Yellow Pearl Read online

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “I’m Margaret McCormack.

  My husband and first-born son, both Thomas, are buried yonder.”

  “Again, I’m sorry,” he said uncomfortably. “If you wish, I’ll make crosses for the graves come morning …”

  “Thank you.” Her visitor, though a stranger out of the night, perhaps offered her the mental succour that she needed. “The billy’s boiling if you’d like tea.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, squatting by the fire and holding his hands over the blaze. “There’s a chill in the air,” he commented.

  “I — I hadn’t noticed.” Now she could see his face. An ordinary one, she thought, a man’s face — beardless, and brown from too much sun, but not one of special significance. Not a face to remember, she decided.

  The compassion crept back into his voice. “Aye,” he said, nodding quietly. “T’is a hard day for you, Ma’am, a sad day, sad because of their passin’, sad too because no matter how hard we want it to be we can’t wish ‘em back.” He watched her fill a mug with tea. “I sense ‘tis not your first loss, Ma’am.”

  Was it so obvious? Perhaps it was the absence of tears? The troopers thought she was cold, their eyes told her that, because she didn’t cry. How could they know that she had run out of tears, a long time ago? “Three of my little ones lie buried in the Riverland,” she said shortly.

  He didn’t repeat his condolence. Perhaps he sensed that she didn’t seek his sympathy? He sipped his tea thoughtfully. “The Riverland, a foul place,” he said. “Although it’s not nature to blame for that. It was a pretty place — before they built the tanneries along the river bank. But what now, lass, what of you?”

  “Now?” she spoke bitterly. “It’s either back to the Riverland, or to one of the towns.”

  “Why?”

  What right did he have to question her, this stranger from out of the night? She felt angry. “Why?” She laughed harshly. “What choice do I have, a woman without her man and alone with a child who has never uttered a God-given word? Perhaps it will be the poorhouse, Mr Ryan, but in the least it will be a roof over our heads.”

  “Ain’t no poorhouses in this country, Ma’am,” he said quietly.

  “Then I’ll just have to find employment.”

  “As a maid servant to some squatter?” Ryan shook his head. “Mostly there are convict servants for those in need of them,” he added. “But even if not, there are few who would hire a woman with a child at foot.”

  “At foot! You make Rosa sound like some sort of animal,” she snapped irritably, her anger obvious.

  “Hold hard there, lass,” Ryan said hurriedly. “I apologise for my thoughtless rudeness, but I’m only trying to help you face the future — and there’s always a future once the tears have passed.”

  “I’ve no tears left to cry!” she said tersely, “And how would you know what — what sort of future … ?” She was struggling for words.

  His face saddened. “My mother lost her man when I was younger than your Rosa. She thought as you do that she could make do for herself and her child but the odds were against her. I ended up in an orphanage for most of my growing days, until I was taken under the wing of a man who knew my father. My mother died of consumption slaving her heart out for some ignorant squatter. You can’t go back to the Riverland, to the sort of life she — my mother — had.” He spoke harshly now, angry, and she felt a sudden rush of fear — was it of him, or, for herself?

  “I — I haven’t any choice …” she said.

  “Of course you have,” he said bluntly. “Your man selected good land, lass, your land now. Do you believe that he would want you to quit? Good God, lady, he’d be squirming in his grave if he thought he married a quitter.”

  She shook her head, unable to speak.

  “Women have done it before,” he continued, “and there are neighbours, though distant, who will help you.”

  “But why — would they, should they?”

  “Because that’s the way it is,” Ryan said. “This is a new land and folks help one another. It’s the code out here, an unwritten code but one that’s gonna see this country great, and you can be a part of that greatness.”

  She remained doubtful, shaking her head. “I’m a woman alone with a child that can’t talk …”

  “Think of her too, lass. It will better for her, out here where folks’ll accept her for what she is and not for what she might be. Take her back to your Riverland and she’ll never be given the chance to grow up proper. Keep her amongst people who care.”

  “But will they?”

