By the time we left the bomber, our young bodies sunburnt to a crisp, it was late afternoon; the humidity was still high and it was stifling in the tall grass. We were both quite tired but determined to get our prize haul home to show Mum. Bruce and I took turns riding and pushing the trike back over the foot pad. As the bullets fell off the little carrier we would dutifully retrieve each and every one of them, rebalance our load as best we could and return to pushing and pedalling as fast as our little legs would go.
After what felt like an eternity we arrived on the cool concrete veranda of the homestead, dehydrated and exhausted and still with a full load of ammunition. Here we were, a couple of bush kids from Fresh Water Rapid Creek, with more ammo than James Bond himself could put together in a week. Once we were back at the homestead Bruce got a sudden burst of energy and shot forwards on his tricycle, riding around the veranda at great speed. In and out of the homestead and around and around the shaded veranda he went, pedalling like a contender for a gold medal.
What we didn’t know was that while we were out exploring our exciting new toy, our father had returned to the house unexpectedly and was now helping Mum and Gran in their concerned search for Bruce and me. The Larrakia people from the camp had all gone to a sacred corroboree at a tribal gathering some distance away, so they weren’t there to help look for us. And by now Bruce had found he could sink his teeth into and chew on the ‘soft ones’ as he happily rode his trike around the house, leaving a trail of what turned out to be chewed and discarded detonators that carried a small amount of explosive used to set off a main charge.
When they returned to the house it was this trail of chewed detonators that my parents followed with utter horror and disbelief, and it eventually led them to Bruce. I sensed from my parents’ reaction that something was terribly wrong but, of course, I didn’t fully understand the extent of it. I do remember feeling panic as Dad grabbed Bruce from his tricycle and handed him to Mum, who took us both immediately from the veranda to the cool of the shower room, where she told us to wash ourselves clean. I suppose Mum had to see her children naked to believe we were both still in one piece.
There was no yelling at Bruce and me for disappearing off by ourselves; they were too relieved to have both their first- and second-born back safe and sound. We did have to promise our parents faithfully that we would never again return to the old relic – ‘Not even for a little look,’ our father said.
Immediately after the incident Dad contacted the RAAF Base Darwin, which was about three miles away through the scrub, and organised for the removal of the bomber and ammunition – which, I believe, happened almost overnight.
While Bruce and I couldn’t get into trouble with the bomber again, there was usually some other mischief for us to find. We were never in trouble with each other though – none of us kids have ever had a fight among ourselves. While we were growing up I always knew that Bruce, in particular, would look out for me.
CHAPTER 3
A misadventure with Bruce
My grandma Bond settled herself gracefully on her cane perch – her day bed – which had been carefully placed under the shade of the beautiful poinciana tree by Frankie, her yard man, earlier in the day. Nearby sat the outdoor table with its covering of pandanus-leaf doilies made by Mary, who also had the afternoon-tea setting ready to go. Surrounding it all was a carpet of magnificent scarlet petals that had fallen from the poinciana, set against the backdrop of the black-soil countryside.
My mother arrived in a flurry to join Gran and me for smoko. Once Mum had poured the sweet black afternoon tea for everyone, she quickly settled into her own high-backed cane chair, while I sat comfortably at the foot of Gran’s perch.
The Larrakia people had returned from their tribal meeting place, and Mary Larrakia, Frankie and Johnny had changed into the clothes they always wore when at Grandma’s house. Frankie and Johnny preferred long white pants and shirts, while Mary always starched and ironed her own dresses at the big house. (Once I remember Mary and Johnny had a stick-fight over Grandma’s iron – they were very particular about ironing their own house clothes. Gran liked to say that sometimes they did a better job ironing their own clothes with her iron than they did ironing her clothes with it!)
Standing some distance behind Mary, Frankie and Johnny was a group of older men belonging to the Larrakia camp. Their bodies were covered in ochre paint, some of it still visible in their matted hair, while others were comfortable in their narga, or loincloth. I knew that the Aboriginal people from our camp had attended important ceremonial corroborees.
