The Pearler's Wife

by Roxane Dhand

  ‘You’d better have it. If you dragged me out here for nothing, you’ll regret it.’

  ‘I have it, Tuan. No need worry.’

  Maitland felt his heart pounding with an excitement he could barely contain, but it wouldn’t do to look too eager. ‘I’m going up to the bar for a drink. Wait for me outside but keep out of fucking sight or the deal’s off.’

  He rechecked his watch and nodded again to the barman. An hour later, he frowned at the scrub and shoved himself out of his chair. The wooden steps had rotted in places and snapped at his feet like an alligator’s teeth. He tripped on a plank, his flabby hands unable to break his fall. Java Boy Pete appeared at his side and hauled him to his feet.

  ‘So, where’s the snide?’

  Java Boy Pete broke into a smile. ‘It’s in best place to hide it, Tuan.’

  ‘Best place?’ Maitland lowered his gaze to the south.

  ‘Oh yes. Very best place. You want to sample goods?’ The Malay set off towards his digs, casting furtive glances over his shoulder, like an animal checking for its master. He ran his hand through his oily hair and wiped it on the cloth covering his buttocks.

  Maitland’s pulse quickened as they crossed the filthy threshold. ‘Lock the door,’ he said.

  Maitland turned to the dosshouse wall and looked over his shoulder. Reassured that no-one was watching, he wrapped the pearl in his handkerchief and placed it in his breast pocket. A snide that size would be hard to get rid of quickly, but he could afford to wait for a bit.

  Some said big pearls were unlucky, but Maitland spat on all that nonsense. Java Boy Pete was not going to talk about this particular one. The boy was lying dead on his bed, his purple-black tongue lolling out of his head. Maitland had watched a fly crawl into his mouth. Old snitches, he told himself, were too unpredictable – sometimes it was advisable to crush them underfoot like irritating bugs. If anyone had seen him in that shithole, it would be a white man’s word against a coloured’s.

  Maitland straightened his jacket and blew a few specks of dust off his lapel. He looked at his watch. He was going to be late, and cursed himself for not booking Mr Li’s rickshaw to trot him home. He didn’t much care for walking unless he could detour his journey to the pub. His legs were short and called upon to support too much weight. His ankles protested and his toe joints ached. And although he had constructed his life to keep walking to a minimum, tonight he had no choice.

  He looked at the sky and approved his decision. It was not going to rain; last night’s blow seemed to have cleared the air. He set off on foot, eager for the forthcoming evening with his drinking chums. He had forgotten to invite the new pearl cleaner, but that would keep. A hint of breeze was blowing offshore, coaxing the moisture out of the air. It had been an excellent afternoon altogether, and if he kicked on a bit, he wouldn’t be too late after all. He felt almost joyful.

  Dusk was creeping over the town, and a lone fruit bat squeaked overhead as Maitland sauntered towards his bungalow, past shredded scraps of paper and broken glass, untidy reminders of the cyclone. A few scrawny dogs were nosing through the filth. He was hardly interested; he was too pleased with himself. Even the southern stars had come out to light his way home, as if saluting the victor in his triumphant march. A gust of wind met him from the salmon-tinted dunes, tempting him to take a shortcut over the sand to enjoy the breeze. He paused for a moment, patted his breast pocket and gazed out to the sea. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. There was a ripple in the air, a sound so tiny that he wasn’t sure he’d really heard it.

  Was someone after his snide? He glanced around, tapped the lump in his pocket and shook his head. Cockatoos were roosting in a tall dead tree, ghostly white against the darkening night sky, but there was not a soul about.

  CHAPTER 18

  CHARLIE LOITERED BY THE semi-deserted bar and leaned on the handle of his wheelbarrow. A gaunt figure, his mop of woolly black hair covered with a wide-brimmed hat, he melted into the shadows of the hotel, his eyes missing nothing. He sucked on his pipe and let out a long stream of smoke.

