The Secret Fate Of Mary Watson Part 34

When Carrie comes in, I ask her if she remembers them, or was she too young?

'I remember.' Without being asked she ties the spare ap.r.o.n around her waist, fetches the bucket and the potatoes and brings them over to the table. She sits on the stool and starts peeling with the knife. 'We used to eat them under the monkey-puzzle tree,' she says. 'I'd lie on my back looking up at the bits of sky. It was like lying at the bottom of a wolf trap, with all the crossed branches above.'

'Funny, I always pretended the branches were the thatched roof of my own secret house, where only the people I invited could stay,' I tell her.

'Except you never invited anyone. You preferred to be alone.'

Today's bread dough is s.h.i.+ny and smooth now. I set it aside in its dish, drape a cloth over it. Then fetch the beans Ah Leung dumped at the door this morning, and begin topping-and-tailing them.

'Do you remember the fig tree in St Newlyn's churchyard? The one with a curse on it?' Carrie asks, looking up.

The corners of my mouth feel heavy, nevertheless I can't stop a smile when I think of the old schoolyard chant. 'Who plucks a leaf will need a hea.r.s.e,' I recall.

'It's not a laughing matter,' she says, with a seriousness that doesn't suit her face. 'Didn't you hear the story of the church warden who took his shears to it when the branches blocked the gutters? He fell off his horse shortly afterwards and died.'

'Lots of men in the country have falls from their horses, Carrie.'

The ocean's particularly calm today. We hear a swis.h.i.+ng sound, accompanied by low, anti-tonal singing. Ah Leung with his scythe is clearing the long gra.s.s around the clothesline.

'Well, then,' she continues, 'remember the Archdeacon of Cornwall? He made a visit to the church in sixty-four. He tore off a few leaves to prove that the power of Christ was stronger than the power of the Devil. And guess what?'

'He had a heart attack and went to his maker. I know the stories, Carrie. He was ten years older than G.o.d himself. It was about time he kicked off from something.'

'Well,' she's digging around in the salt pig with the wooden spoon, mounting her arguments, 'what about the blacks?'

'I didn't know they'd been to Cornwall.'

She gives me a flat look. 'That bone that they point at their enemies. It's a human bone. And it doesn't matter if you know you've had it pointed at you or not. It doesn't matter if you believe it's nonsense. You waste away and die. Just like that.'

'We all waste away and die,' I say, 'eventually. Who's to say it wouldn't have happened anyway?'

She shakes her head. 'You're so stubborn! Even to the point of being wrong.'

I feel a small s.h.i.+ver in my chest. 'That's possibly the most accurate thing you've ever said about me.'

I take Porter's nautilus sh.e.l.l over to the sill by the shutters so that when the light s.h.i.+nes through, it will fall on its smooth surface.

'Mary, you didn't ever ... you know ... the fig tree?'

'Pick a leaf? Of course I did. Who could resist a challenge like that?'

'How could you be so reckless!'

'I'm not dead, am I?'

Ah Leung's still carving up the gra.s.sy air outside. The evening birds chatter at the feeder.

'Do you remember much about Grandfather, Carrie? Apart from the sweets?'

I'm thinking of Porter. Somehow I've conjoined the two men in my head. It seems somehow right, even perceptive of me, this balmy afternoon.

'He had neckerchiefs in different colours. And a walking stick with an eagle's head.'

'Clever girl. That's right.'

She's encouraged by my praise. 'He used to write letters with special paper. I remember the box. It had solid triangle shapes on it and palm trees. I asked Mama what the triangles were and she said they were pyramids.'

I nod. 'Charta Egypta. From the land of the Pharaohs. I memorised all of the writing on the box before I knew what the words meant.'

'Why?'

'Well, you know how, before you learn to read, when it's the shapes of words and letters you fall in love with?'

'Not really.'

I've lost her. But, we continue our work in a companionable silence.

Later, after the vegetables are done and the light has turned bruised-orange, she says, 'I was jealous of you and Grandfather. You always went on walks with him. You used to come back knowing all the names of the trees and plants. He never took me. You were his favourite.'

I don't deny it. 'I wish he'd been my father.'

