The Secret Fate of Mary Watson (29 page)

22ND AUGUST 1881

‘I think they should come with us,’ Bob says.

His back is to me so I can’t make out his expression. Percy’s considering how much of his hand he should discard and doesn’t answer. His face is underlit by lantern light. Shadows pull down the skin beneath his eyes, and age his cheeks with accentuated cracks and folds. This is how he will look as an old man. Better able to disguise his self-interest under deep-cut grooves of apparent wisdom. He’s playing his cards well, and not just the ones on the table. If he speaks too eagerly now, he’ll arouse Bob’s suspicions.

‘You could be right,’ he says. He nods slowly and falls into silence.

‘Ye know Miller’s station at Flinders has been attacked.’ Bob’s back shifts under his shirt as he lays two cards face down and draws another two from the deck. After a moment, I hear the clink of pennies dropping into the pot.

No response for a few seconds. Night noises outside take over: the ocean’s phlegmy lungs, the snare-drum hiss of wavelets petering out along the shore. Wind gently shakes the house’s shoulders. There’s a draught under the door, despite the cloth snake filled with sand that I’ve laid across it.

Percy raises one eyebrow. ‘From what I heard, a few blacks came close to the homestead and took off when they were shot at. Hardly an attack. Miller had just been to Cooktown. They were probably after food and fishhooks.’ He lays his cards down. ‘Three aces.’ The pennies jostle and tinkle on their way to his stack. ‘My trick, I think, old boy.’ Then, looking thoughtful, he adds, ‘Could be more dangerous for them to come north. We don’t know the currents or winds, and the reefs near Night are a bit of a mystery to us. Mary can’t swim, and the baby would certainly perish if, say, the lugger were swamped. I suppose you’d just have to be particularly careful. Hove to at the first sign of foul weather, for instance, no matter how good the fishing. But it’s none of my business. You’ll do as you see fit. I’ll be on
Petrel
so it won’t be my problem.’

He yawns to emphasise his lack of concern. Downs the last sip of rum in his mug. ‘Bedtime for me, I think.’ He nods in my direction when he reaches the door, his pocket chinking with pennies.

I don’t return the gesture.

I look back to the baby. He must be dreaming. His tiny, almost-transparent eyelids flinch and flutter. I study the intricate tributaries of fine blue veins. For some reason, my own eyelids feel hot and my forehead’s aching.

Percy steps out and closes the door, but not before a cold rush of air threatens the flame at my elbow.

Bob turns to glance at me. He’s clearly in two minds, and they’re paired with the two sides of his face. The light from the lamp throws the ruined skin into relief.

‘Do ye think ye could repulse the blacks if they came at the homestead?’

‘I know how to shoot.’ My teeth are chattering. Sudden pimples rise on my arms. ‘There’s a draught in here, Bob. I don’t know where it’s coming from.’

He pads across the floor to look closely into my face. He smells of fish, and of the whale grease used to lubricate the cleats on the luggers.

‘There’s no draught. Ye look sick. Go to bed.’

Now my bones are filled with lead filings.

‘I haven’t given Ferrier his last feed.’

The scar tightens on his cheek. ‘Take him with ye, then. I’ll sleep on yer sister’s cot.’

My throat is dry when I wake in the morning, and my lips parched, but I feel better. Ferrier’s staring at the ceiling, lost in some world of his own making. I reach over to feel his saturated napkin. When he sees my face, it’s his cue to bellow. I slip my legs over the edge of the bed and stand experimentally. So far, so good. Just weak. And a little light-headed, as though the tether of my neck is not quite enough to keep me grounded. It’s not the fever or I’d be lost to my bed for days, sweating and shivering.

‘Missis, missis.’ It’s Darby’s deep voice from the doorstep.

I hear Ah Sam answer him. ‘Shoo, shoo. Missy sick.’

I move slowly into the main room. Ah Sam has all six household lanterns lined up in front of him on the table with the
glass cases removed; the sheared beak of the wick trimmer in his hand. Darby’s standing his ground.

‘What is it, Darby?’ I wrap my gown more tightly around me, pour myself a glass of water from the jug and take a sip. ‘Quickly. I have to change the baby.’

Ferrier’s still bawling in the bedroom. I look over to Ah Sam pleadingly. He sighs, puts down the trimmer and trots away to do my bidding. I hear his soothing voice from the bedroom. Darby pulls a hand from behind his back. Blood’s dripping from a large gash in the palm.

‘Me helpin boss chop up wood.’

I draw back a little. ‘Strange-looking wood. Here.’ I throw him a piece of rag. ‘Wrap it up in this and then come in.’

