Broome, June 1914
The steamer’s shrill whistle pierced the morning air, jolting Clara’s heart against her ribs. She gripped the ship’s rail as salt spray misted her face, washing away the lingering taste of inland dust that had coated her throat for days. The sea breeze carried unfamiliar scents—brine, fish, and something spicy and foreign that whispered of adventure.
Ten-year-old Eleanor pressed against Clara’s side, her eyes wide as she took in the sprawling township with its jumble of corrugated iron and sun-bleached timber. “Is that it, Mother? Is that Broome?”
“Yes, sweetheart. We made it.” Clara looped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, her own losing some of their tension.
Seven gruelling days by horse and cart from Goddard Downs to Wyndham. Then another week aboard the coastal steamer as it chugged along the coast. During the darkest nights, when the twins’ restless whimpers echoed through their cramped cabin, she’d questioned Harry’s plans. But now, as the township drew closer, something inside her unfurled like a parched flower sensing rain.
“Are those the pearling boats you told us about?” Eleanor bounced on her toes, pointing to the fleet of wooden vessels bobbing in the harbour.
“Yes. They’re called luggers.”
Eleanor hugged herself, eyes shining. “They look so romantic.”
“I’m not sure the divers would agree when they’re fighting currents and sharks, but they do cut a fine figure against the water.”
Clara touched the silver locket at her throat, the one she hadn’t removed since Barbara slipped away. The metal warmed against her skin, a constant reminder of the tiny weight that should have been in her arms. Inside lay a curl of the baby’s fine hair, russet brown, like Harry’s, the only keepsake of their daughter who’d drawn just three days’ worth of breath. The grief still ambushed her at unexpected moments, but standing here with salt wind clearing her head, surrounded by her living children’s chatter, the ache gentled to something she could carry without buckling.
Harry appeared at the rail with their other children in tow—nine-year-old John, seven-year-old Matthew, and the five-year-old twins, James and Ruby. Ruby huddled into Clara’s skirts, her thumb finding its way to her mouth as she stared wide-eyed at the approaching shore.
“Dad! Are those the pearl divers you told us about?” John had claimed the best spot at the bow, leaning so far forward Clara edged closer, her hand ready to snag his collar should he lean too far.
Harry’s palm settled warm and reassuring against the small of her back. “Those are them, son. Japanese and Malay divers, mostly. Men who can hold their breath longer than seems humanly possible.”
The steamer’s engine sputtered as they approached the wharf. Broome unfolded before them in a vibrant whirl of colour and sound. Asian faces mixing with European, Aboriginal stockmen loading cargo alongside turbaned Afghans with camels, children darting between stacked crates with fearless abandon that made Clara’s maternal heart both clench and envy their freedom.
Matthew’s fingers twisted into the fabric of Clara’s skirt. “It’s very loud, isn’t it?”
His voice quavered, so she crouched to his level and smoothed back the cowlick that defied her efforts. “Towns often are, sweetheart. But brave explorers like you adjust.” She tapped his nose, earning a smile.
When Eleanor drifted off, Clara grasped Harry’s hand, her fingers finding the callouses and scars from years of station work. “I still can’t believe you arranged all this.”
“You needed a change. We all did.”
The gangplank lowered with a groan of metal and timber. Harry shouldered their largest bag while Eleanor helped with the twins. They made their way towards shore, where a woman waited near a horse-drawn cart, her greying hair pinned beneath a hat.
The woman stepped forward with a warm smile. “Mrs. Goddard? I’m Ada Walker from the Mangrove Guesthouse. Welcome to Broome.”
Clara accepted her outstretched hand. “Thank you. We’re so pleased to be here.”
Behind the woman, a girl of about Eleanor’s age hung back, her dark hair caught in a thick plait, shy curiosity in her dark eyes.
“This is my daughter, Isobel.” Ada drew the girl forward with gentle hands on her shoulders. “She helps me run the guesthouse.”
Eleanor waved. “Hello. I’m Eleanor.”
But before Isobel could respond, John pushed past his sister. “And I’m John.”
Clara exchanged an amused glance with Harry. At nine, their eldest son was hardly old enough for romance, but something about his sudden eagerness suggested Isobel Walker had made quite an impression.
“Hello.” Isobel darted her gaze between Eleanor and John before settling it near her feet, a shy smile lifting her mouth.
“Right then.” Ada’s voice carried a hint of amusement. “Let’s get you all loaded up. The guesthouse isn’t far, and I imagine you’re ready for solid ground and a proper meal.”
They piled into the cart, the children pointing and exclaiming at every new sight. Clara leaned into Harry’s solid presence. Ada’s commentary faded to pleasant background noise as Clara breathed in the salt air and something stirred within her chest, something she’d feared had been buried alongside their tiny daughter.
Hope.
