The Secret Fate Of Mary Watson Part 2

'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.'

'I didn't mean to imply that I was opportunistic. I merely suggested I would be adept at creative interpretations of the law, should I be that way inclined.'

I groan inwardly. Fool! Who else but me could pluck, stuff, truss and cook my own goose in a mere few words.

'And I didn't intend to imply you have criminal tendencies. I merely observe that the marriage of a sharp mind to an open environment like Cooktown is likely to produce fair offspring in the form of ... new ideas.'

His own phrasing has more than a whiff of the artful dodger about it. But how can I say what I'm thinking without jumping a gun he hasn't so much as loaded?

I glance over at the Frenchman in his too-tight waistcoat. 'Cooktown is so very far away. And I've heard that everything is twice as expensive up north. How would I survive, let alone avail myself of these so-called new ideas, on the few shillings a week I'm likely to make playing piano?'

Two streams of smoke ride the humph noise he makes with his nose. 'I see. Your desperation has its conditions.' One sea-cracked finger plays with his bottom lip. It's a nice lip, not fleshy like Wilson's, nor tight as a drawn-shut purse like Charley Boule's, nor carved of rock like Samuel Roberts's. 'All right,' he says. 'I'm not particularly interested in improving the quality of Boule's entertainment. I do, however, sometimes pay for information. Useful information. Cooktown is the gateway through which all captains and crews must pa.s.s to reach the far north reef pa.s.sage. And French Charley's is often the first port of call for them when they reach Cooktown. A skilled observer can learn a good deal in a short time if he ... or she ... pays appropriate attention. Such as you demonstrated upstairs. If you prove reliable, and discreet, you'll do quite well. Nothing illegal per se. Comings and goings, arrivals and impending departures, perhaps the occasional overheard conversation. The region's shipping is ... of interest to me.'

'Why would a sea-slug fisherman be concerned about boats pa.s.sing through Cooktown?' My mouth opens involuntarily as a whole new slew of pennies drops into the slot. 'You're the one involved in smuggling. That's what you do with your lugger when you're not catching sea-slugs.'

He bends forward conspiratorially. 'Yes. You're on to me. I bundle up young girls who talk too much, smuggle them north and straight into the arms of fat Mandarins in Shanghai. They pay a good price and, incredibly enough, once they take possession they even remove the gags. Maybe it's because they're deaf from all those firecrackers.'

I give him what I hope is a withering look, then glance at the Frenchman again. He's noticed the attention we're paying him and, for a second, my eyes lock with his.

'Just one more question,' I say. 'Do you work for, and therefore would I, ultimately, be working for, Samuel Roberts?'

'You don't need to know that.'

'I do,' I insist. 'I need to know where my loyalties lie.'

This is a reasonable request and he must know it. Being aware of who the big boss is doesn't make me any the wiser about the business.

'All right then. Yes.'

So one piece of the puzzle resolves, at least.

'Would I also be working for Mr Boule - in the same line of business, I mean?'

'That's more than one question. But, no. Not if you know what's good for you. Roberts doesn't tolerate divided loyalties.' There's something ironic twitching around his mouth. 'You play piano for Boule, that's all.'

The room's emotional temperature has dropped several degrees. I don't dare look over to Roberts's table again in case he somehow knows what we're discussing. In case he's staring at me with that same frigid malice he turned on Cobweb upstairs. But now, at least, I know the hierarchy of their mysterious business. Percy is an underling of Roberts's, and I would be an underling of Percy's. And Charley Boule is very firmly out of the picture. That is, If I Know What's Good For Me.

I realise then it's not quite enough information to allow me to sell my soul, no matter the wages.

'Why would it be traitorous for me to have dealings with Charley Boule? Who is Samuel Roberts working for?'

Percy puts his gla.s.s down firmly on the table and makes to stand. 'No. If you can't manage your curiosity by knowing when to turn it off, you're no use to us.'

