Published Stories
Worgan’s Piano
The day after our arrival in Sydney Cove, Mr MacArthur arranged with Governor Phillip for me to be attended to by the Colony’s Surgeon, Mister George Worgan. The surgery was located in a tent by the Tank Stream below the Governor’s hut, and by the time I’d arrived, three patients were sitting outside, upon a log waiting their turn: a Marine in dark trousers with braces crossing his white shirt, sans coat and hat, and two scruffy fellows in convict’s outfits.
‘I know youse,’ the eldest of the convicts, declared while I stood quite unsure what to do. ‘Youse was on our ship wot arrived yesterday. I’m surprised there’s not more of us ‘ere after wot we went thru these past months.’
I smiled, politely, as I’m want to do, regardless of how I’m feeling and was about to reply, when interrupted by the surgeon peering through the tent’s door-flap.
‘Mrs MacArthur? … George Worgan, Ship’s Surgeon … You found us alright? … This way, mind your step,’ says he, raising the flap for me to enter.
His voice was gentle, and his speech, like mine, middle class, but his smile was the smile of princes and that’s where it all started, I’m afraid.
****
‘But, dear Elizabeth, you simply can’t accept it.’
‘Of course I can, John.’
‘Whatever will people think, a married woman accepting a gift like that?’
‘They’d think lucky woman.’
‘A piano is too generous a gift. It’s nearly the equivalent of half the man’s salary.’
I gazed longingly at the delicate wood-grained instrument on its insect-curved legs.
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘You would be indebted to the man for life.’
‘That may be so but it’s unlikely I’ll ever set eyes on him again.’
‘Well, folks will think he must be indebted to you, to make the offer, or is awestruck. It’s, simply, not only improper but, preposterous.’
****
When Mister Worgan escorted me inside the surgery and privacy secured, I explained to him that I’d miscarried aboard ship in the rough seas below Tasmania and that, Mr MacArthur, and I, were keen to ensure I’d suffered no permanent damage.
I saw concern register across his face.
‘Undress Mrs MacArthur, please!’
He pointed to a curtained area.
‘Call me Elizabeth, please, Doctor.’
‘Thank you, Elizabeth. Undress and lie upon the stretcher.’
I did so while he rinsed his hands in a small, flat dish perched upon a three-legged stand. His hands looked so soft and his fingers, so long and delicate.
‘Are you feeling uncomfortable?’ he asked, when ready to examine me. ‘In the pelvic area?’
‘I am,’ I said.
‘All right relax and I’ll have a look-see.’
He moved his hands over my bare flesh and his touch was so gentle compared to Mr MacArthur’s rough caress. He tapped in various places and pushed and squeezed in others.
‘Have you been lactating?’
‘A little.’
‘Sore? … Your breasts?’
‘A little.’
‘I’ll need to examine those … for infection.’
He did.
‘No, I think they’re fine.
He moved one hand and placed it upon my brow to take my temperature.
‘No fever. Raise your knees for me, please, to allow me to check.’
I expected some painful intrusion but he was so gentle and barely touched.
‘It all looks fine but, as you’re feeling some discomfort, we’ll delay further examination until the pain ceases, or it gets worse … Watch for any discharge.’
A hand moved to my shoulder. I felt a reassuring squeeze.
‘You can dress whenever you’re ready.’
Simple as that.
*****
‘Can’t a man and woman be companions, John?’ I asked.
‘Not out here. We have to remember our station.’
‘One has no station, from what I can determine. The highest-ranking person, the Governor, is a mere military Captain and his subjects the filthiest wretches that ever inhabited the home country.’
‘Even so, can’t afford to offend those in power. We’re totally dependent on them, for advancement.’
‘As crass as they are.’
*****
After I’d dressed, Mr Worgan made me sit while he jotted spidery notes and enquired about my family; how Mr MacArthur had taken the loss; why we were here; and, future plans? I explained it was an opportunity: An adventure. I didn’t tell him that John had seen the miscarriage as a mere inconvenience.
‘It will be nice to have some civil society,’ the surgeon said, in that deep voice, intimating we might meet again. His unkempt tawny hair seemed a marvellous counterpoint to his military attire.
