Praise for

Mrs Hopkins
‘A giddy, outrageous, passionate and beautifully drawn tale.
Mrs Hopkins is a subversive, dark delight.’ Kat Stewart

‘Shirley Barrett was a vibrant storyteller on screen and on the

page. Mrs Hopkins is bursting with life, telling a tale of tough
young women and kids, mistreated, damaged, but full of swagger,
and the blundering individuals who are supposed to care for
them. I was gripped from the first chapter, and every time I
thought I knew where this shocking, funny, moving story was
going, Barrett would surprise me in the most satisfying ways.’
Debra Oswald

‘Shirley’s wonderfully nuanced and complicated Mrs Hopkins is

immediately engaging, original, and of course full of her trade-
mark curiosity and wit. Her ability to build a simultaneously
heightened yet relatable world is unmatched, and her intriguing
characters, both questioning and courageous, make for a truly
experiential journey. In a profoundly insightful and moving final
act, I didn’t want it to end.’ Asher Keddie

Praise for
The Bus on Thursday
‘Shockingly funny and satisfying . . . I was hooked from the
opening pages. It’s laugh-out-loud horrible and perfectly nuts—​
you’ll never find anything like it again.’ The Guardian
‘Shirley Barrett takes liberally from horror film classics, twisting
the genre’s conventions with verve . . . The Bus on Thursday is
a fun ride.’ The Saturday Paper

‘Undeniably entertaining, highly visual and cinematic.’ Sydney

Morning Herald

‘A surreal, unnerving romp . . . Shirley Barrett knows how to

draw a reader into a psychological conundrum exploring the
dark undercurrents of rural Australia, isolation and unfulfilled
desires. Recommended for readers who prefer their stories fast
paced and unpredictable.’ Books + Publishing

‘This wise, witty and rather demented novel occupies a strange,

and possibly unique, space between screwball comedy, murder
mystery and magical realism.’ Daily Mail (UK)

Praise for
Rush Oh!
‘Barrett’s vivid prose gives savour to a highly enjoyable and
unusual yarn.’ Sydney Morning Herald

‘Expertly balancing light and dark . . . poignant, funny and orig-

inal.’ Canberra Weekly

‘A rollicking seaborne ride . . . humorous, imaginative and tender.’

The Independent
Shirley Barrett was born in Melbourne in 1961 and is
best known for her work as a screenwriter and director.
Her first film, Love Serenade, won the Camera d’Or at the
Cannes Film Festival in 1996. It was followed by Walk
The Talk (2000) and South Solitary (2010). She also had
a distinguished career writing and directing for tele-
vision, including Heartbreak High, Love Child, Love My
Way and Offspring. Shirley’s first novel, Rush Oh!, was
published in 2015, and her second novel, The Bus on
Thursday, in 2018. Shirley died in Sydney in August
2022 after a long illness. She was adding the final touches
to Mrs Hopkins at the time of her death.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are sometimes
based on historical events, but are used fictitiously.

First published in 2024

Copyright © Shirley Barrett 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior
permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever
is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational
purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has
given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

