by Di Morrissey
They walked further on and suddenly Lily realised she was hungry. ‘Normally the idea of rum and ribs for breakfast wouldn’t appeal, now it seems a splendid idea. Shall we?’
Together they turned back toward the camp.
C h a p t e r T h r e e
THE MOON WAS HIGH AND FAINTLY REFLECTED IN the still waters of Roebuck Bay. Lily stood on the balcony of her apartment thinking how appropriately it was named – Moonlight Bay. She stayed in the pale pink complex on the hill overlooking the bay each time she came to Broome. The tide was in, washing over the mangroves so the tops of the clumpy trees floated like small green islands. Mangroves and moonlight. Lily always felt so relaxed when she stayed here. The quiet grounds with the lovely pool and comfortable, spacious apartment suited her. She had resisted suggestions to buy a home in Broome even though prices were rising. She probably had some claim to the old family home, Tyndall and Olivia’s magnificent bungalow that also overlooked the bay. But she was happy to see Rosie and Harlan settled there.
Lily was glad of this quiet time on her own. There was so much to think about. The past few weeks had been so busy she felt she was reaching an emotional and intellectual overload. She longed to be able to sift through all she’d seen and learned from old friends and new.
The next day Lily sat at a sidewalk table at her favourite coffee shop in Carnarvon Street, waiting to meet Pauline Despar, who arrived looking harried. ‘Sorry I’m late, it’s madness at the moment. I’m never going to be ready for this American exhibition.’
‘What happened to the pieces you had at opening? Have you sold them all?’
‘Just about,’ she said with a smile. ‘Bertrand is beside himself. And now we have to get a collection together to take to Palm Desert. We’ll get there. Ooh, I need a caffeine hit.’ She pointed to Lily’s empty glass. ‘Another latte?’
‘Why not. Iced, thanks Pauline.’
Lily watched the slim young woman nod and pause to chat to other customers on her way to the counter inside. She was a popular local girl making good and Lily was pleased for her. She recalled how unhappy Pauline had been when they’d first met several years ago on a flight from Perth. During the trip and the next few weeks over regular morning coffee in Broome, Pauline had told Lily her life story. It was the start of a strong friendship that denied the age gap between them.
Her mother died when Pauline was twelve. Her parents had been living in Broome but her father moved to Perth after her mother died. Her father and brother were close with shared interests in the family engineering firm, so she never felt she fitted into the family. Boarding school in Perth was an unhappy experience as she preferred artistic endeavours to academia. She dropped out of university and moved to Broome where she worked at a few of the pearl farms before going back to Perth to do a design course. She had come to regard Lily as a mother figure or mentor in her life, and she’d confided in Lily her secret desire to create original pearl jewellery.
Lily had talked about Samantha and told her how Sami had graduated with a fine arts degree but had been loathe to move out into what Lily considered to be the real world. Lily was worried that Sami was burying herself in academia and wished she’d get out and do something like Pauline.
Pauline often asked Lily for advice, and discovered she was able to share feelings and ideas with Lily in a way that she’d never been able to do with another woman before. Lily, in turn, found herself unburdening her sadness that Sami had refused to take an interest in their family’s connection with Broome. Pauline occasionally wrote to Lily who phoned her several times a year. In their last phone chat Lily had been relieved to tell Pauline that Sami was at last getting out into the field and was heading west, into the desert. She had been thrilled to hear Pauline’s plans and advised her to approach her father for help.
‘Will Bertrand run the business while you’re away?’ Lily asked, when Pauline returned to the table.
‘Yes. Dear old thing he is. He’s fretting over the cost of wholesale pearls and the stuff flooding the market from China and Indonesia. He loves the fabulous traditional pearl jewellery, my carved pearlshell pieces are a bit too modern for him.’
‘Who’s your supplier?’ asked Lily.
‘Oh, we deal with the smaller companies, the big harvests go straight overseas from the major producers. The export business is worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Pearls from Broome are the elite, top of the range. And exclusive.’
Lily was thoughtful. ‘I wonder what my great-grandfather would make of the business now.’
‘Captain Tyndall? He’s such a legend. Whatever happened to his pearling company?’
