'Aye, perhaps.'
Curry-Curry's face appeared at the scuttle. 'Somebody come, tuan.'
Cameron heard footsteps on deck. 'Find out who it is, Wes.'
'Aye, skip.'
A few minutes later a pair of spotless white canvas shoes was followed down the scuttle by an impeccably ironed white linen suit - although the cuffs were already stained by the red dust - and this vision of sartorial elegance was finally crowned by a splendid white solar topee.
Cameron stared at this apparition a moment and then his face creased into a grin. 'George!'
George Niland removed his topee and held out a hand. 'How are you, Cam?'
He had a florid, boyish face and sleek, close-groomed fair hair. He was a big man, but round rather than muscular. First job Cam had had when he'd sailed from England was crew on one of the Niland crayboats out of Fremantle. George's father owned the biggest fleet in Western Australia and George had managed the operation form an office in Cantonment Street. George helped Cam get his skipper's ticket.
'What are you doing here?' Cameron said.
'I might say the same to you! Pater bought a pearling company up here. Grooming me to take over in a couple of years. Lot of money in shell.'
'I've not seen it yet George.'
'Perhaps you spend too much of the season picking fights with other skippers.'
So that's why he was here. Not a social visit then. 'You heard how that Irish bastard thieved me?'
'Mister Flynn is regarded as an upstanding member of this community.' He fanned himself with his topee.' You'll have to tread gently there, old boy.'
'He has something that belongs to me and I intend to get it back. Still that's my problem, nae yours.'
George took out a handkerchief and mopped at his forehead. Cameron was suddenly conscious of his cramped quarters, the spartan bunk in the corner. 'How did you find your way to this part of the world?'
'Same as you I suppose. Sunk all I have into the China Cloud.'
'You own her?'
'Leased her for the season. I'll make enough from my shell to try my luck for another year. Like a drink, George?'
'Too early in the day for me. I have a banker's meeting at four.'
'Bankers?'
'I handle the finance mostly. Just thought I'd call in on the way down.' He pulled a gold fob watch from his pocket. 'And I'm late already. Look, how about coming over to the house tomorrow afternoon. We're holding a matinee, celebrate the end of the season. Anyone who's anyone in Broome will be there. If you decide to stay on here I might be able to introduce you to some of the right people. Okay?'
Cameron shrugged. 'Aye, sounds fine.'
'You can't miss the house. It's right next to the courthouse. Just follow everyone else. Starts about five o'clock.' He replaced the solar topee with a flourish and turned to go. Then, as an afterthought, he added: 'By the way, this Flynn business. I meant what I said. You should take it easy. He has a lot of powerful friends in Broome.'
'Are you one of them, George?'
George smiled, wrinkling his nose, and disappeared up the scuttle.
***
Kate Flynn was a beauty; she had none of the raw, red Gaelic skin of her father. She was pale, and flawless, a legacy to Flynn's long-suffering wife. Maria Flynn had been an elfin dark-haired Dublin lass who had borne Flynn two sons and a daughter and stoically endured his ferocity and abuse and drinking for ten long years, then to be mourned as a saint by her tormentor when she died from pneumonia when Kate was seven years old.
All Kate had inherited from her father was her flaming red hair - and a temperament to match. At just eighteen years old every single man in Broome - and many of the married ones as well - had an eye for Kate Flynn. So far she had treated them all with disdain.
Flynn himself had encouraged a match with a young man called George Niland. George's father owned a small pearling fleet and retained business links and some influence in the markets of London and Berlin.
Kate had told her father what she thought of that notion. 'He's not a man, he's a hatstand.'
'And what's that supposed to mean?' Flynn had growled.
'I have no wish to be married to any man who looks in the mirror at himself before he looks at me!'
'You'll do as you're told, my girl!'
Kate drew herself up to her full height and stared him down. 'I will not marry George Niland!'
