by Judy Johnson
When he’s finally satisfied that I understand, Percy reduces the flame until it disappears. The lamp is still warm; he lowers the wooden cover over it and snaps shut the catches.
‘That’s all there is to it. Your contact will signal for ten seconds once every thirty seconds to help you keep sighted on his position. Get some practice covering and uncovering the light smoothly. Don’t make a mistake or we’ll both be sunk.’
‘I can’t keep it in the house,’ I say.
‘Of course not. It’ll be in my hut, under a pile of clothes in the southeast corner. On my shelf you’ll find a bottle of kerosene, more matches in a waterproof box, extra pencils and paper. Use them as you need them.’
We both hear Carrie whistling, crunching over the gravel towards the door. Percy calmly sweeps the lantern and case under the table, covering it with a stack of hessian bags. By the time she walks in, he has his pack of cards out of his pocket and is introducing me to the finer points of whist.
She puts her hat down on a box in the corner.
‘Find any shells?’ Percy’s getting to his feet.
‘No. But there’s a schooner dropped anchor in the bay. I saw three men in a rowboat heading for shore.’ She claps her hands. ‘Company for a change, instead of lizards and rancid old slugs.’
‘I’d better get a welcoming party together then.’ Percy picks up the bundle of hessian bags and steps towards the door. ‘I’m glad you like the design of the new brooding cage for the chickens,’ he says to me. ‘Carrie, why don’t you find Ah Sam: get him to put the water on and make tea for our visitors?’
‘But my hair! I need to do something with it. And I have my oldest dress on.’ She grabs her hat again, but not before peering in the mirror on the shelf for half a minute first.
Percy winks at me on the way out.
‘The lady of the island, Mrs Watson. Her sister, Carrie.’
Percy’s performing the introductions. There seems far too little space in the poky house for the three visitors: Captain Laymond, goutish, middle-aged, with a chiselled goatee; and two of his crewmen, short, slight, caps in hand. Carrie looks supremely disappointed in what the sea has washed up. The darker-skinned of the two crewmen, on the other hand, is staring at her as if a mermaid has materialised.
Carrie murmurs something about going for a walk, leaving the four men and myself. Ah Sam busies in, dumps the teapot on the table and just as quickly leaves. I doubt we’ll see anything of Ah Leung. These are strangers who might very well have seen the “Wanted” poster.
‘Please, Captain, take a seat. I apologise for our rustic circumstances.’
What I’d thought serviceable furniture — crates for seats, a rickety table with saucers of water under the legs to keep ants from the food — all of a sudden seems embarrassingly primitive.
‘This is a palace compared to life on board, Mrs Watson.’
He smiles vacantly, then turns to Percy to discuss business. He’s headed for New Guinea, it seems, delivering medicine and shovels to the new goldfields. Sunlight shines through the narrow shutters in prison bars, dazzling the dust motes into somersaults and falling in fingerlengths on the table. The crewmen guzzle my tea and cake. The swarthy one keeps glancing out the open door, obviously hoping for another glimpse of Carrie.
‘More gingerbread?’
I play the dutiful hostess towards Laymond, smile fixed in place, wondering if he carries a note from Captain Roberts. I even open my mouth to ask at one point, but Percy, reading my mind, looks across the table and says ‘no’ with his eyes. All three men take an extra piece of cake. No one seems to notice the extra crunch of weevils.
Twenty minutes later, the teapot is empty, the last gingerbread crumbs have been fingered up, the weather and shipping news has petered out. Carrie returns just as they stand to leave.
The captain’s drained of small talk. ‘I’m sorry I missed your good husband, Mrs Watson. Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve a note from a ladyfriend of yours, passed to Captain Roberts out of Townsville and subsequently to me when he found I was travelling north.’ He reaches into his trouser pocket and offers me an envelope which once was white.
Carrie’s eyes brighten. ‘Who is it, Mary? And why didn’t she just send it to Cooktown?’
She tries to intercept it with her busy fingers, but I get there first.
