‘Harrie’s expecting.’

  Mrs Doyle sighed heavily. ‘I thought she might be. She had that look about the eyes. She’s a lovely colleen, too, so she is. I’ll skin that little shite the next time I see him.’

  Nora was moderately surprised: she’d expected, if not denial, then at least a censorious finger pointed in Harrie’s direction. But if Biddy Doyle had known her son was such a gamecock, why hadn’t she warned Harrie?

  She said so to Mrs Doyle.

  ‘I did try, but the door was literally shut in my face. And anyway the lass was swept off her feet. They all are, more’s the pity. And now look what’s come of it.’

  ‘Yes, now look.’

  Mrs Doyle crossed her beefy arms. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘I want you to pay for the abortion, as your Mick obviously isn’t here to clean up his own mess. I can’t see why Harrie should have to bear the burden of that expense herself.’

  ‘That’s fair,’ Mrs Doyle said without hesitation. ‘Who will you take her to? You have to be careful, you know. There’s some right butchers in this town.’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Why don’t you give me a day? I’ll do some asking around.’

  ‘Thank you. But discreetly, please.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll call again tomorrow afternoon.’

  As soon as Nora Barrett had gone — there was a woman with airs, eyeing the house as though she wouldn’t keep chickens in it — Biddy shrugged into her coat, told Maureen to watch the little ones and marched off down the street. She turned right into steep and pot-holed Essex Street, stomping along so angrily she slipped and nearly went on her arse, then left at the gaol corner onto George. A few minutes later, puffing quite badly now, she came to the Sailors’ Grave Hotel, ducked into the alleyway down one side and rapped on the door of Leo Dundas’s tattoo shop.

  ‘It’s open!’ came a familiar voice.

  ‘You busy?’ Biddy barked as she sailed in.

  ‘Nice to see you, too, Biddy,’ Leo said. ‘It’s been a while.’

  Biddy could see he was alone. Looming over him as he sorted through a pile of old illustrations, she said, ‘Do you know what that bloody son of yours has done now?’

  ‘That son of ours, you mean.’

  ‘He’s only gone and got a nice young colleen in trouble!’

  ‘But he’s only seventeen,’ Leo said.

  ‘Oh, you fool! How old were you when you fathered your first child?’

  Leo couldn’t really respond to that. ‘Well, what do you want me to do about it? It’s a bit late for a father and son talk, don’t you think?’

  ‘You’ve never had any talks with him.’

  ‘You never wanted me to.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Biddy agreed reasonably.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘At sea, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘The girl’s mistress has asked me to pay to get it seen to. I think you should, Leo. He’s your son and you’ve got more spare money than I have.’

  ‘How much will it cost?’

  ‘God knows. Depends on the abortionist.’ Biddy knew Leo was aware she had mouths to feed at home and was saving hard for their future. He wouldn’t begrudge her this. She added, ‘I’ll pay out of my savings, and you can give me the money back.’

  ‘Sounds fair,’ Leo said.

  ‘Good. Thank you. It won’t stop me feeling any better disposed towards the little bugger the next time I see him, but at least it’ll get that high and mighty Nora Barrett off my doorstep.’

  Leo frowned. ‘Nora Barrett? What’s she got to do with it?’

  ‘She’s Harrie’s mistress. Harrie’s the girl who’s expecting.’

  Biddy watched as Leo’s face drained of colour. ‘Harrie Clarke? Mick’s got Harrie Clarke in trouble?’

  Biddy nodded.

  Leo snatched up a bottle of the shark oil he used to mix his pigments and hurled it at the wall.

  Nora called at Biddy’s house the following day. Biddy said, on opening the door to her, ‘Afternoon, Mrs Barrett. I’ve the names of one or two women who come recommended, but I’d like to meet them first. You can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Why should you be the one to meet them?’ Nora asked, skewered with both suspicion and jealousy.

  ‘He’s my son. I feel responsible. And I’m paying.’

  ‘I believe it should be a joint decision. She’s assigned to me.’

  Biddy shrugged, knowing she had the upper hand because she held the purse strings.

  Nora had been doing a bit of organising herself. ‘I went to see Elizabeth Hislop this morning, the madam in Argyle Street?’

