The Night They Stormed Eureka Read Free Page B

her sack. It held lumps of what looked like dough, all stuck together and a bit hairy from the hessian. Mrs Puddleham pulled one off the others and held it out to Sam.
    ‘Here you are, deary. You get your mouth round one o’ these.’
    ‘What is it?’ asked Sam cautiously. The thing looked like a soggy golf ball.
    ‘One o’ my treacle dumplings. You won’t find a lighter dumpling on the goldfields.’
    Sam bit down tentatively. There was sweetish brown sticky stuff inside. Her stomach growled appreciatively, despite the bits of hessian. Mrs Puddleham passed her another.
    ‘Good, ain’t they?’ the fat woman said proudly, her mouth full. ‘There’s precious few has as light a hand with treacle dumplings.’
    Sam nodded. She wondered suddenly if she had ever eaten anything made with such love and pride.
    ‘No one makes dumplings like yours, Mrs Puddleham,’ Mr Puddleham rose to his feet and gave his wife a small, stiff bow. It seemed as though their safety had made him loquacious. ‘Mrs Puddleham is the finest cook in the colony, no, in the entire Empire. You should taste her quince pie and custard. As for her currant buns — Her Majesty herself doesn’t have buns like that on her tea table. And I should know.’
    Mr Puddleham. Mrs Puddleham. Sam felt like giggling. It was such a formal way to talk to your husband or wife, but somehow it sounded like a caress.
    The big woman blushed with pleasure. ‘Well, it’s a knack, I admit it. So, deary, you know who we are. What’s your moniker then?’
    ‘Monica?’
    ‘Now, now, Mrs Puddleham. There is a proper way to introduce ourselves.’ The little man gave another stiff bow, this time in Sam’s direction. ‘Mr Percival Puddleham, until lately Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s butler, at your service, miss. And may I present to you my esteemed wife, Mrs Puddleham.’
    Mrs Puddleham giggled. She pulled at his hand, forcing him to sit on the grass next to her again. ‘Go on with you, Mr P. You eat your nice dumpling afore the ants get it first. He’s as thin as a hat pin, ain’t he, deary?’
    Sam stared at the skeletal Mr Puddleham sitting with his wife, his knobbly knees and elbows pressed neatly together. She couldn’t see him standing all tall and butler-like,especially at a palace. ‘Were you really Queen Victoria’s butler?’
    ‘I was. And a greater honour no man can ever have. Except of course to be married to my dear wife here.’ His elbows were still stiff, and his neck straight as a rooster’s, but there was warmth in his eyes as he looked at his wife. He lifted the dimpled hand next to him and kissed it. Mrs Puddleham giggled again.
    ‘My name’s Sam.’
    ‘Ahem.’ Mr Puddleham coughed gently. ‘Sam is not a girl’s name, if you’ll excuse me mentioning it, miss.’
    His wife nudged him. ‘Now you hush up, Mr P, and none of that
miss
stuff in case someone overhears. If she’s going to be a boy then Sam is a very good name.’
    ‘It’s short for Samantha,’ said Sam.
    ‘See?’ said Mrs Puddleham. She patted Sam’s hand. ‘And a very nice name it is too, deary. Like I said, we’ll ask no questions. We’re just grateful, ain’t we, Mr P?’
    Her husband nodded.
    ‘Please … if you don’t mind my asking — what are
you
doing here? This is a long way from Queen Victoria’s palace,’ she added.
    The Puddlehams shared a glance. ‘We are making our fortunes, miss, I mean, er, Sam,’ Mr Puddleham corrected, as Mrs Puddleham nudged him sharply.
    ‘Digging for gold?’
    Mr Puddleham glanced down at his hands. His fingers were long and white. Even the nails were neatly trimmed,though there were what looked like new calluses across each finger.
    ‘Not us,’ said Mrs Puddleham, biting happily into another dumpling. ‘We know a lark worth two o’ that, don’t we, Mr P? Here.’ She shoved another couple of dumplings towards Sam. ‘You fill your belly, deary. We got plenty. No, let them as is good for nothing else do the