The Pearler's Wife

by Roxane Dhand

  Maisie saw no point in prevaricating. ‘We are all going to take turns nursing the captain. He’s getting worse and I don’t want him left alone.’

  Marjorie pulled her spectacles up her nose. ‘I ain’t touchin’ him.’

  ‘I want you to sit with him, that’s all. If he wakes up and needs anything, you can come and fetch me. Or his mother, now she’s here.’

  Marjorie scowled. ‘What ’bout Duc? His howling like a kangaroo dog not exactly peaceful for sick boss fella.’

  ‘He’ll take his turn after you. I’m sure you’ll keep the noise down to a dull roar, won’t you, Duc?’

  Duc grinned.

  When Maisie opened the bedroom door, the stench of sickness hit her like a wall. For a moment she wavered and then was conscience-stricken at her hesitation. This is what I wanted to do once upon a time, she thought. Tend the sick, whoever they are. So, nurse-volunteer Maisie Porter, pull back your shoulders and walk right in.

  Maitland lay on the bed. His eyes were wide open, this man who had robbed her of everything. His breathing was shallow and raspy, like the sound of grating carrots.

  She tried for a lightness of tone, a breezy nurse style. ‘How are you feeling, Maitland? Are you pleased that your mother is here?’

  He looked grey and filmed with sweat, stunned almost, but didn’t speak.

  In the next few hours she did everything she knew to make him comfortable in that hot, stinking room. She wrung out a washcloth and sponged the fever from his skin, whispering over and over that he was going to get well.

  A little before midnight, Maitland began to moan.

  She crouched by the bed and leaned in close but could make no sense of his words. ‘What is it, Maitland? Are you in pain?’

  Faint with fatigue, Maisie sat by the bed and took his wrist. She watched the clock on the nightstand and began to count. She shook her head and started again. She must have made a mistake; his pulse was far too fast. She lifted his head and smoothed his pillow, and listened to the boom of the waves breaking on the rocks. Pity was the last thing she’d expected to feel and yet there it was, its noise filling the room. She put her hands over her ears and blocked out the sound.

  The sky was still dark when Marjorie poked her head round the sick-room door. ‘You want me take my turn, Missus?

  Maisie swallowed hard. ‘No, Marjorie, we have got beyond that now. I think you must go to the hospital and ask Doctor Shin to call.’

  CHAPTER 24

  WHEN MAISIE FINALLY LAY in bed, sleep would not come. Light flickered through the lattice, but it wasn’t from the lighthouse. She had come to like the dependability of its beam and knew its pattern. Round and round every eight seconds. She wondered vaguely if all lighthouses pulsed at the same rate or whether they were different, like fingerprints. Coop would know, she thought, wherever he was.

  Coop.

  What would he say when he found out that she was living with a man who wasn’t her husband? A man who was a homosexual and had been molested by a priest? She grimaced. Could Maitland be sent to prison? In the Bay if the law was inconvenient, everyone ignored it. No. There was no way he would be sent to prison.

  Somewhere near dawn she got up and poked about under the bed for the chamber-pot, feeling for the familiar smooth shape in the dark. She eased herself down onto the rigid china and cradled her head in her hands.

  The despair of the evening had lifted slightly and she felt oddly comforted by Maitland’s mother. She reminded her of Mrs Wallace: a practical, sensible pioneering woman who took life in her stride. Mrs Wallace had told her she would have to grow a strong backbone, and Maisie realised that now was the time.

  Standing, she peered through the lattice and followed the light. It seemed to be bobbing along the shell path from the house to the packing shed. She heard the sound of a cough. It must be the night-pan collector, she thought, going back to his cart. She turned her head and listened again but there was nothing else. The strange light had disappeared.

  She got back into bed and flapped the sheet. Her skin was so hot she thought it might scorch the linen. The storm had blown through and frogs were now croaking happily in the stillness, but it was no cooler. Somewhere in the bungalow a door closed and floorboards creaked. Perhaps it was Maitland’s mother wandering about in the unfamiliar house or looking in on her son. Maisie got up again and slid her feet into her slippers. The light was back, bouncing up the path, stopping, starting and moving away until only a faint glow filtered through the lattice.

