Little Lost Girl Read online

  So I passed on the bottle. Each described special scents and memories it evoked in them, different but similar. I felt a desire to know more.

  I found a torch to light the cavity. Tara squeezed her head into the small gap where the fireplace finished and the chimney started.

  “There’s something else in here” she said.

  She pulled out an oval silver frame. It held a faded sepia photo of a small girl, age similar to herself. Written on the back, in neat but faded writing, was ‘Sophie, 1900-1908’.

  It and the perfume bottle had been resting on a half brick ledge, about an inch wide, above the fire place at the start of the chimney. It seemed that here they stayed, waiting while a century passed, waiting for another little girl to come. Then they called to her to be discovered.

  Tara looked at the photo intently. “She looks nice; I wonder what happened to her?”

  Marie said, “I think she must have lived here and died when she was about as old as you. Perhaps she got sick and her Mummy and Daddy left her perfume bottle and photo here to remember her by.”

  Tara looked dubious for a moment then her face brightened.

  “I think you’re right. She wanted me to find these because she was like me. She wanted me to find them to remember her.”

  I took the photo from Tara and looked more closely at this small girl who had summoned my daughter in her own way.

  A girl in a white lace dress;

  “First Communion dress”, my Catholic wife, Marie, said.

  I searched this child’s face, framed by dark hair. Gazing at those eyes from over 100 years ago, it felt like she was staring back at me, staring right into my soul, linking to my mind: child eyes with a touch of mischief; but yet so serious and so knowing; a soul born wise.

  I sensed a tenuous thread reaching out, coming to me and my daughter, a gossamer touch from beyond the grave. It was a transfer across space and time, an eerie and almost familiar connection. It felt as if a long lost spirit had called out to me. Goosebumps rose on my arms and I shivered.

  I wondered who she was and what was her story? I felt drawn to find something out about her, the girl child in the photo frame.

  Chapter 2 - Investigation

  We settled into our new house. I googled the door name plate ‘Casa Ardwyn’. Casa was Spanish for house or home; Ardwyn was the Welsh word for ‘house on a hill’. It seemed a good name for our house, a home built on the crest of a hill, with glimpsed views to a distant harbour and city. Perhaps its builder had Welsh and Spanish heritage.

  There was much work to be done to make this house liveable; repainting of walls and floors, new cupboards, a rebuilt kitchen and bathroom. So, over coming months, we painted and cleaned, we did the simple repairs needed and transformed the garden. When our friends and our children’s friends visited, all commented about how pretty it looked and what a good feel it had. We agreed. It was our house; it felt good, we loved it and it gave the good back.

  We had our vision splendid of extending our small cottage out around the garden, but first we needed to work, save, and pay down our purchase mortgage debt. Then, in time, this dream may happen.

  A year passed.

  One day I was in the Mitchell Library in Sydney City doing other work. The discovery of the perfume bottle and girl’s photo popped into my mind. I told the librarian our family had bought an old house in Smith St, Balmain. I wanted to find out its history and particularly about the people who lived there around the turn of the last century, as we had found a photo of a girl in the house dated 1908.

  The librarian thought for a second and said, “You will probably have to go to a few places. We have some early records here and there is also material with the Balmain Historical Association, the National Library and the various registries like the Land Titles office and the Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages.

  “Perhaps you should start in our archives and see what you can turn up for Balmain around the time the house was built and also for the period in the early 1900s. You could look at old newspapers from that time and see what stories come up; they might explain some of what was happening then. Things such as whether there were any major new buildings or local events, and any other things which happened, like new schools being opened, major accidents or epidemics which affected the local population.”

  So I started with the Sydney Morning Herald Archives as they were most convenient. I picked the year 1908 and started on the January papers. There were lots of stories about important people coming and going, the crowding and disease in Sydney docks and the early politics of Federation. I came across a series of stories about the bad blood between the teams in the rugby competition, with an announcement to set up a new code called ‘Rugby League’, the first game was to include a Balmain team and be played at Birchgrove Oval.

  In early September, 1908, I found something interesting. It was about the disappearance, two days earlier, of a boy and girl from Balmain. The report was dated September 5th, making the disappearance date September 3rd. The girl’s first name was Sophie. Both children had been at school and had left together, a couple hours after lunch, when school finished for the day. That was the last time they were seen. The previous day a widespread search was done with the police and over 100 members of the community, but no trace had been found. The search was hindered by heavy rain on the night of the disappearance that washed away any tracks or scent.

  The paper told of two lines of speculation; that the two children, who were close friends, had run away together and the possibility of foul play, kidnapping, or other similar things.

  It told too that a large sailing boat had been moored just off East Balmain on the day of the disappearance and had set sail in the mid afternoon. Was it possible that the two had stowed away on this?

  Several boat loads of disreputable sailors had been visiting Balmain on that day, going to the local taverns. About half had sailed the next day. Could one of these sailors have something to do with the disappearance? The day after several sailors from the drinking party in Balmain on the day the children went missing were located and questioned both by the police and the newspapers. All denied knowledge of these children, though it was obvious that some had been very intoxicated and remembered little.

