Corroboree

by Graham Masterton

  Eyre grudgingly admired Christopher’s lack of sensitivity. He didn’t very often feel like courting a girl himself, and when he did, it was invariably a painful and caustically romantic experience. How could you love a girl at all without wanting to love her for ever? He still thought of Clara with regret, the girl for whom he had first bought his bicycle.

  He sat down on one of the frayed basketwork chairs on Christopher’s untidy verandah. ‘If you want to know the truth, I was attacked by Lathrop Lindsay’s dogs. Worse than that, they set on Yanluga, too, his Aborigine groom, and killed him.’

  Christopher took off his wide straw hat. ‘Well, now,’ he said. ‘That is bad luck. Killed him, hey? My dear chap. Won’t you have a glass of something? Old Thomas came past yesterday with four bottles of brandy.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Eyre.

  Christopher looked at him closely, as if he were testing his eyesight, and then said, ‘You are all right? That’s a frightful bite on your phizzog. If I were you, I’d sue the bugger.’

  ‘I can’t do that. I was trespassing. In law, he had every right.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Christopher. ‘He’s a bugger, nonetheless. Didn’t I tell you that Charlotte wasn’t for you? You can’t beat a bugger; not when it comes to a bugger’s one and only daughter; and he’s a bugger all right, his lordship Lathrop Lindsay. Everybody says so.’

  ‘Who’s everybody?’

  ‘Well, I say so. Who else do you need?’

  Eyre couldn’t help smiling. ‘Go and get me that brandy,’ he admonished Christopher.

  They sat and drank for a while in silence, secure in their companionship. A few hundred yards to their right, a dull chestnut yearling was being cantered and turned, in training for the winter season. The rider lifted his crop in salute to Christopher, and shouted, ‘halloo’, and then galloped off towards the billowing white tents which formed the major part of the racecourse.

  ‘Sam Gorringe,’ Christopher remarked. ‘Terrible rider. Rotten horse, too. Just in case you were ever tempted to back him.’

  Eyre sipped his brandy; and let it burn its way slowly over his tongue, and down his throat.

  ‘My father disapproved of gambling,’ he said. ‘A shortcut to hell, that’s what he called it.’

  ‘Oh, well, yes.’ said Christopher.

  There was another silence, less relaxed this time. Then Eyre said, ‘I’ve decided to bury him.’

  ‘Bury him? Who? Lathrop Lindsay?’

  ‘No, you lummox. Yanluga.’

  ‘Yanluga? Isn’t that Lindsay’s responsibility?’

  ‘Lindsay is going to give him a Christian burial.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Christopher, swilling his brandy around and around in his glass.

  ‘Well, he wasn’t a Christian, was he?’ Eyre retorted.

  ‘He was a heathen,’ Christopher declared.

  ‘Heathen? How can you say that? You’ve lived here longer than I have. You know how religious the blackfellows are. They have all kinds of religious rites; especially when it comes to burial. Don’t they break the body’s bones, and then burn it? And don’t they sometimes have dances, and processions on the river? The poor chap should at least be given the ceremony that his beliefs demand, don’t you think? Or perhaps you don’t.’

  Christopher balanced his glass on the warped verandah table. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I must say that you’re really getting yourself in rather deep. Especially for the son of an Anglican vicar.’

  ‘What my father believes is nothing to do with it. My father hasn’t met any Aborigines; he doesn’t know how magical they are.’

  ‘They’re superstitious, I’ll give you that. Do you know that boy from Moomindie mission? The one who came up here to mend my fences? He was supposed to have been converted to Christianity, and cricket, but he wouldn’t stay here after dark because of the Yowie. The Yowie! Can you imagine it? A completely mythical monster, and the poor lad went beetling back to the mission as soon as the sun went down, as if all the devils in hell were after him.’

  Eyre looked at Christopher sharply. ‘But of course,’ he said, ‘there are devils.’

  Christopher frowned, and then pouted. ‘You can actually be rather tiresome at times, Eyre, did you know that?’

  ‘Is it tiresome to want to give Yanluga the burial he begged me for?’

  ‘Not entirely. Although it might be a bit too saintly.’

