The Pearler’s Wife: A gripping historical novel of forbidden love, family secrets and a lost moment in history. Roxane Dhand
‘I don’t care for fish.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Maisie, just eat the thing.’
Maisie frowned and picked up the small round of toast. She bit into the spongy roe, which had the texture of tapioca. The eggs burst on her tongue as the overwhelming taste of fish swelled in her mouth and into her nose. It almost made her retch.
‘Nice?’ Mrs Wallace asked.
She shook her head and pressed her clenched hands against her sides.
Mrs Wallace patted her shoulder. ‘It’s not everyone’s cup of tea but it’s good you’ve tried it. I don’t especially like it either and have never understood why it’s considered such a delicacy in English society. Personally it makes me think of mouse dirt.’
‘Mrs Wallace!’
‘What, dear? I can’t believe you’ve reached nineteen years of age without coming across the mouse’s particular calling card.’
Maisie looked into her inquisitive eyes, which seemed to expect a reply. ‘I have, of course, Mrs Wallace, but never on a piece of toast that I was ordered to eat.’
Mrs Wallace chuckled as they moved away from the plates of fishy roe and joined the other passengers funnelling into the restaurant.
‘Where shall we sit?’ Maisie asked as they paused at the entrance, eyeing the tables that snaked round the room, white-topped and solid. ‘Surely there must be a seating arrangement?’
‘The staff will tell us, dear. No need to be quite so anxious. We shall be seated with people like us.’
As if on cue, a young officer, immaculate in his white uniform, appeared beside them and ushered them to a circular table set for eight. Stiff white napkins stood on empty plates like sails and a lone candle rose tall in a silver stick.
Mrs Wallace poured some water in a glass and handed it to Maisie. She lifted the half-filled tumbler and took a sip, resisting a very strong urge to gargle the taste of caviar away.
‘We shall eat our meals here for the entire voyage, so best to get busy and befriend your fellow diners,’ Mrs Wallace said.
According to the name cards, Maisie was placed next to Mr Smalley on one side and Mrs Wallace on the other, with the ship’s second officer to Mrs Wallace’s left. Maisie turned to her neighbour, a seedy-looking gentleman with a sweaty top lip and a flaky patch of skin on his scalp, and managed a faint smile. Mrs Wallace craned forward and introduced herself loudly to a newly married couple sitting across the table, which was so wide that even if they stretched out their arms as far as they could, their fingertips would never meet. The couple boomed back that they were travelling with the bride’s parents, Mr and Mrs Jenkins.
A waiter was working his way through the dining room and arrived at their table to light the candle with a long taper. As he explained the menu, Mrs Wallace announced, ‘I shall decide for us both, dear. You are too young to make sensible dietary decisions. I believe we shall both have the soused salmon tonight.’
Maisie dipped her head, lips sucked tight, and swallowed down her resentment. She had wanted the duck because she knew her mother loathed it, and had already told Mrs Wallace she did not care for fish. At what point will anyone see I have a mind of my own? Good God! She hugged the blasphemy and enjoyed it. I am nearly twenty and considered old enough to get married. Why am I not permitted to choose what I want to eat?
During the meal, she picked at her food and sipped her water, her eyes jumping from one diner to the next as if following a game of tennis.
The mother of the bride was rubbing her arms and complaining of the cold.
‘I’m sitting in a draught, Harold,’ the woman said to her husband, staring accusingly at the door. ‘Could you ask them to close it?’
‘Of course, my dear,’ Harold said, getting to his feet. A moment later, a waiter pounced on his napkin like a cat on a ball of wool and replaced it by his plate.
Mrs Wallace covered her mouth with her hand and whispered, ‘You should try to make conversation, Maisie. It will seem rude if you don’t.’
‘Are you looking forward to the warmer weather?’ Maisie called across the table.
The mother of the bride cupped a hand behind her ear and shook her head.
Maisie leaned forward and tried again. ‘Are you travelling to Australia for the better weather?’
The woman’s new son-in-law, a handsome man with blond hair and a military moustache, said loudly from his side of the table, ‘You’ll have to crank up the volume, Miss Porter. The new mater is dreadfully hard of hearing.’
Maisie pressed a hand against her chest and said ironically, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t bother yourself trying to shout tonight. There’s going to be lashings of time to get to know her. Perhaps best though if you talk to someone else just for now, don’t you think?’
The waiter cleared away her half-eaten bowl of consommé.
She was not in the mood for another culinary scolding. She glanced at Mrs Wallace who, happily, was chatting enthusiastically to the second officer and glowing like a lantern.
Maisie turned back to the seedy gentleman. He was stabbing at peas with the tines of his fork, stacking them up like beads on an abacus.
‘Could I pass you anything, Mr Smalley? Salt or pepper perhaps?’ A shovel?
‘Wine bottle first,’ he said, his mouth full. ‘Then the bread basket.’
She resisted the temptation to pass comment, and lifted the decanter. ‘Is your wife not with you on this trip?’
Mrs Wallace, who apparently had the hearing of a bat, leaned in close as though about to tell her a secret. ‘Don’t ask personal questions, Maisie dear. It’s vulgar.’
Mr Smalley filled his glass and swirled it round, inspecting the amber liquid in the candlelight. He took a large gulp and chewed it a few times, as if consulting the wine for an answer, then began cramming wodges of butter into a roll. ‘Never married,’ he said, a spray of spittle flying from his mouth. ‘But that’s not to say I’m not open to offers.’
Course after course as the meal ground on, Smalley became more tiresome. By his sprouting eyebrows and the silver hair that hung in tufts round his ears, Maisie judged him to be in his sixties, give or take. That they were at least forty years apart in age seemed almost to encourage him. When desserts were laid before them in twinkling glass bowls, he was already too close, his liver-spotted hand inching purposefully towards hers across the tablecloth, trapping her palm between the cream and custard. Plump, deliberate fingers crept a little closer with the cheese and crackers, and when coffee was poured, his knee was banging against hers with the determination of a rutting ram.
‘Let me tell you how I come to be on board, Miss Porter.’ He took a handful of petits fours from an oval china plate. ‘I’m taking the British Empire to the wilderness to enforce law and order in one of the gold-rush towns. I am to be Ballarat’s new resident magistrate. What do you say to that, eh?’ He stuffed a petit four into his mouth and started to chew. ‘And you, Miss Porter? What takes you to Australia?’
Mrs Wallace straightened her spectacles across the bridge of her nose. ‘Maisie is going to Australia to be married.’
‘Oh!’ Mr Smalley perked up. ‘Going fishing?’
Maisie shrank from his remark and Mrs Wallace dived in. ‘No, not fishing, Mr Smalley.’ She waggled an admonishing finger. ‘She is not fishing at all. She has landed herself a splendid prize. She is engaged to be married.’
Maisie felt a little queasy at the mention of the wedding, but hoped Mrs Wallace’s forthrightness would bring Mr Smalley to heel.
He was not to be put off. He tipped