  Someone was in the garden.

  Maisie edged her way down the verandah and hesitated by the steps. Walking about in the dark was perilous. Early on, when she had not long been in the Bay, she had almost stepped on a tangle of whip snakes, entwined like twisted seaweed, and from then on nocturnal expeditions to the garden lavatory had ceased.

  Holding her wrap tight around herself, Maisie wished she’d brought a lamp. Concentrating on the bobbing light, she didn’t watch where she was walking and banged her toe hard against a chair leg. She cried out in pain.

  A whisper from the garden. ‘Maisie, is that you?’

  ‘Coop?’ She sensed the nod of his head and smiled into the dark.

  ‘I was worried when you didn’t come this weekend for the slop chest, so I came to check all was well.’

  She turned her head and checked along the verandah. Re assured there was no-one about, she pushed open the door and went down to the garden.

  He was leaning against a tree, his shirtsleeves rolled up, a cigarette between his finger and thumb. Fanned by the faint breeze, the tip glowed, and it was this, she supposed, that she had seen from the house, tracking up and down the path. She felt her body straighten as if she were being laced up in one of her discarded corsets.

  ‘I don’t understand why you aren’t at sea. You can’t just pop back on a whim for a cup of tea and a slice of cake.’

  He peered at her, tipped his chin towards the ocean. ‘My lines got fouled on the coral.’

  She stood still, not daring to move. She knew if she touched him, she would be lost. He threw his cigarette away, its butt tracing a glowing arc as it flew into the flowerbed. He leaned towards her and brought his arm around her back, circling her waist, pulling her in. He smells of the sea, she thought, and I am drowning. He turned his lips onto her neck; she could feel his breath and then the tiny kisses. She let her hands drop but did not push him away.

  Longing tormented her. It was embedded so deeply and pain fully it throbbed in her veins. ‘Please don’t, Coop. You’ve got to go. We might be seen. Maitland’s in the house and his mother’s here too.’ Even though I know I am perfectly entitled.

  ‘I’ve been here for hours. Everyone’s asleep.’

  He pressed against her. She could feel his body – hard now – and still she did not move.

  ‘This is wrong,’ she said. And yet this is consuming me. She suddenly felt very at sea. She breathed in slowly, feeling the way with her words. ‘Tell me what happened to your lines.’

  ‘Daike cut me free but we came up too quickly. JB was fussing, so we sailed back to the Bay yesterday and dropped by the Japanese hospital and got ourselves checked out.’

  His face was close now. She concentrated on his eyes, the black eyes that set her on fire, afraid of what his mouth might say. ‘And the doctor gave you the all clear?’

  ‘Yes. But we lost Sid, our shell-opener.’ He cupped his hand round the back of her head, his unshaven chin scratching her cheek. ‘I came to the house this morning to tell the boss we’re a man down and find out what he wants to do. Your maid told me he’s even worse than he was on the schooner.’

  Maisie pushed backwards and pulled herself free. ‘He’s very poorly. That’s why his mother is here from Melbourne. We’re not at all sure that he’s going to get better.’ Her lie was ill-prepared but Coop didn’t appear to notice.

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  Coop’s face held something but she could not say what,
and desolation sliced through her. She took another step back, certain his dark eyes would see into her soul. ‘That’s an unfair question, Coop.’

  His fingers found her hand and she felt him tug. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. Let’s walk to the lighthouse, get away from here for a while.’

  He strode away, holding her hand in the dark, pulling her behind him. The sharpness of the crushed shells cut through the soles of her slippers and the hem of her nightdress dragged in the sand like a brake. Once or twice she stumbled as she stepped on uneven ground. A mist was rolling in from the sea and settled on her eyelashes; she felt them clumping into pointed spikes.

  She stopped and wiped her eyes. ‘This is far enough. We don’t want to disturb the lighthouse-keeper. His wife is an invalid.’

  A flash of light from the beacon briefly illuminated the spot where they stood. ‘I can’t bear to be away from you,’ he whispered.

