Also by Kate Constable
Crow Country
Cicada Summer
Always Mackenzie
Winter of Grace
Dear Swoosie (co-written with Penni Russon)
The Chanters of Tremaris series
The Singer of All Songs
The Waterless Sea
The Tenth Power
The Taste of Lightning
First published in 2013
Copyright © Kate Constable, 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
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Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the
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ISBN 978 1 74331 503 3
Cover design by Kirby Stalgis
Cover photos by Lynn Koenig/Getty Images
Set in 11/16.5 pt Sabon by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my parents, with love and gratitude
Contents
1 December 1974
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About the Author
1
December 1974
Julie stands in the doorway of the plane. The heat slaps her in the face like a hot, wet towel. Passengers crowd at her back, impatient to disembark. Sunlight blazes in her eyes as she picks her way down the steps to the tarmac. Instant sweat prickles on the back of her neck, itching under her ponytail. Brown-skinned local workers stand about, hands on hips, calling to each other in words she can’t understand. Pidgin: that’s what they speak here. She knows that much. Palm trees dangle their fronds, drooping and exhausted in the shimmering heat.
She’s never been anywhere like this before. The air is so thick with humidity it’s like trying to breathe soup. The sun presses down on the top of her head, as relentless as a hot iron.
Tony doesn’t live in Port Moresby. She has to catch another plane to a different town, even smaller and more obscure, called Mt Hagen, a dot in the middle of the map.
The terminal building is hardly more than a glorified shed. Inside, the overhead fans turn languidly, barely disturbing the air. While Julie waits to have her passport checked, sweat dampens her forehead and rolls down inside her dress. Dark faces are all around, though the official who stamps her passport is white, and his voice is broad Australian.
‘Have a nice holiday, love.’ He gives her a wink.
Julie gathers up her papers without answering. For half a second, she contemplates telling the man, In a few hours from now I’m going to meet my father for the first time since I was three.
It had started almost as a joke, as a challenge to her mother during one of their endless arguments. She can’t even remember now what Caroline said to spark it off, but Julie had snapped back, hot with fury, Well, maybe I should go and live with Tony for a while and see how that works out! And Caroline, suddenly calm, had said, Maybe you should . . . Yes, maybe after thirteen years, it’s time you two got to know each other.
And the next thing she knew, it was all arranged, and Julie was heading to New Guinea for the summer holidays, while Caroline took a solo trip to Sydney, which hardly seemed fair. She’d never taken Julie to Sydney.
Julie doesn’t tell all this to the man in the official uniform. Instead she says, ‘I need to catch a flight to Mt Hagen with Highland Air Charters. Could you please tell me where I have to go?’
Sweat trickling down her back, carrying the mustard-coloured vinyl suitcase and the brown overnight bag Caroline lent her, Julie struggles through the terminal. In front of her, blocking her way, two Australian men, wearing shorts and long socks, stroll with treacle-like slowness.
‘Excuse me!’ says Julie loudly. The men half-turn, as if surprised to see her there, but they don’t move aside to let her pass. If I was tall and blonde and gorgeous, they’d let me through. She is not tall and blonde and gorgeous; she is ordinary, with mid-length mousy hair and freckles across her nose. Scowling, she dodges around the two men and almost trips over the outstretched legs of a local man who is slouched against the wall.
People are sitting on the ground, anywhere they can find a spot, in family groups, chatting and sharing food. A woman leans back, her eyes closed, while her baby suckles at her bare breast, his head tipped back, his bright brown eyes wide and searching, gazing around at the upside-down world.
Julie drops her luggage and rummages in her shoulder bag for a hanky to mop her sweaty face. She looks up and her bags have disappeared.
It takes her a second to realise what has happened. Then she sees a flash of mustard vinyl, weaving through the crowd up ahead. A man has taken her bags and trotted away with them.
‘Hey!’ shouts Julie. ‘Hey, come back! Put those bags down! Thief! Thief!’
She starts to run. Her legs feel like lead, like legs in a nightmare, but anger fuels her, drives her onward. ‘Stop!’ she shouts. ‘Hey, you, stop!’
People scatter before her, startled eyes turning on her. She’s gaining on him; she can almost touch him. She gathers herself and leaps, hurling her weight onto his back, pummelling him with her fists. ‘Stop, give me back my bags!’
He’s not a big man, and he crumples beneath her. There’s a soft whuff as his breath is knocked out of him. The brown bag and the suitcase go flying. Locked together, Julie and the thief crash to the floor of the terminal.
‘Hey. Hey. What’s all this?’
Julie sees a pair of brown shoes, and the inevitable long blue socks. A firm hand grips her shoulder and pulls her to her feet.
He’s a young man. His skin is the colour of milky tea, though his accent is as Australian as Julie’s own. She feels his hand burning through the fabric of her cotton dress onto her shoulder; the next instant, he lifts it away.
