hat who played a piano, another who fiddled, and one who played an accordion.
“Look at the ladies dancing!” said Jessie.
They wore long frocks, shiny gold, green, blue, and red with lots of lace and kicked their legs right over their heads so their petticoats frothed and garters flashed. We thought they were very beautiful. When they bent over, pulled up their dresses, and showed their ruffled knickers, Daisy cried, “May God forgive them!” and put her hands over the little ones’ eyes.
The gold miners didn’t put their hands over their eyes. They clapped and stamped and bought drinks for the beautiful ladies, and some tried to kick their own legs over their heads, but their high boots were too heavy, and two of them fell over and couldn’t get on their feet again. A kind man came from behind the bar androlled them like barrels into the gutter outside. “You can sleep it off in comfort there,” he told them gently.
A miner going into the Brian Boru said Lizzie reminded him of his grandmother and gave her a little bottle of gold dust. “It’s iron pyrites,” said Daisy, “fool’s gold.”
“It is so real!” said Lizzie. “The man said.”
There was a fire-eater further down Pohlen Street, and a tent on one corner with a man who’d been stolen by the Maoris when he was a boy and tattooed from head to foot. The gold miners were going into the tent and coming out laughing. One of them said, “Tattooed, my foot!” which Aunt Effie said meant that it wasn’t real Maori tattooing, just paint. The lady on the tent door wouldn’t let children go in, she said because the Tattooed Man was tattooed all over. And she repeated, “All Over!” with a nod and a wink at Aunt Effie.
We tried crying, so Aunt Effie said we could have a look at the Fat Lady in a tent on the opposite corner. It cost a penny each. The Fat Lady spoke in a high squeaky voice and told us she was the Fattest Lady in the Whole World. We believed her because we couldn’t see the stool she was sitting on.
She wore muslin dresses, several of them, and we could see the rolls of fat that hung down all over her. Although coated in thick powder, the Fat Lady still sweated in the warmth of the tent and the lamps. She smiled, all her chins trembled, and she said to Jessie, “Poke me with your finger, dearie!”
Jessie ran outside and was sick, and Daisy said, “Of course, the child should never have eaten all those mussels and fried flounder and chips.” But we knew what made Jessie throw up.
We walked along counting all the rubbity-dubs till the little ones started grizzling, and Aunt Effie said, “You’re tiredy oldthings, aren’t you!” and lifted them on to the dogs’ backs so they could ride to the wharf.
We counted a hundred and nineteen rubbity-dubs before we came to the last one, the Lady Bowen, where another miner gave Jessie a little nugget of real gold because he said she reminded him of his little sister in “Californ-eye-ay”. That’s how he said it, but Daisy said he meant to say California.
The tide had come in, so Aunt Effie rolled us like barrels up the plank. As we climbed into our hammocks, a honky-tonk piano in the Lady Bowen played “You Are My Sunshine” and, on the scow behind us, somebody was playing “Mother Machree” on an accordion.
When they came to, “
God bless you and keep you, Mother Machree!
” somebody said, “That’s for you, Mother Machree!” and there was a thump and a splash. Aunt Effie said, “Saturday night often ends like that in the Thames.”
“Why do you always say ‘the’ Thames?” asked Lizzie.
“I don’t know. I suppose I just grew up hearing everybody else saying it, so I say it, too.”
“Oh,” said Lizzie, but she sounded as if she was already asleep. Then the gas lamps went dim, the lights of the hotels went out, and the shouts and singing faded. We heard Jessie saying, “Tomorrow night I’m going to the rubbity-dub, to the Irish Stew,” and Jared said to
“Look at the ladies dancing!” said Jessie.
They wore long frocks, shiny gold, green, blue, and red with lots of lace and kicked their legs right over their heads so their petticoats frothed and garters flashed. We thought they were very beautiful. When they bent over, pulled up their dresses, and showed their ruffled knickers, Daisy cried, “May God forgive them!” and put her hands over the little ones’ eyes.
The gold miners didn’t put their hands over their eyes. They clapped and stamped and bought drinks for the beautiful ladies, and some tried to kick their own legs over their heads, but their high boots were too heavy, and two of them fell over and couldn’t get on their feet again. A kind man came from behind the bar androlled them like barrels into the gutter outside. “You can sleep it off in comfort there,” he told them gently.
A miner going into the Brian Boru said Lizzie reminded him of his grandmother and gave her a little bottle of gold dust. “It’s iron pyrites,” said Daisy, “fool’s gold.”
“It is so real!” said Lizzie. “The man said.”
There was a fire-eater further down Pohlen Street, and a tent on one corner with a man who’d been stolen by the Maoris when he was a boy and tattooed from head to foot. The gold miners were going into the tent and coming out laughing. One of them said, “Tattooed, my foot!” which Aunt Effie said meant that it wasn’t real Maori tattooing, just paint. The lady on the tent door wouldn’t let children go in, she said because the Tattooed Man was tattooed all over. And she repeated, “All Over!” with a nod and a wink at Aunt Effie.
We tried crying, so Aunt Effie said we could have a look at the Fat Lady in a tent on the opposite corner. It cost a penny each. The Fat Lady spoke in a high squeaky voice and told us she was the Fattest Lady in the Whole World. We believed her because we couldn’t see the stool she was sitting on.
She wore muslin dresses, several of them, and we could see the rolls of fat that hung down all over her. Although coated in thick powder, the Fat Lady still sweated in the warmth of the tent and the lamps. She smiled, all her chins trembled, and she said to Jessie, “Poke me with your finger, dearie!”
Jessie ran outside and was sick, and Daisy said, “Of course, the child should never have eaten all those mussels and fried flounder and chips.” But we knew what made Jessie throw up.
We walked along counting all the rubbity-dubs till the little ones started grizzling, and Aunt Effie said, “You’re tiredy oldthings, aren’t you!” and lifted them on to the dogs’ backs so they could ride to the wharf.
We counted a hundred and nineteen rubbity-dubs before we came to the last one, the Lady Bowen, where another miner gave Jessie a little nugget of real gold because he said she reminded him of his little sister in “Californ-eye-ay”. That’s how he said it, but Daisy said he meant to say California.
The tide had come in, so Aunt Effie rolled us like barrels up the plank. As we climbed into our hammocks, a honky-tonk piano in the Lady Bowen played “You Are My Sunshine” and, on the scow behind us, somebody was playing “Mother Machree” on an accordion.
When they came to, “
God bless you and keep you, Mother Machree!
” somebody said, “That’s for you, Mother Machree!” and there was a thump and a splash. Aunt Effie said, “Saturday night often ends like that in the Thames.”
“Why do you always say ‘the’ Thames?” asked Lizzie.
“I don’t know. I suppose I just grew up hearing everybody else saying it, so I say it, too.”
“Oh,” said Lizzie, but she sounded as if she was already asleep. Then the gas lamps went dim, the lights of the hotels went out, and the shouts and singing faded. We heard Jessie saying, “Tomorrow night I’m going to the rubbity-dub, to the Irish Stew,” and Jared said to
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