Tears of the Moon (9 page)

‘I’m not sure, perhaps I should just look around firstand when you’ve got a minute I’ll ask you some questions.’

‘Righto, dear. I’ll put the kettle on. Tea or coffee? Only instant, I’m afraid.’

‘Coffee would be fine, thank you.’

‘This is the main room—there’s some memorabilia in here and in those shelves are files, books, newspapers, letters, photos, you name it. We have a lot from the old families, rescued in the nick of time most of it was too.’ She waved towards the rear of the room, which opened on to a small garden. ‘Back there are two other rooms, a display and exhibition room and along the back verandah is a general history area and bigger pieces on show. Decompression chamber, stuff like that.’ Muriel disappeared to a small area that served as kitchen and private office.

Lily looked around the main room first, dipping into files, flipping through cutting books, studying photos which gave an immediate picture of life in the early days. There was the story of the Japanese cemetery where so many divers ended their days, pictures of Chinatown with its dim shops and seedy opium dens, a famous Indian pearl cleaner who was known for his precise skill in stripping away the rough outer layers of valuable pearls, the horse-drawn train that ran along the wharf, the shanty township with beached luggers on the foreshore at Dampier Creek. A photo by the sorting sheds in 1914 showed small mountains of pearl shell harvested that year—sixteen hundred tons according to the caption.

Lily moved into the first exhibit room. It was divided into two sections, one dominated by a fullscale diving suit, an iron lung used for decompression
for the deadly bends, and a variety of tools and instruments used in pearling and sailing, a Chinese abacus, Japanese paper models used in festivals and some household artifacts.

She walked around an ornate Chinese screen and found herself in the display room—a mock-up of an Edwardian living room complete with a life-size family of wax figures. It was meant to represent a well-off European household with its heavy pieces of Victorian furniture. The lady of the house, in bustle and beaded dress with a rope of pearls, held the hand of a small boy with long curls, lace collar and starched sailor suit. Placed modestly behind was the figure of an Aboriginal woman domestic in uniform of white starched apron over black dress.

Lily found the room uncannily realistic with its planters, settler’s chair, kitsch mother-of-pearl ashtrays and inlaid card table. Strangely the furniture all seemed to go together and wasn’t the usual assorted accumulation from donations or rescued from household turnouts.

She fingered the crochet antimacassar cloth square on the back of the chair, then lifted her eyes to the walls where portraits, paintings and photographs hung in ornate frames. Her eyes went from picture to picture and then she caught her breath. Surrounded by photos of luggers was a large picture of a dashing man in a white uniform—the same as the one in Georgiana’s silver frame.

For a moment she stood in shock—the oversized picture seemed life-like, the amusement in the twinkling eyes faintly mocking. Finally, she turned away,
her legs quivering and called loudly, ‘Muriel! Could I ask you something?’

‘I’m right here, just made the coffee.’ Muriel was carrying a tray which she set down carefully on the small inlaid table by the chaise longue. ‘What’s up, dear?’ She looked curiously at Lily’s drained and pale face.

‘Who is that?’ asked Lily in a hoarse whisper, pointing to the picture.

Muriel sighed. ‘Isn’t he handsome? That’s Captain John Tyndall, probably the greatest of the pearling masters. Such a character.’

‘What do you know about him?’

‘Are you all right, luv?’ Muriel looked at her closely. ‘We know a lot about him, are you interested?’

Lily nodded. ‘That photo was among my late mother’s things. I didn’t know who he was.’

‘Come and sit down on the
chaise
here and have your coffee.’ She handed Lily a mug and watched her take a fast gulp. Pulling up a chair, Muriel pressed on. ‘We know a lot about him. He was one of the colourful characters back at the turn of the century and especially through the 1920s and later. Are you interested in finding out his personal history?’

‘Oh, I am. I think we must be related.’ Excitement was now replacing Lily’s shock.

‘Well, I never. And your mum and dad never told you about him. Is he a close relative?’ Muriel was interested. This was living history.

‘I don’t know much. I never knew my father and my mother was a bit of a loner. Never talked about family.
So when she died and I found the picture which had Broome written on the back, I thought I’d see if I could find a clue which might answer the questions I never asked when my mother was alive,’ said Lily, dismayed to find her voice was choking up.

Muriel passed her a plate of homemade Anzac biscuits. ‘I’ve read about a lot of strange family histories since I’ve been running this place I can tell you. Nothing would surprise me. Skeletons fall out of cupboards all over the place.’ She gave a chuckle. ‘Some families haven’t been too thrilled to find out about the shenanigans of their antecedents. This was a bit of a free and easy place back then.’

Lily gave a small smile. ‘But at least having the pieces of the puzzle is a help.’

Muriel took Lily’s mug and bent over to pick up the tray. ‘I think I might have more than that for you. If indeed Captain Tyndall is a relative.’ She smiled mysteriously and left the little room.

Lily went and gazed up at the portrait once more. ‘So just who are you?’ She suddenly grinned back at the man whose face was becoming very familiar to her. ‘And what do you know about “Tears of the Moon”, eh?’ she said out loud.

Muriel spoke to her back. ‘I know what that means … I read it in some of the pearling material.’

Lily spun around. ‘What, Tears of the Moon?’

