by Roxane Dhand
JB beckoned Daike to the far end of the lugger. ‘If it is the bends, we have a couple of options.’ He stuck up a finger. ‘One, we could make a dash back to the Bay and let Doctor Shin take care of him, and hope he doesn’t die on the way.’
Daike frowned. ‘It two days away even if weather good, JB.’
‘I know. So, that leaves option two.’ A second finger sprang up. ‘He’s got to go back down, right now. We’ll bring him up slowly and hope for the best.’
‘But it middle of night!’
‘I know that, mate, but do say if you have a better plan.’
They leaned Coop against the rail, and between them they shoved him into his diving suit. It was like dressing a child; he was watching the process with wide staring eyes, yet his limbs were not coordinated enough to participate.
Daike looked at him then back at JB. ‘This bad idea. He don’t know what happening.’
‘Can you suggest anything better?’ JB snapped.
‘Yes. Number-three plan is I go too. Hold his hand like baby.’
‘Jesus, Daike. Last thing we need is two divers with the bends.’
Daike fingered the charm under his singlet. ‘Coop one whole lot of bother, and stupid geezer, but he my friend.’
JB and Daike agreed on plan four: they would take Coop down to the ocean floor and keep him there for an hour. They had no idea if that was enough or too little time. Daike wouldn’t be able to see Coop’s face for signs of distress in the pitch dark, but if he sensed he was getting worse he would tug on the lifeline and JB would stage them up and dash back to the Bay. If Coop seemed better they would do exactly the same thing but not dash back to the Bay.
It was a nightmare.
The two divers, joined together, twirled to the ocean floor whipped round by the swirling current. Daike held onto the disabled diver as Coop moved in and out of consciousness. Daike peered continually into Coop’s face glass, tapping the mask, poking his arms, keeping him awake. He beat out the minutes on his leg with his fist. It was as pale in the water as the white man’s skin.
A tug on the lifeline, and the hour was up. Instinctively, Daike looked up towards the end of the rope and saw that daylight was shafting through the water, the solid black mass of the lugger’s hull marking the distance to the surface. It could have been the moon. They would stage twice, taking twenty minutes at each stop, and then Coop would be up and out of the water. Daike touched his hand to his chest and felt for his charm, then tugged twice on the rope.
CHAPTER 22
IN THE GREY EARLY morning, JB assembled the rest of the crew on deck and pointed at the sky. Daike and Coop were sprawled on deck, exhausted. It was six o’clock and the humid air was already suffocating.
‘I don’t much like the look of those clouds,’ he said.
‘Wind from east. Is bad,’ Squinty piped up.
‘I think we should head back to the Bay. Daike and Coop have been up all night and most likely have the bends. What do you think?’
He heard a low moan and scrutinised Coop’s face. ‘You okay, mate? Any pains?’
Coop shook his head. ‘Not me. All good.’
‘Daike?’
Daike was sitting on his own away from the others, his hand cupping his jaw. ‘I think we go back and doctor check Coop. Is better we get new shell-opener too. Before we go Neptune’s Dairy.’
Doctor Shin was looking forward to going home. He lit a cigarette and squeezed back his shoulders. Hunching for hours over the post-mortem table had locked his muscles solid, tendons clamped tight like an oyster’s shell. That morning, one of the diver patients had cut his throat with the tine of his breakfast fork, slashing away at his neck after his tray had been cleared. Attempted suicide had become commonplace, so the nuns now cut up the food and left the knives off the trays. This poor fellow, paralysed from the waist down, had been no surprise to the doctor. I’d have done it too.
There was now another chap waiting who’d been brought in that afternoon with a member of the same crew. He’d sent the white diver home with instructions not to work for a few days, but he knew he was wasting his breath. None of the English divers had listened to his advice and almost half of them had perished in their first few weeks in the Bay. Doctor Shin looked at his watch, and looked at the sky, his heart sinking. There was a storm coming. Another puff on his cigarette and a final gulp of tea would see him through until home time. If the man were dead, he’d cover him up and conduct the autopsy in the morning. He went over to the washbasin and began to scrub his hands.
