by Roxane Dhand
Blair Montague, marginally less drunk than Maitland, sniffed and patted a glistening nostril with his handkerchief. It was so stiff with starch it almost refused to bend to do its duty.
‘What would be more gallant of me and less fatiguing for you, chère madame, would be for you to allow me to do the running around for you. If you would care to pen a message, I could pass it along on your behalf. Junior clerks may be very obliging in one sense.’ He looked pointedly at his daughter. ‘But they might not be the very best person to get the job done. As mayor of Buccaneer Bay, you could rest assured that your communications with England would be put in the right hands.’
Marjorie knocked on the doorjamb, her face scrunched in annoyance. ‘’Scuse me, Missus. There’s gentlemen here for Captain Sinclair, though nobody told me they was comin’. I put ’em on the west verandah with the coffee pot. Hope dat’s good.’
‘Yes, thank you, Marjorie. That’s very good.’ Maisie stared at her husband. He hadn’t told her to expect more guests.
The mayor consulted his watch and clutched the edge of the table unsteadily. ‘I must pluck my little girl away, mes chers amis, and take her home to her bed. I hadn’t realised it was so late. Thank you so much for a delicious supper, madame, and don’t forget about your cable. I shall send someone round to collect it in the morning.’
Maitland swayed to his feet. ‘You may as well go off to bed, Maisie. I’ve business to see to. Blair,’ he turned to his friend, ‘I’ll walk you both out.’
Maitland handed Dorothea into the carriage and turned his back so that she might not hear. He spread his feet to secure his balance. ‘Heard anything from the Association?’ He tried to capture the right note of casual indifference for the question.
‘No, not yet, Mait. These things take time.’
‘Anyone else you can think of who could be useful?’
Blair tipped his head back and studied the sky. ‘Would it be so bad if you weren’t elected in?’
‘For God’s sake, Blair, how can you be so flipping indifferent? You know it’s what I want. I’ve done everything you suggested. Even got a crappy wife and the right china.’
‘She’s doing a good job, Mait. She’ll ingratiate you with the membership.’
‘What can be taking so long?’
‘Most people are still down south for the Wet.’
‘It’s been six years, Blair, not six bloody months.’
‘There’s a new bloke in town. Pierre Fornallaz, the pearl doctor. He’s Swiss or French or something and is supposed to be a regular hot shot with a reputation as long as your arm. Get Maisie to have him and his wife to supper. I expect your wife can speak some French – she seems to be able to do everything else. Can’t hurt. Now get away from the sulky. It’s time to get Dorothea home.’
Maitland paused on the bottom step and took a steadying breath. The night air was sharp with the briny tang of the sea and it felt good to fill his lungs. The three men he’d invited were lounging on the verandah. They had helped themselves to his box of cigars and were well down the contents of a bottle of brandy. A pot of coffee sat cooling on the sideboard.
Captain Hanson looked as if he had stepped off the pages of a seafaring magazine. A drooping moustache and long side-whiskers framed his large, weather-beaten face. His hands were callused, spatulate and scarred; the tip of his left forefinger was missing, severed by a mistimed blow with a tomahawk. He revelled in the freedom of the sea and sailed with his fleet for weeks at a time, enduring the sub-human, cramped, cockroach-infested conditions alongside his Japanese and Malay crew. He rolled up his sleeves and was prepared to do any job he set his workers. Straight-talking and fair, the men respected him.
Captain Espinell was his opposite – tall, lean and leathery, all fingertips smooth and intact. He was clean-shaven, and his eyes darted in his weary face, anxiety etching worry in his flesh. He ran a sole lugger and was currently down on his luck, living on the foreshore in a ramshackle collection of cast-iron huts. But a master pearler down on his luck was still a big white fish in a muddy pond; the colour of one’s skin was good currency in the Bay, and he was surviving, financially, just about.
Captain ‘Shorty’ Mason was a shaggy giant of a man, heavy-jowled with ice-blue eyes. Like Hanson, he was a man’s man and was in his element in the male-dominated Bay. Women had to be amusing, pretty or flirtatious to warrant his attention; he could take them or leave them. He stretched out his long legs and took an appreciative drag on his cigar.