‘Missy, missy, come – missy come,’ beckoned Johnny, my grandma’s other yard man, standing next to Gran’s cane lounge. He was holding out a comic book to me. I rose hesitantly at first, all the while looking to Mum for reassurance that I could accept the gift. When she nodded, I reached for the Donald Duck comic and Johnny then pointed at the ground, indicating that I should sit down and read the new comic. On a bed of brilliant red petals I sat with my legs crossed.
Mum later recounted, ‘There was this beautiful little girl – her ringlets had dropped down into big loose curls from the humidity, wearing a delicate cream lace dress made especially for her by her seamstress grandma.’ My mother told me how the whole group of Aboriginal people came up from the camp to sit on the dusty ground around me and listen while I ‘read aloud’. There I was, full of confidence, turning pages and pointing to the brightly coloured drawings of Donald Duck and friends while prattling my head off. Comic books were a rare gift at that time, as they were hard to come by, and Johnny had been given this one by another family member. I hadn’t yet learnt how to read but despite that rather obvious issue, Mum said I proved to be a source of great entertainment to them.
*
Some years later my father managed to acquire a loan from the Commonwealth Bank in Darwin to purchase a family home that was closer to better educational and health facilities. By then I was eleven years old, and my brothers Bruce, Darryl and Eric weren’t far behind. My mother was in the early stages of her fifth pregnancy and had health problems. Dad decided that for the good of Mum’s health and their children’s education, it was the best move for the family.
The house that my father bought was perched precariously on the cliffs of Fannie Bay, west of Darwin, sandwiched between his old mate Noondy’s house and that of businessman Nick Paspaley. In Noondy’s place there was a monstrosity of a tree, a banyan, a member of the evergreen ficus family. This tree became our playground and we grew more like monkeys every day.
My youngest brother, Michael, was born in November 1958, a big, healthy, bouncing baby, but the pregnancy and birth had taken its toll on Mum and left her suffering from anaemia for some time. Although she was being looked after by a very good doctor and receiving the best of attention, she often frightened the daylights out of me with her sudden fainting spells, which were caused by the anaemia.
With my mother unwell most of the time and my father away working – either gauging the rise and fall of the Territory’s river systems or out at sea with Noondy – Bruce and I would quite often take our little brother Michael with us when we went fishing. Michael was a good baby brother – we all loved him. To take him fishing or crabbing was a pleasure for us, plus we liked to look after him to help out Mum while she was so unwell. In some ways I felt we were lucky: Dad was away trying to earn a decent wage to feed and clothe his family and pay the mortgage, and the rest of us took care of things at home. Darryl and Eric kept an eye on Mum – watching her while she was hanging up the washing on the rotary clothesline, just in case she fainted – and Bruce and I looked after Michael and hunted for fresh seafood. Being young intrepid hunters searching for crabs, we felt important because we were pulling our weight too.
One particularly memorable fishing expedition occurred when Michael was about eighteen months old. Our fishing spots were too far away for him to be able to walk the distance, and by then he was too heavy for us to carry him all the way
there and back. So we helped ourselves to rope from Dad’s shed at the back of the block and then, brimming over with enthusiasm and excitement, made a safety harness to secure Michael to our billycart. With my bedroom pillow under his bum, we strapped Michael securely to the cart.
We left Darryl and Eric at home to take good care of Mum (which meant making her many cups of tea). I planned on finding her a nice big crab, a ‘full’ crab – that is, we told her, one filled with plenty of meat – for dinner that night. On Gran’s last visit to Fannie Bay she had told us that fish and crabs were full of iron, and we were old enough to understand that iron was what Mum needed most for her health. Mum trusted us to go off on our own, but as we said our goodbyes we heard her call, ‘Please be very careful – don’t go further than East Point, and do look after Michael!’
‘We’re okay, Mum,’ I reassured her. ‘Bruce and I have gone crabbing before. There’s nothing to worry about.’
