attempt to change your husband or refuse his advances. It won’t work and he will make you miserable and likely plant his affections elsewhere. The best thing you can do for the health of your marriage is have a baby and develop an interest of your own.
Maisie was making a great effort to fit in, but having a baby was another matter. Mrs Wallace had said that most men had insatiable bedroom urges. Maitland hadn’t had one.
Maisie had been in the house a few days before she broached the subject of domestic staff.
‘This is a large bungalow, Maitland. Don’t you think we need someone to help Duc? He can’t be expected to do all the household chores and cook as well. It is too much work for one person.’
‘He’s managed till now.’
She ran a finger over the arm of her chair. ‘The house is dirty, and I’m sure he would appreciate some help.’
‘Duc doesn’t give a toss about cleaning, but get a houseboy if you want.’
‘I’d really prefer not to have a boy. Aren’t there black girls who can be taught?’
‘I’m not having a black gin with the morals of a dog in my house. Lubras can’t be tolerated in a decent home. They’re all lazy and dishonest. Disease and dissipation is what you’ll bring into this house. Pound to a penny, she’d steal my whisky or creep into my bed at night.’
‘Maitland! I know I’ve only just arrived and understand very little of what goes on here but I’m sure you must be exaggerating. I can’t believe that every Aboriginal woman in Buccaneer Bay has flawed morals or a propensity towards theft.’
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Maisie was stung by his tone. ‘Why did you bring me out to Australia, Maitland? You do nothing but snipe at me. I’m sure I would annoy you less if you were to spend a bit of time at home and give me some guidance.’
He took a cigarette from the box on the table and lit it. Blowing smoke towards the ceiling, he shook out the match. ‘I see the little mouse is growing fangs.’
She said nothing. Just sat. That would make me a rat, wouldn’t it, Maitland, and there’s no room for two in this house.
The disagreement had persisted all evening but Maisie would not give in. Just before midnight, Maitland drained his umpteenth glass of whisky and pressed his flabby hands against his ears.
‘No more, Maisie. I’m going to bed.’
Maitland had not referred to their domestic arrangements again, and two days after their argument, Marjorie had appeared on their doorstep.
‘I want to speak with the new Missus,’ she said. ‘I come allonga work in house.’
‘I’m Mrs Sinclair.’
‘I’m Black Marjorie.’
‘Is that both your names?’ Maisie knew that the French always gave their surname before their first name. Maybe it was the same here.
‘No. Is how you refer to me. I bin Marjorie. My colour is black.’
‘Marjorie, I can’t refer to you as black. It’s very offensive. It would be like you calling me White Mrs Sinclair. Or calling our cook Brown Duc.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘I’m sorry, Marjorie. It is not okay to me. I shall not call you Black.’
‘Okay, Missus. You might like know anyhow we call white people Paleface. So, you would be Paleface Missus. Just so’s you know.’
Maisie was deeply affected by colour: the tomato-red earth, the brilliant red heads on the poinciana blossoms and the cool lime-green bird-of-paradise hedge with its orange pea-flower plumes that bordered her garden. By day, the Bay was bathed in painful white sunlight, which sparkled on the multi-hued ocean; at night, the dark navy sky was studded with dripping silver stars. She loved the vibrancy of the artist’s palette, but she would never refer to people by their colour.
Marjorie was an amply proportioned native woman about thirty years old and told Maisie she had been trained in domestic duties by the nuns at the Catholic Mission. She was as bright as sunlight and right from the start, as a small child, had wanted to learn. To get to school she had to walk nearly four miles a day each way. In the Wet, walking in the heat and then slushing through the cloying mud was the stumbling block – because Marjorie did not own shoes. The soles of her feet blistered in the hot sand or became infected in the cruddy monsoon sludge. At first, she’d tried to jump from grass patch to grass patch waiting for her feet to cool or dry off. Once she’d proposed a shoe-sharing scheme with a friend who had a pair of second-hand boots. The friend would wear the left and she the right – but they’d both regretted the blisters. Another time she’d tried to hop on alternate legs but the effort had been too much. She’d given up with school after that.
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