by Kim Scott
The pallbearers were all men. Tilly wondered who among them had rung to say her father wanted to meet her. Now, sudden as thinking it, his own father had died.
Her grandfather. All these people here for him.
An old woman was led by the arm to a chair beside the grave. She seemed to be blind, was weeping. Despite her misery, her age, her likely infirmity, she moved to the chair with conviction, limbs like levers and spine upright. Long grey curls spilled past her shoulders, and at the one side were tucked under the collar of her thick coat.
A little old man stood nearby, his mane of silver hair tied back on his skull. The scarf around his neck was the same colour as the pink and grey parrot on his shoulder.
After the burial, Aunty Margie took her to these very two people in the wide hall where the wake was held. They were sitting near the centre. ‘Pa Wilfred and Nan Nita,’ Margie said to Tilly. Then, to the old couple, ‘This is Matilda.’
‘Matilda? Jim’s daughter?’
‘Yeah, he said you at the service.’
‘Your mum come?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
‘She took me to visit him – Dad – in prison. They said he was dying.’
‘But he looks ok don’t he?’
‘Met that woman of his? Any your sisters, brothers?’
‘No.’
‘Oh Tilly, you got the price? Got the price, Tilly? Lend us a dollar, sis?’
These last questions, fired in quick succession, startled Tilly, and so did the little being on Wilfred’s arm that had voiced them. It was Cheryl in miniature exactly – bright red hair tied up into a high ponytail.
‘I never seen her that way,’ said Tilly.
Then it became someone else, something else, was gone. Tilly, at first so startled, was laughing still.
Wilfred smiled shyly. Slyly?
‘How you do that?’
‘Do what, Matilda?’
‘One of his puppets. Don’t mind him, Tilly. That’s just your Pa Wilfred. Thinks it makes him special.’
‘Well, I am special, sister.’
‘So you are, Wilfred. But my brother Lenny whose death we mark today was special too, and so too Jim his son. And Tilly too, who we gotta look after and put our hopes in.’
‘Need one of them.’
‘Yep, need one of them to step up.’ Another voice, another little being, one Tilly didn’t recognise, emerging from . . . somewhere in Wilfred’s clothing. His sleeve? Pocket? No one else seemed concerned.
‘Summoning up them spirits, what you reckon, Tilly?’ He laughed, turning his scarf, maybe it was his sleeve too, into a puppet. It was a big loose jacket, nice scarf. Light, but even so must be warm. And – Tilly was trying not to study him too obviously – he had some sort of red powder in his hair. A red band on his thin wrist too.
‘C’mon then, Matilda,’ the old man said, and held out his arm so she could place her fingers in the crook of his elbow, hand on his forearm. Nita had his other arm.
The two old ones had someone set up chairs at the end of one of the food tables.
‘Here,’ Wilfred repeated for the next half an hour or so, ‘this is Matilda.’ And as she was shaking hands, or sometimes hugging someone, he or Nita would add, ‘Jim’s daughter. You know. Coming back to us.’
Then Aunty Margie was beside her. ‘Time for us to go, bub.’
Someone else was beside Nita, and Wilfred had disappeared. Nita had her face lifted, as if she were listening for something.
Outside, people gathered around parked cars as if at a caravan at some poor oasis. Cars close together, doors open, bottles clinking; people talking through car windows; drinking, gesticulation.
She saw that man, Doug, slide into a car at the far corner of the car park, and two of her father’s other daughters – sisters, Tilly might have whispered – hurrying away with their mother.
One of Wilfred’s puppets had shown the mother exactly, now animatedly talking to her girls. It was something about the way she held her head.
‘You know them, Aunty Margie?’ Matilda gestured in their direction.
‘Who? Oh them. Yeah, but . . .’
‘But?’
‘Nothing, bub. But nothing; you’ll meet them soon enough, no need to rush.’ Margie’s attention was on her driving, she was looking for a gap in the traffic. So busy; it too obviously took all her attention.