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In Sydney Harbor thar’s an isle
A place that’s dull and drear
With nary tree upon its site
It looks pertickler queer
It aint at all the sort of isle
Whar lovers bill and coo—​
Its character is raly vile—​
Folks call it ‘Cockatoo’.
As Cockatoo is known to Fame—​
Known also to each Peeler,
But lately they have changed its name
An’ called it ‘Biloela’.
It’s now the home of rowdy gals—​
A naughty sisterhood—​
Who, prison’d on that rocky isle
Are larning to be good!
But ’taint no use—​they’ll never larn—​
These gals air reglar squealers
An’ horrid yarns the folks do tell
About them Biloelas . . .
Sydney Punch, 1871
‘They are very peculiar children. There are two things
they never lose: wit and courage.’
—​Frederick Cane, Biloela Industrial School For Girls.
Commission Into Public Charities, 1871
A small thin woman, hollow-eyed, sat clutching her
Gladstone bag as the steamer Emu lurched fitfully over
the waters. Rather than choosing to sit in the warm saloon
as had most passengers given the inclement weather, she had
elected instead to sit on one of the hard wooden benches on
the front deck, and for this decision she was enduring a regular
splattering of spray as the bow of the steamer lifted and fell
upon the swell. Emerging from the cabin, the ticket collector
eyed her balefully, for her unusual seating preference meant
that he would now be forced to skate across the slick deck
and receive his dousing, too.
‘Lover of Nature, are you?’ he asked in ill humour, propping
himself against the railing to inspect the ticket she had offered
him.
‘I don’t often go on boats,’ she responded, as if this was
quite enough of an explanation.
The woman turned her face to him then with a wan smile,
and he was surprised to see that in spite of the thinness of her
features and the dark circles under her eyes, she was—​with

1
 Shirley Barrett

the dewy spray upon her cheeks, at least—​quite moderately

attractive.
‘What’s your business on Cockatoo Island?’ he asked as he
handed her ticket back. ‘Nothing to do with Biloela, I hope?’
‘Why, yes, I’m the new School-Mistress there.’
The boat pitched forward heavily as if to offer its own
dramatic punctuation to this pronouncement, and the ticket
collector lost his footing altogether, falling clumsily onto the
bench seat in front of her.
‘Then let me give you some advice,’ he said, once he had
recovered himself. ‘Don’t get off. Stay on board. We do a
round trip back to King Street, and I’ll see that you get back
through the turnstiles.’
She cocked her head at an angle in faint reproval, though
the smile remained upon her lips.
‘I’m not having you on,’ he said earnestly, clutching onto
his cap for the breeze had picked up. ‘They’re most of them
whores, the very rakings and scrapings of the streets and the
gutters. I should know, for they’re always escaping. And when
they do, they get on this boat and lift up their skirts and offer
me anything in lieu of payment. As bold as you like! Some of
them as young as twelve!’
The thin woman stopped smiling now, and her expression
drew grave.
‘And the language they use when they realise that we’ve
tipped off the Water Police!’ continued the ticket collector,
raising his voice now to be heard above the wind. ‘I’ve served

2
 Mr s Hopk ins

in the Merchant Navy, but what comes out of their mouths

shocks even me, and I was a bleedin’ stoker, beg yer pardon!
And the songs they sing, especially when they’re working up
a riot—​we can hear them from the wharf! Oh no, I’m deadly
serious—​it’s no place for a lady such as yourself.’
‘On the contrary,’ said the thin woman, ‘everything you
have told me makes me feel that it is exactly the sort of place
where I can prove myself most useful.’
She said all of this in a low voice, and most of it blew away
on the wind. The ticket collector heard only the word ‘useful’,
but caught the general gist from her demeanour. A church
woman, he thought to himself. A do-gooder. Most likely
a spinster. Well, she will learn her lesson soon enough.
‘Come and sit inside in the warmth at least,’ he urged. ‘It’s
only ten minutes, and you’ll be thoroughly drenched if you
stay out here.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but I like to feel the wind and the
spray.’
Somewhat touched in the head as well, concluded the ticket
collector. And not at all attractive really, now that he looked
at her properly, with her hair plastered on her bony forehead
like two dank curtains.
‘There it is anyway,’ he said, rising to his feet, for the boat
had veered suddenly and the island now loomed into view.
He lurched back towards the comfort of the cabin, clutching
onto the railings to avoid another slip, leaving the do-gooder
to gaze up at the grim, unwelcoming visage of her new home.

