Lighthouse Bay (21 page)

Tonight she is lying in her bed in Lighthouse Bay, but her imagination is away in America with her sister. They are drinking tea together. Victoria’s infant coos softly on Isabella’s lap. She builds the scene in such detail that she wonders if she could ever bear to open her eyes and see where she really is. But slowly noises filter into her furtive imagining. Voices within the house. The argument starts and she barely notices. But it escalates rapidly, and within a few minutes there is the sound of smashing glass or crockery. Each smash is punctuated by a devilish shriek from Katarina, so Isabella knows it is Ernest on the receiving end of the storm. Xavier stirs and Isabella shoots out of bed to smooth his hair.

But this time he doesn’t go back to sleep. He sits up and his little face is working hard not to fall. Ernest is shouting at Katarina so loudly that they can hear the words. “Whore! Hellcat!”

Xavier finds Isabella in the dark with his eyes and starts to cry.

“Sh, sh,” she says, stroking his hair.

Xavier launches himself into her arms and she presses his warm body against hers and holds him firmly. The argument continues. It sounds as though everything in the house is being thrown. Isabella presses one of Xavier’s ears against her breast, and covers the other with her hand. He sobs against her for a little while, then seems to settle.

The shouting has died down. There are sounds of shards being picked up, angry talking but no more murderous fury. Isabella gently lifts Xavier and brings him back to her bed. Katarina would never condone it, but Katarina thinks it well enough to frighten the child with her anger, and barely touches Xavier. A child needs comfort, and Isabella has so much comfort to offer.

They curl together on their sides in bed, his compact body tucked inside the curve of hers. She clasps her arm around him, sniffs his hair, feels his soft heat, and the tick-tick of his little heart. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” she says, “I will keep you safe.”

His pulse begins to slow, he settles into her. She can hear him sucking his thumb rhythmically. After a few moments, he is fast asleep.

But Isabella lies awake a little longer. In the dark, she can imagine this is Daniel. Her own child. He would come to her for comfort, and, oh, she would give it to him. She would live to be all his comfort. She would love him so well, make him feel so safe and treasured . . .

She begins to drift off, and the veil between reality and fantasy
lifts and she is with Daniel, curled together in bed while the night deepens towards midnight, and all is well in the world.

P
ercy is afraid of his mother. Many men are afraid of his mother. The only man who wasn’t was his father, and he has been dead for several years.

Mother still believes Arthur may be alive. She refuses to accept that the ship is not just late, it is sunk. She believes that even if it is sunk, Arthur has somehow clung to a piece of wood and has now, no doubt, made a hut for himself on the beach and is eating coconuts and awaiting rescue.

“They are incompetent fools!” she rages, as Percy tells her the local constabulary at Cape Franklin cannot say with certainty whether debris they have found belongs to the
Aurora
. “A good British marine officer could tell in a heartbeat. Arthur would have been found by now! The mace would have been recovered! I do not want our family name forever associated with losing a gift from the Queen!”

It is late on a Sunday evening. Sundays tire Mother out terribly, what with church and then Sunday roast for dinner. Percy sits opposite her in the conservatory, and lets her rage against the Queensland marine authorities. He knows his moment will come. Last week, he made a terrible error. He sent the wrong figures to the bank and cost the business five hundred pounds. Mother hasn’t discovered yet, but he knows if he plays her right this evening he can be a long way away before she does find out.

“You know what would be best?” Percy says, in a gap in her tirade. “If somebody who represents the family could go and try to find him.”

“Like who? Charles Simmons? He wouldn’t last a moment on
a ship, let alone on a desert island.” Mother thinks Australia is a small place with one palm tree and a lagoon.

Percy waits a moment, then says, “I am willing to go. Simmons can take over from me. I’ll find Arthur and the mace, and bring them home safely.”

Percy does not believe Arthur will be brought home safely, but he is certain he wants to get to the mace before somebody else does; somebody who would think themselves so far from law and civilization that they would steal it. He cannot bear the thought of some hairy savage, with the mace in his hut, using the jewels to decorate his loincloth. Or a lowly sailor saving it from the wreck, only to take it home and melt it down and laugh at the Winterbourne family.

