His father sat down heavily. Cecilia squeezed his arm.
‘Poppy, run and get a plate and some cutlery for your brother,’ suggested Cecilia. ‘Bryony, can you please tell Daisy that Edward will be staying?’
In a few moments, the family was all seated around the table, enjoying their meal of roast beef, gravy and baked vegetables. Cecilia kept touching Edward’s arm, as though she expected him to disappear like a forgotten dream.
Edward kept them entertained with stories from army training, everything he had seen and done since he left them six months ago, and the characters he had met.
‘It’s funny how quickly you get used to things,’ Edward said. ‘I can’t believe how hot it is up here in Darwin after living down south for so long. I must be getting soft.’
‘You look well,’ decided Cecilia. ‘Though I doubt you eat as well at army camp as you did here.’
‘Nothing beats my mum’s cooking,’ Edward boasted. ‘That is one of the many things I’ve missed; that and Poppy’s never-ending mischief!’
Mark had been very quiet during much of the meal, listening to Edward’s chatter.
‘There’s nothing soft about army life, my boy,’ Mark began grimly. ‘I know you think it’s all fun and travel and adventure, but I wish you’d never signed up. There are so many things you could have done to help the war effort without using your body to stop bullets.’
Mark stopped himself with an effort, biting his lip.
Edward flushed and pushed his chair back. ‘But Dad, you did,’ he blurted. ‘You ran away from the farm when you were younger than me and signed up for the Great War in 1916. You were seventeen years old. You served your country on the Western Front and defeated the Hun. You were a hero.’
Mark choked, shaking his head. ‘I was an ignorant, idiotic farm boy,’ he contradicted forcefully. ‘I broke my mother’s heart by running away. On the Western Front I watched so many of my mates get slaughtered, one after another, or die of disease or infection.
‘More than sixty thousand Australian men were killed in that war. If it wasn’t for your mother’s magical nursing skills, I wouldn’t have survived.’ Mark took a deep breath, making his voice steady again. ‘On the battlefield I saw many men die who could have been saved with proper hospitals and medicines. That’s what made me decide to study medicine and become a doctor. I wanted to devote my talents to saving lives, not taking them.’
Edward scowled, his eyes down and shoulders hunched. Mark rose to his feet and strode up and down the room, hands dug deep in his pockets. He sighed deeply, then stood behind Edward’s chair with his hands on his son’s shoulders.
‘Edward, I know you are a man now, and must make your own decisions.’ Mark spoke softly. ‘I wish you weren’t going, but of course you have my blessing. Of course I forgive you. You’re my son, and I’ll always be proud of you.’
Edward scuffed his feet and nodded with embarrassment. Cecilia brushed her hand across her eyes and patted Edward’s hand.
‘Come on, girls,’ Cecilia said, ‘why don’t you help me whip up a quick pudding to celebrate Edward’s homecoming. I have a little sugar saved, we can use the last of the cream, and Poppy can scoot up the tree and find us some mangoes.’
The special dessert made everyone ignore the earlier tension. While they laughed and joked, and made much of Edward, Poppy felt there was something forced about the atmosphere. No one could forget he was soon sailing off to war.
Edward had four days’ leave before his ship departed, and he was determined to fill the days with fun and frivolity. He organised picnics and outings to nearby waterfalls and swimming holes. He planned bicycle races and cricket matches and dancing on the sand under the moonlight. He invited Bryony and George, and a few of the other young people of Darwin, including a pretty girl called Iris, whose parents ran the post office. Poppy caught Edward gazing at Iris with what she suspected was adoration, although nothing was said. What was it with her siblings going dopey with love?
Cecilia stretched her resources to provide lavish picnic baskets and suppers. On the morning of the fifth day, Edward packed his kit bag, hugged them all and said his goodbyes.
‘Look after yourself, Poppykins,’ Edward urged her. ‘Promise you’ll write? I want to know all the details of life at home, no matter how boring! And look after Mum for me – I don’t want her to worry.’
Poppy hugged him tightly, her throat thick with emotion. Edward picked up his kit bag, moved his hat to a jauntier angle and whistled cheerfully as he swaggered up the gangway.
