‘I do not believe that, miss. And nor does your father.’

He stood, and took a long look at the documents. He did not move to pick them up.

‘Perhaps I will return tomorrow.’

THE MOONBIRD

THE MOONBIRD

I would tell you, I would list for you the negotiations that followed. But they were arduous, and fated to end only one way.

It should have been clear. Srinivas was proposing a voyage that was futile and dangerous. There was no proof that this man from long ago was responsible for the fate of the Howrah. Even if that feverish notion proved accurate, there was no logical way in which my helpless father was going to bring him to account. Sending me with him was no further use, and would only endanger me as well.

But what purpose would be served by my setting it all out? You need only know that Srinivas, in concert with my obstinate father, wore me down. In the days that followed the Bengali’s visit with the documents, the signs of their determination were everywhere.

A quartermaster from the wharves, a grave-looking Methodist, approached me at the Coopers’ house, held his hat in his hands and declined to enter. He asked why my father, who was known to be sightless, might be seeking provisions for a voyage to Bass’s Strait. He did not need to specify what was meant by ‘provisions’—Srinivas had already made clear that he would victual the voyage at his own expense. My father was making an early bid to ensure that any intended vessel was groaning with rum.

A week later, Beckwith—the harbourmaster himself—relayed a message that my vessel was ready, and that I may wish to inspect it. My vessel. I had said nothing, been told nothing—much less signed anything.

Finally my resistance was at an end. I could not stand by and let my father sail off without me, and he had made clear that he would do exactly that if I did not join him. These are the times one takes stock. Ten years beyond a marriageable age, I had become something of a curiosity in the town. For those of recent acquaintance, those with memories that didn’t reach back to the fire, I was an unappealing prospect: too tall to make a man look impressive, too fierce to make polite company. I was a vindictive harpy with an acid tongue who’d quite probably driven her poor father to drink. There was no prospect of change, either in me or in the attitudes of others towards me. If my life was to open itself to any change, any renewal, it would have to happen elsewhere. And an instinct deep inside me—something that felt like an itch—wanted to know what had befallen those children.