  ‘I’ve heard of her,’ Biddy said.

  ‘Mrs Hislop, as you’d expect, has contacts.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt she does, but why should she be bothered? She doesn’t even know Harrie.’

  ‘She does.’ Nora saw the look on Biddy’s face, bristled, and said, ‘And before you go getting any unfounded ideas about Harrie’s character, she has nothing to do with the brothel. Harrie’s very good friend Friday Woolfe works for Mrs Hislop.’ Nora didn’t think Friday would mind being outed as a prostitute to Biddy Doyle, and if she did, too bad. ‘Mrs Hislop is happy to help, as a favour to Friday. And to Harrie.’

  ‘Help doing what?’

  ‘I thought we could all sit down together, look at who’s available and decide who we think would be best. As you say, you can’t be too careful.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ Biddy agreed. ‘My eldest boy’s sister-in-law died last year after she paid some slattern to get rid of a baby. Four kiddies under six left behind. Tragic, it was. Just tragic. When should we meet?’

  ‘Now, if you can manage.’ Elizabeth Hislop had said any time that afternoon would suit her.

  ‘I’ll get my coat.’

  Together they walked down to Harrington Street, and told the rather good-looking young man behind the bar at the Siren’s Arms they had an appointment with Mrs Hislop.

  When Elizabeth appeared, Nora definitely wished she’d dressed up this time. Today Elizabeth was wearing an even smarter gown of dark green taffeta with fashionably puffed sleeves and trimmed with the most exquisite black guipure lace. Nora suspected she’d done it on purpose. Still, at least she didn’t appear anywhere as down at heel as Biddy Doyle, in her skirt of drab and that coat that had to be a man’s. That was the trouble with the Irish — they never seemed to care how they looked. Or behaved.

  ‘Mrs Hislop,’ Nora said, ‘this is Mrs Biddy Doyle.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Doyle. Nice to meet you,’ Elizabeth said, offering a soft, well-manicured hand.

  ‘Good afternoon to you, Mrs Hislop.’ Biddy took Elizabeth’s hand in her own, rough and reddened as it was by chopping wood and laundering for five.

  Elizabeth said, ‘Please, come through to the private reception room. I’ve arranged tea and light refreshments.’

  She ushered them into a small, cosy salon furnished with a sofa and two armchairs arranged around a fireplace, and invited them to sit. Nora left her hat on, though Biddy removed her bonnet and set it beside her on the sofa. A girl with a tea trolley appeared, poured everyone a cup, then retreated.

  ‘Do try the cakes, or perhaps a scone,’ Elizabeth said. ‘They’re very good.’

  Nora considered a gingerbread heart — they did look delicious and she could actually smell the ginger — but waited to see what Biddy would do. She wasn’t going to take anything if Biddy didn’t. She glanced up and saw the other woman watching her, a tiny smile on her face.

  Oh, to hell with her. Nora took two gingerbread hearts.

  Biddy helped herself to a scone.

  Elizabeth approached the trolley, piled a scone, two jam tarts and two gingerbread hearts on a plate, and resumed her seat. ‘Shall we get down to business?’

  Biddy waved a hand in front of her face while she swallowed a mouthful of scone. Nora didn’t know why people did that. George did it all the time. It only drew attention to the fact that he’d put too much food in his mouth.

  When she could speak, Biddy said, ‘Mrs Hislop, pardon me for being blunt, but I’m not sure I understand why you’re involved.’

  You do so, Nora thought, I’ve already told you. Eyeing Elizabeth, Nora observed her polite smile becoming just the tiniest bit forced.

  ‘As a favour to Friday Woolfe,’ Elizabeth said. ‘And of course to Harrie herself. She’s a good girl and it would be a tragedy to allow a single foolish mistake to ruin her entire life. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘That I do.’

  ‘Good. And I presume you’re here because your son’s responsible for this very unfortunate state of affairs.’ Elizabeth popped half a jam tart into her mouth.

  ‘That’s right, the little shite,’ Biddy said with no hint of embarrassment whatsoever. ‘And I’m paying for it. Being someone that’s lived on the Rocks for many years, I have a lot of friends and acquaintances, so I do. I’ve been told of several women who might provide the service we’re looking for.’