I wonder where he’s going? thought Poppy. I wonder when I will see Edward again?
Poppy was sitting on the verandah, feeding Christabel, when she spied a huge wicker basket of linen tottering up the garden path on a pair of thin legs. Poppy put the young wallaby down, leapt to her feet and ran towards it.
‘Ohayou gozaimasu, Murata-san,’ Poppy greeted the basket carrier.
The figure carefully lowered the basket to the ground, revealing herself as a small Japanese woman, her hair almost white and her face creased into hundreds of wrinkles. She smiled and bowed. From behind her skirts peeked a small girl, with long, glossy black hair pulled neatly into two plaits.
‘Ohayou gozaimasu,’ replied the woman. ‘Ogenki desuka?’
‘Watashi wa genki desu, Murata-san,’ replied Poppy, returning a half-bow. ‘Arigato.’
‘Very good, Miss Poppy,’ said Mrs Murata. ‘Your Japanese is coming along very well.’
‘Arigato,’ Poppy thanked her.
Poppy dropped down on her haunches and solemnly said, ‘Ohayou gozaimasu,’ to the little girl. ‘And what’s your name?’ The child was too shy to respond.
‘This is my granddaughter, Shinju – it means “Pearl” in English,’ explained Mrs Murata. ‘She is my son’s daughter.’
‘Pearl – that’s a very beautiful name,’ replied Poppy. ‘A perfect name for a beautiful girl.’
Mrs Murata smiled lovingly at the girl, stroking the fringe out of her eyes.
‘The pearl is a magic jewel of good luck to the Japanese,’ explained Mrs Murata. ‘It was the pearls and the pearl shell that brought us to your country. My family have been pearl divers for generations – first in Japan, now in Darwin. My father came to Australia in 1880, and I was born in Broome. Pearls have been good to us.’
Mrs Murata bent down to pick up her load of washing.
‘Can I help you?’ asked Poppy,
‘Arigato, Miss Poppy,’ replied Mrs Murata. ‘It’s heavy.’
Poppy took one handle, and together the two carried the basket of washing towards the house, with young Shinju following.
‘How are your family, Mrs Murata?’ asked Poppy. ‘Is your son feeling better?’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Murata’s face beamed. ‘Your father is a clever doctor.’
Several weeks before, Poppy had been with her father when he had been called to the Murata’s house to treat Mrs Murata’s son. The pearl diver had contracted a severe chest infection while out at sea and had been critically ill by the time the pearl lugger had returned to port. Poppy’s father had treated Mr Murata and saved his life.
Mrs Murata delivered the linen basket to Daisy in the kitchen and bowed goodbye to Poppy.
‘Sayonara, Miss Poppy.’
Poppy returned the salutation and then raided the bread box, taking a heel of stale bread and stuffing it in her pocket.
‘Here’s your picnic lunch, Miss Poppy,’ said Daisy. ‘I made enough to keep even you from being hungry – beef and tomato sandwiches, lemon cake and paw-paw.’
Poppy gave Daisy a quick hug. ‘Thanks, Daisy. You’re wonderful.’
Poppy picked up a laden picnic basket from the table and ran next door to collect Maude. From the kitchen doorway, she was watched by the little girl Shinju.
‘Have you got your bathers on?’ Poppy asked Maude. ‘Daisy has packed us a picnic to have down at Kahlin Bay. I can’t wait to go swimming – it’s so hot.’
‘There aren’t any crocodiles at Kahlin Bay, are there?’ asked Maude, jumping down the steps with her towel over her shoulder.
‘No, you silly,’ replied Poppy, ‘but there are lots of fish. I’ve brought some stale bread so we can feed them. The mullet and catfish take the bread straight from your fingers.’
The girls ran along the rutted track, between the palm trees, down to the bay.
The track suddenly opened out, revealing a stunning vista over the turquoise sea south-west towards Darwin port.
‘Wow,’ said Maude, ‘it’s gorgeous.’
