‘This is the bathroom, Maitland, but what I need is the lavatory. Might you show me where that is, please?’
The toilet was outside, housed in its own separate cubicle abutting the back fence, fifty yards from the house. A crushed-shell path, lined with upturned glass bottles sunk deep in the soil, led to it from the back door.
Maitland waved a fleshy hand. ‘There’s your lavatory, Maisie. It’s out the back so you won’t be disturbed when the shitcan collector comes to empty the dunny in the early hours.’
The obscenity slapped her in the face, like a blow. ‘Do you have a lantern I might borrow?’
‘No, I don’t. I piss off the verandah at night.’
He watched her pick her way down the path.
‘Watch out for snakes and spiders,’ he called after her. ‘Lots of them bite.’
The toilet was housed in a galvanised-iron hut. Squares of paper, threaded on a string, were nailed to the wall. She had no words to describe the smell. She covered her mouth with her handkerchief and hurried back to the house, the hem of her dress trailing through the thick, dark earth.
Maitland hadn’t moved from the back door. ‘Drink before bed?’ He waggled a bottle at her.
Maisie was dry-mouthed, her heart thumping so hard she wondered if he could see it through her dress. This is it. Coarse and without appeal, the man repulsed her. She had spent all her life dreaming of Snow White’s handsome prince who would kiss her gently awake from her sleepy existence. He would kneel at her feet, hand pressed to his heart, and beg her to be his bride. The reality was that she had married a fat, ugly toad.
Mrs Wallace had not painted a romantic, loving picture of the marriage act. If he was a good man, she said, he would coax her, his frightened bride, with kind words and understanding. Otherwise, among a lot of talk about sheep and animals, things would have to be borne. She sank onto a kitchen chair with shaking knees and picked at the neck of her dress. ‘Perhaps I might,’ she said.
‘You’ll have to get up. The drinks are next door.’
She followed him down the passage, their footsteps echoing on the floorboards. A pile of unopened letters lay on a polished wooden table and, somewhere in the house, a clock chimed the hour. He stood in front of a side table, and over his shoulder said, ‘What’s your poison?’
‘Sherry?’ she replied, both hands locked on her handbag.
‘No can do. Gin, brandy, whisky, champagne or wine.’
‘Gin, then.’ Her voice was high and thin.
He turned towards her and held out a glass. ‘Quick nightcap and then let’s get off to bed.’
For the second time that day, Maisie was taken to a room she had no desire to enter. It was a small box room whose walls and ceiling were covered with beige hessian. It was intolerably hot and smelled of damp.
‘This is your room. It’s adjacent to my own,’ Maitland explained, lighting another carbide lamp. ‘You’ll be all right in here. There’s an empty drawer for your things in the dressing table but not much space in the wardrobe. You’ll have to manage. The bathroom is down the verandah on the right, if you’ve lost your sense of direction. I’ll be able to hear when you’ve finished in there.’ He stood in the doorway and seemed to hesitate. ‘I’ll probably be gone in the morning before you’re up, so just have a look round and sort yourself out. Good night.’ He shut the door behind him.
Alone among his clothes, she sat on the bed, quailing in the near dark. Though her parents had separate rooms, she had imagined a shared bed for her wedding night. Maybe Maitland was preparing to receive her on the other side of the door and his bachelor room would eventually become theirs? An image of him undressing came into her head, but she squeezed her eyes shut to block it out and tried not to panic. After a while she opened her eyes and looked around. Her trunk was not there. She was without friends, possessions or courage. She undressed and folded her clothes neatly into piles on a chair, shoes side by side underneath, through years of habit. The bed was low, covered with a single sheet, tucked in tightly at the corners like a parcel. She peeled back an edge and got in, dressed only in her shift. A few moments later she thought she heard Maitland close a door along the passage. The sound of whispering and then a deep cry. Her heart quickened and sweat trickled down her neck. She strained her ears listening for footsteps and stared at the wooden handle on her door, waiting for it to turn. This is it, she thought, the absolute edge of the cliff.
She lay on her back, eyes open in the darkness, and stared at the knob for most of the night, scarcely blinking, but it never moved.
THE NEXT MORNING, SHE was startled awake by the smash and splintering of crockery. She lay absolutely still, rigid, her eyes wide, waiting with panic for the door to burst open and Maitland to appear, demanding his husband’s dues.
‘Knock, knock.’ The voice was unfamiliar, certainly not Maitland’s.
She was too scared to sit up, and so sank down dragging the sheets to her chin, her pulse jumping in her throat.
A Chinese man with a coffee-coloured face, his teeth shining even whiter than the dazzling singlet he wore below it, peered round her door. His gums looked blue against the shiny white enamel. Maisie twisted the gaping neckline of her nightgown closed between her thumb and forefinger.
Pinned to the bed by his enquiring gaze, she pulled the sheets more tightly around her. ‘Who are you?’
A half-smile hovered at his mouth. ‘Cook-houseboy, Mem. I everything here.’
‘Do you live in this house?’ She shrank back against the pillow, her stomach contracting. Maitland hadn’t mentioned servants, though she had realised there must be some. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Duc, Mem.’
‘What do you want?’ She tightened the sheet round her neck.
‘Bossman say me bring you cuppa tea.’
She willed herself calm. ‘That would be welcome.’
‘You okey-dokey, Mem?’
She dipped her chin. ‘Is Captain Sinclair here, Duc?’
‘Boss? No, he gone working. He come back afternoon or night time. Maybe if.’
She sat up from the pillows and elbowed her way up the headboard. ‘Maybe if?’
‘Seven o’clock. Maybe if eight.’ He seemed to nod and shake his head at the same time, leaving Maisie with no idea what he meant.
‘What time is it?’
He gave her a look, which made her feel stupid. ‘’Bout morning-tea time.’
‘Has my trunk arrived from the steamer?’
He put his head on one side and wobbled it again, grinning like a madman. She could see he hadn’t
