was not in the mood for another culinary scolding. She glanced at Mrs Wallace who, happily, was chatting enthusiastically to the second officer and glowing like a lantern.
Maisie turned back to the seedy gentleman. He was stabbing at peas with the tines of his fork, stacking them up like beads on an abacus.
‘Could I pass you anything, Mr Smalley? Salt or pepper perhaps?’ A shovel?
‘Wine bottle first,’ he said, his mouth full. ‘Then the bread basket.’
She resisted the temptation to pass comment, and lifted the decanter. ‘Is your wife not with you on this trip?’
Mrs Wallace, who apparently had the hearing of a bat, leaned in close as though about to tell her a secret. ‘Don’t ask personal questions, Maisie dear. It’s vulgar.’
Mr Smalley filled his glass and swirled it round, inspecting the amber liquid in the candlelight. He took a large gulp and chewed it a few times, as if consulting the wine for an answer, then began cramming wodges of butter into a roll. ‘Never married,’ he said, a spray of spittle flying from his mouth. ‘But that’s not to say I’m not open to offers.’
Course after course as the meal ground on, Smalley became more tiresome. By his sprouting eyebrows and the silver hair that hung in tufts round his ears, Maisie judged him to be in his sixties, give or take. That they were at least forty years apart in age seemed almost to encourage him. When desserts were laid before them in twinkling glass bowls, he was already too close, his liver-spotted hand inching purposefully towards hers across the tablecloth, trapping her palm between the cream and custard. Plump, deliberate fingers crept a little closer with the cheese and crackers, and when coffee was poured, his knee was banging against hers with the determination of a rutting ram.
‘Let me tell you how I come to be on board, Miss Porter.’ He took a handful of petits fours from an oval china plate. ‘I’m taking the British Empire to the wilderness to enforce law and order in one of the gold-rush towns. I am to be Ballarat’s new resident magistrate. What do you say to that, eh?’ He stuffed a petit four into his mouth and started to chew. ‘And you, Miss Porter? What takes you to Australia?’
Mrs Wallace straightened her spectacles across the bridge of her nose. ‘Maisie is going to Australia to be married.’
‘Oh!’ Mr Smalley perked up. ‘Going fishing?’
Maisie shrank from his remark and Mrs Wallace dived in. ‘No, not fishing, Mr Smalley.’ She waggled an admonishing finger. ‘She is not fishing at all. She has landed herself a splendid prize. She is engaged to be married.’
Maisie felt a little queasy at the mention of the wedding, but hoped Mrs Wallace’s forthrightness would bring Mr Smalley to heel.
He was not to be put off. He tipped some wine into a glass and pushed it towards her. ‘Could I tempt you to a glass of wine, Miss Porter? To celebrate your good fortune?’ He dropped his hand below the tablecloth and squeezed her knee, kneading her flesh with his hot fingers.
Unable to move without causing a scene, she felt his hand scrabble up her thigh like an agile weasel. She batted it away, shifting sideways in her seat to increase the distance between them. If he does that one more time, I’ll stab his hand with my fork, she promised herself.
‘No, you could not, Mr Smalley.’ Mrs Wallace pushed the glass back across the tablecloth. ‘But you may pour one for me.’
The steamer chugged slowly towards its destination. The warm air became hot and started to make clear the impracticality of Maisie’s clothes. Away from all that was familiar, she felt herself changing in small rebellious ways. For the first time in her life, she was answerable only to herself. Although, of course, there was still Mrs Wallace to negotiate.
Her first defiant gesture happened quite unexpectedly one morning. In the cabin, the two women dressed and undressed mostly behind the bunk curtains. Mrs Wallace had laid claim to the lower berth and for Maisie, the novelty of negotiating the tiny wooden ladder several times a day soon lost its appeal. Lying or sitting on her bed, trying to lace herself into her corset with its steel boning in the gathering heat near the roof, proved too much of a trial. Even without the restrictive garment, she was as thin as paper, and it fitted snugly over her chemise and squeezed her hips and breasts into a shapeless column.
What must it feel like, she wondered as she plucked at the laces behind her back, to belong to a native tribe who wear nothing at all? So, in the privacy of the small, curtained space, she left the corset off and smuggled it down into her cabin trunk while Mrs Wallace was still asleep.
If Mrs Wallace noticed she had removed it, she didn’t remark on it – indeed, she was constantly distracted from her caretaking duties by Mr Smalley. She seemed very struck with him, but he had taken to staring at Maisie with looks of overpowering interest. She would almost have preferred the groping.
Towards ten o’clock one evening, when they had been at sea for several weeks, the ship was nearing the Cape of Good Hope and Maisie was melting in her clothes, Mr Smalley badgered his female companions to make up a four for a rubber of bridge.
Beads of sweat trickled down her worsted-clad spine, her feet protested in pools of deliquescent silk stocking, and the blood pounded hot in her cheeks. She folded her napkin carefully on her plate. ‘Would you mind very much if I give it a miss, Mrs Wallace? I don’t understand bridge at all well and am so hot in these suffocating clothes, I would prefer to take a turn on deck, to try to cool down a little before bed.’
‘You must not do that alone, Maisie. People will think you are fast. You must remember your position, as an engaged woman.’ She accented the word, giving Mr Smalley a sharp look. ‘I will forgo my game of bridge and accompany you, to safeguard your reputation. Western Australia has a very small English community and there will be gossip if you gad about by yourself. We must get you out of the habit quick smart.’
Maisie looked down at her hands. ‘No,’ she said quietly to no-one in particular but primarily to herself. She had put a smile on her face all evening until her muscles ached from the effort and she felt ill-disposed towards the loathsome Mr Smalley and his proposed game of cards.
Mrs Wallace blinked several times, very fast. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I may be engaged to be married but I am not about to enter a religious order and take my vows. I am quite able to take a walk by myself.’
‘Don’t be cheeky, dear. Have you no sense of propriety?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’ Out loud.
Mrs Wallace gave her a nod. ‘Good. Now come along. I thought you wanted a stroll.’
The divide between decks was no more than a couple of wooden gates, but everyone was aware of their function: to keep the three classes separate and in their proper places.
That evening, Mrs Wallace had liquid courage pumping in her veins. ‘What would you say, Maisie, if we were to take a turn through third class?’ Her speech was a little slurred.
Have we swapped roles and I have now become the responsible adult in charge of what is right and wrong? She put a hand on Mrs Wallace’s arm. ‘I’m not sure that we are supposed to. Trespassing between the decks is not permitted. The captain was very clear on that point. Do you not remember that he said so, at dinner on the first night?’
