CHAPTER 2
POINT PARTAGEUSE GOT its name from French explorers who mapped the cape that jutted from the south-western corner of the Australian continent well before the British dash to colonise the west began in 1826. Since then, settlers had trickled north from Albany and south from the Swan River Colony, laying claim to the virgin forests in the hundreds of miles between. Cathedral-high trees were felled with handsaws to create grazing pasture; scrawny roads were hewn inch by stubborn inch by pale-skinned fellows with teams of shire horses, as this land, which had never before been scarred by man, was excoriated and burned, mapped and measured and meted out to those willing to try their luck in a hemisphere which might bring them desperation, death, or fortune beyond their dreams.
The community of Partageuse had drifted together like so much dust in a breeze, settling in this spot where two oceans met, because there was fresh water and a natural harbour and good soil. Its port was no rival to Albany, but convenient for locals shipping timber or sandalwood or beef. Little businesses had sprung up and clung on like lichen on a rock-face, and the town had accumulated a school, a variety of churches with different hymns and architectures, a good few brick and stone houses and a lot more built of weatherboard and tin. It gradually produced various shops, a town hall, even a Dalgety’s stock and station agency. And pubs. Many pubs.
Throughout its infancy, the unspoken belief in Partageuse was that real things happened elsewhere. News of the outside world trickled in like rain dripped off the trees, a snippet here, a rumour there. The telegraph had speeded things up a bit when the line arrived in 1890, and since then a few folks had got telephones. The town had even sent troops off to the Transvaal in 1899 and lost a handful, but by and large, life in Partageuse was more of a sideshow, in which nothing too evil or too wonderful could ever happen.
Other towns in the West had known things different, of course: Kalgoorlie, for example, hundreds of miles inland, had underground rivers of gold crusted by desert. There, men wandered in with a wheelbarrow and a gold-pan and drove out in a motor car paid for by a nugget as big as a cat, in a town that only half ironically had streets with names like Croesus. The world wanted what Kalgoorlie had. The offerings of Partageuse, its timber and sandalwood, were small beer: it wasn’t flashy boom-time like Kal.
Then in 1914 things changed. Partageuse found that it too had something the world wanted. Men. Young men. Fit men. Men who had spent their lives swinging an axe or holding a plough and living it hard. Men who were the prime cut to be sacrificed on tactical altars a hemisphere away.
1914 was just flags and new-smelling leather on uniforms. It wasn’t until a year later that life started to feel different – started to feel as if maybe this wasn’t a sideshow after all – when, instead of getting back their precious, strapping husbands and sons, the women began to get telegrams. These bits of paper which could fall from stunned hands and blow about in the knife-sharp wind, which told you that the boy you’d suckled, bathed, scolded and cried over, was – well – wasn’t. Partageuse joined the world late and in a painful labour.
Of course, the losing of children had always been a thing that had to be gone through. There had never been any guarantee that conception would lead to a live birth, or that birth would lead to a life of any great length. Nature allowed only the fit and the lucky to share this paradise-in-the-making. Look inside the cover of any family Bible and you’d see the facts. The graveyards, too, told the story of the babies whose voices, because of a snake bite or a fever or a fall from a wagon, had finally succumbed to their mothers’ beseeching to ‘hush, hush, little one’. The surviving children got used to the new way of setting the table with one place fewer, just as they grew accustomed to squishing along the bench when another sibling arrived. Like the wheat fields where more grain is sown than can ripen, God seemed to sprinkle extra children about, and harvest them according to some indecipherable, divine calendar. The town cemetery had always recorded this truthfully, and its headstones, some lolling like loose, grimy teeth, told frankly the stories of lives taken early by influenza and drownings, by timber whims and even lightning strikes. But in 1915, it began to lie. Boys and men from across the district were dying by the score, yet the graveyards said nothing.
The truth was that the younger bodies lay in mud far away. The authorities did what they could: where conditions and combat permitted, graves were dug; when it was possible to put together a set of limbs and identify them as a single soldier, every effort was made to do so, and to bury him with a funeral rite of sorts. Records were kept. Later, photographs were taken of the graves, and, for the sum of ￡2 1s 6d, a family could buy an official commemorative plaque. Later still, the war memorials would sprout from the earth, dwelling not on the loss, but on what the loss had won, and what a fine thing it was to be victorious. ‘Victorious and dead,’ some muttered, ‘is a poor sort of victory.’
As full of holes as a Swiss cheese the place was, without the men. Not that there had been conscription. No one had forced them to go and fight.