‘It’s probably one of my chums from Brisbane who knows that Captain Roberts and I were acquainted during my time in Cooktown. She may have seen him and taken the opportunity to pass a letter on.’ I fold it neatly and I place it in the pocket of my apron. ‘A special treat for after dinner.’
‘Nothing for me, Captain Laymond?’ Carrie asks hopefully.
‘Alas no, miss.’
The crewman who is so transfixed by her makes a small noise in his throat, as though he would happily give her no end of things and a letter would be the least of them.
Porter wanders in with his fishing rod and a clanking bucket full of bream. The scaly-silver smell fills the small space. He wipes his hand on his trousers and Percy goes through the introductions again. I wonder if I’m the only one in the room to pick up on Percy’s impatience.
By the time a second round of niceties has been observed, the afternoon has worn on. If we don’t get rid of them soon, they’ll expect to stay for dinner and drink Bob’s rum. Percy decides the time’s come as well.
‘I would extend our hospitality, Captain, to yourself and your crew on board. We should, of course, be delighted to have you all spend the rest of the day and evening with us. But with Captain Watson gone … and the ladies …’ He wears a slight look of discomfort and sends an additional quick tilt of his head towards the amorous crewman.
Laymond nods twice, reluctantly, and rubs his nose with the back of his hand. Either he’s encountered Bob’s temper before, or else he appreciates the awkwardness. ‘Say no more.’ Nevertheless, he glances longingly at the flagons lined up on the shelf in the corner.
We all walk down to the beach to see them off. Carrie skips ahead. The cool scent of clean bone wafts up from the sand. Small wavelets jostle each other near the shore.
The oars of their rowboat lift and fall wetly as they head towards the schooner.
When Carrie wanders up to the house again, out of eye and ear shot, I pass the note to Percy. ‘Take this. She’ll search until she finds it, otherwise.’
He pockets it in one smooth movement. I lift my hand to the men rowing back to the schooner. None of the three respond.
It’s almost dark when I notice white steam from the stack of another ship, anchored far out in the harbour. I fetch the looking glass from the house and hold it up to my eye. Hard to make out, as the ship’s backlit by a glowing sunset, but it looks as though a French flag’s flying at its stern. There are two masts made of steel with the smokestack equidistant between them; big guns silhouetted on deck at bow and stern. An odd, scooped hull makes the ship sit low in the water. It’s a French man-o’-war. I call out to Percy, who has just come back from chopping wood in the mangrove swamp.
He takes the glass from me and snorts when he holds it up to his eye. ‘What now? Bloody Frogs. That’s all we need.’
He hands the glass back in annoyance. I take another peek. They’ve lowered a small boat over the side. Four spider-like figures climb down a rope ladder, balance themselves, then sit, taking up the oars. The ship behind them is now a bulky shadow on the flushed ocean.
‘There’s four of them headed for shore,’ I tell Percy.
‘Damn it. I don’t want them on the island.’ He runs a rough hand through his hair. ‘Though it’s probably just a courtesy call. Smiles on the surface and daggers underneath.’
‘I suppose it would look suspicious if we don’t act welcoming.’
Percy sighs deeply. ‘I suppose so. Look, I’ll go down to the beach and meet them. Maybe go back to the ship with them and make small talk for a while. That should be enough to appease them into keeping their noses out of our business. Here,
give me that glass again.’
I hand it over. The blond hairs on his forearm as he holds it aloft turn golden in the fading light.
‘Wouldn’t they find it strange that we don’t want them on the island?’ I ask. Then a grim scenario occurs to me. ‘What if they’ve found out about the drop and they’ve come to take care of us?’
‘You’ve read too many murder mysteries. They’re not armed.’ He moves his head forward slightly as though looking closer. ‘One of them’s even raising his hand in greeting.’
‘Of course they’re not armed. If you go back with them, they’ll torture you until you’ve told them everything you know. Then they’ll kill you.’
But I don’t really believe it. I can see the men’s outlines with my naked eye now. Their bodies are relaxed, not combative.
Percy hands me back the looking glass. He walks leisurely towards the water. ‘I’ll tell them there’s someone in the house with a fever,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘The last thing they’ll want is a dose of our foreign germs.’ Something about his voice gets my attention.