‘Star of the Sea. Oh, it disappeared. After Olivia died there wasn’t anyone to run it, and pearling went into a slump in the fifties.’
‘There were tough times for years,’ said Pauline. ‘Then there was the terrible bacteria infection that nearly wiped the pearls out in the mid eighties. I’ve done my homework.’ She grinned. ‘It’s impossible to get into the business now. The industry is so regulated to protect and sustain the wild shell. There are only sixteen licences in the whole of Western Australia.’
‘I’ve often wondered what happened to the old leases and camps,’ mused Lily. ‘At least the house is still intact but the sheds along the waterfront have all been knocked down.’
‘Why don’t you check it out at the Historical Society? They have the records of all the fleets. I went through them to find out whose shed my shop is in.’
‘I might just do that,’ said Lily. ‘Good ol’ Val should be able to winkle out the records for Star of the Sea. I might read Olivia’s diaries again, too. I was so taken with their personal story I didn’t take in fine points like exactly where on the foreshore Tyndall had the sheds. Right, I’d better let you get back to work. I know how busy you are. Come and see me before you leave for the States. And I’d love a sneak look at the collection you’re taking over.’
‘Will do, Lily. The boys are hard at work as we speak.’ Pauline now had two jewellers cutting and polishing her designs as well as setting the traditional pieces. They worked in a simple tin shed in the industrial area while Pauline had a tiny design studio at the rear of her shop. At twenty-five she was proving to be an astute businesswoman as well as a creative designer.
The coffee session was followed by a pre-lunch swim, made all the more enjoyable for Lily because she was the only person using the pool at the Moonlight Bay Apartments. Work or tourist activities usually cleared the visitors soon after breakfast. She did a few laps then turned on to her back and floated aimlessly, watching sea eagles circling high over the estuary. She closed her eyes on the world around her and drifted back in time.
In a breath she imagined herself on the messy deck of a lugger in the old days and she was overcome with a powerful sense of déjà vu. Was it because she’d read so much of the struggles of pearling recounted by Olivia? Or was there running in her veins a little of the salty blood of her great-grandfather? The sense of nostalgia tinged with excitement puzzled her. She wished she could go back to the heyday of the pearling era when Star of the Sea reigned as the best fleet in the bay. She thought of the company’s tragedies and successes, which were now almost forgotten. Where was the famed seven-pearl cluster in the shape of a star which had set the company on its feet and given it the name? It was one of the great pieces to come out of Australia. Created by nature beneath the sea off the Broome coast, it had been sold to an Indian maharaja. So many pearls had become treasures, even if they were only used as a single-pearl pendant, a ring or in a modest strand. To the women who had them as gifts, personal indulgence or heirlooms, they were as treasured as the maharaja’s. They never lost their beauty, their appeal as ‘tears of the moon’.
The fascination for pearls had gripped Lily ever since she’d found the necklace and pendant in her late mother’s belongings. Now each time she came here, the more she’d learned about the past and the present, the stronger her desire became to delve deeper into
this fascinating business. And while she recognised it was a business, she knew it must also be a passion. Producing cars, biscuits, computers, whatever, couldn’t compare with the magic of a barnacled shell hiding a perfect glowing gem in the folds of its meaty muscle.
The sound of Blossom starting up a lawnmower brought Lily back from her dream world.
After a day spent trying to adjust to her surroundings, Sami sat cross-legged beside the campfire feeling awkward and a little nervous. The others sat quietly, eating from tin plates and sipping mugs of black tea. She glanced again at her fire-lit companions. Goonamulli, the senior custodian, was maybe seventy, greying and stern-faced. His English was hard to understand but Sami was bemused by his clothes which had a sports logo on every garment. Coils of wiry hair sprouted beneath his well-worn Dodgers baseball cap. Gideon, his teenage grandson, was ‘learning the law’. He was deferential and shy, avoiding direct eye contact with Sami.
Bridget, their cultural adviser, who worked at Perth’s Curtin University in the anthropology department, was at ease in this setting. This was her ancestral country. She was one of them, yet was able to talk to Sami about the trials and joys of academic life. Bridget was forty, divorced, dark eyed and very articulate. Unofficially, she’d been at the camp to welcome Sami into her world. Officially, she would take photographs as required to document the various sites they would be visiting.
