by Roxane Dhand
Maitland held his gaze. ‘I’ve always been your man, haven’t I?’
Blair slapped his hands together, as if he were shutting a book. ‘As I have been yours. We must work together, Mait, and stamp on this bloody notion before we both lose everything we’ve built up. When those divers set foot on our jetty next month, they’re already condemned men.’
A few weeks after the mayor dropped his bombshell, Maitland Sinclair sat at the scarred wooden desk in his office and scowled at the wall. Blair’s words had been giving him headaches for what seemed like forever. The venture had to fail, but on paper he needed it to look above board. It was hot in the packing shed and he was already sweating through his shirt. He had risen early, and on his way to work had dropped by the Black Dog Hotel and eaten a substantial breakfast of fried steak, salted bacon and tinned tomatoes. There were no fresh eggs, which had made him cross. The hotel had run out and was, the Japanese proprietor apologised profusely, waiting for the next steamship from Port Fremantle to top up its larder. Maitland had sworn freely and pushed over the table, refusing to pay the bill.
Now he glanced through the open door onto the mudflats and allowed himself a moment’s distraction. His hands coiled into fists. The girl would arrive on the coastal steamer all too soon from Port Fremantle. He had cabled the steamship, and once in the Bay, she would have a bed to sleep in. What else was there to do? He shook his head to clear the concern. She was a means to an end.
Back to work. He was tallying up the costs he had incurred to take on the white diver, William Cooper. He knew nothing about him, other than he was said to be the Navy’s top man. By the time Maitland had learned that the diver was being dumped on him, there had been no time to write chummy get-to-know-you letters, and now the bloke was about to arrive. Blair was right, though. Putting white divers on the pearling luggers made no financial sense. He had personally had to pay the cost of two third-class passages from England: Cooper had insisted on bringing his own tender with him. Adding in half-wages during the two-month journey for both, he had forked out £24 just to get them to Buccaneer Bay – and he had no idea whether they would be any good at bringing up shell. It was starting to look like a very expensive exercise. He put down his pen and tamped down the tobacco in his pipe. A blob of nicotine dripped from the stem and flared onto his white trousers. He swore under his breath and hurled it to the floor.
What he did know was that Cooper would have to collect a hell of a lot of shell for Maitland to recover his expenses. He had more than a slight suspicion that he would be out of pocket, but if it meant that the government’s white-diver experiment failed, then he supposed a few quid gambled on a good cause was a reasonable investment. He would write the money off against his profits somewhere else. After all, the whole point of living in the back of beyond was not having to play by the rules. Not one official had ever bothered to come to the Bay and police what was going on. And if he managed to pick up a pearl or two along the way, well, he would make a generous donation to the Pearlers’ Association and buy himself a bit more leverage.
He swivelled on his chair and looked out at the murky water. Along the foreshore, the luggers were lined up, hauled up high on the beach by their crews to await maintenance and refits for the start of the new season. The thirty-foot ketch-rigged vessels looked spacious enough on the flat yellow sand, but once the boats were loaded up for the season there was barely room for a man to stand.
He pushed himself up from his chair and shuffled out of his office, lumbering round the back of the building, the momentary shade softening his mood. He picked his way along the crunchy shell path that snaked towards the lighthouse where the track petered out. Towering stacks of empty oil drums and wooden pallets lined his route. The stench of ozone, fish and stale urine was strong as he heaved himself up the steps towards the loading stage of his packing shed.
