Tears of the Moon Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  SPECIAL THANKS TO . . .

  PROLOGUE Broome 1905

  CHAPTER ONE Sydney 1995

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

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

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Di Morrissey is Australia’s most popular woman novelist. Her first book, Heart of the Dreaming, launched her bestselling career and paved the way for The Last Rose of Summer, Follow the Morning Star, The Last Mile Home, Tears of the Moon, When the Singing Stops, The Songmaster and her latest novel, Scatter the Stars.

  Well known as a TV presenter on the original ‘Good Morning Australia’, Di has always written – working as a journalist, advertising copywriter and screen-writer.

  Di has two children and lives in Byron Bay, NSW, where she devotes herself to writing, in between travelling to research her novels.

  Di Morrissey can be visited at her website:

  http://www.dimorrissey.com

  Also by Di Morrissey

  Heart of the Dreaming

  The Last Rose of Summer

  Follow the Morning Star

  The Last Mile Home

  Tears of the Moon

  When the Singing Stops

  The Songmaster

  Scatter the Stars

  Blaze

  The Bay

  Kimberley Sun

  Barra Creek

  The Reef

  First published 1995 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  First published 1996 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Reprinted 1996, (twice), 1998 (twice), 1999,2000 (twice), 2001, 2002 (twice), 2003 (twice), 2004 (twice), 2005 (twice), 2006

  Text copyright © Di Monissey 1995 Illustrations copyright © Ron Revitt 1995

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Morrissey, Di.

  Tears of the moon.

  ISBN 0 330 35781 6.

  1. Title.

  A823.3

  Typeset in 11/13pt Bembo by Post Typesetters, Brisbane

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  These electronic editions published in 2007 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Tears of the Moon

  Di Morrissey

  Adobe eReader format 978-1-74197-049-4

  Microsoft Reader format 978-1-74197-250-4

  Mobipocket format 978-1-74197-451-5

  Online format 978-1-74197-652-6

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The Continental Hotel, Broome

  Val Burton, Broome Historical Society

  Broome Tourist Board

  Bill Reed, Linneys Pearls, Broome; Peter and

  Jean Haynes, ex-Broome; Brenda Anderson, Byron

  Bay, for checking the manuscript

  Ted Johnston for proofreading

  Les Johnson, Albany (war historian)

  And to all the staff of Pan Macmillan

  throughout Australia especially James Fraser,

  Nikki Christer, Madonna Duffy, Roxarne Burns,

  Peter Phillips, Jeannine Fowler and

  Lyndal (Charlie) Charles.

  SPECIAL THANKS TO . . .

  The man I love who makes me joyful and suggested the idea for this book.

  Jim Revitt for his critical and creative input—which goes back to showing a very young niece the magic of writing.

  My children, Gabrielle and Nicolas who are my best friends, best critics, and with whom I share unconditional love.

  My mother, all my dear family and those who count as family.

  And Uncle Ron Revitt for his terrific illustrations.

  In memory of all those claimed by the sea . . .

  According to Indian mythology it is believed

  that pearls are formed by the tears of the moon

  dropping into the sea . . .

  WESTERN AUSTRALIA IN THE 1800S

  PROLOGUE

  Broome 1905

  The deep-sea diver moved in slow motion, a heavy weighted boot kicking up small clouds of grey sand. All he could hear was the hiss of air down the hose and his own rhythmic breathing as he was towed above the sea bed by the lugger. He exhaled, a cluster of bubbles pushing upwards towards the surface, thirty fathoms above. The clear capsules of trapped hot breath smelling faintly of chilli and black sauce, eventually burst on the surface of the Indian Ocean close to the drifting lugger.

  To the sleepy-eyed tender, vigilant despite his slumped and somnolent pose, the steady cluster of bubbles indicated all was normal. Through his fingers ran the coir signal rope and life line which acted as umbilical cord between the two men of two worlds. Ignoring the clatter of the hand pumps, the noise and chatter of the shell opener, the tender followed the footsteps of the diver, guiding the drift and direction of the lugger as the diver explored below.

  The Japanese diver worked alone, secure in his ability to stay deep, keep steady and ‘see’ shell. He trudged across the sea bed, his rope basket almost filled with the broad, flat grey shells that were for some so difficult to spot. For nearly an hour he stayed in a world of intense strangeness and beauty, unaffected by the secrets and magic that unfolded about him. The novelty of the underwater world had waned early in his career. Inattention could result in missed opportunities or an accident.

