by Kylie Ladd
‘Dive?’ said Caro. ‘What, from the cliffs?’
‘Nah, from the luggers. Pearling. The blokes in charge would go into the bush, round up as many darkies as they could find, put them on a boat and keep them goin’ up and down, bringin’ up oysters, from sunrise to sunset.’
Caro was shocked. ‘That’s awful!’ she said.
Mason gave a dry little chuckle. ‘Yeah. The romance of the pearl, eh? Blackbirding, they called it. It wasn’t just the menfolk, either. Gins and kids got roped in too. They say they used to send them down thirty, forty foot; the captains had big sticks they’d use to stop them climbin’ back on deck till they’d got a bagful.’ He observed her silence. ‘They didn’t tell you that at Wajarrgi, hey?’
‘No,’ Caro mumbled.
Mason looked out to sea. ‘It’s no secret. It’s in the museum at Broome, if you get a chance to have a look when you’re back there. Wajarrgi just want everything pretty, just want to tell you about the Dreamtime and corroborees. They don’t want to make you feel guilty when you’re payin’ for stuff. Bad for business.’
‘God,’ said Caro. ‘Children too. You must all hate us.’
‘Nah.’ Mason laughed. ‘I mean, some do, but not everyone. There’s always a few, aren’t there? On both sides. And your boss man apologised.’
Caro couldn’t read the tone of his voice, couldn’t tell if he appreciated the intention behind Sorry Day or was mocking it. Before she could ask him, Mason sprang to his feet.
‘We’ve got ourselves dinner. There’s somethin’ in the net.’
He leaned over the side of the boat, making it lurch alarmingly, tugging the catch towards him. As it came closer, Caro saw that they’d snagged a turtle, its flippers waving helplessly in the weave.
‘Oh, how gorgeous!’ she exclaimed. ‘Can I pat him?’ The creature was every bit as large as the one Bronte had ridden behind on their first afternoon at the beach, its ancient shell encrusted with barnacles. It reminded her of the friendly sea turtle Crush from Finding Nemo. Janey had loved that DVD, had gone through a stage as a toddler of demanding to view it the moment she woke up.
‘What?’ said Mason, busy wrestling the enormous animal into the dinghy. ‘Hey, can you give me a hand? We’ll get some nice steaks out of this one.’
Caro froze. He wasn’t going to kill it, was he? Not Crush. You couldn’t eat Crush. God, the thought was dreadful. She started to protest, then shut her mouth. It was just a turtle, she told herself. It was probably like a cow to them, as natural as eating beef. Hadn’t she been celebrating Aboriginal culture yesterday, at Wajarrgi? Hadn’t she said something to Morag about how important it was to try to bridge the gap, to understand each other as races? Yet today, the moment she was confronted with something personally unpalatable from that very same culture she was ready to condemn it. Worse, to tell Mason to stop—Mason, whose ancestors had been forced by hers to dive until their ears must have bled, until their joints bubbled with nitrogen and their lungs screamed for air.
The turtle gave a powerful heave, fighting to return itself to the ocean.
‘Grab it!’ Mason yelled.
Caro lunged from her seat but then hesitated, unsure what to do. The creature had extricated itself from the net and was frantically trying to clamber over the bow. Gingerly, she reached for its shell, but her hands slid off the slimy surface. Mason thumped to his knees beside her, rocking the boat. He grabbed the animal by its back flippers, but was similarly unable to maintain his grip. With a mighty push, the turtle slipped from his grasp and into the water.
‘Damn,’ muttered Mason, wiping his palms on his shorts. ‘We’ll need the net again. The old fella’s not gettin’ away that easily.’ He hastily gathered the net in his arms and heaved it in the direction that the turtle had escaped, but the throw was jerky, and one edge of the webbing snagged on a rowlock.
‘I’ll fix it,’ Caro sang out. Here at last was something she could manage. She hurried to the side of the dinghy and reached down into the water to lift the net away from the boat. It was surprisingly bulky and she was struggling with it when a sharp pain burst along the underside of one wrist and up to her elbow. ‘Shit!’ she cried, dropping on to the floor of the boat and clutching her arm. For a second she thought the turtle had either bit or scratched her, but then she saw it was gone, just a dark shape gliding out to sea.
