The Pearler's Wife

by Roxane Dhand

  Visions of Coop crowded in and her longing overcame her. He was her oasis in the middle of all this madness. In her mind she watched him as he spoke, the way words formed on his lips and his mouth changed shape as he clamped his cigarette between them. The way his kisses felt on her skin. She pressed her fists into her eyes until her eyeballs ached.

  She sat in Maitland’s chair for a long time. Very slowly she lowered her hands and unclenched her fists. She rested them on the desk, frightened at the ferocity of her anger.

  Maisie starched her resolve when she woke on Thursday morning. She sat up in bed and pulled out the latest letter from Mrs Wallace from under her pillow. The older woman’s tone had been bland and her thoughts written down in the order she thought them, but the content had shaken up the fight in her. You still tell me so little of your husband, Maisie. I feel I know no more about him than you did the day we talked about him in Port Fremantle. You seem to be managing your household help and have made some friends, which is a good thing. Jane Locke’s exaggerated offer of friendship is not unusual in small communities. I suspect there are many lonely ladies who look to their female friends to fulfil the role of the husband they don’t have. It might not be your choice but you certainly are in no position to judge, having the financial support and companionship of a fine man. I’m also not surprised to hear your fruit and vegetable idea was unsuccessful. Unless someone invents a solution to long-term storage of perishable goods, I fear we are doomed to shop for fresh produce every other day, if you can’t make a success of growing your own. Speaking of growing: in your next letter, I want you to tell me all about Maitland and what you are doing to help him grow his business. I can’t picture the man, so please tell me what he looks like and what he does every day in that bleak little town you describe so well. What did you do for Easter, dear? It was so late this year being April. Can you get lamb in your tiny outpost? I am sure Maitland was able to get you a leg of lamb for Easter Day, as it’s such an English tradition.

  Maisie thought of Maitland’s cold grey eyes, and kicked down the sheets. He hadn’t even bothered to turn up to the meal.

  She got out of bed, straightened her spine and began to dress. She had Duc hitch the bad-tempered nag to the sulky and smacked its reluctant, elderly flanks all the way to the post office.

  Mrs Brightlight was on her knees, poking about under the counter. She stood up and smiled. ‘Something came for you on the steamer the other day, dear. I put it away so the captain wouldn’t know about it but, in all honesty, I haven’t actually seen him for a bit. There’s talk he’s laid up in bed with the Barcoo fever.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve had the doctor out. He’s not very well at all.’

  ‘Pass on my regards for a speedy recovery, will you? I wouldn’t wish the Barcoo on anyone, however badly they’ve behaved with their wife’s correspondence.’

  Maisie turned to go, preoccupied with thoughts of the sick man at home. An unfamiliar shape in the window blocked the ocean from view. A vast steamship lay at anchor in the bay. ‘It’s the Atticus,’ the postmistress said, following her gaze. ‘It came in on last night’s tide and is here for a few days – at least until Monday, they say.’

  The ship sat so high out of the water they could see it in Asia Place.

  ‘It doesn’t look safe,’ Maisie muttered.

  ‘No, it doesn’t, dear. Wouldn’t catch me on something like that! Now, don’t you be going off without your letter. Give me two seconds to fish it out.’

  She hobbled to the cupboard. ‘It’s from PS Corsets Ltd, in Melbourne. I wouldn’t have thought you’d need one of those heavy-duty corsets here, dear, you being a slim little thing! Anyway, here it is. If you go ahead and place an order, it’s going to take about a month for it to get here. I wouldn’t waste my money if I were you.’

  Maisie reached for the letter and concentrated on the steadiness of her hand. ‘Thank you, Mrs Brightlight. I’ve been expecting this for a while. I’ll let you know what I decide to do.’

  By the afternoon, a hundred thoughts were fizzing in her head like blowflies. She felt unsettled, irritated by the constant hum of insects, nauseated by the briny stench of the mudflats, damp and lethargic. Maitland’s illness had her tied to the house and yet she still hadn’t got round to burning the ledger page that bore Coop’s signature. The impact of her husband’s homosexual encounter had consumed her in the packing shed and it had soon become too dark to look for it. The entire ship’s log was now in her desk drawer, hidden under a pile of papers.

