The Forgotten Pearl

by Belinda Murrell

  ‘I have brought you something as a token of our thanks – from my son Oshiro and my daughter-in-law Masuko.’

  From her pocket, Mrs Murata pulled out a delicate red silk bag embroidered with pale-pink flowers. She offered the bag reverently to Poppy with both hands.

  ‘No – I couldn’t . . . I mean . . . you mustn’t . . . you don’t need to give me anything – I was just happy I could help,’ spluttered Poppy.

  ‘My family would be honoured if you would accept this gift, Miss Poppy,’ insisted Mrs Murata, still holding out the bag. ‘It would hurt Shinju if you did not accept our thanks.’

  Poppy swallowed. What would Mum want me to do?

  Poppy smiled at Mrs Murata and took the tiny bag. She loosened the ribbon and opened the mouth.

  A teardrop pearl rolled from the bag onto her palm, trailing a fine gold chain.

  ‘Oooohh,’ sighed Poppy. ‘It’s beautiful, but I can’t.’

  ‘My son Oshiro found the pearl just before Shinju was born,’ explained Mrs Murata. ‘It is a teardrop – an angel’s tear.’

  Mrs Murata closed her own hand over Poppy’s, encasing the pearl.

  ‘Pearls are the jewel of good fortune,’ explained Mrs Murata. ‘It is the jewel of wisdom, wealth and healing – but most of all, pearls have the power to keep children safe. The pearl helped you keep Shinju safe, so now it is yours, to keep you safe.’

  Poppy didn’t know what to say.

  Mrs Murata patted her hand. ‘Pearls are the essence of the Moon Goddess, which have fallen to earth as tears and lie forgotten under the sea.’ Mrs Murata had adopted a sing-song storyteller’s tone. ‘These forgotten tears, with their supernatural powers, are the most prized possession of the sea gods and water spirits.’

  Poppy stroked the perfect smoothness of the jewel.

  Mrs Murata stared out over the garden to the distant Arafura Sea and continued her story. ‘Ryo-jin, the noble and wise dragon-king of the sea people, lived in a beautiful palace of crystal and coral, built deep under the ocean. There he lived with his dragon-queen and his daughters, the Naga maidens, who were half-human and half-serpent. His greatest treasure was the Pearl Which Grants All Desires, which he wore around his neck when he flew. This treasure was guarded by the Naga maidens.

  ‘One day the Naga maidens, frightened by a great fire-dragon, lost the pearl, and though Ryo-jin searched far and wide for the treasure, he could not find it. For many years, the great pearl lay forgotten under the sea, until one day it was found by a young man called Hoori. He soon married his heart’s desire – the Pearl Princess Toyotama-hime, the daughter of the Ryo-jin, and they lived happily for many years.

  ‘Hoori was very happy because his wife, the Pearl Princess, was expecting their first child. Toyotama-hime sent Hoori from the house and ordered him not to watch while she gave birth. Of course Hoori, being a man, was overcome by curiosity and could not help peeking through a crack in the wall. To his great horror, he saw that at the moment of birth his wife transformed into a great dragon. Hoori was terrified and ran away, while the Pearl Princess, devastated by her husband’s betrayal, fled back to her father’s coral palace under the ocean. Sick with remorse, Hoori was doomed to dive to the bottom of the ocean floor forever more, facing sharks and serpents and dragons, searching for the pearl tears shed by his beloved.’

  Mrs Murata stopped, still staring dreamily out to sea as though she expected to see a great dragon swooping over the waves, breathing fire.

  ‘That’s a beautiful story, Mrs Murata,’ said Cecilia, who had appeared unnoticed in the doorway. ‘And it is a precious gift you have given Poppy. Thank you and your family so much – Poppy will always treasure her pearl and remember what it means.’

  Poppy opened her hand and gazed at the luminous pearl. It gleamed pale-golden in the sunlight.

  ‘Would you like Mrs Murata to help you put it on, Poppy?’ Cecilia asked.

  Poppy nodded and Mrs Murata draped the chain around her neck, fastening the delicate catch. The pearl nestled, cool and pale and magical, against her skin – a mystical jewel of protection.

  ‘Arigato, Murata-san,’ murmured Poppy, twisting the pearl in her fingers. ‘It is beautiful.’

