was strong as he heaved himself up the steps towards the loading stage of his packing shed.
He heard the familiar sound of tomahawk striking shell from inside the large, corrugated-iron shed. At the entrance, it took him a few moments to adjust from the bright sunlight to the gloom of the interior. At the far end of the shed he saw a huge pile of pearl shell that two Manilamen were processing, squatting back on their haunches, sarongs tucked up between their legs as they sorted the shell into shallow floor bins according to size and condition. The gold-lipped shell sparkled in the light from the open doors as they tossed it through the air. A third man was stencilling letters onto a wooden crate destined for New York, where Maitland sold the majority of his shell to the button trade. Another man, his back to the door, sat cross-legged beside the bin containing the largest shell. Maitland watched him pick out a shell and hold it up, eyeing himself in the shining surface. He stroked the smooth surface with the long arc of his finger and then held it up against his cheek, caressing it like a lover. Something about the intimate gesture rooted Maitland to the spot. He glanced around. When he was sure they were alone, he spoke rapidly in Malay and the other man turned, the shell still pressed to his cheek. They held each other’s gaze and Maitland flicked his head towards the door. The Malay threw the shell back into the bin and scrambled to his feet.
‘I go your office,’ he stammered in English.
Maitland strolled out into the sunshine, a sly smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. The Malay followed behind, dragging his feet in the dust.
THE MORNING WAS SPARKLING blue as the SS Oceanic bumped onto its moorings in Port Fremantle. Soon, Maisie’s six-week voyage from England would be a memory of deck tennis, quoits, concerts and endless meals dodging Mr Smalley’s groping fingers. On deck, a dozen Englishmen gathered by the rail. They stood quietly, facing away from Maisie, looking towards the rotted jetty stumps. Clothed in heavy dark wool suits with white celluloid collars that looked stiff and unfamiliar, most were smoking. One of the men wore his trousers short to his ankles, his fancy patterned socks on display above the toe-pinching shoes. Maisie, sitting on a deckchair next to Mrs Wallace, flexed her swollen feet in sympathy.
A small engine-driven tugboat bounced alongside the ship, jammed with men waving pale-jacketed arms in the air. They were clutching notebooks, some with cameras slung on straps round their necks. The second officer had told Maisie that newspaper reporters would come aboard that morning to the first-class deck and would, regrettably, delay their disembarkation by an hour or two.
A brass band was blaring ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ from the quayside. Maisie caught the whiff of excitement that thrummed through the crowd and leaned forward in her chair on the upper deck to watch the scene. Shading her eyes from the bright sunlight, she saw that the first of the newspapermen had climbed up the ladder and was shaking the hand of Mr Farmount. By the time the tugboat’s passengers were fully on board, Mr Farmount had the twelve Englishmen corralled and a photographer was arranging them, a few seated and the surplus standing behind. There they remained under the unrelenting sun, eyes on the camera box for some time, red patches blooming on tender exposed skin.
Maisie shaded her eyes from the blinding sun and considered for a moment retreating into the shade, until she saw that Mr Farmount had moved closer to the press party.
She patted Mrs Wallace’s arm. ‘I think Mr Farmount is about to make a speech.’
‘Of course he is, dear. It’s why the newspaper people have come. Now pipe down or we shan’t be able to hear what he says.’
Maisie pressed her lips together, her cheeks burning.
Farmount consulted his notes and thrust his redundant hand in a pocket. Maisie saw that he was nervous; his face was spotted with perspiration and his other hand was trembling. He straightened his jacket and cleared his throat.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ he began, his voice just audible against the brass band’s enthusiasm. ‘The gentlemen to my left are all ex-Royal Navy Divers. I am here as their ambassador, and also to represent Siegfried and Hammond – the largest manufacturer of diving apparatus in the world. The company is the sole contractor to the British Admiralty and the Crown Agents for the Colonial and Indian Office.’ He broke off and wiped a handkerchief across his brow.
‘Their arrival on Australian soil marks the end of an era. Our divers are here to prove, once and for all, the superiority of the Britisher over the Asiatic.’ Farmount looked up, his nerves seemingly forgotten. ‘We cannot allow one of Australia’s primary industries to be dominated by a bunch of brown-skinned foreigners! Let the Japanese, Malays and Koepangers take heed. Their stronghold over the pearling industry is about to end, and these men –’ He waved a freckly paw at the sweating, wool-clad group. ‘These men, gentlemen of the press, are the men to end it.’
His fervour ignited the crowd. Amid a flurry of enthusiastic applause, a spiky-haired reporter thrust up his hand and shouted, ‘Mr Farmount! Ray Jones, Perth Advertiser. How long do you think it will take to drive the coloured fellers out?’
Farmount glanced sideways and nodded at the divers. ‘We’ve settled on a year to do the job, but we anticipate that it won’t take that long.’
‘Well said!’ a voice yelled from the crowd.
Maisie moved in her chair, looking from Mrs Wallace to Mr Farmount and back again. She knew so little about Australia – there had been no time to research – but she did know that this felt wrong.
‘Surely they should show more respect towards the men they are trying to replace,’ she said, not knowing anything about the white dominance of the coloured population. Mrs Wallace, padded in purple gingham, was nodding vigorously and banging her cotton-gloved fingers together in enthusiastic support of Mr Farmount’s speech.
Another hand shot up. ‘Pete Ramsey, Fremantle Chronicle. Can I get the names of all these brave English blokes, sir?’
Mr Farmount turned to the group and named the twelve men in turn, the last of whom was introduced as William Cooper, the most experienced diver in the team.
‘Can we get a few words, sir?’
Craning forward for a better view, Maisie recognised the man who had pushed to the front as the panther from the card game. His hair was as black as coal and even with the sun on his face, his eyes were dark and proud. She thought again of a sleek cat, crouching in the long grass, prey between its claws, and shrank back, her heart banging against her ribcage. Its excessive beating seemed to throw her balance and she felt as if she might faint.
With one arm draped around the diver’s neck, Mr Farmount slicked back his brilliantined hair with his free hand and wiped the excess grease down the side of his trousers. ‘William Cooper is the British Royal Navy’s finest diver. He has pioneered the use of my company’s engine-driven air compressor on his deep-sea dives, which will further prove that the day of the darky hand-pump deck-boy is done! We have brought this wonder machine with us and will use it to great effect on the luggers in Buccaneer Bay. We will show you all just what English manufactured equipment and the white diver can do.’
William Cooper stepped forward and shook the hair out of his eyes, exuding the casual assurance of someone who was used to the limelight.
Maisie fiddled with her gloves. ‘Have you heard of that diver William Cooper, Mrs Wallace?’
Mrs Wallace wedged her frame
