The Secret Fate of Mary Watson Page 9

‘I must tell you, Captain, Charley has asked me to deliver some messages for him. He’s at least partially aware of what you’re doing. He knows that I gather information for you. I think he knew from the moment Percy recommended me as a piano player.’

  ‘What are his messages about?’

  His voice comes unsurprised from the shadows. He doesn’t seem even slightly disturbed that Charley might have sniffed out the rudiments of his operation. That fact alone tells me that my intuition is right. French Charley’s, as a base for gathering information, is fast outliving its usefulness to Roberts. And if I don’t pursue this risky new bet, then so will I.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve made it clear I’ve no intention of delivering the notes.’

  ‘Go ahead, do what he asks. Just make a copy of any message he gives you and pass it on. To me, personally, when next I’m in town. Along with anything else you find … significant. Boule is a gnat trying to pierce the hide of an elephant. I’ll know if he causes any real trouble. I am, however, interested in any talk of further expeditions to New Guinea.’

  ‘Percy mentioned that. But I haven’t picked up on anything. Why would you want Charley to stay away from New Guinea?’ There I go again. ‘Sorry …’

  He walks back into the light and takes his seat again. Apparently the subject isn’t especially delicate. His tone is light. ‘The French are establishing themselves in the New Hebrides: buying up the best land from natives and Europeans alike. But it’s the Germans who want New Guinea. This is a delicate time in European diplomacy. Disraeli’s still in office, but word is that his time is over. The Grand Old Man will be prime minister again next year.’ He lifts one booted foot and rests it on his knee. ‘Gladstone is particularly reluctant to provoke German sensibilities, and England wants no part of New Guinea. But it’s clear they’ll be forced to intervene if — no, when — the Germans go too far. In the meantime, men like Boule are an accelerant. If they’re allowed to collect the kindling and keep feeding the fire, that is.’

  ‘But Charley’s French, not German.’

  ‘You must have gleaned something of his character by now.’ His mouth twists slightly. ‘Boule knows everything there is to know about whoring. Makes his decisions not out of patriotism so much as the proud tradition of selling himself to the highest bidder. The question then becomes: which of two undesirable clients will he lie down with in order to turn the most profit? He figures, quite rightly, that he’ll be in a better position to exploit New Guinea if the Germans take control. England wouldn’t tolerate his like.’

  I digest this. It would explain Roberts’s occasional ‘pirating’. He is probably a privateer. German expansion into New Guinea would necessitate all sorts of maritime traffic, and the British flag would be unwelcome. A privateer could disrupt those activities without adverse political implication.

  He draws a piece of paper from his pocket and holds it out to me. ‘Fuller will be on the Lizard most of the time from now on. If something happens that requires our urgent attention, send a telegram to this address with the message: Your new saddle has just arrived.’

  I take the paper and slip it into the pocket of my skirt.

  ‘Otherwise, I’ll see you next time I’m in town,’ he says. ‘Do you have anything else to tell me?’

  ‘Only more about the French gnat, I’m afraid.’

  I tell him about the Chinese junk some weeks back that docked with, so the rumour went, opium charcoal for the goldfields. It was well known that the Chinese diggers handed it out to the blacks to burn on their fires. Once they were addicted and docile, they could be bribed into ambushing European camps. What was new was that Charley had shown an unhealthy interest in the whole illicit venture, and I suspected he was somehow sponsoring the operation.

  Roberts sighs deeply. ‘Where’s Fahey when you need him?’

  ‘Organising another ball?’

  He nods. It’s a long-running joke in Cooktown, dragged out when Bartley Fahey, now the water police magistrate, pays no attention to what’s going on at the docks. The original ball in question, given mainly for the benefit of the upper classes on the hill behind Cooktown, was organised when Fahey held a position as sub-collector of customs. The size and grandeur of the event is still talked about; including the extravagance of shipping in tons of ice from Townsville for the occasion.

  ‘Good enough,’ Roberts says. ‘You’d best get back to work.’ He dismisses me with a curt nod.

  There’s nothing to do but leave. I think he’s forgotten about Lizard Island, the signalling job, but when I’m almost at the door he delivers his last words on the subject.

  ‘It’s clear that you understand the further you go in this operation, the more money there is to be made. Have you considered, however, that the deeper your involvement, the more you have to lose?’