  ‘Shinju would love you to come visit us one day and have tea,’ offered Mrs Murata. ‘Perhaps your friend Maude would like to come as well?’

  ‘I would love to,’ replied Poppy. ‘I’m sure Maude would enjoy it, too.’

  ‘Arigato.’

  The streets of Darwin were crowded in the cool morning air. Bicycles jostled for space beside horsedrawn carts, pedestrians and the occasional car on unsealed roads. Since the war had begun, petrol was rationed, so many people had garaged their cars and turned to other transportation. As a doctor, Poppy’s father had greater access to fuel so he could still use the family car to do his rounds.

  The crowds of people swarming the pavement were a striking mixture of colours, cultures and races. Chinese shopkeepers arranged their shining piles of fruit and vegetables. Japanese pearl divers and Malay crewmen mingled with Greek fishermen and Aboriginal stockmen.

  On the appointed day, Cecilia dropped Poppy and Maude outside the ramshackle house where the Murata family lived, four generations under one roof.

  It was a typical Darwin house, built of timber. Two small rooms were surrounded by a wide verandah where most of the family slept on mattresses, which they rolled away during the day.

  Mrs Murata met them at the front door. Instead of her usual Western clothes, she was dressed in an elaborate kimono of pale-green silk with long, trailing sleeves. The kimono was intricately detailed with embroidered flowers. A wide obi sash was gathered at the back into a stiff knot and she wore white split-toed socks on her feet. Her white hair was piled on top of her head. The traditional dress made her look far more graceful and exotic than her usual work clothes.

  ‘Ohayou gozaimasu, Miss Poppy and Miss Maude,’ greeted Mrs Murata with a deep bow to each of them.

  ‘Ohayou gozaimasu, Murata-san,’ replied Poppy. ‘You look so elegant, Mrs Murata. I love your kimono.’

  She smiled, acknowledging the compliment. ‘European dress is much more practical for everyday wear and easier to wash, but we do like to wear traditional kimonos for special occasions.’

  She indicated a neat row of shoes by the door.

  ‘We always take our shoes off when we come inside the house,’ explained Mrs Murata. ‘You may wear some of those house slippers. Come in when you’re ready. I’ll go and fetch the tea.’

  While the girls took off their shoes and put slippers on, Maude whispered to Poppy.

  ‘I didn’t know you spoke Japanese. What does it mean? How did you learn?’

  ‘Ohayou gozaimasu, means “good morning”, and Murata-san is just a term of respect like “Mrs Murata”,’ Poppy translated. ‘I don’t speak a lot of Japanese, but I’ve learnt a few phrases from all the Japanese people I’ve met over the years. I can speak some Mandarin as well.

  ‘Lots of people speak different languages up here. Dad says Darwin is really more a part of Asia than Australia. There are far more Aboriginals, Chinese, Malays and Japanese people up here than white Australians, like us.’

  The girls struggled to find slippers big enough for their feet, which gave them the giggles. The Japanese women obviously had tiny feet.

  Inside, the house was simple and uncluttered, with little sign that so many people lived there. There were straw tatami mats on the floor, and Mrs Murata ushered the girls towards a number of cushions scattered around the low table in the centre of the room. On the walls were parchments, decorated with paintings of fish, flowers and Japanese characters in thick black calligraphy.

  Shinju was also dressed in a tiny pink kimono, long sleeves nearly to the ground, which made her look even more like a porcelain doll. She bowed elabora
tely and greeted the girls in Japanese. Shinju looked completely different from the small, limp child that Poppy had rescued from the sea.

  Poppy returned a simple bow. Maude copied Poppy in both her bow and clumsy Japanese greetings to Mrs Murata and Shinju. Shinju’s mother entered the room, carrying a black lacquer tray. She shuffled gracefully in her long, silk kimono, taking tiny steps.

  Poppy felt underdressed in her summer skirt and blouse. She fingered her teardrop pearl, thinking that at least the jewel was elegant.

  ‘Masuko, this is Poppy and her friend Maude,’ said Mrs Murata.

  Masuko took Poppy’s hand, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Thank you, Miss Poppy. I can never thank you enough for saving my little Shinju.’

  Poppy blushed and stammered. ‘No. No. It was my pleasure.’