As Maitland entered the room, he heard Mason say, ‘… I thought this afternoon had a ring of panic about it.’
Maitland flopped down in a complaining verandah chair and reached for the brandy bottle. ‘What had a ring of panic about it, Shorty?’
‘Your summons this evening. Sounded a tad desperate.’
‘Not desperate but important. I’m not going to pussyfoot about, boys. Our livelihood is at stake. Blair wants me talk to you about these English boys we’ve had thrust on us.’
Espinell fiddled with the cigar box. ‘Are we at risk? What did Blair say?’
‘We could be if we don’t stick together. Blair’s sorry he can’t be here but he had to escort Dorothea home. He says we must agree on how we’re going to handle the situation.’
Shorty Mason snapped his head from side to side, the vertebrae in the top of his neck crunching appreciatively. ‘What do you have in mind?’
Maitland bent forward, his fingers steepled together. He pressed the index finger of his right hand to his lips, elbows balanced on his knees. Shorty dragged his chair closer. The other two narrowed the circle as Maitland primed the gun the mayor wanted them all to fire.
Although their voices were raised, Maisie couldn’t make out what they were saying. She crept along the verandah and flushed out Marjorie, who was stacking dishes in the kitchen.
‘I want you to take them in some coffee.’
‘Boss fella had coffee, Missus. Remember? You want him up all night? Wanderin’ ’bout the house? Coming into your room all drunk?’ She tiptoed her fingers through the air like Wee Willy Winkie.
‘I know, Marjorie. But we can give the other men coffee.’
‘I already gave them coffee, too.’
‘Oh! Did they drink it?’
‘I dunno. Mebbe.’
‘So, go back in and see and dawdle about. Spill the coffee and take your time mopping it up. I need you to tell me what they are talking about.’
‘I’m spying on him’s conversation?’
‘Listening to their conversation. It won’t occur to them to shut up if you are in there. They won’t talk if I go in.’
Marjorie nodded, knowingly. ‘Captain Sinclair gonna slap me if I spill it.’
She had a point. ‘We don’t want that. Maybe just try to be really slow putting the cups out. Then go back for the sugar. Or something.’
‘All right. How longa you want me beum there?’
‘I don’t know. Try to work out what they are talking about, then come back to the kitchen and tell me.’
Marjorie scratched her head. ‘Okay. I go find Duc and tell him make more coffee. He’s gonna screech big. Then I go down the verandah and pretend I forgot the captain’s already drunk his.’
‘Where is Duc anyway, Marjorie?’
‘Being after work time, in my house most like.’
Maitland worked a hand into a straining trouser pocket and pulled out his bulging purse. It was a tight squeeze and he swore into his moustache as the starched cotton cloth grazed the skin on his knuckles. The meeting was not going as well as he had hoped. The lubra maid was hovering about, fussing with coffee; he’d already drunk some that evening – could still taste it in his mouth – but he was too distracted to scold her for bringing it twice.
‘So, Maitland.’ Espinell summed up their conversation. ‘We’re going to send our divers off in completely different directions for two to three months at a time as soon as the Wet is over, to pearl beds that have been ov
er-harvested. The pickings will be slim or non-existent. It will appear that our English colleagues are unable to see shell on the ocean floor. But they will never meet up and compare hard-luck stories. Meanwhile, our Jap divers will dive new fertile beds and demonstrate that they are more efficient at bringing up shell and should not be deported to where they came from. Is that about it?’
‘In a nutshell.’
‘How is that going to help me meet my financial targets, Maitland?’ Espinell countered. ‘I’m almost on my uppers as it is.’
‘It won’t. That’s the ruddy sticking point. We’re all going to be out of pocket in the short term. That’s why we’ve got to pull together. But we have to make sure that this White Policy experiment the government has dreamed up fails. The English divers and their tenders are too bloody expensive for the fleet. We’re even paying them a bigger percentage on any shell they do manage to haul up. The English divers on average will cost eight times more than the Jap fellers. We’ll all go bust if we allow this madness.’