  10

  Who is the puppeteer?

  Who is the puppet?

  Sometimes it’s not quite clear

  just who’s pulling the strings.

  From the secret diary of Mary Watson

  7TH DECEMBER 1879

  ‘You frightened the life out of me!’

  The next night, I’m almost home from work, dodging mud puddles, when he steps out of the shadows in oversized boots. I recognise the warm conversation mints on his breath, but the battered old muleskin coat and cabbage-tree hat are unfamiliar. In the dark, the effect is sinister, his face almost hidden by the brim.

  ‘You’ve put your trust in the wrong man.’ His voice is a low growl.

  The aftermath of a storm drips warm pencil-lengths from the eaves of the Federal Hotel. Gaslight catches his twitching hands.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Fingers close around my wrist. ‘You only think he’s on your side.’ His voice sounds older, more confident. Then I realise the habitual stammer is absent, as if he’s drawing power from the anonymity of the dark. It’s enough to give me pause.

  ‘Who, Heccy? Who is it I can’t trust?’

  ‘He’s killed before. He’d kill you now, if he thought he could get away with it.’

  ‘Who?!’

  But he doesn’t say. Just tips his face forward so it’s totally eclipsed by the brim of the hat. For a moment I think he intends to kiss me, or perhaps bite me. Then he jerks back.

  ‘Let me go!’ I tell him.

  The handcuff-grip unlocks, and a flood of pins and needles rushes in. I rub the skin. Breathe out. Look up, but he’s gone. Dissolved back into the alley as if he’s never been.

  The thunder moves north, shaking the last coins in its collection box.

  Three nights later Bob says: ‘I’m no good with the airs and graces of courting.’

  He kissed me just seconds ago, on the cool sand near the tied-up boats in the harbour. Under a moon like a huge blister pearl with black fingers trawling over it. I’d closed my eyes. Tasted pipe tobacco. The vague seaweed undertow of the ocean. Pretended it was Percy.

  ‘I like the common touch,’ I tell him, my lips still smarting from his bristles. ‘When I think of your skin fitting, it’s not here in Cooktown. But in a more primitive place. Your island, maybe. Or the middle of the ocean.’

  I hold up the toy monkey he bought me, lolling on its stick, to the moon’s light. Its smile seems leerish, surrounded by apricot cheeks, red jacket and black bow tie. The outfit of some voodoo doll.

  We’ve spent the evening strolling through Chinatown, by the water. Wandering the narrow, covered alleys flaring with lanterns and banners. He led me, two fingers in the small of my back. Past the pyramids of oranges and apples. The counter with its enormous glass jars of fish-shaped sweets.

  ‘I’ve tried them,’ I admitted when he offered me some. ‘They taste like sweetened beeswax seals on the backs of important letters.’

  Bob asked how long I’d been nibbling on bits of Her Majesty’s post.

  I said it wasn’t much different to licking stamps.

  He chuckled, steering me casually away fro
m the opening in the opium tent, where the toothless man with small knives in his eyes handed out pieces of dripping sugarcane.

  He bought the toy from the very last stall.

  Now, his medicinal balls chatter amongst themselves, considering my comment.

  ‘Aye,’ he says. ‘The cloth of my skin don’t fit right in Cooktown.’

  The ocean in the distance keeps opening the same bottle of fizzy water. Pouring out a glass, then putting the stopper back in.

  Bob sniffs the air. ‘A good fisherman can scent a patch of slugs twenty miles away.’

  ‘What do they smell like?’

  He smiles crookedly. ‘I never said I was a good fisherman.’ He sniffs, and his nostrils flare. ‘It’s not the slugs themselves, but the fast-running tide that goes with them.’

  ‘I know the ocean smells stronger when there’s an onshore breeze, but that’s not the same thing, is it?’

  ‘No.’ Suddenly earnest, he takes my hands in his. The monkey dangles between us. ‘Ye’re like a breath of fresh air, Mary. Ye smell like flowers. Not hothouse blooms, but those tough, no-nonsense ones that grow by the roadside, drinking up the sun.’

  ‘Must be my new perfume, Caprice,’ I say. I test the aroma of the air myself and decide it’s ripe for revelation. ‘Have there been other women in your life, Bob?’

