The Yield

by Tara June Winch

  ‘At home.’

  ‘With his folks?’

  ‘Alone.’

  ‘What did he show you exactly?’

  ‘He’s got documents, like lists of donated items. Spears and stuff.’

  Aunt Missy squeezed her bottom lip between her fingers again.

  ‘I took these,’ August added, gesturing at the small box in her hands.

  ‘Take it to the car, we’ll go through it.’ Aunt Missy nudged the box and August towards the back door, picked up a trophy and wandered towards the big room. As August went to the driveway she heard Aunt Missy call out to Elsie, ‘Early tea, Mum?’

  Up at Southerly, Eddie’s car was gone too. August fingered through the box, sat the envelopes to the side, flicked through small pocket-sized leather books. Inside the books were larger envelopes and letters in thick yellowed parchment written in copperplate. She couldn’t understand a word. Inside the small envelopes the cards were there, the ones Eddie had read. They were written in courier typeface, The Historic Museum Australia printed in the top centre. Next to each item a call number like books at a library ran down the right-hand side.

  Aunt Missy leapt off the verandah stairs, and buffeted her handbag against her shoulder as she rushed to the car. She slumped into the driver’s seat. ‘I told her we’re picking up fish and chips, so remind me.’

  She turned on the ignition. ‘What’s in there?’ she nodded at the box.

  ‘All that stuff.’

  ‘We need to drive out a bit to get phone reception.’

  They parked on the outskirts of town near the satellites, the afternoon light stretched onto the front windshield. August could see the shape of her aunt’s head, the round curve visible through the white-grey hair thinning at her crown. It was as if time slapped August in the face, roused her from some long sleep. Aunt Missy opened her phone, August rested her head on her shoulder and watched the screen as she typed in ‘The Historic Museum Australia’, tapped on ‘Archaeology Collections’, then ‘Aboriginal’. She scanned half a page and read aloud:

  ‘There are roughly 17 000 collections, some consisting of only a single object, and largely the results of the pioneers of Australian archaeology; usually untrained, curious but dedicated people keen to understand Aboriginal prehistory and salvage material evidence of the past. The first artefact entered into the current Anthropology registration system was a fishing spear from the Murrumby River region, donated to the Museum in 1896 and held in the Falstaff Permanent Collection. Some of these collections —’

  The phone turned black. ‘You ever charge your phone?’ August asked.

  ‘No,’ Missy said, dropping the phone into her lap. ‘Dad would have loved this … it would have meant so much to him.’ She looked in the rear-vision mirror and sighed, ‘Gawd.’

  ‘Sorry, Aunty.’

  ‘If we can find the Falstaff Collection, Augie, it means maybe we can stop the mine. We have to find it.’ With her fingers she cleared the tiny black streams of mascara from her cheeks.

  ‘Library for the internet?’ August asked.

  ‘Good one,’ she said and pulled the car back onto the bitumen. ‘You know I looked for stuff, I looked for Gondiwindi stuff, our family name! For Prosperous info, our home. Lo and behold it was under Falstaff the whole time, aye?’ Aunt Missy glanced at August as she drove. ‘When’s your flight back to London?’

  ‘Couple of days.’

  ‘You really going back to England, niece?’

  August looked at her hands, picked at the dry dishwashing skin flaking off and then up at the road through the windshield. ‘No.’

  ‘Good. You’re home now. That’s good, darling.’

  There was a different woman manning the desk at the library.

  Her name tag read: Julie. She let Aunt Missy charge her phone in the socket beside the computer terminal. Missy got back to the museum website, looked up the page they were on, and read aloud the end of the paragraph, ‘Some of these collections are not well documented, but collectively they reflect the rich evidence of Aboriginal past as well as the pioneering effort to save and understand it.’ In a new window she typed Falstaff + artefact + Murrumby while August approached the front desk.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you I’ll bring the books in soon that my grandfather borrowed. Another lady warned me yesterday about fines.’

  ‘No problem,’ Julie said. ‘I’ll make a note of it. What’s your grandfather’s name?’ Julie readied her hands at the keyboard.

