by Karen Wyld
Albert replied, ‘We can’t force her to listen. Perhaps once she’s learnt all the things she’s so keen to know, then she’ll be more receptive to the rest.’
‘I’m not sure she ever will be. That one is on a mission, all right. It’s that fella, the girls’ father. All she wants is to learn what she needs to keep on walking, keep on looking. She’s not going to be here for too much longer.’
‘Brigid is stubborn. Remember what her father was like at that age? I reckon they both get that from you, old woman,’ Albert chuckled.
Vic flicked a tea towel at his head, hitting him lightly before going back inside. As the door shut, Albert heard her laugh.
Because her granddaughter wouldn’t listen, Nana Vic turned her attention to her great-granddaughters. She believed that Brigid had been yearning to leave for some time. Her granddaughter would have left sooner, if not for Maggie. Unlike Victoria who, like a thin-legged colt, had been walking at an uncannily early age, Maggie took her time learning to stand on her own two legs. This gave Nana Vic more time to infuse her sweet bubbas with the fragrance of essential stories.
When bathing them, she’d tell them stories of animals and plants. Each had its own story, of its origin and purpose. As Maggie and Victoria lay down to sleep, the old lady would whisper tales of celestial serpents and seven starry-sisters. She would fill their ears with maps, instructions and long-held lore. If they misbehaved, Nana Vic would tell them about sharp-toothed beings that lived in watery caves, and other ancient beings that craved tasty children. The babes’ eyes widened, soaking it all in before asking for more.
Knowing that time was against her, Nana Vic took every chance she could to top up Brigid’s survival skills. To add to what Albert had shown her. She taught her the signs of bad health, and the causes. Her granddaughter refused to believe there were places where spirits lurked, ones that could cause someone to become ill. She thought being fearful of whistling in the dark was just foolish nonsense. The old woman sighed. Instead, she showed her how to find the right leaves for the smoking that cleansed a person. She told her about dryness and death. She spoke of how to stay healthy, how to be safe, how to care for the young ones proper way. She showed Brigid how to harvest the good plants, the ones used for medicine. Nana Vic showed her all this, and more. Most of it Brigid took in. Except if Nana Vic tried to teach her language or lore. Then Brigid would ignore her. Occasionally, the young woman would still speak of her granny, and retell that most peculiar tale of dirt-encrusted potatoes.
Brigid and her daughters stayed through the wet season. And then through months of dust. They stayed for a few cycles of rain and dust. Until one day, as water soaked into the desert and bright flowers bloomed overnight, Brigid felt a warm wind sweep through the community. As that gust flew out over the red landscape, she once more felt that old restlessness for her lost beau. The next time a truck drove into the community, she’d already packed her worn suitcase. And another that had been given to her, for the twins clothes, along with a cloth bag for cooking utensils.
Her grandparents knew it was pointless trying to persuade her to stay. They were well aware of their granddaughter’s stubborn streak, inherited from their son. Albert helped Brigid carry the suitcases and placed them in the back of the truck. Nana Vic’s favourite digging stick poked out from the cloth bag and Albert pushed it back in. The driver started up the truck, warming the motor before the long drive.
‘Wait,’ called Albert as he scuttled back inside the house.
When he returned, he was carrying his rifle. He handed it to Brigid, who seemed confused.
Realising what her grandfather’s intentions were, she stated, ‘No. It’s yours.’
‘Those young ones will need good tucker to help them grow strong. Digging for small animals and roots is not going to fill them up. You’re a good hunter. I know you’ll use this well.’
Brigid nodded and took the gun. While Grandfather Albert patted Brigid’s shoulder, her grandmother fussed one more time over Maggie and Victoria. The old couple knew they’d never see them again. Brigid gave Nana Vic a quick hug, before climbing into the truck’s cabin with her two sleepy daughters. She did not look back as the truck drove out of the small community in the desert.
