Becoming Kirrali Lewis

by Jane Harrison

  He shook his head, ‘But it didn’t work for me. All the relationships that followed were nuts. I’m not saying Koori women are crazy but put us together, throw in politics, family issues, extended family issues, fighting for causes impossible to win, seven days a week, our door always open to anyone — it’s like a powder keg. It wasn’t their fault. They were good women. Of course they all wanted kids and I couldn’t deliver on that one, for some reason. They all left me, went off and had five kids with some other mad bastard. Now I’m ‘Uncle’ to them young ’uns. Leila’s the daughter of one of my exes if you’ve been wondering where she fits in. So, you, Kirrali, are a miracle.’

  ‘A miracle? I am?’ This made me happy. I wondered how I would have felt to have biological brothers and sisters though. Or half-siblings. But that wasn’t really an Aboriginal thing. I never heard Koori people say half-brother, or stepmother, or biological mother.

  ‘Anyway, you would have driven each other crazy,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Crazy brave. I am sorry, Cherie.’

  It felt like my simple question had awakened a sleeping beast.

  ‘You really did break my heart.’

  ‘I get that. I am sorry. Lots of sorrys today. Who said it was the hardest word?’

  ‘The government. Do you think they will ever say sorry for the things they have done? Taking the children away?’ Cherie asked.

  ‘Pah. Not likely. Not in my lifetime anyway.’

  I felt a pang. Was Cherie right — should he have had the transplant? I wasn’t so sure anymore. I wanted to scream at him, ‘What about me? Don’t leave me.’ But instead I said, ‘There’s still so much you could accomplish.’

  ‘Any other million dollar questions? Fire away,’ Charley said.

  There was something else that I had been wondering about. ‘Why were you alone at the pub that night Kirk pointed you out to me? I thought you looked so lonely. It stuck in my mind.’

  ‘I do remember that night. I’d just got my results back from the hospital so I went to do what I always do — drown my sorrows in beer and arguments. I was questioning what my life was about. I had no wife, no kids. Who knew you were only two metres away?’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘It’s been a very full life. You have made a difference in so many ways,’ Cherie said quietly.

  ‘Save that for the obituary,’ Charley said, with a laugh. ‘It’s okay. I’m happy.’

  He smiled at the two of us. He looked tired.

  ‘You need a rest,’ I suggested.

  ‘Yeah.’

  He made his way gingerly to the bedroom, then paused. ‘Cherie? I need a favour.’

  ‘I can do it,’ I cried.

  But Charley shook his head and Cherie followed him into the bedroom. As the door clicked shut behind them, I heard him say, ‘Lie with me’.

  I wasn’t ready to leave so I fiddled around in the kitchen and put on a load of washing. When Cherie came out a little later, her eyes were shiny with tears but she looked kind of calmer than usual. Happy even.

  ‘He’s scared. He just needed to be held. I guess we all do. Kirrali, I am going to move in here for a while, to look after him.’

  Was she was just weaselling her way in with him when he was too sick to fight her off? I barged into Charley’s room.

  ‘Hey! Knock first,’ he said crossly.

  ‘Sorry. Charley, I can move in. It doesn’t have to be her.’

  He laughed. ‘I might be on death’s doorstep but I still control my own destiny, daught. I asked Cherie to stay.’

  ‘But why? I could look after you.’

  ‘You’re a law student. That’s a big thing. Do you know that we only have a handful of Aboriginal lawyers in this country? This is the eighties. That’s shameful. Did you know that Bob Bellear was our first law graduate and that wasn’t until 1978? That’s practically the day before yesterday. We need Aboriginal lawyers. Lots of ’em. So we need you to study and do well.’

  I felt sick at the thought of having all those hopes heaped upon me. And the terror must have shown on my face.

  ‘Kirrali, just do your best. Whatever that is. You don’t have to live up to my expectations. God knows, I haven’t. And I’ve had a lot more time on this planet than you have.’

  ‘I could still stay here and help you out. I want to.’

  ‘I know but I want Cherie to. We’ve known each other a long time. And there’s things she can do that I couldn’t ask of my daught.’

