by Di Morrissey
Sally recalled the dishevelled man she’d first seen. ‘I thought I was getting in the way and you hated having me around.’
‘Sally, I’m glad we’re friends.’
‘Me too.’ She kissed him quickly. ‘I’d better get back to the boys. If you see the rest of the kids send them up to the school, please.’
All was quiet in the schoolhouse save for the scratching of a pen, the scrape of Frankie’s coloured chalk as he drew on the board and the heavy breathing of a cattle dog under a desk. Sally was checking their homework before it went off in that week’s bag of work to the correspondence school. She glanced at her watch, it was almost time to finish for the day. Then there was an eruption of noise, laughter, shouting, a car horn blowing.
‘What the dickens?’ Sally ran to the door.
The women were running from the house, Fitzi and two stockmen were in the yard on horseback having ridden up from the front gate. They were followed by John Monroe, who swerved the Land Rover up to the house and jumped out, calling Lorna.
‘What’s going on?’ called Sally.
Fitzi was closest to her and he shouted, ‘Mizta Charlie Chan come. Got him van, plenny good tings!’
The black children raced off before she could dismiss them. ‘Who on earth is Charlie Chan?’
‘He’s the hawker man. He comes round all the stations twice a year selling things,’ said Ian. ‘Can we go now? I want to see what he’s got.’
‘What sort of things does he sell?’ Sally’s curiosity was piqued and the idea of a travelling salesman was appealing.
‘All kinds of things. Ask Mum.’ Tommy and Ian were racing towards the house to raid their piggy banks.
Lorna was getting into the Land Rover. ‘Come on, Sally, let’s go shopping.’
‘I don’t have any cash on me.’
‘Don’t worry about that, just pick out what you want,’ called John Monroe so Sally jumped in the back with the boys who were clutching their pocket money.
The old hawker had parked his big truck, covered with a canvas awning and piled with bags and boxes on the side and top, near the home stables but close enough to the blacks’ camp for them to see he was there.
‘My God, look at those old girls run,’ said John. ‘Never stir themselves any other time.’
Sally laughed at the sight of the women, the plump, the skinny, those with a piccaninny on their back, kids and dogs chasing at their heels, all hurrying as fast as they could to the van where a short man was rolling up the canvas sides of the truck. The boys rushed over to him as Lorna, John and Sally greeted him.
‘G’day, Charlie. Thought you wouldn’t get here before the Wet,’ said John.
‘No fear, Mister Monroe, I wouldn’t miss you out. How do, Miz Monroe.’
‘Hello, Charlie. This is our governess, Miss Mitchell.’
Sally nodded and gave him a big smile, unsure whether to shake hands as neither of the Monroes had. Charlie was a mixture of Aboriginal, Chinese, European and Afghan. He had wrinkled olive skin, narrow bright black eyes, a high forehead and a long dark pigtail.
Lorna said to Sally, ‘Charlie is carrying on an old family tradition. His father and grandfather were Afghan camel traders. They travelled all around the Territory and north selling to the stations, prospectors, outstations, missions, everywhere. It used to be the only way we could get things sometimes.’
‘Me more modern but,’ laughed Charlie. ‘I hated them camels when I was a kid.’
‘So what do you have to show us, Charlie?’ Lorna was businesslike; she was ready to stock up on her store supplies. The black men hovered, but the women were pulling things from the truck as the kids squealed and jumped around them. Soon some of the stockmen came over to join them. The word of Charlie’s arrival had been spreading for some time as he’d driven along the track to Barra Creek.
It was a small riot of a bargain bazaar as items were spread on the ground. The men wanted to see whips, belts, holsters, boots, hats, smelly hair cream, scarves, buckles and fancy satin Western shirts. Lorna put aside work shirts, pants, some baby nappies and cleaning utensils along with dresses and blouses for the women. The boys were pulling out toys and books, paints and crayons, slingshots and a badminton set. John Monroe stocked up on bullets, rope, snake oil and nails. Sally found a bright red nail polish, a couple of books and a fancy plaited leather belt.
Charlie nodded approval at the belt. ‘That a good belt that one. Made by old fella Jack at Brindley Station. His eyes are goin’ and hands are shaky. He won’t be makin’ many more like that one.’