The cruellest joke was on the fellows everyone called ‘lucky’ because they got to come back at all: back to the kids spruced up for the welcome home, to the dog with a ribbon tied to his collar so he could join in the fun. The dog was usually the first to spot that something was up. Not just that the bloke was missing an eye or a leg; more that he was missing generally – still missing in action, though his body had never been lost sight of. Billy Wishart from Sadler’s mill, for example – three little ones and a wife as good as a man has a right to hope for, gassed and can’t hold a spoon any more without it sputtering like a chaff-cutter and spraying his soup all over the table. Can’t manage his buttons because of the shakes. When he’s alone at night with his wife he won’t get out of his clothes, and just hugs himself into a ball on the bed and cries. Or young Sam Dowsett, who survived the first Gallipoli landing only to lose both arms and half his face at Bullecourt. His widowed mother sits up at night worrying who’ll take care of her little boy once she’s gone. There’s not a girl in the district’d be silly enough to take him on now. Holes in Swiss cheese. Something missing.
For a long time, people wore the bewildered expression of players in a game where the rules had suddenly been changed. They tried hard to take comfort from the fact that the boys hadn’t died in vain: they had been part of a magnificent struggle for right. And there were moments where they could believe that and swallow down the angry, desperate screech that wanted to scrape its way out of their gullets like out of a mother bird.
After the war, people tried to make allowances for the men who’d come back a bit too fond of a drink or a stoush, or the ones who couldn’t hold down a job for more than a few days. Business in the town settled down after a fashion. Kelly still had the grocer’s. The butcher was still old Len Bradshaw, though Young Len was itching to take over: you could tell by the way he took up just a bit too much of his dad’s space at the counter when he leaned past him to pick up a chop or a pig’s cheek. Mrs Inkpen (who never seemed to have a Christian name, though her sister called her Popsy in private) took over the farrier’s when her husband Mack didn’t make it back from Gallipoli. She had a face as hard as the iron the lads used to nail onto the horses’ hooves, and a heart to match. Great hulks of men she had working for her, and it was all ‘Yes, Mrs Inkpen. No, Mrs Inkpen. Three bags full, Mrs Inkpen,’ even though any of them could have picked her up with barely more than a finger.
People knew who to give credit to, and who to ask for money up front; who to believe when they brought goods back and asked for a refund. Mouchemore’s draper’s and haberdasher’s did best around Christmas and Easter, though the run up to winter brought them a swift trade in knitting wool. Did a profitable line in ladies’ unmentionables, too. Larry Mouchemore used to pat his pointed moustache as he corrected mispronunciations of his name (‘It’s like “move”, not like “mouse”,’), and watched with fear and bile as Mrs Thurkle got it into her head to open a furrier’s next door. A fur shop? In Point Partageuse? If you please! He smiled benignly when it closed within six months, buying up the remaining stock ‘as an act of neighbourly charity’ and selling it at a tidy profit to the captain of a steamer bound for Canada, who said they were mad for that sort of thing there.
So by 1920, Partageuse had that mixture of tentative pride and hard-bitten experience that marked any West Australian town. In the middle of the handkerchief of grass near the main street stood the fresh granite obelisk listing the men and boys, some scarcely sixteen, who would not be coming back to plough the fields or fell the trees, would not be finishing their lessons, though many in the town held their breath, waiting for them anyway. Gradually, lives wove together once again into a practical sort of fabric in which every thread crossed and re-crossed the others through school and work and marriage, embroidering connections invisible to those not from the town.
And Janus Rock, linked only by the store boat four times a year, dangled off the edge of the cloth like a loose button that might easily plummet to Antarctica.
The long, thin jetty at Point Partageuse was made from the same jarrah that rattled along it in rail carriages to be hauled onto ships. The wide bay above which the town had grown up was clear turquoise, and on the day Tom’s boat docked it gleamed like polished glass.
Men beetled away, loading and unloading, heaving and wrestling cargo with the occasional shout or whistle. On shore, the bustle continued, as people went about with a purposeful air, on foot or by horse and buggy.
The exception to this display of efficiency was a young woman feeding bread to a flock of seagulls. She was laughing as she threw each crust in a different direction and watched the birds squabble and screech, eager for a prize. A gull in full flight caught a morsel in one gulp and still dived for the next one, sending the girl into new peals of laughter.
It seemed years since Tom had heard a laugh that wasn’t tinged with a roughness, a bitterness. It was a sunny winter’s afternoon, and there was nowhere he had to go right that minute; nothing he had to do. He would be shipped out to Janus in a couple of days, once he had met the people he needed to meet and signed the forms he needed to sign. But for now, there were no logbooks to write up, no prisms to buff, no tanks to refuel. And here was someone just having a bit of fun. It suddenly felt like solid proof that the war was really over. He sat on a bench near the jetty, letting the sun caress his face, watching the girl lark about, the curls of her dark hair swirling like a net cast on the wind. He followed her delicate fingers as they made silhouettes against the blue. Only gradually did he notice she was pretty. And more gradually still that she was probably beautiful.