Our father had taken us all crabbing many times; we felt he had taught us all we needed to know. And anyway, Bruce and I had caught crabs before by ourselves. We loved the excitement of the chase, and we loved eating crab too, but this time we really wanted to return home with one or two big crabs especially for Mum.
Checking that Michael was safely in the billycart, we took off, towing him slowly along behind us. As we popped out of the scrub onto a dirt track near the beach, I had a sudden thought about our crabbing spot.
‘Let’s try Racecourse Creek,’ I said. ‘We haven’t found a crab in ages at East Point – everyone goes there now.’ We had never been to Racecourse Creek before, and had only ever heard our father tell stories of fishing and crabbing expeditions there, but on that particular day it felt like the right place to go.
Bruce agreed. So with our confidence building, and feeling as game as Ned Kelly, we veered off to the right, towards Race–course Creek behind the Fannie Bay golf course, instead of East Point where Mum believed we were going. We pushed and pulled the little wooden billycart around the edge of the golf course, following a rough, barely noticeable track. I was exhilarated and frightened at the same time because we could come a cropper at any moment. Bruce showed no signs of concern – in fact, he seemed quite calm about the whole thing. Michael wasn’t really old enough to tell us what he thought of the idea – at any rate, he was too busy hanging on to the billycart for dear life, never complaining once about the terrible bumpy ride and face full of dust he was getting.
The further we followed this little track, the more overgrown it became – until we were actually walking under what seemed to be a tropical jungle canopy. Suddenly we popped out into bright daylight, and before us was the wondrous sight of an island close by. Unfortunately, this thrilling sight was marred by the dense humidity, the stench of flying foxes and the sound of their continuous squabbling, and the high-pitched noises of swarming sandflies and mosquitoes. The near – and very muddy-looking – riverbanks were covered in mangrove trees, their spikes (or breathing tubes) sticking out of the grey mud everywhere. There was the odd loud pop from the grey mud as the tubes shot tiny fountains of water high into the air. The funny mud jacks with their huge dark eyes were bouncing about the silty playground; they looked like they were watching us. An occasional gentle breeze rustled the grasses on the banks, although the staunch mangrove trees were too sturdy to bow to it.
The name Racecourse Creek was misleading – it was more like a river. The scene was exciting and yet a little terrifying too: the river would throw up loud splashes and the water was grey and murky, so it was difficult to see the fish.
After surveying our new crabbing spot I called to Bruce, ‘Come on, we’d better hurry and find some crabs for Mum.’ By then all I wanted to do was find a big mud crab or two and get the hell out of there, because it now crossed my mind that our mother had no idea where we were, and if Dad or Mum found out that we had gone to Racecourse Creek we’d be in trouble for sure. Standing there looking at the river, I also grew concerned for little Michael and my staunch supporter Bruce. If an accident happens, it will be entirely my fault, I thought, because I was the eldest and the ultimate responsibility rested with me.
Untying the rope that held Michael in his homemade safety harness, I lifted him onto my left hip and, with the help of my grab hook, gently eased myself over the high banks and down towards the river. Bruce had gone on ahead, prodding huge crab hole after crab hole, so far without success.
With my baby brother on my hip, I moved slowly along the muddy bank, dragging one dirty foot after the other, poking the homemade crab stick deep into each hole, twirling it around and searching the crannies, hoping to find a big, heavy crab.
‘There’re no crabs here, sis,’ Bruce called back. ‘I’ll go across to the island – you stay here with Michael.’
Now, I’m not one to be left behind and miss out on any excitement, so I called out, ‘We’re coming too!’ There was no way Michael and I would stay back and let Bruce have all the fun. Besides, the nearer I was to Bruce, the safer I felt, and by now the place was starting to give me the creeps. It seemed to me that the sea was drawing out the creek water from around the island faster than I had ever seen tidal movement before. In the short time we had been crabbing so much more of the island had become exposed; it was a muddy, grey lump of land covered in ancient mangrove trees that were only fully revealed on an extremely low tide.