I look down to the backs of my hands. They're blotchy with work. I've lost so much weight lately, the veins look like purple worms under a thin, writing-paper surface.

'I've asked Porter to get you pa.s.sage on a steamer out of Cooktown,' I say.

She pales a little. 'I thought you didn't want me to go back to Papa.'

'I don't. By the time you go, I'll have some money you can take.'

Percy hasn't yet been to Cooktown, but there are at least three dozen bags of slugs ready for transportation to the mainland. He will come back with the money that's owed me.

'But where will I go?' she asks.

'If Mama hasn't managed to save enough for the boarding school, there's a landlady I know, Mrs Menzies, who runs a house in Brisbane. She's an old harridan, but, if you pay your board, she can help you to find a job. You might have to lie about your age. Promise me you'll do it. You're not too young for domestic or governessing work. And you'll get all meals free, a bed and a small allowance.' Mr Wilson's fleshy face swims into my vision for a few seconds. 'Just stay away from drunks and lechers, no matter how attractive their propositions sound.'

I steel myself for her defence of Papa. Her accusations of paranoia. But they don't come. 'But what about Mama?'

I look across to the nautilus sh.e.l.l. It glows faintly in the last light. 'What about her? She's like me. She's made her bed, and now must lie in it.'

Her eyes are full of a new idea. 'But why must you lie in it? Come with me! We can have a place together. We can change our names so that Bob can't find you.'

'I can't leave the island just now, Carrie. Not yet. But when I can, I'll come for you. I swear it.'

44.

Sometimes the weather

can suit a mood perfectly.

From the secret diary of Mary Watson 3RD NOVEMBER 1880.

A bleak day. Wet and dirty. Percy and Bob came back from Cooktown a week ago. Percy had a wad of pound notes from Roberts, for me, hidden in a rolled-up copy of the Brisbane Courier. Less welcome was his news that there's still no word on the new drop date.

Carrie walks up behind me as I stand outside the door to the house, rubbing my palms up and down my skirt and swaying slightly in the nor-easterly bl.u.s.ter.

'I can't believe the men are going out in this.' Her skirt moulds her legs at the back and she holds her hat on with one hand. Her lips have small hairline cracks from the wind. 'Someone will fall overboard for sure.'

A quick, let-it-be-Bob look pa.s.ses between us.

'Only the good die young,' I say dryly.

She looks down at my hands, clucking her tongue. 'You should have asked him to get you some cream for that rash when he was in Cooktown.'

'I've tried it before,' I say, remembering John Adam's rancid-smelling ointment. 'It doesn't work. And I ...'

The rest of the sentence is left hanging but understood: wouldn't ask him to get me anything. We exchange another glance.

Carrie's bed is separated from ours by only a thin wall. She is well aware of how things stand.

Bob returned from Cooktown with a disappointing profit for his slugs, a lingering scent of the brothel on his skin and a violent glint in his eye. He's taken me roughly every night since. Slapped me twice: once on the cheek, a short, sharp sting; once across the ear, leaving a background noise in my head. Not ringing exactly; more like a hissing crackle - the sea's feet, in riding boots, treading on discarded bark. I hardly notice the bruise on my cheekbone, until the wind strikes its nerves in a certain way that makes the teeth behind it ache.

I find myself thinking a lot about Laura from French Charley's these days. How far did Bob go with her? How much violence had she put up with? A few bruises? A broken bone or two?

The only thing that comforts me is the fat pile of notes now hidden in my locked box under the bed. The money that will enable Carrie to leave.

I hear Bob's medicinal b.a.l.l.s approaching. He's been in the house, looking for the bottle of ammonia used on the luggers for the long-spined sea-urchin stings. I see it dangling from his hand as I turn to speak to him, having to raise my voice a little to ride over the whistle of the wind.

'Are you coming back tonight?'

His eyes are steely with a mix of indifference and something else I can't quite pin down. The scarred side of his face is a pitted silver landscape in the light.

'Ye'll miss me, will ye?'

His fingers move towards my face, carefully, snake-charming. The rough tips barely touch my skin, pa.s.s lightly over the bruise, darker, I'm sure, against the cream of my complexion. He knows I won't flinch. Not with Carrie next to me.

