by Di Morrissey
Everywhere there were the constant reminders of Broome’s past. Here Lily came to realise that she was on the edge – of the Indian Ocean and of the continent, with Asia not so far in one direction, and the yawning reaches of the outback in the other. Even further away was ‘the east’ – the other side of Australia – which seemed more distant than the stepping-stone string of islands to Asia.
Down from Moonlight Bay Apartments, across a neat park, was the Continental Hotel – the Conti – where she’d first stayed in Broome. The classic lines of the old hotel had been swallowed up by modern refurbishment. Nearby, on a corner block facing the sweep of the bay, was an empty and rusting corrugated-iron building that had been the fit-out centre and supply store owned by one of the pearling masters in the 1920s. Here the crews had bought all they required on the tick, to be paid off after a stint at sea. Lily had walked past it many times, pausing to peer through the broken window and take in the sad, stale smell of salt, rotting bamboo crab pots and old rope. Further on was the old customs house that was now the Historical Society and Museum.
After a dose of people watching over morning coffee, Lily collected her mail and was intending to drive to Cable Beach for a surf when, on a whim, she turned and for the first time, drove down Chapple Street. Apartment blocks were being built on one side of the street and a few of the old style corrugated-iron houses survived on the other. Not far down the road, the new bitumen gave way to a dirt track that came to a dead end in mud and mangroves. Across the mudflat and further along the creek there were two coconut palms growing as straight and tall as flagpoles beside a small corrugated-iron shack with a rotting wooden dinghy surrounded by weeds and grass. The place looked neglected and abandoned, except for the utility truck parked nearby and the bright colour of a new rubbish bin over by the verandah steps. In the slick of tidal mud Lily could see the ute’s tyre tracks leading to the shack, and, moved by utter curiosity, cautiously drove over the stubby brown grass and centred her wheels in the tracks in the rust-coloured muddy flat.
She thought it strange that only a few blocks away was the bustling town, the air-conditioned Paspaley shopping centre, the crowded post office, and streets filled with tourists and locals going about their business. Here was a remnant of the past that had survived the ravages of seasons and development. As she got closer she saw a dog sitting in the ute. She noticed that the shack had curtains, there was an attempt at a garden, and crates of fishing gear, ropes and tools were neatly stored in a shed. The place looked lived in, a holiday house perhaps. She parked beside the ute and got out. The dog took no notice of her and Lily walked around to the front of the house, which faced the creek.
A slipway ran from the overgrown lawn into the creek. The tide was out, revealing the channels for small craft through the mangroves to the bay. A rough barbecue built from large rocks looked well used. Lily turned her attention back to the house. There was a rickety little verandah with an unravelling cane chair. Whoever lived here liked to fish, as rods and reels leaned beside the doorway. It was very peaceful, the only sounds were the water and the cries of the wader birds.
From the steps she called, ‘Anyone home?’
A man came out, running his hand through an untidy crop of black hair in a futile attempt to bring it into some order when he saw Lily. He was maybe forty, athletic despite a slight paunch, and dressed in shorts and casual shirt. ‘Morning.’ He smiled. ‘Beaut day. What can I do for you?’
‘I was just looking around and I couldn’t resist taking a stickybeak at this place. There are so few of these old places left in Broome. I hope you don’t mind,’ said Lily.
‘Nah. Not too many people care to take on the stretch of mud, so I don’t get disturbed often,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Are you visiting?’
Lily grinned. ‘The visits are getting longer. I’ve been here so often I’m starting to feel like a local.’
‘Me too,’ he said, squatting on the top step.
‘You don’t live here?’
‘It’s my old uncle’s place. I live in Melbourne. This is my annual holiday – fishing, letting go and hanging out.’
‘Who’s your uncle?’ asked Lily.
‘Tamerah. This place belonged to his grandfather. Or his boss, I can’t remember the details. It goes way back. It’s all legal though,’ he added quickly as if to dismiss any idea that he was a squatter.
