by Judy Johnson
He leans back in his chair, puts one ankle over its opposite knee. If anything, his beard is even longer than when I last saw him. Jet black, reaching down to his lap. He strokes it lightly, just below his mouth. Stares at me, unblinking.
‘Yes. I know your situation.’
I’d forgotten just how weighty his absence of small talk can be.
‘I bet he told you I’m incapable of doing the next signalling. That Ah Leung is ready to step into the breach.’
‘No bet. We’re both poker players, remember?’ The left side of his mouth twitches.
The saliva in the back of my throat is thick as I swallow. ‘I’m not incapable, Captain. It’s no easy climb up Cook’s Look, but I can do it.’
He stares at me for a few more seconds. Then glances over to the disused fireplace. There’s a chip in the corner of the surround. He fixes his gaze on it.
‘The drop is now scheduled for September.’
‘Next September! But I’ll have my baby by then. I’ll be more than able —’
He stares at me evenly, hammering my sudden relief back into silence.
‘To fight another day?’ He finishes the sentence for me, his voice a monotone.
‘Something like that.’
My words sound faint to my own ears. Something’s wrong. The conversation is so full of holes there’s nowhere to step without falling through. What did he say to Percy? What did Percy say to him? Why hasn’t he said an outright ‘no’ to my request to continue?
‘Ah Leung —’ I start.
‘Will be controlled.’
The words he doesn’t add — for now — hang heavy in the air between us.
I’ve always thought of Roberts as being emotionless. But I realise it’s not quite true. In the flicker of the lamp, his dark eyes are full of knives under a deceptively smooth surface. Like the reef just off the Lizard. And trying to find the safe passage through what he doesn’t say is a challenge equal to Cook finding his dark blue line through all of that peril. A challenge I realise I’m not up to at the moment. I search around for something on the surface to help me set my course.
‘Why so long until the next drop?’
He makes a gesture I remember: steepling his long fingers, as though completing some circuit necessary to contemplation. I imagine his thoughts passing back and forth through his fingertips.
‘It’s complicated. An invasion of Egypt is in the offing. It would be to our advantage if a couple of French spies were compromised in the process. One must always be prepared to act.’ He looks me in the eye. ‘But one must not act until one’s opponent is completely committed, and has reached the point of maximum vulnerability. I now judge we will reach that point in September. The thirtieth, to be exact. Subject to developments, of course. Though I’m confident of my calculations.’
‘I see.’
No use trying to work out his political cloak-and-dagger code. What I do know is that September is a long way from now … a lifetime.
‘The operation requires only one more night of signalling. One more crucial night. Are you sure you’re up to the task?’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I say, then wonder if it’s true. ‘But Captain … what then?’
The foot he has rested on his knee wags side to side like a dog’s slow tail.
‘Do you intend to stay with your husband on Lizard Island when this is all over?’
‘No.’
‘Then you would take the child with you, presumably. How will you secure passage without raising suspicion?’
I haven’t thought clearly about anything so far ahead, but dare not say so. Reluctantly, I offer the first practical scenario that comes to mind. ‘I’ll offer Percy money to hide me and the baby on Petrel. He could take us south.’ Never mind that Percy and I are barely on speaking terms.
He makes a noise at the back of his throat but doesn’t comment. Then he stands. His guard dog, alert to the faintest signal, moves into the doorway. I stand as well.
‘Wait here ten minutes,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘Then put out the light and go back to your hotel.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
I watch his dark bulk fill the doorway then disappear. I collapse back in the chair and listen to the faraway shrills of a good-time town. They seem even more artificial to me now than they did when I lived here. I’ve grown used to the different noises on the Lizard. The real sounds of the night.
I can’t seem to summon the energy to move, even when the required ten minutes has passed. What pins me to the chair? Nervous tension released? Loss of will? Lethargy? My obstacles are just as real. The outcome just as uncertain. But every now and then, in between anxious moments, I feel calm sneak in. My hands rest on my belly. Over my baby.