  Over the next week a few additional small articles emerged. The parents were adamant their children would not run away, but the whole of Balmain had been thoroughly searched over the week, without trace, and there was nothing to suggest foul play. Both children were very independent and each had been in trouble that morning. So the considered opinion was moving towards an absconding explanation.

  But really it was a mystery. Inquiries would be made at the ports of destination of boats that left the harbour on the day of the disappearance and on the next day, to see if anything had been seen of the children on these departed ships.

  With this the story faded away. Three months later, in early December, I found a notice in the paper. It told of a joint prayer meeting, involving St Augustine’s Catholic Church and St Andrews Presbyterian Church in Balmain, encouraging parishioners to attend church to say special prayers of intercession for the safe return of Mathew McNeil and Sophie Williams, of Smith St Balmain.

  Now I was now almost certain that the girl in our picture was Sophie Williams and that she, along with her friend, Mathew McNeil, had gone missing and not been found after three months. But here the trail vanished.

  I was left with a faded photo, a delicate blue green glass bottle, along with two children’s names, as parts of a mystery.

  Chapter 3 - 1841 - Arrival in Australia

  There was a smell of burning in the air as the boat came in to the wharf in Cockle Bay. After months of sailing out from a cold, dreary Scotland, bright light bouncing off the rocks and water in this sheltered bay, combined with wisps of smoke from headlands on the north side of the harbour, was his first real view of this strange land. To the east was Port Jackson where they had berthed briefly late last night. S
ome people had come off there, but Sydney town was crowded with no space to stay tied up in Campbells Cove. So most passengers stayed on board as the harbour pilot directed them around the headland to a sheltered bay, to anchor and unload the next day.

  Archibald stretched his cramped muscles and walked around the deck in the early morning of October 5th. A slight chill was in the air, but with bright sky and the promise of a warm day to come. His home, in Barnyards village, Scotland, would be damp and misty on a day like today, but some of his heart yearned for its comfortable familiarity. His wife and their two small children slept on in their cramped quarters. He tasted the early morning ocean breeze; sea brine, shellfish, gum tree and wood smoke, all mingled.

  Cockle Bay Wharf was already bustling. Merchants with carts sought to unload supplies; boats jostled for space to tie up on these crowded wharves. Extending from shore was a forest of masts and canvas which rocked gently in the swell, with sounds of creaking hulls and the squawk of birds.

  To the west, perhaps half a mile away, was another headland, mostly covered in grey-green trees, but with patches of clearing towards its end and some houses, newly built. As he watched a small boat headed out from that shore and rowed steadily across the gap, before disappearing around the headland to the east. Sitting in the back was a distinguished-looking, suited gentleman, while two oarsmen pulled him steadily across the water.

  Now that seems to be a good place to live and a good way to get to work, Archibald thought, as he contemplated the view across the sparking water. It was so different from work in his poor country village in Scotland, moulding metal implements over a forge in a smoky barn, with muck and mud and grey skies outside.

  A new life was in front of him. What would it hold? Anticipation mingled with the regret of no longer seeing his six brothers and sisters and his worn parents in their small hillside cottage. Not much future there. Still he missed the small grave for John, little Archibald’s twin brother. They had dug it into the hard frost, on a cold day of last winter, looking down across the loch. It was this event, more than any other, that prompted the leaving.

  As the early morning passed into full day, Archibald negotiated for a man with a cart to haul his furniture, tools and other bulky goods to a store shed behind the wharf.

  He left Hannah, with their children, on-board and went off, walking up to the town. He found a boarding house with a spare room in George Street. They could stay here for a few days until he found something better.

  It was amazing how alive the town was, they said it had now passed 40,000 people. That did not seem a lot after England and Scotland, yet there were crowds pushing along George Street, and lots of redcoat soldiers and convicts in work gangs. Everywhere was noise, dust, flies and a stench of unwashed sweat, horses and manure.

  It all seemed incredibly alive and busy with industry. The buildings ranged from sandstone and brick houses, built over two and three levels, to little more than timber hovels, particularly on the side streets. Gradually he came towards Semi-Circular Quay, where they had berthed last night. Here the order increased, crowds thinned out and fine buildings of local sandstone were more numerous.

  Archibald was captivated by the vitality of it all, all these people, free settlers, soldiers, emancipists and convicts, all trying to make a life for themselves and seeking their own advantage. Everything seemed to cost a lot, but it was definitely a place of opportunity. Then, realising that the day was running away and they had much to do, he returned to the ship.

  Soon it was time to leave the ‘William Turner’, their home coming over the water for four months. They loaded their luggage onto a cart and were driven away from the boat, wheels clanking on the rough wharf decking.

  The Customs man checked them and wrote their names in his log book;

  ‘Archibald Alexander Rodgers, aged 27, Black Smith, Presbyterian, can read and write;

  Hannah Rodgers, aged 24, Dressmaker, Presbyterian, can read and write.

  Children: James aged four and Archibald aged two.’

  The Customs man watched them drive away, thinking, this tall, dark haired, almost saturnine, man and his pretty, fair haired wife, with the sunlight smile, but also with quiet competence; they would be two who did well in this colony.