‘What are you smiling at?’ the girl called, catching Tom off guard.
‘Sorry.’ He felt his face redden.
‘Never be sorry for smiling!’ she exclaimed, in a voice that somehow had a sad edge. Then her expression brightened. ‘You’re not from Partageuse.’
‘Nope.’
‘I am. Lived here all my life. Want some bread?’
‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry.’
‘Not for you, silly! To feed the seagulls.’
She offered him a crust in her outstretched hand. A year before, perhaps even a day before, Tom would have declined and walked away. But suddenly, the warmth and the freedom and the smile, and something he couldn’t quite name, made him accept the offering.
‘Bet I can get more to come to me than you can,’ she said.
‘Righto, you’re on!’ said Tom.
‘Go!’ she declared, and the two of them began, throwing the pieces high in the air or at crafty angles, ducking as the gulls squawked and dive-bombed and flapped their wings at one another furiously.
Finally, when all the bread was gone, Tom asked, laughing, ‘Who won?’
‘Oh! I forgot to judge.’ The girl shrugged. ‘Let’s call it a draw.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said, putting his hat back on and picking up his duffle bag. ‘Better be on my way. Thanks. I enjoyed that.’
She smiled. ‘It was just a silly game.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘thanks for reminding me that silly games are fun.’ He slung the bag over his broad shoulder, and turned toward town. ‘You have a good afternoon now, Miss,’ he added.
Tom rang the bell at the boarding house on the main street. It was the domain of Mrs Mewett, a woman of sixty-odd, as stout as a pepper pot, who set upon him. ‘Your letter said you’re a bachelor, and you’re Eastern States, so I’ll thank you for remembering you’re in Partageuse now. This is a Christian establishment, and there’s to be no taking of alcohol or tobacco on the premises.’
Tom was about to thank her for the key in her hand, but she clutched it fiercely as she continued, ‘None of your foreign habits here: I know what’s what. I change the sheets when you leave and I don’t expect to have to scrub them, if you know what I mean. The doors are locked at ten, breakfast is served at six a.m. and if you’re not there you go hungry. Tea’s at five thirty, and likewise applies. Lunch you can find somewhere else.’
‘Much obliged, Mrs Mewett,’ said Tom, deciding against a smile in case it broke some other rule.
‘Hot water’s an extra shilling a week. Up to you whether you want it. In my book, cold water never did a man your age any harm.’ She thrust the room key at him. As she limped off down the passageway, Tom wondered whether there was a Mr Mewett who had so endeared men to her.
In his small room at the back of the house, he unpacked his duffle bag, setting his soap and shaving things neatly on the one shelf provided. He folded his long johns and socks into the drawer, and hung his three shirts and two pairs of trousers, together with his good suit and tie, in the narrow wardrobe. He slipped a book into his pocket and set out to explore the town.
Tom Sherbourne’s final duty in Partageuse was dinner with the Harbourmaster and his wife. Captain Percy Hasluck was in charge of all the comings and goings at the port, and it was usual for any new Janus lightkeeper to be invited to dine with him before setting off for the island.
Tom washed and shaved again in the afternoon, put Brilliantine in his hair, buttoned on a collar and hauled on his suit. The sunshine of the previous days had been replaced by clouds and a vicious wind that blew straight from Antarctica, so he pulled on his greatcoat for good measure.
Still working on Sydney scales, he had left plenty of time to walk the unfamiliar route, and arrived at the house rather early. His host welcomed him with a broad smile, and when Tom apologised for his premature arrival, ‘Mrs Captain Hasluck’, as her husband referred to her, clapped her hands and said, ‘Gracious me, Mr Sherbourne! You hardly need to apologise for gracing us with your presence promptly, especially when you’ve brought such lovely flowers.’ She inhaled the scent of the late roses Tom had negotiated to pick, for a fee, from Mrs Mewett’s garden. She peered up at him from her considerably lower vantage point. ‘Goodness! You’re nearly as tall as the lighthouse yourself!’ she said, and chuckled at her own wit.
The Captain took Tom’s hat and coat and said, ‘Come into the parlour,’ after which his wife immediately chimed, ‘Said the spider to the fly!’
‘Ah, she’s a card, that one!’ exclaimed the Captain. Tom feared it could be a long evening.
‘Now, some sherry? Or there’s port?’ offered the woman.