  The hiss of air was a constant noise in his head. Like a creature from some other planet, the bulbous form with the glass-windowed copper helmet made his way through water space, a stranger in an alien world.

  He had been indentured for five years on Thursday Island, contracted for a further three here in Broome. He was a number one diver, one of the kings of Sheba Lane. The men who walked in the sea. The men who could stay deeper, work longer, find more shell than white, M
alay or Aborigine. He had sold his share of snide pearls, done deals and profited from pearl finds and the shell take. But this was his last season. At lay up he would return to Wakayama Prefecture and Akiko san.

  Was it the thought of the woman that distracted him? Was his ever-alert peripheral vision clouded for an instant with the rush of memory of the warm body, soft hair and sweet voice? Or had the gods decided this day, this moment, was his time? The small whale-bone charm nestling beneath the layers of flannel, rubber and canvas could not protect against the events that swiftly followed.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he sensed a sudden movement, a glimpse of something large gliding close to him. Inadvertently, he expelled a rush of air, the burst of bubbles startling the silver shape. The huge swordfish angled away, its lethal broad sword slashing ahead of it. In its path were the dangling air hose and safety rope looping above the diver, but the monstrous fish barrelled on regardless.

  The red rubber artery snaking above the diver was partially severed, the escaping air churning the water to a boiling cloud around him. He was dragged off balance by the force of the encounter, fumbling frantically to close his air escape valve and trap the remaining air in his suit, long enough to see him to the surface.

  The tender was aware of some disaster, having felt the sudden drag and slackening of the air hose before the frantic signal from the diver to bring him up.

  Normally the diver would be staged, resting at intervals to allow his body to adjust and prevent the build up of nitrogen in the blood. But the tender could tell from the wild signals of the desperate diver that he was losing air. Although the risk of paralysis would be high, he decided to bring him straight up.

  Shouts aboard the lugger alerted the crew, and the men on the hand pump worked feverishly trying to force air down the hose and past the gaping leak so some breath of life reached the diver’s helmet.

  The diver felt the pressure mount. Burning pain seared through his joints as he swung like a puppet upwards through the water, his body compressed and squeezed as he was dragged too quickly towards life-giving air.

  In his last moments of consciousness he hoped they could swiftly patch the air leak and drop him back to a depth where he could be suspended for several hours while his body readjusted.

  There are some miraculous stories of survival and just as many of the horrific fates met by divers of the deep. It was either death in the sea, by currents, whirlpools or hidden craters that simply sucked a diver into oblivion, or by unfortunate encounters with devil rays, swordfish, sharks or whales. Above the water, beri beri, cyclones, shipwrecks and mutinous crews could kill just as quickly. A diver might survive, only to be sentenced to a life ashore as a blinded, twisted cripple. The streets of Broome were haunted by the relics of men who’d wished they’d died a diver instead of living as one of the ‘bad luck ones’.

  They knew the dangers, but they took the risks.

  The lugger lurched as all hands leaned over the side. The dripping diver was heaved on to the deck, his metal boots and helmet crashing on the planks.

  The men shook their heads at the glimpse of the black skin through the glass. The helmet was unscrewed and the awful face greeted them . . . eyes bulging, one eyeball popped on to a cheek, blood pouring from ears, nose and mouth. Where some bodies have been squeezed up into the corselet and helmet and have to be cut free, this diver could have some life left yet. They reattached the helmet, bound the air hose and slid him back into the sea while there was still a chance of saving him.

  The number two diver went with him and waited, floating in the eerie silence of the tomb-like sea. He adjusted the air pressure in the suit and helmet in the hope the blackness would fade to pink skin, that the damaged head might lift within its metal casing.

  The two divers hovered, side by side, as an hour passed. Finally the number two diver signalled to ascend. He hoped should his time come beneath the sea, that his own death would be swift.

  The body was hauled from the suit, and as the lugger left the fleet to return to Broome, the shell openers returned to their work on the deck.

  The first shell opened from the dead diver’s basket showed a perfect roseate round. Its beauty would grace some privileged woman in a distant city, but it had come at a high price.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sydney 1995

  Lily sat on the floor of her mother’s bedroom, feeling like an invader. Drawers of underwear, personal papers, jewellery, and two hatboxes filled with travel souvenirs and memorabilia were scattered around her. Piles of clothes and shoes buried the bed. Her mother’s perfume, ‘Blue Grass’, hung in the air and Lily wished she could cry.

  She had put off the sorting of her mother’s belongings for as long as possible. But now the apartment was on the market and several weeks had passed since the funeral, so she could delay no longer.