  Maisie knew she needed to think about survival – both for herself and for Coop – but not now. She didn’t have the energy.

  Instead, she allowed herself to become distracted with the soapstone box. Maitland had concealed so much from her; what further revelations might be hidden inside? She pressed each of the two hinges, twisted and shook it, then repeated the whole process with the box upside down. It remained stubbornly shut. Short of hitting it with a mallet, she couldn’t think how else to open it up.

  ‘Maisie?’

  Her head flew up like a gundog at the sound of a shot. She relaxed upon spying the familiar feminine face. ‘I’m sorry, Jane,’ she said. ‘Today has been a bit hectic.’ She shook the box. ‘Still can’t open it and to cap it all, today I went to the post office and checked with Mrs Brightlight to see if I had any post. Maitland’s mother has written to say she’s coming up on the next steamer.’

  Jane moved further into the room. ‘Goodness. I don’t think either of us was expecting a visit, were we?’

  ‘I don’t know what I thought, but it’s not so surprising that she would want to visit her son, is it? Or meet his wife of several months?’

  ‘No, of course not. How is he, by the way?’

  Maisie’s head was starting to ache. ‘He’s feverish and bad-tempered, although he’s well enough to entertain his friend Blair and stand me down from schooner duty this coming weekend. Let’s discuss other topics. Talking about Maitland is too depressing. What brings you over today?’

  Jane told her that she had been reading a newspaper article by a Professor of Anthropology at Sydney University. ‘He’s been writing about Aboriginal sorcery and I think it’s possible that Maitland has been boned.’

  ‘Why on earth would you think that? The doctor told him he had Barcoo fever! He didn’t give him any treatment but said the fever would run its course soon.’

  ‘It’s not a medical procedure; it’s an Aboriginal method of retribution meted out for a wrong. Do you remember when we came to supper here, and Captain Mason found Maitland in a confused heap on the cliff path, covered in red dust?’

  Maisie lit a cigarette and took a long pull. She had given up pretending not to smoke in the house. ‘Yes, I do.’ It was hard to forget the white suit smeared in red stains and the fuss everyone made.

  ‘Do you also remember he said he thought he’d been followed, although he never saw who it was?’

  ‘Yes, and everybody thought he’d drunk too much and imagined it. He was fine for a couple of days after that but then he took to his bed and started to vomit. What makes you think that Maitland might have been telling the truth?’

  ‘I don’t really know. I’ve been reading about the bush spirits, how they are said to give a person the feeling that they are being stalked. Is there anything that Captain Sinclair might have done in the past that could cause an Aborigine to seek revenge?’

  Maisie felt coloured by his guilt. ‘Would you like a list? I can think of one particular incident, but it was ages ago. Maitland punished our gardener shortly after I arrived here because he watered the lawn with bore water. When Maitland came home and saw what had happened, he flayed Charlie with his stockwhip.’

  Jane kept her voice steady. ‘Did Charlie have a dilly-bag?’

  ‘It’s strange you should ask that. Doctor Shin persuaded me to look inside for what he called my “cultural education”.’

  ‘Do you remember what was in the bag, Maisie?’

&nbs
p; Maisie stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Not absolutely. There were a few pebbles. Doctor Shin said they were healing stones. And there were some animal bones, I think, but I can’t …’ She trailed off, the connection sparking in her brain.

  ‘I think there is a real chance that Maitland has been both cursed and boned. First, the stones would be wrapped with paper bark and strands of your husband’s hair. Particular curses would be sung into them. Then small personal artefacts belonging to your husband might have been gathered over time and “sung” again with Aboriginal magic.’

  ‘Sung?’

  ‘Like a repetitive religious chant. Except in this case, it’s a curse.’

  ‘And the bones?’

  ‘It depends how they were used. Some think bone-pointing is said to inspire psychological terror in the victim to the extent that he is willed to death. But it can be overcome, depending on the ability of the victim to resist the mind willing him to die.’

  ‘What about the other ways they’re used?’

  ‘A toxic dart. Inserted where the original violation occurred.’