‘Yes. It comes from some old Indian saying, you know all those Hindu myths and stuff. It’s what they believed pearls to be … the tears of the moon that drop into the sea and become pearls. It’s why some people think pearls are unlucky. But this is what you
should be interested in.’ She placed four fat leather-bound journals on the table with a grunt. ‘Whew. A lot of reading in there. These are Olivia’s diaries. There are a lot of photos, too. I can’t let you take them away but come as often as you like. You can camp in here while you read. Did you know all this furniture came from Captain Tyndall’s house?’ She pointed to a straightbacked worn leather chair. ‘I can just see him sitting in that chair with a gin and tonic’ She chuckled at the thought.

Lily was trying to take all this in. ‘Who was Olivia? Was she his wife?’

‘Ah, it’s a long, involved story from what I gather. You start at the beginning. Make yourself comfortable and yell for coffee at any time. The odd visitor wanders around now and then but they shouldn’t disturb you. We don’t get coachloads of tourists in here!’ She chuckled again and gave Lily a warm smile. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

‘Thank you, Muriel.’ Lily swallowed hard. It had all happened so swiftly. In learning about Captain John Tyndall’s life was she also going to find her own story?

She picked up the first of the heavy books and ran her hands over it. The leather was soft and the book seemed alive, as if the covers were forcibly pinning down the living characters who peopled its pages. Her heart was beating and Lily knew that as simply and as easily as this her family had been placed in her hands.

She turned to the first entry—thin flowing writing on a thick ivory page.

CHAPTER FOUR
The north-west coast of Nickol Bay, 1893

I
n the faint water-light of the moon, the sturdy schooner,
Lady Charlotte
, heaved as it moved slowly through the great breasts of waves, white crested and surging in a thick sea mist. When they reached the lee of a deep cove, the breaking of the waves on the reef was regular and rhythmic, like the hoarse breathing of some sea monster.

The dawn gave way to morning light and the grey clouds lifted as the ship’s lifeboat ploughed gamely through the narrow channel now visible between the arms of the reef. The passage was safe and the crew pulling at the long oars kept a steady course, but Olivia Hennessy was too aware of the danger that lay on either side. Her arms were folded across her swollen belly and she held onto her shawl as if it were her salvation. Conrad Hennessy glanced at his pregnant wife in the stern surrounded by their possessions. He tried to give her a
comforting smile, but her gaze was fixed on the desolate shore.

It had been a carefully reasoned decision to be put ashore here. Conrad had explained to Olivia that the captain could not put in at nearby Cossack due to the fast-rising wind and sea and, as he was already behind schedule, he wanted to continue north to Broome as fast as possible. The cargo he was carrying was due for shipment to Singapore. They could either have gone on to Broome and made a long journey back to the land they intended to take up south of Cossack or, judging from the rudimentary map of this largely uncharted area, they could land here, which seemed to be in a direct line to their holding.

Olivia, cumbersome and heavy with her first child, had suffered greatly throughout this journey from Fremantle with seasickness and wished fervently for dry land beneath her feet.

Conrad asked the captain if they and some of their goods could be ferried to shore where he would make what he estimated to be a day’s walk into Cossack to fetch a dray or wagon to take them overland.

The captain had been doubtful, but as both husband and wife seemed convinced this was a preferable arrangement, so, eager to push on ahead of a threatening storm, he agreed to the plan.

Eventually there was a grinding and a slight shudder passed through the boat as the hull scraped across the rocky shore. Two men leapt over the side and pushed and guided the boat on to the grey pebbled beach.

Low scrub and spindly trees fringed the edge of the dunes with denser bush behind. Olivia, supported by the two sailors, was carried to the shore. She sat on the damp sand, her thick woven skirt and petticoats spread around her, watching Conrad direct and assist the men ferrying their goods to shore.

This was not how she’d imagined her arrival in a new land to start a new life. When she and Conrad had left London for Fremantle they saw themselves setting out on a grand adventure. They would found a dynasty and after diligence and hard work would oversee a fine spread of an estate. They planned to take up land south and inland of the coastal town of Cossack in the north-west of the state of Western Australia. Conrad had been as thorough as was possible in his investigations into opportunities in the colony. He had been spurred on by Olivia, who was determined to make a fresh start following the death of her widowed father. She had inherited enough from the sale of the small family emporium and could see the possibilities for her and her accountant husband would be greater in the colonies.

Together Olivia and Conrad had done some research and, despite the vagueness and sometimes conflicting reports about Australia, they saw the chance to make a better life. They invested in farm equipment and household supplies of every description and enough basic necessities to see them through their first year. They had sought advice in Fremantle and despite wild stories of the cannibalistic Aborigines, desperadoes on the high seas, unsavoury characters in the small coastal towns and
a rough lifestyle, they remained undaunted. All had agreed that fortunes could be made in the north-west.

The captain gave them canvas, ropes, food and two barrels of rainwater to make a temporary camp and, wishing them well, sent the newlyweds to shore, watched by the crew and passengers who were glad it was not them. The captain never ceased to be amazed at the determination and enthusiasm with which these pioneers ventured into isolation and the unknown.

As the schooner sailed away to the north into a rising wind and falling barometer, the couple standing alone on the beach looked abandoned and forlorn. Olivia slipped her hand into Conrad’s.

He squared his shoulders and turned to eye the scrubland. ‘Let’s find a place to make camp.’

By nightfall they had made a rough shelter with firm saplings dug in as corner posts with brush and the canvas spread over it to form walls and a roof. They used their boxes and trunks as a barricade and settled down to sleep as best they could. The surf, strange bush noises and insects disturbed them. Although Olivia was fearful, she far preferred to be on dry land than in the heaving darkness she’d suffered below deck in the ship.