Tears Of The Moon Part 4

Lily sat in the hotel garden sipping a gla.s.s of wine with her back to the crush of jovial tourists, locals and a Perth convention group in the bar and on the verandah terrace. When she'd finished her wine she walked to the edge of the garden to peer at the skeleton of a boat in the mangroves, its hollow ribs filling with the tide.

'Can I offer you another gla.s.s of wine?'

Lily turned at the friendly voice to see an attractive man smiling at her.

'Ken Fitzgerald. I'm the manager. You staying with us? Haven't seen you around.'

They chatted briefly and it didn't surprise Lily to discover he was a former grazier. He had an open and affable country manner.

'Bit of a change coming from the land to the hospitality industry,' remarked Lily.

'Not really, people or cattle, they all have to be fed and watered,' he chuckled. 'Was hard to leave our property but this is a big challenge; my wife, Lola, is in the office side of things. But Broome is going to go through the roof with tourism in the next few years.'

He told her of his own plans and those of the town. Lily listened with some sadness.

'I hope the town hangs on to its heritage as much as it can,' she said.

'Don't worry about that. Broome is still a bit wild and woolly, the past is close on your heels here.'

Lily arrived at the Cable Beach Club with Deidre and her handsome young husband. There, she found little that recalled the old days. Walking through the lush landscaped grounds and over tiny bridges they pa.s.sed oriental-inspired bungalows containing suites decorated with fine antiques and objets d'art objets d'art. The main building maintained a tasteful style despite its brilliant lacquer red and gold tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. Soft lights, citronella flame torches, candles and a caressing breeze that carried the sweetness of flowers followed her echoing steps along the wide wooden verandah to the reception room and art show.

Early arrivals from Broome's eclectic social set milled about the s.p.a.cious room, sipping champagne and talking to each other. While Deidre saw to selling catalogues and introducing invited hotel guests to local ident.i.ties, Lily strolled about the room. Spectacular framed prints, painted canvases, cloth and bark hangings of contemporary Aboriginal art were well displayed. Lily thought the work wonderful, full of energy and mystery.

Deidre was suddenly beside her, tapping her arm and saying, 'Lily, meet our artist, Rosie Wallangou.'

Lily reluctantly dragged her gaze away from the paintings to congratulate the artist, expecting to meet some wise old lady, but was taken aback to see an attractive Aboriginal woman about her own age. She was dressed in a dramatic Aboriginal print silk long dress and wore unusual wood and stone jewellery. Her wild curly hair tumbled about her shoulders, and was caught to one side by a sh.e.l.l comb. The impact of her looks, her wide smile, deep eyes and charismatic presence was stunning.

'I really love your work, I don't know what to say. It's just magic,' said Lily, trying to find the right words to convey the impact the pictures had on her.

'Magic,' repeated Rosie thoughtfully, looking Lily in the eye, then added softly, 'Yes, there's magic in them all right.'

'They're not easily understood, even after reading the notes you've put with each painting,' said Lily. 'But there's something about them that keeps me looking, even if I'm not sure what they mean.'

Rosie chuckled. 'Well, maybe that's part of the magic. You've got to study them a bit ... sort of discover things for yourself. They're not all Dreamtime stories you know.'

'Rosie has just had a big show in New York. They're wild about her work over there,' broke in Deidre.

'That's wonderful,' said Lily, who was impressed but not surprised. The work was powerful and she knew how collectible high quality Aboriginal art had become.

Rosie shrugged. 'New York is a faddy place. What's hot today can be cold tomorrow.' She gave a hearty laugh and Lily couldn't tell if Rosie wasn't bothered about being a big deal in New York or was confident she'd remain 'hot'. There was no doubt her work-drawn from her own roots and knowledge and interpreted with artistic skill-would last.

Deidre excused herself to greet the former premier and Rosie took Lily by the arm. 'Come and I'll give you a conducted tour of my favourite pieces in this show.'

Lily was absorbed and fascinated as she listened to Rosie explain the inspiration behind each painting. Slowly, as if a curtain had lifted, she began to see something of the story and message in each painting. She tried to explain this awakening to Rosie but ended up by saying shyly, 'I feel so clumsy trying to express myself.'