‘What’ve ya done?’ Mason was suddenly beside her, his dark eyes worried.
‘I don’t know,’ whimpered Caro. The pain was deepening, spreading, moving out into her fingertips and up towards her shoulder.
‘Show me,’ he said, slowly peeling her arm away from where she’d cradled it against her chest.
‘Fuck!’ she screamed, the movement unleashing a further, denser level of torment. Bile rose in her throat and for a moment she was terrified she would vomit onto Mason’s feet.
He bent over her arm and whistled.
‘Somethin’s got you good,’ he said, his tone sympathetic. ‘That hurts, doesn’t it?’
Caro glanced down. The skin along her forearm was covered with a thick mat of raised welts, red-white and pulsing. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Yes, it fucking well hurt.
‘Is it Irukandji?’ she asked fearfully, remembering something Morag had read out from her guidebook on the plane. Highly toxic, she recalled, then something else: Can be fatal. ‘Oh God,’ she moaned, ‘am I going to die?’
Mason carefully placed her arm in her lap, then went to scrabble through the gear at the back of the boat. He returned bearing an old plastic milk container filled with clear liquid, which he poured without ceremony over her welts. Caro screamed again, sunbursts of fresh pain exploding behind her eyes, her uninjured hand shooting out to support herself as she thought she might faint.
‘Sorry,’ Mason said. He softly placed his large hand over her own. ‘Are you OK? It’s vinegar. It’ll help. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it will.’
Caro’s teeth chattered. A seagull squawked overhead, and she felt the noise go through her, travel along each and every nerve.
Mason bent over her arm again, inspecting her wounds.
‘It’s not Irukandji,’ he reassured her. ‘You don’t get anythin’ like this with those—often people can’t even see where they’ve been stung. It’s not box jellyfish, either.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Caro. The throbbing was receding slightly, enough so that she could open her eyes. ‘How can you tell?’
‘You’d be dead by now,’ Mason replied. He took a final look, then straightened up. ‘I’m guessin’ it was a hair jelly. A snottie, we call it. It’s harmless, apart from the pain, but we’ll get you back to shore so they can have a look at it at the clinic. I’ve got some Panadeine Forte in my kit, then I’ll get you lying down. You’ll feel better that way.’ He squeezed her good hand. ‘It was pretty bad, eh? A shame when we were havin’ such a good day.’ Mason leaned towards her. For a second Caro thought he was going to kiss her, felt her own body instinctively lean in—and then he gently picked up her arm and positioned it once more against her body.
The clouds moved so fast, she thought, watching them race overhead from her position in the bottom of the dinghy. It was surprisingly comfortable, her head and shoulders cushioned by a nest of lifejackets, her feet resting on her beach bag. Or maybe it was the boat that was travelling quickly . . . Mason had been right to have her lie down; she never could have clung on sitting up with her injured arm. And the sky was such a rich blue, too. She hadn’t noticed before. Azure, you’d call it, or maybe lapis. Cerulean? Was that even a word? She’d have to ask Bronte. Bronte would know.
Caro felt herself drifting off. The Panadeine had kicked in and left her light-headed and slightly high; the release from pain was such a relief as to almost be an opiate itself. It was lucky Mason had the tablets and the vinegar, otherwise he would have had to pee on her welts. Isn’t that what people did? She’d seen it on an episode of Friends once, when Monica got stung by a bluebottle. C
aro giggled. Imagine that, imagine Mason having to tug down his shorts and urinate all over her. Instead he was prepared. Be prepared. He was a good little Scout. She twisted her head around to tell him, but as she did so she heard something—fainter at first, then more distinct. A humming, a low drone rising and building as if a light plane was flying towards them, or a swarm of bees. Yet apart from the clouds the sky was clear. Blue and clear. She shook her head, noticed Mason cock his. Still the noise. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Forget about it. Lie back down. If you move too much your arm will start hurtin’ again.’
She must have fallen asleep. There was the crunch of sand beneath the hull; there was Mason bending over her and lifting her to his chest. His heartbeat thudded against her ear as he carried her across the beach and then along the path beneath the trees, the long boab branches above drowsily waving at her through the warm air. She started to wave back, then winced as she lifted her arm.