  ‘I’m not a saint, Christopher,’ Eyre smiled at him. ‘I never will be, either. But the boy liked me, and respected me, and I liked and respected him. And I think that’s reason enough.’

  ‘If you say so. But how will you go about it?’

  ‘I need to find an Aborigine chief called Yonguldye. Apparently he knows what to do.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Christopher. He stood up, and pushed his hands into the pockets of his baggy white trousers, and walked to the end of the verandah, where he stood looking out over the windy racecourse with his lank hair flapping across his forehead.

  ‘I suppose it’s no use telling you that you’re really wasting your time?’ he asked Eyre. ‘In fact, more than that, you’re doing yourself a positive disfavour. A chap like Lathrop Lindsay can make or break you. And it doesn’t do one’s reputation much good to be associated with blackfellows. They’re a miserable lot, on the whole.’

  Eyre said, ‘I think I’d be miserable, too, if I was treated worse than vermin, and dispossessed of my hunting grounds, and shot for the sport of it. And I care very little for Lathrop Lindsay, thank you. What man can set dogs on to a boy, in the sure knowledge that they will tear him to pieces? My only regret is that it was my rash affection for Charlotte which led him to die; and for that reason I feel as responsible towards him as if he were my own brother.’

  Christopher turned around, and folded his arms over his grubby yellow waistcoat. ‘I was right, y’know,’ he said. ‘You’re far too saintly; and it will be the death of you.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Eyre replied, conscious that he was being melodramatic.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Christopher, ‘what’s to be done? Have you heard at all from Charlotte?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Do you think that you will?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Eyre. ‘It depends whether or not she still feels any passion for me; and whether or not her father has managed to prevent her from geting in touch.’

  ‘Is she yours?’ Christopher asked, bluntly.

  Eyre glanced up. ‘I suppose so, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘What? You’ve been fiddling, and that’s all?’

  ‘Christopher, don’t be so damned indelicate.’

  ‘Indelicate? I thought we always shared our confidences; and our conquests. Didn’t I tell you absolutely everything about Anne-Marie? My God, apart from me, and a captain at Adelaide barracks, you’re the only person on the entire continent who knows that Anne-Marie has a mole right next to her left nipple.’

  Eyre lifted his empty glass. ‘What about some more brandy?’

  Christopher went to fetch the bottle. ‘I hope you’re not really in love with this Charlotte girl,’ he said.

  ‘And what if I am?’

  ‘You’ll have pain, my dear fellow, that’s what, and nothing else. From what you tell me, Lathrop Lindsay would rather see you cremated alive than have you court his daughter. Perhaps the very best thing you can do is tell me everything about her, and then try to put her out of your mind; and that goes for that Aborigine fellow, too. Exorcise your feelings of romantic lust; and your guilt, as well; and start tomorrow morning with a clean slate, determined to do nothing more complicated with pretty girls than take ungentlemanly advantage of them; and nothing more with blackfellows than kick them very hard in the arse, whenever the feeling takes you.’

  Eyre swallowed more brandy; then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I can’t,’ he said, shaking his head, and Christopher saw then that he meant it.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘damn it. I knew you couldn’t. Da
mn it.’

  ‘Why do you say “damn it”?’

  ‘I say “damn it” because from the very moment I first met you I knew you were one of these chaps who has to do something noble in life. I knew you’d never be satisfied with fun, not for its own sake. No, you’re the kind of chap who has to have a cause, and I do believe now that you may have found it. You’re going to go off searching for this Aborigine chief and that’s probably the last we’ll ever hear of you.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of the Aborigines,’ said Eyre.

  ‘You ought to be. Captain Sturt was.’

  ‘That was ten years ago.’

  ‘Well—let me tell you—Captain Sturt will be at Colonel Gawler’s house on Thursday evening, for the Spring Celebratory Ball.’

  ‘I didn’t, know that Captain Sturt was even in Adelaide.’

  ‘He came in on Friday, on the Albany. He’s staying with the Bromleys. A quiet, private visit, supposedly; but he’s too much of a showman to let it stay quiet and private for very long. And I do think, since he’s here, that you ought to meet him. He’ll tell you what scoundrels the blackfellows can be.’

