Njunjul the Sun

by Meme McDonald

  We go wandering, shoot some hoops down the Pavilion. Rhonda knows the woman at the office. She gets the ring out for us. Don’t even have to leave no deposit!

  Rhonda knows a whole lot of people round here. We go to this cafe. You’d reckon it was her place. Some bloke, migaloo, with long dreads is sitting on a stool reading the newspaper. She pinches him on the butt. No-good, he don’t seem to budge. Keeps on reading. ‘G’day, Rhonda darls.’

  Bloke that runs the place even knows what she wants to drink. I’m still getting m’mind around what’s on the list.

  I don’t see no drink I even heard of before. I’m about to ask for a Coke.

  ‘You want a coffee?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Which one? Cappuccino, macchiato, moccha?’

  I’m looking blank, making out I’m caught up with the cakes. Rhonda winks at the bloke behind the counter. Thinks I don’t see her. Now I’m feeling like a real munyard kid.

  ‘You want something to eat?’ she’s asking.

  I got nothing to lose. ‘Maybe a piece of that lemon meringue pie?’

  I’m laughing up stupid with m’own private joke. I don’t reckon she can read minds, Rhonda. She’s not like that. Still, she’s smirking at me funny.

  She chooses a table outside and we sit down. I never sat in a place like this before. Must be where rich people come. I’m sticking out like a goose. I put on the sunnies I borrowed from m’uncle. They either make me or break me. Make me look super-cool or a complete dork. I can’t tell.

  The bloke behind the counter calls out, ‘Rhonda. Your short black.’

  Eh, look-out! Who’s he calling short!

  ‘And your flat white.’

  Eh, good-go! Now he’s picking on Rhonda. I’m ready to G-O, take him on outside. Maybe I’m short. I can go, but. I’ll knock him flat. Eh, flat. Did you get it? I’m deadly and I don’t even have to try.

  I’m checking out Rhonda. Is she gonna take him on or me?

  She’s laughing. ‘Coffee? I ordered you a flat white coffee. Do you have sugar?’

  Shame job! I try one of Cedric’s old lines to chill m’way out of this hole. ‘Yeah, sugar thanks. Honey.’

  She giggles. ‘That’s sweet!’

  Least m’jokes are working.

  I offer her a bit of my lemon meringue.

  She shakes her head. ‘On a diet.’

  ‘Go on, have a bit,’ I reckon.

  She takes her time, like a mouse, nibbling it off the end of m’spoon, looking up at me with those eyes.

  Now we’re watching people walk past. Somehow we got all embarrassed watching each other.

  I’m not sure that I’m wanting to go. M’uncle’s friend Kenny came round. He’s a DJ. Got his own mobile unit. Does clubs, pubs, and every so often does a free gig down the Aboriginal hostel so the kids can raise money for pool tables and stuff.

  Kenny’s saying I should come down. They’re having a disco this Friday night. Aunty Em’s real keen for me to go. Same with Uncle. They reckon I could meet a few kids my own age. I’m not so worried about meeting kids. I’m happy enough just hanging around Rhonda and 2 Quack.

  But I’m going ‘cause I sort of owe it to them.

  I dug m’heels in about school, see. One week was enough for me. Aunty Em tried her hardest to make me feel good and pal me up with fullas. I can’t explain it that good, what I feel. Like I’m still travelling, not arrived nowhere. I’ve only just left up home, see. All m’mates. M’family. Half of me is back there in those broken up pieces. I’m not that ready to be getting m’self together somewhere new. I don’t feel that right in myself so how can I be feeling right about facing the whole United Nations every day.

  I can’t see the point of school, neither. Rhonda’s teaching me more than I ever learnt in a classroom, like fully. And it’s more fun.

  I’m thinking about asking Rhonda to come down the hostel with me to the disco. Nah! I’m changing my mind. Someone might think I’m walking in with an aunty. The disco’s for under eighteens. I’d be too shame explaining who she is. ‘Friend’ is gammin’, don’t seem to say it like it is. She probably couldn’t get a night off work, neither.

  Here I am, sitting off to one side, music blasting, hall filling up with dudes, and me on my own. M’flash, blue Wolverine shirt washed and ironed. Aunty Em did that for me. M’hair gelled. She gave me some of Uncle Garth’s, plus a squirt of his after-shave. I’m looking and smelling that deadly I’m falling in love with m’self.