‘It’s gorgeous now at high tide, but at low tide the water drops about twenty feet so you can walk out on the mud-flats for miles. It’s good then for mud-crabbing and gathering oysters, but you have to be careful because the tide rushes in again super-fast, which can be really dangerous if you’re not watching.’
Maude shaded her eyes and looked to the north.
‘Race you in!’ challenged Poppy.
Dropping the picnic basket and towel on the sand, Poppy dragged her dress over her head, kicked off her shoes and sprinted to the water. Maude was only seconds behind, squealing in delight.
The water was cool and silky against their skin, washing away the clinging fug of the tropical heat.
Maude was an excellent swimmer and struck out for the deeper water. Poppy gave chase, grabbing Maude by the ankle. Maude tried to kick free but Poppy was too strong. The two girls paused momentarily, treading water and laughing.
‘Where did you learn to swim like that?’ asked Poppy, releasing Maude’s ankle. ‘I thought you were a city slicker!’
Maude floated on her back, lapped by the gentle swell, closing her eyes to the sun.
‘In Sydney, we live right near the beach at Manly. We swim all the time – but there we don’t need to worry about man-eating crocodiles or poisonous jellyfish!’
Poppy grabbed Maude’s ankle again, dragging her under. Maude spluttered to the surface.
‘The crocs mostly stick to the rivers, and it’s a bit early for box jellyfish, but did I tell you about the sharks?’ cried Poppy, glancing around with a worried frown. Maude’s head jerked around, searching for fins.
Poppy splashed her. ‘Only kidding!’
Poppy glanced back towards the shore, where something unexpected caught her eye: a dark shape breaking the water, then disappearing. Poppy frowned. The dark shadow broke the surface again, then subsided, sinking without a trace.
Without pausing to explain, Poppy raced towards the beach, showering Maude with a powerful kick. Maude waited a moment, then chased after her friend.
Close to shore, Poppy dived under water momentarily, then her sleek, dark head reappeared. She dived again and again. Poppy resurfaced with a gasp, flipped on her back and swam to shore, hugging something to her chest with one arm. She kicked urgently, powering to the beach.
By the time Maude reached the sand, Poppy had dragged a small, limp body from the water.
‘Hello, can you hear me?’ Poppy begged, squeezing the child’s hand. ‘Are you all right?’
Poppy took a few seconds, checking for breath and a pulse.
It was a child – a girl about five years old – and she wasn’t breathing. Poppy ran her fingers through the girl’s mouth, searching for any obstructions, such as seaweed or mud. Poppy thought back to the resuscitation instructions her parents had taught her. First, she lifted the girl by the waist to drain the seawater from her throat.
Then she lay the girl face-down on the sand, head resting on her forearm. Poppy straddled the limp body, placing both of her own hands in the middle of the girl’s back, then concentrated on rocking herself back and forth, pushing all her weight down on the patient and then releasing rhythmically.
Poppy could feel the panic welling up inside her. The girl might die! What if I can’t save her? What if I’m pushing too hard or not hard enough? Why isn’t Mum here?
Poppy took a deep breath and willed herself to be calm.
Focus, Poppy told herself sternly. Okay, breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
‘What are you doing, Poppy?’ demanded Maude, panicking.
‘She’s not breathing, Maude,’ replied Poppy, continuing to rock back and forth on her palms. ‘I’m pushing the air out of her lungs with my weight, then releasing the lungs so they can drag in air. My father taught me how to do it – the Schaefer method.’
‘Is it working?’ asked Maude.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Poppy. ‘Mum says it can take hours – sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.’
‘Is there something I can do?’
‘Get help,’ gasped Poppy, continuing her rhythmic pumping. ‘Get my mum.’
Maude picked up her towel and sprinted up the beach.
‘Shinju!’ screamed a voice from the path. ‘Shinju!’
Mrs Murata ran down the beach, her face creased in fear. Poppy paused to check the girl’s chest – nothing. Maude stopped and turned back towards them all, reluctant to leave.
Mrs Murata collapsed in the sand beside the inert body. Poppy kept rocking, forcing air into Shinju’s lungs.
‘Poppy pulled her from the water –’ Maude began to explain.