Five minutes later, Ferrier’s changed and quiet, and I’m washing my hands in potassium permanganate mixed with hot water from the pot Ah Sam’s boiled for the morning’s tea. The water is the pink of musk lozenges.

Darby perches on a crate. Once I’ve cleaned out the wound, I see the gash: two inches long, across the high part of his palm. It follows his lifeline. The skin is lumpy-looking at the edges and I’ll have to trim it with scissors. Darby’s looking grey now. I pour out a quarter cup of Bob’s rum as anaesthesia. He swallows it with a shudder.

The flesh is thick, resists the blades. I have to stop when he tries to pull away.

‘Just a bit longer, Darby. I’ll have to stitch up the wound so your insides don’t fall out.’

It’s a joke but he nods seriously and grits his teeth. The skin is just as hard to get the needle through. It’s the thick calluses on his hardworking hands. Despite the rum, Darby’s eyes roll back in his
head, reminding me of the morning I found him standing by my bedside, sleepwalking.

‘All right. Done.’ I give him a bit of a shake until his gaze clears, then wrap his wound in a bandage that I don’t imagine will stay clean for more than a few minutes.

‘Would you like a cup of tea to settle your nerves?’

He looks at the rum flagon.

‘No more grog. What will the boss say if I send you back drunk?’

Still he hesitates.

‘Is there something else?’

‘This morning me and Charley Sandwich bin fishin.’

This is hardly news. The boys have a favourite cove on the south side where they go just after dawn. One or other of them is always turning up on the doorstep with fish, oysters or turtle eggs in exchange for tobacco.

‘Yes?’

‘We see canoe on beach. Wild-black canoe. We come back. No fish.’

‘How many canoes?’

He holds up two of the fingers on his undamaged hand. I notice the skin’s peeling off the pads, revealing paler flesh beneath.

‘Did you see the blacks? How many? Do they have a camp there?’

He shrugs. ‘Dunno, missis. We come back quick. No fish.’

The lack of fish is a recurring motif. I realise then he’s on a different kind of angling expedition.

‘Better than a spear in the belly though?’

‘Too right.’ He nods and his curls bounce.

‘Almost a community service then, you keeping yourself alive … Yes, all right, you can have a plug. But listen, did you tell the boss this story?’

He shakes his head.

‘Well, don’t. I’ll tell him. You make sure Charley doesn’t tell him either.’ To emphasise the point, I go to the tobacco box, take two fibrous plugs and hold them out to him in a closed fist. ‘Remember, Darby. Only I tell the boss.’

‘Savvy, missis.’

My fingers uncurl. He takes the tobacco and disappears through the light of the doorway. When he thinks he’s out of view, I see him picking at the end of the bandage to unravel it.

Three days later. When the luggers returned from the reef this morning, they brought back only two bags of slugs between them.

Now, mid-afternoon, Bob fills the doorway, his rifle in one hand and a dead goanna in the other. He holds it by its long tail. The flesh seems limp and wobbly inside its mottled skin, the dark tongue lolling. Its long, dirty claws drag on the gravel. Behind Bob’s shoulder, woolly streaks of clouds spring loose from their bale. He hasn’t shaved for a couple of days. With the scar, it gives him a wild look, like a pirate.

‘Caught this bastard nosing around the chicken coop.’

I’m not moved to pity for the lizard. I’ve come to hate them for what they do to the poultry. Still, I’ve no wish to look revenge in the face.

‘Good,’ I say simply.

‘If we do decide to build a homestead on Night and I take ye up there, ye’ll like it. No lizards. Nothing but thousands of Strait pigeons.’

I nod, feigning anticipation. I’ll never see Night Island. Never have to wade ankle-deep in pigeon guano. The Lizard will be my last lump of granite in the middle of the ocean, I swear.

I look at the dead lizard again. ‘Do you believe in the afterlife, Bob?’

‘Not for vermin like this. But I bide it. It bides me. Pity yer locked outside. Sure ye won’t be turned?’

It’s not the first time he’s suggested I convert to Catholicism.

‘Quite sure,’ I say tightly. ‘Eternal damnation will suit me well enough, I dare say.’

He frowns at the blasphemy, but doesn’t scold me. Now Ferrier’s taken care of, my soul’s destination is only of academic interest to him.

Sluggish spring flies hover around the corpse. The sun sparkles on the grainy sand stuck to its patterned side. There is something slightly nauseating in the tiling of reptile skin. An ancient code that signals danger.

Charley Sandwich has moved up behind Bob and is hopping from foot to foot. ‘Boss? Boss?’

Bob turns and flings the lizard. It does a leaden cartwheel in the air. Charley catches it with both arms and a grin. Blood from the goanna’s mouth drips down his leg as he runs back to tell Darby of their sudden fortune.

