Tears of the Moon - Di Morrissey [24]
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