The Secret Fate of Mary Watson (2 page)

The bet’s gone around the table twice. When it comes to Blackbeard, he raises by ten pounds. No one moves for a
moment. Sideburns folds, then Dandy. Then Handsome. Wilson hesitates, then lays down his cards. Blackbeard gathers up chips worth eighty-six pounds, ten shillings. Without having to show his hand.

He would’ve been fifty pounds down, but his patience brought it all back.

An hour later, my eyes want to close in the warm room. The game drones on in chip clicks and monosyllables. Sideburns is on his third glass of whisky, and it’s starting to show. Dandy and Blackbeard are holding their own. Wilson’s been fortunate of late, but Handsome’s struggling with bad luck. Good hands at the wrong time, plus he lost a tough head to head with Wilson: both men had drawn to a flush, but Wilson’s was King-high to Handsome’s Queen.

It’s Blackbeard’s deal. The pot is right, and he distributes the cards. All in for the draw. It’s probably nonsense, but I’m trying to read Handsome from the back and something about the set of his shoulders makes me wonder if he hasn’t just had a nice surprise. When the bet comes around, he raises. I look to see how Wilson responds. He glowers at his cards, then looks up for the briefest second. But not at Handsome, and not at Dandy either. I glance to the right. Cobweb has his chin buried in his chest but, for an instant, his eyes meet Wilson’s. I look back to Wilson, just in time to see his scowl change into a resigned smile. He folds.

Blackbeard folds too, without looking up. Sideburns raises five pounds. Dandy folds. Handsome sees the five, and raises another five. Sideburns hesitates, a bit unsteady, and calls, laying down Jacks and Sevens. I can’t see what Handsome shows, but Sideburns’ face says it all. I’ve seen that expression of righteous suffering before … years of it. His judgement is gone with the
whisky in his glass, but he still blames the cards. Why is it every loser reminds me of Papa?

I glance back to Wilson. This time he’s smiling, and again he looks up at Cobweb. Just for a second, but enough to alert me.

I lean back in my chair, eyes half-closed, stretching my neck as though it’s stiff from holding one position. What I really want is a better view of Cobweb. Yes, he would be able to see Handsome’s cards … if Handsome isn’t careful how he holds them. Sitting two seats to my right, Cobweb also has clear sight of Wilson’s face, and vice versa. And he seems more alert and attentive than he should be. The game’s been trundling on for some time, the air’s close and tepid, yet he holds his arms across his chest as if he were cold.

Suddenly alert again, I re-involve myself with the game. Three hands, pass, four, five … but Handsome’s cards are ordinary. He plays a head to head with Dandy for a smallish pot, wins with something I can’t see but it leaves Dandy scowling down at a pair of Queens. Six hands, seven …

And then it happens. Blackbeard and Dandy have folded on the bet after the draw, but Handsome raises ten pounds. Wilson ponders for a moment before his eyes dart to Cobweb. Instantly I look right, but only with my eyes. The man’s arms are still folded across his chest, but this time his chin is lifted. He’s almost looking down his nose at the game.

Wilson sees the bet, and raises another ten. Handsome sees the bet, and calls.

‘Tens and Eights,’ he says calmly.

‘Too bad,’ Wilson counters. ‘Three ducks.’

Now I’m interested. And angry. I didn’t like Wilson from the start, and it’s almost a personal affront that he’d take advantage of
Handsome. Now that I’m on to them, it doesn’t take long to make sure. Cobweb’s chin up means Wilson stands a show of winning; chin down means he should fold. Their system is almost certainly more complicated — I notice that sometimes Cobweb’s left arm is over his right, sometimes right over left; sometimes his hands cup his elbows; sometimes his fists are balled. I can’t make out what messages Wilson might be sending to Cobweb, if any; I can see his face, but not enough of his hands to make a judgement. Still, I don’t need the details.

They’re clever; they don’t make eye contact except when Handsome’s involved in the betting. Cobweb might sometimes be in a position to see Dandy’s cards, but not often, and too much communication would make the others around the table suspicious.

I watch the two conspirators for three more hands just to make perfectly sure, then decide it’s time to powder my nose. As I pass Handsome, I graze his back with my arm. He turns, irritated, those green eyes already stirred up by his inexplicable losing streak.

‘Terribly sorry,’ I murmur, ‘there’s not much space to move in here.’

I point with my eyes first to Wilson, then in the general direction of Cobweb. It’s all I can do. I can’t hesitate without giving myself away, but as I turn to go I see one of Handsome’s eyebrows hitch.

‘Not at all, miss,’ he says. I walk casually downstairs.