‘Wait for me!’ I called to Bruce as he began to cross the river. It looked shallow now, and I wanted to be by his side. Michael clung tightly to my back – just like a little monkey, I thought.
I stepped down into the murky water, into the oozing mud that rose very nearly to my knees. It was not a good feeling. As I balanced my baby brother more securely on my back, tightening my grip on his little chubby legs, I struggled to lift my legs up one after the other, battling to break the suction of the hungry mud that had a firm grip on the soles of my feet. Michael was a placid child and nothing really bothered him; he never cried or whinged. He seemed to enjoy our little journeys together – which was just as well, as this was not one of the better ones.
By now a little apprehensive, Bruce and I kept close together as we moved slowly across to the mangrove island almost 100 metres out from the bank. The murky water was up to our knees, churned up by the many bubbles rising from underneath. Then something hit my leg. I panicked and let out a scream, all the while holding on tightly to Michael.
‘Follow me, sis,’ Bruce said, leading the way through the water. It was an experience crossing to the island, but the sight of all the mud crab holes among the roots of the mangroves was promising.
‘This looks good,’ I said to Bruce. ‘There must be crabs here. But we’ve got to start searching quickly.’ I was spooked by the fast tide and keen to get out of there.
Bruce took his hessian bag and crab hook and headed to the opposite side of the island. The island itself wasn’t more than 100 metres across. Still with my baby brother attached to my hip, I searched the middle of the island. With the afternoon sun full of heat and the humidity high, Michael began to feel like a lead weight in my arms, and I rested for a few minutes by sitting on a mangrove root system.
‘I’ve got one!’ yelled Bruce.
‘That’s great,’ I called back, then started madly prodding every damn crab hole I could find. Only then did I think to look about the island, making sure we weren’t sharing this muddy haven with a hungry saltwater crocodile.
‘I’ve got another one!’ Bruce cried, holding up a good-sized mud crab. He pushed it into his hessian bag to join the first crab.
With Michael still on board I kept prodding and poking the holes, hoping to find my first crab for the day. Then I suddenly realised that the tide must have turned and was now coming in as quickly as it had gone out: the island was going under. Loud, rhythmical popping sounds began to fill the air around us. Frightened, I looked about, but saw nothing. Although I was worried, I told myself that the popping sounds were the result of air bei
ng expelled from the mud holes as the sea water covered them.
By now I was standing ankle deep in water. I screamed out to Bruce, ‘Hurry, the tide has turned! We have to get out of here now.’
I moved slowly towards what had been our entry point to the island – except now it was a small torrent of fast-moving sea water. Bruce helped to lift young Michael up onto my shoulders, and he carried the bag with its two crabs for Mum. Although we were scared, we knew we had no choice but to try to cross what was fast becoming a treacherous river. We held hands as we sank deep into the muddied water together. I could feel cockleshells and mangrove spikes under my bare feet. The strength of the incoming tide was extremely powerful, pulling at and buffeting us as it rushed in to cover the island.
As the muddy water rose to just below my chin, my grip on Bruce tightened. A cream-coloured sea snake was carried past on the swift incoming tide, followed by splashes as a young stingray played, then a bump and more bubbles. There was no time to think about such predators as crocodiles, stingrays, sea snakes or the deadly man-o’-war jellyfish that could have been lurking below us in the warm waters of the river. On tiptoes, Bruce and I fought to keep our noses out of the water as the current tugged us along. Fortunately, Michael remained as calm as ever, with no understanding of our predicament. He rested his head on mine.
Eventually the water began dropping down to my chest, then my waist, as we got closer to the riverbank, but the tide had carried us 150 metres further along the bank than where we’d originally entered. Exhausted and itchy from the sea lice, with the soles of our feet cut and bloody, and stinking mud squelching between our toes, we ploughed on slowly until we had climbed back up over the mud bank and out of harm’s way.
Love on Forrest Downs Page 3
