Time was passing too fast. Her veins throbbed, her head spun, her jaw was a clamp. Write to L’Office Centrale de Permis in New Caledonia, write to the French embassy, write to the British consulate. Margery seemed to exist permanently above the surface of things. Buy supplies. Sort collecting equipment. Pack suitcase. Get vaccinations. And now that the stolen boots were in the hands of the police, Margery half expected to find a man in uniform, with a warrant for her arrest, every time she stepped outside.
Miss Hamilton wrote daily, full of new ideas and suggestions. Wouldn’t it be jolly to dress as men and hire mules? Frankly, it wouldn’t. Margery had a thing about mules: she had been bitten as a teenager, and would do anything to avoid their large yellow teeth. She also had less in the way of funding than she’d let on. She had never been a full-blown liar—Barbara once made her take a bite out of the soap when she swore she hadn’t taken the sieve for beetle collecting—but the trust fund she had inherited from her aunts would barely cover the return voyage. She wrote again to the Royal Entomological Society, and once again they refused to help. The letter ended with a clear warning: Do not on any account make an expedition into the remote northern regions of New Caledonia. The same advice came from the Foreign Office.
Cash, cash, she needed more cash. Margery sold everything but the bare bones of her flat. Once again, she watched a cart drive away, loaded this time with the furniture that had belonged to her aunts. It would have appalled them, and it appalled her, too, but she had no choice. As the buyer pointed out, it was better than a smack in the eye with a wet fish. So many things, she thought, would be better than that that it was hard to see this as a helpful remark.
Margery visited the travel agent and paid for two tickets in a shared berth, tourist class, on RMS Orion from Tilbury to Brisbane, returning home on February 18. The agent showed her a pamphlet with brightly colored photographs of yellow deck chairs and a sea as blue as a swimming pool; spacious cabins with yellow flowers and yellow beds and yellow curtains at the porthole; though when she asked if she might keep the pamphlet, he said sadly not. She booked a twin room at the Marine Hotel in Brisbane, where they would spend two nights before catching the flying boat to Nouméa. She converted all that was left of her savings into traveler’s checks; she had vaccinations against typhoid and yellow fever—for a few days her left arm was about as useful as a third leg—and began to collect supplies.
“Throughout New Caledonia,” wrote the Reverend Horace Blake, “toilet facilities are primitive. Take all precautions against possible infection.”
Where there had once been furniture, her flat was now crammed with towers of Izal lavatory paper, Chamberlain’s colic and diarrhea remedy, James’s powder for fever, water-purifying tablets, sulfuric acid, emetic tartar, talcum powder, Epsom salts, and lavender water, as well as two folded tarps, calico sheets, two mosquito nets, a pocketknife, Walkden’s ink powder, strops and hones, needles, thread, tape, gauze-worsted stockings, four months’ supply of Spam, condensed milk—basically, anything that came in a tin and that she could get without coupons—curry powder, powdered coffee, batteries, bandages, quinine, brushes, twine, blotting paper, notebooks, pencils, two hammocks, and a canvas tent. She sent off to Watkins and Doncaster for specialist collecting equipment—a sweep net, a pooter with two rubber tubes, specimen vials, killing jars, a supply of ethanol and naphthalene, trays, mothballs, cotton wool, paper, labels, and insect pins—but when she unpacked the box, the vials were smashed and she had to send them back.
Strange, though, to see these things after so many years. To hold a length of tube again. To place one end in her mouth and the other over an imaginary beetle, and suck quickly, the breath not too sharp, and not too soft, either, pulling the insect up the tube and depositing it safely in a specimen jar. It was as though her senses had secretly kept hold of a memory her mind had put away.
In terms of clothes, Margery packed an assortment of brown things, plus her best purple frock for special occasions. She tried to buy a safari helmet and was offered a sun hat. She asked about a plain jacket with pockets and flaps, and was told the style was available only for men. But supposing she needed to put things in her pockets? And keep them there with a flap? The assistant suggested a handbag. Handbags, he added, in case she really hadn’t got the point, could be found on the ground floor between cosmetics and hosiery. In the end she gave up on the jacket and found a secondhand pith helmet that looked more like a cake tin than something a human being would put on her head. The supplies of food and camping gear would be sent ahead in a tea chest, while she would keep her precious collecting equipment in a special Gladstone bag.
With five days left, Margery delivered her tea chest to the shipping company. The next time she saw it she would be on the other side of the world. Impossible to imagine, like standing on her head. Waiting for her at home was another letter from Miss Hamilton.
“Dear Miss Benson…” The message was unusually short and Margery read slowly. Miss Hamilton wrote that she had been doing a little “searching and investigating of my own!” That sounded a happy thing and in no way prepared Margery for what came next. Following some communication with Margery’s previous employers, Miss Hamilton regretted she was no longer able to accompany her on account of “an unfortunate incident that is now in the hands of the police.” Margery felt a small crushing feeling somewhere beneath the rib cage. She had to reach for the console table—only the table was no longer there and instead she stumbled into the wall.
It is easier for human beings to believe the worst things said about them than the kindest. Margery felt as if Miss Hamilton had found her way into her most shameful secrets and was now serving them jubilantly on a plate for the whole world to see. She couldn’t stop shaking.
Could she go without an assistant? Of course she couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly manage all the equipment and, anyway, it wouldn’t be safe. No use asking Mr. Mundic: he’d be deep-frying beetles before she so much as grabbed her sweep net. There was only one choice left, and admittedly it was scraping the barrel. With three days to go, Margery wrote to Enid Pretty and offered her the job. In terms of packing, she told her to travel light. A hat, boots, three plain frocks, plus one for special occasions. All bright colors, flowers, feathers, pom-poms, ribbons, et cetera, were in the worst possible taste and entirely to be avoided. She ended with an instruction to meet at nine beneath the clock at Fenchurch Street station where she would be easily recognized by her safari outfit. True to form, Enid Pretty’s reply made absolutely no sense.
“bear miss denson. Please to acept! pink hat!”
Margery wrote to the shipping company, adding Enid Pretty’s name to the passenger list. She had a pith helmet (√), boots (√). She had an assistant, who clearly had problems telling b from d, a passport—albeit one with a photo of a woman she’d never met in the background—as well as the Reverend Horace Blake’s pocket guide, a full set of new collecting equipment, and enough lavatory paper to supply a small town. Yes, there had been a disappointment, but it was not the end of the story. This was just the beginning of a different adventure.