I notice again that careful intonation that I’d puzzled over back in Brisbane. Percy’s told me nothing about his life. Perhaps he originally had a Cockney accent, and has carefully coached himself out of its twang and into the more gentlemanly style of the Queen’s English. Everyone wants a fresh start in the colony. And Percy is more ambitious than most …
I stand there, braving the mosquitos and the rapidly cooling air, watching as the boat lands. Percy gestures up towards the house, then towards the man-o’-war. After a few minutes, he climbs in. Two uniformed crewmen leap over the gunwale and push the boat back to sea.
Percy comes back while Carrie and I are eating dinner. He tells me the French ship has anchored in the bay for some minor repairs and will be gone by morning. The captain told him they’re on their way to New Caledonia and that they wish our patient well.
‘Patient?’ Carrie’s ears prick up.
He doesn’t blink. ‘Did I say patient? I meant operation. Our slug operation. Both vaguely medical, I suppose. I suspect I’m getting my murds wixed because I’m overtired. Ladies.’ He stands abruptly, picks up his hat and disappears into the darkness.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t show an interest in the new visitors,’ I say to Carrie.
‘I saw the ship. A weird-looking thing. But then I decided to go on an expedition over to the other side of the island.’
‘You’ve been told countless times not to wander too far.’
‘What can happen in the daytime? If I see a lizard now, I just glare at it until it goes away.’
‘I’m not worried about the lizards. Charley Sandwich thinks there are blacks on the island.’
‘Bob said there aren’t any and why would he lie?’ she counters. ‘I’ve seen no signs of them.’
After dinner, she starts a whole new line of enquiry.
‘What did your friend say in the note? And which friend was it? Can I read it?’
I bend over the kitchen bench in my apron, scrubbing at a pan. The caked-on residue has defeated both Ah Sam and me. It’s a relic from Bob’s bachelor days, when cleaning cooking utensils apparently just diluted the flavour of the next meal. In a last, futile attempt, I put some elbow grease into it and almost knock over the kerosene lamp that is sitting on the bench.
‘The letter was from Hope. You wouldn’t know her. A nice girl I met in Brisbane. And it was just the usual gossip. Nothing of interest to you.’
She picks up her embroidery. ‘Hope. That’s a pretty name.’
And an even prettier sentiment, dear Carrie.
It isn’t really a lie. The note was full of trivia. I barely had time to glance at it, before I passed it over to Percy, but I saw enough to know it contained bland pleasantries about the weather and social goings-on in Brisbane. My eye was drawn to the items of most interest to us: the prices of overstrap shoes and ladies’ light-tweed coats for spring. When the template, with its cut-out holes, is laid over the note, the prices will miraculously become dates, co-ordinates and times for light signals.
It’s just after nine when the tied-up dogs growl, the sound like sacks of rocks rolled back and forth over sets of rusty pipes in their throats. They are rarely allowed off their tethers as they harass the chickens and put them off laying.
‘What’s wrong with them?’ Carrie peers through the slush of cold cream smothered on her face.
‘I don’t know. Probably a lizard at the fowl pen. I should go out.’
As I say the words, the barking starts: a warning sound, with teeth in it. My eyes drift to the rifle propped against the wall near the door.
‘No! Don’t.’ In the shadows, with her white nightdress and face cream, Carrie’s a luminescent ghost.
There’s a shuffle of pebbles just outside the door. Hard to discern under the dogs’ high-pitched cacophony, but there. More like an extra texture than a sound.
Carrie’s heard it too.
‘Goanna,’ I say. ‘You know how they come close looking for meat scraps.’
I go over to the shutters, thinking to open them just enough to look out.
‘No, don’t,’ she says again. ‘They’ll spear us dead.’ She worries at the neck of her nightdress with little picking fingers.
‘You’ve changed your tune. I thought you were sure there were no natives on the island.’ I’m trying to make light of it. But I feel nervous myself. ‘I’ll just have a look around.’
‘No! You can’t leave me here!’