  Eyre said, ‘I’m not sure that I want to hear such a thing.’

  ‘Nonetheless, don’t tell me you’re going to go looking for this chief of yours completely unprepared; and without asking South Australia’s greatest living explorer what you might hope to find. It’s an opportunity, let’s be honest.’

  ‘I haven’t got a ticket.’

  ‘Aha. There I can help you. Daisy Frockford has six, and two to spare.’

  ‘I suppose you’re going to ask Captain Sturt to dissuade me from seeking Yonguldye out altogether.’

  Christopher finished his second glass of brandy. ‘I’ll try, believe me,’ he said, frankly. ‘But, even if he won’t; or even if he will and you still decide that you want to go off on your wild Aborigine chase; then at least you’ll have some idea of what dangers you may be up against.’

  Eyre said, ‘Christopher, I do believe you’re a true friend.’

  ‘I am, God help me.’

  ‘In fact,’ said Eyre, ‘if I do make up my mind to go and look for Yonguldye, I’d very much like you to come with me.’

  Christopher hesitated. Then he said, ‘Oh, no. Not I. You won’t ever catch me looking for Aborigine chiefs; not a hope of it.’ And then, when Eyre kept on smiling, ‘Listen, Eyre, I’m going to do my level best to make sure that you don’t go; let alone me.’

  Seven

  Eyre had a busy week down at the port. Two vessels had docked from England, with ploughs and shovels and timber; and there were five separate consignments of wheat to be loaded. It rained heavily, too, the last heavy rains of the winter, and the offices he shared with Christopher and four other clerks were dark and humid and thick with tobacco-smoke. On Wednesday morning, he stood on the wharf in his oily rain-cape, waiting for the fat wife of a newly appointed government official to be rowed ashore in a jolly-boat, rotund and placid under her umbrella, a red plaid shawl around her shoulders, and he wished very much that he was away from here, and out in the bush, where the problems of life were uncomplicated, and the only threats to life and sanity were the sun, and the snakes, and the lack of water.

  Perhaps Christopher had been right about him all the time. Perhaps his life was committed to some noble and historic adventure. After all, there must have been some saintly determination inside his father, to make him such a dedicated priest. And saintly determination could well be hereditary.

  Yet he felt that it was no more than a sense of ordinary justice that had outraged about what had happened to Yanluga; a plain conviction that no matter how wealthy or influential Lathrop Lindsay might be, he had no right to deny Yanluga the burial ceremony that all Aborigines considered essential, not only to protect the living from his spirit’s anger, but to avenge his death, and to ensure that he returned by way of the sky to the spiritual centre of his tribal life.

  Like most white men, Eyre knew practically nothing about the blackfellows; and until now, he had felt no particular need to. The only blackfellows he had ever spoken to were dressed-up servants like Yanluga and Captain Henry; or those dissolute families who had become dependent on the Europeans for food and whisky, and lived in sorry brushwood shelters on the outskirts of the municipality, miserably exiled from their own nomadic way of life, and even more miserably attached to the amerjig, the white man.

  Even the tamest of Aborigines talked very little of their magic, and their rituals, since to divulge their songs and their secret places to the white men was to disenchant them, and lose them forever. Yanluga had often spoken to Eyre about a place he called Yeppa mure, the dust hole, where he had spoken with his ancestors from the dreamtime; but he had never told Eyre where it was, nor invited him to see it, for all of their mutual respect.

  The fat wife of the newly appointed government official arrived at the wharf. Eyre helped her disembark, and the jolly-boat swayed dangerously.

  ‘Well,’ she piped, as she clambered heavily on to the wharf. ‘I was told that the climate of Adelaide was amenable. I might just as well be back in Manchester.’

  Eyre drew back his rain-cape and offered her his arm. ‘Indeed, ma’am, you might,’ he told her, although she missed the meaningful sharpness in his voice. She was too busy shaking the rain from her heavy ruffles.

  ‘Such a voyage,’ she said. ‘If I was unwell once, I was unwell a hundred thousand times.’

