He became her friend during her childhood. It was a quiet friendship, a concealed friendship. Daphne knew her father was uncomfortable with Johnny. There was that incident down at the yards when the horse broke its leg and Daphne’s father had to shoot it—that was the first time Daphne had sensed her father’s desire to lay into Johnny with his whip. But there was more. When Johnny was around, her father glowered with a particular tension. It seemed he would never reconcile this conflict: he required the Aborigine’s assistance with the stock, but couldn’t bear his presence.
Each year, however, Johnny showed up at the property. He arrived alone, turning up at the yards on horseback, a wide grin on his face. Sometimes he arrived bare-chested, as if he’d just returned fresh from walkabout and had been roving naked through the bush. One time he stole the shirt from the scarecrow at the vegie patch and wore it like a king, parading in front the other men. It was a bold and brash performance, destined to stir the boss’s ire. No-one else would dare steal from Daphne’s father, even if it was only in fun.
Johnny was clever enough to display humility and respect around Daphne’s father, but when the boss was absent, his cheeky nature would emerge. Whenever he saw Daphne, his eyes would dance and he would tip his hat like a gentleman. He was a consummate prankster, unrivalled in his ability to sneak up and surprise people. Daphne was eternally being caught out by him. Once he appeared in the chicken coop and gave her a fright and she dropped all the eggs, the thick orange yolks and sticky whites spreading as fast as her dismay. That was a trick Johnny never repeated. Daphne had received a hiding for it; she could have let Johnny take the blame, but she didn’t, knowing her father sought any excuse to dislike the black man.
Johnny wasn’t always funny. Often he was serious, especially when he was focused on shooting a kangaroo or climbing a tree to drag a possum from a hollow to roast over his campfire. Daphne had tried many different bush meats that he’d killed: possum, bandicoot, wallaby, lyrebird. They all had varied flavours and textures—some tender, some tough. Daphne liked lyrebird best; it was like chicken, but with a stronger taste, enhanced by Johnny’s smoky fire. He always roasted meat in its skin which he would later peel back like baking paper so he could bite into the hot flesh.
When Daphne was old enough to accompany the men on the brumby hunt, she rode with Johnny whenever she could. He didn’t come every year—sometimes he was off back-country when the ride was on. His life seemed devoid of dates and concrete commitments. While the white men measured days and weeks by ticking off numbers on a calendar, Johnny wafted to a different rhythm, absorbed in wanderings triggered by weird ethereal things, like the flowering of the gums or the migration of the honeyeaters, indicating some great event of nature taking place elsewhere.
By the time Daphne rode into the mountains with the men, she was sixteen, and a capable young woman. She had graduated from Bessie onto a livelier horse: a brown brumby mare captured on a previous hunt, a willing but nervous horse that took quite some skill to handle. Daphne was proud to ride with the men. The invitation to join them was a rite of passage she had awaited for many summers. She was careful to be quiet and unobtrusive—some of the men were not entirely pleased to have her along. A woman had to earn her place. She had to be better than a man. For this reason, Daphne kept mostly to herself.
Those years that Johnny came along, she liked to ride near him for company, and also because his steady horse somehow calmed her own skittish mount. Often she rode to one side, or slightly behind him, and occasionally they chatted. But their conversations were rare beneath the eagle stare of her father. He didn’t like her to talk with Johnny, and she learned to keep her distance, to snatch whatever opportunities arose, and to move away strategically when her father appeared on the track.
Trailing the main group of riders one day, she fell in alongside Johnny and asked if he could show her the moths up in the High Country. He answered with a nod and a grin. ‘Maybe you try moths for tucker. I cook him up on the fire. Good and juicy.’
A few days later, on the slopes below a scabby mountain top, when the riders took a break for tea, Daphne saw Johnny up-slope on foot, gesturing to her. She tied her mare, grabbed something from her saddle-bag and crammed it in her pocket, then excused herself from the group and followed Johnny up the hill, remaining some twenty metres behind him. They made their way among twisted snow gums and beyond the tree line to a pile of granite slabs and boulders, jutting against the sky like needles.
