Writing Historical Fiction – Class Blog

I have chosen to write about my grandmother after reading a transcript of a radio interview she gave back in the 1950s.
I am researching her life using different historical resources and information given by family members.
I have submitted my first chapter – A New Beginning.

This is my third attempt at chapter one of my Grandmother Amy’s life story

Chapter One

As a child, I would watch Mum gaze out the window, her expression distant, and wonder what had drawn her across the world to Australia and, of all places, to Cooktown.

Mum (Elizabeth) was the daughter of a long-serving soldier. My grandparents, Granny and Granddad Sach, often shared stories filled with laughter about their life in India, where Granddad served as a sergeant in the Royal Cheshire Militia. I loved watching Granny Sach’s eyes sparkle as she recounted the challenges of learning to cook Indian-style—especially the time she added too much sabzi to a dish, and everyone wound up with Delhi belly, keeping the outhouse busy for days.

Another time, Granny Sach recounted, her voice trembling, the dreadful weeks of little Emma’s illness.

“The soldiers and their families were all crowded on the ship bound for home,” Granny Sach whispered. “After about a week at sea, Emma began vomiting. She was hard to wake and burning with fever.”

Tears welled in Granny Sach’s eyes as she continued, “Then a rash spread across Emma’s tiny body. It was the seizures that took my baby girl.”

Sobbing, Granny gripped my hands, her sorrow palpable. “I had to throw Emma’s little body into the ocean. No grave for me to visit.”

Emma only nineteen months old died on that journey home—lost to hydrocephalus or meningitis.

I imagine Mum standing by the post office window, the flyer trembling in her hand as she reads about the four-pound fare to Australia. Her eyes lingered on the words: ‘Opportunity. New beginnings.’

That evening, she traced her parents’ stories of India in the steam on the kitchen window, weighing the promise of adventure against the cold certainty of home. That night, as they sat by the fire, she finally spoke. “I’m going to Australia,” Mum said, her voice quiet but unwavering—a spark of courage lighting the dark room.

Young women could expect to earn £12 and £14 as housemaids or servants, double what could be had in England, while cooks and dairy-women could look forward to earning between £15 and £20. Women were wanted in the colony and would be assisted by the Government with their passage, with a sum of £15 offered to those who made the journey and conducted themselves properly during the voyage. A certificate of character would be issued to all who met the requirements.

Mum met Thomas Clarke in Cooktown after travelling from Townsville, where she left the ship with some friends she had made on the voyage. They had all decided that Cooktown was the place to be, with all the single men digging for gold. If they were lucky, they could land themselves a rich husband.

Dreams of never having to work again filled their thoughts.

The ladies soon discovered that life on the gold fields and in a mining town wasn’t always better or easier than what they left behind in England.

As the gold petered out and the diggings were abandoned, a sense of restlessness settled in. With little choice, some of Mum’s friends gathered what they could carry and boarded the next steamer south, uncertain but hopeful. In Brisbane and Townsville, they found work with wealthy landowners and tried to carve out a sense of belonging.

Each time Mum stepped onto the sun-baked streets of Cooktown, a cacophony of sounds and colours swirled around her. The harsh clang of miners’ boots rang out against splintered wooden walkways, blending with the guttural shouts and melodic cadences of unfamiliar tongues that filled the air. The thick scent of sweat, horse dung, and exotic spices drifted from crowded market stalls and ramshackle shanties—a stark contrast to the crisp air and gentle chatter of her English village’s cobblestone lanes.

In Cooktown, children darted barefoot through swirling red dust; their skin bronzed by the relentless sun and their clothes little more than tatters—frayed hems fluttering in the dry, gritty wind. The memory of England’s poor haunted Mum: she recalled children shivering, barefoot, through the snow, scrap of cloth no match for the biting cold. More than once, she paused at a doorway, her breath catching at the sight of a small, fragile body curled up for warmth on a wooden step, motionless and pale. She’d pull her thin shawl tighter around her shoulders, blinking back tears, and force herself to keep moving through the bustling, unforgiving street.