  Mrs Murata showed them where to sit. The Japanese women knelt on the floor, their feet tucked under their bottoms. Shinju’s mother began to lay out the tea implements and food with precision, carefully folding back her long, wide sleeves to keep them out of the way. Black lacquer dishes held tiny cakes and sweetmeats. Bamboo vases contained delicate sprays of yellow and orange speckled orchids.

  ‘The men are away diving for pearl shell,’ explained Mrs Murata. ‘My husband and three sons are usually out on the pearl luggers for a couple of weeks at a time.’

  ‘You must miss them,’ replied Poppy. ‘And you must worry about them, too.’

  ‘Yes – many divers die from paralysis, when they come up too quickly,’ agreed Mrs Murata. ‘You know, in Japan, it is the women who are pearl divers, but we’re not allowed to dive for pearls in this country. So Masuko and I wash clothes instead.’

  With great ritual, Masuko carefully wiped each porcelain bowl with a white linen cloth, holding up each precious article to be admired and examined. She opened the blue-and-white tea caddy, measuring out powdered green tea and then whisking it vigorously with hot water.

  The porcelain bowls of tea were ceremoniously passed to each person around the table. Only when everyone had been served did Mrs Murata take a tiny sip.

  ‘My mother brought this tea set with her from Japan as part of her dowry when she married my father. It belonged to her grandmother, so it is very old and valuable,’ explained Mrs Murata. ‘In Japan, taking tea is a very important ritual.’

  Poppy and Maude sipped their tea. It tasted far stronger than the tea they usually drank with milk and sugar.

  ‘Everything must be done in exactly the right order and with absolute grace,’ said Mrs Murata. ‘Shinju-chan must learn the ceremony from her mother, Masuko, just as I learnt it from my mother.’

  Masuko smiled, covering her mouth with her hand.

  ‘Would you like some cake, girls?’ offered Masuko. ‘Shinju-chan helped me bake them this morning, especially for you.’

  ‘Arigato,’ Poppy and Maude said in chorus.

  The cakes were tiny and very sweet. The girls weren’t sure if they liked them, but politely ate a couple.

  Mrs Murata pointed out the paintings on the wall and explained their significance. Poppy’s legs were aching and going to sleep in their uncomfortable kneeling position, so she had to wriggle into a different posture. Maude shifted too, rubbing her calf muscle gingerly.

  ‘Now, Shinju-chan, I think our guests would like to see you dance?’ Mrs Murata said. ‘Will you fetch me my shamisen?’

  ‘Yes, please, Shinju,’ urged Poppy. ‘That would be lovely.’

  Shinju obediently left the room with the same tiny steps as her mother and returned with a long lute-like instrument, a bamboo flute and two fans.

  Mrs Murata tuned the shamisen, plucking the strings with a tortoiseshell pick. Masuko accompanied her on the bamboo flute.

  Shinju took up a position, kneeling on the tatami mat, the two fans spread open like wings on either side of her.

  ‘This is the butterfly dance.’ Mrs Murata began to play, slowly plucking the strings of the instrument. The music was strange and discordant to the girls’ unaccustomed ears, but hauntingly beautiful.

  Shinju took dainty steps, fluttering the fans up and down, left to right, in a shimmering semblance of a butterfly’s flight. When she finally finished, gracefully swooning to the ground, both Poppy and Maude burst into applause.

  ‘Bravo, Shinju,’ cried Poppy. ‘That was just beautiful.’

  ‘You looked exactly like a pink-and-gold butterfly,’ agreed Maude.

  Shinju beamed with pleasure and quickly covered her face with one of the fans.

  ‘Would you like to learn?’ asked Masuko. ‘Shinju can show you.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ agreed Maude, her eyes lighting up.

  ‘That would be fun,’ added Poppy, ‘although I’m not much of a dancer.’

  Mrs Murata shook her head gravely. ‘But they cannot learn the butterfly dance dressed like that!’

  ‘Oh.’ Maude looked downcast. ‘What a shame.’

  Mrs Murata stood and went to a large oak chest in the corner of the room. She opened it and pulled out metres of crimson and cream fabric, neatly folded.

  Together Mrs Murata and Masuko dressed Poppy and Maude, draping the silky fabric around them and fastening it with the wide obi sashes. Poppy wore the crimson kimono and Maude the cream. Masuko gathered their hair up into buns with mother-of-pearl clips, finished with scarlet hibiscus flowers.

  Shinju giggled at the sight of the girls transformed into Japanese maidens. Maude curtsied.