  Hannah and the children stopped at the boarding house while Archibald went off, needing to look for work as they had little money left after the trip.

  Someone told him that they were looking for iron-workers at McVey’s, on Mace’s Wharf in Sussex Street. He wrote directions on a scrap of paper and walked the half mile there. Sure enough, anyone who could work metal was wanted, lots of ships needed repairs and people were looking for cart wheel repairs and iron implements for farming and building.

  It was past midday on Friday so he said he would like to go to church on Sunday and come back to start on Monday.

  Mr McVey, proprietor, replied, “Well, I would think you’ll be looking for the Presbyterian Church then. I will see you there on Sunday morning and introduce you to the other parishioners. We are just a wee flock yet, but we try to help each other. Call me Tom.”

  Weeks in Sydney soon passed. Archibald struck up an instant friendship with Tom McVey, who reminded him of his father with his Scottish brogue and manner; a grizzled man, now moving into his fifties, with years of hard living starting to show; but still a tireless bull of a man, with corded muscles built up from years of hard labour in the engineering firm.

  Archibald’s work was often back breaking, casting and moulding ships fittings and building tools for the frenetic activity around the town, but his years in the forge in Barnyards had given him stamina and a capacity for hard work. Often he was last to leave, his pride insisting that he finish all his jobs. However, the money was good and they lived frugally so, suddenly, they had some small savings.

  Sunday was a day of rest. They had become expected visitors for lunch at McVey’s, after church, at their house just behind the shipyard. Two of the McVey children, the older sons, had returned to London and married there, and the youngest, a boy around Archibald’s age, had disappeared on a voyage five years ago. So it felt like they were adopted as a new set of children, with James and Archibald Junior as favourite grandchildren, spoiled and their antics much loved. Mary McVey looked with fondness on their blond heads, so like her own children of two decades before and the grandchildren she almost never saw in London. Without a daughter of her own Hannah seemed the daughter she had never had.

  Mr McVey had found them two small rooms with a share kitchen in a tenement near the Engineering Works, but Sydney Town was crowded and good places were hard to find. Hannah was expecting another child and they would need somewhere better soon.

  One day, over Sunday lunch, Mrs McVey broached the subject. “Have you made any plans about a place of your own?”

  Archibald and Hannah exchanged glances. It was something they had talked about with no solution. Their meagre savings still would not extend to building their own house further out and, with the long hours of work, it would be hard to move too far away. Still, it was getting hard to live with an exuberant two and four year old in two small rooms and there was no place for children to play in the busy, crowded city streets. And now, with a baby growing inside her, Hannah was often tired. She was making dresses to sell in her spare time, to earn extra money, but this was getting harder.

  Without waiting for an answer Mrs McVey plunged on. “Tom and I, we have been thinking, blocks are for sale across the water in that new suburb they call Balmain. We know ye don’t have the money yet, but we know you will soon, the way you work at the yards, Arch, not to mention all the extra hours Hannah finds to make dresses when these two rascals let her.”

  Tom came in, “You need to have a look yourselves first to see if you like the place, but if you do, I could advance you the money to buy a block of land over there. You can pay me back from your wages over the next year. How about next Sunday we all go over there for a look? Then you can decide if you
think it is a good idea.”

  The following Sunday, as he got out of bed, Archibald realised Hannah was already up, working busily in the kitchen. He came quietly up behind her and put his arms around her waist. She jumped at his unexpected presence, almost dropping the tray of buns she was taking from the oven.

  “Mm, they smell good! You have been busy, are they for our breakfast?” he said, reaching out as if to grab one.

  Regaining her balance, Hannah slapped his hand away. “No you don’t you greedy thing, these are for lunch. Yesterday, while you were at work, Mary and I made plans for a picnic in Balmain today, when we go over to look at the land. You hadn’t forgotten had you?”

  After church they all headed down to the shipyard where Tom had a boat waiting. James and Archibald Junior perched on the front, Tom and Archibald each took an oar and Mary and Hannah sat in the stern.

  Archibald could not help but catch the infectious excitement of his boys, at this, their first outing away from Sydney Town and on a row boat. What could be better than a trip on this beautiful harbour?

  He remembered his first morning, watching the suited gentleman rowing across from the headland just to the west. He realised now this was the place they called Balmain. Until now it had been only a distant grey-green rocky shore and a name. For a minute, after they pushed off, he and Tom bent their backs to the oars. Soon they had a good rhythm going and were flying over the water, little waves slapping against the bow and the boys cheering with excitement at each splash.

  After a few minutes Tom stopped rowing and said, “Rest up a second, Arch. Have a look at where we are going.”

  They sat there, like a tiny cork bobbing in a bath, while Archibald surveyed the scene. A few hundred yards behind them already, the Sydney shore was fading into a view of masts and sheds, with the land rising up behind them to the town. Ahead was a low scrubby peninsula of land, Balmain. It was a place with grey-green trees and jumbled boulders, many big sandstone slabs like those being quarried to build the fine houses and the public buildings of the town.