Tears of the Moon (19 page)

Olivia had to fight to suppress a smile. She quietly reminded him that it was not that uncommon for wives to take the occasional trip with their pearling husbands. Some had even lived on board for the entire season.

‘Ah, but you won’t be going with your husband,’ he observed with a note of triumph.

‘Does it matter?’ she asked.

‘Does it matter? Does it matter?’ exclaimed Conrad in a rising voice. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Olivia? People will think you have a touch of the sun.’

‘Don’t be insulting, Conrad,’ said Olivia angrily.

‘I’m sorry. But what will people think?’

‘I am sure Captain Tyndall can be trusted, Conrad. And since everyone knows that I’m an active partner in this enterprise I believe it a perfectly reasonable request. It will be a great adventure for me. I’m going, and that’s it.’

‘You get seasick.’

‘I got sick on the trip from Fremantle because I was pregnant and it was a long trip in rough conditions,’ Olivia countered, then hesitated before going on with a look of sadness and a voice trembling with
emotion. ‘There’s another reason I need to go, Conrad.’ She collapsed into a cane chair and rested her forehead in the palm of her hand. ‘We can call into Cossack on the way down. No matter how hard I try to get on with life here in Broome, part of me is buried in Cossack. I really need to go back. I need to visit his grave. Can you understand that, Conrad? He’s our son.’

Conrad went to her and knelt down, taking her other hand in his. ‘I understand now, but this is not a decision to be taken lightly.’ Then he suddenly smiled, confident he had found the solution to the dilemma. ‘Well, if you feel that strongly, then go. But only if John agrees. After all, he’s the captain and what the captain says goes.’

‘Of course it does,’ smiled Olivia and she warmly embraced her husband.

Tyndall was sitting on the port gunwale engrossed in splicing a rope when the carpet bag thudded to the deck beside his feet. He looked at it intently for a moment and thought, ‘My God, she’s done it,’ then slowly turned to look up at a grinning Ahmed standing on the wharf with Olivia a little behind him.

‘Well, I’m here,’ she announced with a note of challenge in her voice.

Tyndall smiled. ‘Indeed you are. Welcome aboard.’ He extended a hand and with Ahmed taking her other arm she was lowered onto the deck.

‘I really didn’t think this madcap scheme was going to come to anything,’ confessed Tyndall. ‘But I’m pleased it has,’ he added warmly.

‘I suppose it is madcap, but somehow it doesn’t bother me, even if it raises eyebrows in town. Practically everything that has happened to me since I arrived in this country seems slightly unreal to be quite honest.’

Her countenance changed slightly and Tyndall saw signs of sadness in her eyes and the firmer set of her mouth. He quickly changed the subject as he took her bag and turned to the cabin hatch. ‘Well, the weather is looking good. With luck we’ll have a smooth passage. Come and I’ll help organise the state room for you.’ He was pleased that the exaggerated description of the cabin made her smile, albeit fleetingly.

At his office window Conrad watched the
Bulan
sail down the mangrove–lined channel into the bay and out to sea. The image of Olivia standing in the stern, looking back, her skirt billowing in the breeze, one hand holding her straw hat, the other giving a brief wave in his direction, burned into his mind. He had a swift, gut–tearing feeling that his wife was sailing out of his life, but dismissed the thought at once. No, he reasoned, Olivia was simply growing … changing … that was to be expected. But, good Lord, she was becoming unpredictable, and yes, unconventional. But the grief they had suffered, the pain, that must be the explanation. A little madness, perhaps. Quite understandable. But it will pass. Conrad sighed and turned to his desk, much comforted by his rationalisation.

The sails filled with a steady breeze, a white–capped foamy wake on either side of the bow as the Bulan cut through the aqua water. Olivia stood by the main mast holding on to a halyard and taking deep breaths of the salty air. Once they had cleared the creek and were in the bay, she had slipped below and emerged in her ‘sailing gear’. Dispensing with the impractical long skirt and restricting blouse, she had made herself an outfit of loose black pyjama pants teamed with a long white top that hung over the pants. She had copied the outfit from that of her Chinese cook. It was cool, comfortable and practical. On her feet she wore canvas plimsolls.

Tyndall disguised his initial shock. ‘Very sensible outfit,’ he commented with raised eyebrows.

Ahmed said nothing and displayed no obvious reaction, but Olivia thought she detected a faint glint of amusement in his dark eyes.

The lugger rode smoothly over the slight swell and heeled to port as the sails were set for the run south–west with the wind almost on the beam. Olivia closed her eyes to focus more keenly on the feel of the wind, the rolling, surging movement of the boat, the soft vibrations of the hull that came from the deck, the quivering of the rigging and the sound of singing in the stays. There was an occasional flap of sail, a slap and splash of water as the bow dipped and cut through the sea. There was a fresh smell to the air and she licked a faint saltiness from her lips.

She found the whole experience exhilarating. A sense of elation, freedom and contentment took
hold of her. For the first time since the death of James she felt really relaxed, almost peaceful. She stayed there undisturbed for almost an hour, the crew sensing her need to be alone.

When she finally broke her reverie Olivia looked astern. Ahmed was at the helm, alternatively eyeing sails and compass. Tyndall was splicing rope again and the Koepangers were repairing holes in hessian bags. It all looked so ordered and reassuring, and she smiled warmly when Tyndall lifted his cap in salute. She moved down the deck, carefully reaching for rigging for stability, then without a word sat on the deck beside him, back against the gunwale and, with arms wrapped around her knees, concentrated on the eye splice he was making in the thick rope.