‘This man is stealing my luggage!’ she says, breathless.
The thief still cowers on the ground, as if he’s scared she might attack him again. Julie smoothes her hair with her hand, a little embarrassed.
The young man speaks to the thief in rapid, stern Pidgin. The thief answers, scrambling to his feet.
The young man turns to Julie. ‘He wasn’t.’
‘What?’
‘He wasn’t stealing your bags. He was helping you to carry them. He’s a porter.’
‘Bull!’ says Julie hotly. ‘He just took off with them. He didn’t ask me; he didn’t even know where I was going. If he’s a porter, where’s his uniform? Where’s his badge?’
At last the young man turns to her. ‘You do need a porter, don’t you? Those bags look pretty heavy. Or is someone meeting you?’
‘No . . . I’m catching another flight.’
‘Then why not let this guy carry your bags for you?’ says the young man reasonably.
‘No way!’ says Julie. ‘I’m not letting a thief take my luggage. He’s not even a successful thief,’ she adds.
The thief looks at her with venom. Julie is sure he can understand what she’s saying. She folds her arms and glares back at him. She says loudly, ‘You’re lucky I haven’t called the police!’
The young man laughs. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of change. He counts out a couple of coins and the maybe-thief’s hand closes eagerly over them, tight as a trap. ‘Raus!’ says the young man. ‘Go on, get lost.’
The man scurries away.
‘What did you give him money for?’ Julie says. ‘If he is a porter, he didn’t earn it, and if he’s a thief, he doesn’t deserve it.’
‘If he’s a porter, you’ve besmirched his reputation, and he should get some compensation. If he’s a thief, as you pointed out, he’s not a very good one. You’ve got to feel sorry for him, really.’
Julie opens her mouth, then closes it again. ‘Well,’ she says grumpily. ‘Thanks. I guess.’ She fishes in her shoulder bag for her purse.
‘Hey, what are you doing?’
‘Paying you back.’
‘Forget about it.’
‘But it’s not fair; I can’t let you —’
‘I haven’t got time,’ says the young man. ‘I’ve got a plane to catch —’ he glances at his watch, ‘— ten minutes ago. I’d better run.’
‘Oh, no!’ cries Julie, stricken. ‘That’s my fault!’ She throws the strap of the overnight bag over her shoulder, snatches up her own case and seizes a small suitcase from the young man’s hand. ‘I’ll help with your luggage. Where are we going?’
‘This way, but —’
Julie doesn’t wait to hear his protests. She just runs, and the young man jogs easily beside her. He isn’t sweating; he looks cool and slightly amused. Side by side they run through the terminal and onward to the domestic terminal.
‘Where —?’
‘This way — Talair.’
The young man draws up in front of the Talair check-in desk. Julie dumps the bags at her feet and pants for breath while he asks the afro-haired girl behind the counter, ‘Flight to Mt Hagen?’
The girl shakes her head. ‘You’re too late, sir.’ She waves her arm at the big glass door. ‘It’s just taking off now.’
Julie can see a black-and-white plane trundling down the runway. The young man slaps his hand flat onto the counter and swears beneath his breath.
‘It’s all right,’ says Julie. She touches his arm. ‘I don’t know your name —’
‘Simon,’ says the young man wearily. ‘Simon Murphy.’
‘I’m Julie McGinty. And I think I can help. Did you say you were going to Mt Hagen?’
‘I was,’ says Simon.
‘But that’s perfect. You can come with me. I’ll get you a seat on my flight. It’s my father’s airline,’ she says grandly. ‘Come on. I’ll fix everything.’
Simon casts her a wary look. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. It’s my fault you missed your plane — well, sort of. It’s the least I can do.’
‘I mean, are you sure you can fix it?’
‘Oh,’ says Julie. ‘Well, I can try.’
The waiting area for Highland Air Charters is not far away. It consists of a row of plastic chairs and a sign — a logo of a blue bird inside a white circle, with the company name curved in blue letters beneath. A young white man in a pilot’s shirt, with epaulettes and wings, is sitting in one of the chairs, his legs outstretched. His golden head is tipped back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he whistles tunelessly between his teeth.
As Julie and Simon hurry towards him, he slowly reverts to the vertical. ‘Hello,’ he says amiably. ‘Don’t tell me. You’re my passenger. You must be Juliet.’
He smiles suddenly, and his strong, tanned hand shoots out to grip hers. He has a tally-ho, Royal Air Force moustache, exactly the kind of moustache you’d expect a pilot to have.
‘It’s just Julie,’ she stammers. ‘Not Juliet.’
His blue eyes crinkle when he smiles. ‘But you are Tony McGinty’s daughter? I am flying you to Hagen?’
‘Yes . . .’
He gives a small ironic bow. ‘I’m your captain for today, Andy Spargo.’
Reluctantly Julie lets go of his hand. He is extremely handsome. ‘This is Simon. I know this is a bit cheeky, but — is there any room on the plane for one extra?’ She glances around at the empty waiting room. ‘There don’t seem to be any other passengers.’