Like a monkey, Johnny scaled a large flat rock then slid between the grainy faces of two boulders. Daphne followed him into a dark recess of cool shade. At first, her sun-glazed eyes couldn’t locate him, but then she adjusted and found his dark shape silhouetted against the speckled silver rock. He directed her to a narrow crack and slipped his hand in. ‘In here,’ he said. ‘You can feel ’em.’
Moving close, she reached into the crevice and her hand connected with a carpet of fur, her fingers gliding over the backs of a thousand moths, their wings like soft scales adhered to the rock. Her heart thrilled at the marvel of it, at her proximity to Johnny, the raw salty, bushy smell of him, the black shadow of his arm, so near to her own, stroking the moths inside the rock crack.
Withdrawing, she flattened her hand on her chest, inexplicably breathless. Johnny pulled out too. In the dark space between the boulders, she could make out the shape of his outstretched hand, and there, on his palm, sat a brown moth slowly fanning its wings. Daphne felt her breath fluttering too. She backed away and stood where she could see the bright flash of Johnny’s eager smile in the shadows. From her pocket she pulled the round white stone she’d found at the rock shelter years before, and placed it in his hand beside the quivering moth. It was with some reluctance that she relinquished the stone. She loved the unblemished texture of it, the way it fitted perfectly in her hand, worn smooth by the grasp of generations of women before her. But this summer she’d decided to give it to Johnny, and she wanted to surrender it somewhere special—here among the mountain tops where she felt close to the sky. The moths provided the final trigger: this was the time. ‘It’s from your people,’ she said. ‘I found it in a place where they left paintings.’
Johnny looked at the stone with a blissful kind of awe. He picked it up with his other hand and ran his fingers over the surface before slipping it carefully in the rear pocket of his trousers. Then he moved near, holding out the moth, his eyes never leaving her face, his skin shimmering like polished wood in the dull light.
In that moment, something took hold of her and she reached and grasped him, surrendering to a sudden urge to taste his lips. For a moment he was wooden, rigid with shock, then he flicked the moth away and curled his long sinewy arms around her, tugging her close, kissing her, his deep brown lips awakening in her an age-old desire that knew nothing of the colour of a person’s skin.
With her hand she explored the bony angles of his back. His hair had the consistency of steel wool, but softer. Carried on a tide of primitive need, she unbuttoned her shirt and lifted her vest.
This is the image she always remembers: the breathtaking shock of his black roughened hand on the sacred milky white of her breast, the unspeakable electricity of his fingers connecting with her skin.
Then her father’s voice barked at the edge of darkness. Everything stopped, locked into the horror of discovery: what had begun with such innocence ending with the taint of sin.
Cowering, Daphne emerged from the cleft between the rocks, Johnny following. Her father’s whip tore the air around them. He slashed Daphne across the cheek, braying his anger. Then he shouted at her to go, and laid into Johnny with the lash, his eyes snapping with rage.
Daphne retreated, fearful. Just below the outcrop she waited while the whip cracked like gunshot. She wanted to scream at Johnny to get out of there—he was faster than her father—but she couldn’t speak. Her voice was knotted somewhere in her throat.
Then there was silence. Her father appeared on the rocks, thund
erous. He strode towards her, grabbed her arm in a mean pinch and dragged her down-slope. Peering back, she saw a shadow slipping across the landscape like a cloud—Johnny escaping.
With the red welt of her guilt prominent on her face, she packed and saddled her horse under the enraged supervision of her father. Then she rode home in disgrace, banished from the hunt. Johnny rejoined the ride the next day, but after that he was an outcast. He was shunned from local properties. Shortly afterwards, he left the district and was never seen again.
Daphne has never forgotten her humiliation that day, the judgemental looks on the faces of the men. Doug was among them, her future husband, watching as she rode off alone. Years later she married him, and he never mentioned it, but Daphne knew he hadn’t forgotten. She wishes she had explained to him the innocence of what had taken place between her and Johnny that day, but she never found the courage to speak of it. Doug’s silence was his forgiveness.