‘Show some mercy and bring the poor devil a beer, Mrs Captain,’ her husband said with a laugh. He slapped Tom on the back. ‘You have a seat and tell me all about yourself, young man.’
Tom was rescued by the doorbell. ‘Excuse me,’ said Captain Hasluck. Down the hall Tom heard, ‘Cyril. Bertha. Glad you could come. Let me take your hats.’
As Mrs Captain returned to the parlour with a bottle of beer and glasses on a silver tray, she said, ‘We thought we’d invite a few people, just to introduce you to some locals. It’s a very friendly place, Partageuse.’
The Captain ushered in the new guests, a dour couple comprising the plump Chairman of the Local Roads Board, Cyril Chipper, and his wife, Bertha, who was thin as a yard of pump water.
‘Well, what do you make of the roads here?’ launched Cyril as soon as they had been introduced. ‘No politeness, mind. Compared with over East, how would you rate them?’
‘Oh, leave the poor man alone, Cyril,’ said the wife. Tom was grateful not only for that intervention but also for the doorbell, which rang again.
‘Bill. Violet. Grand to see you,’ said the Captain as he opened the front door. ‘Ah, and you get lovelier by the day, young lady.’
He showed into the parlour a solid man with grey whiskers, and his wife, sturdy and flushed. ‘This is Bill Graysmark, his wife, Violet, and their daughter …’ He turned around. ‘Where’s she got to? Anyway, there’s a daughter here somewhere, she’ll be through soon, I expect. Bill’s the headmaster here in Partageuse.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Tom, shaking the man by the hand and nodding politely to the woman.
‘So,’ said Bill Graysmark, ‘you think you’re up to Janus, then?’
‘I’ll soon find out,’ Tom said.
‘Bleak out there, you know.’
‘So I hear.’
‘No roads on Janus, of course,’ threw in Cyril Chipper.
‘Er, well, no,’ Tom said.
‘Not sure I think much of a place with no roads at all,’ Chipper pursued, in a tone that implied there were moral implications.
‘No roads is the least of your problems, son,’ rejoined Graysmark.
‘Dad, lay off, will you?’ The missing daughter now entered as Tom had his back to the door. ‘The last thing the poor man needs is your tales of doom and gloom.’
‘Ah! Told you she’d turn up,’ said Captain Hasluck. ‘This is Isabel Graysmark. Isabel – meet Mr Sherbourne.’
Tom stood to greet her and their eyes met in recognition. He was about to make a reference to seagulls, but she silenced him with, ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Sherbourne.’
‘Tom, please,’ he said, speculating that perhaps she wasn’t supposed to spend afternoons throwing bread to birds, after all. And he wondered what other secrets lay behind her playful smile.
The evening proceeded well enough, with the Haslucks telling Tom about the history of the district and the building of the lighthouse, back in the time of the Captain’s father. ‘Very important for trade,’ the Harbourmaster assured him. ‘The Southern Ocean is treacherous enough on the surface, let alone having that under-sea ridge. Safe transport is the key to business, everyone knows that.’
‘Of course, the real basis of safe transport is good roads,’ Chipper began again, about to launch into another variation on his only topic of conversation. Tom tried to look attentive, but was distracted out of the corner of his eye by Isabel. Unseen by the others, thanks to the angle of her chair, she had begun to make mock-serious expressions at Cyril Chipper’s comments, keeping up a little pantomime that accompanied each remark.
The performance went on, with Tom struggling to keep a straight face, until finally a full laugh escaped, which he quickly converted into a coughing fit.
‘Are you all right, Tom?’ asked the Captain’s wife. ‘I’ll fetch you some water.’
Tom couldn’t look up, and, still coughing, said, ‘Thank you. I’ll come with you. Don’t know what set me off.’
As Tom stood up, Isabel kept a perfectly straight face and said, ‘Now, when he comes back, you’ll have to tell Tom all about how you make the roads out of jarrah, Mr Chipper.’ Turning to Tom, she said, ‘Don’t be long. Mr Chipper’s full of interesting stories,’ and she smiled innocently, her lips giving just a momentary tremble as Tom caught her eye.
When the gathering drew to a close, the guests wished Tom well for his stay on Janus. ‘You look like you’re made of the right stuff,’ said Hasluck, and Bill Graysmark nodded in agreement.
‘Thank you. It’s been a pleasure to meet you all,’ said Tom, shaking hands with the gentlemen, and nodding to the ladies. ‘And thank you for making sure I got such a thorough introduction to Western Australian road construction,’ he said quietly to Isabel. ‘Pity I won’t have a chance to repay you.’ And the little party dispersed into the wintry night.