FOUR
As the last plutonium-loaded cloud settled over the red sands in the south-west, many footsteps away three strangers emerged from a sister-desert, seeking rest from a road now seldom travelled. Even though they had entered the town cloaked in dawn’s light, news of their arrival had spread before the last rooster finished crowing. This flurry of curiosity was not because it was unusual on the gibber plains for people to suddenly emerge from out of nowhere. Others had arrived in such a manner. Nor was it unusual to see strangers, even though this town was in the middle of nowhere. The train, in passing, often spewed out adventurers, government officials, wayfarers, those of a missionary bent, and other lost souls. And it was not the shock of seeing a young woman travelling without the company of a man. Independent women were a familiar sight in this terrain. No, the gossip that raced at the speed of wildfire had been fuelled by the peculiar guise of the two girls who walked alongside the woman. For, despite the century showing signs of becoming more progressive in its middle age, it was still unheard of for one of her kind (and this woman’s bloodline was quite unmistakeable) to be travelling unaccompanied with a white girl.
And such a pretty girl, a precious rose – many would add in their recounting of the tale. Such a fine little lady, despite marks of a long trek clinging to her clothes – others would remark to their neighbours later that day. Such flawless, milky skin – some sighed, behind sun-withered hands. And what eyes, like precious opals – they all pronounced. Even though her eyes were more akin to the less precious but equally enchanting malachite.
Once they could tear their attention from this child, they took in the other girl. Reluctantly at first. They openly appraised this child, and not with kindness in their eyes or tolerance in their hearts. This other one, wearing the trials of the road too well, brazenly strode into town; or so they thought. With the steadied gaze of a sun-browned cameleer from days long gone, this girl kept her eyes focused on the road, ignoring the rising disapproval. Clearly, she hasn’t been taught her place in the world – some muttered. She needs to be knocked down a peg or two – grumbled others. Such arrogance for one so young, and how dare one of them think highly of themselves – verbalised a few more. It was wrong to have granted those people the right to vote, they’ll ruin this country, mark my words – others predicted. The girl raised her head high, and the onlookers noticed her eyes for the first time. Recoiling from those eyes of the bluest of blues, the townsfolk fell silent.
Meanwhile, their comments had drifted down the street, carried on the wind. Moving towards the town’s edge, they floated gently over an unseen boundary, before fluttering around a gathering of makeshift homes. Inside, the men, doing their best to catch a few more moments of rest before they had to start another day’s work on the nearby railway tracks, tried to shoo the words away with the flick of a hand. Beside the campfire, women put down freshly baked damper and waved fistfuls of branches at the nonsensical declarations, sweeping the air until those unwanted opinions were encouraged to move on. As smiles of a quick victory began to brighten sun-toughened faces, they became aware of a pungent smell in the air. One by one the dwellers at the edge of town gathered outside, trying to locate the source. It smelt a bit like that whiff of smoke that rode the wind before an approaching wildfire, but they could not see any smoke, near or far.
An old man caught the eye of another, and then another, and another. Soon they were walking away from the town with their families, carrying only the essentials. They hadn’t needed a second whiff, for they had smelt this odour many times before. Younger kin, refusing to follow, walked closer to the edge of town, allowing curiosity to be their guide.
Standing unseen, in the shadows cast by the rising sun, they saw the town-dwellers staring at a trio of
travellers. The fringe-dwellers were also taken aback by what they saw, even if their comments were vastly different from those words that had floated on the air. For rather than seeing what was different, they had immediately noticed similarities.
Eventually, everyone began to see, even the previously aghast townsfolk. It’s something in the bone structure, some thought; such high cheekbones. No, it’s the way they both move, the way they hold themselves; they have a certain aura. They could see that those girls had shared many secrets, for they were obviously fluent in that clandestine language known only by twins. All in all, these young strangers were the mirror images of polar opposites.
Never before had the townsfolk seen such mismatched non-identical twins: one white and the other brown. Only the fringe-dwellers could see the truth of the matter, as it was so obvious that both these girls were black.