He heard the familiar sound of tomahawk striking shell from inside the large, corrugated-iron shed. At the entrance, it took him a few moments to adjust from the bright sunlight to the gloom of the interior. At the far end of the shed he saw a huge pile of pearl shell that two Manilamen were processing, squatting back on their haunches, sarongs tucked up between their legs as they sorted the shell into shallow floor bins according to size and condition. The gold-lipped shell sparkled in the light from the open doors as they tossed it through the air. A third man was stencilling letters onto a wooden crate destined for New York, where Maitland sold the majority of his shell to the button trade. Another man, his back to the door, sat cross-legged beside the bin containing the largest shell. Maitland watched him pick out a shell and hold it up, eyeing himself in the shining surface. He stroked the smooth surface with the long arc of his finger and then held it up against his cheek, caressing it like a lover. Something about the intimate gesture rooted Maitland to the spot. He glanced around. When he was sure they were alone, he spoke rapidly in Malay and the other man turned, the shell still pressed to his cheek. They held each other’s gaze and Maitland flicked his head towards the door. The Malay threw the shell back into the bin and scrambled to his feet.
‘I go your office,’ he stammered in English.
Maitland strolled out into the sunshine, a sly smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. The Malay followed behind, dragging his feet in the dust.
CHAPTER 3
THE MORNING WAS SPARKLING blue as the SS Oceanic bumped onto its moorings in Port Fremantle. Soon, Maisie’s six-week voyage from England would be a memory of deck tennis, quoits, concerts and endless meals dodging Mr Smalley’s groping fingers. On deck, a dozen Englishmen gathered by the rail. They stood quietly, facing away from Maisie, looking towards the rotted jetty stumps. Clothed in heavy dark wool suits with white celluloid collars that looked stiff and unfamiliar, most were smoking. One of the men wore his trousers short to his ankles, his fancy patterned socks on display above the toe-pinching shoes. Maisie, sitting on a deckchair next to Mrs Wallace, flexed her swollen feet in sympathy.
A small engine-driven tugboat bounced alongside the ship, jammed with men waving pale-jacketed arms in the air. They were clutching notebooks, some with cameras slung on straps round their necks. The second officer had told Maisie that newspaper reporters would come aboard that morning to the first-class deck and would, regrettably, delay their disembarkation by an hour or two.
A brass band was blaring ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ from the quayside. Maisie caught the whiff of excitement that thrummed through the crowd and leaned forward in her chair on the upper deck to watch the scene. Shading her eyes from the bright sunlight, she saw that the first of the newspapermen had climbed up the ladder and was shaking the hand of Mr Farmount. By the time the tugboat’s passengers were fully on board, Mr Farmount had the twelve Englishmen corralled and a photographer was arranging them, a few seated and the surplus standing behind. There they remained under the unrelenting sun, eyes on the camera box for some time, red patches blooming on tender exposed skin.
Maisie shaded her eyes from the blinding sun and considered for a moment retreating into the shade, until she saw that Mr Farmount had moved closer to the press party.
She patted Mrs Wallace’s arm. ‘I think Mr Farmount is about to make a speech.’
‘Of course he is, dear. It’s why the newspaper people have come. Now pipe down or we shan’t be able to hear what he says.’
Maisie pressed her lips together, her cheeks burning.
Farmount consulted his notes and thrust his redundant hand in a pocket. Maisie saw that he was nervous; his face was spotted with perspiration and his other hand was trembling. He straightened his jacket and cleared his throat.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ he began, his voice just audible against the brass band’s enthusiasm. ‘The gentlemen to my left are all ex-Royal Navy Divers. I am here as their ambassador, and also to represent Siegfried and Hammond – the largest manufacturer of diving apparatus in the world. The company is the sole contractor to the British Admiralty and the Crown Ag
ents for the Colonial and Indian Office.’ He broke off and wiped a handkerchief across his brow.
‘Their arrival on Australian soil marks the end of an era. Our divers are here to prove, once and for all, the superiority of the Britisher over the Asiatic.’ Farmount looked up, his nerves seemingly forgotten. ‘We cannot allow one of Australia’s primary industries to be dominated by a bunch of brown-skinned foreigners! Let the Japanese, Malays and Koepangers take heed. Their stronghold over the pearling industry is about to end, and these men –’ He waved a freckly paw at the sweating, wool-clad group. ‘These men, gentlemen of the press, are the men to end it.’
