by Julie Janson
‘They want to paint, maybe they can sell the works. Burnie’s acrylics are beautiful, and he paints the Dreaming of the escarpment.’
‘Dreaming, my arse! Just turn off the lights.’
The children pointed out bright pink flowers on a tree. Leroy grinned and yelled, he dressed in feathers and had fish dangling from a line, and he hung around Aaron’s neck and whispered to him.
‘Now pelicans lay egg on beach’, said Leroy.
‘Leroy drew a big picture with eggs as big as people, he drew Aaron digging in the sand, he drew his whole family, trees and the billabong – all were equal in the cosmology.
‘North east wind blowing, then yam leaf change colour, pelican egg, goose eatem now’, said Ricky.
Jane had to learn about survival in the new environment, that it was crucial. The children at school taught her; she had as much to learn as they did. Ancestral beings inhabited the landscape; they were not just stories to the Lanniwah but actual living beings. ‘You gotta watch out, you might be upset someone, clever one, makem curse on you. You listen and not makem mistake. Some white fella makem mistake, big one, then he bin finish up, real true’, said Shirley.
‘Ask the old people if I can see a corroboree’, said Jane. A real one, a ceremony, that’s what she longed for.
A few days later, Jane sat with Aaron in her arms, patting him to keep still. The ceremony was beginning … She had felt frustrated with waiting, hadn’t they said it would be after lunch? That was hours ago. Maybe there would be nothing, something would happen to prevent it. Some fight between families, someone flogged with a waddy.
The sound of didgeridoos came over the hill. The sound grew louder, clapping sticks and boomerangs; they were singing a welcome song, thousands of years old, and a hundred men and woman danced into view. The audience was only Jane and a few women and schoolchildren. The immaculate dancers moved across the earth as if it was a skin, thudding their feet to wake up spirits. The women told Jane that the earth was marked like scarred bodies, the cicatrices on old men and women. Jane felt an extraordinary rush of emotion – nothing like this had ever happened to her. The totemic ancestors came alive in front of them: wallaby, dingo, bush turkey, snakes, goanna, all transformed by the performance. No camera, it would seem rude, just experience; something to tell her grandchildren about one day.
The men wore white strings of feathers and kapok on their heads. Their bodies gleamed with white ochre paint, and the women wore cotton dresses but had ochre daubed on their faces and arms. They came in a long advancing line, a hundred dancers to welcome her, they surged over the hill, the sound of ten didgeridoos, white feathers moved to the music.
Then suddenly the welcome dance was over. Old men and women called out to dancers to announce the next piece, devil-devil dance, with the children screaming in delight at the skeletons dancing with jagged limbs. The young men sucked in their cheeks, hollowed like skulls, their arms like disjointed limbs of rattling ghosts. The didgeridoos roared, and clap sticks kept up the urgent rhythmic beat.
The old men sat and sang and small boys danced alongside their fathers. The old women beat time on their laps in a separate group. Dappled light from the setting sun shone on their bodies. The men wore sarongs of red cotton cloth around their waists. Jane was electrified; they were in front of her, the stamping sent dust flying. They pounded the ground with their feet. Gum leaves rustled in huge bunches tied to knees and elbows. Aaron jumped up and joined the little boys. Jane noticed David playing the didgeridoo amongst the painted men with the red ochred drone pipe balanced on his right foot, the sound a rhythmic dittamoo, dittamoo, brrrrrrrh, dit, dit dit, and the sharp clicking sticks, click, click. Jane was mesmerised. He mesmerised her.
Some women held bunches of leaves in their hands, they rustled in time with the rhythm. These were display ceremonies, not sacred but for public celebration. They welcomed this new teacher over a three-hour corroboree. Each dance took about ten minutes, then the dancers would move to the side, some sitting by small fires (blackfella fires), chatting. One of the younger women came up to Jane, and with lots of laughter brought her up to dance a Brolga dance. She held her arms high and on the beat raised them up and down like the bird while Aaron hid his face in her dress.
Amongst the joyful performance there was a murmur, all eyes turned to the intruder. Edie walked over and gave Jane a message.
‘I heard on the radio telephone. That school inspector will be out soon to see you; he has to come before the flood gets worse.’
