Somewhere around the Corner

by Jackie French

  Barbara looked at it uncertainly. ‘Are you sure? It’s pretty big.’

  ‘’Course I’m sure. We’ve got fat wombats round here. Lots of wombat tucker. Gully Jack reckons they’re hell on the fences. He’s just jealous because they’re better diggers than he is.’

  Something scuttled across the track. Barbara started.

  ‘It was just a water dragon.’ Young Jim’s voice was reassuring in the growing dark beside her. ‘You know, a lizard. You’d think it would’ve gone off to bed by now! They’re all along the creek here. Must be hundreds of them. We’ll come down and I’ll show you them in the morning. There’s a thousand things you’ll want to see tomorrow.’ He breathed deeply. ‘Cripes, it’s good to be back in the gully again.’

  The track stretched through the trees—dark trees, with rustling tops darker than the sky. A child called somewhere in the darkness behind them, and an adult’s voice echoed in the distance. The scent of smoke mingled with the smell of leaves and bark. Faint lights gleamed in the dimness from strange shapes off the track. They were too dim for electric lights, the shapes too small for proper houses.

  Young Jim seemed to know his way even in the dark. They turned a corner. There was a clearing, lighter than the track under the trees. A shack was just visible at one end.

  Young Jim let his breath out in relief. ‘Home,’ he said softly. Then more loudly. ‘Bubba, we’re home.’

  Barbara strained her eyes in the draining light.

  It wasn’t what she had expected. It was just a shanty, two rooms at most, with a funny sort of flat verandah out the front propped up by wattle poles with peeling bark. The whole structure seemed to be made of branches, still rough with bark, the cracks plugged up with clay. The roof was pieces of tin all hammered flat. It shone in the last of the light. The remains of a fire glowed out the front. There was no front door. Someone pushed an old sack aside and stood there, holding up a lantern. It was hard to see the face behind the light.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Ma! It’s me!’

  The distant figure gave a cry and ran forward. Young Jim ran too. The lantern light shuddered, as she hugged him hard.

  ‘You should have told us you were coming home. Where’s Bill?’

  There were more voices now, erupting from the shanty.

  ‘Hey, it’s Young Jim—’

  ‘Jim, Jim, did you bring me anything—’

  ‘Why didn’t you say you were coming home?’

  ‘Now don’t tell me Bill let you come all this way alone?’ That was a man’s voice.

  ‘Hey, Young Jim, I’ve lost another tooth, see—’

  ‘I’ll have his guts for garters, you see if I don’t!’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault, Dad.’

  ‘Young Jim, hey Young Jim, that old cow of Dulcie’s had another calf, the splotchy one.’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  It was a girl’s voice. Someone lifted up the lantern. Barbara blinked as the light hit her eyes. There seemed to be dozens of people in the clearing, kids mostly, with bare feet and limp thin clothes. They were all staring at her.

  ‘Is she a friend of yours, Young Jim? Where’d she get those clothes?’

  ‘What’s her name?’ It was a small girl who spoke, her eyes reflecting the night.

  ‘Why, the poor lamb, she looks done in.’ It was Ma; she wrapped her arms around Barbara, strong and soft.

  ‘Elaine, you help Young Jim to make a bed up. Dad, you go and look for something warm. Someone get some water, will you? And Joey, stoke up the fire and put the billy on please. If there was ever a time we needed a bit of tea…’

  The world was blurred, but comforting. The voices were blurred as well.

  ‘Who are her people, then?’ A man’s voice.

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. As long as we’ve got a roof over our heads and a bit in the pot I’ll not be turning any child away.’

  ‘Look, love, I didn’t mean…of course she can stay. Who am I to object? You’re the one who manages things, not me. You can feed the whole world if you want to.’

  Then there was nothing but the feel of a mattress beneath her, hard, but infinitely welcoming, the warm voice murmuring comfort. Then there was sleep.

  chapter six

  Poverty Gully

  There were voices outside.

  ‘Ma, Thellie’s got my best rabbit snare and won’t let go.’

  ‘It’s mine, I made it.’

  ‘Did not!’

  ‘Did so too! Last Tuesday, you ask Elaine if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘What would she know anyway? Ma, it’s mine.’

  ‘Keep your voices down, can’t you! Bubba’s trying to sleep in there.’