  “Of course, lass, you’ve a wagon there, two cows, and a cage of layin’ hens. I’ll wager, too, you’ve provisions enough for twelve month, and seed fer sowin’ too.” For a moment he was silent. “I‘m a travellin’ man, Ma’am,” he continued, “I may not pass this way again. But I promise you that if you settle the land your man selected, you can make his dream, and yours, come true. You’ve provisions, more than enough.” He hesitated. “There are only two of you,” he added lamely.

  “Aye,” she said, remaining bitter, “just two of us!”

  “Try it for twelve month, you’ve nothing to lose. Sleep on it, make your decision come morning.” He rose. “I’m camped downstream.” He paused. “’Bout twelve mile east of your land there is the beginnin’s of a small town. And while meat’s plentiful, produce ain’t … and they are lookin’ for things growed. Think about that, lass …”

  “Why … are you so insistent that I should … go north to the … Tom’s selection?”

  He paused for a moment, studying the ground. “Let’s just say that I owe it to your man,” he said quietly. Without waiting for her reply he unhitched his horse and mounted. “Good luck, lass.”

  How had he known about their selection? she wondered, watching him disappear from sight.

  What did he mean — he owed it to her man? Tom never mentioned him, she would remember if he had. She decided she would ask the man himself, come morning.

  His campfire was cold when she went to where he had camped. Nearby she saw the huge arrow scratched in the ground, pointing northwards. “Damn you, Michael Ryan,” she uttered angrily. Two wooden crosses too, now marked the graves.

  Ryan, she realised, must have sat up most of the night constructing them.

  It took her half the morning to decide. But when she finally hitched up the wagons she followed the arrow — northwards …

  She found the future that Mick Ryan said she would, growing produce for the folk of the developing town, vegetables and eggs mainly, yet she never saw him again to thank him. If it wasn’t for him, she told herself often, she would have returned to the hellish Riverland.

  “God speed, Mick Ryan,” she often thought. “Wherever you are.”

  She would never know that the day following their meeting the troopers caught up to him, and shot down and killed Mick Ryan, the bushranger they knew as The Dancer.

  James Kent has been writing short stories, articles and bush verse for years, with some success. Years ago he wrote numerous ‘trash’ fiction paperbacks as Jim Kent (Scripts) and ‘two bob’ westerns under pen names Cleve Banner and Thane Docker (Cleveland). His most recent success is winning the Goodwin memorial statue for a short story at the 2011 Grenfell Henry Lawson Festival. He has self-published (rough and very limited) two books on family history, two of bush verse and a collection of short stories. He is the editor of the local Lions Club Bulletin.

  He is married to Bernice with five kids, 25 grandies and lost count of the greats.

  A Secretary’s Lot

  — Kerry Lown Whalen

  Children obeyed their parents back then in 1960, even when they were fifteen years old. Kay had always wanted to paint, had always dreamt of being an artist.

  “You’ll be a secretary,” her mother said, and waved her off to business college to complete a diploma.

  On her first day at work, Kay entered an imposing
building in the centre of Sydney, its cavernous marble foyer echoing with her footsteps. She passed the lifts and pushed open the glass door to her new workplace. The tiled ground floor with its ornate high ceiling amplified the sounds of voices, typewriters, telephones and cash registers. In this vast, impersonal place, solemn-faced policyholders queued to pay their premiums. The sanctified air and observance of ancient rituals reminded Kay of a church. How on earth would she cope in such a place?

  Her typewriter sat on a black felt cushion beside a tiered rack of white, pink and yellow paper. Mr Morgan sat at a desk behind her, blowing sweet clouds from his pipe into her hair.

  He observed a strict routine. “Dictation, Kay.” Each morning at eight-thirty, she rested her notebook on Mr Morgan’s desk while he dictated a batch of letters, her pencil covering the pages with hieroglyphics. Afterwards, her fingers flew like a concert pianist’s over the typewriter keys, churning out letters and memos. She filed the pink and yellow copies in two clunky, grey filing cabinets.