  Tears caught in her throat. ‘Please don’t, Coop.’ Maisie stopped for a moment, waiting for him to comment, but when he said nothing she changed the subject. ‘Sid wasn’t a diver, so what happened to him?’

  ‘He fell overboard.’ Coop scratched the side of his nose. ‘And met with a shark.’

  Maisie brought a hand to her chest. ‘That’s a desperate way to die.’

  ‘Mmm. It is.’

  She couldn’t read his expression in the dim light, but his tone was not sincere. ‘I’m not hearing heartfelt grief.’

  ‘He was not easy to like. He tried to kill me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sid slipped a mickey in JB’s tea. I got snagged on the coral because JB was unconscious and had it not been for Daike watching the pattern of my air bubbles on the surface, I would no longer be here.’

  A lump of dread lodged in her throat. ‘Why would Sid do that?’

  ‘I think your husband told him to, and it has everything to do with the document I signed in the packing shed. Six out of the twelve English divers who came are already dead. I’m still here, more by luck than anything else, and another chap has just chucked in the towel and gone back to Fremantle.’

  ‘You’ve been sacrificed for the government bet,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘I’m not giving in, Maisie. I came here to make money and I’m damned if I let myself be cheated out of it.’

  Maisie narrowed her eyes and stared out to sea. A faint shimmer on the horizon pushed its way through the mist. ‘You can’t dive for the pearlers here anymore. They’ve had one pop at you and they won’t stop.’

  ‘There has to be one honest pearler in the Bay who’ll take me on.’

  ‘I destroyed your page, Coop, but I heard Maitland and Blair Montague talking. A government official is coming soon to see how their white experiment is getting on and the two of them are counting on your paperwork to prove their point. Do you not see we have made things worse? Without your damning evidence they will have no alternative but to kill you.’

  CHAPTER 25

  MAISIE WALKED DOWN THE verandah towards the front door, her heels on the wooden floor drilling the silence. Before the sun was up, Coop had gone back to the lugger – once more out of reach, like the shadows she’d tried to catch as a child.

  She felt guilt where there should have been none. Everything was upside down.

  Doctor Shin stood on the other side of the screen, his medical bag clutched in his hand. He looked bowed, stiff, as if he hadn’t stood straight for a thousand years.

  ‘Doctor Shin,’ she said, pulling open the screen. ‘Thank goodness you are here. Maitland is in the mosquito room, yet perhaps you would prefer some refreshment first?’

  He shook his head. ‘I should like to examine the patient, Mrs Sinclair. That is why you summoned me in the small hours, after all, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Whatever am I thinking? I’ll show you where he is.’

  She led the doctor down the corridor and opened the bedroom door. It still smelled sour, acrid, as if someone had upturned the chamber-pot. Maitland looked like he was asleep, lying with his face towards the open lattice, a pudgy hand slack on the bedclothes.

  Pammie came into the bedroom carrying a platter of fruit for Maitland’s breakfast. She set it down beside the bed and positioned herself at the bedhead, her back pressed against the wall as if she was trying to distance herself from the scene. She nodded in acknowledgement of Maisie and the doctor.

  Doctor Shin put his bag on the floor and knelt by the bed. Maisie saw a frown cross his face as he put two fingers on Maitland’s neck and took his pulse. The brevity of his examination was not what she was expecting.

  ‘Is everything all right, Doctor?’

  There was a tinge of sympathy on his face. ‘I am very sorry, Mrs Sinclair. Your husband has passed away.’

  For some moments, the doctor’s announcement made no sense. She sat on a chair and stared at Maitland’s face, fully expecting him to open his eyes and say something mean. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

  Pammie leaned forward and straightened the ashtray on the nightstand. ‘He was absolutely fine last evening and first thing this morning when I looked in on him. Everyone’s been taking turns all night to sit with him because Maisie was so worried. It’s impossible that he’s dead. The British doctor saw him several times and was certain he was getting better.’

  Doctor Shin swallowed hard and sat on the rumpled bed. A muscle clenched in his neck. ‘The message that was left for me at the hospital said Captain Sinclair had the Barcoo fever. I doubt that was an accurate diagnosis. I have not seen a single case in the Bay in years, and it is more commonly expected where a water source might be contaminated. It would be a more convincing argument had he spent an extended period in the bush. It is a pity that you did not send for me sooner.’ He rolled his eyes, and stowed his hands in his pockets.

