The Secret Fate Of Mary Watson Part 35

'He'll have cause to think he's a better man than me, then. For today, at least.'

He hooks my eye, and I should feel elated after so much evasion on his part. But it's too little, too late.

He blows smoke through his nose in a long, slow stream. 'You look like death on toast.'

I think about Bob's earlier comment. 'Is that better than something the moggy dragged in? I think I'm pregnant.'

His jaw tightens like a hawser on its scaffold of bone, then lets go. 'If you are, then you'd better get rid of it quick smart, or your work for Roberts is over. Just as well Ah Leung's foot is mending nicely.' He tilts his head on the side. 'Funny, I thought you were smarter than that. My mistake for trusting a woman, I suppose.' He turns to leave.

Not this time. I grab a handful of his shirt and jerk him around so that he faces me. In my peripheral vision I can see Bob further along the beach with the Kanakas, rearranging the net over his drying slugs. He's watching us. I don't care.

'It might be yours.'

'And how exactly did you draw that conclusion? Don't you make enough hogmagandie with your husband to do the job? No wonder he's such a surly b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

His face is hectic and creased, the smarmy arrogance replaced with something not really under control. My hand falls away, but I don't take my eyes from his.

'I've been using something with Bob.'

'But you didn't with me? What a calculating b.i.t.c.h you are.'

There's a taste in my mouth like an old attic smells: shredded paper, mouse droppings.

'Get yer hands off her, Fuller.'

Percy lifts both arms in mock surrender. 'I think you'll find the good lady is exercising her claws on me, Watson. Seems she thinks I'm not pulling my weight. Just because I only managed to bring in a paltry catch.' He looks regretfully down to the beach where his now-empty hessian bags are lined up on the damp sand. 'A fair little cost accountant, your better half. Still, you must be in the good books with your haul.'

Bob looks between us in narrow-eyed suspicion. He says something to Percy in a long distortion of words. Their bodies shimmer, flip like fish in a hot white net. Nothing is exactly where it should be. Even the sky is tilting sideways.

Carrie dips a flannel in the enamel dish of water she's brought to the bedside and wipes my brow without first squeezing the cloth out. Trickles run down my cheeks and neck. The coolness tickles.

'I'm fine,' I say, and still her hand with mine. Try to get my bearings. 'What time is it?' The light through the open doorway is burned umber; the rest of the room, darkening. Then I smell the savoury layers of stew. 'Dinnertime.'

I start to rise, but she stops me with a hand on my chest. 'I've made it. The men are eating.'

I blink. There's a twinge in my back. I must have fallen awkwardly. It's a miracle I didn't tumble headfirst into the boiling tank.

I can hear low voices from the other room.

'What happened between Bob and Percy?'

'They're prowling around each other like old tomcats - as usual.'

'Neither of them are that old,' I say.

She shifts her weight on the bed. 'Well, Bob's not too ancient to get you pregnant. You are, you know. Fainting is one of the symptoms.'

'When did you acquire a medical degree?' My mouth is dry. I'd love a drink of water.

'I've browsed your Dr Foote's Medical Common Sense.' When I look doubtful, she becomes defensive. 'Well, I haven't got anything else to read, have I?'

'What would Dr Foote know? He's a podiatrist.'

'A what?'

'A foot doctor. It's a joke. Dr Foote - a podiatrist.'

'Ha, ha.' She won't be distracted. 'Dr Foote says you shouldn't wear your stays now that you're in the family way. It constricts the blood flow to the baby and that's what makes a woman faint.'

'Even if the baby's smaller than a grain of rice?'

'The blood supply to the womb increases three hundred per cent in the first three months,' she quotes.

'And doesn't continue exponentially, I hope, or the mother-to-be would end up exploding.'

'What's exponentially?'

'It doesn't matter. Carrie, I can't get up if you don't get off the bed.'

'You shouldn't get up. Dr Foote says -'

'Enough!' I give her a gentle push and she stands.

She took off my boots and hose when she put me into bed, but didn't clean off my soles, so the sheets are gritty with sand. I stand, put my feet into slippers.

'Help me off with the sheet. I don't want to lie on a beach all night.'

'Yes, all right.'

Together, we pull the skin off the bed.

Her eyes fill with tears. 'I don't want to leave you on the island with all these men. It's not right. Porter's booked me a berth on the Wotonga out of Cooktown on the fourth of December. He's paid for it himself and won't hear of being reimbursed. But of course I'm not going now.'

'Yes, you are. Nothing's changed.'

'But how will you have a baby on your own on the Lizard?' She lowers her voice. 'And to that horrible ...' She tilts her head in the direction of the voices.

'If I don't miscarry, then I daresay I'll go to Cooktown for the confinement. Bob will hire a nurse and rent me a place to stay. If he won't, then I'll throw myself on the mercy of Charley Boule. Let everyone in town know what a rum show of a husband I've ended up with.'

'You sound so cool and sensible about it.'

'Would it help to be heated and hysterical?'

She puts her small hand over mine. 'Shall I bring you some dinner?'

'No, you shall not. I'm not an invalid.'

I walk out into the communal s.p.a.ce. Four sets of male eyes look up.

'Feeling better, Mary?' Porter puts both hands on the table to stand, but I motion him with my free palm to stay sitting.

Ah Sam places a damper on the wooden board. I hand him the sheet. 'Will you shake this out, Ah Sam?'

When he's gone, I turn to the one man in the trio I now have any time for. 'Sorry about the fuss, Porter. I'm just a bit under the weather.'

