Nona and Me

by Clare Atkins

  “Okay.”

  She starts to pour the bright green liquid into two plastic cups. I look around. Something sails over our heads into Nick’s hands.

  “Good catch, mate.”

  I lean forward to see what it is. It’s a can of spray-paint.

  Benny grins at us. “For prosterity.”

  Nick laughs. “It’s posterity, you goose.”

  “Whatever. Make your mark, man. Eighteen.”

  Nick shakes the can. Something small and metal clangs up and down inside it.

  Selena is adding juice now. She indicates Benny and Nick with a nod of her head. “Boys, huh?” She smiles.

  I watch as Nick takes the lid off and starts to spray the lookout sign with large letters. Nicked. His tag. The strokes of the N look like sharp red gashes. I can just make out some of the writing behind it.

  You are on Rirratjiŋu land

  … everything is divided into two moeities, Dhuwa and Yirritja.

  Yolŋu land owners hope you enjoy your visit to Nhulun.

  I remember Dad bringing me here when I was little. I can almost hear his voice: This is a very sacred place, blossom. It was damaged when the mine was first set up. The Yolŋu were so upset they brought their spears and performed a special buŋgul, right here where we’re standing, to demand respect for their land …

  As Nick finishes the “D”, I say, “Do you have to do that?” But my voice sounds weak and unconvincing. I almost choke on the words.

  He shrugs, grinning. “Reminds me of being fifteen.”

  Selena hands me one of the cups and I take a sip. It tastes acidic and sweet and like medicine all at once.

  Selena is watching me, expectant. “Good? Better than beer, right?”

  I nod, tip up the cup and swallow it all. It makes me feel warm and numb. It drowns the memory of Aiden’s voice and fades the colour of blood.

  Selena looks at me, laughing. “Whoa, Rosie. Easy.”

  I hold out my cup for a refill. She thinks it’s hilarious.

  She pours again. And again. And again.

  *

  Three quarters of a bottle later, the base of the lookout is covered in red, white and black tags. I sit, half-defeated, half-drunk, leaning on the trunk of a nearby tree. Selena dances next to me with a few other girls. Her movements are fluid and graceful. Beautiful, even.

  Nick approaches through the tumble of dancers. He pulls me to my feet. “Let’s go up.”

  The lookout is a small wooden platform perched four flights of metal stairs above the ground. He takes my hand and leads me towards it. I stumble, the earth uneven under my feet. I hardly notice. My body is liquid. Runny. Dissolving.

  Still holding my hand, Nick guides me up the narrow stairway. We pass people coming back down and squeeze past them. Then we’re at the top. Nhulunbuy is stretched out below us, just darkness and a few glinting lights. The oval is lit up. People must be training. To our far left the refinery glows a dull orange, its enormous bulk silhouetted by the night. I can smell the salt of the ocean.

  There’s another couple pashing in the opposite corner. Nick moves in behind me and kisses my neck. Tingles erupt on my skull and shoot down my spine. I turn into him and I don’t hold back. I want to feel him. I don’t want to think. I want to surrender.

  We kiss long and deep. I forget where we are. I forget who he is and who I am and that we are separate. Different. I don’t want this feeling to end.

  I say, “I want to sleep with you.”

  “Rosie … you sure?”

  I nod. His back is on the metal railing. I press myself up against him. I can feel the whole length of our bodies crushed together. I kiss him again.

  He tries not to sound too eager, but excitement thrills in his words. “Let’s go down to the car.”

  “Okay.”

  I don’t remember getting down the stairs.

  I don’t remember saying goodbyes.

  I remember tripping and grazing my knee as we made our way back to Nick’s Hilux.

  I remember blackness.

  30.

  2001

  I feel her push back the sheet. The two beds in my room are permanently shoved together now. Nona stands, quiet in the dark, then slides out our bedroom door. Her shadow crosses the pale yellow light from the bathroom. I hear the front door open and close.

  I hurry to follow, tiptoeing across the hall. I shove my thongs on and slip out into the night. The air is still and muggy, the community quiet. Nona hears me on the stairs and waits for me to catch up.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “The oval. You wanna come?”