As they moved into the rushing stream of cars, Tilly couldn’t help but smile. How did the old man do that with the puppets?
*
Tilly wanted to visit her father. Her mother would not take her. What could she do? It was easy enough to escape her mother’s watch. After all, Tilly was nearly a grown woman. She thought of how Doug had looked at her, and treated her mother like a servant.
She caught a bus. It was still a long walk to the prison, but that did not concern her.
From the outside the prison could have been a factory, perhaps even a stadium. The barbed wire and the high fences might have held something valuable; been there to keep people out, not in.
She didn’t want to know why her father was here, and for so long. Didn’t want to guess.
The sun hammered her skull, heat rose from the bitumen and sunlight glittered on chrome and glass as she walked through the car park this summer’s day.
No rich or powerful person visited prison. There was a young woman, probably not so many years older than Tilly herself, with a toddler in tow and a baby in her arms. Another woman drew Tilly’s attention, flesh spilling from her too-tight clothing.
Tilly sat on a bench in merciful shade and with a view of the office where visitors began the process of visiting family and loved ones who had not known their touch for a long time.
A vending machine rumbled, and cans of soft drink snapped and fizzed as they were opened. The packaging around various snacks rustled, and the trees shading rustled also, though more softly.
The breeze lifted her hair, ran along her skin. The walk back to the bus stop would be long and hot. Having got this far, she acknowledged she had no ID or any idea of how to get through security to visit her father. She had known this all along, but only accepted it now. That was ok. It was enough to know she could get here. That must satisfy her. Go back to the bus stop.
A couple of men in flannel shirts greeted her. Their ungroomed hair, low-slung jeans and bellies marked them irrevocably, to Tilly’s critical eye. Bogans, she’d say.
Doug’s dress sense was as out of place here as it would be in her own suburb. For all that, he had had no trouble changing a tyre, which didn’t fit Tilly’s expectations. And he was so bald. Did he shave his head? Did his skull develop stubble? How might the skin of that skull feel? Tilly was looking at her phone, not texting or surfing, just gazing upon the blank screen, her dim reflection.
‘Matilda.’
Was thinking of him, and now he appeared. Some magic she had? Cheryl was close to his side, her shoulders bare, her skirt short, and thin straps of leather twisted up from her feet and ankles. With her hat at an angle on her head, and those bright, bold hoops shimmering above her shoulders she might have been someone on TV, or some celebrity come from champagne and bubbles of laughter and money. She must be not so much older than Tilly herself, and her bright smile shone across the shrinking distance as if they were friends or sisters. Tilly, thinking herself a chubby schoolgirl, sat up, blinking, and brought her knees tightly together.
Smiling, Doug sat down beside Tilly. Cheryl continued toward the office, walking tentatively, walking almost as if she could not quite trust her long legs.
‘You want to see your dad,’ Doug said.
She nodded. Of course. She made herself look boldly into his eyes. ‘I caught the bus, but . . .’
‘And you’re on your own?’ Doug looked worried for her.
&nb
sp; Tilly nodded.
‘Tilly, can I tell you something?’
She nodded once more.
‘Your father and me, we had a falling out a long time ago. A silly thing, about a girl – oh, not your mother – it was after him and her split up. I’ve got a lot of respect for your father, but . . . Best you don’t mention me. Not yet. Later maybe.’
Tilly nodded again. ‘Sure.’
*
‘Long time no see,’ her father said to Tilly and Cheryl. He seemed very pleased and eager somehow.
‘Got something for me?’
Cheryl and her father kissed each other on the mouth, and the kiss lingered. Her father was grinning as they pulled apart. He swallowed.
‘Miss that more than Facebook?’ said Cheryl.
He was a good-looking man. Tilly looked for herself in him. She was a little jealous of Cheryl. Again, she sat opposite her father.
‘Good that you could come with your Aunty Cheryl.’
‘How are you, Dad?’
She saw he knew she knew.
‘You can beat cancer.’
