The Unforgiving Shore Read online

  Ellen had taken a completely different attitude to this party and the Marchmont visit. Usually she didn’t want to know anything about the Marchmonts or said she wasn’t interested. This time she planned to go to the party herself. Paul saw that she was making a yellow sun-frock which left her arms, shoulders and back mostly bare. Paul watched the dress rehearsal. Bearing in mind that she was around forty her body had shape. Paul couldn’t judge her face which he knew too well. To him she was mostly fierce, didn’t smile a lot, but was capable of moments of effervescent high spirits, dancing and singing.

  Paul didn’t know what made Ellen change her attitude about the visit; it was like so many things with her, you never knew. She was a phony in the sense that she tried to create a picture of herself for you, what she thought she was like, but forgot it didn’t have any credible context or any background at all. Paul didn’t know anything about her family in King’s Lynn in England. He wasn’t even sure how many brothers and sisters she had. She didn’t write to them and they didn’t write to her.

  Once, in one of the drawers of her dressing table, Paul saw a photograph with ‘From Ivy’ written on the back. It showed a grave in a churchyard with an elaborate cross engraved ‘Peter Burnham’ and the dates of his birth and death. Ted told Paul confidentially that at one time, Ellen had letters to her relatives in England returned unopened. Ted didn’t appear to know any more than he did, but Ted didn’t care. Paul did care. If he pressed Ellen about her family she would say she couldn’t remember, or that Paul didn’t need to know, or if he pushed harder, ‘Mind you own business!’ Paul felt like saying it was his business.

  Ellen was all dark corners and black holes. She had scrapbooks of information about odd places like London, Aden and Singapore but there was nothing very personal in them. She had taken out all the personal photos. You could see the gaps. When Paul asked her why, particularly, those places, she said because she was interested. If he pressed harder, he got the old ‘mind your own business’ routine. So her change of heart about the Marchmont visit, like so many things, would remain inexplicable.

  In contrast, Paul felt that he knew his father through and through. What you saw was the actual man he was. Ted Travis was completely real. He was a simple man. Paul knew Ted’s history and Ted often recounted funny episodes from it. He was one of a large family. His father was an ex-railway guard who plunged his savings into a smallholding in New South Wales and impoverished his family. Ted was raised on ‘roo meat and rabbit stew and never had a pair of shoes until he was in his teens. He had been a happy kid who wasn’t in the least sorry for himself.

  You never sensed there was anything hidden or dark about Ted. If you didn’t know something about him it was because it hadn’t come up, not because he wanted to conceal it. Sometimes Paul used to ride with Ted and they would lie in the grass when they were tired (after they had beaten it for snakes and spiders). They would talk about the weather, or the state of the herds, or how the new work on the stockyard was progressing. Ted was like the governor of a vast territory philosophising about what he had done and planning what he was going to do, talking of the rain and the fire and the wind, entities that he had parleyed with and would outwit.

  *

  Paul’s mind was mostly on how to manoeuvre close to Emma and he was up early on the morning of the party, helping to prepare the marquee with Dinka, the maids and Mrs Mather, the general manager’s wife, who was in charge of protocol. He set out the round tables and collapsible chairs for the guests as Dinka directed and the trestle tables for food and drink. There were white linen cloths for the guest tables, with pale blue linen table napkins and pale blue tablecloths for the buffet tables. The caterers from Darwin provided ‘silver’ cutlery and crystal glasses. Every table napkin had a real silver ring engraved ‘Mirabilly, John and Katherine Marchmont, 1971’ intended as a personal memento for each guest.

  The food was being kept, until the party began, in chillers behind the serving table and there were reserve supplies in the refrigerated store room, ready to be moved into the marquee by a small army of waiters. Mrs Mather had hired chefs from Darwin to prepare special dishes on the day and they had been working since three in the morning.

  It was going to be a garden party followed by supper and the guests were expected to wander around. Since it would be too hot outside the marquee, Ted had suggested that they join the marquee to the doors of the Big House with an awning. A bright blue and white striped sheet of oiled cotton was flown up from Townsville and strung up fifteen feet high, creating a pleasant shaded area where guests could promenade or talk; and the hall and reception rooms of the Big House were also opened.

