Pearls (22 page)

This afternoon it would rain again, lightning flickered over the ocean behind slate grey clouds. One of the last storms of the season, the Wet would be over soon, and the fleets would head back to sea, leaving the town silent again.

So Cameron had done it in the end, that famous temper of his had got the better of him. He had said she was worth more to him than any pearl but in the end, she wasn't.

'Is Grandpa down there?' Jamie asked.

'Yes darling he is.'

'Doesn't it hurt?'

'He can't feel pain anymore. I told you his spirit's in heaven with the angels.'

Heaven! The last place she would expect to find her father. More likely it was straight to the hot place for the likes of Patrick Flynn. He'd be welcome there and much more at home playing billiards with the devil and finding a way to cheat him.

'How can he be here and in heaven?'

'He just is, that's all,' she said and immediately regretted snapping his head off.

She could not believe what Cameron had done. How could she ever have loved a man like that? Damn Cameron McKenzie, damn Patrick Flynn, damn all men to hell.

'So what bit of grandad is down there?' Jamie said.

'His body's there, Jamie, his soul's in heaven.'

'What's a soul?'

Her son would ask a question like that. How could she best answer him? 'It's the part of you that doesn't grow old and the part that never ever dies,' she said.

'Where is it then?'

'Where's what?'

'My soul. The bit that doesn't die. You mean like a skeleton. I saw a picture of a skeleton inside us. It's the bit that's left over after you die. Is that the soul?'

How can I explain it to him? she thought. Do I really believe it or am I just parroting back at him what the nuns taught us at Covent school?

Yet Cam had been a part of her soul. He had touched the part of her that made her feel alive, whatever it was in her that made her smile or made her feel alive and passionate and curious and aflame and joyous. For now she had Jamie. But one day he would grow up and go away and she wondered just what her spirit would do then.

***

The luggers raced for Entrance Point, vying with each other for the honour of leading the fleet out. Buccaneer Rock stood grey and sombre against the rust-red coast. The white bungalows of Broome disappeared out of sight behind the mangroves.

Simeon stood at the stern and wondered if he had made the right decision. He had been on the point of surrendering himself to Sergeant Clarke but Huey Fong had talked him out of it. 'You're crazy! You gonna put your head in a noose for a white boss?'

'But he saved my life.'

'So now you gonna throw it away?'

He cursed that pearl, it had brought him nothing but pain. Anna had torn his heart out and now he had Flynn's ghost dogging his every footstep.

Why did Flynn have to die?

He had made up his mind. If the white man's court found the skipper guilty, then he would confess everything. But maybe he would get off, then he wouldn't have to say nothing.

Pans clattered in the galley. He put his head into the stinking kitchen. The Japanese was busy with his pots and bowls. 'So, Hanaguchi, you find a job you are good at, finally!'

Siosuki didn't even look up.

Ayeee, it was hot in here! Simeon wiped sweat from his face with the back of his arm. 'Too scared to dive no more?' Simeon persisted.

Siosuki picked up a bone-handled knife. 'Cannot dive no more. Not possible.'

'You talk like a duck.'

Siosuki bobbed his head, like a good cookboy. 'Yes, boss,' he said.

Simeon was disappointed. He had hoped the little Japanese would give him an excuse to throw him into the water, as Siosuki's friends had done to that Koepanger last season. Perhaps it would help lighten the black mood he was in. But it looked like the beating he had given him had turned the Japanese a little simple. He scowled and turned away.

***

When he had gone Siosuki punched the knife into the bench. He would like to stick it in that Manilaman's guts. He did not know if he could wait a few more days for that
kichibu
to die.

***

'Can you tell the court your name, please?'

'Rosemary Kathleen Thompson.'

Barrington adjusted his gown. 'Your occupation?'

' ... Barmaid, sir.'

Barrington wrinkled his nostrils as if he could smell the stale hops. 'And where do your reside Miss Thompson?'

'At the Conti - at the Continental Hotel.'

'At the Continental Hotel.' Barrington organised his notes on the table in front of him. 'At the hotel.' He looked up, gave her a chill smile. 'Now then, Miss Thompson, you say you were with the defendant, Mister McKenzie, on the night of the third of January.'

'That's right, sir.'

'But the murder did not take place until the next night. The fourth.'

Rosie looked flustered. she looked up at the magistrate. 'Well, whatever night it was Mister Flynn was murdered, sir. I don't remember the date exactly.'

'You don't remember when you were there?'

'I don't remember the date. But it was the night poor Mister Flynn was murdered.'

Wingham got to his feet. 'I object your honour. My learned friend is badgering the witness.'

'Sustained.'

Barrington bowed to the magistrate. 'My apologies to the court.' More shuffling of paper. 'What were you doing on the
Roebuck
, Miss Thompson?'

Rosie looked at her hands. 'I have already explained that to the court, sir.'

Barrington shuffled his papers again, as if he was checking his notes on Wingham's examination of the witness. 'Ah yes, I'm sorry. You stated you were on intimate terms with the accused.' He looked up at the ceiling fans stirring the languid air. 'How many men are you on intimate terms with, Miss Thompson?'

Wingham jumped to his feet. 'I object, Your Honour.'

The magistrate peered at Barrington over his spectacles as if he was trying to see through a thick fog. 'Mister Barrington?'

'I intend to establish, Your Honour, that the witness is unreliable.'