‘Thanks.’
Edie walked away then thinking better of it came back. Jane froze, not another reprimand. She walked away from the dancers and stood under a tree with Edie.
‘You better be up to date with the paper work; they look at that. And I’ll have to tell him about your extra-curricular activities’, said Edie.
‘Like what?’
‘Burning up power, that’s what.’
‘You don’t have to tell me how to do my job.’
‘Keep your shirt on. You’re doing all right … Look, why don’t you come over for dinner and meet the new Minister. He’s a philosophical man. You might learn something.’
‘Sure.’
‘And where exactly is your husband?’
Jane had no reply, she felt anxious, and a sickness in her head, it was not easy keeping peace with Edie. It was a constant learning curve to follow Lanniwah law – and then the unwritten rules of the cattle station were worse.
Jane sat up in the night and wrote endless lesson plans. It was best to be prepared; she hated examinations. It terrified her. Facing authority was the worst thing. Maybe she would fail.
CHAPTER 10
Edie Cooks Dinner
Edie welcomed Jane and Aaron into her dining room; it shone with neon light. Jane was excited: it was a night out. Aaron had put on his best shirt and Jane was dressed as conservatively as possible, trying to fit in. The newly arrived missionary, Reverend Thomas Wiltshire, sat upright at the table, his eyes beaming at Jane. He was forty with an intelligent gaze, curly hair, a pencil moustache and lips that needed constant licking; he wore long white socks and sandals.
Hubert gave a begrudging rave about how generous the Singapore owners were in allowing the Reverend, and the Lanniwah for that matter, to stay on the consortium’s land.
‘This place had a station manager with a reputation for liking horses and dogs. I was walking up the stairs in front of him, and the Boss says: ‘Hey, you’ve got a nice arse. If you were a kelpie, I’d root you.’ The men laughed and Jane watched Edie hang her head.
‘The neighbouring stations had run the buggers off … they would take a shotgun to any blackfella who crossed the leasehold boundary.’
‘They seem to need to travel across the land for their beliefs, the ceremonies protect the cosmology and earth’, Jane said.
‘Bull crap. The station has the legal right to lock them out; the blacks are darn lucky that I’m a kind man.’
‘Very kind’, murmured Jane.
It was a special night, Jane’s new second-hand blue Toyota had arrived. She had paid for it with a cheque that Hubert had accepted. The long wheel based four-wheel drive meant freedom for Jane and she celebrated its arrival. It was her first vehicle.
‘Here’s a toast to Mrs Reynolds’ new Toyota!’ said Hubert. They raised their glasses of cordial.
Hubert chewed while cutting up his children’s meat.
‘They’re witch doctors. Clever, you call ‘em, clever? Putting filthy stones into people’s stomachs. Real clever. Some of the cures can kill someone, or drive ‘em mad, poisoned with ant bed and thorny devils. Nice medicine. Edie has had men hobble over to the clinic with spears hanging out, dragging along the ground, sticking out of their thighs. “Missus helpem me.” That’s their law for you. They want our medicine for the agony. Hey Jane, don’t look like that. You gotta watch out for those young blades, eh Jane; they’re too bloody cheeky. They think they can have any woman, black
or white. Real casual about it, then they piss off. I’m not judging the dark people, it’s their culture. Pass the tomato sauce, Edie’, he said.
‘I know how to look after myself’, Jane said.
‘I bet you do.’
Edie looked hard at Jane. ‘Did you hear about that Jimmie Governor? He hacked open women and children with an axe.’
Reverend Wiltshire was playing with his food, his hand had a tremor, Edie watched him place his fork down. ‘Now, let’s be kind; we use Christianity for compassion with Aboriginal suffering, it is a well-embedded praxis in contemporary belief. Mrs Jane, you can call on me if you need spiritual help, I am also a trained service provider for scripture classes in schools. I know I seem formal, I make mistakes, but I do have a heart.’
‘Service provider’, said Jane.
‘I try to have a spiritual insight into rural Aboriginal people, I have asked myself why I pursue a Ministry in this area and it’s because I strive for insight into their minds. Compassion is from the Latin: to suffer with, have mercy. I see suffering out here amongst Aboriginal people. I was blind but now I see. God is immanent, pervasive, the only religion where we die but don’t die. ‘
‘Pass the salt, Edie. Nice weather we got.’ Hubert coughed.