  ‘An eye for an eye, so to speak.’

  ‘Yes, but literally, Maisie.’ Jane took her hand. ‘This isn’t just tribal nonsense. I think you should prepare yourself. Aborigines always avenge a wrong – even if it takes years.’

  ‘Cooee! Are you there, Mrs Sinclair?’

  The two women flew apart like flushed pheasants.

  ‘What are you two up to?’ Dorothea Montague said, poking her head around the door. ‘You look as thick as thieves.’

  ‘We are wondering what to wear to the Turf Club bash,’ Jane said, the lie smooth.

  Dorothea accepted the explanation Jane gave her without blinking. The annual two-day meeting at the Turf Club at the end of the month was a huge event. Stockmen from the surrounding stations would descend on the town; horses would race, fit after weeks of training. Gambling was big business and large sums of money were lost and won. The Race Ball afterwards and the Sunday picnic on the beach, which wound up the whole event, were high points in the Bay’s social calendar.

  ‘What fun! Is Uncle Maitland running a horse in the two-day chase? Have you chosen your outfit yet, Mrs Sinclair?’ Dorothea said, her face rapt.

  ‘No, not yet. Maitland isn’t currently in full spirits, and it isn’t at all clear whether he will be fit enough to attend.’

  ‘Dada says he has the Barcoo fever.’

  ‘That’s what the doctor thinks.’

  Dorothea had already lost interest and was back to the ball. ‘And Miss Locke, shall you attend with the bishop and Mrs McMahon?’

  ‘We haven’t given it much thought, to be honest. It isn’t for a little while yet and we are not great gamblers at the Residence, as you know. The bishop takes a very dim view of those who fritter away hard-earned money.’

  ‘But you were just discussing your outfits! You distinctly said you were deciding what to wear. So you must be going,’ Dorothea whined.

  Maisie had seen the jut of her jaw, thrust out like a rib. ‘You may not even be here yourself, Dorothea,’ she said. ‘Your father was telling Maitland the other day that he’s thinking of taking you to Europe very soon.’

  ‘Really?’ Dorothea clapped her hands loudly, her face alight. ‘Would it be very rude of me, Miss Locke, to ask for a private moment with Mrs Sinclair?’

  Jane got to her feet and turned towards the back verandah. ‘Of course not.’ She shot an amused look at Maisie. ‘I need a moment with Marjorie in any case. She promised to tell me what she knows about Aboriginal juju.’

  After Jane vanished through the door, Dorothea sat on the rattan sofa, ankles crossed, squeezing her handbag to her chest.

  Maisie watched her friend leave the room and kneaded her forehead. Her headache was flourishing and Dorothea strained her patience at the best of times. ‘You had something you wanted to discuss, Dorothea?’ Maisie waited for her to say something, and gave up. ‘How are your wedding plans coming along?’

  Tears appeared in the baby-blue eyes. ‘Oh, Mrs Sinclair. I am beside myself with grief. I told Dada about our engagement last Sunday. It seemed the perfect moment, at supper. He was so relaxed over his food and his newspaper and all the things that make him content.’ She folded her arms over her bag. ‘I told him about William and me, and I was about to mention where I would want to send for my wedding dress when he shouted at me. It was perfectly dreadful! He was incredibly horrid and sent me to my room! Maybe he has now relented, though, as he was trying very hard to be nice to me this morning. But I was cross and wasn’t listening. So, maybe the trip is his way of saying he is happy about the wedding, and is taking me to Europe to choose my dress. What do you think? That must be it. Oh, Mrs Sinclair, I knew he couldn’t be cross forever.’ Dorothea lowered her voice. ‘However, that’s not what I really came to see you about. I have a conundrum.’

  Maisie’s heart sank. Her chances of speaking to Jane again before she left were now non-existent. ‘What is your conundrum, Dorothea?’

  ‘Well, I know everyone thinks I am stupid,’ she began.

  Maisie clamped her hand under her chin to stop herself from nodding.