  ‘Albert Gondiwindi.’

  Instead of typing she dropped her hands and tilted her head in one motion. ‘Mr Gondiwindi, I’m so sorry, I heard he passed.’

  August nodded, tapped the desk as if everything were cleared away.

  ‘Can I help you with anything while you’re here?’ She glanced to Aunt Missy busy at the terminal. ‘Are you doing research too?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe you can help.’ She thought about what they’d need. ‘Do you have any information about the Aboriginal Mission out at the Murrumby River from early last century?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Would you like to see the archive your grandfather and I went through?’

  August’s heart skipped a little. ‘Yes, please,’ she said, feeling her face break into a smile.

  ‘We don’t have much, to be honest.’ She motioned for August to walk with her to the twin history shelves. It seemed to August that Julie knew exactly where to go. ‘This book,’ she reached up to a tattered and very thin blue hardcover without anything on the spine, ‘was the one your grandfather was most interested in, I’d say … with the research he was conducting.’

  ‘What exactly was he researching with you?’ August took the book into her hands. The hardcover was woven and its title was embossed, ornate brown lettering: The First Australians’ Dictionary.

  ‘I think he was putting together a pre-colonial history of the local area, a family history. This one,’ she placed her index finger on the book August was holding while scanning the same shelf, ‘… and another were helpful for him but I can’t see it.’

  She gently took the book back and opened it, showing August the title page. ‘It was compiled posthumously, but I believe the original author ran the Mission in the late nineteenth century. It might be small—’ she turned each page carefully, there was a long introduction and then no more than twenty pages of words, listed like a dictionary, ‘but it is likely the only published record of the Mission.’ She closed the book and handed it to August. ‘Have a look at that. It can’t leave the library, though.’

  ‘Thank you.’ August looked at the book and turned back to Julie. ‘Do you have anything on this man, the author?’ She ran her finger along the name Ferdinand Greenleaf.

  ‘Actually, there’s just the one thing your grandfather ordered in. It’s a PDF file – it can’t be photocopied or printed, though.’ She looked behind her but there was nobody there. ‘I can email it to you though, would you like that?’

  ‘Yes please,’ August added, as Julie took out a scrap of paper. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a serialised letter, I think just a few pages.’ She handed August the paper and pen from her blouse pocket. ‘Write your email,’ she said with a little urgency, anxious to return to work.

  ‘Thanks. What is a serialised letter?’

  ‘It means it was once printed, in newspapers and such. And I’m so sorry for your grandfather’s passing.’ She glanced at the central desk and the person waiting there to be served. ‘Let me know if there’s anything else.’ She smiled sympathetically and returned to her post. August took the book to the computer terminal and pulled a padded chair up beside Aunt Missy.

  ‘Look. Language book.’ She placed it gently on the corner of the booth tabletop and opened it. ‘Reverend Ferdinand Greenleaf,’ August read aloud.

  ‘Are we in it?’

  She scanned through the introduction. The type was small and difficult to read, ‘It mentions the Mission, it says Prosperous in the introduction.’ Sh
e read a small notice on the back page.

  ‘It is my hope that these few words safely find you. I was sent to this island of punishment, privation, and misery. I am certain I will not survive, and so I appeal to you to think on what it means to be Australian, to be citizens of a young country with boundless skies, and to consider the treatment of our fellows, no matter from which land they have arrived, and no matter of their forefather, their tribe.

  In truth,

  F. Greenleaf.’

  ‘Google this fella, Aunty.’

  Missy typed but nothing came up so she returned to the Historic Museum Australia website.

  August turned to her with a sigh. ‘I have to return the rental to the airport.’

  ‘Good,’ she said absently, looking at the bottom of the website and pulling up a street map. ‘Reckon we should drive it to the airport tomorrow. We can visit the museum, drop your rental off and get the train back.’ A huge grin spread above her chin. The pair of them must have looked mad, the way they were smiling at each other in the silent library, holding back a whoop. ‘Abso-bloody-lutely!’ August whispered, the two of them containing their giggles. Aunt Missy unplugged her phone and August rested the book at the library desk where Julie stood behind. She was on the phone but acknowledged August again, nodded and smiled.

