by Roxane Dhand
‘Tell me what to do.’
‘Okay. We join up others.’ His eyes did another circuit. ‘We get stuff off luggers and undo stopcock. Then we wait. For him seaboss tide fella. You got it?’
Seaboss? ‘Yes, I got it,’ he bluffed.
Squinty slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come. No time for dilly-dally.’ It was too far to go back to the hotel, so Coop took off his boots and yellow socks and rolled up his trousers, in the style of the labouring crew. He unbuttoned his jacket, removed his cigarette papers and tobacco from the right-hand pocket and shrugged the jacket off his shoulders. Wondering if Miss Montague had a point about a hat, he brushed his hair back from his forehead and tied a cotton handkerchief around his head.
Squinty relieved him of his excess garments, rolled them into a sausage-shaped bolster and trotted up the path to the shed.
‘You start remove stuff. Quick smart. Seaboss come soon.’
‘Seaboss tide fella?’
‘Yes, yes, he come cover boats.’
‘Where shall I put the stuff?’
The Malay gestured with his hand towards the red sand dunes, already piled high with baskets and ropes.
Coop rolled a cigarette, and got started. It was backbreaking work. With weeks at sea and only an occasional game of deck quoits for exercise, his muscles were weak and flabby, but he was not a quitter. Back and forth, he squelched through the black mud, dragging the endless contents of the captain’s luggers on heavy-laden pallets through the burning sand, until he could barely see through the veil of sweat dripping before his eyes.
Sucking noisily on a foul-smelling cheroot, Squinty scampered up the dunes. The tide was almost upon them.
‘We stop now. Big seaboss coming.’
Coop trudged up the sand and sank down alongside the assembled seamen to wait for the tide. He framed his face with his hands, giving his eyes temporary relief from the glare. The flies were having a field day.
The tide surged towards them, angry white-topped waves smacking the wooden boats on the stern and surging over the decks. Coop steadied his head in his hands. As the water flooded the holds, thousands of cockroaches clawed and scrabbled over each other, their hidey-holes flushed out. Swirling higher and higher, the tide swept the insects away; Coop retched and swallowed down the bile.
Squinty leaped up and down, his arms pumping, and his enthusiasm ripped through the workforce like a tsunami.
‘Him seaboss strong today. Good fun coming. You need stick.’
‘I’m feeling rough, Squinty. I’ll sit and watch.’
‘Tuan say white man weedy.’
‘He says I’m weedy? Or that all white diver men are weedy?’ Coop pushed himself up off the sand.
Squinty missed the subtlety. ‘He say new divermen weedy. My job make you tired out a lot. So you no think straight.’
Coop sensed trouble. ‘What’s your job on the lugger, Squinty?’
‘I have lot jobs. Maybe sometime I cook little bit. Maybe I clean shell little bit. Sometime I do air hose little bit. I do what Tuan says me.’
Squinty’s eyes were on the circular track. Round and round. Out to sea. Up to the sky and impossible to read.
‘Look, see rats coming up,’ he screeched. ‘You need stick so you can bash him!’
Thrashing in the salty water, desperate to gain dry land, hundreds of terrified rats, blind in the unfamiliar sunlight, made a dash for the shore. Overhead, birds shrieked. In the water, doomed rats squealed for salvation. On shore, the yelling was intense. Someone had laid a bet on who would kill the most and money was exchanging hands.
The sun beat down. The racket on the dunes was too much. Coop clutched his head and tried to cool the scorching thoughts in his brain. What on earth had he signed himself up for?
CHAPTER 7
MARCH ROLLED IN WITH a fresh wave of homesickness.
Maisie sank back in her chair and shut her eyes, trying to recall the detail of the park opposite her parents’ house, with its railings painted midnight black, its bright yellow daffodils and neatly trimmed hedges. In the ten days she had been in the Bay, England would have started to turn green, and the soft spring grass would soon appear in bright juicy tufts. She hated the suffocating humidity, the heat and the pervasive red dust and the endless hours she spent cooped up in the house on her own. She had set out to be a good wife and offer Maitland affection and companionship, but what sort of existence was he offering her when he was out of the house all day and slept alone in his own room at night? She found it both puzzling and worrying that he didn’t seem to desire a wife in the physical sense of the word; he wanted a well-connected facilitator who did what he said and didn’t answer back.