I put my hand out to stop him. 'Wait. I'm sorry. But don't you see? The kind of intelligent observance you want from me is at odds with your request that I just blindly follow where I'm led, like a donkey. I won't do anything against my scruples. If you ask me to trust and be trusted, you have to give me more. If I were to hand over my unswerving loyalty for less, then I wouldn't be honourable enough to rely on, would I?'

I'm not sure that my tortured argument makes sense, and, by his crumpled forehead, neither is he. But it seems to do the trick.

He chews his bottom lip lightly with his teeth. 'Are you loyal to the Empire?'

'Of course I am.' I'm indignant that he has to ask.

'Then you are, in principle, already loyal to Roberts and to me. That is all I am at liberty to tell you.'

I nod 'Good enough. And Charley Boule is a Frenchman. Therefore ...'

'Enough political sleuthing!' The shutters come down in his eyes. 'Boule has his own fish to fry, and plenty of pans to do it in. He minds his business. You and I take care of ours.'

'Yours being the sea-slug business.' I emphasise the last three words and his eyes flicker with annoyance.

'Quite. You'll need to report to me: who is in port, what cargo they're carrying, what they happen to chat about when they've a few drinks under their belts. There will also be notes that you'll receive and then pa.s.s on. Everything will resolve when you are in place. But one last warning before you commit yourself. You won't survive very long if you don't learn to pull on your own reins. This is not so trivial as a poker game.'

I nod with my lips compressed. I'd make the motion of b.u.t.toning them together with my fingers, if I didn't imagine it would annoy him further.

'Do you or do you not want the job on the terms I've laid out?' he asks.

Something behind my ribs feels trapped. The wings of my bravado under a fly-swatter? It's not too late to back out. I can find another job. The risks are high, my chances uncertain.

But I'm excited. These are the cards I've been dealt and they're good ones. If I fold, Mrs Menzies still wants the week's board. If I win, I need never kowtow to the likes of her again. Do I trust myself to open my mouth now? What will I say? Thanks, but penury is safe and I'm used to it?

I undo the voice b.u.t.tons. 'Of course I want the job.'

'Well, come and I'll introduce Charley Boule to his new piano player.'

'What if he doesn't think I'm suitable?'

'My impression is he hasn't exactly been overrun with applicants.'

I straighten my collar. Take a last sip of my drink. He has one more point to make.

'Boule can be persistent, but your loyalty and discretion are everything. Your eyes and ears belong to Roberts and me. If I find out you're making a bit more pocket change on the side spying for him ...'

It occurs to me that Charley Boule, having seen us talking, might feel he's being manipulated into hiring me. But Percy seems so sure I'll be welcomed with open arms I dismiss the thought, for now.

I take a step. He puts a clamp-like hand on my arm.

'I'm not quite done, Mary Oxnam.' His voice is an inch from my ear. 'Don't go over my head to the good captain.' His eyes flit in Roberts's direction. 'You report to me. Do you understand?'

'Anything else?' I ask tightly.

He reaches into his pocket and extracts a pound note. 'To pay your landlady.' He holds it out.

I slip it into my purse.

'I could enjoy being a kept woman,' I say flippantly, but he's already turned away.

Cooktown Spring, 1879

3.

Half a year in the wild far north

is good tutelage for any number

of unsavoury careers.

From the secret diary of Mary Watson 8TH NOVEMBER 1879.

Eight o'clock on a Sat.u.r.day night at French Charley's, and the place is jumping like spring fleas on a stray dog. Smoke haze. Flashing thighs. Disgruntled prospectors back from the Palmer River. They have no fire in their throats other than heartburn from fermenting possums, grubs and boiled gra.s.s, and all are drinking steadily, not fussed that the rum's been doctored with laudanum and plug tobacco. Prost.i.tutes in unlaced corsets bend over their tables like swaybacked mules. The room around them shimmies and sways with its cheap velvets and tinny chandeliers. The fool's gold of paid companionship.