  He believed that revenge could be achieved with secrecy, cunning and patience, and he had the temperament to watch and wait. He had endured enough that a few more hours wouldn’t make any difference. The dusk was deepening and soon it would be dark. He slid his hand inside his dilly-bag. The junba had taken place. Bodies painted and adorned with animal fur, the Elders of his mob had overseen the secret ritual. Stamping their feet in the sunburned scrub, they had summoned the Bush Spirit to imbue the killing bone with psychic energy. Left for days to steep in a dingo’s rotting corpse, the bone had become a septic dart. The Elders were glad the Kurdaitcha had started. They had seen what the captain had done. Now it was time.

  Each kundela, or killing bone, was specific to the tribe. Charlie’s was eight inches long and could have passed as a carpet needle in any European household. Other tribal killing bones differed in length and in what animal had given up the bone. Common to all, though, at the flattened end, a strand of human hair was threaded through the hole and glued into place with spinifex gum.

  Normally, Charlie wore heavy second-hand boots. Tonight, in his bag, he had a brand-new pair of shoes. Not the kind favoured by the white man – his were made of soft emu feathers pasted together with animal blood. A silky woven net of human hair covered the upper surface. There was a hole at the top in which to insert his foot. His little toe had been dislocated during the initiation ceremony and a gap at the side allowed it to poke free. Decorated with lines of pink and white down, the shoes were primed with magic.

  Charlie had tracked a man before, during his initiation, but this was personal. He wiggled his feet into his Kurdaitcha shoes and flexed his toes.

  He watched the fat white man wrap something in a handkerchief and place it in his pocket. Charlie looked upwards, sniffed the air, and then wheeled the barrow back to the woodpile, avoiding eye contact with a half-caste girl who was laboriously pegging sheets on the washing line beyond the division fence. No-one would ever know who had been there. He left no footprints in the red earth.

  He had abandoned his white man’s clothes and now wore nothing but a pubic tassel of kangaroo skin. A ten-inch wooden stick with needle-sharp ends was thrust through his nose. On his chest and stomach, white against his ebony skin, the Banardi tribe’s sacred drawing dazzled in the moonlight. He called upon the Bush Spirit to do its work and threw a pebble onto the sand. A reddish dust clouded up, stirring up the ashes of his ancestors, long dead and as potent and fiery as a freshly cut termite hill.

  The white man hesitated by the dunes as the cloud came at him, spiralling like a mini tornado towards his face. He had no time to react. The cayenne-coloured dust blew into his vision and up his nose. Sneezing, he rubbed his burning eyes and spat on his sleeve, pressing the wetted cloth into the hollow between his eyes and nose.

  The man swore and rubbed his face alternately into the sleeves of his jacket, spreading brown-red stains on the brilliant white fabric. He slithered down the dunes, and lost his footing. At the bottom, he tipped the sand out of his shoes, brushed it off his cheeks and rolled onto his side, whimpering like a woman.

  Charlie squatted on his haunches. Junba. The Bush Spirit was beginning its real work, twisting and tormenting the white man, calling him towards the scrub. The Aboriginal man ran his finger along the killing bone, still wrapped in its protective shroud. He was careful to avoid the needle-sharp tip.

  The fat man pushed himself to his feet and stumbled on, still blinded, snapping off brittle stalks of scrub grass, tripping often on low, entangling bushes, his face scratched and lashed by whippy stems. He plunged onwards, eyelids closed, his arms outstretched like a wheedling child. Again he went down, smacking his head hard as he fell. Cheek pressed against one arm, he sobbed with frustration, his pleading fingers quivering as he reached out for help.

  He scarcely flinched as the deadly-sharp pinprick plunged into his flesh, deep within the seat of his trouser
s.

  Charlie stood up and withdrew the killing bone. Blood welled up and dyed the fabric red, like shame. The white man would be found soon enough. It was where he’d left him after the whipping, all but a hundred yards from the entrance to his home.

  As the guests gathered on the verandah, Maisie knew that the supper party would be a disaster; the mix was awry. The salty smell of the ocean was strong on the air and the crickets too strident. Another headache clamped her skull. Doctor Shin had again told her to take it easy when she’d gone to see him about them, but she had not been following his advice.

  Maisie inspected her nails. They were short, filed and tidy, the opposite of her scrambled thoughts.

  Tonight, they were waiting for the pearl doctor and his wife, and for Maitland. Maisie wasn’t sure if they had been invited this time, and Maitland was not here to consult.