Years later, back in England, Mum would linger at the edge of our small kitchen, her eyes tracing every bite I took. When she thought I wasn’t looking, she’d slip an extra slice of bread onto my plate—her fingers trembling ever so slightly, lips pressed into a tight line. She never spoke of Cooktown’s dust or the hollow ache of hunger, but in those quiet, deliberate acts, I felt the weight of memories she carried. Each gesture was her way of building a fragile barrier between me and the hardships she could never forget.

The hotel dining room buzzed with excitement as word spread about the new gold find near the Palmer River. Mum, serving meals to the hungry miners, was caught up in the excitement. Hoping the men would be generous with their tips.

From the corner of her eye, Mum noticed a clean, well-dressed man enter the dining room. So used to seeing men with long, matted, dirty hair intertwined with their beards covering half their faces, this clean, sweet-smelling vision had all the females’ eyes popping.

This man was not a miner! He caught Elizabeth’s eye and smiled.       

The only empty chair was in Elizabeth’s section.

“Looking that good, he must be rich,” Elizabeth thought as she sauntered over to take his dinner order.

Weeks of stolen glances across the hotel dining room slowly turned into quiet conversations in the kitchen after closing, the clatter of dishes giving way to laughter. Elizabeth found herself drawn to the gentle calluses on Charles’s hands and the way he listened, really listened, when she spoke. When he admitted he was a carpenter, not a wealthy miner, she only smiled, her heart already decided. In the hush between words, they discovered dreams that matched, hopes stitched from the same longing for something more.

Dad worked for the government building the hospital, other government buildings and bridges. Cooktown was the port for accessing the gold fields of New Guinea and was often the first port of call for ships arriving in Australia. Ten months after Mum arrived in Cooktown, she and Dad were married in January 1884. I am their only child and was born the following October.  Dad named me, Amy, after his youngest sister.

Dad often spoke of his family back in Birmingham, especially Victor, who was closest to him in age. As boys, they got into mischief together and attended the Industrial school. While Edwin and Victor became jewellers, Dad was apprenticed to a carpenter.

When Queen Victoria started wearing opals, their value soared. Victor and Edwin, both working for jewellers, sent Dad a letter: ‘Bring us opals from the fields, Charlie. There’s a fortune to be made if you can cut a deal.’ The hope that Dad’s skill could turn stones into security helped tip the scales toward England.

Mum lingered on the veranda, letting the Queensland sun soak into her skin until the last golden light slipped away. She’d sigh, watching the sky darken, and mutter that even the stars seemed warmer here than in England. But all too soon, change swept through our lives again. When Dad announced it was time for us to return to England, the news felt like a sudden chill. Mum pressed her lips together and packed her trunk, her footsteps heavy but uncomplaining. The long journey ahead weighed on us all, yet in those days, a wife was expected to follow—no matter how much she longed to stay.

Dad was eager to help his brothers, and the sweltering humidity of North Queensland wore him down. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, memories of frosty Christmases filled with shimmering snowflakes and the cosy warmth of a fire seemed like distant dreams compared to the relentless summer heat he now endured. With hearts full of anticipation, we stepped aboard the steamer for Brisbane. As Dad set off for the opal fields near Quilpie, Mum and I wandered the lively streets, our curiosity leading us to new corners of the city and filling the day with small adventures.

The day we arrived in Birmingham, Dad’s family crowded around us in their narrow two-up, two-down house. The air felt tight with tension. We squeezed our trunks into the hallway, the walls closing in. With three extra mouths to feed and work slow to come, our savings dwindled and the sense of not fitting in grew heavier each day.

Mum shivered beneath layers of blankets, her breath wheezing in the damp English air. After Queensland’s warm sun, the endless drizzle and icy wind left her pale and coughing each night.