And yet, all these years later, she still hasn’t forgiven herself for what happened to Johnny. As a result of her actions, he lost his status and the life he had known. She could have given him the stone at the farm, could have spared him the degradation of being exiled by the only workmates he knew. She could have saved him from her impetuous naïvety, her uncontrolled spontaneous surrender to her body’s desires. She could have displayed some grace and respect. But it’s too late for that now. She flung herself at him and ruined his life. Walking the same path as her family, she had destroyed him.
Wearily, she sets her unfinished cup of tea on the bench, switches off the kitchen lights and takes herself back to bed.
26
Abby makes a habit of morning tea with Daphne once a week. Daphne is similar to Gran, and it takes Abby back to her childhood, makes her feel secure. It’s also a welcome diversion from writing and analysis, and Daphne seems to enjoy having her around. Abby likes the homeliness of visiting with Daphne. When she is with the old lady, she feels something settling inside her.
They have a comfortable friendship. Even so, in quiet moments at home, Abby has to admit she’s lonely. Life without Cameron is rather empty, a bleak plain she must navigate alone. But it’s better this way. On her own she can’t hurt anyone, and she doesn’t need to worry about promises she can’t keep. If Cameron was thinking marriage, she’s done the right thing unleashing him.
Morning tea with Daphne is good for her. They chat, and sometimes they just sit together watching Ben play on the floor. He is a creative child, Abby thinks, so absorbed in his Lego. First he follows the instructions and makes the design on the front of the box then he pulls it apart and concocts his own constructions: space-age machines, towers, vehicles with all sorts of useful modifications, like guns and levers and canons sprouting fire. It seems he never tires of putting blocks together in innovative ways—except when his legs start to tingle and he explodes with the need to run. That’s when Pam takes him down to the park and lets him loose on the equipment, so he can come home a more manageable little person.
Leaving the Queanbeyan house one morning after her weekly visit with Daphne, Abby sees a red Commodore parked in the street. Sitting on the bonnet, arms folded, is George, the guy who saved her when her car broke down a few weeks ago. He looks like he’s been waiting for some time. Abby’s heart kicks. She is not pleased to see him, hasn’t given him a thought since their first meeting. His sudden appearance here at Daphne’s house has a whiff of stalking about it. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asks, irritated.
He tightens defensively. ‘You didn’t call me back.’
‘I didn’t need to. I had my car serviced and it’s going like a dream.’
He is patently disappointed. ‘I thought you might ring. I’ve been driving past here a couple of times a week, just in case.’
Abby feels herself bristling, and she hopes he senses it too. ‘You shouldn’t just show up like this.’
‘Why not? You didn’t mind my help the other day. A bit of gratitude wouldn’t go astray.’
‘I thanked you,’ Abby says, implying that ought to be enough. But he doesn’t seem to get it.
‘How about you buy me a cappuccino?’ he suggests. ‘You owe me for rescuing you.’
Abby is certain she doesn’t owe him anything, but she can see he’s unlikely to accept no for an answer and she doesn’t want him following her home. She supposes a cup of coffee can’t hurt, if it’s on her terms.
‘Follow me into town,’ George says. ‘I know a good café.’
She trails his Commodore through the suburb and parks behind him in the main street of Queanbeyan. He is out and opening the car door for her before she even has time to retrieve her wallet from the glove box.
‘Anything for the lady,’ he says with a slimy smile.
‘Thank you, but I can open doors for myself.’ She slips out onto the pavement and moves beyond his reach.
He makes a laboured point of holding the café door open too, and she passes inside stiff-backed without giving him the satisfaction of a response. His chivalry seems fake and overdone. He shrugs and raises his hands as if she’s wounded him. Best he gets used to rejection now, she thinks. He won’t be getting anything else from her.
‘They do good coffee here,’ he says, selecting a table and slumping into a seat.
Abby is pleased he didn’t try to pull out a chair for her; maybe he’s getting the message.