  Buoyed up on a tide of alcohol-induced bonhomie, Captain Mason was making the most of his friend’s absence. To him flirtation was second nature, a sport; he had already run his swollen-knuckled paw up Jane Locke’s leg. She was now perching on the edge of a chair, ready to hop up out of reach if the ageing captain made another lunge.

  The conversation stop-started and stalled like the Bay’s open-top tram.

  The bishop and Mrs McMahon were discussing their dogs and drinking their whisky neat; they didn’t trust the water, because they hadn’t checked its source.

  Blair swatted at the mosquitos, which clustered round the lamps as thick as fog. ‘Have you heard from your parents recently, Jane?’ Maisie asked, watching his face. Not a flicker. He looked bored, a card player good at bluffing.

  ‘No, not as of late. I wrote to them a while back and anticipate their reply from Melbourne any day.’

  Maisie got up and stared through the lattice, wondering where on earth Maitland had got to. She was unsure how to proceed and Jane was quiet, waiting for another prompt, as if something had fettered her tongue.

  ‘And how is your study of the Indigenous population progressing?’

  ‘I am hoping to travel north to the mission sometime soon. The bishop has kindly agreed to arrange a visit for me.’ She looked over at him and smiled. ‘We have found a decommissioned lugger that can take us, and I am hoping to work with the native women, many of whom are suffering from malnutrition, leprosy, and diseases we know they have contracted from the European.’

  Mrs McMahon bridled. ‘Not appropriate, Lockie dear, when food is about to be served.’

  Maisie stared at a streak of polish on the floorboards. ‘I thought I might accompany her, Mrs McMahon. My maid, Marjorie, spent time at the mission and has expressed a desire to revisit her mentors. How long did you say the journey would take, Jane?’

  ‘Three days,’ Jane said, loosening up. ‘Then we thought we might take a boat across to Spikey Island, where Marjorie could interpret for us. Nothing is cast in stone, though, just yet. We’re still at the planning stage, and a trip like this takes weeks to put together.’

  Mrs McMahon clasped her husband’s forearm. ‘Are you going too, dear?’

  The bishop shook his head and smiled at her.

  Maisie tried to think of something witty to say but couldn’t come up with a thing. She turned to Dorothea, hoping for once to unleash the girl’s tongue.

  ‘And Dorothea, what is new in your world?’

  The girl gave an anxious glance at her father and studied the bottom of her empty glass. The colour in her face had risen. ‘Not so very much, Mrs Sinclair. I am beginning to understand why dear Mama found the Bay so confining.’

  ‘She must have missed her family keenly.’

  Dorothea looked up. ‘Did you know my mother’s family?’ she said, her lip jutting out miserably.

  Maisie took a bottle off the drinks tray and pushed it towards her. ‘Not in person, but I do understand what it is like to be parted from one’s kin. That is why it made such good sense for me to come to Australia and marry cousin Maitland – to keep the family unit close.’

  ‘Is that so, chère madame?’ the mayor said dryly.

  Maisie was feeling reckless. ‘Of course. I can’t believe Maitland would have kept you in the dark given you were so friendly at the Catholic school in Melbourne.’

  Dorothea was pouring liquid into her glass when the bottle slid through her fingers. It clanged on the wood like a bad joke. ‘Dada?’

  ‘Rubbish,’ he said sharply. ‘Watch what you are doing, Dorothea. You are making a mess.’

  Dorothea stole another glance at her father and buried her misery in her glass.

  Maisie produced a forced laugh. ‘When Maitland asked my parents for my hand, they were delighted to agree, and I am grateful they chose so well for me. What an adventure, coming out to Australia! I couldn’t think of anything more exciting.’

  Captain Mason was drunk, or near as made no difference. He was having trouble with his feet, and his eyes were glassy. ‘Might just avail myself of the facilities, ladies and Bishop. Empty the tank, what?’

  ‘Do what?’ Mrs McMahon startled awake, having nodded off.

  ‘Captain needs the dunny, dearest,’ her husband said, patting her hand.

  They sat uncomfortably side by side like patients enduring the dentist’s waiting room and gulped at their drinks.

  ‘Poor thing,’ Jane said. ‘It must be sad to be so lonely.’