‘There’s a lot of history around here,’ said Lily casually. ‘My family had connections to this area too. Have you ever heard of Captain Tyndall?’
‘Can’t say I have. I was brought up in Melbourne. I’m in the police force down there. I’ve been coming here for holidays since I was a kid. When my uncle died he left it to me.’
‘It’s lovely to find a place untouched since the old days. It has so much . . .’ for a moment Lily searched for the right word, ‘charm.’ Instantly she realised how absurdly inappropriate and inadequate the word was for this unique little property. Then to cover up she added, ‘Historic too, I imagine.’
‘I don’t know about that.’ He chuckled. ‘Do you want a cup of tea? Come on in, there are some old pictures in the hallway you might want to look at if you like history. My name’s Ross Tamerah, by the way.’
‘That would be lovely, thank you so much. I’m Lily Barton.’ They shook hands as she stepped onto the bleached, weathered boards of the verandah. The place had been there for seventy or eighty years at least. It was a simple design with rooms opening off a hallway that went from the front verandah to the back verandah. The house had one bedroom, a little kitchen with a small dining table, a sitting room and a bathroom that also had washing tubs and an old washing machine in it.
Ross caught her glancing around. ‘It’s basic. I don’t see the point of dolling it up when it sits empty for months. I’m always amazed that vandals don’t move in. Once or twice people have used the barbie, which is okay by me. There’s good fishing in the bay straight out the front.’
‘So you bring back a fresh fish and put it straight on the fire?’
‘Yep, I sit here with a cold tinnie and watch the sunset. Beats Cable Beach.’ He laughed, and Lily couldn’t resist joining in.
‘Definitely four star,’ she announced brightly.
Ross put out cups and poured hot water into a chipped enamel teapot. ‘It does me. My wife, well, my ex-wife, reckoned that coming here was slumming it. She hated it. When I can, I bring my son here.’
‘I bet he loves it.’
‘My oath. Just like I did when I came here for holidays with Uncle Jamal. It’s nice to keep the tradition going.’
Lily peered at the photos along the hallway that were partially covered in spotty brown mould. She recognised the typical scenes from old Broome – luggers, crews, sheds and mounds of shell. In one photo an Asian couple in their traditional dress were standing out the front of the Conti. In another the same couple, this time with the woman holding a baby, were posing formally in a studio portrait.
‘These are great. They are the sort of pictures they should put in motel rooms here, instead of the same old prints of birds of paradise and hibiscus flowers you find all over the country.’
‘Yeah. I suppose I should do something with them, they’re getting a bit grotty. It would be a shame to let them fade away, I guess. I’m not sure who the people are in them.’
‘Perhaps you could give them to the Historical Society. They would add to the records the society already has of the town. Would your parents know who’s in them?’
‘There’s only my mum left. Could ask her, I guess. Tea’s made. Do you take milk? Sugar?’
‘Just milk, thanks.’ Lily was about to turn back to the kitchen, when the last photo caught her attention. ‘Wow! Do you mind if I have a closer look at this?’ It was a framed newspaper photo of a pearling master and his crew standing along the foreshore with a schooner in the background. ‘That’s my great-grandfather, Captain Tyndall, who I mentioned earlier.’ She read the caption: ‘Master Pearler Capt
ain John Tyndall and his crew of The Shamrock with the season’s record haul of shell, weighing in at fifty tons’.
‘Uncle Jamal and his father worked on the luggers. They were Koepangers. That side of the family came from the Indonesian islands, Malaysia, Sulawesi, somewhere up there. Jamal married an Aboriginal woman.’
‘Maybe your uncle’s father worked with my great-grandfather.’
‘It’s very possible. All the old families in Broome have a connection in some way or another.’ Ross passed her a mug of tea. ‘There are a few skeletons in cupboards too, I reckon, or babies on the wrong side of the blanket.’
‘That’s for sure,’ said Lily.
‘Anyway, my mother’s family ended up in Melbourne. Her parents were Indian and European. I think they were, you know, trying to better themselves. I don’t think she’s too happy about me still coming back here. She doesn’t say much, but . . .’