3
 Shirley Barrett

Cockatoo Island was not especially large, but it had about

it a look both brooding and battle-scarred. Near its short
wharf, which the Emu was now approaching, a capacious dry
dock had been excavated, in which was currently suspended
a battered-looking man-of-war. Beyond the three great masts
of the marooned vessel rose a rockface of immense size, its
precipice marked with sporadic bursts of plant life. Atop this
escarpment, dimly discernible in the fading light, sat a cluster
of squat and ugly sandstone buildings, built in haste thirty
years ago to serve as convict barracks. In recent times, given
the general unruliness of these inmates and the fact that one
of them (Frederick Ward, in fact, alias ‘Captain Thunderbolt’)
had proved capable of swimming the distance to Sydney, even
while sporting leg-irons, the convicts had been moved to other
accommodation. In their place had been installed eighty
or so young girls, aged from eighteen months to eighteen
years, rounded up off the streets where they had been found
wandering, vagrant and destitute, unkempt and apparently
uncared-for. It was these lost girls that the thin lady had come
to instruct.
As the ticket officer opened the door of the saloon, he
glanced back at the woman and saw her brace her shoulders
stiffly against the movement of the boat. In fact, she was trying
to summon within herself some courage, for doubt and fear
had assailed her at the sight of what lay before her.

4
T here had been no one there to meet Mrs Hopkins when
she disembarked, so after waiting for fifteen minutes,
glancing about anxiously in the hope of someone coming
to fetch her, she finally left the chest containing all of her
possessions in the care of a large, simple-looking man who was
hanging about the wharf and apparently belonged somehow
to the island. Then she set off up the steep incline to the
barracks, carrying only her late husband’s Gladstone bag. It
was not a long walk, but it was a difficult one, for all along
the way in the undergrowth, seagulls lurked in their scrappy
nests. They charged at Mrs Hopkins, beaks agape and wings
outstretched. ‘Go away go away go away!’ they seemed to cry.
In response, she swung her Gladstone bag violently at them:
‘Shoo! Shoo!’
It was by now almost six o’clock, and the sky was dark-
ening. Heavy drops of rain began to fall. There seemed to be
some kind of rumpus emanating from the Biloela buildings—​
shouting, in girlish voices, and snatches of rollicking song.
Mrs Hopkins strained to hear the words of the song, for

5
 Shirley Barrett

she feared they might be working up another riot—​hadn’t the

ticket collector mentioned something of the sort? But as far
as she could tell (for the seagulls were still screaming), the
song seemed chiefly to concern the amorous escapades of
a young lass named Millie, possessed of a pair of lily-white
thighs. It was sung with great gusto and even some attempts
at harmony.
They like to sing, Mrs Hopkins thought to herself. That’s
a good thing. I can make use of that.
It was raining in earnest by the time Mrs Hopkins reached
the gate, and she pulled hard at the bell-rope to be heard
above the din. No one seemed to hear it—​the raucous singing
continued. She pulled again, even more strenuously this time,
and peered through the metal bars.
‘I will pull your liver out, Connelly, you fat cunt, and stuff
it down your throat, so I will!’ This was followed by a cackle
of laughter.
Mrs Hopkins drew back sharply from the bars. She had an
impulse to hide, but it was too late. A tall red-haired girl of
about fifteen, apparently the same girl who had just threatened
Connelly—​whoever Connelly was—​appeared before her and
shrieked in fright.
‘Jesus God, I thought you were a ghost, so I did!’ cried the
girl, after much vigorous thumping of her chest, apparently
in an attempt to have her heart renew its beating. ‘What are
you doing hanging about at the gate?’

