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to engineer gaps in the woodwork which would admit chilly winds but not gentle summer breezes, and a door that fitted so poorly it would blow open at the merest waft. Like many buildings here, the floor was made of river pebbles, but these had not been packedso tightly with dirt as they had in other structures, making their surface uneven and prone to damp. And Monsarrat feared that the red earth of this place – so unlike the polite brown English soil – had designs on his waistcoats, and might yet achieve them due to its looseness amongst the pebbles.
    Mrs Mulrooney had never knocked on Monsarrat’s door, so she wasn’t aware of its frailty. When she had knocked this morning, the door had flown open as if hit by a battering ram. It was the first time Monsarrat had ever seen her blush. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Monsarrat, I intended to wait until you answered.’
    â€˜Of course, please don’t worry, it’s the door’s fault. And as you see, I am ready. In fact, I was about to make my way to you.’
    â€˜I couldn’t wait for you to get around to the kitchen this morning, Mr Monsarrat. There is a situation on which I need your most urgent advice.’
    â€˜I am in your debt to the tune of gallons of tea. How can I assist?’
    â€˜It’s best if I show you. I wouldn’t know where to begin to describe it.’
    Together they made their way to Government House, Monsarrat struggling to adjust his loping gait to Mrs Mulrooney’s small, quick steps as they climbed the hill towards the construction site which would ultimately produce the church, surrounded by the medical holy trinity of hospital, dispensary and surgeon’s quarters. From there, Mrs Mulrooney fastidiously lifting her skirts to avoid the kind of mud only a building site can produce, they crossed to Government House.
    Mrs Mulrooney led Monsarrat to the front of the house. As he approached, he became aware of a low, thrumming sound, felt in the gut as well as heard by the ears. The sound of human voices – female voices – singing, or at least making the same noises at the same time. Their song had none of the baroque flourish of European music, and was the more fascinating for it. It seemed to rise and fall to match the mountains and the tides of the river, rather than by any human intervention. The closest thing Monsarrat had heard was Gregorian chant, but even that was a poor approximation for the hypnotic music he was listening to now,and he began to understand why some convicts believed native women could sing spells.
    Rounding the corner to the front of Government House, the entrance reserved for the free and important, Monsarrat saw perhaps fifty Birpai women, old and young, their bodies streaked with white and red, sitting on the grass in front of the house and its empty verandah. Somewhere behind the verandah’s sloping roof, Monsarrat knew, lay Honora Shelborne, entering the second week of her sickness in an uncertain state of consciousness.
    A few of the singers looked distracted, like women in a parish church reciting familiar prayers. They seemed to Monsarrat earnest as a company, their eyes taking in either the house or the sky, seriously concerted in what sounded like prayers. A few of them looked up, half-seeing him before their eyes flicked back to their immediate environs.
    â€˜Now, tell me,’ said Mrs Mulrooney, ‘what does this mean? For what purpose are they disturbing the poor woman’s rest?’
    Monsarrat thought. He could hear or see no meaning. ‘Perhaps we should ask Mr Spring,’ he said.
    Simon Spring had a Birpai lover, and the Birpai seemed to like him, rather than merely adjust to his presence as they had done with white settlers in general.
    â€˜I must be back to the kitchen in case the bell rings,’ Mrs Mulrooney said. ‘Mrs Shelborne may have more need of me this morning, with this disturbance. Can I