  Dorothea had her head down and, rummaging in her bag, didn’t appear to notice. She pulled out a piece of paper and pointed at the columns on the document she’d retrieved. ‘When Dada was so very nasty, I went through Mama’s box of papers as I always do when I need to cheer myself up, and I found something that I really don’t understand.’ She handed the page to Maisie. ‘Tell me what you think.’

  Maisie studied it, uncomprehending. ‘What am I looking at, Dorothea?’

  ‘The dates. I can’t understand them. If Mama and Dada got married on this date,’ she stabbed at the third column, ‘they were married in 1892 and yet I was born in 1890. It doesn’t add up.’ She stabbed again at the column and pursed her lips. ‘So, why I am here, Mrs Sinclair, is to ask you what the two-year difference between the date my parents got married and my birthdate means, exactly.’

  CHAPTER 21

  COOP TOOK A SWIG of sour tea. The sun on the sea shimmered like sequins and the glare hurt his eyes. It was seven in the morning and already it was hot. He was conscious of sweat beginning to trickle on the back of his neck and his thighs chafed against the itchy wool of his long johns. He had expected to find at least a thousand pounds’ worth of pearl in his first month, but in the six weeks since the Sharky had sailed from the Bay he’d found a grain of baroque and a few bits and pieces worth nothing very much. It wasn’t just him; no-one had brought up anything. The beds they were fishing were useless.

  ‘There’s big shell in twenty-fathom beds, Coop,’ Daike said.

  ‘They’re the wrong side of Neptune’s Dairy.’

  Daike drummed his smooth chin with his forefinger and tilted his head at Sid, considering. Sid’s legs were skinny, gnarled like bark, and his knees were covered in ugly sores from shell grit, which had ground into his flesh. The daily opening of the oyster shell was a messy business. It had to be cleaned of barnacles with a blunt tomahawk before it was opened, and the operation left shards of sharp, scrunchy residue on the wooden deck.

  ‘Maybe we go back shore quick smart for Sid knees. They look bad. Then after we go Neptune’s Dairy.’

  ‘Can we do that?’

  ‘’Course. We run boat. We say what goes.’

  ‘Maybe we should ask Sid what he wants to do.’

  ‘You can. I try ask him ’bout. He no like me much.’

  Coop saw that Daike was right about Sid’s legs. He’d picked at a sore below his knee and a trickle of blood was dripping down his leg. It was streaked with yellowy pus. ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘I say did legs hurt bad? He say me to shut up. Now I go dive.’

  Sid, wearing a grubby singlet and shapeless flannelette shorts, was cleaning his teeth using salt water and his finger, his weather-lined face impossible to read. He had a pile of shell still to open from the night before. The boss had tol
d him not to leave any shell unopened overnight, to lessen the risk of theft, but Coop had seen that Sid was lazy. He liked to have packed in work before the last catch of the day came up in the late afternoon, and started on the more serious business of his sundowner. On his watch, the crew had generally pumped out the bilge and washed down the decks before the sun began to sink.

  Coop eased himself onto the deck stool and picked at the dried soap on his rubber cuff. He wrinkled his nose. JB had boiled up something disgusting to lubricate the narrow openings to his diving dress. His wrists were dry and the skin had started to flake.

  ‘What you thinking about, Coop?’ JB asked.

  ‘Sid’s knees.’

  JB glanced over at the shell-opener, shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘And?’

  ‘I’m wondering whether we should go back to the Bay and get them patched up.’

  ‘You’ve got stuff in your bag of potions that would do the trick.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’

  ‘I might see her if we go back, JB. It killed me that the boss was on the schooner instead of her last weekend.’

  JB plunged his fork into his breakfast rice and flicked it over the side. They had all become superstitious since the cyclone. ‘Can’t guarantee it, though, if she’s playing nurse to some biddy in town like the boss said. And you’re playing with fire, matey.’

  JB’s words were not the balm he was hoping for. ‘Is she playing nurse, though? And he looked half-dead. Something’s up, I’m sure of it.’

  JB prodded at a lump of fish on his plate and scowled. ‘Like what?’

  ‘I did something stupid, JB. Signed a paper in the boss’s office without getting you to read it first. I asked her to burn it.’

  ‘Jesus, Coop,’ he said in a hard voice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because I knew you’d go mad.’