‘You’re awake now, huh?’ Mason said. ‘I’m going to take you to your room, then get some ice and the nurse, if I can find her.’
‘Thank you,’ Caro murmured. She could smell him, his still-bare chest, a delicious mixture of sun and saltwater. Had Alex ever carried her like this? She didn’t think so. She’d be scared he’d hurt his back if he tried.
Mason reached their collection of rooms and went to hers without needing to be directed. He opened the screen door with his elbow and then lowered her onto the bed. The room was dark and cool; Caro’s head fell back gratefully against the pillow. Here, she thought. Here was her chance to seduce him, to entice him to lie down with her. All she had to do was loosen her sarong, get her t-shirt over her head . . . Her fingers went to her waist, but it was all too much. She had fallen asleep before Mason even left the room.
Twisties, Cheezels, Cheetos . . . packets and packets of them, their bright yellow graphics clamouring for her attention. Bronte dropped her gaze to the next shelf. Corn chips, crinkle-cut chips, thinly cut chips, Noodle Snax . . . what the hell were Noodle Snax? Below those were at least eight varieties of Kettle chips, tubes of Pringles and bags of Burger Rings. There were only two aisles in the tiny Kalangalla shop, and most of one was filled to overflowing with chips.
‘It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?’ said a voice behind her. Bronte turned to find Amira peering at the same display, a plastic basket over one arm. ‘I came in to get some stuff for a salad for tonight, but all they’ve got is some spinach and a few old pineapples. Looks like we’ll be eating Cheetos instead.’
‘It does seem a bit . . . excessive,’ Bronte replied. It was no wonder so many of the kids in the community were fat. She’d noticed it in her first couple of days here, how they’d saunter around with a Coke in one hand, a packet of chips in the other—and not just a can of Coke but a two-litre bottle, and the family-size bag of chips. It made her feel a bit sick, to be honest, but she could hardly say that to Amira without sounding judgemental. And at least there wasn’t any alcohol here, as Amira kept pointing out, but Bronte wondered if replacing it with junk food was much of a step forward.
She moved down the aisle, Amira following behind her. ‘What were you after?’ Amira asked.
‘A new sketchbook,’ Bronte said. ‘I’ve filled up the one I brought with me. I didn’t expect to—there were heaps of pages left—but there’s been so much that I wanted to get down, to show my teacher back home.’
Amira smiled. ‘That’s fantastic. I’d love to see your drawings. Have you shown them to your mum?’
Bronte hesitated. Show them to her mother? What, and have her laugh like she did when Bronte had shown her the card from the modelling agency? Not a chance. Bronte would rather go naked to the beach than show her mother her sketchbook. ‘Not really,’ she eventually answered.
Amira regarded her for a moment, basket propped on one ample hip.
‘You should,’ she said. ‘And Fiona should look. I’ll make her, if you like. I’ll withhold all wine until she does.’
Bronte laughed to cover the stab of jealousy she felt. Did Tess know how lucky she was? ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘Mum and I are into different things. I get that.’
‘Yes, but—’ Amira broke off as Macy came around the end of the aisle, a scowl on her face.
‘This place sucks,’ she said. ‘I had to get packed so quickly I forgot to bring any toiletries. I realised on the plane, but then I thought I’d be able to buy them up here, you know, like in any decent civilisation, but all this dump has is two bars of soap and a packet of dental floss.’
‘I’m surprised by the dental floss,’ Amira said. ‘I’ll buy it if you’re not going to.’
Macy had the grace to smile. She was pretty when she did that, Bronte thought, despite the ring in one nostril and the studs through her eyebrow, despite her white-painted face and black-rimmed eyes. She might have forgotten her toothpaste, but she’d clearly remembered her make-up.
‘Knock yourself out,’ Macy said, then added, ‘How do you survive up here?’
‘I drive to Broome once a month and do a big shop at Coles. That tides us over. I usually only come in here for bread, which they bake next door, or fruit and veg. Not that there’s much of that today.’ Amira paused. ‘There is something like a supermarket up the road at One Arm Point, though. Why don’t we go there? It’s expensive, but I need to get the salad for tonight, and I know they’ve got plenty of other stuff. You could probably get that sketchbook, Bronte, and there’s sure to be shampoo and what have you.’