  Her smile glows in the dark. Mum will kill us if she finds out. It’s not the first time Nona’s nicked off in the middle of the night. Last time, Mum was so worried she called the night-patrol ladies to bring her home.

  I whisper, “Mum said no going out after dark.”

  Nona gives a cheeky shrug. “She’s sleeping. She won’t know.”

  Against my better instincts, I follow her into the unlit street. The crunch of gravel is loud in my ears.

  I’m already starting to feel guilty. I know Mum’s found it hard, having Nona stay. The smalls left for Elcho after a few weeks; they missed their mum. But Nona’s been with us three months. Three months of her racking up huge phone bills calling her mum and sisters. Three months of Mum feeling like a “twenty-four-hour taxi service”. Three months of Nona disappearing and Mum calling around worried, only to learn she’s playing cards somewhere or visiting family, and have her show up three days later, wanting to wash her clothes, eat and shower. Mum’s tried to lay down some rules, but none of them have stuck.

  We cross the shop car park and make our way onto the oval. It looks like a dark hollow in the ground. The lights are always broken.

  I put my hand on Nona’s warm arm. “We shouldn’t go too far.”

  “You scared? Think galka’s gonna get you?”

  “’Course not.”

  I hear murmurs from the other side of the oval, near the bush. I tighten my grip on Nona. “What’s that?”

  “Sheree and Minhala were gonna come down.”

  She moves fearlessly towards the voices. My eyes start to adjust. I can make out figures in the blue-black night. A cigarette lighter flares, briefly illuminating Sheree’s face in its tiny orange glow.

  A harsh voice cuts through the darkness. “Rosie! Nona!”

  I jump. My heart is pounding. Nona screams. Her cousins clamber backwards. “Wah … galka …”

  A body lurches out of the dark, tall and menacing.

  “What do you think you’re doing out here?”

  It’s my mum. Fine drops of her spittle land on me as she walks towards us, fuming. “How many times have I told you? No wandering at night. You should be in bed. It’s not safe out here. And to bring Rosie with you …”

  “Mum, it’s okay. We’re okay.”

  She barely hears me. “Get home. Now.” Her voice is low and menacing. We stand there, stunned. She hollers, “Now, girls!”

  We start walking. We are silent the whole way home. Back in our lounge room, I see that Mum is torn between anger and tears. She says, “I honestly don’t know what to do, Nona. I want you to be happy here. But there have to be rules. All this coming and going, taking money, wandering at night … it’s exhausting for me … and it’s not good for you.”

  Nona doesn’t say anything.

  Mum looks exasperated. “Did you hear me?”

  Nona says, “I want to go and live with Mum. On Elcho.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I’m just saying –”

  “I want to.”

  My insides are screaming, Don’t leave me! Don’t go!

  There’s a long silence, then Mum says, “I’ll book a seat for you. When do you want to go?”

  31.

  2007

  I wake up in Nick’s bed. My head is pounding. I feel someone sit beside me. The mattress dips to accommodate the weight. I hear Nic
k’s voice. “Here. Drink this.”

  He’s holding out a cup of fizzing blood-orange Berocca. I sit up and the sheet slips to my waist. I realise I’m only wearing undies. I pull the sheet back up, feeling self-conscious. I drink the Berocca. My head is spinning. Did I? Did we? I don’t remember. How can I not remember?

  Nick reads my expression. “Don’t worry. Nothing happened.” He can see I’m relieved and laughs. “It wouldn’t have been that much of a disaster, would it?”

  I don’t know how to answer that, so I say, “Where are my clothes?”

  “In the wash. You spewed all over yourself – and my car.”

  “Oh no. Sorry.”

  Nick’s ute is his pride and joy. “It’s okay. You had a bit much. You passed out.”

  The night is coming back to me in pieces. Selena pouring us drinks. Graffiti. Music. Stairs. An old man muttering. Stars. The hard look in Nick’s eyes. But that Nick is not the Nick here with me now. This Nick is gentle. He tucks a knotty strand of hair back behind my ear. I feel like crying. “Thanks for not … you know …”

  He looks at me, so loving. “What? Taking advantage? As if I would. You know me better than that.”

