The Pearler’s Wife: A gripping historical novel of forbidden love, family secrets and a lost moment in history. Roxane Dhand
lie down for an hour or so before he returns to his office. It’s a common practice and one you should adopt too. After that, you will be free to socialise.’
Maisie wasn’t certain if Mrs Wallace was implying that she would be joining him or having a private nap of her own.
‘As a young English woman and a newcomer to the town, you will be screened by the ladies, ogled by their husbands and judged by your help. You must have an At Home Day once a month during which you will invite all the resident ladies of your social circle to tea, cards, pianoforte recitals – whatever you choose to host. You must serve afternoon tea off your best china. Tea is a formal occasion, so you must produce the lightest of cakes and instruct your help how to serve them.’
Mrs Wallace delved in her mending bag and from the depths produced a wooden darning egg as well as her scissors and an assortment of threads. A tan lisle stocking lay limp on the round table by her elbow. ‘You must repay their visit on their appropriate At Home Day, leave two cards of your own and one of your husband’s. You will be expected to attend all other At Home Days besides your own; it will be seen as the epitome of impoliteness if you fail to appear. The likelihood is that you will not care for the majority of these women. The old tabbies will want to get a look at you, and all the young unmarried girls will critique your appearance and scrutinise your wardrobe and probably gossip about you too. It is very important that you are sucked into the bosom of your new life from the start, or you will find yourself very lonely indeed.’ She pushed her spectacles up her nose and squinted at the eye of her needle.
Maisie thought this sounded utterly ghastly. ‘I must confess that I am surprised, Mrs Wallace. This sounds much more formal than England.’
‘Of course it is, dear. It is all people have to hold on to. They have created a tiny replica of Home, and you must slot in and run with it.’
‘But what if no-one likes me?’ Maisie said.
Mrs Wallace began to stab her needle through the stocking. ‘You must work hard to ensure that they do. Your husband will not give up his drinking, his clubs or his gambling for you, nor should you expect him to. It is your job to adapt to him and his lifestyle. If you don’t fit in, he will simply carry on as he did in his bachelor days and leave you at home. Even though you might find yourself in a comfortable position financially, if you are isolated socially, you will be overwhelmingly alienated and unhappy.’
‘But that’s …’
‘The way it is in frontier towns, my dear. You must ensure that you succeed. You are going to need to toughen up and develop a backbone. Think of your mother. That should starch your resolve.’
A few days after their arrival in Port Fremantle, Maisie slept in well beyond breakfast.
When she woke, she saw that Mrs Wallace had made good use of the opportunity to sort through her cabin trunk. She sat up in bed, a poor effort at a smile wobbling at the edges of her mouth. Slack facial muscles were not to her mother’s taste. I do hope you are not about to cry, Maisie.
She pinched the insides of her wrists; the pain was distracting. ‘Good morning, Mrs Wallace. Did you sleep well?’
Mrs Wallace looped the wide leather handles of her handbag over a fleshy forearm and patted the contents.
‘Passably, thank you. A breakfast tray – rather desiccated, given the hour – is beside your bed if you are hungry. I thought we might attack the shops today. An indelicate question, I know, but do you have funds?’
With a quick up and down of her chin, Maisie confirmed that her parents had not cast her adrift without money.
‘Good. We must spend some time at the shops while we are here. I have had a good look through your trunk this morning. I know you will think this a dreadful invasion of your privacy, but it had to be done. You need cotton dresses to keep you dry, loose underwear and silk stockings, a wide-brimmed hat and parasol to keep the sun off your face as well as gloves to protect your hands. And you will need to do something about those dreadful shoes of yours. They are not suitable for this climate. Whatever can your mother have been thinking?’
Maisie picked a corner off a dry bread roll. ‘But Mrs Wallace, if I wear any more garments, I shall die!’
‘You cannot let your lovely white skin become tanned by the sun, dear. You must not turn brown like a coloured. That would be certain social suicide. I suggest you acquire a cotton kimono-style wrap to keep yourself cool when you are at home. You can wear it without any underclothes, provided you are alone and you keep the doors locked.’
Maisie stared.
‘And don’t forget, dear. If you are accepted wholeheartedly into the social fabric of Buccaneer Bay, you will need a range of evening clothes and ball gowns. I expect you have them already in your hold luggage or you will order them from Paris or London if you find that what you have brought is not in tune with what you need. Everyone dresses properly for dinner here, regardless of the heat.’
The day before the coastal steamer was to set sail, Maisie woke to a pain in her abdomen like a sword, skewering her to the bed. A ripple of queasiness rose from her stomach and sour saliva filled her mouth. The shared bathroom was a long way down the landing at the bottom of a splintery wooden staircase, and as she stood her legs felt achy and weak. The bedroom door had warped in the heat and she had to lean hard against it to push it open. She mistimed the manoeuvre and the door swung away from her, crashing her sideways into the wall.
‘Is everything all right, dear?’ Mrs Wallace called across the room.
‘Oh!’ Maisie said, sinking to the floor. ‘I have The Visitor and I feel very unwell.’
Her mother had always discouraged discussion of the monthly event and refused to have any sign of it brought to her attention. If she had to mention it at all, it was to be referred to as The Visitor.
She heard rapid footsteps and in a moment Mrs Wallace appeared in the doorway with her own supply of Southall’s Sanitary Towels for Ladies and hauled Maisie to her feet.
‘Come along, dear. We’ll have you fixed up in two shakes of a dingo’s paw and then you can hop back under the covers while you ride out the worst of the cramps.’ She picked up a rusty handbell from the nightstand by her bed and gave it a spirited rattle. ‘I’ll organise some morning tea with that dozy girl at the front desk. I always find a hot cup of tea does wonders when we are not at our sparkling best.’
Maisie climbed into bed and a short while later, a lumpy, dark girl with hunched shoulders and downy cheeks clattered up the stairs with the tea. She wore a faded blue dress that was too small around her hips and revealed the bulge of her suspender clips.
Mrs Wallace relieved her of the tray and set it down on a scratched wooden table – tutting loudly through her teeth – and pulled up a chair by Maisie’s bed. She administered a spoonful of Mrs Barker’s Soothing Syrup for Children in a cup of tea and swirled it round with a teaspoon.
‘I’m no Florence Nightingale, dear, but I think we need to ensure you are stocked with medical essentials before we board the coastal steamer. If you are afflicted this badly every month, you must arm yourself accordingly. I have no idea what you might be able to purchase up in your backwater of a town, but we must assume that there will be very little in the way of ladies’ supplies or medicines. You need to be prepared. Consider it a battle plan for a lifelong siege!’
Maisie reddened and sank down between the sheets.
‘Have you not organised sanitary protection for yourself before?’ Mrs Wallace leaned forward to the morning-tea tray and poured herself a cup.
Maisie shook her head, ashamed. ‘I never visit shops by myself. I rarely go out alone. Sanitary napkins appear in a drawer in my bedroom, and I’m sure the maid must keep a note of how many I use each month because the supply remains constant. I can’t think my mother would ask for such a private thing in a shop. I’m certain everything comes in the post.’
‘How does your mother think you will cope by yourself?’