In these last weeks, since I realised I’m carrying an extra passenger, I’ve imagined myself as a mother. Imagined my life after the final drop. The baby will be delivered safely, somewhere away from all this strife. I will have the money to care for it. Our future will be secured.
But things have changed and I must change my thoughts with them. I must keep up. Must keep one step ahead. I’ve played my cards well enough so far — well enough to escape Papa’s hopeless, downward spiral, and help Carrie do the same — but now there’s far more at stake than just my own skin. My child will most likely be born here in Cooktown. I will be forced to take a vulnerable infant back to the Lizard. Ah Sam will have to care for it while I climb that dangerous hill again.
Something cold sneaks in. A possible explanation for why Roberts would want me to make this one last climb of Cook’s Look. Perhaps he knows that the blacks have become more volatile. Perhaps he’s decided I’m not as valuable an asset as Ah Leung is and could easily be sacrificed. His only gamble? That I manage to complete the signalling before I’m brought down with a spear.
Does it make sense? I don’t know any more. My emotions seem heightened with pregnancy. What I do know is that fate will force me to ante up my most precious possession. Roberts, Ah Leung, Percy, Bob, the blacks, the signalling job … all risks, an endless string of dangerous wagers. But how will I ever forgive myself if this last bet puts my baby in harm’s way?
I begin to stretch my arms up to yawn, but stop myself. Ridiculous Cornish superstitions about pregnancy twist and turn in my head. Don’t raise your hands above your shoulders or you’ll strangle the baby. Don’t write in a diary, or the Devil will see the words and come for the child.
Lizard Island
Winter, 1881
48
Why did no one tell me
that having a child changes everything?
That the heart swells so hugely
it can never shrink back
to selfishness again?
From the secret diary of Mary Watson
15TH JULY 1881
Screams ricochet off the limestone walls. Ferrier’s face is the colour of boiled beetroot. I’ve fed him and changed him. What else is there to do? I’m rocking the cradle with just a little more force than necessary when Ah Sam slips into the house.
‘What, what, baby?’
He lifts Ferrier in his nightdress. Hangs him over one shoulder like a small sack of slugs, rubs his lower back while simultaneously jigging him up and down. It looks like punishment, but Ferrier’s howling subsides to a few hiccoughs. Two minutes later, he’s asleep, his head tucked into the Chinaman’s grimy neck.
My ears are finally, blissfully, empty.
Ah Sam puts a stained finger vertically over his lips and lowers the baby back into the cradle.
Wretch. His eyes are closed. The dark lashes on his now-pale skin twitch slightly. His mouth’s a plump bud, drawing in teaspoonfuls of air, and pushing them out again. He’s angelic … when he’s asleep. Daily I marvel at how I could have delivered such a beautiful child. He looks nothing like Percy. Neither does he look like Bob. Which didn’t stop Bob converting him to a perfect little Pope-loving son. Heathen that I am, I was forced to wait outside the Catholic Church in
Cooktown while the christening ceremony proceeded. I wasn’t allowed within snuffing distance of the candles.
But none of that is Ferrier’s fault. I look down at his tiny, sleeping face. He doesn’t care for Latin and holy water. Already he’s devoted to two gods: one on the right, one on the left. And both inside my blouse.
I motion Ah Sam outside and we stand on the gravel in the cool morning breeze off the water.
‘You said you might have something for wind?’
He pulls a small bottle from the waistband of his pyjamas. ‘Two drop under tongue.’
‘What is it?’ I open the lid and sniff suspiciously. A sweet, syrupy undertone. ‘Does it have opium in it?’ He gives me such a look of cultivated innocence that I laugh. ‘Well, we’ll see how desperate I get.’
Whatever is in the mix, I know Ah Sam wouldn’t hurt the baby. Ferrier loves him, gurgles and waves his arms around, trying to swim towards that bland moon-face every time it rises over his cradle. Ah Sam is endlessly patient with him. Tickling his belly to keep him happy while I’m peeling the vegetables. Singing to him, sometimes, in his peculiar, jerky intonations.