They order, then George leans back and inspects her across the table. She takes the opportunity to inspect him too. He’s swarthy and unshaven, and his hair is wavy and dark and in need of a wash. He smiles with thick red lips and raises his bushy mono-brow as he sits legs apart, loose and casual. Abby can’t help comparing him to Cameron’s stylish poise.
‘I’m not happy about you showing up at my friend’s place today,’ she says. ‘I don’t want it to happen again.’
He shrugs, offhand. ‘How else was I supposed to find you?’
‘If a girl doesn’t ring, it means she’s busy.’
‘Yeah, well I wanted to hear it from you.’
‘I have a boyfriend,’ she lies.
George frowns. ‘Why didn’t you ring him the other day when you were stuck?’
‘He was at work. When you break down in the middle of the road, you don’t make a phone call and wait for rescue. You have to deal with it straightaway. You helped, I appreciated it, and that’s it. End of story.’
‘So you’re not available then?’
‘No. Taken.’
‘No harm trying.’ He grins. ‘And here we are, having coffee. That’s more than I expected.’
‘The coffee is to sort this out. I don’t want to be stalked.’
He smirks, unfazed. ‘Sure, but since we’re here we might as well talk a bit.’
Abby shifts uncomfortably. She wants out of here.
George leans forward, muscular forearms on the table, shirt-sleeves folded back to the elbows. He’s tanned for this time of year—it looks like he’s been hanging out in a solarium. He runs a hand through his wavy mop. ‘Okay, this is me,’ he says. ‘I’m Greek. Grew up here in Queanbeyan. Own a courier business with my brother.’
‘You’re a courier?’ Abby says. ‘What’s with the Commodore? That’s your delivery van?’
‘’Course not,’ he says. ‘But I don’t want to drive round in the van all the time. That’s why I have the Commodore. It’s my day off. A man’s gotta have some fun.’
‘And being a courier is good business?’ Abby asks with disinterest.
‘Sure is.’ George sniffs and rubs his nose. ‘Super-busy. I work six days a week. Delivering parcels, books, boxes of wine, all sorts of gear, including stuff you probably wouldn’t want to know about.’ A slippery smile slashes his face.
Abby senses he’s trying to pique her interest, but she refuses to satisfy him. ‘Don’t tell me then, if I wouldn’t want to know.’
‘What about you?’ he asks. ‘What do you do for a living?’
‘I study kangaroos.�
�
He chuckles, obviously amused. ‘How much do you need to know about shooting? A gun licence is cheap.’ He leans back, sighs and stretches. ‘I admire people who study. Wish I’d done more of it myself. Wish I’d done medicine or dentistry. I can just see myself sitting in a chair with my arms folded giving out bedside manner then writing the bill.’
‘So it’s all about income,’ Abby observes caustically.
He grins. ‘Of course. Why else do you work?’
Their cappuccinos arrive and George stirs in three spoonfuls of sugar.
‘I like going bush too,’ he says. ‘I go shooting with a mate of mine. We hunt pigs and deer up near Tumut. Sometimes ’roos and wombats, except they’re too easy. Only shoot them if there’s nothing else around.’
‘I hope you don’t go into the national park,’ Abby says, projecting disapproval.
George laughs. ‘That’s where the best pigs are.’
Abby plasters a weak smile on her face. She can just imagine George dressed in his camouflage gear with a gun and a string of ammunition draped over his shoulder, shooting the shit out of some poor animal. Not that she minds him shooting ferals, but she knows the shooters stock the bush with piglets to keep their hobby alive. It’s a joke when they say they are contributing to feral animal control.
‘Shot a beautiful deer just the other week,’ George continues. ‘Took its head off with an axe so I could keep it for my collection. There’s all sorts of stuff out there, like you wouldn’t believe. I’ve got the best set of skulls in Australia. I’ve got a horse skull, cow skulls, sheep, kangaroos, a wombat, even a Tassie devil skull.’
‘Skulls don’t impress me,’ Abby says. ‘I see plenty of them out where I work.’
The Grass Castle Page 21