‘That is true of Lanniwah beliefs as well, the ancestors are alive and part of the landscape, never ending and do not die.’ Jane looked intensly at the Reverend.
‘Jane, we will have some excellent spiritual discussions.’
Edie laughed, then focused on Jane.
‘I know the Katherine school inspector has a terrible habit of transferring teachers who don’t cut the mustard’, said Edie.
‘More white sauce, Reverend? We’re usually asked to make a report about each teacher. We ran the last fella off’, said Hubert. Edie tittered.
‘What for?’
‘Breakin’ the rules’, Edie laughed with a raucous grunting sound.
‘And he nearly died of snake bite, stupid bastard’, said Hubert.
‘Poor man.’
‘Came hopping up the steps holding his leg’, said Edie.
‘Oh no.’
‘He’d cut the bite marks, blood pouring down. I said, Edie, get a band aid! Better make it a big one!’
Edie, Hubert were weeping with laughter.
Jane thought, “Are they stoned?” She pictured the man writhing in pain. Alone, frightened. It must have been horrific; those King Brown snakes were deadly. Maybe he didn’t tie the wound up with a tight bandage. What would she do? Maybe she should leave tomorrow, no, tonight, just zoom away, and get as far as possible away from these savage loonies and poisonous snakes. No, she would be fine: she was brave, she knew about snakes and racists.
‘This steak Diane is tough’, said Hubert. Edie grimaced as Hubert shifted in his chair and smiled at Jane. He looked into her eyes and slipped his tongue out.
‘I cooked it long enough’, said Edie.
Jane lifted the dark strings of meat from the pinkish gravy. She nibbled.
‘She can’t cook, she just burns everything’, Hubert said.
‘I try, but you haven’t bought me a new stove’, Edie whined.
‘She was a real shocker when I married her, couldn’t boil an egg.’
‘You like it, don’t you, Reverend?’
‘It is a lovely dinner, Edie. We are grateful’, Jane said.
‘You kids remember her chicken with lemon essence? Nearly poisoned us’, said Hubert. The children had alarmed faces.
‘I like it. Mum’s a good cook’, said Elisha.
‘She couldn’t boil water.’ Hubert laughed and held his sides. There was silence.
He removed a piece of gristle from his mouth as Edie carefully placed her knife and fork by her dish and stared into her lap. The children were frozen over their plates, balls of meat stuck in their cheeks.
‘Except the time that I tipped a wee boiling kettle on your dick because you were fecking a girl from the camp. Running around with your little willy hanging out.’
The children’s eyes became saucers. They ducked. The Reverend choked. Jane cut up her meat and pushed the mash onto her fork.
‘She’s kidding. Aren’t you, darling?’ said Hubert. He lifted his knife and ran his finger down it. He licked the gravy.
‘Sure, you wouldn’t do a thing like that, would you?’
‘Lovely potatoes.’
‘Thankyou, Jane, they are instant.’ Edie smiled. Her face a clown mask.
‘Anyway, it’s better than blackfella tucker’, said Hubert.
‘Actually, the food up at camp is fantastic: try grilled fish on coals and fresh damper, yum’, said Jane. The table went quiet.
‘Sure it is’ said Hubert. He guffawed and choked.
The Wet season continued with more teeming rain. As water flooded all around the station, Jane watched it slowly move from the billabong to an inland sea right outside her door. She walked to school with her books on her head. The silver caravan stood isolated but dry. She wondered if the water would flood her home; maybe she would have to move, but where? The thought of having to stay with Hubert and Edie made her feel physically sick.
It was a grey-sky day, even coolish, and Jane had swum in the flooded billabong with Aaron. She worried that a big salty croc might have swum from Harrison River into their billabong during the flood. David said they would be fine. Jane clung to David’s words; she dreamt about him. He was an impossibility as a lover, too complicated for her to consider.
Hubert started up his aluminium boat and puttered around the road, now a river, with Old Pelican beside him. They shared a packet of smokes. They went to visit outlying herds of cattle and on motor bikes pushed them further away onto dry land. Little herds of Brahman cattle stood around scraggly trees chewing on bark, their hunger terrible.
