LITMIR.BIZ

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constructions and houses so jammed together that a stray lit match would have torched the lot. Rows of shops with fronts opening straight onto the road were cluttered with cheap merchandise, and everything for sale was being peddled by bawling tradesmen. It reeked of spicy food, fish, frying onions and the sickening odour of insanitation. Cooper tried to breathe through his mouth as they slowed for a corner, his ears ringing with horses’ hooves and the echo of underprivilege.

      He craned his neck. ‘What’s going on over there, Miss Montague?’

      A line of Aboriginal men was approaching, each one barefoot, the whole pageant trudging one behind the other in a dejected convoy. At the head of the column a white policeman in a heavy twill uniform shouldered a rifle, whistling idly, keeping himself company. The black men behind him, each wearing nothing but a loincloth, were skeletally thin, their ribs sticking out like toast racks. They were tethered together by steel neck chains.

      Miss Montague halted the horse and turned to her companion. ‘Those are the Abos who spread the white shell-grit on the roads. You should see them later on when they’ve finished for the day. They get covered in white dust and gleam in the dark like ghosts. It’s terribly spooky!’

      ‘Why are they chained up?’

      ‘There’s only one warder for all the prisoners. How else is he going to control them?’

      Cooper didn’t understand. ‘But why are there so many of them?’

      ‘I think someone once calculated that you need fifty men to build a road, so they try to keep the numbers up.’

      ‘What did they do?’

      She shook up the reins. ‘Killing cattle, mainly. The Abos are quite docile really, until they’re hungry or full of drink. Then it’s a different story. But I think they have quite a nice life as prisoners. Dada says some of them get themselves caught on purpose. They are fed three times a day and the gaoler’s wife cooks them treats from time to time. They get two hours off at lunchtime and then a swim in the creek after work to get the dust off.’

      ‘Are neck chains used for European prisoners?’

      ‘Of course not. White people don’t work on chain gangs. It wouldn’t be civilised, would it?’

      Cooper stared at her for an instant as she in turn looked at him, expectant. Rather than searching for words he couldn’t summon, he changed the subject. ‘And how do you fill your time, Miss Montague? Is there much to keep you occupied?’

      She lifted her chin, her voice rather high. ‘Me? Goodness, there’s so much to do! Bridge parties, croquet and the tennis club … then we have picnics and lots of balls and concerts and fundraisers at the Catholic school. There isn’t a single minute to get bored.’

      Miss Montague pulled hard on the reins and smiled a little too brightly, Cooper thought. ‘Here you are, Mr Cooper,’ she said, nodding across the street at a cluster of whitewashed shacks. ‘Delivered safe and sound. Captain Sinclair’s office is in the packing shed over there.’

      She pointed the tip of her parasol at a sandy path that snaked down to the beach. The tide was out. A flat expanse of black mud was littered with luggers, some on their sides but the majority dug deep into trenches and sandbagged upright, temporarily beached by the receding tide.

      ‘And don’t forget about the hat. I declare you’re two shades darker now than when I picked you up!’

      Cooper took a deep breath of air and wished he hadn’t. It reeked of putrefying fish.

      ‘Thank you for the ride, Miss Montague. I am most obliged.’

      Her lashes flickered. She reached out and with a small, gloved hand touched a lock of his hair. ‘It’s what we do out here,’ she said. ‘Look after one another.’

      As the sulky pulled away, Cooper shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand and squinted at the iron shed. The sun was a bastard. He patted his jacket and reassured himself that his contract was still safe inside. He was anxious to discuss it before finally signing on the dotted line. Funds were running low and he wanted to know when he could get out to sea. Reaching into his pocket, he brought out the items he needed to roll a fresh cigarette and turned towards the foreshore. For as far as he could see, luggers lined the beach. Sid was right. There must have been several hundred hauled up onto the sand, their masts stripped of rigging like dead trees. He had expected the boats to be bigger. Loaded up with diving equipment and supplies, there would be scant room for all nine members of the crew. He shook his head. Sid had probably made the numbers up, and anyway, what was a little discomfort when a fortune was out there to be made?

      The beach was teeming with sturdy, short-legged men, trousers rolled up, crawling over the boats. Repairs and maintenance of the fleet was in full swing and Miss Montague expected him to keep out of the sun? All of them, from their heads to their calf muscles, were burned brown. He took a last drag on his cigarette, crushed the butt beneath his heel and set off down the path.

      Captain Sinclair spoke like a machine gun in brittle, strident bursts. A one-man firing squad.

      ‘So, Cooper. Good news. I’ve just had a cable from New York. Our last shipment of shell sold for three hundred pounds per ton. A record price. Where’s John Butcher?’

      ‘He may be a little late.’

      ‘Tarts?’

      Cooper shook his head and winced with the movement.

      The captain clenched his pipe in his stained teeth. ‘Is he reliable?’

      ‘JB? He’s the best tender I could hope for,’ Cooper affirmed. ‘I won’t dive without him.’

      ‘What diving experience do you have?’

      ‘My years in the Navy. I trained at the gunnery school in Portsmouth.’

      He banged the pipe bowl on the desk. ‘We need to discuss your contract. I am supposed to pay you thirteen pounds per month and your tender six pounds.’

      Cooper dipped his head in agreement. ‘That was what we were offered to leave England.’

      ‘Thing is, Mr Cooper, for a month I can get a Jap diver for three pounds, a Malay for two pounds, and a tender comes at about one pound. I’ve already paid twenty-four pounds for you and your John Butcher just to get here from England and I have no idea if you can find shell. What guarantee can you give me of return on my investment?’ Captain Sinclair’s face was unfriendly.

      ‘I don’t see how we can fail, sir. The Navy’s finest has trained us. If the Asiatic can come here and make a success of it you have my assurance, Captain Sinclair, that a Navy man can do better.’

      Maitland threw back his head with such force he almost toppled over backwards in his chair. ‘You pompous arse! You’re not in a position to assure me of anything! Do you know what shell looks like, Cooper?’

      Cooper had assumed it would be obvious to spot. He hadn’t considered it an issue.

      ‘Come with me.’ Sinclair led him to the adjacent packing shed and plucked a half-shell from a sorting bin. The mother-of-pearl glinted in the sunlight.

      ‘This is what you are diving for.’ He tapped the shell. ‘But this is not what you will see. It’s a different thing when it is lying on a tidal bank at twenty fathoms down. It’s the colour of the sea bottom. It takes a top Jap diver a number of years to become proficient at spotting the stuff by himself, and you are a novice on contract for twelve months.’

      ‘I thought we were to dive in pairs to begin with. To learn the ropes.’

      ‘I’m not sure that you quite understand the situation, Cooper. To take you on, I shall have to lay off one of my experienced Japanese divers. The Japs are getting demanding. They can afford to be. They know they are the best and won’t sign on for the season unless they have an advance on their earnings. That way, if they croak – and lots do die – they have something to send home. I have paid out money to someone who is not going

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