Then the old bitch (forgive me, reader, you don’t know Old Mother Pink as I do) would hand her the bill, stand with her arms akimbo across her wide hips, sneer and say: “Where’s yer money? You’re a fine old miss, with yer missionarrry, yer pink sash an’ yellow boots!”
Waylao pleaded with the woman, assured her that I would return, that I must have met with an accident and had been delayed.
“Met with a haccident! It’s you what’s met with the haccident. I don’t like the looks of it. It’s a plant, that’s what it is. ’Im a-going ter re—turn! I knows! I knows!” So did Mrs Pink rave on as the days went by, appealing also to the neighbours who lived in the little wooden houses scattered round that part. They already knew about the pretty girl who was lodging in the Pinks’ front room, brought there by a young missionary—who had deserted her—and she like that, too! The delight of that motley crew was immense. The little village homes buzzed like bee-hives full of humming scandal. It was not unlike a native village at that spot, only instead of tawny faces and frizzly heads poking out of the little doors, they were pimply, dough-coloured faces with tawny wisps of hair and blue, glassy eyes expressing their shocked disapproval of the affair. Old women who had been fierce enemies, and not spoken to each other for months, fell into each other’s arms. A kind of heathenistic carnival commenced: the whole of the population assembled beneath the palms and started to dance. “Kick ’er out! Kick ’er out! The faggot!” they yelled. The natives hard by heard the noise and crept under the bread-fruit trees, then joined in the procession. It must have been a wonderful sight. Tawny old women, full of wrath, fat old women, short legs, long legs, brown legs, fierce-looking, tattooed creatures, some semi-heathens, others Christianised, wearing spectacles as they searched the books—their Bibles—and shouted forth the Commandments—all bunched there outside Pink’s stores, staring up at Waylao’s window.
The old trader from Lakemba tried to stop the riot, and so made things worse, for he said: “What’s the d——d row about?” When they told him, and the hubbub had ceased, and several retired women from the streets of New South Wales had fainted with the horror of it all, he continued: “Well, I’ve been about these ’ere parts a d——d sight longer than I orter ’ave been, but I never seed a prettier girl than that ’ere girl who’s a-lodging up at Pink’s.”
As the sunburnt trader finished, there was a tremendous silence; the mob fairly gasped, could hardly believe their ears; then up went a fierce howl of the maddest execration. White hags, scraggy hags, tawny hags, pretty girls and ugly girls shouted as with one voice: “Turn ’er out! Turn ’er out! The sinful woman to trade on the good nature of a Christian woman like Mrs Pink!”
Mrs Pink was overcome with emotion—she sobbed; she seemed to have awakened from a nightmare to find herself famous.
So was Waylao’s fate decided. That same night, with all her best clothes detained for back rent, she left the Pinks’ establishment, and started away, determined to go up the Rewa river and seek her relatives.
It may be imagined I was not in the most pleasant of moods when I sat in Mrs Pink’s parlour on my recovery. After all I’d heard from the people who lived opposite those infernal hypocrites, I had little hope of getting much truthful information. I did not let on that I had heard a word about that scandal or Waylao’s flight as the old woman welcomed me.
“Have you no idea why she went, or where she went?” said I.
I was sitting opposite Mr and Mrs Pink in their little parlour as I made that remark.