Lily let the unfinished sentence sit there for a while, looked at the old photograph again, then said softly, ‘It sounds like your heart is here, not Melbourne.’
‘True.’ He sighed. ‘The trouble is that a man has to make a crust. I wouldn’t mind looking around for something to do up here, other than being a copper.’ He gave a small shrug and a half smile. ‘I just have to find the courage to chuck in twenty years of security for who knows what.’
‘We can all feel like that,’ said Lily. ‘We tend to get on with our lives and not look into the dark corners.’
‘Or you get up one morning and – bingo! – you change your life,’ said Ross, and there was something in his voice that made Lily think he might well do just that.
They chatted a little more about fishing, crabbing and the good life before the tourism push.
‘I go out for mud crabs but haven’t had much luck. I need some local knowledge,’ Ross said.
‘I have some friends, real locals, who might be willing to take you to their favourite spots,’ said Lily thinking in particular of Bobby Ching. ‘I’ll ask them.’
‘Hey, that’d be great. Tell ’em to drop in. And Lily, you’re right about the old photos. I’ll get myself organised soon and give them to the museum place.’
‘I’m on my way to the Historical Society now,’ said Lily. ‘I’ll tell Val that she can expect them, if you like.’
He followed her out to the car. ‘I’m glad you came by, Lily. Now don’t forget about the clues to solving the mud crab mystery.’
‘You’ll get an anonymous phone call in the middle of the night,’ replied Lily.
Bobby waited as the hospital receptionist shuffled through papers.
‘I’m sorry, Matthias Stern left here several days ago.’ Anticipating Bobby’s next question she added, ‘There’s no contact for him here in Broome. You know what travellers are like.’
‘Odd, but. I’ve got some of his gear. I told him I’d bring it to him. Are you sure no one knows anything?’ He gave the nurse his best smile. ‘Is there any chance of finding out who was on duty the day he checked out, in case they know something?’ Bobby had a niggling worry about Hajid disappearing with Matthias’ bag. He felt he should persist, just to be sure Matthias and Hajid had hooked up as planned.
‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ll check the roster.’
She returned with a young nurse. ‘Hi, I remember your friend. The German man, right?’
‘That’s right. Did someone pick him up? Or did he check himself out?’
‘A bit of both. As I remember it, he was relaxed and resting in bed reading, then he got a phone call and that threw him. Next minute he was in a real scramble, rushing to get out of the hospital as quickly as possible. He said he had to go.’
‘Did you see who he left with?’
‘No. I did have other patients to attend to.’
‘So you’re not sure if he actually left with someone? Or left by himself?’
The nurse pursed her lips. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue. If he’s signed out, paid his bill and gone, that’s it, I’m afraid.’
‘Thanks anyway. I’m glad he was okay.’
Bobby left the hospital still feeling perplexed. Obviously the sun medallion was of little value. Or Matthias hadn’t realised it was missing from his bag. If he even got his bag. Did he meet Hajid? Bobby went back to the motel where he’d collected Matthias, but he was no longer registered there as a guest.
He decided to leave the mysterious wooden box at home and hope Matthias would turn up again so he could finally return it to him. Maybe it wasn’t really so important. Anyway, it wasn’t his problem any longer. He had something even more pressing to deal with – a meeting with his father at his office, which Bobby wasn’t looking forward to at all. It would probably be another ‘Why have you stuffed up again?’ interrogation, he thought.
C h a p t e r F o u r
THE WATER WAS JADE-COLOURED. The massive, jasper-hued walls of the cliff face soared above them. Over jagged rock falls they began the ascent. The grass cut, spiky branches scratched and tendrils stuck to legs, hair and clothes. Sami cut her knee when she banged it on a jagged rock. But she took no notice, concentrating on where to place her hands and feet. Her eyes were focused just a metre in front of her. The air was still. And breathlessly hot. Humid. She was drenched as if from a sauna. It was silent save for an occasional intake of breath, a snapping of twigs and tumbling pebbles underfoot. The gorge grew more narrow as they climbed upwards, the river receding below. She didn’t trust herself to look back and down to its cool depths.