  Strange, but. I was expecting to know someone. Like I know Kenny, ‘course. He’s busy up the front working the music, but. I’m interested in his gear. He’s got some big amps. When I get my bearings I’ll make my way over.

  I was expecting to hear voices call out when I came in through the door, but. Up home I walk in somewhere, the whole place is calling out ‘hello cus’’ . . . ’wichay, deadly budd’ . . . yakaiing and all that. Here . . . nothing. Black faces everywhere but no one that knows me. Here I am, in a hall full of blackfullas, and I’m still the odd one out. None of my mob round here.

  I’m sitting back in this corner, hoping no one’s picking me for a dork, feeling sorry for m’self. These fullas are all up, cruisin’, dancin’, hangin’ in bunches. As cool as, some of them, true. Be nice to get to know a couple so’s I don’t stick out so bad.

  Some of the adults, the organisers, come over and say g’day. Tell me I’m real welcome here. Kenny takes a break and introduces me round to a few. I’m loosening up. The cool dudes are sizing me up, wary. Thinking I’m gonna be stealing their jalbus ‘cause I’m a drop dead spunk! Not!! Only gammin’. I can pick up the vibe, but. I reckon, only chance of a chicky babe round here is b-y-o.

  You gotta respect that place you’re on ‘cause it’s not your place, I’m hearing that aunty-voice now. Even though Happy Valley was sad, it was my place. Down here in the city you gotta watch your arse, true, that stale-burger aftershave fulla’s right.

  I’m brave, but. I’m a warrior man. I psyche myself up and sidle over to this shy jalbu looks like she’s on her own.

  ‘Dancing?’

  ‘Asking?’

  ‘Askin’.’

  ‘Dancin’.’

  Deadly! I get a chance to show off my stuff on the dance floor. Lucky I got sisters. I been up there dancing with them since I could walk. She looks impressed enough.

  We take a break. Grab a soft drink. I’m about to ask her name. Five or six of the cool dudes crowd around. Maybe one of them’s her brother, I don’t know.

  ‘Comin’ outside?’ A short little punk fronts me.

  I’m not answering straight off, ‘cause I’m not sure what he’s asking. No-good, I’m thinking I wouldn’t mind rollin’ him for his shirt. Only gammin’. It’s red and shiny, with yellow-and-black patterns. Deadly. Designer label I seen on the ads.

  ‘We got some stuff.’

  I’m still not answering. I’m looking around. Some part of me is hoping somehow I’m gonna see Cedric’s big forehead come grinning through the door. Any of m’cousins’d do. Even a sister . . .

  She comes up close, the shy jalbu I’ve been dancing with. Says we should go outside.

  I’m there.

  So are the six others.

  They’re talking tough about nicking stuff and going up the Cross and all the junk they’ve tried. I know showing-off when I see it. And I’m seeing it all right. Technicolour, wide screen, surround-sound style of showing-off.

  I’m hanging back, trying to get a bit closer to the jalbu. A joint’s passing round, njarndi. I made my decision about that stuff way back when I was eight. Drugs, alcohol, the lot. ‘No way,’ I said to myself, ‘I’m not going there.’ I seen everyone charged up, punching and fighting and dying like flies in a thunderstorm of fly-spray. That’s not gonna be me. And I’ve stuck to it.

  When that njarndi gets to my turn, all eyes zone in on me. I take my time. Then pass ‘im on without a puff. I’m cool with that. Think what they like. I’m not
joining in to do no one no favours. Stuff that. They can do what they want, smoke it, eat it, drink it, shoot it up . . . I’m sticking with me.

  ‘You thinking you too good for us?’

  It’s the little punk with the flash clothes. The one I thought might be her brother.

  ‘I do my thing. You do yours.’ I’m straight out with it.

  ‘Smart arse.’

  I can move fast, but not up against six of them. I knew I could handle myself with the little punk. He keeps mouthing off, but, about me not being from round here – der! – and thinking I’m that deadly I’m as good as migaloo fullas or some crap.

  I’m having to hear all this doing the best I can. I give a few of them something to wake up hurting about the next morning, but. I give out as good as I get. Sort of. They’re not trying to do me that much damage. Just showing who’s boss, and who’s place I’m on. I’m not arguing, neither.

  Last I seen of the girl, she’s standing back giggling in a silly sort of way like she’d set me up and now she’s having fun seeing me get my butt kicked.