It was enough to drive a man to drink, Flynn thought as he staggered home from the billiards hall. He stopped on the way to pay a visit to Doctor Halloran, who bathed his cuts in iodine and gave him a little malt whiskey for the pain. He then pained him even more by charging him for it. Halloran made a half-hearted attempt to re-set Flynn's nose which had buckled slightly after making contact with the billiards hall floor. He swathed it in plaster and sent Flynn home.
Flynn staggered up the white shell path, his shirt in tatters and caked with dried blood. Kate sat on a wicker chair on the veranda watching him.
'Patrick Flynn, what have you been doing to yourself?'
'Hush now, girl. It's nothing.' He staggered slightly and clutched at a frangipani tree for support.
'You've been drinking again.'
'Now, now, girl, don't lecture me, I'm your father.'
'You're a disgrace.'
Kate stood up and went inside, slamming the front door. Muttering to himself, Flynn successfully negotiated the three steps to the porch and tried to follow her inside.
Locked.
'Kathleen,' he honked through his damaged nose, 'will you kindly open this door!'
'You promised me you would not get yourself in this state anymore.'
'I only drink for medicinal purposes!'
Flynn heard windows being slammed shut. He staggered around the veranda to the back. Locked too! The wilful little bitch.
His bedroom window! Weaving, Flynn negotiated his way around the bungalow, put one leg on the sill and tried to ease himself inside. Instead he toppled sideways and fell into an oleander bush.
He sat up. 'You're just like your mother you stubborn little bitch!' he shouted.
He looked up and saw the Niland family passing in their sulky. Holy Mary. He attempted a wave. 'Good afternoon, Henry,' he said.
A clean shirt fluttered out of his bedroom window and landed on the steps. 'Put that on and don't come back in here until you're sober, you old soak!'
The bedroom window slammed behind him.
The Nilands did not wave back.
Chapter 7
Broome's native and European settlements were clustered on either side of a headland known as Buccaneer Rock. On one side of the town the tin and asbestos buildings of Chinatown huddled between the mile-long jetty and the mangrove swamps. On the other, the pearler's palm-shaded bungalows sprawled in fragrant gardens along wide shell-grit streets.
The Niland bungalow was surrounded by sweeping verandas wreathed in purple bougainvillea. The garden was heady with the scent of mock orange blossom and frangipani. Trestle tables had been laid out and white-jacketed Malay stewards served iced champagne and claret-cup. There was the sound of too-eager laughter from the tennis courts and the croquet lawn.
George came towards Cameron, hand outstretched. He was wearing a Tussore jacket and trousers, white linen shirt and soft collar. He wore an MCC tie with a pearl tie pin.
'Cam. Good of you to come. You've had a shave!'
'Aye, the beard comes off when I'm on dry land. Look at this place! It's a bonny house, George.'
'Not mine I'm afraid. Will be one day.'
'You've put on a spread.'
'Yes, not quite the green fields of England, but it's home for now. You look quite the white master yourself.'
'Just a new suit and a bath, George. I nearly wore my auld Navy uniform but people sometimes mistake me for an admiral.'
George's nose wrinkled in another of his ingratiating smiles. 'Help yourself to a drink. Excuse me a moment. I must go and say hello to the Barringtons. He's o
ur banker. Duty calls.'
Cam watched him go. The perfect host. By God, it was like a little bit of England transplanted here among the sweating palms and the red dust. He allowed a steward to pour him champagne. 'No opium in this, is there?'
'Master?' the man said.
'It does nae matter.'
Cameron looked around. The guests at the garden party were all white Europeans. Even though it was late afternoon it was close to a hundred degrees; the men were sweating in tropical whites, the women in long gowns, with parasols to keep off the sun.
It was then he saw her. She was standing alone, at the end of the veranda, watching the croquet game, all green eyes and strawberry hair and willowy. . Two women were squeaking with laughter as they shuffled around the lawn with their mallets. She looked thoroughly bored.
He went over.
'They say the French gave this game to the English,' Cameron said. 'It was their revenge for the battle of Waterloo.'
Kate Flynn turned her head and stared at him. 'I beg your pardon?'