  ‘I, too, know of someone,’ Nora said. ‘But I don’t believe she’d be suitable in this case,’ she finished lamely.

  Elizabeth said, ‘I have a very good relationship with a woman who has taken care of my girls with most satisfactory results. A Mrs Turner. I recommend her highly.’

  ‘Ann Turner?’ Biddy sounded disappointed. ‘She’s on my list.’

  ‘Don’t scowl, Mrs Doyle,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It’s not a competition. Who were you going to suggest, Mrs Barrett?’

  ‘Oh, well, a Mrs Parks, from over on Phillip Street. But I really wouldn’t recommend her. Not for Harrie.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Why not? How can you be so sure she isn’t suitable?’

  She knows damned well how I know, Nora thought, the old cow. ‘I’ve heard that her methods aren’t always reliable.’

  ‘We don’t want that, then, do we?’ Elizabeth said. ‘And you, Mrs Doyle? You implied you had more than one suggestion?

  ‘Yes, Mrs Turner, and the other name given to me was a Mrs Leggett.’

  Nora said, ‘Is she related to Hattie Leggett the midwife, I wonder?’

  ‘She is Hattie Leggett the midwife.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard of her,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Though I didn’t realise she lent her hand to all aspects of the business. So, we have Mrs Parks, whose methods don’t always work, Mrs Leggett, whom none of us knows, and Mrs Turner, whom I can personally recommend. I don’t think there can much argument, do you?’

  ‘How much does Mrs Turner charge?’ Biddy asked.

  ‘Five pounds.’

  Biddy’s brows shot up. ‘My Christ, that’s steep.’

  Nora shrugged. She wasn’t paying for it. ‘It’s cheaper than raising a child.’

  ‘There is that,’ Biddy agreed.

  ‘What’s Mrs Leggett’s fee, do you know?’ Elizabeth asked.

  Biddy said, ‘Three pounds.’

  ‘I fully understand why the lower figure may be more attractive to you, Mrs Doyle,’ Elizabeth said, ‘but I’d prefer the higher amount were paid for what surely must be a better service. Please allow me to make up the difference.’ To Nora’s alarm, she added, ‘Unless, Mrs Barrett, you’d prefer to make a contribution? Harrie is your assignee after all, and you clearly have a motherly interest in her welfare.’

  Christ, Nora thought, she didn’t have two spare pounds. She’d have to take it out of the money she kept so carefully hidden from George.

  Biddy licked butter off her fingers. ‘Don’t worry yourselves, either of you. I can pay a fiver quite comfortably, so I can.’

  Elizabeth and Nora stared at her.

  After a moment, Elizabeth, sounding slightly put out, said, ‘Oh, well, good. Are we agreed on Mrs Turner, then?’

  Relieved, Nora nodded.

  ‘Lovely,’ Biddy said.

  ‘Harrie will need help afterwards,’ Elizabeth warned. ‘Mrs Barrett, you may or may not know that the results of the procedure usually aren’t immediate. They may take a day or so to come on. When they do, she’ll be in pain.’

  ‘I’ll confine her to bed. I’ll think of something to tell George. My husband,’ Nora explained.

  ‘Very good. I’ll make the arrangements with Mrs Turner immediately. I don’t see any point to waiting. Who should go with Harrie? I think I will,’ Elizabeth said, at exactly the same time as Nora and Biddy also said, ‘I will.’

  Sensibly, Biddy said, ‘We can’t all go. Why don’t we ask her?’

  Harrie chose Friday and Sarah to accompany her when she went to see Mrs Turner first thing in the morning a few days later.

  Ann Turner lived at the Bent Street end of O’Connell Street, in a cottage on a long, narrow lot that extended from O’Connell to High Street. Her home was tidy with a green-painted door and drapes at the windows. A gravel path flanked by clumps of early hyacinths led to a small front verandah, though the yard was more dirt than grass. It looked nice to Harrie, the sort of house she would like to live in herself. She wondered if Mrs Turner had children, and if she did, whether she’d ever considered killing them before they’d been born.

  When Friday knocked on the door, it opened so quickly Harrie suspected the woman must have been watching through the window.

  ‘Harriet Clarke?’ she said to Friday.