  I’m limping home feeling real sorry for m’self. Busted lip. No air getting through m’nostrils. Ribs hurting. Grazed knee. I feel like I gone fifteen rounds with The Man.

  Up home I get busted up by whitefullas for being black. Down here I get busted up by blackfullas ‘cause they think I’m trying to be white. I’m wondering what the hell is me.

  And my shirt’s ripped. I could take the rest. Bruises heal. M’new Wolverine won’t, but.

  I walk through the busted-up part of the fence. We got something in common, me and that broken brick wall. Across the path, up the steps, past the bullet holes . . . Things could be worse, I’m telling m’self.

  Uncle and Aunty are cuddled up on the couch watching a video. They don’t notice for a bit. I’m not showing them nothing, neither. Too shame.

  Aunty picks it first.

  ‘What happened to your shirt?’

  ‘Got caught on the fence.’ As if!

  Aunty starts checking me out. Turns the light on. Drags Uncle away from the movie. She starts to freak.

  ‘You’re bleeding!’

  I’m not surprised.

  Uncle stays cool, calming Aunty Em down. ‘Looks like he did all right for himself.’

  I’m feeling better already.

  ‘Who got stuck into you?’ Uncle asks.

  I build it up a bit. ‘First of all there was a couple of them. I was drivin’ ‘em, fixing them up okay. Then a couple of others jumped in. I turned round and there’s a dozen or more. I’m thinking, no-good, I’m gone.’

  ‘I know where you’re gone.’ Uncle sees straight through me. ‘In the head!’

  ‘No, true god.’

  Aunty’s looking like she’s in a casualty ward. ‘Be serious.’

  ‘Who was it? Whitefullas?’ Uncle asks in that detective voice.

  ‘Nah, down the hostel. Blackfullas.’

  ‘That’s okay then.’ Uncle grins. ‘So long as it wasn’t a bunch of racist white bastards! You’re just earning your stripes with the mob down here. Well, in your case, your bandages!’

  Aunty’s getting gooli-up at Uncle mucking around. I can tell he’s wanting to get back to the video. I’m happy enough to settle down on the couch with them. Now I’m home I’m not hurting that much. Aunty’s real upset, but. She’s getting a bowl of warm salty water and cotton-balls for bathing the cut on m’face. She’s got some tea-tree stuff good for healing things.

  ‘The cops, I can understand,’ she goes on, ‘or some other thugs. But when your own mob gets stuck into you . . .’

  Uncle mumbles something about different mobs.

  ‘Still, that stinks.’ Aunty won’t be put off.

  ‘Guess it’s a black thing.’ Uncle smirks, still watching the movie.

  Aunty Emma, she’s not ready for laughing up. Uncle, he takes a long breath in, presses the pause button on the video machine and starts. He’s got that look, that face ready to tell one of his munyard jokes.

  ‘It’s only a bit of blood, Em. Nothing’s broken. Like this old fulla. One time, see, this old fulla, he went in the courtroom all busted up. Blood all over the place.’

  I’m remembering this one. I’m giggling up already.

  ‘And the judge, he looked at him too. Real stunned. “My goodness, what happened to you?” in a real judge-voice.’ Uncle’s taking his time, making sure Aunty Em’s listening. She’s holding out, putting the dirty cotton-balls in the bin, rinsing the bowl.

  ‘Listen now. That old fulla reckoned, “I bin have a fight with my missus.”

  ‘Judge says, “Looks like it was a good one. How did you get to look like that?”

  ‘“She bin hit me in the head with the tomato.”

  ‘“With the what?” the judge says.

  ‘Old fulla says, “Tomato.”

  ‘Judge says, “How can one tomato do that much damage?”

  ‘Old fulla reckons, “She never bin take him out of the can!”’

  Aunty can’t help herself, she’s laughing up good. Uncle’s not finished, but.

  ‘The judge smirks, coughing and spluttering, trying to hold it together. “Well, well, now, how do you plead?”

  ‘Old fulla looks up. “I bin bleed everywhere!”’

  Aunty’s gonna break a rib, she’s laughing that bad.

  I’m feeling that laughter rub into me, into my wounds like ointment for the healing. I heard this story lotsa times up home. Used to be one of Uncle Budda’s favourites. Hearing m’Uncle Garth tell it now makes me feel like home’s not that far away.

  The three of us, we lay back on the couch, Uncle and Aunty cuddling, me nestled in, watching the rest of the movie.

