In short, Charlie had never been as miserable, desolate and lonely in his life.
Kitty had invited Elise round for Sunday lunch on a couple of occasions. There was no doubt that she was an efficient secretary and possibly more capable than he, as she covered up his mistakes where she could. Bright, witty and pretty, it was obvious his mother thought Elise the perfect future wife. There were constant mutterings about marriage and an heir to the empire.
‘You’d better snap her up before someone else does. Women like her don’t come along often in this town,’ she had said pointedly.
But there is already an heir out there, growing by the day in its mother’s stomach. God only knew how she was surviving . . .
‘Wait for me, Cat,’ he’d whisper to her Ancestors. ‘I will find you . . .’
*
‘So, this is goodbye, at least for now.’ Kitty smiled at her son as they stood in the luxurious suite aboard the ship that would take her down to Fremantle and then on the long voyage across the seas to her homeland.
Charlie thought how carefree she looked today – almost like a young girl, her eyes full of excitement.
‘I will do my best not to let you down.’
‘I know you will.’ Kitty reached out her hand to touch her son’s face. ‘Take care of yourself, darling boy.’
‘I will.’
The ship’s bell rang out to tell all those not travelling to disembark.
‘Write to me, won’t you? Let me know how you’re getting on?’ Kitty asked him.
‘Of course. Safe travels, Mother.’ Charlie gave her a last hug before leaving the suite to make his way down the gangplank. He waved until the ship was just a speck on the ocean. Then he took the little train back down the pier, where Fred was waiting in the car to return him home.
That evening, Charlie dined alone. The silence in the house was eerie and after he’d finished eating, he went to see Camira in the kitchen. In the past month, with Kitty in residence, it had been hard to pin her down alone, but she couldn’t avoid him now.
‘Dinna okay, Mister Charlie?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Have you heard from her?’
‘No.’
‘She has not contacted you at all? Please, I beg you, tell me the truth.’
‘Mister Charlie, you nottum understand. Out there’ – Camira waved her arm around vaguely – ‘no paper and stamp.’
‘Maybe others have seen her? I know how the Bush telegraph works and messages are delivered by word of mouth.’
‘No, I hear-a nothin’, honest, Mister Charlie.’
‘I am amazed you are not beside yourself with worry.’
‘Yessum, I worry, but I think she okay. I feel her, and Ancestors look after her.’
‘Has she gone to live with your people, you think?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Will she be coming back?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Christ!’ Charlie had the urge to shake her. ‘Do you not see that I am going mad with worry?’
‘Yessum, I see-a grey hair on you this morning.’
‘If she doesn’t come back in the next few weeks, I will go and find her myself.’ Charlie paced the kitchen.
‘She nottum want be found.’ Camira continued calmly with the washing-up.
‘We both know why she left, so at least it is my responsibility to try, whether she wishes it or not. After all, she is carrying my—’
Charlie restrained himself, knowing the actual words must remain unspoken between them. Yet again, he found himself close to tears.
‘Mister Charlie, you good man, I know you lovem my daughter. And she love you. She think what she do is for best. She wanta you have happy life. Too difficult for you with her. Accept things you cannot change.’
‘I cannot, Camira, I cannot.’ Charlie sank down into a chair, put his arms on the table and rested his head upon them. To his shame, he began to sob again. ‘I can’t live without her, I simply can’t.’
‘Mister Charlie.’ Camira left the washing-up, dried her hands and came to put her arms around his heaving shoulders. ‘I see-a you two for many year. I thinkum maybe it disappear, but it not.’
‘Exactly, so I can’t just give up on her, Camira, leave her out there . . . you know what can happen to half-caste children if the mother is unwed . . . I could at least have offered her some protection! And I tried, but she refused.’ He took the amber ring out of his pocket and brandished it at her. ‘My son or daughter may end up in one of those dreadful orphanages and while I have breath inside me I cannot sit here and do nothing!’ He threw the ring onto the table, where it rolled and then came to rest in front of Camira.
‘I understand,’ she said. There was silence in the room as she thought. ‘Mister Charlie, I makem you deal. If I nottum hear from her in next few weeks, I go walkabout an’ find her.’
‘And I will come with you.’
‘No. You whitefella, you nottum survive out there. You big bossman here. Your mother, she trust you. You nottum let her down. She work hard to make big business to give you. Here, keepum this.’
She picked up the ring and held it out to him, but he pushed her hand away.
‘No, you take it. Find her, and bring her back, then I will put it on her finger. Until then, I can’t bear to look at it.’
Camira tucked the ring into her apron. ‘Okay, we makem deal? You work hard now at office for Missus Kitty and I go-a find my daughter if she not come home soon. Too many people in this family gettum lost. Sleep now, Mister Charlie, or more grey hairs comin’.’
*
Left with no choice, Charlie did his best to adhere to Camira’s advice. With the assurance that she would go to find Cat when the time was right, for the next four months he threw himself into the business as his mother would have wanted him to. Ledgers, legal papers and the endless arrival of luggers into dock at least took Cat from his mind. The business – like all in Broome – was struggling. Their vast stockpiles of shell had plummeted in price, as Europe and America were demanding cheaper materials. Charlie looked carefully into the business of the cultured pearl farms run by Mr Mikimoto. With real pearls becoming a scarce commodity in Broome due to excessive trawling off the coast, he could see that the cultured pearls were good replicas – and, in fact, far more suited to jewellery, as each was of a more standard size and therefore could easily be strung into a necklace or bracelet. Despite his mother’s disparaging comments, Mikimoto thought cultured pearls were the future, and so did the great continent of America, which was buying his product by the sackload.
Charlie was also impressed that pearl farming did not put human lives at risk in the way diving did, and was moved to invite one of Mikimoto’s managers over to show him how it could be done in Broome. He knew too that, after the initial set-up costs, the profits would rise. It would ultimately destroy the industry that had made the town so prosperous, but just as in nature, everything had its season and Charlie felt instinctively that Broome was moving into a dark autumn.