'Croquet. Do you nae find it an enthralling and intellectually demanding game?'
'It's chess for the gormless. Do I know you?'
My name's Cameron. My friends call me Cam.'
'I don't believe we've met.'
'I just could nae wait for a formal introduction. I hope you're nae married because you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my whole life.'
'Were you actually invited to this party?'
'Aye, I'm an auld friend of George's. I've not been in Broome long, it's true. My ships' the China Cloud.'
'You're a pearler then.'
'Aye, but I've little to show for it so far.'
Kate pushed a curl from her face with a long finger and Cam experienced the full force of her acute and critical gaze.
'Do I detect an accent?'
'I'm a Scot and proud of it. One of God's tender mercies that I was born on the civilized side of the border. You too by the lilt in your voice.'
'I was born here but my family are from County Cork.'
'You have nae told me your name,' he said.
'Not without a proper introduction.'
'You look like a Beatrice.'
'I do not look like a Beatrice.'
'Prudence would be my second guess. It implies good breeding and a conservative nature.'
'If I had something in my glass I should pour it over you.'
'Then I should refill it. What can I get you?'
'Kerosene and a match.'
He laughed at that. 'What's in your glass, Prudence. Or should I call you Pru?'
'This is fruit punch. My father put it in my hand. I should rather prefer champagne. Do you think you might find me a glass?'
'Of course. We Celts should stick together.'
She smiled. 'My name's Kate,' she said.
'A very pretty name.' She held out her glass but stopped when she heard someone shouting her name. The timbers shook as Patrick Flynn bounded up the steps and along the veranda. He was resplendent in his white tropical suit, but the two black eyes and swathe of plaster across his nose detracted from an otherwise dignified appearance.
'Kathleen, get away from that scoundrel!' He rounded on Cameron. 'What in God's name are you doing here?'
'Ah, the pearl thief. I see your nose is a little shorter and broader than it used to be.'
'Get away from my daughter!'
The smile vanished from Cameron's face. 'Your daughter?'
'Are you leaving or will I have you thrown out?'
Cameron looked at Kate, then back to Flynn. 'I dinnae know she was your daughter, Flynn. She certainly does nae look like the daughter of a liar and a cheat.'
Flynn looked around desperately. People were staring.
George Niland suddenly appeared, still smiling. 'Ah Patrick, you've met my old friend Cameron then. We were in the Navy together. A wonderful fellow. He's a pearler too, you know.' He put a hand on Flynn's shoulder and whispered: 'For God's sake, keep your voice down. This isn't the hotel. My father's watching. I don't want any brawls on Niland property, all right?'
Cameron glanced at Kate, then at George. 'It's all right, George. I do nae want to spoil your party. I can nae play croquet anyway.' He gave a small bow to Kate. 'Miss Flynn. It was a very real pleasure.' Then to George: 'Thanks for the invitation.' Finally he turned on Flynn. 'Till we meet again,' he said and left.
He walked off.
'Sorry old boy,' George said to Flynn, 'thought it would be an opportunity for the two of you to bury the hatchet, so to speak. Didn't quite work out the way I planned.'
Flynn drained his champagne glass, scowling. He suddenly needed something a little stronger. 'Stay away from the bastard,' he said to his daughter and went to look for more lolly water.
***
The first bright star appeared in the eastern sky but it was still stifling hot. Even the poinsettias were drooping. There were murmurs of thunder across the blue rim of the ocean. The Wet would break any day.
Kate sat next to Flynn in the sulky, fanning herself gently with a scented handkerchief. They passed the long jetty. The passenger ship, the Koolinda, was docked there, a twinkling fairyland of lights.
Flynn was morose. He had hardly said a word to her since they had left the party.
'What's wrong?' Kate asked him.
'I don't want you speaking to that man again. Do you understand me now, girl?'
'Yes, you already told me that. So what's your quarrel with Mister McKenzie?'
'That's men's business.'