  ‘Not me, her,’ Friday said. ‘Are you Mrs Turner?’

  The woman nodded. She was in her thirties perhaps, pleasant-faced and neatly dressed.

  ‘Not all of you, just Harriet.’

  ‘I can’t do it without my friends,’ Harrie said.

  ‘Then I can’t help you, dear.’ Mrs Turner closed the door.

  Friday knocked again, and kept on knocking until it opened a second time.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Turner said. ‘Was I not clear?’

  Digging in her reticule, Friday produced a five-pound note and flapped it. ‘On top of your fee. Am I being clear enough?’

  Mrs Turner looked at the money, made a hesitant face, then took it. ‘You can come in, all of you, and you two,’ she said, nodding at Friday and Sarah, ‘can attend her, but please keep out of the way and let me get on with my work. I can’t afford to be distracted.’

  Sarah and Friday crowded in before she could change her mind.

  Inside, the house echoed its tidy outside appearance. A kettle hissed over a fire — probably not the cooking hearth, it was too small — and a rug-covered sofa, an armchair, a dining table and a small writing desk filled the space. In one corner stood a walking spinning wheel, the kind you stood up to use. Harrie hadn’t seen one of those since she’d left England.

  ‘Now, Harriet, are you absolutely sure this is what you want?’ Mrs Turner asked. ‘Once I start there’ll be no turning back.’

  ‘Yes, I am. I’m sure,’ Harrie said, though it sounded to her ears as though someone else were saying the words. There was a ringing noise filling her entire head, and she was dizzy and felt sick and needed to lie down.

  ‘Mrs Hislop said you’ve already tried feverfew tea?’

  Harrie nodded. ‘All it did was make me vomit.’

  Several doors led off the main room, and it was towards one of these that Mrs Turner pointed. ‘Go through, dear, take off your boots and stockings, and lie on the bed. If you’re feeling unsettled, help yourself to the laudanum. It’s included in the fee. I’ll just wait for the water to boil.’

  Harrie was feeling unsettled. She was terrified, and now she couldn’t make her legs move.

  ‘Come on,’ Sarah said gently, and took her hand.

  The room was small, and furnished with a single cast-iron bed minus its footboard, a chest of drawers topped with a lace runner and a pungent-smelling pot pourri, and several wooden chairs arranged against the wall. Above one chair hung a sampler on which was embroidered; For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only son/that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life. John 3:16. A large oilcloth had been spread across the bottom half of the bed, over the end and onto the wooden floor. A sheer gauze curtain covered the window and a lamp burnt brightly on a small table, which also held a pair of folded towels and a tray covered with a linen cloth. Beside it stood a small brown bottle.

  Harrie took a long sip from it, grimacing as the bittersweet laudanum slid down her throat. How many other girls and women had been in this room? It must’ve been hundreds, because she could hear the lonely, unformed voices of their unwanted and discarded babies, whispering to her like the rustle of the branches of an ancient tree in a restless wind.

  ‘Go easy, love,’ Friday said. ‘You’ll knock yourself out.’

  Good, Harrie thought. She sat on the bed and untied the laces on her right boot with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. She just wanted this to be over so she could go home and pretend none of it had ever happened.

  ‘Here,’ Sarah said. She crouched and eased off Harrie’s other boot, then helped her to lie down. The oilcloth on the mattress made an unpleasant rasping noise. She rolled Harrie’s stockings down and off, then smoothed her skirts over her legs again. ‘All right?’

  Harrie nodded, though she wasn’t.

  ‘Where the hell’s that woman?’ Friday grumbled.

  ‘Right behind you,’ Mrs Turner said as she carried in a bowl of hot water, an apron draped over her arm. She set the bowl on the table, tied the apron around her neck and waist, and rolled up the sleeves of her dress. While she dipped her hands into the hot water, she said, ‘Girls, you do understand, don’t you, that what I do here is against the law?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Friday said.

  ‘I wasn’t happy about all of you being here, but you are, so the less said about it the better. If I go to gaol, or worse, God help me, there’ll be even fewer clean and competent hands available to do this. And then what will happen to girls like Harriet? Now, dear, did you have a tot of the laudanum?’

  Harrie nodded.