  6

  Saturday and we’re all hangin’ loose, cups of tea, yackin’. Smoko and Maori Mick are over. Some other teachers . . .

  Rhonda gets a shock when she drops in. Somehow seeing me busted-up brings those tears to her eyes.

  Weekends, we don’t get much time together, Rhonda and me. Aunty and Uncle are around. There’s a feeling in the air, a kind of smell, or maybe more like something’s spilt on the floor and everyone’s watching their step, pretending not to notice. None of us’ve said nothing. Just is that Rhonda and I know weekends are more for me being round at Aunty and Uncle’s. She and me, we back off each other come the weekends, see.

  Rhonda’s down the pub from Saturday afternoon till late. Before that, she’s listening to the Science Show. Sundays is for her sleeping. I woke her up in the middle of the morning one time. She reckoned it was that early it must still be yesterday.

  I’m thinking, I gotta be getting a game with Uncle and the brothers this time. I can jump higher than most of them fullas. I can handle the ball good. I’m quick at passing. What’s the hold-up? All I do is these drills m’uncle gives me to get m’shooting touch.

  He reckons I gotta get the ball spinning, rotating back. It’s gotta be all net, never touch the ring. Fifty shots from one position then I can move onto the next. Good-go!

  ‘Like our traditional stories, these work-outs,’ he’s telling me. ‘You gotta listen over and over again. You gotta shoot the ball over and over again, then go to the next position.’ I’m not getting it. Traditional Murri-fulla stories are like basketball?

  He’s watching me, too. He’s got one eye on the game he’s playing, one eye on this court over here, seeing if I’m giving it my best shot.

  He’s off for one game. Comes over, in m’ear. ‘Imagine a wave starting at your heels. As you push up with your knees, the wave gets bigger. As your arm extends up into the air, the wave does too. When your body’s all stretched out, the tip of the wave should be where your rude finger is.’

  Good-go! I’m thinking. You know what you can do with that rude finger! Now he’s got me out surfin’! I thought we was playing basketball or telling stories. Not out surfin’ as well!

  Uncle was stirring Aunty Em the other night. Telling her us Murri-fullas invented surfing
.

  Aunty goes, ‘Yeah?’

  Uncle goes, ‘Yeah, true god. We been surfing on those turtle shells long before you fullas thought of surfboards. Like you fullas always do, you stole the good idea off us.’

  Aunty believed him, too. Sort of.

  Come Monday, Rhonda and I get time to be back together. I still got the bandaid over m’cut and she’s still into saving-me mode. I’m not minding, neither. I love her fussing.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask me to come with you?’

  ‘’Cause you were working.’

  ‘You know I can swap with someone else when I want a night off.’

  I’m making out there was no way I knew she could take time off. I change the subject. Tell her about the lemon meringue. Only that it’s my favourite pudding, not that other stuff about me thinking she smells as good.

  She makes me lie down on the couch. I’m feeling real slack, just laying back. Not that homesick slack. That good-to-be-here slack.

  Rhonda goes off down the shops to get a video and some lemons. Reckons she’ll cook me up a lemon meringue pie. Aw, come-on! I’m sounding like a real munyard in m’mind.

  2 Quack’s tucked up next to me. I never heard of anyone letting their duck come inside the house. And on their couch. Rhonda’s pretty fast on the pick-up. Soon as he goonas, she’s there with the toilet paper picking it up. If it’s just me and 2 Quack here, I’m looking the other way, gammin’ I never seen nothing.

  Sitting with this duck on m’lap, I’m thinking that smell of warm feathers is pretty good. I’m starting to see 2 Quack through new eyes. He’s got into this pattern now. Gets up about the same time as Rhonda. Makes it outside by midday. Waddles back in when the sun’s going down. Settles in for a night of TV on the couch.

  Rhonda’s got the coolest TV. It’s a two-in-one. Two TVs, one on top of the other. The top one’s got the best sound. Other one’s got no sound, good picture but. I’m not watching that much. More dreaming about lemon meringue and how I’d be telling Cedric about Rhonda.

  She comes back with a bag full of groceries. Tim Tams for us till the pie’s cooked. Lebanese cucumbers for 2 Quack. I don’t know how come she got to know that 2 Quack’s into Lebanese cucumbers. Why Lebanese is better than just cucumbers, I don’t know. Rhonda, she’s good on picking treats, but.