  ‘Yuck.’ I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘Whoa there. I meant wiping my moom when things get really bad.’

  I’d heard that word before, that time at the pub with Kirk and his mates. But I had no idea what it meant. Nose?

  ‘Moom?’

  ‘Bum.’

  ‘Does that have anything to do with the word ‘moomba’?’

  ‘Well, the story goes that a couple of Elders had been asked to name this Melbourne festival. You know, they wanted a nice traditional Aboriginal name, a feel-good name. And those fellas, being cheeky buggers, suggested “moomba”. They said it meant “coming together in celebration” but instead it meant “up your bum”. How’s that for payback?’

  He chuckled. I began to laugh. So that’s what they were carrying on about in the pub.

  ‘Are you sure about Cherie staying?’

  ‘I am. But you could do one thing for me.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said eagerly.

  ‘I’d like to meet your family,’ he said.

  ‘You would?’ I asked.

  ‘Yep. Will you bring them to see me?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Where else?’ he said, amused. ‘This is my home.’

  I said that I would organise it as soon as possible. He made me promise.

  Twenty-nine

  I had been putting off introducing my parents to Cherie so I was relieved when she had to work the afternoon they came to visit Charley. It was simpler this way.

  Dad, Mum, Beatrice and Michael filed in to meet Charley one by one, each stopping to shake his hand. I think my parents were a bit emotional but they didn’t want to show it. It was awkward for a moment because Charley had one of his coughing fits, just like the first time I met him.

  ‘Come in, come in. My casa, your casa,’ said Charley.

  Mum held up a big tangly bunch of flowers.

  ‘For me?’ Charley said.

  ‘Picked from my own garden.’

  She moved closer to show him the flowers. Brilliant orange kangaroo paws, pale yellow hakeas and long spidery scarlet grevilleas intermingled with the silver discs of a round leafed gum. Charley plucked a gum leaf, crushed it in his fingers and inhaled, closing his eyes.

  ‘You like the old natives, do ya?’ he asked Mum, with a twinkle.

  ‘I wouldn’t grow anything else. They attract the birds,’ replied Mum seriously.

  ‘Well, this old native doesn’t. Not anymore, anyway.’

  Mum blushed as prettily as the grevillea.

  ‘Just gammon. I’m an old stirrer from way back. Kirrali tell you that?’

  My little sister, Beatrice, approached Charley, wide-eyed. ‘Are you an acrotavist?’ she said. ‘You know, like in the circus?’

  Charley didn’t skip a beat. ‘Well, I sometimes feel like I’m flying through the air hoping that someone will catch me at the other end,’ he said, equally seriously.

  My dad intervened. ‘I think she meant activist. Sorry, we were talking about you on the way here.’

  ‘Same thing, eh? We do outlandish things with no safety net,’ Charley guffawed.

  He pointed me in the direction of the cupboard and told me to get out his juggling balls. Charley was full of surprises. Giving Beatrice his full attention, he juggled three balls, first in a loop and then in a pattern with one ball going higher. He added another ball so there was an arc of colour and movement. Bea was mesmerised. Charley caught two balls in each hand and with a flourish he presented them to her.

  ‘F
or you, Madame.’

  We all laughed as Beatrice squealed with happiness. She turned to Mum, ‘Can I?’

  Mum looked at Charley, who nodded.

  ‘I won’t be needing them,’ he said softly, and I felt a drift of sadness slip into the room.

  Charley lightened the mood. ‘Tell me about this daughter of yours. I can’t get any sense out of her, she just babbles nonsense.’

  ‘Ours. Daughter of ours,’ Mum said softly. Charley smiled.

  ‘Well,’ said Dad. ‘Where do you want us to start?’

  ‘How about at the beginning?’ Charley handed Dad a beer and beckoned him over to the couch.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I groaned. ‘Dad, please don’t. No stories. Not the one about the lost dogs’ home.’

  I realised I’d called my dad ‘Dad’ in front of Charley. I blushed. No one noticed except for Charley, who mouthed, ‘It’s okay’. I marvelled at how easily he read me, how he understood what I was thinking.