The nun went ahead of him down the dark corridor and pushed open the treatment-room door. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Do you need me to stay, Doctor Shin?’
He shook his head and walked to the couch, peeling back the blanket, with conflicting emotions. He might be going home later than he’d have liked, but at least this one was alive. He studied the man’s face; he was in his mid-thirties and looked in good shape. Black stubble peppered his face like gunpowder and his hair stood up, stiff with salt. His eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth clenched. A plug of blood had dried on the man’s cheek, close to his right ear. He went through his checklist. If the man was suffering from the bends, he should take a closer look and move the man’s head towards to the acetylene jet. The eardrum itself appeared clean; a good sign. He checked his nostrils and they too were clear.
He pulled down the blanket a little further, towards the waist, and fingered a circle of wrinkly flesh close to the collarbone. He’d seen that before, when a diver had been squeezed to death by the weight of the water at great depth. His helmet and corselet had clamped the life from his body like a vice. He tapped his pen on his clipboard and reminded himself that the man on the table was not a corpse.
‘Can you tell me where you have the pain? Can you move your arms and legs?’
Laid out on the examination table, Daike opened his eyes. ‘I haven’t got the bends, Doctor Shin. I’ve got the bloody toothache!’
Tuesday was one of those sweltering evenings with storms blanket ing the sky. Distant flashes of lightning jumped between the tumbling clouds, and thunder rumbled behind the pindan cliffs. Jane had visited Maisie in the afternoon, clutching a thin letter from her parents. They were both disappointed. Somehow, Jane said, she had expected it to be a plump affair, sides and sides of writing paper covered in informative script on the education and adolescence of her adopted brother and his young friend Maitland Sinclair. It was only a paragraph long.
‘What do your parents say?’ Maisie asked.
‘My father says that if I can spare some time and pay them a visit, he will tell me in person what he can recall of Maitland Sinclair’s time at the Catholic school.’
‘And Blair?’
‘No mention of him. I told you that he is the apple of their eye.’
Maisie picked at a loose piece of skin on her cuticle.
‘You’ll make it sore, Maisie.’ Jane eyed the bloodied flap. ‘I know you are dying to ask if I shall go, and the answer is yes, I will. They have wired me the money for the trip already. Blair is taking Dorothea to Port Fremantle on the Atticus. She was boasting of it at coffee after church. I, too, have booked a passage. From Fremantle I’ll journey on to Melbourne by train. I leave tomorrow.’
Maisie stifled a sigh.
‘I know it’s sudden, but the opportunity was quite literally there on our doorstep. I’ll be back in a month at most,’ Jane said.
‘Tourist and spy?’
‘Something like that,’ Jane said, darkly.
Maisie was scarcely listening to what Marjorie was saying. Above her head, the last puff of her cigarette smoke hung in the fading sunlight, suspended in the airless room like an accusation. Jane would be gone tomorrow. The first friend she had ever had apart from Mrs Wallace, and it was entirely her fault. Maisie knew that Jane didn’t want to go. She wanted to press on with her Aboriginal research project, but she’d made light of it, saying that she needed time away from small-town politics a
nd wanted to catch up with her parents.
Tomorrow was also the day Maisie’s mother-in-law would arrive, and Maitland was not making the recovery that the British doctor had anticipated. She hadn’t even been able to sail out on the schooner this weekend to reprovision the fleet. Maitland had hauled himself up from his sickbed, groaning and looking utterly frightful, and insisted – insisted! – on going himself. She had no idea what that was all about. Pearl theft seemed an unlikely reason, but he wouldn’t be deterred. She’d tried to tell him he was too ill to go but he’d pushed past her concern, not even bothering to reply. He’d looked even worse on his return the night before, and had barely risen from his bed since. She shuddered, and squeezed the thought of Maitland from her mind. She ached for the few hours she’d been denied with Coop. She shut her eyes, wondering where he was and if he was doing a better job of burying his feelings than she was. She put her hand on her heart and allowed herself a moment to wallow.