  While she worked, Kay thought about her boyfriend, Dan. On Saturday they’d go to the beach, plunge into the foaming waves and swim out to the calm green water beyond the breakers. Daydreaming about Dan helped the dreary hours pass.

  During the tea break, Kay talked to her boss, doodling with a soft-leaded pencil on his large, leather-edged blotter. Aged thirty-five, he had grey hair and a face webbed with veins. Mr Morgan knew every female in the building and winked at each as she passed.

  “Why do you flirt?” Kay asked, frowning. “You’re married.”

  “Married, with a ten-year-old daughter.” He spooned three sugars into his milky tea, dunked his arrowroot biscuit and swilled the pap in his mouth like a baby.

  “Who does your daughter look like?”

  “Me.” He grinned. “She’s stunning, like her old man.”

  On his blotter, Kay drew precise geometrical shapes free-hand.

  He watched. “Are triangles and squares your specialty?”

  “Yes. But I’m drawing circles next.”

  “Why?”

  “Well-adjusted people draw circles.”

  “Who said?”

  “I read it in a magazine.”

  One Friday, Mr Morgan stood beside her while she typed a letter.

  “That’s the last one you’ll type for me.” He signed it with his gold fountain pen.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been transferred to the accounts department. I start Monday.”

  She gasped, her stomach fluttering. “Who’ll be my new boss?”

  He tilted his head at Mr Osborne in the claims department. Wearing a white shirt, dark suit and tie, Mr Osborne looked like all the other bosses.

  “When did you find out?”

  “An hour ago.” He raised an eyebrow. “Will you visit me in accounts?”

  Her eyes brimmed. “I might.”

  On Monday she carried her notebook and pencil to the claims department and met Mr Osborne, a cuddly bear of a man with a dimpled chin. He called her ‘dearest, darling, adorable’ and ‘my pretty one’, was unmarried and spoke with a lisp.

  Kay sat at a desk beside Maree, happy to talk to her when she wasn’t busy. Bulldog Butch, a sneaky clerk, who sometimes crept up behind her and pounced, interrupted these cosy sessions.

  “Less chatter and more clatter, Kay.”

  She’d glare at his back. Talking was a rare pleasure in that moribund office.

  Unlike Kay, Maree wasn’t interested in a career. She wanted a husband, house and children. “Patrick and I are getting engaged.”

  Kay beamed. “When?”

  “On my eighteenth birthday.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “You’re supposed to congratulate Patrick and wish me well.”

  Kay sighed. Life was full of rules and regulations. She’d never learn them all.

  Only one female in the company held a senior position and that was Maree’s boss, Miss Murphy. According to Maree, Miss Murphy had a temper, a dependent mother and a belief in Catholicism — she attended Mass every Sunday. Beyond that Maree knew nothing and neither did anyone else, but it didn’t stop them speculating.

  Once, Kay overheard Butch say, “It’d do the old girl good to spend a night with a sailor. That’d put a smile on her face.” His colleagues laughed like schoolboys. When she thought about it, the office was arranged in a hierarchy, just like school. The difference was that every male had a position of power.

  As time inched by in the gloom of the workplace, Kay’s shorthand and typing speeds increased. Her skills were acknowledged but rather than offering her a pay increase or promotion she was rewarded with extra duties. One task was to order stationery. She hummed while shuffling boxes of carbon and typing paper, staples, biros, and pencils to make space for new supplies.

  Butch interrupted her labours. “Stop humming, Kay. Think of your office decorum.”

  As his disapproving back melded into the shadows, she gazed around at the grim faces of her co-workers. On a sheet of cardboard, she wrote in large black letters:

  EMPLOYEES MUST LOOK MISERABLE AT ALL TIMES. MANAGEMENT DOES NOT PERMIT SMILING OR LAUGHTER DURING WORKING HOURS.

  She showed it to Maree. “I’d like to hang this on the wall.”