Five minutes later, I return. The men are tamping their pipes; in between hands they’ve ordered another round of drinks. I walk to my chair. Cobweb hasn’t moved. Wilson doesn’t look up; neither does Handsome. Dandy mops his damp face with a
monogrammed silk handkerchief. Sideburns tries manfully to look sober, without success. Blackbeard leans back, comfortable in his chair. We exchange the briefest of glances, and a slight crinkling around his eyes hints at the possibility of a smile. I’m sure he knows. He’s probably known what was going on from the beginning. He knows, and now he knows that I know too.

I look up again. Blackbeard’s smile is gone and his eyes are cold. Dreadfully cold. He’s thinking of something else.

He’s looking at Cobweb.

Wilson’s not sure how or why the wheels have fallen off his clever plan, but he looks disgruntled when the game finishes and he counts his somewhat reduced pile of chips. Still, he’s finished ahead. Handsome recovered somewhat, but has probably dropped fifty pounds overall. Dandy has done well, and Blackbeard has broken even. The big loser, predictably, is the inebriated Sideburns, who makes light of his losses with the kind of forced bonhomie that’s just waiting for the wrong word, or wrong look, to turn viperish.

Wilson has forgotten all about our follow-up conversation, which suits me admirably. He knows something went badly wrong, and isn’t clear about how much trouble he might be in. I didn’t notice Cobweb leaving, but I imagine he’s shaking in his boots somewhere private. He’d paled like a feverish frog under the fangs of Blackbeard’s stare.

The spectators depart for the bar. I’m about to follow them downstairs when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to find Handsome’s face inches from my own.

‘Percy Fuller,’ he offers, then lowers his voice, brings his face close enough that I can smell his cologne: a mix of pine needles and warm male. ‘But please call me Percy. I owe you a favour. How did you know?’

Some small spring tightens in my chest and then lets go with a pleasant ping. I step back a little.

‘Mary Oxnam. Please call me Mary.’

I hold out my hand and he takes it. His is dry, with calluses on the palm. I look down. He wears no wedding ring.

‘The eyes, of course,’ I tell him. ‘Once you know what to look for, it’s obvious.’

He tips his head a little to one side. ‘An observant girl, aren’t you?’ It’s a rhetorical question. ‘Pardon my curiosity, but how would you know about card sharping, Mary Oxnam?’

I think of lying, then wonder what would be the point. I won’t see this man again, and fabrication requires more energy than I can muster. It’s been a long afternoon.

‘I’ve had a lifetime’s apprenticeship.’

He looks quizzical.

‘I’ve watched my father’s failed attempts to extract money out of his customers and business colleagues in any number of illegal ways. Rigged poker games were the least of it.’

‘I see.’ An extra string pulls tight in those green eyes. ‘Customers?’

‘He’s proprietor of the Red Lion pub in Rockhampton. And before that, many other ventures. He’s not a particularly competent cheat, which led to a lifestyle that is … Peripatetic is probably the word.’ My throat feels dry. I need another drink.

‘Even with a family to look after?’

‘My father never lets a small thing like responsibility slow him down.’

‘Where are you from originally?’

‘Cornwall. My family came over from Truro two years ago on the
City of Agra
. And you?’

‘London,’ he says, but somehow I doubt it. There’s something slightly askew about his accent. ‘These days I operate a sea-slug-fishing station on Lizard Island with my partner, Bob Watson.’

‘Sea-slug fishing!’

‘Let me guess. You’ve always imagined it’s a dirty business that no self-respecting gentleman would lower himself to.’ He seems more amused than offended.

‘Something like that, I suppose.’

He looks briefly over my shoulder, then brings his gaze back to mine. ‘Look, rather than standing here making the place look messy, will you come downstairs with me for a drink? We’ll find a quiet corner table. You’re an interesting person, Mary, scambuster extraordinaire. And there is the small matter of the favour I owe you.’

The pulse at my throat won’t let me say no. I look around. The room has largely emptied.

By the time we reach the bar, Wilson has gone. Blackbeard’s in the corner talking to a middle-aged man who was not in the group upstairs. Dandy has taken a seat at a table under a window across the room, as though to get as far away from Blackbeard as possible. He, too, has company: a man dressed in grubby trousers and a worn shirt. One of the two ladies from upstairs is engaged in conversation with Sideburns, who apparently had enough money left to buy another big glass of whisky. Cobweb has disappeared.

‘Taking your inventory?’ Percy mutters near my ear.

I smile slightly. ‘It’s habit. The world can’t pull the wool quite so easily over my eyes if I’m watching what everyone is knitting.’