I’m stymied. Left wondering what would greet me if I did open the door and step outside. Perhaps in the distance, the sea covered in its white-veined caul of moonlight. To the east, the distant boom of the reef. Maybe a lizard near the house, lumbering side to side like a chain-mailed wagon. Its eyes like the devil’s beaming out at me just before it runs away.
There’s a bang on the door. I jump. Carrie screams.
‘It’s just me. Porter. Let me in.’
I lift the wooden bar. He’s dishevelled, as though woken from a deep sleep. The dark-streaked moon peers over his shoulder. There’s something in his hands. A small, pale thing. A lady’s woollen hand-warmer, with paws. Virgin Mary’s pup. Its neck’s been wrung. The head’s a limp ball, hanging much too far over the side of Porter’s hand.
‘Oh, no.’
Porter steps inside.
‘What happened?’ Carrie chews on her fist, her eyes glossy pennies.
Porter says something to her in a low but firm voice. She drifts like a little cloud behind the curtain. A small squeak as she sits on her bed.
I put a finger out to stroke the fur on the puppy’s back. Still warm. I take the little body into my hands.
‘Who did this? Where’s Percy?’
‘He’s taken the rifle and is scouting around with Ah Sam.’
I immediately think of Ah Leung. I’m almost positive that this is my punishment for our talk over at the farm. But I can’t tell Porter that. Not without having to reveal the whole story.
‘The other dogs?’
‘They’re all right.’
I hand the pup back, gently. ‘Will you tell Ah Sam to bury him? Somewhere deep. Where the lizards won’t dig him up.’
His eyes reach out to me. I know what I’ll see in them: caring, comfort. But I can’t be weak. I turn away before I change my mind. ‘I must go to Carrie.’
36
Sometimes poker requires a prophecy
of what will happen three hands ahead.
From the secret diary of Mary Watson
7TH JULY 1880
Four in the afternoon. The wind stiff and sou-easterly across an ashen, dismal sky. I’m standing near the bird-feeder, about to fling some stale bread, when I see Isabella anchored in the harbour. Behind her, a dry storm flashes its ivory teeth. The man-o’-war is gone.
I hear Ah Sam’s footsteps and say, ‘Better put the water on for tea. Isabella’s back.’
‘Maybe I’ll have a b
ath first,’ Percy says, ‘if I smell that much like a Chinaman.’
There’s a catch in my chest as I turn. ‘Have you had a chance to decode the note yet?’
He’s looking out to the lugger, where Bob’s yelling at one of the black boys. Any minute I expect the first splash of water, someone wading ashore. Percy’s eyes are two small seas, churning. His blond hair leaps against small tethers on his scalp.
‘No. Not with all the excitement in the afternoon. And last night I was worn out. Tramping around in the dark looking for mischievous blacks didn’t help.’
‘Perhaps you should have searched a little closer to home,’ I say, my voice thin in the breeze.
He looks sideways, noticing some sign of strain that must be visible on my face. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I wouldn’t mind betting it was Ah Leung who strangled the pup.’
‘Why would you jump to that conclusion?’
He’s all of a sudden attentive in a way he wasn’t before. I open my mouth to tell him about my suspicions about Ah Leung and Charley’s prostitutes. How I’m starting to think the Chinaman isn’t just a hired assassin. How I wonder if he has a taste for murder for its own sake. But the stillness of Percy’s head freezes my tongue. He seems not so much curious as carefully focused. My sixth sense tells me to change tack.
‘He’s openly insolent. He obviously wanted the signalling job. Now, he’s trying to scare me away.’
‘Why would he? He might be getting more agile on his bashed-up foot, but even if you did conveniently disappear, he can’t yet climb the hill.’
Percy sticks his hands deep into his pockets. I don’t know how to answer without showing all my cards.
‘Just tell him to leave my animals alone,’ I say finally. ‘He’s no better than one himself.’
Whatever I’ve said, or haven’t, seems to work. The intensity drains from Percy’s gaze.
‘Now dear hubby’s back, it will be harder for us to talk. Come with me and you can decode the note now. I’ll keep watch at the door.’
‘What about Carrie?’