When we arrived at my grandmother’s cottage in Cheshire, Mum barely spoke of our time in Birmingham. My mother moved through the days quietly, her eyes red in the mornings, but she’d squeeze my hand and force a smile. Sometimes I’d wake at night to find Mum sitting at the kitchen table with her sister, Aunt Alice, counting coins by lamplight, their whispers heavy with worry. Much later, Mum admitted she’d nearly given up—if not for me, she might never have found the strength to rise each morning and keep going.

One evening, as rain tapped against the window panes and the fire sputtered in the hearth, Mum set down her sewing and said, ‘We’re going back to Queensland.’ Her voice trembled with hope. She packed our bags with swift, determined hands, and for the first time in months, I saw her smile reach her eyes. The thought of warm sun, familiar faces, and a place where we belonged carried us through those final grey English days and the long journey that followed.

After weeks at sea—days drifting into nights, and the horizon never seeming to change—we finally sailed into Cleveland Bay in 1899. As we stepped down onto the beloved soil of Townsville, Queensland, deep down, my heart sang with the unbound joy of knowing I was home. The air was thick with hope and excitement, heralding the new beginning that lay ahead.

We settled into a boarding house near Tattersall’s hotel, where we worked as maids. Mum, in particular, found a kindred spirit in Mrs Wright, a missionary’s wife waiting for the wet season to finish before joining her husband at his mission in the Trobriand Islands, New Guinea.

In 1900, John Hicks, a miner, had struck gold on Woodlark Island and started a gold rush to the Trobriand Islands. One night, Mrs Wright confided to Mum, “The owner of the hotel on Woodlark Island is looking for someone to help manage it. You’d be perfect for the job.”

And so began my life on Woodlark Island

Lesson 1 PART 2

THE SNOOP

Alice had just rose from a deep sleep to the sound of the lady of the house Mrs. Parrish frantically ringing her bed side bell for assistance. Shuffling along at a pace she could tolerate due to her aging arthritic body; she placed her disfigured hand on the door handle and turned it to see Mrs. Parrish who has been bed ridden for five years, wide awake pen and paper in hand working herself into an absolute flurry.” Alice my dear as you know I have arranged the morning tea in the tea room and have gone to a great deal of effort and thought as to the guest list” she said hurriedly “yes misses” Alice replied.  “Now I need you to go down to the tea room as quickly as you can and not be seen by the guests. You must also take note of who is in attendance. Go now you must rush, hide out of sight quietly where you can eavesdrop on what is said and report back to me” she said as she handed Alice the guest list.

Alice. Surprised by the request turned and hurried as fast as she could toward the tea room and find a suitable place to hide. In her rush to get into hiding she forgot that she missed her daily morning. trip to the rest room for a wee twinkle. She thought for a split second and concluded she wasn’t that desperate and could hold on. Thinking of the timing she thought, this small request from the Misses should not take long to fulfil.so she could be in and out in no time. Everyone was busy admiring the portrait of the master of the house, this gave Alice time to slip inside the room and behind the large ceiling to floor maroon velvet drapes.

Only minutes into the task she was given she started to look around the hiding spot when she noticed the build up of dust on the door skirting boards hidden by the bulky long drapes providing her cover. The drapes due to the movement from her entering the hideout , Alice could see dust in the air as the sun shone through the glass doors. Taking out her fine lace handkerchief, placing it over her nose, she thought oh no I am so allergic to dust, don’t move and it will settle. Today was not her lucky day, more ladies entered the room, then another then she saw Gwen in all her glory enter placing her umbrella at the door. My goodness she is a beautiful woman, shame about the polio leg, Alice thought. She could smell and feel the dust getting up her nose. Oh no not now, please not now hold it in.