  Paul helped Dinka put out the specially printed menu cards written up in part in French by the French chef. Menu for the garden party and supper at Mirabilly Station in honour of the visit of Mr & Mrs J C deV Marchmont etc. This inscription was set out in a grand scroll on the front of the cards and inside was a menu of food and wine such that Paul had never seen before. He had observed the crates of Dom Perignon champagne. He counted fifteen dozen bottles in the crates in the cool-store; it was going to be served like beer.

  Paul couldn’t understand the description of the food in French but he had seen the stores in the kitchen. Old Dinka couldn’t stop giggling about them. Bluff oysters from New Zealand and Sydney rock oysters by the gallon; lobsters had been flown over live from Maine; there were buckets of whitebait and prawns, all to be washed down with the champagne. Paul had never tasted any of these delicacies. And there was more; smoked salmon, blue fin tuna. Monster fresh sea salmon and rainbow trout from Scotland were cooked to be picked off the bone and eaten cold with salad. Then there were the meats: the fillet of beef killed on Mirabilly and aged to perfection, supported by lamb and venison; the partridge and grouse were imported from England.

  “We’re goin’ to need a whole lot of people to eat all this,” Paul said to Dinka.

  She leaned over and shielded her mouth with her hand. “They aint goin’ to eat it, Paul. They just goin’ to pick it around and whoomf it up!” and she cackled with laughter.

  *

  With three other kids of his age from the Hill, Paul was supposed to be serving drinks; that meant pouring champagne and wine; and orange juice if anyone wanted it. Mrs Mather had hired a barman from Darwin to serve mixed drinks and cocktails because she said nobody on Mirabilly could be trusted to remain sober enough to remember the ingredients of a gin and tonic. She was wrong about the barman. Paul helped him lay out the bar table in the marquee and then, the first thing he did was to wink at Paul and have a snort of Glenmorangie himself.

  Ted had asked Paul that morning, with a grin, to go easy and Paul knew what he meant. Coming from Ted, a liberal drinker, that was quite a statement. Ted was conscious of his duty to be a more or less sober partner at Ellen’s side. Paul thought Ellen had probably spelt this out to Ted in so many words.

  The party was to start officially at 4 pm to use the cooler part of the afternoon and evening. It was the usual bright sunshine, about eighty degrees and pleasantly dry. By three-thirty everything had been ready for hours, with Mrs Mather wandering round checking, grilling the waiters on their procedures and getting annoyed with Dinka and the maids about little things. She also got annoyed with the barman when she caught him having another quick one.

  Paul’s instructions were to make sure the guests got a glass of ice cold champagne when they arrived and keep them filled up. The guests were mostly families from the Hill and a sprinkling of nobs flown in from Brisbane, Townsville, Cairns, Darwin and nearer towns. They were all going to be staying the night either on the Hill or at the Big House. The visitors were the buyers and agents for stock, hides, wool and meat; they were freight and aircraft contractors. The bankers were there and the accountants, lawyers, consulting engineers, pilots and surveyors; all the services and skills that had an important role in the business of Mirabilly.

  About fifty guests arrived by 4pm and then more see
med to arrive suddenly in crowds. Paul served champagne on the run. All the time he was thinking of Emma and noting that none of the Marchmont clan had made an entrance, except Alexander. Paul saw Alex wandering alone at the fringe of the crowd, trying to look self-possessed. Paul offered him champagne and Alex took it coolly as if it was a glass of water. Paul tried to start a conversation hoping it would lead to Emma. He said he’d like to hear about England and their journey out. He had to rush off to his duties, but as he saw to the needs of the throng, he revisited Alex regularly. He always found him with an empty glass and left him with a full one.

