‘They left them so the guards would think that they swam last night and would spend today looking here for them. Tomorrow they will hunt for them further away, but Fred and his mate will come over tonight.’
Sophie looked at the grey buildings on the island and the wind-combed water. ‘Tonight …’
* * *
In the evening Sophie crept from her room, carrying an old dress and a bonnet from Aunt Linda’s trunk. She moved across the quiet garden towards a kerosene lamp glimmering at the waterfront. Near the lamp were a pile of old men’s clothes, Mary Ann, Marina and the baby.
‘They have to see him,’ Mary Ann said quietly. ‘Who knows when they’re going to see him again?’
Marina beamed at her. ‘I’m going to see Dad first! ’
Sophie added the clothes to the pile of men’s clothes and sat down next to Mary Ann. ‘It’s still,’ she said. The breeze had gone now and the moon shimmered across the water.
‘Too still,’ murmured Mary Ann. ‘The police might see a swimmer splashing.’
‘No, no.’ Marina shook her head furiously. ‘Dad is smarter than them. He will come. You’ll see.’
Mary Ann squeezed her shoulders. ‘Sure.’
‘I …’ Sophie hesitated. She remembered Aunt Linda waving the old sword. Funny then, but it wasn’t quite so funny now.
She is your aunt, Sophie thought. Hey, maybe she was right to get out the sword. And you are helping two convicts to escape? You don’t know what they are. They could be murderers, cannibals, anything. And they are coming across that water now … You should be telling Aunt Linda about them right now!
Sophie looked across at Mary Ann holding her baby and resting an arm on Marina’s shoulder. No, she thought. Mary Ann is my friend. Aunt Linda, Grace and all the others, they’re pushing us down all the time. And it is us – What do you expect from a boong? No proper lady fiddles with art …
Sophie smiled at Marina. ‘I want to see them coming out of the water, too. I wish I could paint it.’
‘You can,’ Mary Ann said. ‘You’ll see it. Just remember.’
‘I want to. I want to paint. I want to paint generals and get paid. I want to paint ships, Sydney Town, Cleopatra on the Nile. I want … I want to paint two bare men coming out of the water, like new animals reaching a new land, but …’ Sophie pictured Aunt Linda and Grace seeing that painting and shuddered.
‘Too hard?’
Sophie slowly nodded. ‘That’s the trouble with dreaming. It’s only a dream.’
‘I guess so.’
‘Did you have one?’
Mary Ann shrugged. ‘Not really. Maybe I thought of bringing up the kids in a bush town with Fred being a horse trainer. But that was plain stupid. Too many claws dragging you down …’
She looked across to the glimmering prison and suddenly laughed. ‘I do have a little dream. I would like to be a bushranger.’
‘A bushranger!’
‘Just for a bit. Just to see Aunt Linda, Grace, and the other sneering women change their expressions. And with those fat magistrates, station managers, teachers … Watching their faces as they try to work it out. A bushranger is holding me up, better be very polite, yes, sir, here’s my wallet, would you like my watch? But hold it, it’s a woman bushranger. A boong woman! It can’t be! What do I do now?’
Sophie giggled. ‘Be very respectful.’
‘At last.’
They sat together in silence for a long moment, staring at the motionless water.
Then Marina jumped to her feet and pointed into the dark. ‘There they are!’
Sophie peered into the night, but she couldn’t see anything. Her hands clamped together and she realised that she was frightened. That she should not be here.
Mary Ann stood up and waved the lantern about.
Two shadows slid from the blackness.
‘Is that you, love?’ A man called softly from the water.
‘About time, Fred.’ Mary Ann’s voice was slightly shaking.
‘Who’s that?’
Mary Ann put her hand on Sophie’s knee. ‘It’s all right. She’s helping.’
‘All right.’ Fred rose from the water and Marina splashed towards him. ‘Hi, kid.’ He scooped her from the water and put her on his shoulders. Mary Ann grabbed him as he stepped out onto the shore and crushed him to her. ‘I didn’t think we’d do it.’
The second man in the water looked as if he was thinking of swimming back to the island.