“We can’t spare you, and your wife and children certainly can’t spare you,” Mother says, but Percy hears in her voice she is almost wavering. Arthur means a great deal to her; Percy doesn’t. “It will take too long.”

“A steamer can have me there in seven or eight weeks. Mother”—he drops his voice low so she has to sit forward to hear—“who else would show the care and attention to detail necessary to find a lost brother? Who else can we trust? Nobody. I am Arthur’s flesh and blood.”

Mother considers, knitting and unknitting her plump fingers in the lamplight. Finally she says, “You are right. You should go.”

Percy breathes a sigh of relief. Out and away. No more office, no more numbers. “Very well,” he says, “I shall organize it in the morning.”

F
or a month, Xavier has slept in Isabella’s bed at night. They both take comfort from the practice, so it continues. Isabella knows that Katarina would be displeased, but Katarina locks them in this part of the house alone together every night; she won’t know. And it isn’t as though Katarina lavishes the child with physical affection: she barely touches him. She has no right to be jealous of the embraces Isabella takes. A thing that isn’t valued cannot be stolen.

Isabella thinks herself safe from discovery, but she hasn’t reckoned on the most unreliable of vessels: the bladder of a three-year-old child. Early one morning, before the dark has lifted, she wakes in a warm puddle.

“Oh, no,” she says softly.

Xavier wakes, whimpers.

“All is well, little one,” she says, lighting a lantern and scooping him up. He is soaked. Her nightgown is soaked. The bedding is soaked. “Let’s get you clean and dry.”

She takes him across to the bathroom, strips off his sodden clothes and sponges him down as he blinks in the lamplight. Goose bumps rise across his skin, and she rubs his arms briskly. She is
growing cold as the wet nightgown sticks to her legs. “There,” she says. “A pair of fresh pajamas and you can go in your own bed.”

He shakes his head and puts his arms up. He wants to sleep with her.

“The bed’s all wet now. You have to go in your own bed.” She leads him back across the hallway, dresses him and puts him to bed. He clings to her hand, so she kneels next to him, cold and wet, while he falls to sleep. Gently, she extricates her hand and strips off her own clothes, her own sheets. The mattress is wet, so she sponges it uselessly. She needs to get it outside in air and sunshine. She needs the laundry, and she needs it when Cook isn’t around to catch her.

But of course she is locked in this section of the house. Isabella brings her lantern and holds it up to the keyhole. Katarina has left the key in the lock on the other side. All she needs is a sheet of paper . . . one of Xavier’s drawings does the trick. She slides it under the door, then with the long end of a paintbrush pushes the key out of the keyhole. It lands with a soft clunk on the paper and she pulls it under to her side, then unlocks the door. Quietly, she takes her damp load through the kitchen and down the back stairs to the laundry.

She lights the copper and waits for it to fill with water. Through the floorboards she can see the first flush of dawn. Birds sing, but these are the harsh-voiced birds of Australia. Not robins and blackbirds. One, which Katarina calls a kookaburra, makes a noise that sounds exactly like maniacal laughter. Isabella is so busy listening to birds and the flow of water that she doesn’t hear Cook come up behind her.

“Mary?”

Isabella turns with a guilty jump. “Oh, Cook. I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No, I always get up at this time. But you don’t. And you’ve
never heated the copper before.” Cook surveyed the heap of laundry. “Your sheets?”

Isabella knows she must protect her secret. “I . . . I soiled them.”

Cook glances away, embarrassed, and mutters, “Well, I expect it can happen to anyone.” She reaches down and gingerly pulls up the corner of the sheet. As she does, Xavier’s sodden pajamas plop down on to the dirt floor. Both women look at the pajamas, then look at each other. Isabella holds her breath.

“This is wrong,” Cook says. “You mustn’t get so close to the child.”

“It was only the once,” Isabella says. “He had a bad dream.”

“If Mrs. Fullbright finds out, she’ll send you away and you won’t see the child at all.”

“Please don’t tell her.”

Cook presses her lips together tightly, and they form an upside-down horseshoe.

