discharged from hospital.”

“A week,” Harry said, “then we’ll be leaving Melbourne and never coming back.”

“All right, a week, and you won’t take this little misunderstanding any further?”

“No repercussions against Elsie,” Gil put in. “If it wasn’t for her letting me know, you could have had a murder on your hands.”

Mr. Littlejohn’s face grew even redder. “Of course, of course.”

They finally got twelve pounds out of him. Harry threw her few belongings into a bag and they left the Littlejohn’s mansion vowing never to return.

“Now what?” Gil said, suddenly looking pale and drawn.

“There’s a little guest house near the hospital. I’ll book in there for a couple of nights until we find out what’s happening with you.”

Harry took command once more. Her head throbbed, every bone in her body ached and she was so disheveled looking, she feared the guesthouse would not take her in.

She grinned at Gil. “I’ll tell them I was assaulted.”

“My God, Harry.” He laughed. “You’ll need some excuse, you look a wreck. Do you really think she would have left you down there?”

“Probably a couple of days for sure. The woman’s a sadist.”

When they arrived back at the hospital, Harry felt too scruffy to go in. “I must look frightful.”

“You do.”

“Thank you, brother dear. We’re taking those jobs with Ross Calvert, too.

“No. It’s too dangerous. We’d never get away with it.”

“Why not, if I cut my hair and wear loose clothing? I’ll pretend I’m your kid brother so no one will worry about my high pitched voice or lack of facial hair.”

“What about sleeping arrangements, bathing, all that other woman’s stuff. You could be sharing a hut with a dozen or more men. You could get raped.”

“I’ll stay close to you all the time. It’s ideal. Good pay, accommodation provided. If I could maintain the charade for a couple of months we’d get two lots of wages. If the place is really isolated, six months maybe.”

“Why don’t you get a paper and see what other jobs are going?”

“All right.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow about ten.”

Biting her lip with worry, she watched him walk into the grounds of the hospital. He was pale and drawn looking now, easily exhausted. Would he ever be strong and well again? Not only had he lost his hand, he was weakened by Enteric fever as well.

She felt exhausted and low in spirits as she walked to the guesthouse. It was built from large square blocks of blue stone. There were red glass panes on either side of the carved wooden door and a matching fanlight over the doorway.

The owner was an elderly woman with fluffy white hair, who made sympathetic noises when Harry regaled her with the made-up story of being pushed over in an alley by a man trying to snatch her handbag.

There was running cold water in the bathroom, and a maid brought up some hot water for her. A long soak in the tub was just what she needed to ease her aching bones and work on her plans for taking those jobs at Devil’s Ridge. What would Ross Calvert be like? Probably an old man. Most of the young men would be away at the war.