  It was a voice she knew. Young Jim, from yesterday. Could it be only yesterday she had met him? He’d told the engine driver that she was his sister and a glow had spread right through her, as though she really did have a family, a real one of her own.

  ‘When’s she going to wake up?’ That was one of the younger voices again. Young Jim said something, too soft for her to hear. There was a scuffle, then they seemed to move away.

  Barbara looked around. It was hard to see anything in the dark room. She was on a bed, close to the ground: a home-made mattress on top of a base of boxes. She could just see the shapes of other beds around the room, spread with blankets made of hessian sacks sewn together, and something that looked like rough-tanned furs. There was one window—just a hole without any glass at all—covered with a sort of sacking blind. The only light in the room seeped around the sacking blind and the curtain-covered doorway, and through the chinks in the walls and roof.

  She sat up carefully. The floor was dirt, packed hard and swept so there was no dust. Someone had taken her jeans and shoes and put her in a dressing gown which was far too big, and socks, thick with darning, on her feet.

  It was easier to see now as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her head bumped on the ceiling. It must be far too low for Young Jim. She pushed aside the sacking curtain and found herself in the open air, under the verandah-like annexe.

  The world was leaves and sky and the low, sweet hush of trees. A fire smouldered in a rough stone fireplace with a big tin on one side. The smoke rose slowly and sifted across the valley, directionless without a breeze. The ground was bare, as though trodden clear by many feet.

  ‘About time you were up.’ The voice startled her. A man was watching from the corner of the verandah, sitting on a rough chair made of some sort of skin suspended between two bits of wood. He got to his feet slowly. He was very tall and thin, with tattered shorts that came nearly to his bony knees and whiskers in all shades of grey and brown tattered around his chin. He put out a hand, as large and knobbly as the rest of him.

  ‘I’m Jim. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Jim? I thought Jim was—’

  ‘That’s my boy, Young Jim. I reckon that makes me Old Jim. Good-for-nothing Jim.’ They call me Big Jim, though. It sounds better than good-for-nothing Jim, but I reckon it means the same. Or Dad of course. That’s what you’d better call me too, I reckon, if you’re going to be staying here.’ He squatted down on the rough seat, his big knees nearly touching his chin. ‘And you’re Bubba. Young Jim told me about you last night. You feeling better now?’

  Barbara nodded. ‘I think so. Much better. I’m sorry to be a nuisance.’

  Dad laughed. It was a short laugh, with bitterness not far away. ‘You’re not a nuisance, girl. Struth, there’s so many kids around here one more won’t make any difference. Bit like a mob of bandicoots, you never know where one’ll pop up next.’ He looked at her closely. ‘Young Jim said you haven’t got any family. That right? What happened to them, then? You haven’t been running away from home have you?’

  ‘No…’ Barbara’s voice choked.

  ‘’Cause the way I see it, if you’ve got folks looking for you we’ve got to write them a letter or something, to let them know you’re safe. So you tell me honestly. Is
there someone wondering where you are?’

  Barbara shook her head.

  ‘You telling me the truth, Bubba?’

  ‘Yes. There’s no-one who’ll be looking for me. I promise. No-one who’ll miss me. I…’ Suddenly the memories came rushing in. She shut her eyes as though to drive them away.

  Suddenly Dad’s arm was around her shoulders.

  ‘All right love. Don’t say nothing if it upsets you. All right now? Struth, I reckon I’ve got secrets of my own I don’t want nobody to know about. You dry those tears, okay? Because I reckon it’s nearly lunchtime and the whole mob’ll be in and we want you looking like roses and cream or Ma will want to know why. She’s the salt of the earth, that woman, but she’s got a tongue about her, and I don’t think I could take it today, not before I’ve had me lunch anyway. So no more tears, you hear?’

  Barbara nodded. She tried to smile.

  ‘Put it here,’ said Dad, putting out his hand. ‘Who am I to be making judgments on anyone? Mates, all right?’

  Barbara nodded again, grateful. She sniffed and glanced at the dressing gown. She couldn’t wipe her nose on someone else’s sleeve. Dad pulled out a handkerchief.

  ‘Go on, blow. It’s clean. Now you go get some clean clothes on. They’re spread out in the other room waiting for you, and then sit down before the littl’uns grab the best seats in the house. We’ll see if Ma has rustled up something for lunch except for bread-and-duck-under-the-table. Off you pop.’