'No, you're just starting to learn the language,' laughed Rosie. 'The more you look at them, you either start to "read" them and go into them or they just stay pictures on a wall.'

Deidre plucked Rosie away for official introductions and Lily thanked her for taking the time to talk to her.

Rosie gave her a friendly smile. 'I'm sure we'll meet again. By the way, there's a couple of works over there you might be interested in,' she said, nodding towards the far corner of the room.

Lily lifted a fresh gla.s.s of champagne off a tray and wandered over to the last few pictures she hadn't seen. But as she approached, the largest one caught her eye and her legs began to tremble. In a beautiful, subtle rendering of the burning colours of the earth around the north-west, Rosie had painted in traditional style a pattern that Lily instantly recognised-small white circles within a large white circle surrounded by the parallel lines and large X. She spun around, her hand shaking so much she spilled her champagne. But the official launch of the art show was now in progress. Lily edged around the back of the crowd to the small table where a girl was selling catalogues and taking sales orders.

Lily leaned down and whispered, 'Please put a red sticker on number nineteen, I must have it.'

The girl checked the catalogue and shook her head. 'I'm sorry, that's not for sale.'

Lily swallowed, mumbled her thanks and waited impatiently for the speeches to end.

There was no opportunity to speak to Rosie alone, so she excused herself and intruded on the small group cl.u.s.tered around the artist. 'Rosie, I so wanted to buy one of your paintings, but the one I want isn't for sale. I was hoping I could change your mind.'

Rosie heard the note of urgency in Lily's voice and the group fell silent. 'Which one do you want?'

Lily pointed and saw the swift expression pa.s.s across Rosie's face before she said,' I include that picture in every exhibition. I will never part with it. It's special.'

'What does it mean?' Lily persisted. 'It's very important to me to know.'

Rosie looked directly at Lily for a few seconds without speaking. 'Well, it's one of those paintings where you must discover its meaning for yourself.' The cl.u.s.ter of people looked at Lily expectantly. To soften her words Rosie added kindly, 'Perhaps one day you'll come to read its true meaning. Here's my card.'

As Lily turned away feeling close to tears, fumbling to put the small white card in her handbag, Rosie called after her, 'I can tell you this much-remember that the picture is called "Tears of the Moon".'

At ten the next morning Lily stepped into the air-conditioned Historical Society building. A bustling lady, casually dressed in slacks and a blouse, her permed brown hair in perfect order, gla.s.ses hanging on a beaded gold chain, was carrying a pile of labelled binders of photos, letters and newspaper cuttings, which she placed in order on a shelf beside the others she'd completed. She spotted Lily and went to the little reception desk to take her entrance fee.

'Just looking in general are you, dear?' She put her gla.s.ses on her nose.

'Yes and no,' began Lily.

The lady gave her a quizzical look.

'Yes I'm here to look at everything, and I also want to do some research. My name is Lily Barton. Oh, and by the way, I visited Beagle Bay and Brother William suggested you might like to keep this here for safekeeping.' She took the old journal from her bag. 'However, I would like to read it first if that's all right.'

'Goodness, yes. Well that was nice of him. I'd heard about this.' She thumbed through it and handed it back to Lily. 'I'm Muriel McGrath. How can I help?'

'I'm not sure, perhaps I should just look around firstand when you've got a minute I'll ask you some questions.'

'Righto, dear. I'll put the kettle on. Tea or coffee? Only instant, I'm afraid.'

'Coffee would be fine, thank you.'

'This is the main room-there's some memorabilia in here and in those shelves are files, books, newspapers, letters, photos, you name it. We have a lot from the old families, rescued in the nick of time most of it was too.' She waved towards the rear of the room, which opened on to a small garden. 'Back there are two other rooms, a display and exhibition room and along the back verandah is a general history area and bigger pieces on show. Decompression chamber, stuff like that.' Muriel disappeared to a small area that served as kitchen and private office.