The first time Maisie had entertained Maitland’s friends, four or five days after she arrived in the Bay, Duc threatened to leave.
‘White bossman bad. I tell boss fella. No can work here no more. Knife and fork sit on table. Why’s important who they next to?’
Maitland had insisted he set the table with a white tablecloth and use the new dinner service Maisie had brought from England.
‘I no know who sit next to who. Boss he go shouty mad and smash booze bottle.’
Maisie managed to calm him down and explained that cutlery was put on the table in the order that the food would appear, from outside to in. The soup spoon, dinner knife, dessert spoon, cheese knife on the right, and the side plate, large fork, dessert fork on the left.
In upsetting the domestic applecart, though, Maitland had badly misjudged his wife. He hadn’t in the least expected her to go into bat for their staff.
‘I call the tune on domestic arrangements, Maitland, and let’s be quite clear: you do not raise your hand to nor do you bully Duc. Ever. He is loyal to us both and you are to treat him with respect.’
Maitland looked taken aback. ‘My castle, my rules.’
‘No, Maitland. Duc lives on our property and we are responsible for his welfare as his employers. Anyone with domestic staff has a duty of care whether they live in an English stately home or a bungalow in Buccaneer Bay.’
Maitland was what her father would have called a ruthless social climber. He had backed down in the face of ruffled social propriety.
Propriety … After an early meeting at the church this morning, Maisie had endured an hour at the knitting circle and was now drooping on the verandah, her clothes clinging damply to her skin, her feet puffed up and sticky inside her shoes. She stared listlessly across at the discarded knitting dolly the bishop’s wife had given her and bit her bottom lip.
Winding a strand of hot scratchy wool round and round four pegs held scant appeal. The wool made her hands sweat, and she couldn’t see the point of creating yards of useless rope. She didn’t want to make a teapot cover or egg cosy or, frankly, anything whose purpose was to keep the heat in. She closed her eyes and tried to think of things that would make her feel cold: snow, frost, ice, her mother’s freezing study.
Mrs Wallace had been very clear in her advice at Port Fremantle and had reiterated it since in her letter. I do sense your resentment and frustration, but what you mustn’t do, Maisie dear, is mourn your life at home or chafe against small-town isolation. You must fit in and adapt or you will find yourself a very lonely young lady. And don’t attempt to change your husband or refuse his advances. It won’t work and he will make you miserable and likely plant his affections elsewhere. The best thing you can do for the health of your marriage is have a baby and develop an interest of your own.
Maisie was making a great effort to fit in, but having a baby was another matter. Mrs Wallace had said that most men had insatiable bedroom urges. Maitland hadn’t had one.
Maisie had been in the house a few days before she broached the subject of domestic staff.
‘This is a large bungalow, Maitland. Don’t you think we need someone to help Duc? He can’t be expected to do all the household chores and cook as well. It is too much work for one person.’
‘He’s managed till n
ow.’
She ran a finger over the arm of her chair. ‘The house is dirty, and I’m sure he would appreciate some help.’
‘Duc doesn’t give a toss about cleaning, but get a houseboy if you want.’
‘I’d really prefer not to have a boy. Aren’t there black girls who can be taught?’
‘I’m not having a black gin with the morals of a dog in my house. Lubras can’t be tolerated in a decent home. They’re all lazy and dishonest. Disease and dissipation is what you’ll bring into this house. Pound to a penny, she’d steal my whisky or creep into my bed at night.’
‘Maitland! I know I’ve only just arrived and understand very little of what goes on here but I’m sure you must be exaggerating. I can’t believe that every Aboriginal woman in Buccaneer Bay has flawed morals or a propensity towards theft.’
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Maisie was stung by his tone. ‘Why did you bring me out to Australia, Maitland? You do nothing but snipe at me. I’m sure I would annoy you less if you were to spend a bit of time at home and give me some guidance.’