6
 Mr s Hopk ins

‘I am trying to be let in,’ said Mrs Hopkins, aware of

how feeble that sounded. She had hoped to make a strong
impression from the outset. ‘I’ve rung the bell several times.’
‘Who are you, though?’ asked the girl. ‘We can’t let in just
anyone, can we?’
‘I am the new School-Mistress,’ said Mrs Hopkins.
‘Christ Almighty!’ exclaimed the girl, cheerfully. ‘We only
just got rid of the last one!’
‘Will you let me in please?’
‘I can’t, we’re not allowed. If we could let people in, we’d
let ourselves out, wouldn’t we? Hang about and I’ll try and
find old Crabface.’ And she took off, running across the quad-
rangle to escape the rain.
How short her skirts are, thought Mrs Hopkins, as she
glimpsed the girl’s thin calves. And why was she barefoot?
Mrs Hopkins gazed at the grim sandstone walls of the old
convict barracks. High up on these walls, narrow apertures
had been spaced at intervals for the purposes of ventilation.
Within these apertures, she could just make out the movement
of dark shapes. There seemed to be a jockeying for position
going on, one figure would be yanked down, and replaced with
another; torrents of shrill abuse streamed forth. It reminded
Mrs Hopkins of the squabbling that goes on in trees in the
evening when birds try to find the most favourable roost.
Soon a male voice could be heard above the ruckus. ‘Now
girls, settle down please, if you will. Where is Eliza? Has
anyone seen Eliza? Why is not Eliza here?

7
 Shirley Barrett

‘Well, then, what is the point of this muster if the girls do

not come to be mustered?
‘Get down from those windows, Margaret—​what is your
name then? Mary-Ann, I beg your pardon. Please hop down
from there at once, Mary-Ann. I do not care if Mr Baker-
Hunt permitted it—​I do not permit it. It is dangerous in
the extreme—​’
And now the red-haired girl’s voice sung out clearly from
behind the bars. ‘But Mr Crabback, there is the new School-
Mistress standing in the rain!’
There ensued a flurry of interest and excitement amongst
the shapes in the windows. Those girls lucky enough to have
a perch with view of the gate shared their impressions with
those less fortunate.
‘By Christ, she’s a miserable-looking thing!’
‘A dreary, dried up old prune, by the looks of her.’
‘What an awful old ulster she’s wearing!’
‘Hey, Missus, have you ever sucked a man’s cock till his
eyes bulged?’
Mrs Hopkins feigned not to hear any of this, and yet
the words stung her. This was her problem, always had
been: she was too sensitive. She was not a dreary, dried-up
old prune, she felt like telling them, but she could not help her
appearance: she had never regained condition since surviving
the same flu that had taken her little daughter. And yes,
she agreed entirely: it was an awful old ulster, she despised the

8
 Mr s Hopk ins

overcoat as much as they did, but it was all she had. And as
for the last obscenity, well (she told herself), she had been
warned by many, not just the ticket collector of the Emu, as
to what she was letting herself in for: she must toughen up
and learn how to take such remarks in her stride, and not let
on how much they distressed her.
But now a large, black umbrella was moving haphazardly
towards her across the quadrangle. Beneath it was harried-
looking man sporting a fine set of side-whiskers and carrying
an enormous set of keys.
‘Come in, come in, out of the rain! Have you no umbrella?
Here, let me—​’ Folding his umbrella, he poked it through the
bars of the gate for her. And now, standing in the drenching
rain, the man sorted through the keys, trying one after another
in the lock. ‘My intention was to meet you at the wharf! But
oh, we are having a difficult time of it. And now, of course it
is time to lock them up for the night—​can you believe it? At
six o’clock! Mark my words, I will change all of that in due
course, but for the moment I thought it best to go along with
their usual routine.’ He threw the gate open at last. ‘Is that all
you brought with you?’ he asked in astonishment at the sight
of her Gladstone bag.
‘No. I left my chest with a fellow at the wharf.’
‘Oh dear. Not with Henry, I hope? Half-witted fellow?
Oh no, that won’t do! From all reports, he is just as likely to
toss it into the water—​’