  ‘I’m frightfully sorry to hear it,’ said Eyre.

  The woman abruptly stopped, and clutched at Eyre’s arm. ‘Are you one of those lonely Australian bachelors?’ she asked him. ‘You won’t mind my asking.’

  ‘I am a bachelor, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, in that case, before I leave the dock you must write down your name for me. I have a sister back at Audenshaw who has been trying to find a husband for nigh on eighteen years, without success; and you would certainly suit her nicely, even if you are a little tender.’

  ‘You’re very complimentary, ma’am.’

  ‘It has been said,’ the woman bustled; pleased with herself.

  A black carriage drew up, slick with rain, and the woman’s husband alighted, thin and whiskery and looking tired. He accepted her kisses as if he were being rhythmically slapped in the face with a soaking-wet duster. Eyre raised his hat, and said, ‘Good morning, sir. Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to Adelaide, ma’am.’

  The government official gave Eyre a tight, twisted smile, and handed him a shilling.

  ‘Come along, dear,’ he told his wife. ‘You don’t want to catch your death.’

  Eyre was just about to go back to his office when somebody else caught his sleeve. He turned quickly and to his complete surprise it was Charlotte, in a hooded cloak, her eyes wide, the front curls of her hair stuck against her forehead with rainwater.

  ‘Eyre,’ she appealed, clinging on to his cape.

  ‘Charlotte! My God! I thought I’d never see you again.’

  ‘Eyre, oh Eyre! Oh look! Your poor dear face.’ She hesitantly touched the triangular scar under his eye. ‘You don’t know how desperate I’ve been to see you. And it was all my fault. Why did I scream so, when you were all that I wanted? Oh, your face. Does it hurt still?’

  Eyre took hold of her wrist, and hurried her across the slippery planking of the wharf; until they were sheltering under a lean-to roof where kegs of nails and ship’s caulking were usually stored. There was a pungent smell of tar, and hempen rope.

  ‘Charlotte,’ said Eyre, and held her close to him, and kissed her. He felt absurdly breathless, as if he had just been running; and confused, too, so that none of his words seemed to come out straight. ‘Charlotte, my God. I thought that was the end of us.’

  She took a breath, and patted the lapels of his cape with her fingertips, quickly, fussily, like something she had to do for luck.

  ‘Father’s furious. I won’t be able to see you again; not for ages; if at all. He says you’re a devil.
Oh, please don’t be angry. He says you’re a devil and that he should have set the dogs on you, as well as poor Yanluga.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eyre. ‘Poor Yanluga.’

  ‘Oh, please, Eyre. He was only an Aborigine.’

  Eyre looked at her for a long time, while the rain dripped along the rim of the lean-to roof in sparkling droplets, one after the other, each droplet a tiny winking life of its own.

  Out in the harbour, a sailing-ship silently glided through the rain, with wet sails, a ghost on a ghostly voyage.

  Eyre said, ‘Yanluga was a boy; a human being. Your father deliberately had him killed.’

  Charlotte looked at him oddly, and then shuddered, as if she had wet herself a little.

  ‘I love you,’ said Eyre. ‘Despite everything that’s happened.’

  Charlotte turned away; but he loved her profile just as much. Those long, curled lashes; and those high, wellrounded cheeks, like two young clouds. She said distractedly, ‘I love you, too; although I have resisted it. I think I was probably very shallow until you showed me that I could be deeper, and more thoughtful, and you still make me ashamed of some of the things I say. I suppose the trouble is that girls are not brought up to be thoughtful, or even to be considerate, especially not in Australia. We have to think of the marriages that will advance us best; of lords and viscounts, and men with money. All my friends do. Some of them say that they don’t even mind if their husband is ugly, as long as he is titled, and rich.’

  She looked back at Eyre, and there were tears shining in her eyes, more droplets, more sparkles.

  ‘I screamed because you frightened me. Well, I think I frightened myself even more. I thought you were going to—damage me. I know now that you couldn’t have done. I talked to Mrs McMurtry, the cook. She said that the first time was always difficult. And I didn’t really know what to expect. It was, you know, the very first time.’