  August grabbed her aunt’s arm. ‘Dinner?’

  ‘Thanks, Bub,’ she said, and hooked her arm into August’s as they walked, clutched together up High Street. August looked at the shopfront where a lovable Pixar character smiled from the sandwich board of Nemo’s Fish and Chip Shop.

  Aunt Missy turned to August holding her purse out pointedly. ‘Best barramundi in Australia!’

  ‘Don’t the kids get it, that they’re eating Nemo, not having a playdate?’

  Aunt Missy turned and whispered in August’s ear, ‘Shut up.’ She was giggling as they joined the eager line of customers.

  ‘Oops!’ She held August on her outer arms, and moved her in the queue. ‘Hold our spot, cash only, back in a tick.’

  August stood in the heavy, greasy air while Aunt Missy ran to the ATM. Directly in front of August in the queue was a severely sunburnt man, probably around her own age, she thought. He was wearing a t-shirt roughly cut off where sleeves once were; it hung loosely on his strawberry-milk shoulders. A tattoo covered his entire shoulder – a huge constellation of the Southern Cross. He glanced back at August for a second before placing his order. August stared at his tattoo: those stars that led them astray at night, all the trouble Eddie and Joey and her had got into when they were teenagers, when they were bored out of their minds, when the silence became so deafening it burst their eardrums. August was daydreaming looking at his inked skin.

  The man turned back again. ‘You like that?’ he asked her, pointing to it, without waiting for an answer. ‘That’s the Southern Cross, lady. That means you don’t belong here.’

  She stood there dumbfounded, blank-faced. After a moment she wondered who he thought she was, or who exactly he thought he was.

  Aunt Missy reappeared, though August decided not to tell her about the tattooed man – they were having too much of a nice time together.

  ‘Three pieces of crumbed barramundi, large hot chips, large tabouli salad, please,’ Aunty said, and then looked at August. ‘You eating? Want a Chiko Roll?’

  She thought about it, her mouth salivated and she nodded. She was, for the first time in a long time, ravenous.

  Elsie, Missy and August ate dinner on the rear verandah. They heard someone knock on the front door that was never used. Missy got up and yelled around the side of the house, ‘Aroundthaback!’

  ‘Do you have to yell?’ Elsie asked, speaking with a mouthful of food.

  ‘Barramundi’ll go cold if I walked around there dragging my fork.’

  A woman in a ranger’s uniform appeared at the side of the house with a clipboard and a fake smile. Missy nudged August.

  ‘Evening, ladies!’ the stranger said, too enthusiastic. ‘Hope I’m not interrupting dinner?’

  Nana stood up, wiping her mouth and fingers on the paper napkin. ‘No, no,’ she assured her.

  ‘I’m Karen, just here from Rinepalm Mining head office to see how the transition is going for next week.’ She rested one foot on the verandah stoop, and propped a forearm on her knee like she was about to launch into a story.

  ‘Almost packed,’ Nana said.

  ‘Okay, well you just let us know if you need anything, anything at all.’

  She was staring at the sign above her nana, which had been there since August could remember. It read: Best friends use the back door.

  ‘Oh, I love your sign,’ the lady said. ‘I’ll remember for next time.’

  ‘But you’re not our best friend, Karen,’ blurted Missy.

  Elsie swiftly turned and whacked her shoulder with the back of her hand. ‘Missy!’

  The lady laughed it off. ‘Anyway, I like that sign …’ she said confidently, Aunt Missy’s insult rolling off her back as she walked away.

  Missy jumped up and grabbed the plaque from the nail, held it out to her. ‘Why don’t you take it?’ she said, sweet as pie. ‘Go on,’ she insisted, holding it over the verandah rail.

  August watched wide-eyed, popped a hot chip into her mouth like it was popcorn.

  The woman hesitated. ‘Couldn’t possibly,’ she said, waving it away and retreating to her SUV at the driveway mouth. ‘Goodnight, ladies,’ Karen added, waving the women away, too.