  Inside, a small voice asks, Do I? I try to ignore it.

  He grins. “But if you want to now I won’t say no …”

  He kisses me. I squirm away. “I’ve got to meet Mum at the bakery.”

  “What time?”

  “Ten.”

  Nick reaches over and turns his bedside clock to face us. It’s 9.24am.

  I try to hide my relief as I get up. “I’d better shower.”

  *

  I wait in Mum’s troopie as she ducks into the bakery to buy some bread. Even on a Sunday morning the place is busy with miners from the G3. They emerge with what I’m guessing is their staple breakfast: meat pies and half-litre iced coffees. Even the thought of eating makes me feel queasy. My head is throbbing. The Berocca didn’t work this morning.

  Mum appears with a loaf of wholemeal and The Arafura Times. She shoves both into my lap as she clambers into the driver’s seat. “Managed to get a copy of the paper.”

  I try to sound interested, but only come up with a “Hmmph.”

  She indicates the cover photo. “Did Anya’s parents say any thing about this?”

  I glance at the photo. It’s three men standing side by side: one Yolŋu, another Indigenous man, and a suited-up white guy. They’re all smiling.

  “Um, no …” I’m worried she’ll ask about my sleepover, so I try to distract her by asking, “Who are they?”

  Mum looks appalled that I don’t know. “You recognise Galarrwuy, of course.”

  I look back at the photo and nod as she continues. “And that’s Noel Pearson, the leader from Cape York. And Mal Brough, Minister for Indigenous Affairs.”

  I read the headline: Indigenous leader signs 99-year land lease to government. Mum mistakes my looking for interest, and says, “Galarrwuy’s done a backflip on the Intervention. He signed a lease for the land. Can you believe it?” She looks over at me, expecting a response.

  My brain is foggy. I manage to mumble, “Maybe he changed his mind.”

  Wrong answer.

  “How can he change his mind? He’s spent most of his life fighting for land rights. This goes against everything he said he believed in.”

  I close my eyes. I think of my lies to Mum. Nick at the Arnhem Club. Aiden’s accusations. I say, “Sometimes things aren’t black and white, Mum.”

  She stares. “Is this coming from Nick?”

  I almost laugh. “He wouldn’t even know who Galarrwuy is.”

  “I’m not talking about Galarrwuy. I’m talking about standing by your principles, no matter what.”

  I’m hungover and irritable, and I snap. “You think everything has an answer. It’s so clear to you, right? What everyone else should do?”

  She looks stunned. “You know that’s not fair. I grapple with issues every day …”

  “Oh, I know, and I have to hear about them all, don’t I? I have to listen to you rave on. My boyfriend left me. Work’s so draining. We don’t have enough money for x. I’ve got my own shit to deal with. I don’t need to hear about yours.”

  I know I’ve crossed a line because she doesn’t reply.

  She drives in hurt silence for the rest of the trip home.

  *

  I’m in Nick’s room. On his bed. After school. The curtains are drawn against the daylight trying to peek in from outside.

  He moves in to kiss me, but I pull back. Away. “I don’t feel like it.”

  “You wanted to on Saturday night.”

  His voice is gentle and coaxing, but I stand firm. “Nick, I need to ask you something …”

  “What?”

  “What do think about Yolŋu people?”

  He looks bemused. “I don’t think about them at all.”

  “But when you see them –”

  “I don’t.”

  “Come on, be serious …”

  “I only see them around town.” He’s irritated now. Defensive.

  I force myself to say it. “You don’t like them, do you?”

  He stares up at the ceiling, avoiding my gaze. But I’ve come too far to back down now. I need to know the answer. I need to understand. I push him. “Nick?”

  “I don’t ‘not like them’ …”

  “I see the way you look at them.”

  “I just … there’s history …”

  I don’t say anything. I don’t give him any excuse to stop talking.

