Author Archives: Shelley

The Crate

Mary Watters looked across the table to her friend Susan, who was running her fingers over the crisp, white sheet wrapping the wooden crate. A few days before, that long box bumped its way by packhorse over dusty roads to … Continue reading

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Cobbles

Ellen’s shoes drummed on the damp cobblestones as she walked along the street, her black eyes sunk into her pale face. William’s small hand was in hers, the other clutched a piece of bread. “Well, look here, ‘tis yerself, Ellen, … Continue reading

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Eloquence at the Eisteddfod

     …     “Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,      But spare your country’s flag,” she said.      A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,      Over the face of the leader came; … Continue reading

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The Crossing

Bob heard the roar of the water well before he saw it. Was this yet another barrier between his sick father and the Cooktown Hospital? Then, as Bob and the others approached the banks of the Laura River, the heavens … Continue reading

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Signals at Sea

This  carries on from a previous blog post – Crossing the Line The visit from King Neptune was a welcome interruption to the routine of the previous four weeks for those aboard the William Money. Richard and the other emigrants gained … Continue reading

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Crossing the Line

“Please, Mother, pleease.” Richard tugged at Ann’s arm hoping it might encourage her to change her mind. Ann, scraping the porridge pot ready for washing up, pulled her arm away from his grip. Mary Ann looked on, hoping for a … Continue reading

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Sea Legs – September 1848

He moaned with the latest pitch and lurch of the ship as the odours of hundreds of bodies, damp bedding and water closets imprisoned him in his bed. Nine-year-old Richard Grenfell had never felt so ill. He lay there, staring … Continue reading

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Denis Bennett in Liverpool

Patrick stood open mouthed. After a time he managed to say, “Oh that is so pretty. I wish I could buy that for Ma.” Denis smiled. John laughed, a wisdom bestowed by his extra six years. “Oh yeah, that would … Continue reading

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Crossed Paths

Denis Bennett stepped out the door of the Old Fort Tavern onto the cobbles of Bath Street and into the dank air. Dark, dreary air that, with one brushstroke, coloured the Liverpool canvas grey. Denis turned up the collar of … Continue reading

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Tasmania to the Transvaal

The change room at the Western Mine could hardly contain those assembled. With much hand shaking and back slapping, the group of men wished their two colleagues the best of luck – give it to them warm, stay alive and … Continue reading

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