Gwen and the house maid Joy were standing close enough for her to hear and see through the small gap in the curtain. They were talking about the portrait and who the painter was and that it was A WOMAN that is still spending a lot of time with the master of the house, even after the painting was complete and hung. Alice’s s mouth dropped open as she saw a look of pure anger come over Gwen’s face. Why would she be so angry, unless…..she was she seeing Mr. Parrish also.  Then Alice could not hold it in any longer, pressing hard with the handkerchief on her nose and mouth ATCHOOO  she thought, I don’t think anyone heard it but the curtain did flutter. Alice peaked through the curtain as joy was helping Gwen to a seat. Alice was screaming in her head to herself, she thought NEVER and I mean NEVER sneeze at your age with a full bladder. Everyone was fluffing over Gwen when Alice saw an opportunity to escape and she took it as fast as she could, not straight to the misses but to the rest room to evaluate the damage to her underwear.

1873, France
Spring time in France is like a country coming to life awakening from the winter chill, the days are milder and longer. You can feel the sun rays of the afternoon send a warm golden glow to embrace the dawning season. over the lawn we see nature bursting into colour and a time when the croquet players polish their mallets and balls and head out to embrace the day with friends for a game of croquet. Richard and Betty, Frank and Pam have been close friends since their school days and loved the time together regularly playing their favourite game of croquetas. The mallets clicked and the balls traced their smooth and polite arcs through the hoops in a bid to knock the opponents ball out of the way to reach the peg first. Richard and Frank, while very competitive at the sport, both men congratulated each other politely like true gentleman when they achieved a one up stroke on each other Richard said “Good show ol chap I see you have a sharp eye as well as some type of power over the ball I must say” Frank just nodded and smiled but inside busting with pride over his stroke of luck against his best friend. Betty and Pam laughed too loudly, their parasols tilted like flustering peacocks, while their husbands—Richard and Frank—argued in friendly banter about the final score. Summer had made them all indulgent.
It was Bettys shot that sent the blue ball astray, through the dandelions and vanished into the bushes at the edge of the lawn, where lavender met boxwood. Richard stepped forward to retrieve it, bending down low and pushing his way into the thick bushes, he had to push aside leaves with the tip of his mallet then stretch in to reach the ball.
Suddenly he stopped at the sight of a dull and dirty metal object among some leaves. He reached in a little further dragging it with the mallet so he could pick it up. When he saw it he immediately recognised it and dropped it back on the leaves where he had picked it up.
“Frank” he said, quietly gesturing with his hand not wanting to draw attention of the others “Come here.” then he pointed toward the ground where his find was now laying.
There on the ground among a few rustled drying leaves shadowed by the shade of the bushes he noticed, a gold wedding ring, glinting but dull he looked inside and there bore an inscription—F. à P., 1868—still clear despite the dirt.
Frank felt the air thin Pam had sworn, years ago, that the ring was lost down a drain at the back of the house and she had made many attempts to retrieve it even stating she got her arm caught in the pipe. She had told the story so often it had become a family legend.
Frank spoke first handing it with an outreached arm in Pams direction “That’s yours, isn’t it, Pam?”
Pam’s face reddened, her heart seemed to miss a beat then race like a race horse. “No, it’s nothing just an old ring. But if it is I must have dropped it long time ago.”
“What _Here?” Richard asked. “In my garden?”
Franks voice shook his anger rising in his chest. “You said it fell off in the river.”
“I said I couldn’t find it,” Pam snapped. “Must every word be weighed like a crime?”
The laughter from moments before curdled into accusation. Frank folded his arms. “If she lied about this, what else did she lie about?”
Pam turned on Richard. “You planted it.”
Richard laughed, sharp and humourless. “To what end, tell me please?”
The argument spilled across the lawn—old grievances dragged into daylight, debts recalled, glances reinterpreted. The ring lay between them, small and merciless, until Pam snatched the ring from ranks outreached hand.
“Enough,” she said. “This ring doesn’t prove everything—but it proves something, and I won’t spend another summer pretending.”
The croquet game was abandoned. And in the quiet that followed, the countryside seemed to listen, as if it, too, had been waiting for the truth to surface. The majestic spring morning with all its beauty glowing, now sits in sorrow, forlorn and wonder.