  After a long pause, he says, “There was a girl. Back in Sydney. She went to my school – on and off. We had a thing for each other, I guess. We’d meet up in the park after school and fool around. Her name was Shaniquwa.”

  Despite his serious tone, or perhaps because of it, I smile. He does too.

  “Everyone just called her Shan. She was Aboriginal. Koori, they call it down there. At least, that’s what she told me.”

  I try to hide my surprise. I keep my voice level as I ask, “How long did you go out with her for?”

  “I wouldn’t say we ‘went out’. We hung around. She was into graffiti. Sometimes we’d walk the backstreets. It was like she took me on my own personal tours. She knew a few of the local artists.”

  “Is that how you got into tagging?”

  “I was already interested, but yeah. What she showed me made me better at it.”

  “What happened?”

  “I dumped her for a Dolly model in the year above me.”

  He sees my amused disbelief. Even he has to smile. “I was only fourteen.”

  “Shaniquwa must’ve hated you.”

  “She did. She hated me so much she told all her brothers and sisters and cousins. And they came after me, one afternoon after school. They found me at the station. One guy pulled a knife.”

  “Oh, Nick.”

  “I was lucky – other people saw it and they ran off. After that, I started carrying a knife too. For protection. Kept it hidden in my bag.”

  “Did you see them again?”

  He shakes his head. “End of the year, we went to Bali, before coming here. Mum said yes to me getting a tatt, and I was looking through this book and … something about the Southern Cross seemed right. It said, Fuck off, this is my country; you can’t hurt me.”

  His eyes plead for understanding. My heart aches for that scared fourteen-year-old version of Nick. But I can’t let him think that then is now, or there is here.

  “Nick, they weren’t Yolŋu.”

  “They were Aboriginal –”

  “Even that’s pretty irrelevant. They could’ve been from anywhere.”

  He shrugs. “It’s proof, you know, that we should stick to our own kind.”

  “It was one bad experience.”

  “I lost it, Rosie … I was so scared for so long … like, nightmares and stuff …”

  His voice cracks. I’ve never seen a boy cry before. I don’t know what to do
.

  I pull him towards me. “I’m sorry that happened.”

  He lets me hold him as the tears fall. “Me too.”

  *

  I wake to the sound of our landline ringing. The whole house is dark. My gut clenches. Midnight calls are never good.

  I hear Mum fumble her way out to the lounge room.

  She answers the phone. “Hello?” Only a few seconds pass before she says, “I’ll be right there. I’m coming now.”

  She sounds stunned and panicky. I stagger to my bedroom door and open it to see her hurrying back to her room. “Mum? What’s happening?”

  She looks up at me in shock, like I’ve caught her doing something she shouldn’t.

  “Um … an accident. I’ve got to go and help. I don’t know much. You sleep. I’ll tell you about it in the morning.”

  Mum turns on her bedroom light. I squint at the sudden brightness. She pulls on a long cotton skirt and heads towards the front door, grabbing her car keys and slipping on Birken-stocks as she goes.

  “Mum, who is it?”

  But she just says, “Try to sleep. Do you think you can?”

  There’s a growing sense of dread in the pit of my stomach.

  Mum tries to reassure me. “It’ll be okay. I’ve got to go.”

  And she’s out the door. I check the glowing clock on the microwave. It’s 2.34am.

  *

  I don’t sleep, of course. I toss and turn. The build-up has just started and the night air is warm and sticky. I turn the fan up to three and lie on top of my sheets. I try not to let my imagination run wild.

  Camp dogs start to bark on the other side of the community. Others join them in a cacophony of howling and yapping that swells towards our house like a cresting wave. The dogs next door start up too.

  Then there’s silence.

  I watch two geckos scamper across my ceiling, weaving sticky trails around each other.

  There’s the sound of raised voices somewhere up the hill, yelling in Yolŋu Matha.

  I doze. I’m tired. So tired. A confused bush turkey warbles in the dark outside my window.

  I open my eyes again. Daylight is creeping through my green cotton curtains. I move into the corridor and peer into Mum’s room. Her bed is unmade and empty.