‘You goin’ to tackle that paperwork or wot, Missus? I can’t do cleanin’ round that mess.’
Maisie snapped up her eyelids and got to her feet. The desk on the east verandah was a litter of paper; she hadn’t been on top of her correspondence for days, nor had she yet removed the incriminating page from the Clancy’s ledger.
She fanned her face with the blotter, sweeping it in an extravagant arc to create some air. Marjorie was still talking, her voice low and confidential. She and Duc had come up with a plan to invest the chiffa money. Maisie had no idea they had won so much and chastised herself again. She had let so many things slip.
‘So’s wot we think is that we buy old lugger fella on beach and go fishing. It’s that dummying wot I told you ’bout. But we ain’t allowed,’ Marjorie said.
‘How is that going to work?’
‘All them Jap fellas doin’ it, makin’ a packit. You got them licences for dat lugger, that’s wot we thinkin’.’
‘You two want to buy the Clancy with the chiffa money – is that what you are saying?’
‘Yes, Missus.’
‘You’ll need a crew.’
‘You want I fetch you gin drink? Mebbe big large fella with ice, like you prefer?’
‘Are you suggesting that I pay the crew with my share?’
‘As I said time before, Missus. You now startin’ to pick up wot I puttin’ down.’
‘Bring me the drink, Marjorie, but I can’t think about dummying now. Not with the captain so poorly. But I promise I will think about it soon. And I need a knife, to perform a little operation. Can you ask Duc to lend me one of the really sharp ones from the kitchen?’
Marjorie stopped in her tracks. ‘Why you want ’im knife? You no go cutting you’self or some sick fella?’
‘No. I need a knife to cut something out of something.’
Marjorie aligned the sheets of paper on the desk in a neat stack. ‘Duc no let you have ’im kitchen knife. More better you use one of Boss’s knives.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Maisie, the blotter paused mid-sweep.
‘Boss have whole box of knives in pantry cupboard. You want I get ’im?’
Maisie was up on her feet, shaking her head. ‘No, it’s fine. You do the drink. I’ll go and look myself.’
The box was similar to a carpenter’s wooden toolbox. She pulled it towards her and lifted the lid. It contained fifteen or twenty knives, all of different sizes with various handles, all sheathed. She selected one at random and pulled it out of its leather cover. The blade was about five inches long and was marked on one side, Harrison Riddle & Co, West Smithfield. Maisie put it back in its protective casing, then took out another. This one had a curved scabbard and the hilt was bound with leather. The handle appeared to be made of ivory or perhaps bone. She carried on, pulling them out and putting them back until she had sorted through the entire collection. Here’s a question for his mother, she thought. When did Maitland start this charming hobby?
She pushed the box back onto the shelf, and turned towards the garden. A stiff breeze had sprung up and she turned her face towards it, the air curling round her head like a poisonous snake. She glanced up at the sky; a few spongy black clouds had started to gather as the daylight faded and a few drops of rain plopped fatly on her face. She didn’t give the weather much thought. The cyclone season was over and the rain, if it amounted to anything much, might perk up the tomatoes.
She selected the least offensive looking of the knives and went back to her desk. The house was quiet; there was no roar from the lion in his lair. She sat alone in the same chair she used to write her weekly letter to her parents, and sipped her drink. The ice had shrunk to splinters. She shook the glass, smashing up the last of the shards against the sides, then she downed the liquid in one burning swallow and felt empowered.
The Clancy’s ledger was hidden in her drawer. Maitland was uneasily asleep, but she still found herself looking around warily as she pulled out the leather folder and flipped through the pages. It was a mixture of navigational record and narrative account; compass settings, shell tallies and day-to-day musings recorded side by side, dated and signed by the author. She came to the damning evidence and, glancing about her to ensure she was still alone, ran the razor-sharp blade as close as she could to the spine and pulled the page free. Without pausing, she struck a match and lit a corner of the yellowing page. When it had burned halfway down, she dropped it in her ashtray.