‘Doctor Trehearne,’ Mrs Murata gasped, clutching at her shirt, tears rolling down her face. ‘We need Doctor Trehearne.’
‘I’m on my way,’ Maude assured her. She took off again, her feet kicking up puffs of soft sand as she raced towards the path to Myilly Point.
Poppy continued rocking back and forth for a few more minutes when suddenly Shinju began to choke and splutter, coughing up seawater. She took a huge gulp of air, then started to wail.
By the time Maude returned with Cecilia, Mrs Murata was cuddling a wet, bedraggled Shinju to her chest, alternately kissing and murmuring to her in Japanese. Poppy was sitting beside them, shivering with shock despite the oppressive heat.
‘Well done, Poppy,’ murmured Cecilia, stroking a strand of Poppy’s wet hair off her face.
Poppy smiled wanly, relief and horror flooding through her in equal measure. I saved her. Shinju’s alive, but it was so close. I thought she was going to die.
Cecilia checked Shinju over carefully, checking her pupils, pulse rate and breathing, then helped Mrs Murata carry Shinju back to the house. Maude carried the still-full picnic basket, while Poppy trailed behind, her legs wobbly beneath her.
3
The Dragon Pearl
Back at the house, Shinju was given a warm bath and dressed in one of Poppy’s old cotton nightgowns, which was far too big for her. Poppy thought she looked like an exquisite porcelain doll, with her pale complexion and lustrous black hair. Shinju was then propped up on the sofa and fed bread and milk.
The others gathered around to drink restorative tea and eat Daisy’s famous lemon cake.
‘Thank you, Miss Poppy,’ said Mrs Murata solemnly. ‘You saved Shinju’s life. You’re very brave.’
She took Poppy’s hand and pressed it warmly.
Poppy shook her head.
‘I didn’t see her go,’ confessed Mrs Murata. ‘I sorted the linen with Daisy and collected the dirty washing, and all the time I thought Shinju was playing with little Charlie. When I turned around, she was gone. Daisy and I called out everywhere, then Daisy remembered you and Miss Maude had gone down to the bay for a swim, and perhaps she had followed you.
‘When I ran onto the beach and saw her lying there . . . I thought . . . I thought . . . I have seen too many people taken by the sea.’ Mrs Murata bowed her head, tears spilling down her cheeks.
Cecilia too
k her hand and squeezed it. ‘Everything’s all right,’ she murmured. ‘Shinju is safe. It was a miracle that Poppy saw her when she did.’
Poppy sat silently with her thoughts. What if I hadn’t seen her? What if I’d turned around just a minute later? Shinju could be dead . . .
‘I didn’t notice her,’ Maude admitted. ‘Poppy and I were quite far out, then Poppy just started racing for the shore. I thought she’d seen a shark. Then I turned around and saw a splash and a small black head sinking under the water. It wasn’t until I saw Mrs Murata calling that I realised it was Shinju.’
Everyone turned and smiled at the little girl, looking so old-fashioned in her oversized nightgown.
Shinju smiled at Poppy. ‘Arigato,’ she said, her voice croaky and hoarse.
‘Dou itashi mashite,’ replied Poppy, taking a sip of tea, its warmth spreading through her, making her feel strong again. ‘It was my pleasure.’
The next morning, Poppy was feeding the hens in the chookyard when she heard Daisy calling her name. She wandered back to the house and found Mrs Murata waiting in the shade of the verandah.
‘Ohayou gozaimasu, Murata-san,’ called Poppy, climbing the steps to the verandah.
‘Ohayou gozaimasu,’ replied Mrs Murata with a bow. ‘Miss Poppy, I have come to formally thank you for saving my granddaughter yesterday.’
Poppy flushed with embarrassment. ‘Oh no, Mrs Murata, it was nothing, really. It was just lucky that I saw her.’
‘Miss Poppy, it means a great deal; our Shinju is very precious to us. She is the third generation of our family to be born in this country.’
Mrs Murata sat down in a wicker chair on the verandah. Poppy sat down in the chair opposite.
The Forgotten Pearl Page 3