The Secret Fate Of Mary Watson Part 37

I sit up straighter, the pain in my feet forgotten. It can't be Bob. It's far too early, and in any case he'd be thumping and bellowing, not tapping sedately.

'Who is it?' I call out.

No answer. But whoever's outside pushes something white halfway under the door.

I turn up the lamp with an unsteady hand and go to retrieve the paper. As soon as I draw it inside, I hear heavy footsteps walk steadily down the hall to the stairs.

The note is written in strong, cursive strokes. With a fountain pen. Half an hour. Upstairs, Federal Hotel.

No signature. It doesn't matter. My pulse races. I know who it is.

Roberts. In Cooktown! And Percy must have known. Must have spoken to him before he left for Melbourne, or wherever else he's gone. Told him with gleeful malice about my changed circ.u.mstances.

I sit down on the bed. My feet protest as I shove them back into my boots. Why didn't Roberts pa.s.s on his decision through Percy? Why would he wait for Percy to leave and then speak to me personally? He doesn't usually do his own dirty work. I take the kerosene lamp over to the cold fireplace, crumple the note. I hold one corner to the flame, then throw the paper into the ash pit, watching it burn.

Too late to run, and nowhere to hide if I do. I wipe my hair down on both sides, compulsively. And then do the same to the front of my dress. For the first time in weeks, since I took Porter's whale-oil cure, my palms itch painfully. I open the door.

If I were in any doubt about the nature of the summons, the tall man waiting for me at the end of the alleyway alongside the Federal Hotel dispels it. I recognise him from that earlier meeting ... a year ago now. Six foot tall, with dull ginger hair, coa.r.s.e features and eyes full of implacable purpose. He turns and walks quietly down the dark, damp pa.s.sage. I follow, a lamb to the slaughter, counting steps to calm myself. Too soon, the alley opens up into the shabby courtyard near the back entrance. Three empty wooden rum barrels line up against the wall. A rusty birdcage hangs askew from a gum tree's branch, picking up the moonlight. I hear a possum's leafy scamper somewhere to my left, an off-key tune sung from the bar inside.

The stairs smell of stale beer and the ground-in dirt of gold-diggers' boots. By the time we reach the open door on the landing, my palms are wet.

'Come in.'

Roberts has taken the same cracked leather chair that he had before. As before, the door is left open. I take both as good omens, and caution myself to hold my tongue. Not sink my own s.h.i.+p before I hear the cannon boom. The ginger-haired guard dog stands watch in the hallway. The captain's face is impa.s.sive. Nothing to be learned there. I sit, reciting the words in my head so that I'll get the tone exactly right.

'Percy's been to see you?'

'Yes.'

'I a.s.sume, then, you know my situation.' I clasp my damp hands together on my lap so that he won't see them shake.

He leans back in his chair, puts one ankle over its opposite knee. If anything, his beard is even longer than when I last saw him. Jet black, reaching down to his lap. He strokes it lightly, just below his mouth. Stares at me, unblinking.

'Yes. I know your situation.'

I'd forgotten just how weighty his absence of small talk can be.

'I bet he told you I'm incapable of doing the next signalling. That Ah Leung is ready to step into the breach.'

'No bet. We're both poker players, remember?' The left side of his mouth twitches.

The saliva in the back of my throat is thick as I swallow. 'I'm not incapable, Captain. It's no easy climb up Cook's Look, but I can do it.'

He stares at me for a few more seconds. Then glances over to the disused fireplace. There's a chip in the corner of the surround. He fixes his gaze on it.

'The drop is now scheduled for September.'

'Next September! But I'll have my baby by then. I'll be more than able -'

He stares at me evenly, hammering my sudden relief back into silence.

'To fight another day?' He finishes the sentence for me, his voice a monotone.

'Something like that.'

My words sound faint to my own ears. Something's wrong. The conversation is so full of holes there's nowhere to step without falling through. What did he say to Percy? What did Percy say to him? Why hasn't he said an outright 'no' to my request to continue?

'Ah Leung -' I start.

'Will be controlled.'

The words he doesn't add - for now - hang heavy in the air between us.