'The girl's morals have no bearing on this case!' Wingham shouted.

The magistrate made a careful note. 'Proceed with caution, Mister Barrington.'

Wingham glared at Barrington, then slumped down into his seat, the chair legs squeaking on the wooden floor.

'Thank you m'lud,' Barrington said. He stared at Rosie. 'Miss Thompson ... is it true that you are going to have a baby?'

Rosie looked at Cameron. His face was a study in pain.

'Miss Thompson?'

'I ...'

'Are you or are you not with child?'

'Yes.'

Barrington nodded, thoughtfully. It was suddenly very still in the tiny courtroom. The brass fan turned slowly overhead. She looked at the jury. Two of the men had been to her room above the saloon bar in the Continental.

'Who is the father of this child?'

Rosie looked at her hands.

'Is it the accused?'

'No,' Rosie said, quickly. 'It's not hi ...'

'Then who is the father, Miss Thompson?'

Rosie felt a bead of sweat track between her shoulder blades.

'I'm sorry, Miss Thompson, would you like me to repeat the question?'

'I don't know.'

'I beg your pardon. I couldn't hear you.'

'I said, I don't know!' The unspoken 'Damn you!' hung unspoken at the end of the sentence.

'You don't know ...' Barrington consulted his notes again, as if confused by some intricate, mathematical puzzle. 'I see.' He pursed his lips. 'Why don't you know, Miss Thompson?'

Rosie stared at the ceiling.

'Is it not true that the accused is the father of the child and you would do anything in your power to try and protect him?'

'He's not the father.'

'Then who is?'

Rosie spared another glance at Cam; his knuckles were white around the rail of the dock.

'Miss Thompson, is it not true that you have been working as a prostitute ever since you came to Broome?'

Rosie nodded her head.

'I'm sorry, I can't hear you.'

'Yes.'

'You realise that it's illegal to engage in immoral acts for money?'

' ... Yes.'

Barrington shuffled through his papers again as if he had not the slightest clue where he was going with his cross. An old trick of his. 'You say you were on intimate terms with the accused, Miss Thompson. Would it be fair to say you were in love with him?'

Rosie looked at Cameron. He shook his head.

'Yes,' she said.

'Could you speak up please?'

'Yes!'

'May I put it to you, that any young woman who is willing to prostitute her body might also be willing to prostitute her testimony for someone she thought she loved?'

Rosie shut her eyes. She realised now the enormity of her error. In trying to save Cam, she had only made his plight so much worse.

***

Cameron did not look at her as she left the dock. He was watching the jury. He knew now that there was only one man in Broome who did not believe he had killed Patrick Flynn and that was the man he had seen running away that night on the beach.

Rosie walked with as much dignity as she could muster between the gallery of silent spectators. All the men's eyes were turned away, but the women stared her down, their eyes shining with spite. Poor Rosie.

She deserved better.  

Chapter 36

Morning over the Condon Banks. A wisp of smoke rose from the
Ilsa
, buckets splashed into the pearly water as the crew took their morning baths. The Koepangers and the Malays sat around in their sarongs chattering in sing-song voices.

Simeon leaned on the rail and smoked a last cigarette before getting into his diving dress. Siosuki approached him cautiously, holding a cup of coffee.

'Here, boss.'

Simeon span around, knocking the enamel cup out of his hand. It clattered across the greasy deck and landed in a litter of unopened shell. 'Take it away!'

Siosuki hissed under his breath, wiping the scalding coffee off his hand onto his shorts.

'The food's shit! Your coffee's shit!'

Siosuki bowed and backed off. 'Yes, boss.'

The crew all watched this exchange, then shrugged their shoulders, and got back to work. Divers were notoriously bad-tempered when they were working. Most of them had permanent 'rheumatics', mild but chronic cases of the bends. It gave them terrible cramps in the shoulders and constant headaches that kept them awake all night. Usually the pain did not subside until they went below again.

There was nothing to be done except stay out of his way and get on with the work.

The tenders set to work checking the diver's lifeline and the red rubber hoses of his air pipe. Simeon got into his diver's dress and then sat down on the stool next to the main mast and waited for the lugger to set into its drift. When he finished his cigarette he crushed it out and threw the remains into the scuppers. He wanted another, badly, but in a moment he would be going over the side.

It was not the rheumatics that kept him awake last night. The white boss's ghost had visited him again. Even now, when he closed his eyes, he could see him, all grey and mottled and the white skull bones glistening among the sticky mass of matted and bloodied hair. He had hovered at the end of Simeon's bunk, all night, not saying a word.

Soon the ghost would have company. The previous afternoon Niland's schooner, the
Ada
, had brought them provisions and their 'slop chests' - tobacco, drink, and other provisions. The crew also gave them all the news from Broome - Cameron had been found guilty. He was to be put on board the next steamer and sent south to be hanged in Fremantle Gaol.

You going to let this happen, Simeon? You want to forget how he dived nearly four fathoms to save your life?

Wes, naked except for a pair of white cotton shorts, padded across the deck. 'You shiverin'. Mebbe you got da rheumatics dis mornin'.'

'I'm all right. Where's Huey Fong?'

'He still be in his bunk. Reckon you go down first.'

The breeze had settled into an easterly. The crew hauled on the halyard and the anchor chains rattled as the
Ilsa
got under way. Simeon ordered them to hoist mainsail and jib and then the Koepangers started up the air pump.