9
 Shirley Barrett

Swinging around, he sighted a cluster of girls who had

gathered in the shelter of a doorway to gawk at them. ‘Sarah!
Eliza! Come here, please, if you will.’
Two strapping young women, one of whom Mrs Hopkins
recognised as the foul-mouthed redhead of her first acquaint-
ance, galloped like colts across the quadrangle towards them.
‘Kindly run down to the wharf at once and fetch
Mrs Hopkins’ trunk,’ he instructed.
However, the two girls did not run down to the wharf at
once but instead stood about, arms akimbo, surveying him
dubiously. ‘What’s it worth then?’ said the redhead.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Mr Crabback.
‘Well, it’s raining, isn’t it? We’ll catch our bloody death.’
‘You have to make it worth our while,’ added her friend.
‘That’s the system. Normally we get rewards for our good
deeds.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ exclaimed the harried-looking
man. ‘Listen. Do as I ask, and I’ll see that . . . I’ll see that there
is something in it for the both of you. Now hurry. And when
you bring the chest back, place it in Mrs Day’s old quarters,
then report back to me and I shall let you back into your
dormitory.’
The girls took off out the gate and down the hill, happy
to be liberated from their confines. At the sight of this, their
comrades within the dormitories issued a roar of protest, for
they wished to be running down the hill to the wharf also,
rain or no rain.

10
 Mr s Hopk ins

A sharp-faced woman materialised within the doorway of

the barracks. ‘Well, do you wish me to lock them up or not
then?’ she cried.
‘Yes, yes—​forgive me, Mrs Dunstable—​lock them up, by
all means. I shall be round for inspection at lights out.’ The
gentleman then turned to Mrs Hopkins. ‘I do beg your pardon
for this confusion. I am just learning the ropes, as it were.
The Assistant Matrons get very cross with me, but they seem
to expect me to know everything at once! I have been here
barely fourteen days!’
What a nice face he has, thought Mrs Hopkins; almost
handsome, were it not for the fact that his eyes were a little
small. She had never seen him up close before, and he put her
in mind of a kindly marsupial.
‘Come with me to my quarters for a moment to warm your-
self while we wait for your chest to be brought up,’ he continued.
‘Oh, and forgive me—​I haven’t even introduced myself! My
name is Charles Crabback. I am the new Superintendent.’
‘I know all about you, Mr Crabback,’ said Mrs Hopkins
warmly. ‘I am a great admirer of your work. I have read all
your tracts and heard you speak several times at the Domain.
In fact, you are the very reason why I applied for the position
of School-Mistress.’
He beamed at her. ‘Well! I am quite taken aback. And may
I say, also delighted—​you see, I am as susceptible to flattery
as the next man!’

11
 Shirley Barrett

‘Oh no, I am not attempting to flatter you,’ said Mrs Hopkins,

concerned that he might judge her the sort of woman who
would resort to such wiles. ‘I am simply speaking the truth.’
What a pity her teeth are so bad, thought Mr Crabback.
And so thin, much too thin! If she were to fatten up a little,
she might be altogether quite comely.
‘In any case, we must get you out of this weather,’ he said.
‘Here, give me your bag. Take my arm—​there are a great many
potholes, some of them I swear a foot deep!’
So Mrs Hopkins took his arm and, closing the gate behind
them, they walked a short distance along the west wall of the
institution till they reached the Superintendent’s quarters,
a pleasant-looking house of two storeys. There in his parlour,
she took off her awful ulster, and Mr Crabback hung it over
a chair to dry. He poked at the fire to get it going again and
threw some extra wood upon it. Then he warmed up some
turnip soup for their supper. All the while, Mrs Hopkins
petted his small spaniel, Tippet, who leaned companionably
against her mourning skirts. The dog seemed to be of a melan-
choly disposition, and as Mrs Hopkins gently fondled its ears,
it gazed up at her with soft, sorrowful eyes.
‘Here we are then,’ said Mr Crabback, placing two bowls of
soup upon the table. There was a loaf of good bread as well,
and a pat of butter. As if not wanting to waste further time,
he clasped her hand in his, and launched into grace. ‘Bless us,
oh Lord, for these thy gifts that we are about to receive from
thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.’