'Ye look like something the moggy dragged in,' he says.

I can't fathom what he's thinking these days, and it makes me anxious. Does he know what happened between Percy and me? How could he? More likely, he's finally noticed that our marriage is a sham. But if so, what was the tipping point? What made him sure? How did my charade go wrong?

He looks to the ocean, as though tired of my features. 'We may stay out.' Then: 'We could have made it work, ye know.'

'What did you say?'

I stare at his face, but his attention is fixed on the sea. The click of the medicinal b.a.l.l.s in his pocket slows. Wind tousles his spa.r.s.e, greasy hair. He turns, something watery and naked in his eyes, before he hastily dresses them in the low-grade contempt I've become used to.

'I said we'll work the slugs overnight if we get on to a good patch.'

He strides off towards the luggers. A wave of the nausea I've battled on and off for days rises to my throat. I lower myself casually to the ground, as though I've just thought to sit and watch the preparations for a while. I draw my knees up to my chest.

Carrie sits next to me, the bottom of her skirt wrapped around her boots. 'Are you ill?' she asks. 'You're very pale.'

I close my eyes briefly and swallow. 'I'm all right. Something I ate disagreed with me, I expect.'

We watch in silence as the wind churns clouds to grey b.u.t.ter and the crews make ready to weigh anchor. One of the Kanakas pushes through an agitated swirl of ocean, a thick stack of hessian bags balanced on his head. The sky's bearing down with its sackful of wriggling rain.

Percy's walking across the beach, a coil of rope over one arm. The wind has pasted his s.h.i.+rt to his back. He bends at the water's edge, rolls up his trousers, starts a little at the first cool infusion of sea. The material darkens as he wades through the weedy chop towards Petrel. Gulls dip overhead. Somehow, in their small brains, they've made the connection between the men and the slugs. They're obviously smarter than I am at calculating cause and effect.

'Stop it, Mary!'

I shake my head, come back from the bleak place behind my eyes, and turn towards Carrie. 'Stop what?'

She's looking at my hands. There's red under my fingernails. My absent-minded scratching has made my palms bleed again.

Bob's prediction was wrong. The men aren't out all night, after all. Isabella came back at one in the afternoon. Now, at three, with Bob's slugs boiled and pinned onto the sand to dry, Petrel anchors in the shallow water. It's still swelteringly hot. The horizon's bright scarf s.h.i.+mmers around the sunburned neck of the world, and the sun's glaring like a feverish eye. The wind's died, leaving only high, striated clouds and a fug of humidity. As usual, the seabirds have gathered. The sky above Petrel is a piece of tin with the small, metal hooks of their cries sc.r.a.ping down it.

Ah Sam takes off his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow, then puts it back on. His bare feet are filthy, the nails black, the corns covered in sand mixed with grey ash.

He's just set fire to a new load of wood under the boiling tank. He and Ah Leung have filled it with water. The flames leap like dragon's breath. I stand to the right, upwind of its torture, until it subsides to a useable heat.

I'd managed to stir Bob's slugs earlier without too much trouble. But Percy's are another matter. It's all I can do to approach the tank. The tipped-in creatures fume, hiss and stink: squirming in their greasy stew. The nausea is back in force. My eyes sting, as though each eyeball has been pulled out, polished with a rag made of fish scales, then sat back into its socket. No amount of blinking takes the irritation away.

In the middle of my misery, Percy wanders up the beach, almost a mirage in the rippling heat. His trousers rolled up and his slouch hat on sideways.

'All right, Mrs Watson?'

I don't answer his question. Just keep stirring. Try not to vomit.

His chin is unshaven. He pokes his pipe through an opening in the undergrowth and pulls a box of matches from his pocket. Seeing that they're damp, he grabs a piece of driftwood from the sand and holds it to the fire until it catches alight before bringing it to the tobacco in the bowl. The flare makes his eyes sparkle for an instant. The skin beneath them looks raw from the salt air.

'I notice there were only four bags from Petrel,' I say. 'Bad trip?'

'Weather was against us. How many bags did your husband get?'

'Eight.'