She followed with her evidence. First, a letter from Charles Darwin to his friend Alfred Russel Wallace, in which he (Darwin!) mentioned a rumor about a beetle like a gilded raindrop. Then there was a missionary, who described in his journal a mountain with the shape of a blunt wisdom tooth where he’d come across a beetle so small and gold, he’d fallen to his knees and prayed. There had even been a near miss for an orchid collector searching at high altitude: he’d seen a flash of gold but couldn’t get to his sweep net in time. All of them referred to the island Grande Terre in New Caledonia, but if the missionary was right, and the orchid collector was right, the beetle had to be in the north. Besides, collectors in the past had always stayed south, or on the coast, where the terrain was less dangerous and they felt safest.
As far as science was concerned, the beetle didn’t yet exist because nothing existed until it had been presented to the Natural History Museum, described, and given its Latin name. So she would need to bring home three pairs of specimens, correctly pinned, and if they were damaged in any way, they’d be useless. She would also need detailed drawings and notebooks. “I would like the beetle to be named after my father. Benson’s Beetle. Dicranolaius bensoni,” she said.
But Mr. Mundic didn’t seem bothered by what anyone called it. He didn’t seem that bothered about the beetle. He skipped right from the bit where she told him about the job to the bit where he accepted, without the vital bit in the middle where she made the offer. Yes, he would lead Margery’s expedition. He would carry a gun to defend her from savages, and kill wild pig for her to cook on the campfire. He asked what date they would be leaving.
Margery swallowed. Mr. Mundic clearly had a screw loose. She reminded him she was looking for a beetle. This was 1950: there was no need for guns, and New Caledonia was not an island of savages. Fifty thousand American troops had been safely posted there during the war. As well as French cafés and shops, you could now find hamburger restaurants and milkshake bars. According to the Reverend Horace Blake—and she lifted her guidebook as if it were the Bible—the only things Margery needed were gifts like confectionary and zippers, and as for food, she’d be taking her own British supplies in packets and tins.
“Are you telling me I’m not man enough to lead this expedition?” Mr. Mundic slammed his fist on the table, narrowly missing the salt and pepper. “Are you saying you can do it without me?”
Suddenly he was on his feet. It was as though a switch had flicked inside him. She had no idea what she’d done. He was shouting, and little balls of spittle were shooting from his mouth. He was telling Margery she was a stupid woman. He was telling her she’d get lost in the rainforest and die in a hole.
Mr. Mundic grabbed his passport and left. Despite his height, he looked small, with his hair too short and his suit too big, his bony hands balled into fists; he was pushing past the waitresses in their little white hats and the diners politely waiting to be seated as if he hated every one of them.
He was a casualty of war, and Margery had no idea how to help.
* * *
—
Her second applicant, the widow, was early, which was good, and wanted only a glass of water—even better. But she thought Margery meant Caledonia, as in Scotland. No, said Margery. She meant New Caledonia, as in the Other Side of the World.
That was the end of the interview.
* * *
—
By now Margery was struggling to keep her nerve. Of her four original applicants, the first, Enid Pretty, had eliminated herself before she’d even started; Mr. Mundic needed help; the third had left after three minutes. She was beginning to think the expedition of her lifetime was already over when the retired teacher arrived. Miss Hamilton strode through the teahouse wearing a raincoat that could happily have doubled as a curtain, while her skirt was elasticated at the waist and a practical shade of gravy brown to hide all stains. She also had a beard—not a substantial one, but more than a few sprouty hairs. Margery liked her immediately. She waved to Miss Hamilton, and Miss Hamilton waved back.
Margery had barely told her about the beetle before Miss Hamilton whipped out a notebook and began her own set of questions, some of which she spoke in French. Was Margery interested in butterflies? (No. Only beetles. She hoped to bring home many specimens.) How long would the expedition take? (Five and a half months, including travel.) Had she rented a hut as base camp? (Not yet.) The interview was entirely upside-down. Nevertheless, Margery was thrilled. It was like meeting a new and improved version of herself, without the nerves and also in a foreign language. Only when Miss Hamilton asked about her job did Margery panic. She gave the name of the school and changed the subject. She even shoved her feet under her chair—not that Miss Hamilton would have known about the boots, but guilt is not logical.
“You don’t need one of these blond hussies as your assistant,” said Miss Hamilton, just as a blond hussy conveniently clip-clopped past the window. “What did any of those young women do for the war effort but lie on their backs with their legs open? Family?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What is your background?”
“I was brought up by two aunts.”
“Siblings?”
“My four brothers were killed on the same day at Mons.”
“Your parents?”
“Also gone.”
Margery had to pause. The truth about her father was a crater with KEEP OUT! signs all round it. She never went close. Her mother’s death had been different. Maybe because it came while she’d been dozing in her chair, and even though Margery had found her, it hadn’t been a shock. Her mother alive and her mother deceased had looked comfortingly similar. As for her brothers, she’d lost them so long ago, she thought of herself as an only child. She was the last tin in the Benson factory. The end of the line.
Miss Hamilton said, “Two world wars have created a nation of single women. We must not hide our light under a bushel.” She hitched her handbag over her arm, as if it had tried to escape before now and she wasn’t taking any chances. “Goodbye, Miss Benson. What a marvelous adventure. Consider me in.”
“You mean you want to come?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
* * *
—
It would be a lie to say Margery skipped all the way home. She hadn’t skipped since she was a child. Besides it was dark and raining—the smog was thick—and the lacrosse boots were rubbing at the heel. But as she walked/limped, everything she passed—the filthy broken buildings, pitted with shrapnel scars, the women queuing for food, the men in civvies that didn’t fit—seemed precious, as if she’d already left it behind. Briefly she thought she heard footsteps, but when she turned there was no one: with smog, people came and went, like ink in water. She had spoken about the gold beetle with three strangers and, while it was true that two had left in a hurry, the beetle had become even more real in her mind and even more findable. Margery opened her handbag for her key and wondered what she’d done with her map, but there was no time to worry because an envelope lay beneath the door, from the headmistress.