‘But what if they do happen to be good at the job? That will work for me. As long as they harvest the shell,’ Espinell whined.
‘It doesn’t matter whether they’re any good or not. We can’t afford to pay the sort of money the government has told them to expect. Not if we want to stay in business. We have to make sure they fail. Doesn’t matter how you do it. Get someone on board to engineer a little accident – with the air hose, for example, or tamper with those nutcase Admiralty tables they brought with them. A small miscalculation with the stop times should do the trick.’
The master pearlers did not understand the Navy Admiralty tables and were certain that their indentured crews wouldn’t either. If a diver followed the recommendations in the tables, Maitland argued, he would spend most of his working day suspended underwater on a rope somewhere between the surface and the ocean floor rather than harvesting shell from the sea bed. The charts were based on mathematics. If a diver worked at fifteen fathoms, and remained there for one hour, he should come up to the surface slowly in separate, predetermined stages. It would take him thirty minutes to reach the top. If he went deeper, it would take him longer to come up. The master pearlers knew it would be impossible to keep a diver down, doing his job. The longer the divers remained on the ocean floor, the more chance they had of picking up shell. But a long dive would necessitate a much longer resurfacing time. There was also a recommendation that a diver should spend a minimum rest time between dives of three hours – not the fifteen minutes the Japs took for a smoke and a cup of coffee – and if the dive was deeper than fifteen fathoms, there should be no second dive that day.
Shorty turned to Hanson. ‘We seem to have a split deck here. How about a wager to settle the vote?’
Hanson ran a hand down his side-whiskers. ‘I’m up for that. What’s the game to be?’
Espinell shook his head. ‘I’m going to pass.’
Shorty swallowed some brandy. ‘I’m not in the mood for cards or high stakes, either. Let’s play Two-Up. You got any pennies in that fat purse of yours, Mait? We can take it in turns to be spinner and count up when we’ve all had a go.’
Maitland liked the odds of the coin-tossing game. Gambling on whether the wobbling coins would fall with two heads up, two tails up or one of each was less taxing after a few drinks too many than trying to remember the cards. He tossed his two pennies in the air and the three captains placed their bets. Between each toss of the coins, Maitland swigged down another tot of neat spirit. What could be more perfect? His two favourite pastimes in the comfort of his own home.
Except for his bloody wife next door.
Maisie was lurking in the kitchen when Marjorie returned with the empty glasses.
‘So, what did they say?’
‘They’s plottin’.’
‘About what?’
Marjorie pretended to stir a bowl with a spoon. ‘Them boss fellas is cookin’ up mischief.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’s bin gamblin’ with them coins.’
Maisie wanted to shake her. ‘I don’t understand what you’re telling me.’
Marjorie ran her hand impatiently through her woolly hair. ‘I just telled you. The boss fellas was tossing up coins and making bets. And laughin’.’
‘What were they betting on?’
‘Don’t knows about dat bit.’
‘Have the captains gone home?’
‘Yes. Hims left when boss fella went all funny. His eyes gone all turned up and I couldn’t see no colour there, only the whitey-ball bits. Then he fell over and crashed his head on da table. Bang!’ She thumped the kitchen table.
‘Shush! Keep your voice down, Marjorie. Is he still there?’
‘Didn’t touch him, Missus. Promise. Didn’t want him go slap me.’
Maisie scrutinised the maid’s frightened face. She took hold of her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘I’m sure you didn’t, but we should go and make sure that he is all right – particularly as he hit his head. Then we can decide what we’re going to do with him.’
On the verandah, Maitland was snoring. It was worse than usual. The noise seemed to be coming from both his nostrils and his throat. To add to the background percussion, he broke wind loudly.
Marjorie pinched her nostrils. ‘You going to wake him up, Missus?’
‘No. I think we’ll leave him here. We couldn’t move him anyway. He’s much too heavy.’
‘You want cover him up or mebbe take off his shoes?’
‘No. But I will put something under his head. It might dull the noise he’s making.’