I've always thought of Roberts as being emotionless. But I realise it's not quite true. In the flicker of the lamp, his dark eyes are full of knives under a deceptively smooth surface. Like the reef just off the Lizard. And trying to find the safe pa.s.sage through what he doesn't say is a challenge equal to Cook finding his dark blue line through all of that peril. A challenge I realise I'm not up to at the moment. I search around for something on the surface to help me set my course.

'Why so long until the next drop?'

He makes a gesture I remember: steepling his long fingers, as though completing some circuit necessary to contemplation. I imagine his thoughts pa.s.sing back and forth through his fingertips.

'It's complicated. An invasion of Egypt is in the offing. It would be to our advantage if a couple of French spies were compromised in the process. One must always be prepared to act.' He looks me in the eye. 'But one must not act until one's opponent is completely committed, and has reached the point of maximum vulnerability. I now judge we will reach that point in September. The thirtieth, to be exact. Subject to developments, of course. Though I'm confident of my calculations.'

'I see.'

No use trying to work out his political cloak-and-dagger code. What I do know is that September is a long way from now ... a lifetime.

'The operation requires only one more night of signalling. One more crucial night. Are you sure you're up to the task?'

'Yes, I'm sure,' I say, then wonder if it's true. 'But Captain ... what then?'

The foot he has rested on his knee wags side to side like a dog's slow tail.

'Do you intend to stay with your husband on Lizard Island when this is all over?'

'No.'

'Then you would take the child with you, presumably. How will you secure pa.s.sage without raising suspicion?'

I haven't thought clearly about anything so far ahead, but dare not say so. Reluctantly, I offer the first practical scenario that comes to mind. 'I'll offer Percy money to hide me and the baby on Petrel. He could take us south.' Never mind that Percy and I are barely on speaking terms.

He makes a noise at the back of his throat but doesn't comment. Then he stands. His guard dog, alert to the faintest signal, moves into the doorway. I stand as well.

'Wait here ten minutes,' he says over his shoulder. 'Then put out the light and go back to your hotel.'

'Yes, Captain.'

I watch his dark bulk fill the doorway then disappear. I collapse back in the chair and listen to the faraway shrills of a good-time town. They seem even more artificial to me now than they did when I lived here. I've grown used to the different noises on the Lizard. The real sounds of the night.

I can't seem to summon the energy to move, even when the required ten minutes has pa.s.sed. What pins me to the chair? Nervous tension released? Loss of will? Lethargy? My obstacles are just as real. The outcome just as uncertain. But every now and then, in between anxious moments, I feel calm sneak in. My hands rest on my belly. Over my baby.

In these last weeks, since I realised I'm carrying an extra pa.s.senger, I've imagined myself as a mother. Imagined my life after the final drop. The baby will be delivered safely, somewhere away from all this strife. I will have the money to care for it. Our future will be secured.

But things have changed and I must change my thoughts with them. I must keep up. Must keep one step ahead. I've played my cards well enough so far - well enough to escape Papa's hopeless, downward spiral, and help Carrie do the same - but now there's far more at stake than just my own skin. My child will most likely be born here in Cooktown. I will be forced to take a vulnerable infant back to the Lizard. Ah Sam will have to care for it while I climb that dangerous hill again.

Something cold sneaks in. A possible explanation for why Roberts would want me to make this one last climb of Cook's Look. Perhaps he knows that the blacks have become more volatile. Perhaps he's decided I'm not as valuable an a.s.set as Ah Leung is and could easily be sacrificed. His only gamble? That I manage to complete the signalling before I'm brought down with a spear.

Does it make sense? I don't know any more. My emotions seem heightened with pregnancy. What I do know is that fate will force me to ante up my most precious possession. Roberts, Ah Leung, Percy, Bob, the blacks, the signalling job ... all risks, an endless string of dangerous wagers. But how will I ever forgive myself if this last bet puts my baby in harm's way?

I begin to stretch my arms up to yawn, but stop myself. Ridiculous Cornish superst.i.tions about pregnancy twist and turn in my head. Don't raise your hands above your shoulders or you'll strangle the baby. Don't write in a diary, or the Devil will see the words and come for the child.

Lizard Island Winter, 1881

48.

Why did no one tell me

that having a child changes everything?

That the heart swells so hugely

it can never shrink back

to selfishness again?