He took a cigarette from the box on the table and lit it. Blowing smoke towards the ceiling, he shook out the match. ‘I see the little mouse is growing fangs.’
She said nothing. Just sat. That would make me a rat, wouldn’t it, Maitland, and there’s no room for two in this house.
The disagreement had persisted all evening but Maisie would not give in. Just before midnight, Maitland drained his umpteenth glass of whisky and pressed his flabby hands against his ears.
‘No more, Maisie. I’m going to bed.’
Maitland had not referred to their domestic arrangements again, and two days after their argument, Marjorie had appeared on their doorstep.
‘I want to speak with the new Missus,’ she said. ‘I come allonga work in house.’
‘I’m Mrs Sinclair.’
‘I’m Black Marjorie.’
‘Is that both your names?’ Maisie knew that the French always gave their surname before their first name. Maybe it was the same here.
‘No. Is how you refer to me. I bin Marjorie. My colour is black.’
‘Marjorie, I can’t refer to you as black. It’s very offensive. It would be like you calling me White Mrs Sinclair. Or calling our cook Brown Duc.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘I’m sorry, Marjorie. It is not okay to me. I shall not call you Black.’
‘Okay, Missus. You might like know anyhow we call white people Paleface. So, you would be Paleface Missus. Just so’s you know.’
Maisie was deeply affected by colour: the tomato-red earth, the brilliant red heads on the poinciana blossoms and the cool lime-green bird-of-paradise hedge with its orange pea-flower plumes that bordered her garden. By day, the Bay was bathed in painful white sunlight, which sparkled on the multi-hued ocean; at night, the dark navy sky was studded with dripping silver stars. She loved the vibrancy of the artist’s palette, but she would never refer to people by their colour.
Marjorie was an amply proportioned native woman about thirty years old and told Maisie she had been trained in domestic duties by the nuns at the Catholic Mission. She was as bright as sunlight and right from the start, as a small child, had wanted to learn. To get to school she had to walk nearly four miles a day each way. In the Wet, walking in the heat and then slushing through the cloying mud was the stumbling block – because Marjorie did not own shoes. The soles of her feet blistered in the hot sand or became infected in the cruddy monsoon sludge. At first, she’d tried to jump from grass patch to grass patch waiting for her feet to cool or dry off. Once she’d proposed a shoe-sharing scheme with a friend who had a pair of second-hand boots. The friend would wear the left and she the right – but they’d both regretted the blisters. Another time she’d tried to hop on alternate legs but the effort had been too much. She’d given up with school after that.
Maisie liked Marjorie very much.
A bird flew out of a tree and vented a long plangent cry. The sound shook Maisie out of her torpor. She raised herself up out of the cane recliner and looked beyond the fly-netted verandah, trying to identify what had made the noise. She frowned. Duc and Marjorie were out on errands, and there was a man in the garden sitting with his legs splayed wide and his back to a large poinciana tree.
He was not the first native man she had seen. He was about twenty years old, she guessed, and she could see that he had patches of raw skin on his face. He had a large head with a rounded forehead and his eyelids were half-closed. She wondered at first if he was asleep, but from time to time he lifted his hand and wafted it to shoo the flies from his eyes. His nose was large and shaped like a bottle, and hung over full lips and a wide mouth. His hair held her attention. It was as black as tar, girlishly curly and fell to his shoulders like a fur cape. After a while, he stood and stretched his hands behind his back, pulling his shoulders square. She could see that he was tall, straight-backed and very thin. His ribcage projected through the thin fabric of his shirt. She could almost count the bones.
He looked towards the house and called to her. ‘Missus. I needa water the grass but mule’s gone allonga walkabout.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Maisie took a step backwards. ‘I don’t know who you are.’
‘I bin look after garden. I Charlie.’
‘Charlie.’ She lingered over his name, wondering what to say next. ‘Why do you need the mule to water the garden?’
‘To fetch water from soak.’
‘Oh. I see.’ She didn’t see at all. ‘Where’s the soak?’