Fred saw his hesitation and turned to Sophie, ‘Sorry, miss. About the way we look.’
Sophie felt her cheeks burning, but she shrugged.
‘Well, all right, get respectable!’ Mary Ann threw the dress to Fred, who put Marina on the ground.
The second man grabbed the other clothes and with a shiver quickly hauled them on. ‘That was icebergs. No sharks because it was too bloody cold —’
‘Brit!’ Fred called sharply. ‘There are ladies here.’
‘But it was cold.’
Fred nodded at the island. ‘Well, I’m never going back. No matter what.’
Mary Ann straightened the dress on Fred. ‘Well, you’re not there now.’
‘Right. How do I look?’
‘You’re gorgeous, mate.’ Brit snorted.
‘The beard has to go.’ Mary Ann passed a razor and soap to him.
Fred sighed as he crouched before the lapping water and attacked his tangled black beard. When he was finished Mary Ann led them quietly past the house and to the street.
But Brit pressed his body against the hedge as he sucked air between his teeth. ‘I don’t like it. It’s too quiet.’
‘It’s all right, Brit. They’ve all gone to look for us in Parramatta,’ Fred said.
Brit shook his head. ‘Don’t like it.’
Mary Ann turned to Sophie. ‘Could you walk ahead and see how things are?’
‘I’ll go with Soph …’ Marina grabbed her hand and pulled her along.
Sophie squeezed her hand as they moved into the shadowy street. Now, she thought, she’s protecting me.
‘Do you like my dad?’
‘He’s got a nice smile.’
Marina sighed. ‘He looks better with the beard.’
‘Shh …’
Their footsteps echoed over the cobbles as Sophie’s eyes flicked around her. A fragment of a dark shadow broke away near them and skidded across the road. She sucked in a sharp breath, but it was just a black cat. The street, the block, the whole of Balmain was sleeping around them. They reached the small paddock, saw the horse and the cart and turned back.
Mary Ann was walking up the road linked to the two men by their elbows as Fred made funny faces for the baby in his arms. Brit still looked nervous, but he was trying to hold a smile.
‘We didn’t see anyone,’ Sophie said.
‘What about the horse and the cart?’
‘Oh, yes. They are up there,’ Marina said.
Mary Ann’s face relaxed, but suddenly Brit hurried her on, as if he was seeing the end of a long race. Fred passed the baby back to Mary Ann as he went into the paddock. He ran his hands over the horse before taking it towards the cart.
‘It’s not the best,’ Mary Ann admitted.
‘It’ll do to get out of Sydney. Then we will get some real horses. Thoroughbreds.’
They strapped the horse up to the cart, and the men climbed on. Brit took up the reins and Fred put on the bonnet.
‘Well …’ Mary Ann stepped back.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ Fred sounded surprised.
‘I was going to stay on for a bit. The woman owes me some money.’
‘Don’t be daft. We’ll get money on the road.’
‘What are you going to do?’
Fred shrugged. ‘I got no choice. They’re going to hunt me now. I have to be a bushranger. All right?’ He reached out for Mary Ann.
‘Well …’ She considered his hand, then looked at Sophie’s face. ‘Linda won’t give me my money, w
ill she?’
Sophie’s eyes shifted away. ‘I don’t —’
Mary Ann shrugged. ‘There’s the plate, and she’ll find other things. She is going to cheat. They always do.’
Sophie swallowed. ‘Yes, yes, Aunt Linda will keep everything. She’ll charge you for the plate, the food you ate, the rent for your room. Go.’
Mary Ann nodded, then swung Marina up to Fred and leaped after her.
Sophie stood beside the paddock gate, watching the cart rock down the lonely street, and felt strangely hollow.
Then the cart stopped. Mary Ann leaped down to the cobbles and ran up to Sophie. She grabbed her shoulders, kissed her and then suddenly shook her fiercely. ‘Don’t let it go. Ever!’
She hurried back to the cart.
* * *
Sophie was serving tea for Aunt Linda and Grace on a late winter afternoon.
