LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

new dinner service Maisie had brought from England.

      ‘I no know who sit next to who. Boss he go shouty mad and smash booze bottle.’

      Maisie managed to calm him down and explained that cutlery was put on the table in the order that the food would appear, from outside to in. The soup spoon, dinner knife, dessert spoon, cheese knife on the right, and the side plate, large fork, dessert fork on the left.

      In upsetting the domestic applecart, though, Maitland had badly misjudged his wife. He hadn’t in the least expected her to go into bat for their staff.

      ‘I call the tune on domestic arrangements, Maitland, and let’s be quite clear: you do not raise your hand to nor do you bully Duc. Ever. He is loyal to us both and you are to treat him with respect.’

      Maitland looked taken aback. ‘My castle, my rules.’

      ‘No, Maitland. Duc lives on our property and we are responsible for his welfare as his employers. Anyone with domestic staff has a duty of care whether they live in an English stately home or a bungalow in Buccaneer Bay.’

      Maitland was what her father would have called a ruthless social climber. He had backed down in the face of ruffled social propriety.

      Propriety … After an early meeting at the church this morning, Maisie had endured an hour at the knitting circle and was now drooping on the verandah, her clothes clinging damply to her skin, her feet puffed up and sticky inside her shoes. She stared listlessly across at the discarded knitting dolly the bishop’s wife had given her and bit her bottom lip.

      Winding a strand of hot scratchy wool round and round four pegs held scant appeal. The wool made her hands sweat, and she couldn’t see the point of creating yards of useless rope. She didn’t want to make a teapot cover or egg cosy or, frankly, anything whose purpose was to keep the heat in. She closed her eyes and tried to think of things that would make her feel cold: snow, frost, ice, her mother’s freezing study.

      Mrs Wallace had been very clear in her advice at Port Fremantle and had reiterated it since in her letter. I do sense your resentment and frustration, but what you mustn’t do, Maisie dear, is mourn your life at home or chafe against small-town isolation. You must fit in and adapt or you will find yourself a very lonely young lady. And don’t attempt to change your husband or refuse his advances. It won’t work and he will make you miserable and likely plant his affections elsewhere. The best thing you can do for the health of your marriage is have a baby and develop an interest of your own.

      Maisie was making a great effort to fit in, but having a baby was another matter. Mrs Wallace had said that most men had insatiable bedroom urges. Maitland hadn’t had one.

      Maisie had been in the house a few days before she broached the subject of domestic staff.

      ‘This is a large bungalow, Maitland. Don’t you think we need someone to help Duc? He can’t be expected to do all the household chores and cook as well. It is too much work for one person.’

      ‘He’s managed till now.’

      She ran a finger over the arm of her chair. ‘The house is dirty, and I’m sure he would appreciate some help.’

      ‘Duc doesn’t give a toss about cleaning, but get a houseboy if you want.’

      ‘I’d really prefer not to have a boy. Aren’t there black girls who can be taught?’

      ‘I’m not having a black gin with the morals of a dog in my house. Lubras can’t be tolerated in a decent home. They’re all lazy and dishonest. Disease and dissipation is what you’ll bring into this house. Pound to a penny, she’d steal my whisky or creep into my bed at night.’

      ‘Maitland! I know I’ve only just arrived and understand very little of what goes on here but I’m sure you must be exaggerating. I can’t believe that every Aboriginal woman in Buccaneer Bay has flawed morals or a propensity towards theft.’

      ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’

      Maisie was stung by his tone. ‘Why did you bring me out to Australia, Maitland? You do nothing but snipe at me. I’m sure I would annoy you less if you were to spend a bit of time at home and give me some guidance.’

      He took a cigarette from the box on the table and lit it. Blowing smoke towards the ceiling, he shook out the match. ‘I see the little mouse is growing fangs.’

      She said nothing. Just sat. That would make me a rat, wouldn’t it, Maitland, and there’s no room for two in this house.

      The disagreement had persisted all evening but Maisie would not give in. Just before midnight, Maitland drained his umpteenth glass of whisky and pressed his flabby hands against his ears.

      ‘No more, Maisie. I’m going to bed.’

      Maitland had not referred to their domestic arrangements again, and two days after their argument, Marjorie had appeared on their doorstep.

      ‘I want to speak with the new Missus,’ she said. ‘I come allonga work in house.’

      ‘I’m Mrs Sinclair.’

      ‘I’m Black Marjorie.’

      ‘Is that both your names?’ Maisie knew that the French always gave their surname before their first name. Maybe it was the same here.

      ‘No. Is how you refer to me. I bin Marjorie. My colour is black.’

      ‘Marjorie, I can’t refer to you as black. It’s very offensive. It would be like you calling me White Mrs Sinclair. Or calling our cook Brown Duc.’

      ‘It’s okay.’

      ‘I’m sorry, Marjorie. It is not okay to me. I shall not call you Black.’

      ‘Okay, Missus. You might like know anyhow we call white people Paleface. So, you would be Paleface Missus. Just so’s you know.’

      Maisie was deeply affected by colour: the tomato-red earth, the brilliant red heads on the poinciana blossoms and the cool lime-green bird-of-paradise hedge with its orange pea-flower plumes that bordered her garden. By day, the Bay was bathed in painful white sunlight, which sparkled on the multi-hued ocean; at night, the dark navy sky was studded with dripping silver stars. She loved the vibrancy of the artist’s palette, but she would never refer to people by their colour.

      Marjorie was an amply proportioned native woman about thirty years old and told Maisie she had been trained in domestic duties by the nuns at the Catholic Mission. She was as bright as sunlight and right from the start, as a small child, had wanted to learn. To get to school she had to walk nearly four miles a day each way. In the Wet, walking in the heat and then slushing through the cloying mud was the stumbling block – because Marjorie did not own shoes. The soles of her feet blistered in the hot sand or became infected in the cruddy monsoon sludge. At first, she’d tried to jump from grass patch to grass patch waiting for her feet to cool or dry off. Once she’d proposed a shoe-sharing scheme with a friend who had a pair of second-hand boots. The friend would wear the left and she the right – but they’d both regretted the blisters. Another time she’d tried to hop on alternate legs but the effort had been too much. She’d given up with school after that.

      Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

      Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

      Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

      Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с

Скачать книгу