  ‘You are the Butterfly Princess, Miss Maude,’ decided Masuko, giving Maude two open fans for her wings before turning to Poppy. ‘And you, of course, are the Pearl Princess, daughter of the wise and noble dragon-king, Ryo-jin.’

  Masuko smiled at Poppy, lifting her arms aloft so that the sleeves draped regally.

  ‘Now, poised and elegant,’ instructed Mrs Murata, plucking the shamisen. ‘No, tiny steps. You’ll trip if you take great, big man-steps like that, Miss Poppy. Yes, that’s better Miss Maude.’

  The girls laughed, trying hard to copy Shinju and Masuko’s graceful movements. Poppy felt like she had been whisked to another country and another time.

  Cecilia arrived later to collect the girls and found them giggling and dancing, fluttering their fans and swaying to the music.

  Poppy felt oddly disappointed as she shed her borrowed robes and became her everyday self again. It had felt special being a Japanese princess for an afternoon. Poppy and Maude hugged Shinju.

  At the door, they both bowed to Mrs Murata and Masuko.

  ‘Arigato.’

  ‘Arigato.’

  ‘Dou itashi mashite,’ replied Mrs Murata. ‘Sayonara.’

  As they clattered down the stairs, Maude grinned at Poppy. ‘That was such fun. You know, I’ve never met a Japanese person before the Muratas. They were nothing like what I’d expected. They were lovely.’

  4

  The Drover’s Boy

  Maude and Poppy sat at the kitchen table helping Daisy bake Anzac cookies to send to Edward. On the dresser against the wall, the two tortoises, Tabitha and Tobias, swam around lazily. Charlie sat on the floor cuddling Coco the cat. Christabel hopped around on the floor, nuzzling up crumbs. Honey studiously ignored her, preferring to lie with her head on Poppy’s feet.

  ‘Now add one cup of brown sugar,’ ordered Daisy as she stood by the stove frying mince for shepherd’s pie. Maude measured out a cup of sugar and added it to the bowl of flour, rolled oats and coconut. Poppy added golden syrup, water and bicarb soda to a saucepan of melted butter and stirred them together.

  ‘Daisy, tell Maude the story of when you were a drover’s boy on the plains,’ urged Poppy, pouring the liquid into the bowl of ingredients and mixing them vigorously with a wooden spoon.

  Daisy laughed and shook her finger. ‘Don’t you ever get tire
d of that story, Miss Poppy?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, handing the gooey wooden spoon to Charlie, who crowed and began licking eagerly. In an instant, his face was a sticky mask of caramel biscuit dough. Christabel hopped over and licked him on the face. Charlie giggled with delight.

  ‘Please, Daisy?’ begged Maude with a beguiling smile, rolling the dough into balls between her fingers. Poppy flattened the balls with a fork and laid them on the baking tray.

  Daisy pulled the mince from the stove and sat at the table, a bowl full of potatoes in front of her. She began to peel them expertly with a sharp knife, her long fingers flying.

  ‘Before I came to work with Doctor and Missus Trehearne I was a drover’s boy,’ began Daisy with a shy smile. ‘You see, I’m not originally from the bush – I was born on Never-Never Downs, a big cattle station down south. My mum and aunties worked in the kitchens at the homestead, and my dad was a stockman with all the other fellas. I had a great childhood, running wild and playing with the other kids.

  ‘Gran taught us how to track goannas and find sugar bag – you know, bush honey – and discover water in the bush. She taught me how to find my way home from anywhere in our country, just by asking the birds.’

  Daisy scraped the potato peelings in the chook pail and started chopping the spuds into chunks.

  ‘When I was fifteen, I fell in love with one of the drovers, a white man called Charlie, and he asked me to come mustering with him. Those drovers worked hard, moving the cattle over hundreds of miles, following the feed and water, or taking them to market. They might be gone for months.

  ‘Well, girls weren’t allowed to be drovers, but I wanted to be with Charlie. So I cut my hair short, dressed in a chambray shirt and moleskins, and told everyone my name was Jackie.

  ‘I became a drover’s boy. For the next two years we drove those bullocks up and down the country, sleeping under the stars by the campfire and riding the horses all day. I cooked and scrubbed, branded cattle and mended tack. It was hard work but a good life.’

  Daisy scraped the potato into a pot of boiling water.