12
 Mr s Hopk ins

It rather surprised Mrs Hopkins that grace was so short

and brisk; the truth was that the Superintendent did not wish
the soup to get cold.
‘I’ll tell you my secret: I add a dash of cream and a grating
of nutmeg,’ he informed her when she complimented him on
the soup. ‘I have had to learn to cook for myself. My wife has
scant interest in domestic duties.’
Mrs Hopkins had scant interest in domestic duties herself,
so she let this comment pass unremarked upon. The fact
was, she thought to herself with a note of self-righteousness,
should she herself be married to Mr Crabback, she would
take considerably greater interest in such things and perhaps
prove to be a very fine cook indeed.
‘Where is your wife?’ enquired Mrs Hopkins delicately.
She had read in the newspaper that Mrs Crabback had
accepted the position of Matron at Biloela, to work along-
side her husband. And yet there was no sign of her.
‘Well, she is back in Newtown, at the Haven of Hope.
There has been some trouble in the press recently—​a lot of
nonsense about the book-keeping and so forth—​a lso this
business with the lass from Orange, and her brother making
such a fuss about it. Suffice to say, it is demanding her full
attention. Nevertheless, she hopes to join me within a week
or two.’ He sighed then and gazed down at his soup.
Mr Crabback suddenly looked enormously troubled, and
Mrs Hopkins felt a wave of compassion for him. She had an
urge to reach out and put her hand on his—​some small gesture

13
 Shirley Barrett

of comfort and support—​but propriety of course forbade such

intimacy.
In any case, he soon rallied and looked up at her with a
smile. ‘And in the meantime, you and I shall have everything
shipshape!’
‘When you say “shipshape”, I hope you don’t mean like that
battered old ship that’s in the dry dock,’ said Mrs Hopkins.
She was not normally one to venture humorous remarks,
but she felt an urge to assist in keeping up his spirits.
He laughed dutifully. ‘Oh yes! Yes, indeed. Shipwreck,
more like!’ he responded jovially.
‘On a more serious note,’ said Mrs Hopkins. ‘It troubles
me that the school is situated so close to a place which of
necessity is frequented by sailors.’
Mr Crabback pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his
brow—​the heat emanating from the fire had caused a light
sweat to break out upon him. ‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more.
Absolute lunacy! The girls are yoo-hooing at sailors all day
long, and so for that matter are the Assistant Matrons. Oh
goodness,’ he said suddenly. ‘Those two ought to be back by
now, oughtn’t they? Did I do the wrong thing in sending them
down to the wharf like that, at this hour?’
‘It is good for the girls to be given responsibility,’ said
Mrs Hopkins. ‘Also, the very fact that you entrusted them
with an important task grows their self-esteem.’
In truth, she had been somewhat alarmed at his readiness
to place her personal possessions in the hands of two such

14
 Mr s Hopk ins

obviously untrustworthy girls. But then, once she had thought

about it, she admired the philosophy that she considered was
behind the move.
‘Perhaps in time we can encourage them to perform these
chores without having to resort to bribery,’ she added, gently.
He beamed at her across his soup. ‘I am very glad you are
here,’ he said softly. ‘I feel you will be a tremendous helpmeet
in the work that we have to do together here.’
Mrs Hopkins’ pale cheeks pinkened, and to hide her blush,
she leaned down to pat Tippet. ‘I would be honoured,’ she
murmured.
Mr Crabback then launched into a potted history of the
recent events at Biloela. As mentioned, he had been here less
than a fortnight, brought in at short notice after the recent
riots. The previous administration—​Mr Baker-Hunt and his
wife—​though well-intentioned, had proved too lenient in their
management of the street waifs and delinquents in their charge,
and the girls had ridden roughshod over them. They wore their
dresses indecently short and roamed all over the island. They
were inclined to swim in their underclothes when the weather
was fine and pleasure boats filled with young men had taken
to cruising around the island, hopeful of a glimpse of femi-
nine flesh, for which they were frequently rewarded. When
sent to pump water at the force-pump, the girls would call out
to the sailors and workmen at the dry dock below, and thus
enticed and encouraged—​perhaps believing the place to be a
brothel—​a posse of foreign sailors had attempted to break into