“Please,” Isabella says again, quickly throwing the pajamas, her own nightgown and the sheets into the copper. “No harm is done. Xavier gets no affection from his parents and I—”

“Don’t think to judge them. Have you never been in service before?”

Slowly, Isabella shakes her head.

Cook narrows her eyes. “I might have guessed it, I suppose. So, where are you from?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m in service now and I want to do the right thing and earn money. And I want to do what’s best for Xavier.”

“His mother and father decide what’s best for him. All you have to do is follow instructions. Mrs. Fullbright doesn’t want the likes of us holding her child, and she sure as sure doesn’t want you sleeping in the same bed as him. I won’t tell her, not this time. But make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Of course. Of course.”

Cook softens, touches Isabella’s sleeve. “Mary, don’t get so close to the child. Not just for his sake, but for your own. Nannies don’t last long in this household. Eventually they get the blame for Xavier not speaking and the Fullbrights let them go. If you do need the money, keep your head down and don’t give them an extra reason to get rid of you. Don’t let him in your bed. No good will come of it.”

Isabella nods, but she isn’t persuaded. She intends to do exactly as she has done. She wasn’t secretive enough, that is all. If it happens again, she will know better. They won’t stop her sleeping with her boy.

I
sabella waits, crouched behind the sofa, smiling too hard. She hears footsteps, soft and uncertain. Xavier is looking for her. He draws closer, she holds her breath . . .

“Boo!” she says, springing out from behind the sofa.

He jumps, then cackles loudly, banging the wooden spoon on the saucepan lid that he carries around during hide-and-go-seek. It is his way of saying, “I found you,” without words. Laughing and clattering, he runs away, his feet thundering on the wooden floorboards. She runs after him, laughing too.

The door to Katarina’s bedroom opens.

“Mary!” she says sharply.

Isabella turns, immediately quiet. Xavier hesitates in the kitchen, looking back towards her with big, frightened eyes.

Katarina gestures towards the child. “Why must he make that noise? Take the saucepan lid from him.”

“It’s how he lets me know he’s found me.”

Katarina’s face works: Isabella thinks she sees anger, shame,
perhaps a fleeting trace of sadness. Then she composes herself and says, “He should use words.”

The silence draws out. Isabella won’t speak of Xavier’s perceived deficiencies in front of him. His thumb has gone to his mouth.

“Get that thumb out of your mouth,” Katarina shouts at him. “And both of you go outside. I have a headache. I have no desire to hear such noisy nonsense.”

Isabella bristles. How heartless must this woman be to speak to a small child so sharply? But she also bristles for herself: told off in such a fashion. If Katarina knew who she was, how rich her husband’s family was . . .

But they are not her family. She doesn’t want them to be her family. And alone in the world, she has nothing.

“Come, Xavier,” she says to the little boy. “Let’s play hide-and-go-seek in the garden instead.”

They walk quietly down the back stairs and, for a little while, play prudently. But Xavier loves hide-and-go-seek, and is soon squealing with laughter and happily banging his saucepan lid. The sun is shining from somewhere very high. The seasons are all backwards: it is May, but autumn is here. The sky seems cooler and the leaves on the birch at the bottom of the garden are turning brown. There is a smell of sea salt and wood smoke on the air, and Xavier’s laughter seems to ring all the way to heaven. They hide, they seek, they chase, they catch. Grass stains on their knees, faces flushed.

Then Isabella counts to ten, her face hidden in her hands down at the back fence. She turns—Xavier has disappeared. She looks at the last hiding space, but he’s not there. She tries the other trees and bushes, but he’s not there.

She leaves the sunny garden for the laundry: not there. But she sees that one of the floorboards is missing on the far side of
the laundry. She approaches and finds the board right next to it is broken and loose. It can be pushed aside, leaving just enough room for a little boy to squeeze through and round to the side of the house. Isabella squeezes too, barely making it through, and finds herself in a part of the garden she has never seen before. Behind the laundry, down the side of the house, Xavier is squatting and playing with something on the ground. The grass on this small strip of garden is patchy, covered in weeds. A high fence cuts it off from the front garden. It is a non-place, and yet Xavier has found something very interesting.

“What have you got there?” she says, kneeling next to him.

He holds up two cigar butts, one in each hand.