  ‘Is he?’ Maisie asked. ‘He’s always here at our house, trying to catch me alone. I can’t get rid of the man.’

  Mrs McMahon’s podgy face stretched out of the lamp-lit gloom, a turtle straining its scaly neck towards the light. ‘He’s been here a long time, Maisie. It’s high time you learned some compassion and stopped measuring people against your rigid morals and inexperience of life. For goodness’ sake, this is not England. A lack of compassion can be as vulgar as an excess of tears.’ She fixed Dorothea with a look.

  Maisie said nothing but felt as though she had swallowed a wasp. Is this what I’ve become? A judgemental hypocrite?

  Duc stood in the doorway, his face stretched tight. He attacked the three sides of a musician’s triangle with a dented metal rod; the notes resonated round the bungalow.

  ‘Dinner is now absolutely or fish go in shitcan.’

  ‘Might be a bit of a delay,’ Captain Mason slurred. ‘Just nearly tripped over Maitland outside. He’s had a tumble and might need a shower.’

  Maitland slumped in a chair and rubbed the back of his neck. His hand shook violently but he could not stop it. He had a crushing headache and little pinpricks of white light danced before his eyes. He’d told them what had happened, yet he could see dis belief plastered over their sodding sweaty faces. He wanted them all to fuck off home.

  ‘I told you, there was someone following me. Even though I never saw him, he was there all the same. I’m not a total arse.’

  ‘But Captain Mason has been to look outside. He says it’s really too dark to see properly, but as far as he can tell there are only your footprints in the sand, Maitland,’ Maisie said. ‘Why would anyone want to follow you?’

  He angrily jabbed a finger towards the sea. ‘I took a shortcut along the beach because I was running behind and I knew you’d bloody nag if I was late for dinner. There was someone behind me, I’m telling you: hiding, disorienting me, herding me towards the bush.’

  ‘To do what, exactly?’ Blair was sitting by the drinks table, with one leg casually crossed over the other, studying the back of his hand. ‘One too many at the Seafarer’s, Mait?’

  Maitland worked hard to keep his voice level. ‘Get me a ruddy drink, Blair, and cut the cute comments.’

  Blair got up, selected a bottle and sloshed a generous measure into a stubby tumbler. ‘This should sort you out,’ he said, plonking the glass in Maitland’s palm, ‘you miserable, fat bastard.’

  Maitland felt stiff with an anxiety he could not explain and siphoned the liquid up between his teeth, hoping it would disengage the knot in his stomach and swamp the sour taste in his
mouth. They were staring at him in the half-light, exchanging boggled-eyed looks as if he was mad. Fuck them, he thought. Fuck them all!

  Mrs McMahon shot a look at her husband then leaned forward.

  ‘Do tell, Captain Sinclair. Do you think it might have been a goblin chasing you, trying to create mischief?’

  ‘Or a bush sprite.’ Dorothea giggled. ‘Trying to hex you!’

  Maitland lurched from his chair and slammed his glass on the table.

  ‘Don’t cheek me, young lady. Take that smirk off your face and tell the lubra we’ll eat in ten minutes, when I’ve had a shower and changed my clothes.’

  CHAPTER 19

  THE SKY SPARKLED LIKE Christmas-tree lights.

  Coop turned and his eyes met hers. ‘Have you ever seen stars like these?’

  Maisie felt his look in the pit of her stomach. Her breath quickened.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ Her knees felt as if they might give way. She lolled back against the rail and pulled a packet of cigarettes from her skirt pocket. She held the packet towards him, his silhouette slim in the pallid light. ‘Would you care for one of mine?’

  Coop took the box of Chesterfields and tapped the base with the back of his hand. Two cigarettes slid forward like skiers on a slope.

  ‘They do satisfy, you know, Coop,’ Maisie said, watching his fingers.

  He drew his head back. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s what the advertisement says in the newspaper. “They Do Satisfy.” The cigarettes.’

  Coop rarely smoked boxed cigarettes. He couldn’t afford them, she knew.

  Maisie pulled out one of the pair. She had become adept at lighting up in the dark. Cigarette clamped in furtive lips, match struck once or twice and hey, presto! Tonight was different. She was an amateur in the company of a professional.