‘No,’ agrees Andy. ‘This is kind of a special run. We have got cargo, though.’ He gives Simon an appraising look.
‘Simon’s missed his flight, and it was my fault. He was helping me sort out — a misunderstanding. I promised I’d ask . . .’ Her voice trails away. Suddenly it seems a ridiculous favour to ask, of a complete stranger; absurd, to try to trade on Tony working for HAC. A slow blush begins to creep up Julie’s neck.
‘Oh, I think we can squeeze him in,’ says Andy cheerfully. ‘How much do you weigh, mate? Seventy kilos? Seventy-five?’
‘About eleven stone,’ says Simon. ‘Plus luggage.’
Andy lifts one of Simon’s bags and then the other, with a calculating expression. ‘Should be right,’ he says. ‘You wouldn’t have more than twenty kilos there, I reckon.’ He claps his hands together. ‘Chop chop! Better jump in the balus, or we’ll miss the gap.’
He takes a suitcase in each hand and swings through the glass doors and out onto the tarmac. Julie follows, with Simon behind her. Though it has been far from cool in the terminal, the heat outside breaks over her in an oven-blast and her knees wobble.
‘Thank you,’ says Simon quietly behind her.
‘Well, thank you,’ says Julie. ‘I suppose.’
And for the first time, they smile at each other.
2
‘You don’t live in Hagen, do you?’ Simon says, as they hurry across the baking tarmac after Andy.
‘Just visiting,’ says Julie. ‘For the holidays. How did you know?’
Simon shrugs. ‘I know most of the expats in Hagen. There aren’t that many of them.’ Seeing Julie’s blank expression, he adds, ‘Expats. Expatriates. Aussies. Americans.’
‘You sound like an Aussie yourself.’
‘My dad’s Australian. Or used to be. I went to boarding school in Brisbane.’
‘And you live in Mt Hagen?’
‘My father owns a coffee plantation just outside town.’
‘A plantation! Like in Gone With the Wind?’
‘Not exactly,’ says Simon dryly. ‘No slaves.’
Julie feels her face grow hot. His dad was Australian, but what about his mother?
Andy halts beside a blue-and-white striped plane. Compared with the plane Julie had flown in to Port Moresby, this one is so tiny it might have been a toy. Her dismay must show in her face, because Andy laughs and says, ‘Don’t fret, Juliet. This is a tough little crate. Beechcraft Barons, the best balus ever made for the Highlands. They can be twitchy little buggers, but you’re in good hands with me. Nothing to worry about. Ever flown in a light plane before?’
‘Never.’
Andy shakes his head. ‘And to think you’re Tony McGinty’s daughter.’ He climbs inside and begins rummaging about, rearranging the cargo. He pokes his tousled head out, grinning cheerfully.
‘Heaps of room. Chuck up the bags, will you?’
‘Everyone flies up here,’ says Simon. ‘We have to, because the roads are so bad, and the mountains are so rough.’
‘You want to sit up front, with me?’ says Andy. ‘You can be my co-pilot.’
Julie is annoyed that they are both speaking to her as if she were a frightened child. ‘I’ll be fine in the back,’ she says shortly.
Andy and Simon exchange a flicker of a glance, and she knows that this is what her mother calls being difficult. She doesn’t care. She ignores Andy’s proffered hand and climbs into the back of the plane.
She hears Andy say to Simon, ‘We’d better get a move on. We’re running a bit behind schedule.’ He scans the horizon. Indigo clouds are massing above the mountains. ‘Should be right,’ he murmurs uneasily, then ducks away to the other side of the aircraft, apparently performing some kind of last-minute inspection.
Julie fumbles with her seatbelt. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’
Simon, settling himself in across the narrow aisle, glances out of the window. ‘I don’t think so.’ He looks back at Julie.
‘You do this a lot?’
‘Hundreds of times.’
The whole plane shakes as Andy steps onto the wing and into the cockpit. It feels as flimsy and crushable as a soft drink can. Julie’s hands are sweating. She shoves them under her thighs to stop them trembling, and hopes Simon hasn’t noticed. They haven’t even taken off yet, and already she feels sick with dread.
Andy slams the door shut with a heavy metallic thunk. ‘All belted up back there?’ he calls, and without waiting for a reply, he lowers a pair of big padded headphones over his ears.
The engines roar into life, the propellers whip into an instant blur. A crackle of static issues from Andy’s headphones, a stream of indistinct words that must be instructions from the control tower. Andy answers, his words drowned by the din of the engines, and the little plane begins to trundle down the runway. Julie’s heart is banging in her chest.
Faster and faster, the Baron races along the bitumen. The whine of the engines intensifies, the plane shudders, and then Julie feels a lifting sensation in the pit of her stomach. They are airborne.
New Guinea Moon Page 1