I wonder which one of them carried me to bed and decide it must have been him. Neither Bob nor Percy would care enough to do so.

'Carrie's told me you've organised her trip home,' I go on. 'Thank you.'

'It took a while to confirm. But yes, I've had word from the mainland that there is a berth.'

Bob lifts his head, his brows damp in the steam from the stew, and pins Porter with his eyes. 'When?'

'Fourth of December. On Wotonga.' Porter lifts his plate to the rim of the pot, spoons out a second helping of stew.

I see that Carrie's cut the carrot pieces too big. They'll be hard in the middle, whilst the potato, cut too small, has turned to mush. I glance at her. She's seen me looking at her handiwork and is waiting for admonishment. I smile at her gratefully.

Bob helps himself and looks across the table at Percy. 'Fuller, didn't ye say ye'd booked pa.s.sage on the Egmont on the eleventh?'

Percy nods curtly, his face a mask. 'Family in Melbourne I have to catch up with. Before they return home to London. It's almost cyclone season anyway, Watson. I'll take any catch we acc.u.mulate between now and then to Cooktown when I go.'

He sounds defensive and I wonder why. He must be lying about his reasons for leaving. He'll probably take the opportunity to tell Captain Roberts that I'm pregnant and no longer able to do my job here on the island. How lucky, as he said, that Ah Leung is healing. Well, Ah Leung may yet have a fight on his hands. I need the money from this next drop if I'm to bring a baby up on my own.

For a few seconds, the world stops spinning. I realise what a monumental decision I've just made in the blink of an eye. Whatever else happens, I will not get rid of my child.

Bob taps his front teeth with his fork. 'We'll all go over before the fourth. Mary, to see Carrie off; me, to sell the slugs. We could come back to the Lizard - Porter, Mary and me - on the eleventh, or a wee while earlier. We could all do with a break.'

He bends to his food again, shovels another mouthful in. It's obvious what's behind his sudden desire for us all to have a holiday in Cooktown. He doesn't want Percy taking the slugs. Or, more specifically, dealing with Will Hartley, the slug agent.

'Sounds fine to me,' I say briskly. I pick up a plate and help myself to some stew.

Percy's worried - I can tell by the small line the size of a matchstick between his eyes. He must know that I suspect he'll run to Roberts with my news. And, quite rightly, he's concerned I'll say something, do something, to compromise him in response. But he gives himself too much credit. There's a hard kernel of survival in me now. What plant might grow out of it will be anybody's guess. But I'm not about to throw away my only chance of a future because of some spite I might feel towards Percy. I've no intention of sabotaging the operation.

In bed, later, Bob turns me over roughly, but I'm having none of it.

'If you want me to lose this child I'm carrying, then go right ahead.'

I hear a sharp in-breath. He flops on his back. After a few stunned minutes, I hear the slow click of his medicinal b.a.l.l.s.

'I've filled yer womb?'

By his tone, no man in history has ever performed such a feat. I don't comment, just keep my back turned, my eyes wide open in the dark.

'A wee bairn. Well now, that changes everything.'

45.

What's worse? A snake in the gra.s.s?

Or two in the bush?

From the secret diary of Mary Watson 6TH NOVEMBER 1880.

Percy's been talking to Ah Leung. The Chinaman has had a decided spring in his lopsided step these last few days. The damaged foot still drags slightly behind the other, but he's agile enough to climb Cook's Look. He knows it, and so do I.

All I have to rely on now are my wits.

Ah Leung eyes me speculatively as I walk towards the washing line. The salt-b.u.t.ter smell of an early island summer is everywhere. He's been clearing the overgrown gra.s.s around the homestead with his cane knife. At this time of year, venomous snakes lurk in any vegetation allowed to grow beyond ankle height. The stunted bushes behind him clatter with cicadas. The heat is soporific, but I can't give in to its seductive ennui.

'Lovely day, isn't it?' I call.

The sun glints off the cane knife's steel as he stabs it in the dirt. He looks to see if anyone else is around. No time to waste on preliminaries, it seems.

'You leave here soon if you know what's good for you.'

His voice gloats from the shadows under the panda.n.u.s. Moving patches of light and darkness stripe his face.

'And why is that, Ah Leung?'

The enamel of my careful politeness has worn thin. I pick two wooden pegs from the canvas bag that hangs on the clothesline. Dust off a film of dirt. Pinch one peg to the collar of my blouse while I haul a pair of Bob's long johns to the line with the other hand. The task would have had me wincing a week ago. But Porter's given me some whale oil in a tiny bottle. Rubbing it on my inflamed palms has brought some relief. I notice Ah Leung staring at my stomach. Bile rises in my throat.

'You know, it's a mistake to accept gossip as truth. Didn't your mother ever tell you that?'

'I kill you now, maybe.'

His voice is so matter-of-fact that I wonder for a few seconds if I haven't misheard. Above the trotting pulse in my ears, I rehea.r.s.e his own tone and offer it back to him.

'Oh, no, I don't think so. To do that would almost certainly guarantee you'd be drawn and quartered. You forget one important fact. That I've told others what you've done.'

It's all bluff, of course. I've told no one in Cooktown about him. I should have. I plan to rectify that oversight as soon as I set foot on the mainland. I might start with Charley Boule. What better way to set the bullock team of gossip in motion?

I pull a damp ap.r.o.n out of the basket, fetch another pair of pegs from the bag.

'You think you work it all ... out.'