‘I’m indebted to you for seeing me so quickly, I wouldn’t imagine you’d have occasion to examine many women,’ I said, ‘… being a ship’s surgeon.’
‘We have a shipload of female convicts accompanying us,’ he replied, ‘and they have their share of troubles, given the harsh conditions.’
‘Well you have gentle hands. Thank you,’ I said and blushed like a school girl, but he got my meaning.
‘That’s because I am a musician by calling and a surgeon by necessity,’ he replied with a light smile, while moving his long fingers across an imaginary keyboard.
***
‘You know I’ve enjoyed my piano lessons, John.’
‘Well I’m thinking now that perhaps there was more to those than met the eye.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, my dear.’
***
I saw George play at Governor Phillip’s house. Our eyes embraced a few times, while I sat there in the front row competing with Mrs Phillip, for one moment of the musician’s attention. Those long fingers poked and stroked the pearly keys in the most expert of fashion.
After that, whenever I was examined, I imagined he was playing the square wooden piano, and when he played the piano, I imagined he was moving those exquisite fingers across my tender flesh.
***
‘The man’s a misfit. No decent military chap would insist valuable space, meant for food and survival materials, be used to transport a piano, for the base entertainment of ignorant natives, cow-brained riff raff and practical men.’
‘Mr Worgan is a cultured man. He would see it as a necessity.’
‘And now he’s going to gift it to you. A woman who can barely play … scratch out ‘God Save the King’ or the ‘Foot’s Minuet’, in a manner barely recognisable.
****
Surely, it’s not so difficult to imagine how a man with whom you’d been so intimate and was so different from all those you associated with in Botany Bay could capture your interest? How quickly he could agree to my request to be tutored in the ways of the piano, how eager he was to make his time available under the glowing wick of the night’s oil lamp; and how easy it was for me to succumb to his easy chatter beneath the southern stars, while he escorted me home through Sydney Town’s muddy streets.
The slight bump of shoulder on shoulder, the brush of long fingers against my delicate flesh, the naked need of feminine company I sensed in his awkward manner, gnawed at my resolve to remain faithful to Mr MacArthur.
George did not appear alien in a place where everything was alien. He transported all that was good and pleasant, and sensitive, and I needed that.
****
I can’t see any good coming out of this.’
‘There will be, John, I promise.’
****
On our last meeting Worgan advised that he was to be shipped out the following week, and would leave the piano with me.
‘I can’t accept it.’
‘Yes, you can. You must. Don’t cry, Elizabeth, each time you play you’ll be able to remember the moments we shared.’
‘There’ll be nothing here when you’ve gone. Nothing.’
‘You’ll be here and music will be here.’
‘How will I protect the treasure from the heat and damp?’
Was it my heart I was concerned about?
‘There will be a way. You’ll give it a home, an audience, and the future will look after itself.’ He clasped my hands in his and added. ‘Who knows; it may outlast us all. The piano may corrode but the ivory may survive like an irritant in a giant clam-shell spawning pearls upon the shore.’
I saw poor George’s operatic vision but was not assuaged.
****
‘I’m sorry, John. I’ll not refuse the surgeon’s generosity. The harpsicord will be a fine thing around which to build our family. Singing, celebration, community … love. It may be the instrument that weaves us all together.’
I couldn’t believe my resolve.
Right there in our tent, I circled the wooden gift with my arm outstretched touching it, as if I were dancing with the princely thing: running my fingers along its entire spine as I spoke, summoning the flesh of Mr Worgan as I twirled. It appeared like the timber had his essence trapped within its polished skin. It was then, beside my reflected smile, I saw Mr MacArthur’s face relax in the mirrored sheen.
Note to editor:
Ship’s Surgeon, George Worgan’s first fleet piano, a gift he left for Elizabeth Macarthur of Marino sheep fame, when he shipped out in 1791, was returned to England for restoration in 2019 to be returned in 2020 for 150 yr commemoration of James Cook’s voyage to Australia. There was some question about the propriety of their relationship.