While all this was unfolding, the woman kept on walking, both oblivious and seemingly accustomed to the astonished stares and whispers of strangers. As she walked down the main street, such as it was, the stranger took no notice of fingers clasping at almost-closed curtains; nor did she acknowledge the slack-jawed affliction that her progeny left in their wake. Steadfastly she walked up to the verandah of the only retailer in town, such as it was, dropped the suitcases she’d been carrying and shook the red dirt from her skirt. Leaving the uncanny twins sitting on a pile of road-worn cases, she walked into Adamson’s General Store with her head held high enough for trouble to find her.
A short time later, daughters by her side, she turned a rusty key in a dusty lock, entered a pre-loved wooden hut, and set to turning it into a home. Such as it was.
Brigid had been quite surprised at how easy it was to enrol both her daughters in the little tin-shed school that doubled as a church on Sundays. When she had enquired, Pastor Thomas outlined his strongly held view that all God’s children required a basic education, despite some peoples’ belief in a correlation between melanin rating and intelligence. With his wife’s support, the pastor also believed in providing a strong dose of preaching mixed in with the rudimentary reading, writing and arithmetic. Even after this conversation, Brigid had still been hesitant to enrol the girls, fearing that she could not protect them if they were out of sight, but Victoria and Maggie had both insisted. They pleaded, and reasoned, until their mother gave in. They are five-year-olds, not toddlers, she remembered. No wonder they’re yearning to be with other children. Will they both find friends, or tormentors? Brigid had strong memories of being teased as a child and worried that Victoria could experience similar bullying. If not worse. Tales of dirt-encrusted potatoes had not helped Brigid as a child. She acknowledged to herself that at least her granny had tried, whereas her mother hadn’t even noticed she did not fit in at school.
The morning of the twins’ first day at school was one of such excitement that Brigid had difficulties brushing their wayward hair. It was a good thing the twins had no shoes, their last pairs having finally fallen apart from months of walking, because Brigid would never have been able to keep them still long enough to tie their laces. Their dresses had become slightly too short and had seen better days, but Brigid made them oddly attractive with patches of mismatched fabric all over. The girls did not seem to mind that they lacked new shoes and pretty dresses, and for that Brigid was grateful. Once the girls were ready, Brigid walked with them to school and entrusted them to the care of the pastor and his wife. And then Brigid walked down the road to her new job as a shop assistant.
She was grateful that Mr Adamson had offered food and shelter for her family in exchange for a few hours’ work each day. Mrs Adamson didn’t appear to be quite as generous in nature; if she was around, Brigid would be given laborious tasks that even many men would have baulked at. She did not give Mrs Adamson the satisfaction of seeing her fail because, after all those years on the road, Brigid knew she was capable of far more. And she was not going anywhere. Not until she’d earned enough money to buy new shoes for her travel-weary family.
The door slammed once, twice, signalling the twins were home from school. An inviting smell wove its way towards them. Victoria and Maggie ran to the kitchen, where their mother was making bully beef. Maggie pulled at her mother’s apron, waving a small piece of paper in her other hand, while Victoria stood back, wearing an apprehensive expression.
‘Mumma, it’s an invitation. We’ve been invited,’ squealed Maggie.
Brigid reclaimed her apron and wiped her hands. She took the paper that Maggie was offering up and read it slowly before handing it back.
With a frown, she asked, ‘Is Susie the red-haired girl who gave you the kitten?’
Both daughters nodded, one with more enthusiasm than the other. Brigid’s frown deepened, for within this simple invitation to celebrate a birthday she could sense trouble.
Maggie pleaded, ‘Can we go? Please. There’ll be cake. And Susie’s cat has had more kitties.’
Brigid hesitated for a few moments, unable to shift her feeling of uneasiness. Then, seeing Maggie smile as she re-read the invitation, Brigid nodded.
‘Our first ever party,’ Maggie said as she skipped around the kitchen. ‘Isn’t this wonderfully exciting, Victoria.’
Her sister was not at all excited, for she had seen the worry on their mother’s face. Victoria also sensed trouble’s winged approach, and wondered if they’d soon be packing again.
‘I don’t want to go. Parties are boring.’