A voice behind her whispered, ‘How about a silver buckle to go with it?’ Rob held out the buckle engraved with a prancing horse. ‘A present for you.’
‘Hey, thank you, Rob.’ Sally wanted to hug him but was aware Lorna was watching them.
‘’Scuse me, I gotta fix up them girls or they’ll have every bit of cloth unrolled,’ said Charlie, heading into the melee at the back of the truck. The women had grabbed bolts of bright red and yellow cloth and Charlie was kept busy cutting off lengths for them. Others were buying colourful patterned dresses.
Lorna and Sally shook their heads. ‘They like the colours of the dresses,’ said Lorna, ‘never mind that big fat Daisy has bought an XSW.’
‘But she can’t wear it!’ exclaimed Sally.
‘Oh, she’ll find a way. They can sew a very basic running stitch, big over and under. You’ve seen some of their frocks – a hole for the head and stitched up the sides. Sometimes they’ll go to the trouble of adding a big gusset in the sides. So long as they like the colour they’re happy.’
Lizzie was elated and held up her red material. ‘Make ’em plenny corroboree dress. Got ’em lachtik, fix ’em up good.’
‘What’s lachtik?’ asked Sally.
‘They buy wide elastic, put it round their waist and tuck the fabric into it. Hey presto, a skirt. They’ll tear a strip off one side and tie it round their hair.’
That evening there was much laughter from the blacks’ camp as everyone shared their booty. In the homestead Sally took out her silver buckle and turned it over in her hands, touched by Rob’s gesture. She decided next time she went away she’d have something engraved on it to remind her of Barra Creek. Then it struck her, where would she wear a stockman’s leather belt with a big silver buckle? It was so unlike the conservative gear and subdued accessories she was allowed to wear for Hunt events. She’d ask Rob to attach the buckle to her belt tomorrow.
The following afternoon, after school had been out for an hour or so, Sally went looking for the boys to go for a ride. She wandered down to the stables and asked Rob if he’d seen them.
‘They’ve gone hunting with Frankie and Ginger and the lubras. They’re having a corroboree tonight.’
‘What for?’
‘Ask Fitzi. It’s a bit of a party.’
‘I hear them singing some nights,’ said Sally. ‘It’s kind of mournful.’
‘I’ll take you down, if you like. After the boys are in bed.’
‘Should I tell Lorna?’
‘Why not? But she’s never been interested. It’s not a special ceremony or anything.’
‘Right. See you later then.’
Lorna sipped a soft drink as they gathered before dinner. Rob and John were deep in conversation about station matters. The boys were in the kitchen talking to Lizzie. The nanny goat had been milked and there had been a discussion about how to make goat’s cheese.
‘Rob says the camp blacks are doing a corroboree tonight. He’s going to take me down to watch,’ Sally told Lorna.
‘Sally, I wish you wouldn’t. Has Rob checked it out with Fitzi? Sometimes it’s not appropriate for women to watch. Why on earth do you want to go down there anyway?’
Sally hesitated. ‘Rob thought I might be interested.’
Lorna gave her a sharp look. ‘You make your own decisions, Sally.’ Pointedly she changed the subject. ‘Have you heard from your nice doctor in Darwin?’
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‘Heavens no. Now come on, Lorna,’ she cajoled. ‘You don’t want me to move to Darwin, do you?’ Sally kept her voice low so Rob, across the room, didn’t hear.
Lorna’s lips twitched in a near smile. ‘I doubt that will happen. You’re meant for better things. Though we don’t want to lose you just yet.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, Lorna. I love it here with you, the boys . . .’
‘And?’ Lorna glanced towards Rob.
‘C’mon, Lorna, we’re mates. Good friends. There isn’t a lot of company my own age around here. Unless you count some of the stockmen or the runners . . .’
Lorna held up her hand. ‘Very well, I take your point. Sally, when you’re out here, and lonely, you don’t want to build more into something than is there.’
Sally leaned over and touched Lorna’s arm. ‘I understand what you’re saying. Really I do.’