  Lily noticed that dusk was settling in so she got up, switched on the light and went to pour herself a glass of wine.

  How had it happened that she’d never been really close to her own mother and never noticed she had no family? She’d loved her mother, she was different to other mothers it seemed, and now Lily wished with all her heart she’d known her better. Truly known her—what important things had happened in her life that had hurt her, thrilled her. What dreams had never been fulfilled. How she’d felt when Lily was born. They’d never talked of such things. She’d never asked her mother and her mother had never asked her. And now it was too late. The hollow despair of this knowledge caused Lily feelings of guilt, failure and disappointment. Grief Was a catalyst for many things and now Lily found the ground beneath her feet distinctly wobbly. Georgiana, her madcap, restless mother, had filled their life with travel and drama and told her how lucky they were to not be tied down by family strings. Just the two of them against the world. And Lily had believed her—until she had wanted a family of her own and the certainty of being in one place for the years ahead.

  Lily wished she had known her mother’s family and also her father, or his family. Georgiana had discarded several husbands, including Lily’s father. They had met during the war. He was a charming American serviceman and she was young and ready for adventure. There was a swift courtship and what her mother dismissed as a ‘low-key wedding’ before boarding one of the war-bride ships.

  Lily had been born in 1947 but apparently life in Torrance, California, was not the life Georgiana had been led to expect after a diet of American movies. Georgiana divorced when Lily was a toddler and saw no reason to maintain any contact with her ex-husband. She gave Lily the impression that he’d never shown any interest in a child he had barely known. And as for in-laws, Georgiana had shuddered and stressed again how they were the lucky ones, to be as free as birds and able to choose their friends instead of being burdened with unpleasant relatives.

  Lily’s memories of her youth were of boarding schools and holidays in exotic places with her mother. These were treasured times with just the two of them. Georgiana never inflicted ex-stepfathers on Lily and Lily was always broken-hearted at leaving her fun-loving mother at the end of the holidays to return to school.

  Georgiana made no secret of the fact she had been a difficult and rebellious child and had given her mother hell.

  ‘I was happier in boarding school than stuck over in the west. You’ll thank me one day for sending you to good boarding schools,’ she told Lily.

  Georgiana refused to discuss ‘family’, except for flippant remarks and anecdotes that were generally unflattering. She did once say she’d had to keep her family background ‘a bit quiet’ when she went to America as a war bride. ‘Not that it mattered as it turned out. His lot were Orange County hicks.’

  So Lily’s childhood had been spent in the care of other people, punctuated by periods of travel, with pauses in pensions and tropical Somerset Maugham hotels. Within minutes of arrival anywhere Georgiana had admirers, help from all quarters and entertaining company.

  The only reference Georgiana made ab
out her own parents was that her father had died in France during the First World War before she was born and that her mother had lived in the west, a place Georgiana hated. Georgiana caused everyone such trouble that she forced them to put her in boarding school, in Perth, which she far preferred. As soon as she could she moved to Sydney, worked as a secretary and met her American husband-to-be.

  That was the sole extent of Lily’s knowledge of her family. She had only vague memories of one occasion when they visited an old lady, her great-grandmother in Perth. She recalled being in a beautiful garden with a sweet and loving lady. She had always wanted to go back there but it never seemed to fit in with Georgiana’s plans and then Lily had been sent to an expensive private girls’ school in Sydney and had never seen her relative again, Georgiana declaring the west to be even more behind the world than the rest of Australia.

  With the self-centredness of children, Lily had never questioned her mother about their family. When pregnant with her own daughter, Samantha, Lily wrote to Georgiana asking if she knew of any possibly inherited medical problems. Georgiana dismissed Lily’s fears by pointing out she knew next to nothing about Lily’s father’s medical history and was not about to try and make contact with his family even if she knew where they were. In her letter Georgiana had written:

  Life starts at birth. Forget all the baggage because there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it anyway. I tried to let you be free. You find out what you need to know, when you need to know. Sometimes knowing too much can be painful.

  Lily wasn’t sure what to make of this remark but realised she wasn’t going to get anything further from her mother. Her then-husband Stephen told her not to worry about it. He was relieved that his erratic and volatile mother-in-law kept to her own path in life. He regarded her with long-suffering patience that didn’t endear him to Georgiana. When Stephen and Lily divorced, Georgiana was delighted. When she visited she could now have the attention of Lily and Sami without the ‘interruptions and interference of that man’.