‘It is terrible now,’ Grace sighed and clinked her cup. ‘You can’t take a coach out of town without being robbed by bushrangers. The papers say that Thunderbolt has claimed the highways.’
‘Terrible,’ said Aunt Linda.
‘Have you seen him?’ Sophie said.
‘Seen him! My girl, I have been bailed up by him. And worse, with his damn darkie woman.’
‘A woman? Can’t be.’ Aunt Linda shook her head.
‘Oh yes, definitely. Maybe she’s your runaway, but who remembers their faces? They call her Princess Yellow Long – she’s tall and she’s got a light colour. She doesn’t have a gun, but she gets all the jewellery from the ladies – even the hidden jewellery …’
‘Shocking. What is this country coming to? What are you leering about?’ Aunt Linda snarled at Sophie.
‘Nothing, nothing.’ Sophie slid away from the lounge.
She went into her room and slowly spread a sheet of blank paper on her table. For the first time in a long time she took out the cigar box and began to open the small jars, filling her room with the scent of crushed herbs and flowers.
And began to paint.
THE GOLD BUDDHA
In 1969 I flew into Luang Prabang by Air America – the CIA service – and left in a rickety ferry down the Mekong to Vientiane because the road had been taken over by the Pathet Lao. This was during the Laos civil war. The city was then quite a nervous place – but not nearly as nervous as it was in 1887.
Yvette slowly swung open the old front door, looked out and sucked in a long shaky breath. She stared at a wall of thick white mist that was drifting up the narrow lane, reducing the building on the other side to a dark shadow. She wobbled down to the worn stone step and the lane’s scarred pebbles, searching for anything to trigger her memory …
Because she didn’t know where she was.
She felt the prickle of panic and reached back for the door. But when she touched its cracked wood the fear died down.
No, no, this is only a river mist, she thought. You’ve seen it so many times you could walk the streets of Rouen blind. The slow Seine River is down the lane. Up the lane and left is the bakery where you and tall Papa get the morning hot French bread. And that is why you are walking out …
Yvette twitched her lips and shuffled along the lane, leaving the door open behind her. Her legs quivered, as if they had forgotten how to work, but she kept on moving, touching the walls as she went.
She knew she had been sick, but the hot bread would cure her.
Yvette reached the end of the lane and stopped, her eyes flickering uncertainly. Through her feet, she could feel something strange, as if the earth was moving to a slow beat. She lifted her head to see an orange haze sliding through the swirling mist.
The haze became a silent group of Buddhist monks carrying a litter on their shoulders, as if they were bearing a king. From the other end of the street immense shapes began to loom in the mist.
Yvette’s delicate image of Rouen shimmered like a stone thrown in a lake, and faded away.
The first elephant crunched out of the gloom. A slightly bored boy sat straddled on its thick neck as other elephants followed, linked to each other, trunk to tail. Yvette watched in fascination at the five elephants lumbering towards the monks, then her eyes were drawn to the monks’ litter and saw that it was not carrying a person. It carried a statue.
In silence the monks and elephants mingled together in the mist, then very slowly they drifted apart until they left her alone on the corner.
Yvette stumbled into the road and peered after the monks and elephants as if they could not exist. She shook her head, but that just made her reel. She stumbled against a gutter and clutched a tree with huge leaves that felt like rubber.
‘God, where am I?’ she mumbled.
Yvette lurched unsteadily away, trying to wake up. She thought, you should have gone back …
She turned and saw nothing but shadows in the white wall of the mist.
You’ll never find the lane or even recognise the door you came through. You are totally lost.
Yvette pressed her fingers against her mouth and her shoulders trembled. Then suddenly she jerked her hands away and shook her head, almost violently.
‘All right, that’s enough,’ she said, stopping to hear the faint tremble in her voice. No, she thought. You are not panicking. You haven’t been thrown into a corner of hell. You’ve been sick and you know this place. You only need to see the place to bring everything back. Just get out of this mist.
Yvette realised that she was on a sloping path and started to climb. She passed a stone serpent and hauled herself up an endless flight of steps. She had to stop often to calm her breathing, but as she climbed the fog in her mind began to lift.