Lorna looked relieved. ‘That’s good then because I have to go to Cairns. They’re a bit worried about my condition. The doctor wants me on hand to monitor me.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, that’s sensible, much safer,’ said Sally, wondering how she’d manage on her own for so long. John had got out of hand when Lorna was down in Sydney. ‘When will John go over?’
‘Heavens, I don’t expect him to leave. I’ll be all right.’ But her face looked tight and sad.
‘The baby is the most important thing,’ said Sally softly. ‘Don’t worry, everything here will be fine.’
‘I hope so. I know what happens when I leave. I trust you, Sally. You know what I mean.’ She rose and rang the bell for Lizzie to serve.
Sally knew what she meant. Her responsibility was Ian and Tommy. Lorna couldn’t bring herself to mention how one boy had been lost. Not that she blamed Sally. She didn’t have to, Sally still blamed herself in some ways for Marty’s death. She glanced across the room and caught Rob’s eye. He’d heard Lorna’s last remark. Thank God he was there. Life at Barra Creek would be much more difficult without his company.
By bedtime the boys had heard that Rob was taking Sally down to the corroboree and wanted to go as well.
‘You know your mother has forbidden you to go near the blacks’ camp. It’s a no-go area.’
‘She doesn’t like you going there either,’ countered Ian.
‘Yes, but Rob is watching out for me. I’ll just stay in the background.’
‘He can look after us too,’ said Tommy.
‘Come on, you chaps. I’ve never seen real Aborigine dancing. I’ve seen Frankie and Ginger showing you at the back of the schoolhouse, but that’s all.’
‘All right then,’ laughed Tommy. ‘We’ll put on our own corroboree!’
Trailing towels, the two boys rushed along the verandah and dragged from under a bed a didgeridoo and clap sticks. Ian perched cross legged on the floor and started playing the long, hollow pipe Fitzi had made from a straight tree branch. Tommy played the clap sticks, banging the small cigar-shaped sticks together, swaying to their rhythm. Then he began to dance. Sally had seen him do this in wild spurts before, but tonight the boys performed with great seriousness, conscious that the third member of their group was missing. Marty had always kept to the beat by clapping and slapping his thighs.
Sally marvelled at the nimble movements of Tommy’s slim body, lithe one minute, jerky the next as he imitated the bush creatures, the warrior and the hunter. He was depicting a story that came to a conclusion as the hunter closed in on his prey. The didge music got louder and as the hunter raised his spear Lorna stepped out onto the verandah.
‘Just stop that rubbish, this instant!’
Shocked into silence, Ian tried to hide the didgeridoo, Tommy stopped dancing and Sally stepped forward and took the clap sticks from him.
‘Okay, that’s enough, finish getting ready for bed.’ She pushed the sticks into her pocket.
‘Sally, don’t let them do that. I will not have them behaving like wild native bush boys. Ian, give me that thing.’
‘Aw, Mum, it’s special.’ He tried to hide the didgeridoo that was almost as tall as Tommy. ‘It’s not mine anyway.’
‘Then all the more reason why you shouldn’t have it.’
‘It’s Fitzi’s favourite,’ cried Tommy.
‘No it’s not. It’s Rob’s,’ said Ian, hoping that might make it more valuable.
Lorna took the musical instrument. ‘It’s firewood now. Off you go to the bathroom.’ She turned to Sally. ‘I’m putting this in the fire. It’s hard enough trying to stop them growing up like little heathens, allowing this sort of behaviour doesn’t help. You are to oversee their manners as much as their school work.’
‘Yes, Lorna. I’m sorry. They wanted to go down to the corroboree. Of course I told them it was out of the question.’
‘Why can’t they listen to proper music or learn the piano?’ sighed Lorna. ‘They’ll be at such a disadvantage when they go to school next year.’
From what Lorna had told Sally, most of the boys from the country were just like Tommy and Ian; she doubted they’d be misfits.
‘I won’t go down to the corroboree then.’
Lorna’s anger had dissipated slightly. ‘Go, as long as Rob stays with you. These things go on all night, I’ll expect you back at a reasonable time. Then you won’t need to go near that camp again. When I’m away I want to know I can trust you.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m still going to burn this thing,’ said Lorna.