Lily looked around the main room first, dipping into files, flipping through cutting books, studying photos which gave an immediate picture of life in the early days. There was the story of the j.a.panese cemetery where so many divers ended their days, pictures of Chinatown with its dim shops and seedy opium dens, a famous Indian pearl cleaner who was known for his precise skill in stripping away the rough outer layers of valuable pearls, the horse-drawn train that ran along the wharf, the shanty township with beached luggers on the foresh.o.r.e at Dampier Creek. A photo by the sorting sheds in 1914 showed small mountains of pearl sh.e.l.l harvested that year-sixteen hundred tons according to the caption.

Lily moved into the first exhibit room. It was divided into two sections, one dominated by a fullscale diving suit, an iron lung used for decompression for the deadly bends, and a variety of tools and instruments used in pearling and sailing, a Chinese abacus, j.a.panese paper models used in festivals and some household artifacts.

She walked around an ornate Chinese screen and found herself in the display room-a mock-up of an Edwardian living room complete with a life-size family of wax figures. It was meant to represent a well-off European household with its heavy pieces of Victorian furniture. The lady of the house, in bustle and beaded dress with a rope of pearls, held the hand of a small boy with long curls, lace collar and starched sailor suit. Placed modestly behind was the figure of an Aboriginal woman domestic in uniform of white starched ap.r.o.n over black dress.

Lily found the room uncannily realistic with its planters, settler's chair, kitsch mother-of-pearl ashtrays and inlaid card table. Strangely the furniture all seemed to go together and wasn't the usual a.s.sorted acc.u.mulation from donations or rescued from household turnouts.

She fingered the crochet antimaca.s.sar cloth square on the back of the chair, then lifted her eyes to the walls where portraits, paintings and photographs hung in ornate frames. Her eyes went from picture to picture and then she caught her breath. Surrounded by photos of luggers was a large picture of a dashing man in a white uniform-the same as the one in Georgiana's silver frame.

For a moment she stood in shock-the oversized picture seemed life-like, the amus.e.m.e.nt in the twinkling eyes faintly mocking. Finally, she turned away, her legs quivering and called loudly, 'Muriel! Could I ask you something?'

'I'm right here, just made the coffee.' Muriel was carrying a tray which she set down carefully on the small inlaid table by the chaise longue. 'What's up, dear?' She looked curiously at Lily's drained and pale face.

'Who is that?' asked Lily in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, pointing to the picture.

Muriel sighed. 'Isn't he handsome? That's Captain John Tyndall, probably the greatest of the pearling masters. Such a character.'

'What do you know about him?'

'Are you all right, luv?' Muriel looked at her closely. 'We know a lot about him, are you interested?'

Lily nodded. 'That photo was among my late mother's things. I didn't know who he was.'

'Come and sit down on the chaise chaise here and have your coffee.' She handed Lily a mug and watched her take a fast gulp. Pulling up a chair, Muriel pressed on. 'We know a lot about him. He was one of the colourful characters back at the turn of the century and especially through the 1920s and later. Are you interested in finding out his personal history?' here and have your coffee.' She handed Lily a mug and watched her take a fast gulp. Pulling up a chair, Muriel pressed on. 'We know a lot about him. He was one of the colourful characters back at the turn of the century and especially through the 1920s and later. Are you interested in finding out his personal history?'

'Oh, I am. I think we must be related.' Excitement was now replacing Lily's shock.

'Well, I never. And your mum and dad never told you about him. Is he a close relative?' Muriel was interested. This was living history.

'I don't know much. I never knew my father and my mother was a bit of a loner. Never talked about family. So when she died and I found the picture which had Broome written on the back, I thought I'd see if I could find a clue which might answer the questions I never asked when my mother was alive,' said Lily, dismayed to find her voice was choking up.

Muriel pa.s.sed her a plate of homemade Anzac biscuits. 'I've read about a lot of strange family histories since I've been running this place I can tell you. Nothing would surprise me. Skeletons fall out of cupboards all over the place.' She gave a chuckle. 'Some families haven't been too thrilled to find out about the shenanigans of their antecedents. This was a bit of a free and easy place back then.'

Lily gave a small smile. 'But at least having the pieces of the puzzle is a help.'