15
 Shirley Barrett

the institution one night. The incursion was quickly quelled,

the men duly dealt with by their superiors. Mr Baker-Hunt
had put several girls in the cells on bread and water for their
part in encouraging the sailors. Believing this to be an injustice,
the other girls had risen up in fierce rebellion, setting fire to
their bedding and breaking every windowpane in the insti-
tution. The little girls had assisted the older girls, gathering
rocks and stones for them to use as ammunition. Word had
reached Sydney of the uprising; the Colonial Secretary himself,
who lived across the water at Birchgrove, had complained of
the ‘intolerable racket’ issuing from Biloela. The Water Police
were despatched to the island and were themselves pelted with
stones; straitjackets and gags had had to be utilised to control
the worst of the offenders. A government enquiry ensued,
resulting in the dismissal of Mr and Mrs Baker-Hunt. After
careful consideration, the Colonial Secretary had appointed
Mr and Mrs Crabback, well-known in Sydney for their tireless
work amongst the destitute, to replace them.
‘I warn you now that I intend to make a great many changes,’
said Mr Crabback, dabbing at his moustache with his hand­
kerchief. ‘I daresay these changes will not be popular with the
Assistant Matrons. But I have a great objection to this massing
of children in barracks, simply for the convenience of those who
manage them. Indeed, the poor girls must consider themselves
fortunate if the Matrons so much as know their names—​’ He
broke off and rose to his feet, shaking his head in despair.
The flicker of flames played across his brow.

16
 Mr s Hopk ins

‘There is overall a want of love,’ said Mrs Hopkins quietly.

‘Why, yes,’ said Mr Crabback, turning to her. ‘With a
woman’s simplicity, you have put your finger upon it. There
is a want of love. For I believe that even the most depraved
and vicious of children has a soft spot somewhere in its heart,
through which—​with a little patience and sympathy—​it may
be reclaimed.’
His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, and Mrs Hopkins
saw that tears had sprung to his eyes. She was reminded of
the first time she had seen Mr Crabback speak at one of his
regular open-air gatherings in the Domain. The readiness with
which he would dissolve into helpless tears as he talked of the
foot-weary men and women roaming hungry in the streets
was, in great part, a reason why his Night Refuge for the
Homeless, and indeed Mrs Crabback’s Haven of Hope for
Fallen Women, were so well-supported by the general public.
It was true that some members of the press had come to
refer to him as ‘Cry-baby Crabback’, as in ‘Cry-baby Crabback,
professional philanthropist, was on the graft again last Sunday,
blubbering on cue before the masses . . .’ But Mrs Hopkins did
not read the sort of newspapers in which such things were
written, and if she did, she would have been appalled at the
cynicism expressed therein. For the sight of Mr Crabback’s
tears stirred something deep within her, and even now as she
gazed up at him, tears of sympathy spilled from her own eyes
and rolled down her cheeks.

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 Shirley Barrett

‘Look at us, a fine pair,’ said Mr Crabback softly, lifting

her chin and dabbing at her tears with his handkerchief. It
smelt faintly, but not unpleasantly, of turnip soup. ‘I see that
you are afflicted with the same condition as myself; that is,
we care too deeply—​’
Then came all at once a great banging at the front door.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Crabback, putting his handkerchief hastily in
his pocket. ‘With any luck, this will be our two young ladies,
back with your chest. What is the hour?’ He consulted his
watch. ‘Good heavens! It is after nine!’ He flung open the
door, and Sarah and Eliza stood before him. ‘Where have
you been all this time?’ he asked.
‘Well, sir, it started to bucket down cats and dogs, so one
of the sailors from the Blanche, he said, “Come in, girls, out of
the rain a while”, so we sat in his cabin and had a cup of tea,
so we did.’
This account was delivered with a straight face by the
redhead Eliza, its effect only undermined by her friend’s snort
of suppressed laughter.
‘You went on the boat?’
‘Yes, sir. Just to seek shelter from the rain, sir.’
‘In the company of sailors?’
‘Just one sailor it was, Mr Crabback. Terribly homesick
he was for his mother. He said we cheered him up with our
girlish gaiety.’
‘I’ll bet you cheered him up; that is what I was afraid of.’