Jane watched with sadness at the cattle trying to find something to eat, their big Indian eyes pleading. She fed one some bread. Hubert and Old Pelican stood next to her.
‘If they bloody starve, they bloody starve’, said Hubert.
‘Can’t you hand-feed them?’
‘Oh sure, come on over, Betsy the cow, sit down in the lounge room and have a plate of bloody salad.’
‘I only meant, you’d save the cattle so you could then butcher them. It’s all about the money; everything is really, isn’t it?’
‘Narr, the prices are so low, it’s barely worth mustering and driving them to slaughter. A man can only do his best in this God forsaken country.’ Hubert spoke with a boisterous joviality. Old Pelican nodded.
‘We get killer later?’ he said.
‘Yep. At least the dark people get a feed. Nobody starves on this station, and there are three hundred of them. Prime fresh beef every week, plenty of store tucker, paid for by our taxes. They love the work. Out there on ‘out stations’, livin’ on their so-called country, they‘re starving on lily root, aren’t they, Pelican? Lily root for God’s sake! How would you like to live on that tasteless shit? And tortoises, poor harmless tortoises, baked alive. Pelican doesn’t want to go back to traditional times. You’d starve to death, just like you used to.’ Hubert handed the old man some food wrapped in a tea towel.
‘Wunungah before want us starve to death then we no more problem.’ Old Pelican spat.
‘Well, you can give that lunch back then’, said Hubert.
‘The cattle have eaten up the land, there’s hardly any bush tucker left’, she said.
‘They bloody love me.’
‘I’m sure they do. They depend on you like we do.’
‘He good Boss’, said Old Pelican. Jane looked at him; he was such a sycophant and good at pretending to agree with Hubert, but there was a deep something else inside that old man: he was secretive and she feared him. When she saw him walking alone a shiver went up her back.
Jane looked over at Old Pelican and he smiled back.
‘That inspector might have to fly in. I hope you’re ready. He’s a mean shit of a blo
ke … He’ll eat her up and spit her out, eh Pelican?’
‘Yeeai, he real cruel.’
Old Pelican laughed and slapped his womerah? against his leg. She watched the old man sharing a scone with Hubert; he munched and wiped his beard with his gnarled hand. He ate slowly and kept staring into the distance.
CHAPTER 11
Toyota Breakdown
The flood subsided and Jane decided to risk the bogs to go on a school visit to Rainer River; it was a hundred kilometres but she had a winch for when the car was stuck in mud. She ignored the feeling of dread, the sense of oncoming disaster. Jane drove, with Mayda holding Aaron, and Shirley pressed next to her in the front of the Toyota truck. They were in an isolated place: sometimes no cars would pass for days. You could die in a place like this. It smelt of rotting animal corpses. Twelve school kids sat on the back, three in the front.
Suddenly there was a big noise, a growling roar and smoke rolled from the engine – the worst possible thing to happen out there, broken something, cracked gasket, what was it called? The head or something. Whatever it was, it was bad, very bad. Black oil dripped out the bottom of the truck onto the muddy dirt. Jane took a cloth and undid the radiator. Steam rushed out; there was white oily stuff in the water. She crawled under the car to stare at something greasy. Yep, it looked like an engine. No, it was stuffed. She would be alright, someone would come in an hour or so; she could have a sleep.
The truck was a bomb. A wind sprang up from nowhere, willy-willies, malevolent spirits teased them. She had no hope, no idea where she was in this nameless place. A bustard strode along the road and past the truck. She asked him the way home.
The children were relying on her and her pathetic skills and judgement. There was one plastic jerry can of water … The boys put a canvas over the back to make a shade while Jane dozed in the heat. She dreamt that she was travelling amongst haunted things, blood cracked a ghost’s face, and she saw herself torn by wedge tail eagles, and she dreamt that she had gone out with a tortoise once. She saw her father’s body floating in the green sea, but she couldn’t reach him. She dreamt of her brother running naked across a road wearing a tea cosy as a hat. She had sore, chafed lips, cracked and stuck. She woke up with a start and the children stared at her.