Marjorie nodded. ‘I take stuff to da kitchen and then I’ll go climb in my bed. Dat okay?’
‘Thank you. And Marjorie?’ Maisie was still wondering about the whereabouts of Duc.
‘Yes, Missus?’
‘… Never mind. It’ll keep.’
Maisie surveyed the fleshy mountain precariously slumped sideways on the table. Another hefty snore, with fortissimo bass accompaniment, launched his frame sideways to the floor. He scarcely flinched. On the table, where his arm had rested, was his purse. Mrs Wallace’s voice echoed in her head: Never trust a man who has a purse, Maisie. He is bound to be mean in every respect of the word.
Maisie had a chat with her conscience. Mrs Wallace was bang on the money. Maitland had meanness tattooed on his soul. She scooped up the bulgy leather bag, twisted the shiny clasp and tipped the contents into her left hand. The weight of the coins felt wonderful in her palm, like retribution. She dropped the empty purse on the table and pushed it away.
If Maitland is this drunk, he won’t remember where his money has gone.
Maitland gave Duc money when he sent him to the shops, but she was expected to sign for everything she bought by chit. She had no actual cash of her own. Maitland knew exactly how much she spent and what she spent it on. This was the first opportunity she’d had to be independent in her life. She waggled her head from side to side.
I am his wife, so technically what is his is also mine. Yes. That’s right. She nodded resolutely as she dropped the coins into her pocket. Now, where to hide the stash? The large screw-top jar where Marjorie had advised her to keep her silk underwear safe from the champing jaws of moths and silverfish seemed a very good place.
In her bedroom, she began to undress, shedding layers of clothing like dead skin. As her underwear lay on the floor, a tangle of fragile silk, she knew that a different person was emerging from its childish cocoon. She wrapped herself in a cool cotton kimono and pulled the belt tight around her resolve. She would lay a bet of her own that four of the Bay’s most influential pearling captains were up to something fishy.
‘I’m going to find out what,’ she said aloud.
A lizard ran across the wall and disappeared into a crack.
CHAPTER 10
‘COOEE? MRS SINCLAIR?’
Maisie and Marjorie both heard the screen door creak, and the high-pitched voice made them cringe. Marjorie
was waging war on the bougainvillea petals that blew daily onto the verandah while Maisie sat at her desk, aimlessly doodling on the blotter with her pen. She had just read her weekly missive from Mrs Wallace and was feeling markedly downcast. You are starting to sound peevish, Maisie, as if you have given up before you have been in Australia five minutes. I never would have suspected this from a girl who took her corset off when she thought my back was turned! I’m sending you some packets of seeds. Plant them in the garden and watch them thrive. It will be a good lesson for you and give you an interest.
Marjorie picked up the pace of her sweeping with an uncustomary energy and bent to gather up the skittering purple confetti. ‘You in, Missus?’ she said over her shoulder.
Maisie rolled her eyes. ‘Give me a minute.’
Marjorie straightened up, leaned on her broom and called through the screen, ‘Missus bit busy, Miz Montague. But she know you come allonga.’
Dorothea appeared in the doorway and gave the Aboriginal maid a long-lashed stare.
The maid blocked the entrance, her feet firmly planted on the ground, hands on well-upholstered hips, and gave no quarter. They stared at each other, two predators assessing their quarry. ‘So, you young missus. You come in dat sulky o’ yours?’
Dorothea flicked the top of the verandah rail with her white-gloved hand and inspected the fingertips. Her displeasure showed in her risen shoulders. ‘Why you wantum know?’
The Bay’s white Europeans spoke to the domestic help in pidgin English. Whatever their rationale, Maisie found it ill-mannered. The language of the majority of residents was not English; expecting everyone to speak it was yet another example of the white minority suppressing the coloured majority. She squirmed at her own hypocrisy. She was no better than the people she so despised, having made no effort at all to embrace any language but her own.
Marjorie scratched the ample padding over her stomach. ‘Him horse might like go allonga our horse.’ She picked up her broom and continued to sweep, head bent, looking for more floral treasure.