  Missy cocked her arm and threw the thing in the dirt behind the woman, her voice raised to a yell. ‘’Cos where the hell are we gunna put it!?’

  They heard the car drive off and Elsie shook her head and yelled at Missy. ‘I like that sign, don’t give it away or bloody throw it!’

  She whacked her daughter again with her napkin.

  ‘Mum, it’s a bit dirty, anyway. Everyone laughs at it. Back door?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s junk.’

  ‘It’s priceless.’

  ‘Mum, I got it from the Mother’s Day stall at school for maybe twenty cents.’ Missy walked down and retrieved the sign, mock-dusting it off. ‘Where you going to put it anyway, no back doors in apartments.’

  ‘Shush now.’ Elsie said and snatched it from her. She was smiling out the corners of her mouth, she looked at it in her hands and then decided, ‘Albert hated it too.’ She giggled and tossed the thing over the verandah, back onto the dirt.

  The three of them broke from a giggle to belly laughs. August felt there, felt effortlessly at home, felt as if a vibration were being shared between the three generations of women. Felt as if she might laugh that way, on Prosperous, after everything, after death and theft and secrets and lies and the muddied water, and the diesel and the blood – after all that – she felt as if she was home. Belonged.

  Their eyes were glazed with laughter when August dropped her hand on Nana’s. ‘I’m not leaving.’

  Nana caught her breath, smiling still. ‘Not running off again?’

  ‘Nup,’ August promised. ‘Promise.’

  Nana dropped her other hand atop August’s and squeezed it, looked out into the field. ‘Good,’ she said, and looked back at her. ‘What about the car?’

  ‘Taking a little trip tomorrow,’ Missy said.

  ‘Where?’ Elsie asked.

  ‘Just returning Augie’s car to the airport. We’ll get the train back, Mum.’

  Elsie smiled. ‘Drive safe, then!’ she addressed August sternly. ‘And get your money back on that ticket.’

  August nodded but doubted she’d be able to.

  ‘You wanna come, Mum?’ Missy asked.

  ‘To the city?’

  ‘To the city! You could visit some old friends.’

  ‘All my old friends are dead, girls. Now help me before you leave.’

  They cleared the dinner plates and began washing up. Another knock came on the front door.

  Elsie shot Missy a
dirty look. ‘Cops! Look what you’ve done – Rinepalm gubba’s called the bullymen!’

  August walked to the seized wood of the front door, and called out, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Alena.’

  ‘Go around the back.’

  ‘It’s my friend, okay?’ August explained as she grabbed her hoodie from the kitchen bench. ‘Back in a tick. Save me some dessert?’

  ‘There’s no dessert,’ Aunt Missy yelled, as August jumped off the verandah.

  Eddie’s car was still absent and Southerly windows stayed dim as the sun dropped.

  Alena was holding a tray covered in foil and smiled when she saw August, gestured back to the road with her chin. ‘Hey, gotta run – hubby’s in the car.’

  ‘No worries, what is this?’ August said, and walked alongside Alena back to the road. ‘Lamingtons. Aussie food for ya!’ She nudged August and passed her the tray. Alena’s car was parked at the letterboxes, beyond the property line. She seemed jittery as they reached the peppermint trees. She wrapped her hand around August’s forearm, dipping her head to peer through the trees onto the road.

  She lowered her voice. ‘Listen, he won’t let me give you the school stuff.’

  ‘Why?’ August whispered back, noticing then how little Alena had changed since school, how she had flipped from giggly to cautious, and how she still looked much the same, in spite of being pregnant and the faint lines on her face.

  ‘I don’t know, he doesn’t want any trouble with the mining people is all.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Alena – it’s not going to stop anything, you know?’

  ‘I know, I just wanted to show you. Anyway, cake is alright instead?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks heaps for this.’ August said, as they approached the Mercedes minivan. Through the back-seat window she could see a small child strapped in rolling a Matchbox car over his bare knee. James Gaddon, whom August recognised, was leaning out the driver’s-side window. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You back in town for long?’