I put the bottle into the pocket of my apron and look down towards the water. The Kanakas and the Aboriginal boys have managed to drag Isabella pretty much out of the water and onto the beach. The lugger looks like a crusty whale propped up on port side by a few heavy logs. Small waves lick at the stern. The Kanakas, two to a side, wield long, wooden-handled iron scrapers on the hull. Barnacles, weed and black muck fly off with each heavy push. Gulls crowd around the growing ring of dark detritus on the sand. It’s hard work: a chiselled wooden screech, followed by the deep-throated language of big men, then another screech. They’ve been at it since yesterday noon, and don’t look likely to finish before late tomorrow.
‘Where’s Bob?’ I ask.
Ah Sam shrugs. If he knows, he’s not saying. Bob’s mood has been black for a month. Until Ferrier was born, he was as close to happy as I’ve ever seen him. He stared at my belly in the evenings with a paternal gleam in his eye, even smiled occasionally, and his foul temper was largely reserved for Isabella’s crew. He still treats his son as one would any valuable possession. But it’s as though I’ve served my purpose now that I’ve produced his heir. Beyond the convenience of a live-in babysitter, my position seems largely irrelevant.
‘Well, where’s Percy then?’
Another shrug. A half-apologetic smile.
Bob and Percy have hardly been out fishing since the baby was born, and their partnership has been more strained than ever since Percy came back from Melbourne. When they do make the effort to harvest slugs, the catch is disappointing. I’ve been so focused on Ferrier that I haven’t troubled to find out what the problem is. But maybe it’s time I got to the bottom of it.
‘Isabella’s hull should be clean by tomorrow. Do you think the men will put out soon?’
Ah Sam shakes his head.
‘Why not? The weather’s fine.’
‘No slug, missy.’
‘But it’s the dry season. Shouldn’t there be plenty of slugs now?’
‘Fishing bad … Slugs go.’
I look down to Ah Sam’s bare feet, knobbly in the dirt. He mutters something else under his breath. But when I ask what it was he said, he just grabs the basket near the door and trots away to check for eggs.
I step inside to make sure Ferrier is still sleeping, then shuffle out to the cookhouse to light the fire. The bread dough that I’ve rested in a warm corner has risen. I punch it down, then reach up to the shelf for my baking pans. My hand touches the second shell, a spider, that Porter gave me just before he left six months ago. I lift it down. Finger each of its seven calcified tentacles. I hold the striped pattern up so that it catches the light: stewed apricots streaked with cream.
‘The animal inside this one doesn’t feel the need to hide,’ he told me, ‘even though it’s vulnerable. You often see them in the shallows.’
He was looking at my hair when he said it. The one thing pregnancy had done for my looks was to make my hair both softer and more curly. He pulled a piece of paper from the shell’s cavity and handed it to me. It was an address, nothing more.
‘For my sister and brother-in-law, in Umina,’ he said. ‘If you need me, contact them. They’ll know where to find me.’
‘Can’t you stay?’
We were in the house, saying our goodbyes. Sadness welling up in me. Bob’s voice booming up from the beach. It was time for Porter to go.
‘My contract’s finished,’ he said simply, then picked up his swag and turned to face me at the door. ‘I don’t care what you’ve done, Mary. Or what you intend to do. Remember, if you need me …’
And then the doorway gaped without him.
I caution myself to stop daydreaming, and put the shell back, but not before I rub the surface so that it might pick up some warmth from my hand. I put it up to my ear. Porter’s still gone. The shell’s still ice-box cold. But I can hear the sea calling.
And the address he gave me is tucked away safely in my locked box under the bed.
49
Busy hands are like opium to a nervous housewife.
From the secret diary of Mary Watson
15TH AUGUST 1881
After dinner, in the rocking chair, the rhythm of my fingers orchestrating needles and wool soothes me. The gentle push of my foot on the base of the cradle keeps time. Like a slower, smoother version of working the piano pedals at Charley’s.
Bob’s sitting on a box, re-sewing the frame onto a landing net with twine and a large needle. He misses and jabs his finger. ‘Feck it to hell!’ He throws the net in his temper. It lands in a puddle in the middle of the floor.