  Kay welcomed her new duties as they gave her an excuse to leave her desk. She collected stationery supplies from the printing department, a busy place where men joked over the screech and thump of the printing machine. Whenever the door opened, the smell of ink, paper and glue spilled out into the hallway.

  Norm whistled as he hefted reams of paper off the shelves and onto a trolley.

  “Any chance of working here, Norm?”

  He grinned. “It’s men’s work, Kay. Heavy and dirty.”

  “I could design things. Be useful.”

  “Females belong downstairs. At typewriters.”

  At tea break, Kay chatted to Mr Osborne. “Dan and I saw Let’s Twist Again.”

  “Can you do the twist?”

  “Of course.”

  “Show me.” He laughed when she shook her head.

  “I have a problem.”

  “What’s the trouble, bubble?”

  “Why do men earn more money than women.”

  He stirred his tea. “Men have to provide for their families.”

  She mulled this over. “What about Miss Murphy? She has to care for her mother. It’s not fair that she earns less than a man.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that.”

  Kay swivelled to face her typewriter and banged away at the keys. It wasn’t right and it didn’t make sense. “What about you? You’re not married. Why should you earn more money than Miss Murphy?”

  He straightened his tie. “That’s the way it is.”

  Kay observed a number of instances where females received unjust treatment. Gail was a case in point. She’d just announced her engagement and it should have been a time of celebration. Instead, Gail had to find a new job because the company didn’t employ married women.

  Kay raised it with Maree. “We pay our fees but the union does nothing for us.” She folded her arms. “And why are clerks paid more than secretaries?”

  “Because secretaries are female. It’s women’s work.”

  “So I could’ve earned more money if I hadn’t gone to business college?”

  Maree nodded. “The company doesn’t value secretarial work.”

  Bursting with news, Kay hurried to her desk. Maree held up a warning hand and shushed her. “Miss Murphy’s in a bad mood. And I’m too busy to talk.”

  But the words slipped out. “Dan’s taking me to lunch.”

  The thud of heavy footsteps approached and Miss Murphy loomed over her.

  “Maree has work to do — you’re wasting her time.” Miss Murphy’s ample frame shook as the flush starting at her neck spread to her face. Fascinated by the sight of Miss Murphy in full roar, Kay watched her dab at her face with a white lace handke
rchief as she marched back to her desk. Those in the vicinity exchanged amused glances.

  Mr Osborne muttered, “Change of life.”

  Intrigued by the bearing of the angry lump of a woman, Kay longed to capture her image. She seized a pencil. Doodling had taught her shape and form, but she’d rarely attempted caricatures. With fuzzy lines and using her finger to smudge each stroke, she sketched her subject. The pencil moved of its own accord and Miss Murphy came to life on the page. Kay gazed at her work, stunned at her ability to produce an unmistakable likeness.

  Mr Osborne spotted the drawing. “My God! That’s brilliant.” Chuckling, he snaffled it from her desk. “Everyone will get a laugh out of this.”

  His progress around the office was charted by shrieks of merriment. Kay squirmed as her subject peered over her glasses at the disturbance spreading like a storm on a lake. It wasn’t Kay’s intention to make Miss Murphy an object of derision. She’d just wanted to try her hand at caricature.

  After lunch, Miss Murphy sat at her desk, head resting on her hand. Heart thudding, Kay approached.

  “Excuse me.” Miss Murphy looked up. “I’m sorry I distracted Maree today.” She swallowed. “I’m happy to help if you’re still busy.”

  Miss Murphy’s mouth formed a thin line. “Are you responsible for that drawing?”

  Kay blushed. “Yes, Miss Murphy.”

  Several moments passed while Miss Murphy stared at her. “You have a lot to learn, my girl.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Murphy.” She shuffled her feet. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “No thanks.”

  During a tea break, Kay took a deep breath and visited Miss Murphy at her desk. The older woman leaned back in her seat, her gaze curious.

  The words bubbled from Kay’s mouth. “I saw Elvis Presley in Blue Hawaii.”

  Miss Murphy’s face brightened. “Good film?”