  Paul reckoned there must have been a 150 people there, the men in white shirts throttling themselves with neckties; some arrived in linen jackets but soon removed them. The women were dressed in the finest silk and cottons in every colour, with lots of tanned flesh showing and so many bright straw hats that all the brims seemed to touch and form a multi-coloured awning over the crowd. The marquee and the shaded area under Ted’s canopy were crowded; some guests were inside the Big House but Paul, like his co-servers, had been told he need not go there, meaning he wasn’t allowed there.

  As Paul pushed through the guests with his tray he saw his mother and father; they were with Mr and Mrs Marchmont and Emma. He had been too busy to notice the arrival of the guest party. He hesitated, trying to decide whether he should approach, but Ellen stopped him and made a point of introducing him.

  “This is my son, making himself useful,” she said in a stagey voice Paul had never heard before.

  He could see Emma looking at him in a way which suggested that they could now get to know each other. Even in that moment his eyes got stuck on the swelling of her breasts. Marchmont slapped him on the shoulder and said they’d already met. He chuckled and said Paul seemed to have recovered from his fight. Ellen reacted with a needling stare which signalled a forthcoming inquiry, but fortunately the talk passed on quickly to other subjects.

  Mrs Marchmont took no notice of him; she was concentrating on his mother. Kate Marchmont had tired eyes. She was troubled by the heat. She had a line of sweat on her brow and her long hair had become damp and stringy; under her eyes were blue marks of exhaustion. “I’m sure you could do it admirably,” she said to Ellen.

  There was a complete contrast between the two. The tall, fair Englishwoman and Ellen’s dark vitality. Ellen looked astounded. She turned toward John Marchmont who was nodding agreeably.

  “It’s a damn silly idea,” she said emphatically; again, in the strangled voice that Paul couldn’t recognise.

  Ted stood mute, grinning at nothing and swaying as he tossed down the dregs of whatever was in his glass. Paul was startled that his mother had spoken so sharply and slipped away to replenish his tray. When he came back and handed Emma a glass of orange juice he whispered, “What was so silly?”

  Emma smiled and drew away from the adults. “My mother thinks it would be a good idea if the Big House had a full-time housekeeper and my stepfather suggested she ask your mother. Your mum doesn’t seem to like the idea. She certainly speaks her mind, but then she knows John from… before. Doesn’t she?”

  Paul wasn’t that interested in the answer to his question. He was giddy in Emma’s sweet odour and the possibility that some time that afternoon he might touch her. “Why don’t you come over near the bar and we can talk?” he said with a boldness buttressed by two glasses of Dom Perignon.

  “I might just do that later,” she said lightly, with a glance that meant she certainly would.

  *

  By about 6.30pm Paul was aware that strange things were happening. When the first guests arrived in the tranquil afternoon heat it was difficult for them to find words, even though most of them knew each other; dressed up and in unfamiliar surroundings, they were tongue-tied. But the golden liquid did its work and the noise in the marquee gradually rose to a deafening level.

  The guests were not strangers to champagne but their usual drink, including many of the women, was cold lager beer. Paul began to see that he and his fellow servers were at least partly responsible for the change, because they had poured the champagne like lager. No glass had been allowed to empty.

  Paul had reduced Alex, who now lay hidden behind the bar, to a comatose state. Alex’s eyes couldn’t focus and he babbled nonsense when Paul spoke to him. Paul’s plan, when he could sneak away from his duties, was to call Emma over on the pretext of consulting her about her brother’s health.

  A number of people were not far from Alex’s condition, lying on the grass or slumped in chairs. Drunkeness was socially acceptable on the Hill. At a point in the later afternoon, the gathering had decided that it was time to eat instead of merely picking canapés from trays and they had advanced upon the buffet en masse, pushing and shoving, guffawing and shouting, grabbing handfuls of food, piling their plates with lumps of chicken and fish and lamb and salad, all in a mess and to hell with the Frenchie’s menu. When the diners retreated with their piled plates to the dining tables some couldn’t find clear seats for their party of friends of the moment. Chairs were pushed aside and knocked over, tables were pushed out of line. Plates were jolted off the table-cloths on to the grass.

