surprisingly nice stores at Ballarat,’ Mrs Harcourt remarked suddenly. ‘A much better range of goods than you would expect of such a, well, such an uncouth settlement. Except for the town proper, of course, and the Camp.’ At Kitty’s raised eyebrows, she added, ‘Where the constabulary and government officials are emplaced. But I must warn you, my dear, that there are not very many women on the diggings themselves. Thousands of men, but far fewer women.’ She screwed up her face unbecomingly. ‘And the Celestials, of course—one should always steer clear of their camp.’
‘Why?’ Kitty asked.
‘Because, well, they’re not like us, are they? They’re immoral. They’re Chinamen .’
Rian frowned—the Katipo had docked at Canton, Shanghai and Ningbo many times over the past few years, and they had never had anything but very cordial relations with the Chinese they’d dealt with.
‘And are there many churches?’ Simon asked.
‘Well, not churches as such ,’ Mrs Harcourt replied, smoothing out whatever it was she was knitting and checking for dropped stitches. ‘But there are certainly quite a few church services . The Anglicans and the Presbyterians have visiting clergy, not every Sunday I might add, but the Methodists and the Catholics are certainly well represented. The Catholics in particular, because of all the Irish. Are you a churchgoing man yourself, Mr Bullock?’
‘Not if I can avoid it,’ Simon replied, to Mrs Harcourt’s faint shock.
‘Well, you won’t be alone there,’ Mr Harcourt said. ‘They can be a godless bunch on the diggings, especially with the liquor in them.’
‘You can talk, Mr Harcourt,’ his wife said sharply. ‘You’re partial to a drop of liquor yourself.’
‘Yes, but never on a Sunday, Mrs Harcourt, and well you know it.’
Kitty and Rian exchanged amused glances while Simon carefully examined his fingernails. It could be a very long trip.
Kitty’s backside was completely numb, her belly rumbled cavernously, her neck and back were sore from the lurching of the coach over ruts and potholes, and boredom had driven her almost to distraction. They had been travelling for nearly four hours now, and still had another five or six to go before they reached Ballarat. They had overtaken the rest of the crew on the wagon a long time ago, Amber waving madly out of the coach window and the crew waving back. They all looked very cold, and Kitty didn’t envy them their long, and much slower, journey.
They had also overtaken numerous wagons—one on its side in a ditch and another mired axle-deep in mud, bullocks floundering and the bullocky shouting and swearing—and men pushing wheelbarrows stacked with supplies, others walking with nothing more than a swag or potato sack over their shoulders, and the occasional dray with afamily balanced atop what appeared to be an entire house-lot of goods. And dogs—almost every traveller appeared to be accompanied by a dog. The traffic went both ways, and, though it did not constitute what Kitty knew to be a ‘rush’, it was certainly busy.
Mr and Mrs Harcourt had chattered constantly for the first three hours but had fallen silent almost an hour ago, as if they only had a certain number of words at their disposal each day and didn’t want to use them up.
There had been a very brief stop at Melton, just enough time to stretch their legs and use the distinctly noisome facilities at the hotel there, and the next stop would be Bacchus Marsh, where at least there would be a hot meal. Amber was happy straining her eyes reading a copy of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s awful book Frankenstein , Rian was asleep, and Simon was slowly being crushed by the combined bulks of the Harcourts. It hadn’t grown any warmer outside, but the coach was slowly filling again with the warm fug of six confined bodies.
Kitty lifted the window cover and peered out—still nothing but grey hills rising out of marshlands, eucalypts, scrub, a few