Brigid raised her eyebrows, wondering if Victoria had meant what she said. Victoria held her mother’s gaze with all the confidence she could muster. Not for the first time, Brigid pondered how different the twins were from each other. Not just different in looks and personality, but in how much they had changed since planting roots in this town. The girls had coped with the traveller life in very different ways, and likewise with their now-sedentary lifestyle. Before she’d started school, Maggie had followed her mother and sister unquestioningly, but she’d never been able to disguise her many fears – always wondering what danger lay beyond the campfire, imagining frightening sources for the small sounds she heard in the dark. Maggie’s apprehension had made her clingy, never far from her mother’s side. Now she was outgoing and talkative, always smiling. Maggie had discovered what it felt like to have friends. Unlike Victoria, she was popular and was often at her friends’ homes after school. And some locals had even warmed to her, granting Maggie a smile as she skipped to school each morning. Small-town life suited Maggie.
Brigid knew that Victoria was not as content with standing still. She was always mentioning how much she missed travelling. Brigid often joked that Victoria had inherited the family trait of wanderlust. And she was always eager to learn about nature. Victoria seemed to instinctively know how to read landscapes, like her great-grandfather Albert. Where to find food and water, as her mother had shown her, who herself had learnt from Nana Vic. Unlike her sister, Victoria knew that not all was as it seemed in this nowhere town. While Maggie made friends at school and basked in the adoration of townsfolk, Victoria heard what wasn’t being vocalised. She saw it in the eyes of Mrs Thomas, her teacher. And those upturned noses of the old ladies who passed her in the street spoke a thousand words, none of them encouraging. Victoria saw it even in the silent gruffness of the men gathered on the pub verandah.
Brigid had also observed the townsfolk’s behaviour. And even though she’d never spoken to Victoria about these micro-aggressions, she knew what her daughter was going through. She had known the pain of not being accepted. She knew what it felt like to be constantly judged for the colour of one’s skin. Brigid noted a defiant flash in Victoria’s eyes, the proud way she carried herself, and recognised that this was the result of constantly feeling a need to defend herself. As Victoria already had, but was unable to voice, Brigid felt a building heat coming off the town streets. These sons and daughters of settlers had noticed that times were changing, but that didn’t mean they had to accept those changes. Out here, far fro
m big cities, too many townsfolk clung to the not-quite-distant past. And they weren’t too shy to use a colour chart to determine who their equals were. Brigid read the party invitation again and wondered if this town was ready for such an event. Even if all children were welcomed at the tin school, this type of associating outside the school gate was an entirely different matter. Brigid felt that Susie’s mother was playing with fire, but it was not her family that would get burnt.
FIVE
On the day of Susie’s birthday party, Maggie had woken before the first bird even thought of catching worms. Too excited to sleep, she wanted to try on her dress for the hundredth time. It was not a new dress but a dress made new. Brigid had bought it especially for the party from the church fair, along with a dress for Victoria and non-travelling shoes for both her girls. And then Brigid had stitched and embellished those simple dresses until they were party-worthy. Putting it on that morning, Maggie still thought it was the prettiest dress she had ever seen. She loved how the full skirt swished around her legs whenever she moved. Dancing around the house in the early morning light, she made enough noise to wake up her mother and sister. After breakfast Brigid did Maggie’s hair, securing her ponytail with a pink ribbon she’d brought home from Adamson’s store as a surprise. She then stood back and took in the sight of Maggie’s joyful expression. Brigid was trying not to let her worry show. And worry she had.
All week, Brigid had felt that heat as it continued to rise from the town streets. She had seen tiny sparks as she swept the store. And, from behind tall shelves, unseen, Brigid had heard the townsfolk talk. Hate-filled words drifted towards Brigid, embracing her with a sticky heat. The words clung to her, still whispering in her ears hours later: it’s not right…this type of behaviour should not be allowed…they’re not like us… it’s been scientifically proven…shouldn’t have allowed them in the school…they should remember their place…someone needs to stop this nonsense.