  He stares out to sea. The edges of the stars are softer than usual. And brighter. Pasted onto the sky with watery cornflour glue. I can almost hear the mainsail in his head creak as it stretches back into the distant past.

  ‘The fairer sex have always wanted something from me,’ he says. ‘I’ve been played a fool many times. I’ve always had a soft spot for a bonny face.’

  ‘I see,’ I say, and inwardly yawn. Clearly I haven’t been specific enough.

  He guides me gently around so that I’m bathed in moonlight. Follows the wings of my eyebrows, then the rest of my features. I endure the scrutiny, teeth clenched.

  ‘Do ye mind me saying? It would soften yer looks no end if ye didn’t pull yer hair quite so tight away from yer face.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I do find ye bonny, it’s just …’ Instead of only his foot, this time he shoves his leg into his mouth, all the way up to the kneecap. ‘Anyway, look at the Germans. They don’t value beauty in their wives. It’s strength, thrift, good nature and obedience that count.’

  ‘You forgot youth.’ If my voice were any drier he could strike a match on it.

  ‘I know it’s too early to ask. But do ye think we might … That is, I know full well ye’re half my age. But ye seem so different to other girls.’

  I hear the strange, excited chatter of Chinamen plying their wares in the distance. The exotic wafts of cooking: onions, shrimp paste. A repeated chipping-metal sound: some bird in an invisible tree. Light and shadow play across Bob’s damaged face.

  ‘I’ve heard some talk, Bob. About a woman you knew on the goldfields. She disappeared a year ago.’

  Seconds play out. Water slaps its washing against wharf pylons. The bruised mass of the sky moves its grudge closer.

  ‘That nonsense again. Who says so?’

  The wind’s winding up. I raise my voice just a little to compensate. ‘It doesn’t matter who. But why is it nonsense?’

  ‘A case of mistaken identity.’ His medicinal balls make an abandoned sound, like the sign outside a deserted inn clanking in the breeze. ‘A slug fisherman from Barrow Point had a sable belle for years. She ran away from him. Ended up on the goldfields, then was never seen again. Ye know how stories go. I was on the goldfields for a time. Now I’m a slug fisherman. Seeing most lips that pass loose talk are numb from drink, it’s not really surprising they’d think it me.’

  The delivery is smooth. Only a trained ear could hear the small squeak of a tight new shoe.

  ‘Why would a native woman who runs away from a white man be noteworthy?’ I ask. ‘If it were the other way around …’

  I’m thinking of the naked, white Normandy woman, the one whom diggers on the goldfields have seen on and off for years. No one’s found out how she came to live among the natives. Or why.

  ‘There was some trouble from her tribe. Threats to kill the fellow. I really can’t say.’

  It could be river water kicked up by the wind that’s peppering my arms. Or the dirt flung off Bob’s spade as he digs himself a deeper hole.

  ‘Ye must believe me, Mary. I’d never stoop so low.’

  He’s pensive on the brisk walk back. His medicinal balls have fallen silent. But he does lift a damp frond out of my way and warns me to watch my step as we clamber up the gravelly slope to Charlotte Street. We step onto the nearest verandah just as tumult descends. The nails-on-tin above our heads means we now have to shout.

  ‘I have to go.’ Bob pulls his coat up over his head. ‘I have to speak with Will Hartley. He’s the merchant who handles my slugs. Do ye want to climb Grassy Hill the day after tomorrow?’ There’s a gleam in his good eye. A definite challenge. ‘If ye’re up to it.’

  ‘Oh, I’m up to it. You’ll find I’m up to almost anything.’ Amazing how confident I sound, even to my own ears.

  With a last crooked smile and a flick of his forked tongue, he pulls his coat down tighter on his head, leaps off the verandah and runs headlong into the rain.

  11

  It’s not only the fairer sex

  that is hard to fathom.

  From the secret diary of Mary Watson

  11TH DECEMBER 1879

  It’s not Heccy Landers who stops me on my way home tonight, but another man, lurking behind a tree on the other side of Charlotte Street. He calls my name. I turn. He slips his long body into the nearest shadow. I look behind me to make sure no one is watching, then half-walk, half-skate across the muddy road. The smell is like a handkerchief that’s washed a hundred dirty feet being held over my nose.