They anchored for the night and, by the light of a lantern and the clear moonlight, Ahmed cooked their meal of rice, fish and vegetables with a spicy sauce over a small portable fuel fire. Sitting on the deck, eating off tin plates, the water lapping against the hull and the stars bright above, Olivia thought it one of the most enjoyable meals she could remember. The sea air had made her drowsy so she retired to the main cabin, opened the portholes and fell instantly into a sound sleep. On deck Ahmed and Tyndall, in swaying hammocks slung under the booms, talked softly in Malay and English.

They had been at sea for two days before Olivia raised the matter of a stopover in Cossack so that she could visit her baby’s grave. Tyndall agreed without hesitation.

Olivia walked slowly to the small, lonely cemetery where her son had been formally buried what now seemed an age ago. Their brief stay in Cossack held only sad memories for her and she gave thanks again for the entry of John Tyndall in her life. Broome and pearling had helped her cope with the loss of James. But she needed to say goodbye, to make some gesture to show she hadn’t abandoned him.

At the cemetery Tyndall stood back a little as Olivia went to the grave, knelt on the barren sandy soil and laid a small bunch of wildflowers at the foot of the tiny tombstone. She thought of all the things she would never do or share with him. Never to see him grow and discover the world, never be able to show him the love that ached in her. Her arms and heart felt empty and she cried softly. Then she prayed silently, and absently stroked the mound slowly for some time before kissing her fingertips and lightly touching the headstone. As she rose Tyndall took her arm and their eyes met briefly, then she turned and together they walked silently to the road and the hired sulky.

For the rest of the journey Olivia spent a lot of time sitting alone in the shade of the sails looking out to sea or at the passing coastline, but not really seeing. Ahmed took her food and drink from time to time, saying little, and getting no more than a nod and a fleeting expression of gratitude. Tyndall kept his distance, occupying himself with the wheel, and tried to understand the emotional turmoil she must be experiencing.

One morning, after hot black tea and toast with treacle, they got under way and by lunchtime were nosing into the strip of coast where they had established a rough camp. They moored and as Ahmed rowed them ashore welcome calls rang out from the bushland and soon the Aborigines were milling about exchanging greetings and news.

To Olivia’s delight, among another group making their way to them, she recognised the women and the men from the people who had helped her when she first came ashore. Tyndall glanced at her, then swiftly and gently explained in their language the fate of Olivia’s baby. The women made a clicking sound with their tongues and spoke quickly.

While Ahmed spoke to the men in pidgin, Tyndall said softly to Olivia, ‘The women say your baby has returned to his Dreaming place and is well.’

Olivia crumbled and Tyndall reached to take her arm and felt her choke on a sob, then stiffen and pull herself erect. ‘Please tell them I am very grateful for their message.’ She hesitated, then went on, ‘Tell them that I’m glad they gave James a Dreaming.’

Tyndall struggled with the message but the reassuring nods from the women did much to hearten Olivia. They took her by both hands and led her off to a huge spreading rain–tree and in its shade formed a circle and began a ceremony of wailing, weeping and chanting. Almost in a trance Olivia sat through the ceremony, quietly sobbing, her mind a blank. When they had stopped Olivia felt a strength that came from the companionship of sharing grief. She was more grateful than ever to these strange people.

Back on the beach Olivia found the first of the supplies coming ashore with the help of several of the Aborigines. Tyndall made no reference to the ceremony that had taken place, recognising that it was ‘women’s sorry business’ and that it was better to talk of other things. He informed her that the negotiations for dry shelling were completed and that the men would begin work in two days. The delay was for some ceremony they were organising.

‘Can’t put off a ceremony, not for anything,’ explained Tyndall. ‘We either do things to their time, or not at all.’

‘Time seems irrelevant out here, don’t you think?’ mused Olivia.

‘A lot of our world is irrelevant out here,’ he replied and went back to helping unload the dinghy.

Olivia sat on the beach and took some deep breaths, quietly watching the activity. She reflected on Tyndall’s parting remark, at the same time acknowledging the ease with which she had accepted the Aboriginal expressions of grief, and how incredibly moving the experience had been for her. She realised she had been through a cathartic experience in the ceremony and now felt a remarkable sense of relief and freedom. James was safe. It was no longer so painful to think about him.

When the Aborigines were ready to work they waited till the tide ebbed, then fanned out along the exposed coral and mud seabed, filling small woven baskets with shell during the few hours that the mudflats were exposed. Some of them waded out
further, bobbing beneath the sea as their feet or keen eyes found shells. Several men and two young women set out in the dinghy, diving over the side feet first with knees drawn up under the chin, then once in the water, angling their body to swim downwards. Some dived off the lugger into a depth of three or four fathoms, resurfacing with several shells.

Tyndall watched the work with satisfaction. ‘They’re natural divers but they were terribly abused in the old days,’ he told Olivia. ‘Twenty, thirty years ago the early pearlers, well, the more unscrupulous ones, used to virtually kidnap the natives and make them work their guts out diving for shell. Women, too. In fact the women were said to be better than the men at underwater work.’ He paused, then added with a raised eyebrow. ‘Not that they did all the work underwater.’

Olivia was shocked. ‘How terrible it must have been. Why didn’t the authorities stop it?’

‘Well, they did. At least they passed a law in the Parliament, but while the arm of the law is long, it has trouble reaching some of these parts. They at least stopped the auctions of Aborigines and islanders. The barracoons were slave sales.’

‘Do the natives use the modern diving suits on luggers?’

‘A few do, but other races are better at it, especially the Japs and Malays. This mob are too inclined to go walkabout at the drop of a hat. Money isn’t too meaningful to them. Like time,’ he smiled.