Muriel took Lily's mug and bent over to pick up the tray. 'I think I might have more than that for you. If indeed Captain Tyndall is a relative.' She smiled mysteriously and left the little room.

Lily went and gazed up at the portrait once more. 'So just who are you?' She suddenly grinned back at the man whose face was becoming very familiar to her. 'And what do you know about "Tears of the Moon", eh?' she said out loud.

Muriel spoke to her back. 'I know what that means ... I read it in some of the pearling material.'

Lily spun around. 'What, Tears of the Moon?'

'Yes. It comes from some old Indian saying, you know all those Hindu myths and stuff. It's what they believed pearls to be ... the tears of the moon that drop into the sea and become pearls. It's why some people think pearls are unlucky. But this is what you should be interested in.' She placed four fat leather-bound journals on the table with a grunt. 'Whew. A lot of reading in there. These are Olivia's diaries. There are a lot of photos, too. I can't let you take them away but come as often as you like. You can camp in here while you read. Did you know all this furniture came from Captain Tyndall's house?' She pointed to a straightbacked worn leather chair. 'I can just see him sitting in that chair with a gin and tonic' She chuckled at the thought.

Lily was trying to take all this in. 'Who was Olivia? Was she his wife?'

'Ah, it's a long, involved story from what I gather. You start at the beginning. Make yourself comfortable and yell for coffee at any time. The odd visitor wanders around now and then but they shouldn't disturb you. We don't get coachloads of tourists in here!' She chuckled again and gave Lily a warm smile. 'I hope you find what you're looking for.'

'Thank you, Muriel.' Lily swallowed hard. It had all happened so swiftly. In learning about Captain John Tyndall's life was she also going to find her own story?

She picked up the first of the heavy books and ran her hands over it. The leather was soft and the book seemed alive, as if the covers were forcibly pinning down the living characters who peopled its pages. Her heart was beating and Lily knew that as simply and as easily as this her family had been placed in her hands.

She turned to the first entry-thin flowing writing on a thick ivory page.

CHAPTER FOUR.

The north-west coast of Nickol Bay, 1893 In the faint water-light of the moon, the st.u.r.dy schooner, Lady Charlotte Lady Charlotte, heaved as it moved slowly through the great b.r.e.a.s.t.s of waves, white crested and surging in a thick sea mist. When they reached the lee of a deep cove, the breaking of the waves on the reef was regular and rhythmic, like the hoa.r.s.e breathing of some sea monster.

The dawn gave way to morning light and the grey clouds lifted as the ship's lifeboat ploughed gamely through the narrow channel now visible between the arms of the reef. The pa.s.sage was safe and the crew pulling at the long oars kept a steady course, but Olivia Hennessy was too aware of the danger that lay on either side. Her arms were folded across her swollen belly and she held onto her shawl as if it were her salvation. Conrad Hennessy glanced at his pregnant wife in the stern surrounded by their possessions. He tried to give her a comforting smile, but her gaze was fixed on the desolate sh.o.r.e.

It had been a carefully reasoned decision to be put ash.o.r.e here. Conrad had explained to Olivia that the captain could not put in at nearby Cossack due to the fast-rising wind and sea and, as he was already behind schedule, he wanted to continue north to Broome as fast as possible. The cargo he was carrying was due for shipment to Singapore. They could either have gone on to Broome and made a long journey back to the land they intended to take up south of Cossack or, judging from the rudimentary map of this largely uncharted area, they could land here, which seemed to be in a direct line to their holding.

Olivia, c.u.mbersome and heavy with her first child, had suffered greatly throughout this journey from Fremantle with seasickness and wished fervently for dry land beneath her feet.

Conrad asked the captain if they and some of their goods could be ferried to sh.o.r.e where he would make what he estimated to be a day's walk into Cossack to fetch a dray or wagon to take them overland.

The captain had been doubtful, but as both husband and wife seemed convinced this was a preferable arrangement, so, eager to push on ahead of a threatening storm, he agreed to the plan.

Eventually there was a grinding and a slight shudder pa.s.sed through the boat as the hull sc.r.a.ped across the rocky sh.o.r.e. Two men leapt over the side and pushed and guided the boat on to the grey pebbled beach.