  ‘If it wasn’t the Barcoo fever, what do you think he died of, Doctor?’ Maisie said.

  ‘For the symptoms described – nausea, vomiting, fever, pain and the general look of his mottled skin – I would hazard a guess at sepsis, but I wouldn’t like to say for certain without conducting an autopsy. I could do so, if you would like, but it wouldn’t change the facts. He is still dead.’

  Maisie looked at her mother-in-law and took in the shocked white of her face, the fallen corners of her mouth. The fluffy face of motherhood might not have been her forte, but she had still just lost her only child.

  ‘I think he’s suffered enough,’ Maisie said.

  Pammie waved a hand in the air and spoke so quietly Maisie had to strain her ears to hear her. ‘Maitland’s dead. There’s no need for a medical witch-hunt. The doctor’s right; it won’t alter the facts.’

  Doctor Shin cleared his throat. ‘You will need to inform the undertaker, dear madams. The burial must take place tomorrow before the flesh starts to putrefy in the heat. If his condition was contagious, and I cannot be sure that it wasn’t, you would be putting the household at risk.’

  Maisie twisted the ring on her wedding finger and set off towards the door, touching Pammie lightly on the shoulder as she drew level.

  ‘I’ll go straightaway, Doctor, and Pammie – would you sit with him until I get back? I’ll ask Duc to bring you some tea.’

  The next day, in the afternoon, Maitland was buried in the hot, red earth of the Bay’s cemetery, in the corner section reserved for the whites. An ancient horse-drawn hearse, conveying the brass-handled coffin, was driven by the night-pan collector, who did extra duties in the afternoon for the town’s undertaker. Beside him, a large Malay sat smoking a calabash pipe. A small procession led by the two Mrs Sinclairs followed the hearse. It came to a halt beyond a row of ornate tombstones bearing inscriptions to Japanese divers who had died on the shell beds. Last to arrive was Bishop McMahon – sweat-shiny and flustered – with Mrs McMahon, dressed in black-watch tartan, hanging on his arm, and weeping with copious abandon. She clutched a tartan handkerchief that matched her dress. A small group of Aboriginal pe
ople had clustered in a far corner, and Maisie was sure she had spotted Charlie wearing his full tribal gear before he vanished into the scrub.

  It made her sad to think that their free-roaming race was dying out. Jane was right. The white man’s legacy was a terrible thing.

  The bishop preached sternly about the perils of drinking tainted water, and Mrs McMahon wailed throughout. Despite the heat, he read the whole burial service until, after an uncomfortable half-hour, Maitland’s coffin was lowered into the ground.

  Maisie stood, head bowed beneath the relentless sun, and barely listened to the bishop’s voice. She felt an ache in her heart so deep and profound it almost bent her double. But it was not for Maitland, this terrible pain. For him there was nothing. Coop, she whispered, and started to cry.

  After the service, the house’s east verandah was half-filled with people talking in quiet church voices. A shaft of bright sunlight lit up the table where Duc had laid out his feast on top of a stiff white tablecloth; he had produced his best work for boss fella’s last supper. Marjorie, in her floral frock, was moving among the mourners with plates of finger food, eyelids cast down and her mouth artistically drooping at the corners, trapping the smirk on her face. Deception is so easy, Maisie thought, among this army of deceivers. She knew Marjorie felt nothing for Maitland.

  Coop, come to pay his respects, had taken off his jacket and was talking to a red-eyed Mrs McMahon, whose necklaces chimed sharply against the crockery as she swooped backwards and forwards to grab the cakes.

  Pammie slid forward on her chair and nudged Maisie hard in the ribs. ‘Are you going to say something to thank people for coming?’

  ‘Do you think I should?’

  ‘Yes, if you can take your eyes off that tall man next to the tartan feeding frenzy for a couple of minutes.’

  Maisie felt her face burn. ‘I’m sorry. Mr Cooper is one of Maitland’s divers. I was thinking about what is going happen to the fleet.’