The boys flung Sally a desperate look, but her expression silenced their moans at losing the didgeridoo. Sally hoped Fitzi would make another one that was just as good.
Once the boys were settled in bed Rob and Sally drove in his ute towards the camp. As they came close they saw the glow of the campfires and a smoky cloud of dust in the yellow light. There was a lot of movement from swaying dancers and an occasional leaping figure.
Rob walked ahead and Fitzi materialised beside them, though for a moment Sally didn’t recognise him. He and the other men wore loincloths that looked to Sally like nappies; the men called them cockrags. Some wore old shorts, their bare chests daubed with thick white markings. Their hair was caked with grey ash and mud, and some wore elaborate headdresses. The women wore their new skirts sewn up as Lorna had described along with strips of material around their heads. Their bare breasts and faces were also painted with ochre. They sat on the ground, singing and playing the clap sticks.
Fitzi showed them where to sit and crouched beside them.
‘What story this one?’ asked Rob.
‘Dis longa time, good chory, how camel men come ’ere.’
‘The Afghans?’
‘Dem good people. Camel go everywhere, carry every ting.’
‘Like the hawkers?’ said Sally.
‘Dat be one. Dem come round in motor car now. No more camel chop.’ He nodded at the dancers. ‘Dere be camel in dat dance.’
Sally immediately recognised the two dancers pretending to be a camel. ‘I wish I could follow the whole story. They’re wonderful mimics.’
Fitzi returned to the group and she and Rob became absorbed in the saga being played out on the dirt stage. It was difficult to recognise the same slow lubras and stockmen, the blacks who sat down around the station, as these energetic, exuberant performers. It was mesmerising, the singing and rhythmic clapping hypnotic. Sally had no idea how much time had passed when Rob nudged her.
‘We should make a move soon. It’s been nearly two hours.’
‘Righto.’ Sally stood and as she turned she froze. Across the edge of the fire she saw the weird and creepy figure of the strange old man the boys called Mr Stinky. His wrinkled skin, cut with initiation and ceremonial scars, looked saggy, his yellow hair through the fire haze looked to be ablaze and his eyes glowed like red embers. He was staring directly at Sally, a slight smile on his face. Beside him stood two young girls of about twelve. Rob caught her involuntary shudder.
‘What’s up?’
‘T
hat old man, Mr Stinky. Those girls with him. Surely he’s not going to . . . take them away with him.’
‘Looks like it. It’s the custom, Sal. He teaches them.’
‘It’s disgusting, they must hate it.’
‘He must be pretty good, apparently the girls don’t want to leave him when he brings them back to camp.’
‘I don’t understand it.’
Rob was about to say something, but changed his mind and turned away. ‘We’d better get back, Lorna is probably sitting on the verandah waiting for us.’
‘She wouldn’t!’
Rob grinned. ‘Let’s not rock the boat. Besides she’ll be gone for a couple of weeks.’ He leaned down and kissed Sally. ‘And then who’s going to keep tabs on us?’
Sally laughed and relaxed, the glimpse of the old man forgotten. ‘The boys, John, Fitzi. We’ll have eyes on us the whole time if you ask me!’
When they drove up to the homestead all was in darkness; everything was peaceful. The moon was blurry bright and Rob glanced up at the night sky. ‘Looks like the Wet will start early. Didn’t have much of a wet season last year. It would be good if we got a decent one this year.’
‘Ugh, I hate rain.’
‘This isn’t rain, it’s an upended river.’ He drew her to him and they stood in the garden, arms entwined around each other.
‘Thanks for taking me down tonight. It was really interesting. Listen, you can still hear them.’
‘Don’t expect the women to turn up on the dot tomorrow morning. G’night, Sal.’ He kissed her softly on the lips. But the gentle kiss quickly became a rush of passion.
When they drew apart, Rob shook his head. ‘My God, Sally, you run me over like a steam train. I can’t believe what you do to me. You’re a dangerous woman.’
Sally felt the same, amazed at how her body surged at his touch. ‘We seem to have some sort of electrical current between us.’
They leaned closer, their lips touching again. ‘So what are we going to do about it?’ whispered Rob. ‘Up to you . . .’
In answer, Sally tightened her arms and kissed him harder, giving him all the answer he needed.