His fervour ignited the crowd. Amid a flurry of enthusiastic applause, a spiky-haired reporter thrust up his hand and shouted, ‘Mr Farmount! Ray Jones, Perth Advertiser. How long do you think it will take to drive the coloured fellers out?’
Farmount glanced sideways and nodded at the divers. ‘We’ve settled on a year to do the job, but we anticipate that it won’t take that long.’
‘Well said!’ a voice yelled from the crowd.
Maisie moved in her chair, looking from Mrs Wallace to Mr Farmount and back again. She knew so little about Australia – there had been no time to research – but she did know that this felt wrong.
‘Surely they should show more respect towards the men they are trying to replace,’ she said, not knowing anything about the white dominance of the coloured population. Mrs Wallace, padded in purple gingham, was nodding vigorously and banging her cotton-gloved fingers together in enthusiastic support of Mr Farmount’s speech.
Another hand shot up. ‘Pete Ramsey, Fremantle Chronicle. Can I get the names of all these brave English blokes, sir?’
Mr Farmount turned to the group and named the twelve men in turn, the last of whom was introduced as William Cooper, the most experienced diver in the team.
‘Can we get a few words, sir?’
Craning forward for a better view, Maisie recognised the man who had pushed to the front as the panther from the card game. His hair was as black as coal and even with the sun on his face, his eyes were dark and proud. She thought again of a sleek cat, crouching in the long grass, prey between its claws, and shrank back, her heart banging against her ribcage. Its excessive beating seemed to throw her balance and she felt as if she might faint.
With one arm draped around the diver’s neck, Mr Farmount slicked back his brilliantined hair with his free hand and wiped the excess grease down the side of his trousers. ‘William Cooper is the British Royal Navy’s finest diver. He has pioneered the use of my company’s engine-driven air compressor on his deep-sea dives, which will further prove that the day of the darky hand-pump deck-boy is done! We have brought this wonder machine with us and will use it to great effect on the luggers in Buccaneer Bay. We will show you all just what English manufactured equipment and the white diver can do.’
William Cooper stepped forward and shook the hair out of his eyes, exuding the casual assurance of someone who was used to the limelight.
Maisie fiddled with her gloves. ‘Have you heard of that diver William Cooper, Mrs Wallace?’
Mrs Wallace wedged her frame deeper into her chair and smoothed her dress over her bosom. ‘Do you not read the newspaper, Maisie?’
Maisie opened her mouth and closed it again. She knew if she were patient there would be more. Mrs Wallace was like a bottle of beer – once shaken up and the cap released, the contents couldn’t help but bubble out.
‘Mr Farmount told me he’s one of the Admiralty’s top operatives and has dived throughout the Mediterranean, wresting lost treasure from sunken ships. He’s unmarried – but has a keen eye for the ladies – and is reputed to be as tough as kangaroo meat, which is why he was wanted for this exercise. Now do be quiet, Maisie, dear. He’s going to say something.’
William Cooper flashed a brilliant smile at the reporters, and shouted to make himself heard over the music. ‘It is true. It is absolutely true what Mr Farmount has said. We are all British Royal Navy trained, and the depths in Buccaneer Bay are shallow compared to the depths we are used to. We have been given a challenge, and frankly, we can’t wait to pick up the gauntlet that has been thrown down. We want to get started right away and prove that the faith the Australian government has placed in us is not misguided.’
‘Hear! Hear!’ Mrs Wallace boomed. ‘Hear! Hear!’
Maisie wore her confusion on her face. ‘Mrs Wallace, I’m not sure I understand. I mean, just because these men are white, will they really be able to do it better than the men who have been doing it for years?’
Mrs Wallace removed her spectacles, her expression turning serious. ‘Maisie, you have a lot to learn, just as I did when I first came out here. The Australian government finds the reality of a coloured workforce unpalatable and is keen to seek a viable alternative. These English divers represent the answer to everyone’s prayers. Your future husband will be thinking these exact same thoughts and I’m sure that, as his wife, you will realise this soon enough when you are trying to staff a house with Japs, Malays and Binghis.’