  I follow Percy down a slight slope, through the trees and into a secluded clearing. The moon shimmers in the humid air with the consistency of half-cooked eggwhite. Just enough light through the branches to see that he’s distracted. Twitchy. Something joyous in my chest jumps up to meet him.

  ‘I didn’t expect you back in town,’ I say. ‘I thought you would be gone longer.’

  ‘I’m off to the Lizard tomorrow. I’ll be grounded there for a while. I’ve pushed my luck about as far as it will go with Watson.’

  His body is tense. He doesn’t seem at all happy to see me. A waft of something decaying rises from the river. When he turns, his green eyes are blazing. ‘What do you think you’re playing at with him?’

  ‘With Bob?’ I take a step back and almost fall over the root of a tree. Even in the half-light, I can see a vein prominent on Percy’s forehead. That laconic mouth is taut. ‘Haven’t you talked to Roberts?’ I rub my hands up and down my arms, though I’m not cold.

  ‘I’ve spoken to no one. I’ve been chasing up the Chinaman, remember?’

  ‘Did you find him?’

  I wonder if I imagine something furtive scuttling across his face.

  ‘No. And you’re avoiding my question. What are you doing playing up to Watson?’

  ‘Dirty White Neckerchief — I mean, Collins — didn’t turn up to receive my message on the dock. He’d had an accident. Roberts himself came into Charley’s. I gave him the message that the Chinaman was still nowhere to be found.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with Watson?’

  ‘I’m getting to that. It was Charley who introduced me to Bob, with some vain hope that I’d marry him, go to Lizard Island, and then help Charley with his smuggling operations.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  Wires under the surface of his face tighten skin over bones. He seems far more concerned with Charley’s underhand tactics than me talking to Roberts. But why?

  ‘I told Captain Roberts all of the above,’ I go on, ‘and then it occurred to me that I could marry Bob and be your signaller on the Lizard. You can’t object, surely?
Someone has to do it.’

  ‘Damn you to hell! Why can’t you stop meddling in things that don’t concern you?’

  He rakes big fingers through his hair and glares at me. The moonlight has a curious effect on his eyes, emptying them of colour. He hardly looks human any more. I almost reach out, try to break whatever mad spell he’s under, but I’m afraid of what he’ll do if my fingers come in contact with that coiled-up bundle of nerves.

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re so angry. You haven’t got the Chinaman. You need someone on the Lizard.’

  He must realise he’s not being rational, because he takes a couple of deep breaths.

  ‘It’s dangerous and stupid. And you’ll have to bed him. Did you think of that, Mary Oxnam? You with your clever little plans. Your eagerness to make money. You know Watson went around with a black woman? They say he killed her out on the goldfields.’

  ‘He says it was someone else. Not him.’

  I shouldn’t be upholding Bob’s story. I didn’t believe it when he told me, and I don’t believe it now. But this isn’t about Bob’s peccadillos. It’s about Percy’s regard for me.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with the old Scottish git!’

  ‘Of course not!’

  He rubs a hand roughly over his mouth. Even the familiar woodsy cologne he uses smells perturbed, as though some big animal’s giving the trunk of the pine tree a shake.

  He pulls his pipe from his pocket. His next words are low and measured. ‘It’s perilous. And no job for a woman. You’d have to climb that hill to signal at night, and you may have the dubious company of cranky blackfellows from the mainland.’ He tamps the bowl and goes to light it. The match flares. His face flashes huge in front of me. He shakes the match out. ‘The truth is, I feel … some degree of responsibility. For your welfare. I’m the one who employed you, after all. You don’t know what Watson’s like. I do. I don’t want him getting his dirty hands on you. You are still a vulnerable young girl, despite your bravado.’

  The spontaneous joy comes back for an instant. He doesn’t want Bob to have me. He wants me for himself! But as quickly as the heady feeling swirls me around, a killjoy hand falls on the whirligig, stopping it dead. The killjoy makes me repeat his words, his tone, in my head. Over and over until I hear the discrepancy. His voice was halting, but not because of some underlying affection. He was making the speech up as he went. Having failed to catch the insect with vinegar, he’d thought, reasonably enough, to try honey. And something else — that unfamiliar accent had crept back into his voice. For some reason, all of a sudden I want to get away from him.