‘Is that a black “up the road” or a white “up the road”?’ Macy asked suspiciously. ‘I don’t want to spend two days travelling through the Kimberley just so I can brush my teeth.’
Amira laughed. ‘You’re a quick learner. White. It won’t take long—ten minutes or so each way. If we go now we’ll be back in an hour. Tess has gone to see Tia, so I don’t have to worry about her—do you two need to check with your mothers?’
‘Mum went off for a nap after lunch,’ said Bronte. ‘She’s been doing it every day. Says it’s too hot to go to the beach before four, so I told her I’d see her then.’
‘I don’t need to check,’ said Macy. ‘My mother’s four thousand kilometres away.’
One Arm Point was a bit of a ghost town, Bronte thought as she sat on a graffiti-scarred bench outside the supermarket waiting for Macy and Amira. It was much bigger than Kalangalla, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around, only an old Aboriginal woman shuffling away from the store with a packet of cornflakes tucked under her arm. Maybe they were at work, but what was there to do here? The community appeared devoid of any industry whatsoever, lay stunned before her, its dusty streets shimmering in the oppressive afternoon air.
Bronte flicked through the blank pages of her new sketchbook, mesmerised as always by their creamy possibility, then pulled from her backpack the one she’d already filled. A surge of pride ran through her as she studied her work. The first few drawings weren’t great, she knew that—too stilted, self-conscious, her hand stiff around her pencil—but oh, the rest . . . Ms Drummond was always telling her to relax, to let the lines emerge rather than trying to force them onto the paper, and Bronte had nodded, but she’d never really understood what she meant until now. This sketch of a dog, for example, that she’d done in charcoal—it was just a dog, fast asleep in someone’s front yard, but it looked as if it might yawn and stretch at any minute, might cock one eye at you while scratching behind a mangy ear . . .
‘Did you do that?’ asked Macy, peering over her shoulder. ‘It’s fantastic. Show me the rest.’
They were still looking at the sketchbook when Amira joined them ten minutes later. Macy wasn’t so scary when she was like this, Bronte thought. At first she’d assumed the older girl was just being polite, but then she could have stopped after a page or two. Instead she’d taken the book onto her lap and gone through it, drawing by drawing, right from the start, examining every detail. She was so relaxed, Bronte t
hought. There had only been four or five other customers in the shop, but each had stopped in their tracks and stared as Macy went by. Bronte could hardly blame them—Macy certainly stood out, dressed as she was all in black and with her piercings and heavy make-up—but didn’t Macy mind? She certainly didn’t seem to. It was bizarre. Most of the time Bronte wished she was invisible. It was bad enough having people gawk at you because of something you couldn’t help, like your stupid height, but why invite that sort of attention?
‘We’ve been pretty quick,’ said Amira, checking her watch. ‘Do you want to call into the hatchery on the way back? It’s fascinating—they’ve got about twenty small pools, filled with local tropical fish and turtles, and you can handfeed them all. I was actually thinking of suggesting we all came up and visited tomorrow morning.’
‘I don’t think Caro will want to go near any more turtles for a while,’ said Macy.
‘Oh God, no,’ said Amira, clapping a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, that was awful, the poor girl. She showed me her arm when I took her in some lunch. It was like someone had whipped her, all bright red and—’
‘Shhh,’ Bronte said. She didn’t mean to be rude, but she wanted to listen. Ever since she’d come out of the supermarket she’d noticed a faint hum in the air, a murmuring. At first she’d assumed it was some kind of insect, but it was gradually getting louder, building into a buzz, a throb . . . a voice. Voices, more than one, raised together, growing, soaring, pulsing towards her across the red earth.
The others heard it too. For a moment they all stayed perfectly still, not looking at each other, absorbing the sound. Macy broke the spell. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Someone’s died,’ Amira said. ‘Probably an elder, someone important in the community. The dead person’s family and some of the other adults are singing the spirit home, so it leaves the area and returns to its birthplace, where it can be reborn.’
‘Wow,’ Bronte said. ‘Have you heard it before?’