Gwen arrived at the home of the Parrish family, a middle-class estate with exquisite taste of the late 1800s. As usual she was late but uses the excuse again “this darn brace takes forever to put on my leg you know, polio has been my worst enemy.”. Even so, she was a lady of eloquent style and outstanding beauty of which Joy, the household lady’s maid was a little envious causing the odd sarcastic comment. “Oh, do come in my dear, you look stunning in that amazing cotton dress, such a beautiful shade of cream and trimmed at the ankle and long sleeves with pale pink lace sets you off nicely. Oh, look you have a small stain on the wrist there dear (she remembered seeing that last time she was here for tea) you might like to cover it with your shawl so it won’t be seen” I remember you wear it often”. Joy was of short stature and plain looks and attire in her mid-thirties. As Gwen entered the sitting room the magnificence of color coordination of pastel green walls, cream then lined the cornice on the walls with gold trim on the edges made her gasp., so typically decorated for 1880 she thought. Placing her cotton brolly that protected her fair skin from the elements on the door stand as she entered the room. the waistline and bodice of her dress reviled her perfect figure any lady could wish for. That is when she saw it, looking over at the heads of the other guests in the room at the hand painted Portrait above the fireplace of the master of the house Mr. Parrish himself. Clumsily due to the brace “Oh my” she gasps as she clomped over for a closer look at the artwork. Gwen being a collector of fine art looked at the paint strokes, the colors and texture of the workmanship. Unable to make out the signature of the creator she turned to Joy ” By whom was this masterpiece created?” Joy leaned in to speak with a whisper to Gwen “well I am not at liberty to say my dear” she looked over both shoulders and those near her to ensure the walls didn’t have ears and she could not be heard. ” It … was … a …woman! and Mr. Parrish has been spending many, many hours with her, rumor has it even after the painting was complete and hung”. The curtain which hung over the doorway from celling to floor in majestic maroon velvet moved and Gwen thought it was the wind. Her heart pumped with anger at that point knowing she too had spent many hours after dark with the said Mr. Parrish and this was never mentioned in their conversations, even though their minds where on other matters. Not giving a passing thought to Mrs. Parrish who has been bed ridden for at least five years, Gwen said “I’m a tad week in the knees I may need to sit down for our tea now ” with a stark straight grin as she looked around at the other woman for a distraction.

It was easy to find the conservatory entrance, above the archway a plaque “Nature’s Sweet Whispers”. The guest had finished breakfast and with the invention of saccharin most of the guest needed sunshine. One couple Fred and Marilyn walked into the conservatory to find seating. The sweet fragrance prompted a discussion about the beauty of the flowers and plants with flourishing butterflies and pollinating hummingbirds in their vision. Most impressive was the glass dome covering the room. Fred leans towards Marilyn as she speaks of her dislike for sugar. She notices Fred had used three packets of saccharin in his tea. Fred uses a suggestion that Marilyn should accept him even with his desire for sweet tea. Marilyn being undecided about their future motions Fred to step away, he was getting too close to her, getting passionate. Marilyn was happy in the conservatory with Fred. This he knew! As a warm feeling filled the room Fred told Marilyn that he was in love with her. Admiring a Berthe Morisot impressionist painting on display in the conservatory, she looks away from Fred as he confessed his love for her.

It wasn’t more than a glance, a masquerading guest with the same costume as the one I was wearing. The mask of a villain. I am one of the guests arriving at the front entrance where invitations matter. Taking myself up to the first step on the staircase, I notice a mirror reflection of the villain. The night has an enchanted and playful atmosphere. I felt like a butterfly chasing a twin through the laughter and delightful conversation among guests. I dance into the party in search of this villain. Being a spectacle!

It’s then, and only then, that she visually recounts the pleasure of reading my poems beside her bedroom window in the early morning light. The sun’s rays carry in the fresh scents of garden flowers. She sees the basket of fruit placed on her bed. However, my poem has her in a trance, a desire for more longing. The day will only begin when she lets her hair down.