‘It’s a fascinating place, some of the galleries are quite controversial,’ said Bridget, breaking the silence.
‘Why is that?’ asked Sami.
Bridget thought a moment. ‘I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. Talk it over with Palmer, he has some interesting theories. Our people don’t agree necessarily. But it’s an interesting debate.’
‘When is Dr Palmer turning up?’
‘He’s a man of whims. A bit unpredictable, but extremely knowledgeable in many areas. His specialty is archaeology but anthropology and the environment are his special interests. He’s a bit of a renaissance man in some respects. He can scrub up and give a formidable lecture or presentation. But I think he’s more at home out in the bush than in the hallowed halls.’ She turned to the old man. ‘Palmer is a good man, eh, Goonamulli?’
He grunted. ‘Sometimes he tells good stories. Sometimes he talk rubbish . . . university talk.’
Bridget laughed. ‘There you go. Palmer in a nutshell.’
Rakka slept close to Sami’s swag and she was grateful for the warm body next to her. Several times during the night Rakka lifted her head and let out a low growl in her throat. Sami assumed there were animals close by and patted the dog reassuringly.
It was a comfortable campsite, despite the remoteness and its simplicity. Gideon, the last to bunk down, had thrown a log on the fire and it smouldered gently. The four of them had settled in their swags around the campfire, a little way from their three small tents and the rough shade shelter with collapsible table and chairs. There was a river nearby but Sami had washed her face and brushed her teeth in a bucket of water Gideon brought her. Out behind some dark bushes was a long drop loo – a hole in the ground with an old plastic toilet seat balanced above it on tree stumps. Some hessian tied to bush posts screened three sides of the loo, the fourth was open with a great view towards the nearby ranges.
The next morning Sami awoke surprisingly refreshed after a night sleeping on the ground. Goonamulli was still huddled in his swag, Bridget in her sleeping bag. Gideon was up but nowhere in sight. The fire was low so Sami assumed Gideon had gone to fetch wood. Quietly she got her towel and swimsuit, and with Rakka she set out down a track which led to the river. The first light of the day was pearly bright, dew still shone on silver-edged leaves and the air was crisp, but she knew as soon as the sun was up the temperature would quickly rise.
Soon she met Gideon carrying wood in a sling. He gave her a shy smile. ‘The washing swimming place down that way.’ He pointed. ‘Sacred water further that way. Don’t go in there.’
‘Thanks, Gideon. I’ll help with breakfast when I get back.’
‘Okay.’ He patted Rakka and walked on.
Rakka bounced ahead and at the sight of the clear wide river, rushed through the reeds and splashed into the water. Sami saw a rope dangling from an overhanging tree and a fallen log running from the bank into the shallows. It made a comfortable platform to sit on, or jump from. She pulled off her tracksuit, put on her swimsuit and tiptoed along the log. Rakka was less cautious and in scrambling past her knocked Sami off balance and she fell into the river, catching her breath at the sudden cold. Rakka leapt in after her, thrilled at this game. Together they splashed and played, enjoying the total freedom of the moment.
Sami swam a little further along the river, delighting in the stillness. The middle of the river was deep but she preferred it to the marshy shallows where waterlilies hid the bottom. A pair of long-tailed finches darted from the bushes at the water’s edge to the eucalypts on the bank. She swam over several large rocks jutting from the water, forming a shallow pool. Climbing onto one she sat and contemplated the scene around her, with the morning birdsong chorus echoing from bank to bank.
Rakka was splashing along the bank when she lifted her head and began to growl. She glanced at Sami and barked.
‘What is it, Rakka?’ Sami clambered from the river then heard a strange noise – a whine, or a howl. Or was it a cry? Animal or child? Rakka cocked her head, unsure of the noise. They stood there for a few moments and then it came again, closer and louder. This time there was no mistaking what it was. Sami glanced at Rakka who had her ears forward looking puzzled. ‘Good grief, it can’t be. Surely,’ laughed Sami.