‘Binghis?’
‘Aborigines. The Indigenous population. The average black fellow is reasonably honest until he takes a fancy to your gin bottle, at which point he will most likely turn into a mad savage. He could come at you with a tomahawk!’
Maisie tried not to betray her anxiety. ‘I thought that was what they used in the Americas.’
Mrs Wallace clicked her tongue. ‘Keep your smart comments to yourself, Maisie, until you know more about what you are saying. The Australian nation needs protection from these people and the Asian hordes invading in their droves from the north. All those Japanese and Malays – it simply can’t go on. Australia is a vulnerable island, Maisie. It is quite right that we try to keep our drawbridge up.’
Since that evening weeks ago, when the girl had come down to C Deck, William Cooper had been unable to put her out of his mind.
After that, sitting in the dark, night after night, he had looked up from his hand of cards and stretched his neck towards the first-class promenade deck.
He’d seen her for the very first time at the lifeboat drill. Even now, at the end of the voyage, that still bothered him. The SS Oceanic had been at sea for twenty-four hours before the passengers were shown what to do if the ship went down. Perhaps it was because he knew the sea that he found such negligence unfathomable. Cold, black water was no-one’s friend. It wouldn’t answer your cries for help or buoy you up when you knew you were sinking. He knew to respect the sea; everyone who earned his living from it did.
A good two hours had passed since the pressmen left the ship.
He leaned back against the metal chair, feeling the push of a bolt head against his spine. It was hot, holding the full day’s heat. He shifted a little to the side, easing his weight off his back, and let his hands drop loose by his sides.
Seeing her today on the deck listening to his speech, he’d felt like he was talking to her. Explaining why he’d come to Australia. He’d watched her draw in a breath, though, a cloud coming over her face at something he’d said. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes slightly, a frown appearing over the bridge of her nose.
William Cooper wondered where she was going. Was this her final stop? What would he say to her if ever they were to meet? What would her voice sound like? Would she even notice him?
His shirt stuck in damp patches to his back.
Maisie picked at the rumpled fabric on the chair’s armrest in the first-class lounge. ‘I know we change ships here in Port Fremantle, Mrs Wallace, but shall we move onto the coastal steamer tonight?’
‘Goodness no, dear. We shall stay in a hotel for a few days to gather our strength for the return to the north-west coast. I’m not quite sure if the coastal steamer even works on an exact timetable. Here we shall be ladies of leisure.’
Maisie dabbed at her face with the side of her hand. Although the portholes had been thrown wide open, the lounge was boiling ho
t and she was gently cooking inside her English wool travelling suit. She had already removed the long-line jacket but was still buttoned up to the neck in a silk blouse and tie. She parted her legs under the floor-length skirt and tried to subtly flap the fabric.
‘Haven’t we done that for six weeks already on this ship?’
‘Don’t be in too great a hurry to embrace your new life, Maisie. It might not be an exact replica of your home in England. Just make the most of your time at Port Fremantle and enjoy the cooler weather. And for goodness’ sake, dear, do stop fidgeting. If you’re that hot, go back up on deck and perhaps you’ll catch a bit of a breeze.’
It was just as hot on deck.
The sun had burned the sky to white. Maisie paused at the door of the lounge, studying him before he saw her. William Cooper was sitting on a chair, on the exact spot he’d made his address earlier on. His feet were dangling over the rail, eyes fixed on something in the water, his concentration absolute. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. His fingers, she noticed, were long and still by his sides.
Maisie stepped back into the shade and slid into a deckchair. She dropped her bag on the deck, took out her book and tried to concentrate on the words. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, his foot swinging back and forth, rhythmic. She fanned the book wide and leaned her forehead against the smooth paper.