Men's business! He treated her as if she was a child. It was an incalculable arrogance, considering how she had fed him and washed his clothes for him ever since her mother had died. 'He called you a pearl thief. Why?'
'I'll thank you not to question me in that manner, my girl. You're not too old to put across my knee, mind.'
'I should like to see you to try it, Patrick Flynn. You're likely to get your nose broken again.'
'You'll not speak to your father that way!' There was a strident note to his voice now. Their horse pricked its ears and tossed its head, jolting the sulky. Kate lapsed into tight-lipped silence.
When they reached their bungalow, Flynn jumped off the sulky and helped his daughter down from the running board. Then he climbed back on and picked up the reins.
'And where are you off to now?' she asked him.
'To the hotel. I need a proper drink.' He looked down at her, and his face creased into a frown. 'And don't look at me like that! I'll do whatever I damned well please!'
He jerked the reins and the sulky clattered away up the dirt road. Kate felt like throwing a rock after him. He was drinking himself into an early grave. He was only fifty years old and he looked like a man of sixty.
Dear God.
Men.
She went into the house and removed her bonnet and her shoes. The house was like a furnace. She went out onto the veranda, breathing in the scent of the oleander and Japanese honeysuckle, trying to calm herself.
She slumped into a cane chair and ran her fingers through her hair. Her blouse was clinging to her, it was hot. The surf was breaking on Cable Beach, five miles distant, and the muted roar mingled with the faint and alien melodies from Saigon and Singapore that drifted from the radio transmitting station next door.
She saw a shadow move among the bushes in the garden. She felt a thrill of alarm. 'Who's there?'
A cigarette glowed in the darkness. 'I'm sorry, I did nae mean to scare you,' a voice said.
Kate recognised the soft brogue immediately. She smiled. 'Why, Mister McKenzie,' she purred, crossing her legs. 'What a fright you gave me.'
***
Flynn jumped off the running board, tethered his horse and went through a door which read: 'Niland & Co.' There was a light burning inside.
George Niland had his feet perched on the edge of the desk, his teeth clenched on a cheroot. He looked up as Flynn entered. 'You said it was important.'
&nb
sp; Flynn shut the door behind him. 'Are we alone, my boy?'
'It's Sunday, Patrick, of course we are. For goodness sake, sit down. You're making me nervous.'
Flynn reached into his pocket and took out an old tobacco tin. He took off the lid and removed a roll of tissue paper. 'I thought you might like to see this,' he said. He unwrapped the tissue paper. 'Now then, my boy, tell me if you've ever seen the like in your whole life.'
There was a sharp intake of breath and George sat bolt upright. In the darkened room the pearl seemed to take on a luminescence of its own.
'My God,' George murmured in awe, 'where did you get it?'
'It doesn't matter where it came from, my boy. The question is - what's it worth?'
Chapter 8
The bane of the pearler's life was the cockroaches. They thrived on the reeking gristle that clung to the pearl shells stored in the holds of the luggers; at night they swarmed from their hiding places to feast on the sailor's toenails and the calluses on their feet as they slept . It was impossible to keep them off the boats; all the pearlers could do to keep them in check was sink their luggers in the creeks at high tide every lay-up season and drown that season's infestation.
Cameron stood on the foreshore watching the incoming tide wash over the decks of the China Cloud. George Niland was passing on his way to the Niland & Co offices in his sulky. He reined in his horse.
'Good morning, Cam,' he called out.
Cameron saw him and walked up the beach. 'Hello George. Off to count your money?'
'So you've decided to stay on in Broome?'
'Aye. For a while anyway.'
'Have you got yourself a foreshore permit?'
'I do nae intend to build a camp just yet. I'll sleep on the China Cloud as soon as my wee guests have floated away on the tide.'
George screwed up his face in disgust. 'It's a hard life, Cam. Not like Her Majesty's Navy, eh?'
'That was hard enough.'
'Yes, but no cockroaches. I was hoping I'd see you this morning. I have a proposition for you.'
'What sort of proposition, George?'
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