But it was. Unmistakable. The haunting wail of bagpipes. A cheerful rendering of ‘Scotland the Brave’. Walking through the trees came a white man playing the pipes. He was tall and lean, fifty-something, Sami guessed. He wore boots, jeans, a check shirt and a battered leather stockman’s hat. He was unshaven, his cheeks puffed with exertion but he looked extremely pleased with himself.
He didn’t seem put out to see a young woman in a swimsuit and a dripping dog ahead of him. He walked towards them, stopped, finished the chorus, took the pipe from his mouth and holding the bagpipes under one arm, swept his hat from his head with the other hand and bowed. ‘Morning, Miss. Any special requests?’
‘I’m afraid I’m lost for words.’ Now that she could see him properly she was quite taken aback. The man bore a striking resemblance to Robert Redford in Out of Africa, even to the blue eyes and slightly crooked smile.
‘Never mind. I’m Ted Palmer, and you must be our honoured PhD candidate – “Sacred Messages in Tribal Art: A reinterpretation of the religious expression in traditional art and craft”. There’s a thesis that demands commitment.’
Sami was flattered that he knew her doctoral subject. ‘I’m hoping I’ll find some illumination and help from you while I’m out here.’
‘That’s what I’m here for – as well as continuing my own work with the rock art. A fabulous world awaits you, Sami. And we have wonderful guides in Bridget and Goonamulli. Philosophical, cultural and spiritual guides, that is. Though come to think of it, we’d be lost in the scrub without Goonamulli. Let’s go to breakfast.’ He began playing ‘On the Bonnie, Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond’ and strode ahead. Sami picked up her towel and clothes as they passed the log and with Rakka following cautiously – she’d decided the man was non-threatening – they set off.
Palmer arrived at the camp, finishing the tune with a flourish. Bridget and Goonamulli were up, the fire was blazing and the billy was on the boil. Gideon and his grandfather grinned broadly as Bridget started clapping her hands. ‘What an entrance, Palmer. You take the cake. Where did you spring from? Did you walk, drive, fly, pedal or camel?’ asked Bridget as Sami excused herself to get dressed. ‘I never know with you.’
‘At this moment – I came on my two left feet. The car gave up the ghost somewhere round ten last night.’ He lay down the bagpipes and crouched b
y the fire. ‘In other words, I’m bushed. What’s for breakfast?’
Gideon handed him a mug. ‘Have a cup of tea. Grandfather made a damper.’
‘As I recall, Goonamulli’s damper would choke a hippopotamus. But I’ll take it.’
‘We got chops and tomatoes too,’ said Gideon.
‘We’ll have to get your vehicle later,’ Bridget said. ‘Goonamulli is the best bush mechanic.’
‘I think it’s a matter of juice. Something to do with the fuel line. But I’ve lots of treats in the back seat – all your favourites, Goonamulli – canned baby beetroot, treacle, peanuts.’
‘Terrific,’ said Bridget, and the old man nodded his thanks.
Palmer sipped his mug of tea and looked towards Sami’s tent. ‘So how is the princess of academia coping?’
‘Just fine. Mind you, she only got in yesterday. We’ll tackle the gorge later this morning.’
Goonamulli spoke quietly. ‘She go to spirit country.’
Palmer and Bridget glanced at the old man in surprise. ‘You don’t like whitefellas going in there,’ said Bridget.
‘She got same ting. She one of us, ’cept she don’t seem t’know it. She come here for work with you, but she has to learn her story. I dream this. Last night,’ he said, and no one contradicted him.
‘Well, let’s hope this sheila is different,’ said Palmer. ‘These assistant researchers get sick, get spooked, or get bored. Many never finish their doctorates. It’s a hard slog – the research then the writing.’
Bridget looked over at Sami dressed in shorts, shirt and hiking boots, Rakka at her heels, making her way to the fire. ‘You know, I think this one is different.’
On her first visit to Broome, Lily had decided that the old part of town was a great place for people watching. Over the years she’d found herself increasingly fascinated by this simple pleasure. She had quickly passed the initial embarrassment of occasionally being caught staring, finding that a relaxed smile inevitably got one in return. The variety of racial mixtures, skin tones, dress styles, languages and accents, as well as the way people moved and interacted on greeting one another, enriched every visit to Broome.