Cheryl was studying her fingernails. Voices hummed around them. A man walking past nodded at Tilly’s father, who dipped his head, but when Tilly looked back to him it seemed his gaze had never left her.
‘I never wanted any of my kids visit here, see me like this.’ He must’ve seen her expression: ‘But don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you came.’
Tilly said she had met her brother and sisters. ‘Some of them,’ she added, reading his expression. ‘Facebook. We’re gunna catch up.’ Jim Coolman was pleased, she could tell.
‘I never knew who I was, Tilly,’ he said. ‘Drugs mixed me up. I been too violent. Stupid. I never knew. Didn’t understand. And once you been here . . .’
He was very talkative. Kept pulling the fingers of his left hand as he spoke, one after the other, in sequence from the smallest. He switched hands, started from the smallest on his right.
His attention turned to Cheryl. ‘You still with Doug then?’
‘See him sometimes. When I was coming in here matter of fact. But we past all that, trust me.’
Her father resumed: like he’d already said (so why say it again?) he was leading classes, culture classes, with some of the young boys, their fathers never taught them nothing. Everyone needs the language and the old stories, to know their family and their family trees and where they are from, who they are. That’s what you need to know. You need it. Like what Dad was doing. ‘We are special people, Tilly. You and me, we’re one of the first families this part of the world.’
She did not say much. There was no need. When their time was up he hugged Tilly briefly, then he and Cheryl kissed again. The officer’s voice brought them apart. Her father did not meet Tilly’s gaze. He turned to the prison officer.
‘Back to the cell then.’ He seemed almost cheerful.
*
The music in Doug’s car was something she would never otherwise have heard, unless perhaps in a movie. They wove through the traffic. No one spoke.
‘Drop you at the corner, Matilda?’ Eyes met in the rear-view mirror. Doug understood she would not want to explain to her mother.
‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Be in touch now.’
Outside the car, she bent down a little to ask Cheryl, ‘What did you give my dad, when you kissed? Was that drugs or something?’
Cheryl turned. ‘Oh Tilly, bub.’ Then: ‘Would you like some?’
Doug scanned the street. ‘Not in the car, not the street. Not now.’
‘Yes,’ Tilly said.
‘Give us a call. Come pay a visit.’
Cheryl’s hand moved in the glass as the car shot away.
*
I feel great.
Did she say that?
Cheryl and Doug. Aunty Cheryl, but Doug said just call him Doug, because he was white. They beamed her smile right back at her.
‘Think of it like medicine, but you’re not sick. So it’s a bonus.’
Her whole life made sense. It led to this. She’d never met anyone like Cheryl, so generous, so much a big sister. So beautiful. Cheryl said something Tilly could not understand, then explained. ‘That’s our language. It’s culture,’ she said. ‘It’s your culture.’
Look how late. Where had the time gone? ‘I got school tomorrow.’
‘Yes. Good. We’ll drop you off, bub.’
When Tilly returned to her mother’s house the walls moved in on her. She saw how small her mother was, how faded and tired.
Most of the time it was just the two of them, her and her mum; sitting in front of the TV. Washing the dishes. Wiping the counter. Her own little girl’s room made her ashamed.
Cheryl worked part-time, and then only in the afternoon. It was perfect. In hospitality, she told Tilly. Business functions, making sure everything ran smoothly and no one got too stressed.
Tilly’s mother shouted. ‘You’ll ruin yourself, Matilda.’ She tried locking Tilly in, but couldn’t lock herself in at the same time, could she? She had to go to work, to pay the bills, to la-de-la-de-dah. Tilly felt sorry for her mum, really she did.
Tilly came home late one night and the door was locked. She knocked, waited. Nothing. She called Cheryl, who came to get her. Tilly spent the next few nights with Cheryl.
Mum’s boyfriend tried talking to her. He started off smooth, but was shouting at her soon enough.
‘Your mother is worried, Tilly.’
She doesn’t need to be.
‘Cheryl? She’s a prostitute. Fuck knows what he does for a living, maybe he thinks he’s a big-time drug dealer . . . He’s not.’