From the secret diary of Mary Watson 15TH JULY 1881.

Screams ricochet off the limestone walls. Ferrier's face is the colour of boiled beetroot. I've fed him and changed him. What else is there to do? I'm rocking the cradle with just a little more force than necessary when Ah Sam slips into the house.

'What, what, baby?'

He lifts Ferrier in his nightdress. Hangs him over one shoulder like a small sack of slugs, rubs his lower back while simultaneously jigging him up and down. It looks like punishment, but Ferrier's howling subsides to a few hiccoughs. Two minutes later, he's asleep, his head tucked into the Chinaman's grimy neck.

My ears are finally, blissfully, empty.

Ah Sam puts a stained finger vertically over his lips and lowers the baby back into the cradle.

Wretch. His eyes are closed. The dark lashes on his now-pale skin twitch slightly. His mouth's a plump bud, drawing in teaspoonfuls of air, and pus.h.i.+ng them out again. He's angelic ... when he's asleep. Daily I marvel at how I could have delivered such a beautiful child. He looks nothing like Percy. Neither does he look like Bob. Which didn't stop Bob converting him to a perfect little Pope-loving son. Heathen that I am, I was forced to wait outside the Catholic Church in Cooktown while the christening ceremony proceeded. I wasn't allowed within snuffing distance of the candles.

But none of that is Ferrier's fault. I look down at his tiny, sleeping face. He doesn't care for Latin and holy water. Already he's devoted to two G.o.ds: one on the right, one on the left. And both inside my blouse.

I motion Ah Sam outside and we stand on the gravel in the cool morning breeze off the water.

'You said you might have something for wind?'

He pulls a small bottle from the waistband of his pyjamas. 'Two drop under tongue.'

'What is it?' I open the lid and sniff suspiciously. A sweet, syrupy undertone. 'Does it have opium in it?' He gives me such a look of cultivated innocence that I laugh. 'Well, we'll see how desperate I get.'

Whatever is in the mix, I know Ah Sam wouldn't hurt the baby. Ferrier loves him, gurgles and waves his arms around, trying to swim towards that bland moon-face every time it rises over his cradle. Ah Sam is endlessly patient with him. Tickling his belly to keep him happy while I'm peeling the vegetables. Singing to him, sometimes, in his peculiar, jerky intonations.

I put the bottle into the pocket of my ap.r.o.n and look down towards the water. The Kanakas and the Aboriginal boys have managed to drag Isabella pretty much out of the water and onto the beach. The lugger looks like a crusty whale propped up on port side by a few heavy logs. Small waves lick at the stern. The Kanakas, two to a side, wield long, wooden-handled iron sc.r.a.pers on the hull. Barnacles, weed and black muck fly off with each heavy push. Gulls crowd around the growing ring of dark detritus on the sand. It's hard work: a chiselled wooden screech, followed by the deep-throated language of big men, then another screech. They've been at it since yesterday noon, and don't look likely to finish before late tomorrow.

'Where's Bob?' I ask.

Ah Sam shrugs. If he knows, he's not saying. Bob's mood has been black for a month. Until Ferrier was born, he was as close to happy as I've ever seen him. He stared at my belly in the evenings with a paternal gleam in his eye, even smiled occasionally, and his foul temper was largely reserved for Isabella's crew. He still treats his son as one would any valuable possession. But it's as though I've served my purpose now that I've produced his heir. Beyond the convenience of a live-in babysitter, my position seems largely irrelevant.

'Well, where's Percy then?'

Another shrug. A half-apologetic smile.

Bob and Percy have hardly been out fis.h.i.+ng since the baby was born, and their partners.h.i.+p has been more strained than ever since Percy came back from Melbourne. When they do make the effort to harvest slugs, the catch is disappointing. I've been so focused on Ferrier that I haven't troubled to find out what the problem is. But maybe it's time I got to the bottom of it.

'Isabella's hull should be clean by tomorrow. Do you think the men will put out soon?'

Ah Sam shakes his head.

'Why not? The weather's fine.'

'No slug, missy.'

'But it's the dry season. Shouldn't there be plenty of slugs now?'

'Fis.h.i.+ng bad ... Slugs go.'