She was aware of tenacious rock figs sprouting from fissures in the cliff, then the path began to level out to a ledge. A band of corellas swooped past, shrieking, towards the water. Sami paused to wipe the perspiration from her face, readjusted her hat and resumed her climb up the rough hillside edging the gorge. Goonamulli was in the lead, followed by Palmer and Bridget, with Sami following behind.
Palmer turned back to her. ‘Are you okay? Don’t grab those tussocks, the razor grass will cut your hands. Here.’ He passed her the branch he used as a walking stick. ‘Use this. The escarpment will level out soon.’
Sami was grateful and found the going a little easier with the sturdy stick. Now she felt more confident she glanced around the gorge from time to time, taking in the shadows of caves and shelters which she could just make out if she looked hard enough.
They reached the ledge and made their way along it towards a high rock shelter just a few metres above them. Goonamulli stopped and turned to Bridget and spoke to her in the local language. Bridget dropped her pack and the others followed her lead. ‘We need to get a few things for a ceremony,’ she explained. ‘Stay close.’ She snapped off some small leafy branches from a nearby bush, which they put on top of the dead twigs Goonamulli had piled up.
‘Smoking ceremony,’ said Bridget, ‘to cleanse the area and to announce ourselves to the spirits. We’re safe from them as long as we are with someone who belongs here, and we show respect.’
‘Them?’ asked Sami.
‘The spirits of ancestors, the creators of Dreamtime.’
‘Oh,’ was all Sami could say. She gathered that this was like taking off your shoes outside a mosque, or covering your head or bowing in a temple.
The smell of the leaves was pleasant and the smoke drifted above them, fanned by Bridget’s hat. Goonamulli chanted for a few minutes, listened as if hearing a response, then, as the last of the smoke drifted away, nodded to signal it was okay to make the final short climb to the sacred rock shelter. As they were about to move forward, Palmer touched Sami’s arm. ‘You can’t see it, but we’ve crossed a border. We’ve stepped over a time line, if you like. It’s sacred country here and in order to appreciate and understand this place, it’s best if you suspend western thinking a little.’
‘How do you do that?’
‘Don’t ask how, or why. Just be. Be intuitive, open to anything. That’s all.’
‘You don’t talk like an academic,’ she chided.
‘Ah, one can
observe with more than just one’s eyes. This is an opportunity to absorb something, to respect something that is not ours to appropriate. We are privileged to be shown and to share,’ he said in a gentle voice.
Sami nodded. ‘I think I understand.’
The shelter sloped back into the cliff face and she stepped into the cool cave, large enough for a dozen people to camp easily. Then looking around she saw the rock wall at the back of the overhang, and caught her breath with surprise. A galaxy of figures and animals covered the sandstone wall, some were very faded but others were still coloured with touches of bright ochre. What really astounded Sami was just how alive the art felt. The simplistic figures appeared to be caught in an act of joy. Dancing, copulating, hunting, running, the figures and creatures captured the essence of their lives in that moment, seemingly without any artist’s self-conscious intervention. She stood awestruck and then became aware the others were watching her.
Bridget smiled. ‘Well?’
Sami struggled to express her immediate reaction. ‘It all seems so spontaneous. Like they were caught by a camera. Even though the style is so simplistic it seems to capture the very essence of these figures. I can’t explain it,’ she finished lamely.
‘You don’t have to. That’s pretty well spot on,’ said Palmer with satisfaction. ‘It’s the spiritual essence that’s caught. It’s not realism.’
Bridget picked up the explanation. ‘In the Wandjina rock art galleries the great creation spirits painted themselves into the rock, they were not painted by mortal beings. Wandjina is the creator spirit who walked on the new earth forming the landscape. These pictures came later when the spirits became human and they danced and sang and hunted, and painted themselves forward into history.’