  Paul noticed that people seemed to start eating indiscriminately with any dish. One man wolfed strawberries and cream, while another had a whole plate of king prawns fried in butter; with sleeves rolled up, he tore them apart with his fingers and stuffed them into his mouth. A woman with a lobster was so frustrated by the armour plate of the creature that she banged her shell-cracker on the table and threw the carapace at her husband, opposite. He threw it back.

  Paul continued to ply his trade until Mrs Mather ordered all their team to stop and not serve unless requested. This was his chance to call Emma to her brother’s side and when he did so, he was pleased to see that she was indifferent to Alex’s fate.

  “Why don’t we go outside, out of this racket?” she said.

  Paul led Emma Rainham Marchmont to the swimming pool with no particular action in mind. It was on the far side of the Big House, screened by trees and with a canvas awning so that bathing, even at noon, would be tolerable. As soon as she saw the sheet of clear blue water, Emma slipped out of her dress and shoes. She touched a button and the dress fell off. She dived into the water without giving Paul much time to see her in bra and pants. Paul had never bathed in the pool before; it was off-limits to him, but he dropped his denim trousers, tore off his t-shirt and dived in after her. The water was dreamily warm and thick like syrup. He swam to Emma and put his arms round her, only to be distracted by a groan from Alex who had appeared at the side of the pool. Alex swayed on the edge, cheese-faced. He then bent over and honked up the contents of his stomach into the pool. A stream of half-digested shrimp, salmon, chicken and fine fillet steak, marinated in champagne, spread in a lumpy slick on the surface of the water.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Emma said to Paul and they scrambled out of the pool, scooped up their clothes and, ignoring the prostrate Alex, went into the Big House by the back door. Emma led him through the halls to her bedroom. They saw nobody on the way.

  “Now we can talk,” she giggled, shutting the door and throwing herself on her bed.

  She was lying in front of Paul with a tiny pair of black silk pants on, which didn’t even cover her red pubic hair and a thin black bra that showed the outline of the big, dark nipples on her breasts.

  Paul was unsteady. His head and belly weren’t synchronised. He felt suddenly cold in the air conditioning. He had a lump in his stomach from bolting chunks of steak and an aerated feeling in his head. In his groin he had nothing.

  “Look at your hands! They’re as rough as the roots of an oak,” Emma said.

  He looked at his hands. Normally, he never thought of them much; bony, calloused, with fingers thickened by manual work.

  “It’s all right, Paul. I like you better that way. You can touch me.”

  Paul couldn’t move.

  “You are a silly b
oy,” she said impatiently, sitting up.

  She reached out, putting her fingers in the waist of his underpants and pulling them down. He was exposed, useless. Emma smiled wisely and moved her hand toward him.

  He had no time to feel more than a ripple of excitement. The door was thrown open behind him and Katherine Marchmont stood there, choking.

  “Get out of here you perverted beast!” she shouted. “The child is fourteen years old!”

  Paul pulled his underpants up from his ankles and slipped past Katherine Marchmont, leaving his trousers, t-shirt and loafers behind.

  He fled out of the Big House by the back door, a shadow startling the servants in his way, into the trees and home. He sat in his room for five minutes wanting to get under his bed, to hide in darkness. His life was in ruins. And then he heard his mother’s voice from the path. She and Ted had come home. He couldn’t face her. He was still expected to be helping in the marquee. He pulled on a shirt and slacks over his wet underpants, slid into sandals and went out of the back door, a fugitive.

  It was quiet as he approached the marquee. He found a scene of ruin and desolation. A few guests were still present; those who couldn’t move, heads down over the tables or prone on the grass; some were groaning as they spewed up the food and liquor they had taken in; their vomit mingled with streams of spilt sauces and liquor which trickled down from the tables and over the chairs. Glasses and empty bottles and half-eaten plates of food were scattered over the grass, tables collapsed and chairs overturned. Here and there was the gleam of a silver napkin ring which a guest had forgotten to claim. The pale blue table napkins were flopped everywhere, like gulls roosting on a rubbish dump.