  ‘Kirrali, make you and your mum a cuppa and bring out the cake. It’s a wattleseed and lemon cake, my speciality.’

  Charley baked? When I walked back from the kitchen carrying the cake in an old Tupperware container, he had a thoughtful look on his face.

  ‘That old container, it’s Cherie’s. Make sure she gets it,’ he said.

  I nodded, unsure of the significance, but the cake was delicious. I ate two pieces smothered in thick cream while I listened to Mum and Dad tell stories about every daggy thing I did as a kid. There were lots of laughs and a few poignant moments, like when Mum recounted the day she gave me the spangled cross. I hadn’t known it was an important day for her too.

  Dad and Charley chatted about music — they both loved reggae. Dad was envious of Charley’s extensive record collection — you can’t buy records when you have six kids, he said. Michael was fascinated by Charley’s sporting memorabilia. Charley had photos with all the top Aboriginal sports people and political leaders. Some of whom I now even recognised.

  When Beatrice shyly asked Charley to juggle again, he started off doing a spectacular loop but then each ball crashed to the floor. We all laughed, thinking it was part of his act but then I saw his right hand was limp and he looked confused. I panicked, thinking it was a heart attack, but again Charley read me and shook his head. He was okay, just tired.

  Mum exclaimed that they’d been there for hours and surely Charley needed some rest. She had brought along a casserole, of course, and Dad had put together an album with all my childhood photos.

  Dad went to shake Charley’s hand and Charley held on.

  ‘It must be strange for you to meet me but it’s been an honour to meet the parents who raised her up. I just want to thank you so much for growing her up, for caring for her and showing her love. She is blessed to have you as a family and I want you to know that, from me.’

  Dad’s eyes glistened. ‘We’re proud to have brought her up. We love her so very much.’

  ‘Our daughter,’ said Charley as he put his arm around my shoulder. ‘She’s a bit of a dill but I don’t blame that on you. It’s genetic.’

  He squeezed me tightly and I knew he was joking.

  I put the casserole on a low heat and said goodnight. I walked down the drive between my parents, my arms around each of them. We were going out for dinner, a rare night in town for all of us.

  ‘He’s a wonderful man,’ Mum said.

  ‘I know.’

  I paused, not sure how to say what I was thinking. ‘You don’t mind that I love him, do you?’

  ‘Kirrali, the more people you love and who love you, the richer your life will be. We just want you to be happy,’ Dad said.

  ‘We’re not threatened if that’s what you mean, darling. We will always be your parents,’ Mum added.

  ‘I’ll always be your sister,’ Beatrice added. ‘Can I play with your Barbies?’ She was definitely one to seize an opportunity.

  ‘You can have my Barbies but only if you don’t cut their hair or use shoe polish on them. Not everyone has brown skin, you know.’ I was referring to an earlier incident.

  ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘Only special people like you and Uncle Charley.’

  I looked at my family. I loved them. I was so lucky. I did feel a pang of guilt about Cherie though. I should be nicer. I would be, I promised.

  Thirty

  Out of the blue I got a follow-up letter from the Koori Legal Resource to say — surprise — the police had made no progress in finding the men who had bashed me and Kirk. Another file for the too-hard pile. I appreciated that they had kept me in the loop though.

  I was flat out with exams and essays and I only had the chance to talk to Charley briefly. Cherie was looking after him so I thought I’d give them some space. I was looking forward to the uni holidays when we would have more time to hang out together.

  Adam had lived up to his word. He still gave me his photocopied notes from the lectures I missed and we caught up every few nights to revise. He was so smart.

  Finally all of my assessments were handed in, and after my last exam I gave myself the luxury of one long sleep-in to recover. I figured Charley wouldn’t mind me being a little late. Rushing out the door, I bumped into Erin, who I still hadn’t seen since the inquest.

  ‘Erin! What a surprise. It’s so great to see you.’

  ‘Kirrali. Sis, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  ‘You poor thing …’

  ‘Me?’ I was puzzled at how concerned she looked. ‘How are you? I never got to say how cut up I was about your sister.’