  Lunch was rabbit stew from the iron pot on the fire, full of little bones and chunks of squishy carrot; six giant spoonfuls for everyone, measured exactly by Ma and her ladle, with butterless scones from the big tin oven.

  The stew was stringy, but tasty; hot and full of meat. The scones were wonderful, although it was funny to eat them soaked with stew, and not with butter, or jam and cream. The little ones yelled and chattered through the meal, picking at the sodden scones and shreds of meat with their fingers. Only Ma and Dad had forks, though Young Jim had a knife he kept on his belt.

  ‘You had enough, Bubba?’

  Ma scraped around the edges of the pot with her ladle. Like the kids she had bare feet, tough and brown and splayed at the toes, dirty to the ankles. Her brown hair was clean, though, and shone like the sun on the flat tin roof. It was tied back in a ponytail with a bit of string.

  Barbara nodded. ‘Thank you. I’m full.’

  ‘Give it here then Ma!’

  ‘No, here!’

  ‘You shut your mouths before the flies fly in. If Bubba doesn’t want it I’ll give it to your dad. There’s one more scone each if you’re hungry and tomato jam in the box, but only one spoonful, mind, and there are little apples in the box from Dulcie’s. You’re sure you can’t eat it, love? You could do with a bit more meat on your bones. You look like a match with the wood scraped off.’

  ‘She looks all right. Better than last night anyway.’ Young Jim grinned across the old door propped up on rocks that served as a table. ‘You lay off her, Ma. At least she’s got a bit of colour in her cheeks again.’

  Barbara smiled back. She did feel better. Things were strange, but there was nothing to be scared of here.

  ‘I saw Sergeant Ryan down on the track before lunch,’ said the biggest of the girls. What was her name? Yes, Elaine. She was about Barbara’s age, or maybe a year older. A bit like a freckled banana, thought Barbara, with her hair streaked brown and yellow, and dark deep eyes.

  Elaine chewed on a rabbit bone thoughtfully.

  ‘He wanted to know if Jim and Bubba got here safely. He said to tell Dad there might be some relief work next month on the roads up near town. He said we could send Young Jim down as well, if we want. He’d pass him as eighteen.’

  ‘I don’t want any son of mine working the relief,’ said Dad, shifting on his wooden seat. ‘One good-for-nothing in this family is enough. Young Jim should be in school. That’s where the lot of you should be.’

  ‘Sergeant Ryan’s a good man,’ said Ma sharply. ‘You don’t get them better than Sergeant Ryan. The relief work’ll be easier on your back than the eucy cutting, and there’ll be more money in it too. Clean out the pan will you, Elaine love, and put the water on. My tongue’s just hanging out for a cup of tea.’

  Barbara sipped the tea slowly. It was hot and very sweet, but weak, made from damp tea leaves Ma had taken from a can in an old safe at the back of the verandah. She watched the others chatter and dribble golden syrup on scones. No-one except the ants had touched the tomato jam.

  Ma and Dad talked least: Ma because she was mostly busy, making tea or spooning food into the little ones, wiping noses, apportioning out the syrup and the scones; Dad because he just sat watching the smoke, and letting the talk flow past him.

  Elaine talked most, chattering to Young Jim, and Jim talked too, telling them about Sydney and the harbour bridge, the eviction and the demonstration, about the Unemployed Workers’ Movement and about people she’d never met. The little ones listened, their mouths stuffed full of food—Harry, with his bum still bare and his bulging toddler’s belly; Thellie, a couple of years older, a thin face with big eyes and a funny toothy smile; and Joey somewhere in between, with his long legs in baggy shorts that looked like they’d been cut down from trousers for a much larger man.

  Elaine wiped the gravy from her plate with the last scone crumbs and glanced over at Barbara. ‘You’ve never told us how you met Bubba,’ she said to Young Jim.

  ‘At the demonstration,’ Young Jim grinned at Barbara over the little ones’ heads.

  ‘What was she doing there?’

  ‘What were you doing there, I’d like to know,’ put in Ma. She brushed a stray bit of hair back from her forehead. ‘I’ll skin that Bill alive, you see if I don’t. He said he’d keep an eye on you, him and Eva, and look what happens.’