Hope for more than this respite from station life, for something deeper. As if God had guided them here not just for rest, but for restoration. For a reminder that His world extended beyond the boundaries of their grief, vast and filled with possibilities she’d forgotten to seek.
The cart’s wheels crunched over crushed shell and coral as their host drove them through streets alive with commerce and conversation. The silver locket warmed against Clara’s skin, no longer a weight but a reminder. Barbara would always be part of them, but it was time to let her family and her heart expand again. She slipped her hand into Harry’s. His fingers closed around hers, strong and sure, and Broome opened before them like a book waiting to be read.
***
The Mangrove Guesthouse sat back from the main street, its whitewashed walls and wide verandahs offering sanctuary from the heat. Harry helped Clara down from the cart. Her shoulders had relaxed during the short ride through town, and colour had returned to her cheeks. From the sea air or relief at reaching their destination, he couldn’t say. But for the first time in months, a genuine smile softened the grief on her face.
Since Barbara’s death, Clara had withdrawn into a world he and the children couldn’t breach. She’d performed her duties, but without joy. She worshipped on Sundays, but with her eyes dull. He often found her staring into the distance, her journal open, but the pages empty.
How he missed his strong, brave wife who’d defied her parents and travelled the continent with him on horseback to help establish Goddard Downs. The baby’s death had drained the life from her. He prayed God would use this holiday to restore her. Perhaps He already was.
The children scrambled down, boots thudding on packed earth as Eleanor helped Ruby while John jumped with both feet, landing with nine-year-old exuberance. Matthew descended carefully, eyes wide as he took in their surroundings.
Ada led them up the timber steps and ushered them inside. They entered a spacious reception area where polished floorboards gleamed and a cooling breeze flowed through well-positioned windows. A desk of rich jarrah wood dominated one corner, while rattan chairs invited weary travellers to rest. The walls displayed locally crafted paintings of pearling luggers and coastal vistas, giving the room Broome’s distinctive character. Beyond an archway, crisp white cloths adorned the tables in a dining area.
“I’ve prepared two adjoining rooms on the second floor with bay views and a private sitting room.”
Harry rested a hand on the small of Clara’s back. “It looks wonderful.”
Ada checked a piece of paper on her desk. “Leave your bags. My husband, George, will carry them up shortly.”
“That’s kind, but we have two strong boys who can manage them.”
The boys shot him a look he ignored.
Ada bustled to the foot of the staircase. “George would appreciate that. He’s not getting any younger, but he can bring up whatever’s left. Now, I’ll show you your rooms.”
They followed her upstairs to a landing where picture windows revealed the bay spreading before them. The children clustered at the glass and gawked. Harry patted Clara’s back. She, too, was mesmerised.
The view was worth every penny he’d saved for this holiday.
Ada strode down the hallway and stopped before an open door. “This is the master bedroom.”
Harry paused in the doorway, taking in the whitewashed walls, the canopied bed, the polished floorboards, but his gaze was drawn through the French doors to the glistening sea beyond. If this view didn’t help draw Clara from her melancholy, nothing would.
“The children’s room is through here.” Ada opened a connecting door to another room containing two sets of bunks and a single pull-out bed.
John and Matthew climbed onto the top bunks and claimed them before the others had a chance.
Harry waved them down. “We’ll discuss sleeping arrangements after you bring the bags up.”
Ada led them into another adjoining room with white cane furniture and a writing desk positioned beneath the window. “And this is your sitting room.”
Clara moved to the desk and ran her fingers along its polished surface. “How lovely.”
Was she already imagining the letters she might write here, perhaps even some of her poetry? What an answer to prayer that would be.
“The shared bathroom is down the hall. Fresh towels are in the hall cupboard, and I’ll have hot water ready whenever you need it. Dinner’s at six, but I can bring tea and biscuits to your room if you’d prefer to rest first.”
“Tea sounds wonderful.” Clara smiled her thanks.
As Ada bustled away to prepare refreshments, John and Matthew retrieved their luggage, and the twins explored their new surroundings. Eleanor organised their belongings while Clara found her way to the verandah and gazed across the water.
Harry joined her at the rail. “It’s really something, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “I’ve never seen so many boats, even in Sydney Harbour. Or so many different kinds of people.”
Through the open door, he could hear Eleanor helping Ruby unpack, her voice gentle and patient. With Clara withdrawn from her usual self, Eleanor often stepped in to help with the younger children. God knew they’d need a responsible eldest child.
As the afternoon sun slanted across the verandah and distant waves provided a counterpoint to his family’s voices, something eased in his chest. They’d carried Barbara’s loss like a stone for nearly a year, all of them in their own way. But here, with salt air washing away the dust of their grief, perhaps they could begin to heal.
And God willing, Clara would rediscover her joy.