She realised that the lumbering elephants hadn’t worried her. She even knew how to get on one: the elephant lowers itself to its front knees, you climb on a knee and it helps you onto the back with its trunk. That simple.
Yvette stopped climbing and pulled out a dim memory: you have spent many days – many months? – on a cane howdah strapped to the swaying, bony back of an elephant. And on pirogues – long hollowed-out canoes – on many rivers …
She moved on and slowly climbed out of the mist.
She had reached a silent peak stroking a red-tinted sky. In front of her was a strange cottage with curved edges on the roof. There was no sign of the town she had left. A white sea stretched from the peak to distant, shadowed mountains, turning the cottage and a low stone wall into a tiny island.
She walked steadily to the wall, turned to the cottage, looked at the wooden columns and the multiple roofs and the gleam of a polished Buddha inside the building, and slid to the flagstones.
Not a cottage, she thought. A monastery – a wat. You are a world away from Rouen, years away. There is no Papa. There is only Uncle Henri.
Yvette stared at her hands and for a moment she was trying to will herself back into France, into noisy, smelly Rouen, with her coughing Papa, trying to force the elephants, the monks and the wat on this peak into an old dream.
And failed. She rubbed her hands over her face.
Papa’s coughing stopped in the cold winter in 1883, and he rested next to Ma. Then there was Uncle Henri. Not someone down the road, or in France, or anywhere in Europe, but Uncle Henri lived in Bangkok, in Siam.
She remembered the old schoolfriends crying at the station, so many tickets and the massive wooden trunk. Then the train to Paris, to Marseilles, and then a ship that didn’t know whether it was a sailing ship or a steamer boat, with its masts and sails and long funnel in the middle. She and the ship clanked across the Mediterranean, slid through a desert in the Suez Canal, across the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean and the Gulf of Siam to Bangkok, where there was a king with glittering clothes, gold pinnacles, gleaming long boats with many paddlers, and elephants in rich livery. But this misty place wasn’t Bangkok. That was only the beginning.
‘Are you all right?’
A thin young man was walking quickly from the stone steps.
Yvette nodded. ‘I’m all right,
Kam.’
The youth slowed, cocked his head. ‘You remember my name! You’re getting better?’
Yvette looked at the slight scar on Kam’s left cheek and his shimmering brown eyes. She had seen him many times before, but not in Bangkok. Kam was Lao. ‘I think so. Was it the mosquitoes?’
‘Monsieur Pavie said so. He was worried about you.’ Kam offered his hand.
She took it and pulled herself up. ‘Monsieur Pavie … is he still here?’
‘He and his men went up the river a fortnight ago. Only your uncle is left.’ He shrugged.
‘A fortnight? How long have I been sick?’
‘A long time. Um – your uncle is looking for you now.’
‘Oh no, I am not climbing down. Not yet.’
‘That’s all right. When a monk told me that you seemed to be walking towards the hill I left a note in the house. He might come up …’
Yvette sighed. ‘Wonderful.’
‘Maybe he won’t come. It’s a good view when the mist lifts, but it’s a hard climb.’ Kam smiled at Yvette.
She smiled back, thinking that Henri always had the same effect on people. It was a wonder that he had not lost his head. But, but he almost had in Bangkok …
The first time she met Henri was not good, for a start. When he saw her on the wharf he said, ‘God, you’re going to eat me out of business!’ It got better, but only because he learned that she was good at arithmetic and could handle account books. Henri was a merchant, dealing in silk, teak, porcelain or anything else that could be changed into money, so she worked in a corner of his warehouse.
It could have stayed like that, but for two separate events – Uncle Henri’s incident and the arrival of Auguste Pavie. Henri went to the palace to get permission from the King Rama V’s minister to chop down a teak forest near the Burmese border but the minister said no. Henri stormed away from the minister’s office, pounding down the long corridor of
the palace and hissing through his teeth. When a small boy rushed round a corner and collided into him, Henri shouted in anger and clouted him.
The boy was the favourite son of the King and the King was definitely considering whether he would chop off Henri’s head.
A Taste of Cockroach Page 3