They were jealous. Plenty of people lived a good life that never kept at school, never went to uni.
‘Yeah? Like who?’
Plenty.
And even if he was a drug dealer, so what? He had plenty of other business interests, that was where the money came from. The parole work was community service; giving back, he said. Look at people with their beer, wine. Smokes. They’re the ones bad for you. Stuff she took didn’t do any harm at all, only was a crime in some people’s eyes.
It didn’t cost her anything. Doug and Cheryl just gave it to her.
*
They went to a boxing match: Tilly, Cheryl and Doug. Though it was not really just the three of them because they met so many there, men shaking Doug’s hand, shouting so that they seemed boys, and Doug nodding his shiny head, and looking past them to the next person and yet they were so pleased, mostly, to have been with him. Or they held him, tried to detain him. And women that were almost as beautiful, Tilly thought loyally, as Cheryl. Cheryl was so exotic, Tilly heard people say.
‘But not exotic at all, am I, Tilly? Not exotic at all are we, you and me? We’re indigenous; we’re at home here. Beautiful black women.’
‘That’s right,’ said Doug. ‘My beautiful black women.’ His palm on the back of Tilly’s hand.
‘A bonus. That little extra.’
Cheryl helped with her clothes and make-up. ‘Exotic and erotic.’ She looked years older. ‘The perfect age,’ said Doug.
A contender in the ring shadow-boxed as if no one was watching him. But of course most everyone was, in between – Tilly saw, observing in turn – determining who they knew in the crowd.
Almost naked men, stalking one another. Up on their toes, dancing; crouching, sweating, testing their reach and the other man’s power and speed. A dance, but for the malice; the want to hit and hurt. The slap of knuckled leather on flesh, the spattering arcs of blood and sweat, the faltering eyes. People rose from their seats, baying. Baying all around Tilly and in her too. Her hands at her mouth. Tilly tried to look away, but could not. Cheryl smiled at her once, a tiny, private space in that crowd.
‘You ok, bub?’
>
But turned away before the answer.
Driving home. Cheryl’s head against the glass, snoring a little. She had stumbled into the car.
Tilly asked, ‘Did you ever fight, Doug? You’re big, you’re fit. Did you?’
Doug smiled. ‘You flatter me, Tilly. No, I let people do my fighting for me.’
Neon lights, police lights flashing. Doug’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. But the police never pulled them over.
‘Got a boyfriend, Tilly?’ he asked.
‘Nah, not really.’
Thinking of one boy, and how her own desire surprised her despite his clumsy way.
‘I’m surprised.’
‘Nah. No time for boyfriends – I want a man.’
Cheryl snorted. She not asleep. ‘Tilly! You sound hungry, girl.’
‘Well, that last fighter was a hunk.’
‘Fighting’s one thing; you want a man who knows how to please you, not hurt you.’
‘Maybe some do both?’ Doug offered.
‘If you like being hurt, maybe,’ Cheryl countered.
Boxing match, football match, concert. One after the other, then begin again. They had a good car, but usually it was taxis, limousines even.
Doug had money, friends. People came to him. He paid people to cook, catered meals for friends. Tilly’s friends now, too. Despite what Cheryl said, it was an exotic life. Tilly was so lucky.
*
‘You a virgin, Tilly?’ Cheryl asked. Like sisters, they talked about everything.
‘Been with women, Tilly?’
No. You?
‘Yeah. With a woman, with a man, women and man. Lots of times. The best. Old days, our old people; women would share a man. Old woman, young man; other way around too. No hang-ups like now. That mission mob, them stolen generations and born-agains.’
*
Tilly’s mother nagged her. Treated her like a child. ‘I need to know, Tilly. You’re . . .’ Her mother lost it; shouted and cried and then gave up so quickly. Was worn down, inside out.
Tilly said, ‘You’re nothing.’
But she thought Doug Harper was somebody. Aunty Cheryl too.
*
Cheryl had a good friend who worked in welfare.