  ‘I got your note. Thanks. But Kirrali, about your dad, I’m really, really sorry.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She had heard he was dying, from Kirk I guess.

  ‘It’s so unfair, Kirrali. Is there is anything I can do?’

  ‘I’m going to see him now. Why don’t you come too?’

  ‘Come with you? Now?’ She looked confused. Then she froze in anguish. ‘Oh my God.’

  Suddenly I realised this whole scenario was wrong.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Just then the phone in the foyer started ringing.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know …’

  ‘Didn’t know what? Tell me!’

  ‘My friend works at the hospital. You know how the Koori grapevine works.’

  The phone was still ringing and no one was answering it.

  ‘Will someone answer that fucking phone?’

  A student scurried out of her room and took the call. I stared at Erin.

  ‘What?’

  Her head fell in shame. ‘He was rushed in during the night.’

  The girl who answered the phone called out, ‘It’s for you.’

  I didn’t even know her name.

  I picked up the phone and croaked, ‘Hello’. It was Cherie.

  ‘Kirrali, it’s Cherie. I’m so …’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said into the receiver. ‘I know.’

  Erin was beside me, her arms around me. It was like we were fused together in a furnace of pain. Charley was dead.

  It was the night before the funeral. I had been asked to put a few words together but was struggling to write anything that made sense. I felt like a fraud. A coconut. Who was I to talk about Charley?

  There was a knock on my door. Cherie. She was standing there awkwardly, holding a box. I invited her in. She hadn’t been in my room before but she didn’t look around. Her eyes were fixed on the box she was holding. I sat on the edge of my bed and she took the only chair by the desk.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

  I nodded, then shook my head. ‘You?’

  ‘Same. I’ve been meaning to give you this.’

  She handed me the box and I opened the lid. There was a bundle of newspaper clippings, some of them as dry and yellow as autumn leaves. Charley in his twenties with a huge afro, one hand raised in a triumphant fist and the other pulled around his back as a grim-faced cop handcuffed hi
m. Next I pulled out a book called Bush Tucker. Author, Charley Jackson.

  There were more newspaper clippings — editorials about health and land rights with photos of Charley, sometimes sporting a headband in our Aboriginal colours. As the clippings got more recent, his hairdo shrunk but his moustache got more luxuriant to the point where it was like Tom Selleck’s in Magnum P.I.

  Cherie pointed to one. ‘The Springbok tour. We both got arrested.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Oh, a tour by the South African rugby union team. We were calling for a boycott because of the apartheid policies in South Africa. Not that things were any better in Australia. Thousands marched. There were smoke bombs going off everywhere. The good old days.’ She smiled wistfully.

  One clip, out of chronological order, showed an impossibly young and good-looking Charley in front of what looked like an election day booth. The poster read, ‘Say Yes’.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That’s the Referendum. 1967.’

  ‘It was mentioned in one of my lectures and everyone turned and looked at me. I didn’t know much about it. Only that Aboriginal people weren’t allowed to vote previously, yeah?’

  ‘Not exactly. It meant that Aboriginal people were under federal legislation for the first time and not legislated for willy-nilly by the states. For the first time, you mob were counted in the census.’

  ‘Wow. And Charley helped with the campaign?’

  ‘He was pretty young but he cut his teeth on that campaign. So many people worked hard on it. Pastor Doug Nicholls. Faith Bandler. It was amazing, the most successful Referendum ever, with ninety per cent of people voting ‘Yes’. Before then Aboriginal people had no rights to move around without permission, own property or even look after their children. In some places you weren’t even allowed to marry who you wanted. White men were not able to marry the Aboriginal mothers of their children. And vice versa.’

  ‘That was the year I was born. Was that why you two …’

  ‘No, it had nothing to do with that. Charley didn’t follow rules anyway. He just said we were a mistake.’

  ‘Does that mean I was a mistake, too?’ A surge of anger shot through me.

  ‘Of course not. How could you say that?’ She looked so sad my anger went in a puff. She had lost him too. And she had lost me. Perhaps it wasn’t all her fault, me being given up.