her treasures on a table. ‘For disturbing my “reverie”.’
Maisie scrabbled her possessions back into her bag, her hands trembling as she wished she could claw the words back. Why on earth did I say reverie? I sound like a nincompoop.
When she moved to rejoin Mrs Wallace in the downstairs lounge, Maisie found that her legs were rather wonky.
It took a long time to disembark, but eventually, their paperwork secured in the hand luggage, they walked down the canvas-lined gangway; hands clutching the thick rope sides, swaying on sea-habituated legs. Their cabin luggage was to follow them to the hotel but the hold luggage would be stored in a warehouse on the dock.
Mrs Wallace seemed happy to be home. ‘Welcome to Australia, dear. The hotel is scarcely a few minutes’ drive from the quay so it is hardly worth seeking out a conveyance,’ she said, pushing her damp hair from her eyes. ‘I’m sure you agree it will be good to stretch our legs.’
Mrs Wallace was set on a path and Maisie felt a stab of dismay. She had learned, often, during the six weeks of their acquaintance, that contradicting Mrs Wallace was like trying to hold back the tide. There was absolutely no point because it simply couldn’t be done.
The sun blazed down on the corrugated-iron sheds as they began their journey and there was no shade to be had. They paused where a single railway line bisected the wharf and a funny-looking little train let out occasional gasps of steam. A ferryman was tying up his boat, and other dilapidated vessels were bobbing on their moorings. Nothing looked new. She felt she had washed ashore at the end of the world.
‘Pace all right, dear? You look a bit wrung out.’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Mrs Wallace,’ Maisie managed. ‘I’m not quite used to the heat just yet.’
Mrs Wallace looked relieved and pushed on. They walked up the main street where a woman in a pale green dress was brushing the footpath to her shop and when they rounded the corner – two or three turnings further on – they stopped again. A battered sign nailed to a gum tree, handpainted in yellowing pink letters, read, ‘The Garden of Eden Guesthouse’. The house itself was half-obscured by an overgrown garden behind rusty wrought-iron gates.
‘What a dirty place,’ Maisie exclaimed, as they climbed the narrow steps to the front porch. ‘I imagined it to be white. Bleached, perhaps.’
She had also imagined a more intimate, inviting welcome to Australia. There was nothing in her future husband’s manner of address in his telegram, nor the accommodation he had arranged for her, that dispelled a deepening sense of foreboding.
The two women waited several days in Port Fremantle for the Blue Funnel coastal steamer; there would be five ports of call, dropping passengers at intervals over seven days, and then, after almost two months at sea, Maisie would meet the man she had been exiled to marry. At the third stop, Gantry Creek, Mrs Wallace would leave her for the home where she lived with her husband and seven children. Her husband had built the sheep station – apparently the size of a small country – from scratch. He was Scottish and, at just twenty-two, had panicked his grandparents with a persistent, phlegmy cough. Fearful he could be developing tuberculosis, and scared for the life of their only grandchild, they dispatched him to Australia to ensure the longevity of the Wallace line.
Maisie was fascinated by the few glimpses she had been given into Mrs Wallace’s life.
The first night, they had just finished their supper and were still sitting at the table in the dining room. She dropped a sugar lump into her coffee and gave it a swirl with her spoon. The sun was beginning to sink and glinted on the gold wedding band squeezing the flesh on Mrs Wallace’s left ring finger. ‘How did you meet your husband, Mrs Wallace? Were you already in Australia?’
Mrs Wallace leaned back in her chair, ran both hands round the square neckline of her dress and yanked it up over her cleavage. ‘No, dear. We met on the ship when I was coming over to begin my nursing in Perth. We were seated next to each other at the same table.’
Maisie propped her chin on her hand. ‘What happened?’
‘It was a very turbulent night. The ship was ploughing through the Atlantic. Do you remember how rough it was?’
Maisie nodded. She would not easily forget the enamel basin, the weak, sugary tea and the days confined to the cabin feeling wretched.
‘We were listening to the orchestra and talking a great deal. I remember – as clearly as if it were yesterday – that I was wearing a new black dress that was rather tight over the bodice and it was all covered with big shiny sequins and I had feathers in my hair. I loved that dress! Arthur leaned over to me and said I looked like an exotic princess and asked if I would take a chance on a waltz with him. He was so handsome with his hair slicked down, he made me tremble inside.’
‘And did you dance and fall in love?’
‘We danced for a bit, yes. The boat was rocking considerably, and it threw us together. Quite literally! And that was that.’
Maisie imagined the handsome Scotsman dipping down on one knee and begging for her hand in marriage. ‘Did he propose straightaway?’
‘Not precisely, dear.’ Mrs Wallace adjusted her spectacles. ‘We had only just met, but our fates were intertwined from that moment on.’
Maisie wondered idly whether there would be such a moment for her and her captain. Beyond the grubby balcony and peeling shutters of the hotel dining room, she could see the tall masts of the ships at anchor in the bay. She imagined him at the helm, singing a romantic solo of his own as he charted his course to claim her.
The next afternoon, Mrs Wallace put down her coffee cup and blotted her top lip. ‘I’m off for my nap, dear. I think you should have one too.’
‘In England, people never sleep in the afternoon,’ Maisie said.
‘That is irrelevant here. When you are married, your husband will come home for his lunch at midday and will, I am sure, lie down for an hour or so before he returns to his office. It’s a common practice and one you should adopt too. After that, you will be free to socialise.’
Maisie wasn’t certain if Mrs Wallace was implying that she would be joining him or having a private nap of her own.
‘As a young English woman and a newcomer to the town, you will be screened by the ladies, ogled by their husbands and judged by your help. You must have an At Home Day once a month during which you will invite all the resident ladies of your social circle to tea, cards, pianoforte recitals – whatever you choose to host. You must serve afternoon tea off your best china. Tea is a formal occasion, so you must produce the lightest of cakes and instruct your help how to serve them.’
Mrs Wallace delved in her mending bag and from the depths produced a wooden darning egg as well as her scissors and an assortment of threads. A tan lisle stocking lay limp on the round table by her elbow. ‘You must repay their visit on their appropriate At Home Day, leave two cards of your own and one of your husband’s. You will be expected to attend all other At Home Days besides your own; it will be seen as the epitome of impoliteness if you fail to appear. The likelihood is that you will not care for the majority of these women. The old tabbies will want to get a look at you, and all the young unmarried girls will critique your appearance and scrutinise your wardrobe and probably gossip about you too. It is very important that you are sucked into the bosom of your new life from the start, or you will find yourself very lonely indeed.’ She