He tapped his nose with his fingertip. ‘Only mob know.’
‘Mob?’
‘Family. All the aunties and uncles.’
‘So, a secret location then?’
He lifted up his head and squinted at her.
‘Why do you need to water the grass? It rains nearly every day.’
‘I’s bin water Tuesday. I gonna water or boss man go crazy.’
There were tanks at each of the four corners of the house, which collected the rainwater they used in the house and for drinking.
‘Why don’t you use the tank water?’
‘Taps bin locked, Missus. We don’t use that water for grass.’
‘Well then, use the artesian water.’ She threw her arm at the large square tank partially screened behind a hedge that held groundwater from the well.
She wanted the job done and the man out of her garden.
Charlie looked doubtful. ‘I dunno.’ He dipped his head downwards like a dejected animal.
‘Use the artesian water, Charlie. We use it for the laundry. It will be fine for once.’
He stared at her, his round face vacant.
‘It will be fine,’ she repeated. ‘You need to get on with your work.’
He rolled his dark eyes and set off towards the high tank stand. His boots had no laces and plip-plopped on the hard earth.
At five o’clock Maitland slammed into the house, rattling the storm shutters on their cabled moorings. Maisie looked up from her desk, her pen a mid-air question mark.
Her husband poured himself a measure of scotch and planted himself before her. He eyed the notepad on her desk. ‘What’s that for?’
She covered her letter to Mrs Wallace with her hand. ‘I’m making notes.’
‘About what?’
‘The benefits of being married to you,’ she said, a flash of sarcasm in her voice.
He flung out a fat hand and swiped her writing paper to the floor. An ugly look twisted his face. ‘I don’t intend to take any lip from you.’
You wouldn’t have to if you were ever civil to me, she thought.
‘The bloody Abo has burned the grass. Wait till I get hold of him, he’ll be sorry for this. I’ll bloody skin him alive.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘There’s brown marks all over the lawn is what’s damn well happened. He’s bloody wrecked my bowling green. That nigger needs a lesson
he won’t forget in a hurry.’
‘Charlie said the mule wasn’t here so he couldn’t get to the soak.’ Maisie fiddled with the neck of her blouse.
‘Charlie? When have you been on sodding first-name terms with the bloody blacks?’
‘Do you want me to call him Mr Charlie, Maitland?’
He leaned his hands against the mosquito netting and stared out through the lattice. ‘He’s got legs, hasn’t he? He could have walked. These Abos are not worth a fart in a whirlwind. They go walkabout for weeks at a time but walk to a well? Might as well ask them to walk to the moon.’
‘I’m sure it was a misunderstanding, Maitland. He doesn’t have your education or your brains.’ She hoped the flattery might calm him down. ‘Anyway, I told him to use the artesian water because the taps were locked. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.’
‘Don’t think about defending him, Maisie. Even a half-wit would know not to use that water. You make yourself look ridiculous – and talking of being bloody idle, what the dickens have you done all day? I’m sick of you loafing about writing non-stop letters to England and that sheep farmer’s wife you met on the ship. If you want to wield your pen so much you can take over running the slop chest off the schooner.’
Maisie opened and closed the lid on the silver inkwell. ‘What would I have to do?’
Maitland stepped back from the lattice and drained his glass.
‘If you want me to help you with the slop chest, Maitland, you are going to have to fill me in. I am not prepared to commit to do a job if I don’t know what it entails.’
‘I’m not asking you to sail the bloody schooner single-handed, Maisie.’
‘Then tell me what the schooner’s for. What is the difference between the lugger and the schooner, for example?’
He turned his empty glass upside down and began to move it across the desk. ‘The lugger is the working boat. Got that? The divers bring up the shell we sell and store it on the boat but –’ He held up two fingers. ‘Two things. The luggers are small, and the pearling beds are way out from port. The schooner is the boat that carries the supplies and goes out to the fleet to take off the shell and leave fresh rations for the men. That way, the luggers and crew can stay out and dive non-stop, which is what we pay them to do.’