‘You’ll wake the baby.’
‘I’ll wake the bairn if I’ve a mind to. Ye would forget who gave him to ye?’
Oh, I’m not forgetting, Bob. Not for an instant.
‘Well, carry on then. You can put him to sleep again, after he wakes.’ I finish the row I’m working on. ‘What will you do now the slugs have dried up. Will you try some other ground?”
He runs a splayed hand through his thinning hair. ‘Aye.’
He stands, wanders over to the shelf and looks straight through it. His hand finds his pocket. The clinking doesn’t seem to bother Ferrier. He’s asleep on his back, a white wrap tucked in tightly around him, under the mosquito net. A bird shrieks outside. I can hear palm fronds tickle the darkening sky.
‘We must start a new station.’ He turns around with a pepper shaker in hand. ‘Night Island’s about two hundred miles north. We have to sail up and see if it’s suitable.’
My mind is jarred into action. If Bob is far away at the time of the drop next month, well and good. But if Percy is going with him …
‘Who is we?’ I ask.
‘I can’t work both boats. I’ll take all the men.’
‘When are you going?’
‘Fuller thinks the end of August, start of September.’
He doesn’t normally listen to Percy.
‘Why September?’ I keep my voice light, concentrate on my knitting.
‘We will have taken all the slugs we can get by then. Ye and the wee bairn will come with us. Or ye could go to Cooktown till we get back.’
My palms feel sweaty on the wool. Oh, how careless I’ve been, even negligent these last months. I should have seen this coming but I was distracted by the baby. I can’t go to Cooktown in September and I can’t go north with the men. I won’t allow Percy even the hint of an excuse to use Ah Leung to signal the next drop. This is unexpected, and it shouldn’t be. The signs were there and I ignored them.
I bite my bottom lip, juggling possibilities. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Bob’s stubbornness, it’s that I must sound deferential or else I won’t have the faintest hope of getting my way.
‘It’s your decision of course,’ I say. ‘And you know best. But don’t you think it would be better if Ferrier and I stayed
here on the Lizard? It’s only an exploratory trip. How awkward would it be caring for an infant on Isabella? In all weathers? And you know how seasick I get.’
He looks scornful. ‘Ye’d be alone for six weeks, maybe eight.’
‘If we have enough supplies, and you leave the Chinamen, we should be all right. In fact, why don’t you take Ah Leung with you? Ah Sam and I can manage quite well. You know how good he is with the baby.’
I cross my mental fingers, hoping he will agree to take the malevolent nuisance away. But he’s shaking his head.
‘John Pigtail on a lugger’s as useless as tits on a boar.’ He thinks a bit longer, rubs his chin. ‘All right, ye’ll not come with us. But ye have to go to Cooktown.’
I count to five before I speak.
‘It’s an idea. But, Bob, those last papers you brought back … there’s an influenza epidemic. And diggers returning from New Guinea with suspected typhoid. He’s so small, your son. So vulnerable to illness. I’ll defer to your judgement, but we’re safer here, I’m sure. Perhaps you can leave us some kind of rowboat, just in case there’s trouble with the blacks?’
‘What would ye do? Paddle to the mainland? Ye wouldn’t make it past the first sharp edge of reef. Ye know almost nothing of shoal and deep, tide and counter-current. Ye can’t even swim!’
‘True.’ I hesitate. ‘It’s a problem, isn’t it? We don’t have to make the decision right away.’
There’s no point continuing. That antagonistic edge will just creep into his voice. It’s enough to plant a thought in his head. Hope it germinates. I go quietly back to my knitting and rocking. Let his medicinal balls think it over.
Five days later at three o’clock. High clouds skitter like furtive thoughts inside the hard blue skull of the sky, though there’s no wind on the ground. Not yet. Now, finally, it’s Petrel’s turn to be scrubbed clean and repainted. The men have been busy doing repairs on board her, these last few weeks. Percy’s bent under the stern with a brush and a small tin of tar, applying it in long, slow strokes.