Tomorrow was a new day. She vowed that she would do better and keep on top of things. Pulling a clean sheet of paper from a desk drawer, she began to write notes. She would see Doctor Shin if Maitland was no better. She would consider what Marjorie and Duc wanted to do with the chiffa money. She would catch up on her correspondence. She would have a last cup of tea with Jane and ask her to drop a letter off at Gantry Creek for Mrs Wallace. She would meet her mother-in-law from the coastal steamer and bring her back to the house.
And she would try not to think about Coop.
She closed the ledger and smoothed her hand over the surface. Her fingers left dark oily indentations on the white cover like a thief’s footprints in the snow. Maisie angled her head to one side and cradled her jaw in her hand. All ships kept a ledger. Daily life on the Fremantle to Buccaneer Bay coastal hopper would be recorded in the ship’s log. The captain who had married her would have made a record in his ledger, signed and dated with his name. He might still have her marriage certificate or, at the very least, know where she could lay her hands on it. She went straight to the drinks table, and dropped three fat ice cubes into a large gin martini.
CHAPTER 23
MARJORIE SAT AT THE kitchen table, bashing a lemongrass stalk with a small mallet. A clump grew in the garden and Duc often used the lemon-tasting stems to flavour his cooking.
‘Is Wednesday. You forgotten you goin’ to tea with them ladies at the bishop’s place this afternoon, Missus?’
Maisie put her breakfast tray beside the sink. She felt a burn of indigestion rise up towards her throat. She’d gobbled down the egg and toast far too fast and the acid reflux was fighting to get out. She swallowed hard and forced down the bile.
‘I completely forgot. I might not even be back by then.’
‘Where you goin’ then, all day long?’
‘I have things to do.’
‘You wanta send a note sayin’ you gone walkabout?’
‘I can’t do that. What would they think?’
Marjorie hunched her shoulders.
Maisie looked at her watch and decided she had time. She had two visits to make before her mother-in-law arrived on the evening steamer. It docked late, on the afternoon tide, and Maisie had cabled that she would meet her on the jetty and bring her back to the house. She had also planned to check with the captain and his log.
‘I think it will be all right, Marjorie. I’ll make sure I’m back for lunch and then I can do the tea with the ladies. After that I have to go out again. Did you remember Maitland’s mother is arriving on the steamer?’
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br /> Marjorie clapped her hand over her mouth and leaned her large cotton-clad frame against the doorjamb. ‘Captain Boss’s mother comin’ here? ’Course I remember. I ain’t the one with the dodgy memry. I’s put her in da guestroom down der end of mosquito room, furthest end from da kitchen.’
‘Thank you, Marjorie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘Wot she gonna be like, d’you think?’
Maisie hadn’t ever imagined Maitland with a mother. ‘I have no idea, but we must make her very welcome. Would you please remind Duc she’ll be here for supper?’
Marjorie removed her apron and stood up. ‘Why’s you think I bashin’ this stringy stalk fella? Duc ain’t got a bad memry either. He’s cookin’ up sommat from Miz Beeton cookbook of yours. How you gettin’ about today by-an-by?’
‘I hadn’t thought. The sulky, probably.’
‘Moody mare don’t like wind. It gettin’ up. Think we’s getting a blow.’
‘I thought the cyclone season was over.’
‘You look at barometer fella? Him’s droppin’.’
‘How do you know how to read the barometer?’
‘Missus, I keep tellin’ you: I mebbe black girl but I got white girl’s brain. I watch Boss. He tap glass and when da number goes lower he clap his hands. So, I’s tellin’ you: big blow’s comin’ mebbe later. You take bike or you walk. More safer.’
Afternoon tea with the ladies out of the way, Maisie was already on the jetty as they lowered the gangway into place. This had seemed like a good idea, but now she was not so sure. Flushed by nerves, she grabbed hold of the high rope sides and climbed up to the ship. The conversation with the captain would be difficult to engineer, but she had rehearsed what she was going to say.
Half the white faces of Buccaneer Bay seemed to be aboard, accepting complimentary drinks from the Steamship Company and catching up on gossip. The fortnightly arrival of the steamship was not to be missed. The captain took centre stage; a born performer, relaxed and comfortable in the spotlight.