He guides me to an empty table next to a shaft of fermenting
light near a window. Dust motes have lazy fits inside it. I look at the clock on the wall: four thirty. His hand is light under my elbow. I quite like the sensation.

‘Interesting that you think the world has a special balaclava with no eyeholes just for you,’ he says, laughing and indicates a stool. ‘What will you drink? They tell me a shot of absinthe can lead to high levels of enlightenment.’

‘I think I’ll stick to my lowland deductions rather than risk madness,’ I say. ‘Ginger ale, thank you.’

Percy heads off to the bar for our drinks. I sit on the stool and look around. Blackbeard catches my eye and nods.

I’m not sure what mischief is in me, but I stand and walk over to his table. The man he’s speaking with sees my approach and sits back abruptly, as though someone has hit him. Blackbeard’s hooded expression doesn’t change.

‘Mary Oxnam.’ I offer my hand. ‘I just thought I’d introduce myself.’

Blackbeard looks down at the offending object on the end of my arm and, for a moment, I think he won’t take it. But finally he lifts a long, black sleeve and touches my fingers with his own.

‘Samuel Roberts,’ he says. His voice is low and deep, as self-contained as the rest of him. Like something long settled on the seabed, undisturbed by currents or surface ripples. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’

I’m determined not to lower my eyes in submission, but the effort is considerable. He apparently never blinks.

‘Interesting poker game, wasn’t it?’ I comment.

He doesn’t answer. His face is a mask. After a few long seconds, there’s nothing to do but turn and walk away. I take two steps, and his deep voice taps me on the shoulder.

‘You’ve a sharp eye.’

I turn slowly. ‘So have you.’

The man with him flinches — on my behalf, no doubt. Apparently I deserve compassion for my ignorance of beast-in-lair protocols.

Samuel Roberts makes an odd sound. Of amusement, I assume, but it’s hard to tell. Acoustics on the seabed are somewhat distorted. It could be just a shifting of sand in his throat.

I walk away for good this time, satisfied with the exchange. He knows there is at least one person in the room who is not frightened of him.

Percy stands stock-still near our little table, two drinks in hand. I ignore the thunder brewing on his forehead and sit.

He puts the drinks down, reaches into his shirt pocket for his pipe and a plug of tobacco. He tamps the leaf into the bowl, inspects it, puts the stem to his mouth, then lifts his eyes again.

‘How do you know the Captain?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know him. But the way everyone was reacting to him upstairs, he’s obviously someone important. I wanted to meet him. That’s all.’

There’s a small flare, then a wet, popping sound as he draws in. A smell of plums on the turn and splinters reaches my nose. He shakes the match out and drops it on the table. He’s looking at his drink, not me.

‘I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,’ I say. ‘Who is he?’

Percy takes the pipe out of his mouth and inspects it. ‘I thought you said you introduced yourself. Didn’t he respond in kind?’

‘I know his name. But who is he? What’s the nature of the kingdom he lords it over?’

Smoke escapes in a small worm from the corner of his mouth. He takes a swallow of beer.

My foot is tapping the floor and it takes an act of will to stop it. Suddenly, I’m excited again. And wary. Without meaning to, I’ve managed to start a conversation with people who have real money. One of them owes me a favour. Time to be careful. And clever.

‘Samuel Roberts is a steamer captain. Out of Townsville.’

‘Oh? What cargo does he carry?’

‘Back in the heyday of the gold rush, prospectors and their packhorses to Cooktown. Nowadays, as the gold’s almost done on the Palmer and diggers are trying their luck at the new seam in New Guinea: food, medicine and mail to Port Moresby.’

‘That can’t be all,’ I say, incredulous. A mere commercial courier wouldn’t command so much respect.

Percy takes a sip of his beer. Looks off into the middle distance. ‘He occasionally brings in Kanakas from the islands too, I believe. Recruits to work in the canefields.’

‘I see,’ I say, though I don’t. ‘What’s the name of his boat?’

‘
Blackbird
.’

I try to stifle a sudden laugh, and fail. ‘He names his boat
Blackbird
, and he uses it to run Kanakas! He’s obviously not blackbirding. Or maybe he is, in which case … My word, he must be a very powerful man. People in high places must owe him a great many favours.’ Something new occurs to me and I feel my eyes widen. ‘Maybe his cargo is opium. Or illicit gold.’

Percy’s green eyes turn malachite. ‘I think your wild speculations have jumped the fence in your head. If I were you, I’d swallow them before any more escape.’

He’s right; I’m too eager, and I’m playing what advantage I have badly.