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 Mr s Hopk ins

‘Oh no, sir, you have it all wrong! Long grey beard he had,
dear old thing: I doubt he could get it up it even if he wanted to.’
More giggles from Sarah; elbowed sharply in the ribs by
her friend. ‘Guess who else we saw on the boat, sir!’
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Dunstable. Doing a bit of the old ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay
with the officers. She saw us and went bright red, and she
said to us if we didn’t say anything, she wouldn’t say anything.
We thought it disgraceful, sir. She’s supposed to be a moral
influence, isn’t she, sir?’
‘Also she threatened us, sir.’
‘And she called you a woolly old koala, sir.’
‘And she called you something else, sir, but we dare’st not
repeat it. We thought it disgraceful, sir, because she’s supposed
to be a moral influence.’
‘Where is Mrs Hopkins’ chest?’ demanded Mr Crabback.
He had reddened somewhat at the koala reference for he had
recently been caricatured as such in the Sydney Punch, his
side-whiskers unfairly exaggerated.
‘In Mrs Day’s quarters, sir, like you said. Now what will
you give us for it? You said you’d give us something if we did
what you asked.’
‘I do not believe I will give you anything for you have been
keeping company with sailors,’ said Mr Crabback sternly. ‘You
know it is strictly against the rules to have any contact with
the dry dock. I gave you a simple task to do, an opportunity

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 Shirley Barrett

to demonstrate that you were equal to responsibility, and you

have used it as an excuse to revert to your former ways. Now
go to your dormitory at once. I shall be over directly.’
‘That’s not fair, sir!’
‘We were just cheering him up!’
‘What about Mrs Dunstable, sir? She was the one doing
the ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay—​’
He closed the door upon them.
Mrs Hopkins, sitting by the fire in the next room, had
heard the whole thing, and was filled with admiration at the
quiet authority with which the Superintendent had conducted
the conversation. Yet when he came back into the parlour, he
seemed distressed.
‘What a fool I am, letting them go down to the wharf
unattended! Both girls are known to have been “on the town”,
as it were. Oh yes, they came to this place riddled with disease
by all accounts and not yet fifteen years of age. And now,
through my own blind stupidity and my willingness to trust
in their innate goodness, I have risked any chance of refor-
mation and allowed them to debase themselves yet further—​’
Mrs Hopkins rose to her feet swiftly.
‘Stop it, Mr Crabback. It is not helpful to admonish your-
self so harshly. Certainly, you have made a mistake; what of
it? I have no doubt that we will go on to make many. But
no mistake, if borne of good intentions, is irredeemable.
Could I—​may I—​might we take this opportunity to say a
prayer together?’

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 Mr s Hopk ins

And to Mr Crabback’s astonishment, she dropped directly

to her knees in front of him, her black bombazine skirts
billowing out around her. He found he had no choice but to
drop to his knees also.
‘O dear Lord, we place ourselves in thy hands,’ declaimed
Mrs Hopkins. ‘Let thy light guide us, thy grace enable us in
all that we are about to undertake. O Lord, I thank you for
the abundance of wisdom and strength with which you have
endowed Mr Crabback, and I ask only that you grant me the
spiritual courage that I might faithfully and unwaveringly
serve him . . .’
On and on in this vein she went, head bowed, eyes closed,
fervently murmuring her prayer. Mr Crabback surveyed her
curiously through one half-open eye. He was not unused to
pious ladies becoming swept up in this sort of enthusiasm for
his good work. But there was something about Mrs Hopkins,
rocking on her knees before him, all decked out in full
mourning, that he could not quite put his finger on.

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