Low scrub and spindly trees fringed the edge of the dunes with denser bush behind. Olivia, supported by the two sailors, was carried to the sh.o.r.e. She sat on the damp sand, her thick woven skirt and petticoats spread around her, watching Conrad direct and a.s.sist the men ferrying their goods to sh.o.r.e.

This was not how she'd imagined her arrival in a new land to start a new life. When she and Conrad had left London for Fremantle they saw themselves setting out on a grand adventure. They would found a dynasty and after diligence and hard work would oversee a fine spread of an estate. They planned to take up land south and inland of the coastal town of Cossack in the north-west of the state of Western Australia. Conrad had been as thorough as was possible in his investigations into opportunities in the colony. He had been spurred on by Olivia, who was determined to make a fresh start following the death of her widowed father. She had inherited enough from the sale of the small family emporium and could see the possibilities for her and her accountant husband would be greater in the colonies.

Together Olivia and Conrad had done some research and, despite the vagueness and sometimes conflicting reports about Australia, they saw the chance to make a better life. They invested in farm equipment and household supplies of every description and enough basic necessities to see them through their first year. They had sought advice in Fremantle and despite wild stories of the cannibalistic Aborigines, desperadoes on the high seas, unsavoury characters in the small coastal towns and a rough lifestyle, they remained undaunted. All had agreed that fortunes could be made in the north-west.

The captain gave them canvas, ropes, food and two barrels of rainwater to make a temporary camp and, wishing them well, sent the newlyweds to sh.o.r.e, watched by the crew and pa.s.sengers who were glad it was not them. The captain never ceased to be amazed at the determination and enthusiasm with which these pioneers ventured into isolation and the unknown.

As the schooner sailed away to the north into a rising wind and falling barometer, the couple standing alone on the beach looked abandoned and forlorn. Olivia slipped her hand into Conrad's.

He squared his shoulders and turned to eye the scrubland. 'Let's find a place to make camp.'

By nightfall they had made a rough shelter with firm saplings dug in as corner posts with brush and the canvas spread over it to form walls and a roof. They used their boxes and trunks as a barricade and settled down to sleep as best they could. The surf, strange bush noises and insects disturbed them. Although Olivia was fearful, she far preferred to be on dry land than in the heaving darkness she'd suffered below deck in the ship.

They huddled together and Conrad made an attempt to speak light-heartedly. 'My dear wife, I promised you a better life and here we are, no better than the natives.'

Olivia couldn't respond with any levity and her voice trembled. 'I hope you won't be gone too long-I'm afraid ... the natives, this place, the baby due so soon ... '

'I would run all the way if I could. But you must be strong, my dear. You have the revolver-all will be well. We knew it would take great faith and courage to do this.'

Olivia didn't answer. She'd known courage would be called for, but she didn't expect to be tested quite so harshly or quite so soon.

Conrad set off towards Cossack the next morning, boots firmly laced, water bag and rifle slung on his back and panama hat shading his fair English skin from the sun. With his coppery hair and pale grey eyes, he did not quite fit the image of an intrepid adventurer.

He had shown Olivia once again how to use the gun and urged her to keep the small fire burning and to stay out of the harsh sunlight. As she watched his slight figure disappear through the sandy scrubland, resolutely walking to the arrow of his compa.s.s, Olivia broke down and wept. She cried out of loneliness and fear, for him, herself, their child, and the unknown life they faced.

They had both grown up in south London but had met when Conrad came to work at her father's emporium as the bookkeeper and accountant. He had become smitten with the pretty and very bright young woman who had shown a keenness and apt.i.tude for learning bookkeeping as well as serving behind the counter. Conrad had successfully courted her and Olivia's father was relieved his only child had chosen a suitable husband. He increased Conrad's responsibility and salary.

A year later he had died and, after long talks with Conrad, Olivia, as sole inheritor of her father's estate, sold the shop and used the capital to finance their plan to make a life in Australia. While they knew litde of the land, they were told skilled farmhands were available for those taking up leases.