  ‘Hey, Ma, it wasn’t Uncle Bill’s fault,’ soothed Young Jim. ‘Anyway, Bubba didn’t have anywhere to go, so I—’

  ‘Why not?’ This was Elaine again. ‘They evict you too? Where’s your home then?’

  Everyone was silent, watching. Barbara took a breath. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Something weird happened. I’m really from the future.’

  ‘You’re what?’ Elaine giggled.

  ‘I, ah, there was a demonstration, and this old man said…’ Barbara’s voice shook as she explained it all again.

  There was silence when she’d finished. Barbara waited for Elaine to giggle. Young Jim spoke firmly, ‘She was hit on the head by that flaming copper. That’s what I reckon.’

  ‘No swearing,’ said Ma. She put her arm around Barbara’s shoulders and hugged her. ‘It doesn’t matter where you’re from, love. You’re safe here now. You’re one of us now. You understand?’

  Barbara looked around at the other faces. Young Jim was grinning at her, and Big Jim too. The little ones were wide-eyed. Even Elaine was smiling.

  ‘You can come from the moon for all I care,’ she said frankly. ‘It’s about time there was someone decent around here to talk to. There’s been no-one my age at all since the Briars moved away.’

  Young Jim grabbed her hand. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get some water for Ma and then we’ll show you round.’

  ‘You have a good wash down the creek while you’re at it,’ Ma called after them. ‘Looks like you’re wearing half the dirt of Sydney on your backs!’

  chapter seven

  Down the Gully

  The creek glistened like silver paper, threaded with little streams of mud washed down by people panning further upstream. An old man crouched among the boulders, a hessian sack around his shoulders for warmth against the cold of the water, a tin plate tilted in his hand. He waved to the children, then bent down to his plate again.

  ‘That’s Old Man Lee,’ said Elaine. ‘He’s always at it.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’ asked Barbara.

  ‘Gold-panning, of course. That’s his spot. Johnny Parker and the Williams boys are up by the island. Jo
hnny Parker was a carpenter till his shop went bust, and Joe Williams was a boilermaker. There are prospectors all up and down the creek round here. Not that there’s much to be found any more. Dad says they’re lucky to make half a quid a week.’

  ‘Where’s Dad panning now?’ asked Young Jim.

  Elaine shrugged. ‘Nowhere much. The last spot fizzled out after a couple of weeks. He hasn’t found another good one. Don’t think he will, either. He’s making a few bob out of tomatoes. Says there’s more money in vegies than fooling around looking for gold, if only he could get the water to them.’ Elaine grimaced. ‘Boy, am I sick of tomatoes. We’ve had them fried just about every day this month. When I grow up I’m never going to eat a tomato ever again. Or wipe a kid’s grubby face, either.’

  Barbara stared at the cold figure down by the creek, huddled over his pan as if it might keep him warm. ‘How do you gold-pan?’

  ‘It’s easy.’ Elaine pantomimed holding a flat dish. ‘You just scoop up some sand and some water and keep washing out the loose stuff. Gold’s heavier than sand, so what you’ve got left at the end’ll be gold.’

  ‘You hope,’ said Young Jim.

  Elaine made a face. ‘You hope,’ she agreed. ‘Mostly you just get frozen fingers and empty pockets. Gold panning’s not bad in summer, but it can be cruel in winter. Susie Briar’s dad nearly lost his arm, he got so cold, and not much to show for it. Mostly all that’s in your pan is gravel and fool’s gold. Real gold glows even in the shade.’

  ‘Then you stick it in a jam jar and hope you find some more,’ said Young Jim. ‘But mostly you don’t. Hey, look over there! I said I’d show you dragons!’ Young Jim pointed at a hump of rock that sliced the flashing water of the creek.

  ‘What is it?’ Barbara had nearly forgotten his promise from the night before.

  ‘Water dragons. See? Look at that one—he must be as long as my arm!’

  Barbara blinked. Suddenly she could see what had been camouflaged before—a lizard on the rock, with its face to the sun, too intent on soaking up the heat to notice them. Its body was dull olive, with dark and light mottles, its throat a flash of red and iridescent green. It only needed wings, and fiery breath to match its throat, to be a dragon from a fairy tale.