1ST SEPTEMBER 1881

The luggers are loaded. Most of the crew is already on board. Bob pulls his hat down to secure it against a stiff onshore wind.

‘Remember, now, if something goes awry, try to flag a passing ship.’ He gives me an awkward smile, then pats Ferrier on the head. ‘Be a good chappie for yer ma.’ He turns to me. Speaks around a thick lump in his voice. ‘Look after my boy.’

‘I will, Bob. Thank you. For everything.’ After all our differences, I can’t bring myself to hate him.

Something softens to a wind-blown film in his eyes. He touches me on the cheek. ‘Ye sound like I’ll never see ye again.’

And then he’s striding down the beach, stopping only to swear at one of the Kanakas who’s dropped a box in the sand. I close my eyes in the warm morning sun. When I open them again, Percy’s standing next to me.

‘If there’s a change in plans, I’ll find a way to come back and alert you.’ Ah Sam staggers past with a crate full of oranges. Percy
waits until he’s out of earshot before continuing. ‘If you hear nothing, you’ll know it’s still on.’

‘What if I need to make contact?’

‘You can’t. You’re on your own. Look for the signal at 11 p.m. on the thirtieth at the co-ordinates I’ve given you. You have my position?’

‘Yes. I’ve written it all down.’

‘Good. I’ll fetch you early in the morning of the first of October. Be ready. I’ll have your money with me. There’s a safe place down along the coast about fifty miles from Lookout Point. An armed outpost. A southbound bullock train passes through there every week, maybe oftener.
You
do the work of convincing Ah Sam. If he gives you any trouble …’

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

‘I appreciate it.’ I hold out my hand.

He takes it. His palm is cool. He drops it again. The way his glance skitters away from my eyes doesn’t reassure me.

‘What about Ah Leung? How will he get off the island?’

I can’t help remembering what the Chinaman is here for: to clean up the mess should things go wrong. The exact nature of his cleaning activities is something I’ve tried not to dwell on. Nor his predilection for murder.

‘I’ll drop him off somewhere else.’ But he still evades my gaze. An image comes to mind of an executioner wearing a black hood so he can keep his business impersonal.

I shift the baby slightly, so that he sits in the hollow of my waist. The wind has left a crack in my upper lip. My tongue seeks it out. I wince at the sting.

‘It’s been a long haul,’ Percy says, looking to the ocean. ‘No hard feelings?’

No hard feelings … For what he’s done? Or for what he’s about to do?

This is my last chance.

‘Percy … I’ve held up my end of the bargain. Done what was asked of me, and it hasn’t been easy. All I want now is what I’ve earned. After this last drop, I become Ferrier’s mother. Nothing more.’

There, I’ve said it. Put all the cards I’ll ever have on the table.

‘None of us has a guarantee of safe passage.’ He bends to pick up a bristly coil of rope. ‘You can’t say you weren’t warned.’

I feel cold and rub my arms. There it is again: that something in the inflection of his voice that drags me back to the first time we met in Brisbane. The feeling there’s a gap between the way he presents himself and the way he really is. I don’t have the opportunity to interrogate him. He’s gone: taking large steps towards
Petrel
and whatever new life he’s chosen for himself. He doesn’t look back.

The first night. Still life with squeaky rocking chair, sleeping baby and mosquito net. Ocean and wind conspire, as they always do, muttering about the next day’s weather. The door is barred. There’s a new dimension to the silence in the little limestone house.

For the last hour, on and off, I’ve listened to a curlew’s heart-wringing wails from the darkness. It winds up and then falls in a sorrowful diminuendo. Seems to reach inside and squeeze my ribs. It’s a death bird, or so Darby told me a few weeks ago when we found one under a bush near the farm, its eyes eaten out by ants.

The cries stop abruptly. The emptiness that’s left behind is, in some ways, worse. I try to concentrate on the mending in my hands. There’s something so sensible about thread and needle; the pact between the two to stitch up the holes of the world.

A single yelp from one of the two remaining dogs. The breeze catches the window frame, which in turn rattles the shutters. The lantern flares then settles.

Then I hear footsteps. Not measured enough for a goanna.

Two distinct thumps against the door.

I stand. Glance over at the cradle. The chair rocks for a few noisy arcs by itself before stopping. I fetch the rifle from the corner. Then return to the chair and sit. Feet square on the floor, ears strained to drum-skin tautness.

Nothing but the usual island noises. Ten minutes pass. Or twenty. It’s hard to tell.

I go to the door and lift the bar. Pull it open. On the gravel path, two balls of feathers. Their necks broken.

My dead chickens come home to roost.