‘Yes, I’m sorry. I do lead with the mouth, I’m afraid.’

‘I think the root cause is the nose,’ Percy says coolly. ‘I imagine it’s not the first time you’ve inserted it in other people’s business.’

‘You didn’t mind too much when I inserted it in yours upstairs,’ I say. ‘Are you serious about owing me a favour?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

Time to raise the stakes.

‘I need a job. Do you know of anything on offer?’

‘In Brisbane?’ he asks slowly, as if leaving himself time to think something through. ‘Or … elsewhere?’

‘Anywhere away from landladies with pickaxes in their eyes.’

A
pardon?
expression crosses his face, but I don’t try to explain. He looks at my hair pulled tightly back in its bun. My plain face.

‘How old are you, Mary Oxnam?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘Going on thirty,’ he adds with a wry smile. Then, suddenly, ‘Why are you here?’

So he sees me, and raises again. I’m in the game! Now … will the truth serve?

‘Here in Brisbane, or here in the pub?’

‘Brisbane.’ Impatient. He knows I’m stalling. Time to show my hand.

‘Before leaving home, I went to the registry office for a copy of my birth certificate so that I could apply for work as a teacher.’ I think I see a look of doubt on his face and find myself saying, defensively, ‘I’m quite well educated. I went to school in Truro and I read a lot of books.’

‘I didn’t suggest otherwise,’ he drawls. ‘You seem impressively intelligent.’ The silent
for a woman
finishes the thought. Pity. I hoped he’d be somewhat different from the other men I’ve met.

‘Anyway, the surname on the certificate was my mother’s maiden name. My father hadn’t bothered to marry her until after I was born.’

‘Hard luck.’ He clucks his tongue. ‘Must’ve been a bit of a shock. But no reason to toss yourself out into the big, wide world with all its wilful wool-pulling. That would only make knitting your own garment that much harder.’

He won’t let me bluff through this. I look into his eyes, weighing up how much I should say. May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, indeed.

‘If that were all, you’d be right,’ I tell him. ‘My father is a drunk, Percy. He’d been sober since we arrived in Australia. I thought he was resolute about making a new start. But one of the creditors he thought he’d left behind in Cornwall turned up at the pub. Papa fell off the wagon, got into an altercation. Landed in gaol. He’s always been something less than honest. Clumsily so, most often. With a tendency to use force first, reason last. I was of age, so I left. It’s as simple as that.’

Of course it wasn’t simple at all. But there are some things I wouldn’t tell a friend, let alone a stranger. And in any case, I’ve given him the information he wanted. Will it be enough?

Percy’s bottom lip creases as he thinks about this. ‘What state is he in now?’

‘He’s dry again, or so my mother’s letter tells me. Being locked in a cell like a common criminal gave him a jolt. How long his sobriety will last is anyone’s guess. There’s nothing for me in Rockhampton either way.’

‘He doesn’t want you home again?’

‘No.’ I lean across the table towards him. ‘The point is that I have no intentions of going back. You will have inferred that my
money is almost gone. I have an avaricious widow on my back for board. I’m desperate for employment, gainful or no.’

He looks at me steadily. ‘You’re not serious about the last part, of course.’

I shrug, trying for insouciance. ‘Breaking the law is not really my line. But if I were inclined that way, trust me, I could make a good fist of it. I won’t fail the way my father has failed. I may be without means at the moment, but I won’t be for long. I’m not useless by a long shot.’

‘I didn’t imagine for an instant that you were.’

Seconds stretch. He sips his drink. I’m very much in the dark, but the longer he thinks, the better. Up to a point. If only I had a clue about how he earns a crust! Enough to play poker for pounds, not pence. I don’t believe for a minute he’s wholly and solely a slug fisherman.

‘Can you play the piano?’ he finally asks.

‘Yes, actually.’ An unusual question. I wish I knew where he was headed. ‘Why?’

He points to the table where Dandy and his careworn companion are having their conversation.

‘That’s Charley Boule. He runs an entertainment salon — French Charley’s — in Cooktown.’

‘You mean a brothel.’ No. He can’t be serious. That’s not much better than Wilson’s offer.

He smiles. ‘A rose by any other name. Charley’s been putting the word around that he needs a piano player.’

‘Cooktown. I read the papers. Wild blacks in the bush, wild whites in the town. Blackmail, thievery, murder …’

‘Comes with the climate.’ He’s still looking over my head towards Dandy — that is, Charley Boule. ‘Gold scratchings,
alcohol and sultry weather don’t mix well, true. But it’s the sort of territory that breeds … opportunity. In a way that Brisbane, say, might find a trifle challenging.’