by Di Morrissey
‘Thanks. It didn’t take me long to finish the little bottle of water I set out with,’ she said. ‘Next time I go bushwalking I’ll be a little wiser. I’ll take a bigger bottle.’ She drank deeply. ‘Ah, that’s nice. And so is the setting. Fabulous.’
‘It depends on the point of view. There’s not much to show for thirty years’ work. A few good seasons got knocked out by a run of bad ones – storms, a cyclone or two. Times overtook me, the capital to compete with the big operators got too hard.’ He paused then added philosophically, ‘Mind you, I didn’t give it away, I’m still here.’
‘It gets into your blood, pearling.’
‘You know a bit about it?’
‘A little. I’ve been looking into it from a historical and family viewpoint.’ Before Dave could get another question in, Lily looked back at the old lugger in the muddy creek, and asked, ‘What do you know about that lugger down there?’
‘Ah, the Georgiana. She could tell you a few stories.’
‘Did you say Georgiana?’ Lily’s voice was a whisper. ‘That was my mother’s name.’
Dave George leaned back in his chair, quietly studying her. When he spoke it was more of a statement than a question. ‘And she had links back to Captain Tyndall.’
Lily nodded, and they both looked at the lugger again. Then the pearler spoke. ‘I wondered when someone from the family would turn up. Yeah, that’s one of Tyndall’s boats.’
Lily struggled to control her emotions. ‘And this once belonged to the Star of the Sea, Captain Tyndall’s company?’
The man nodded, watching her intently.
‘I’m his great-granddaughter.’
‘Well, I never.’ He gave a grin and reached over and pumped her hand. ‘They were long out of business when I came along hoping to make my fortune. I bought the farm from the estate. No one else seemed to want it. I was either too early or too late in the pearling business. I’m just dabbling now, to tell you the truth. Not like Star of the Sea. They had a good set-up in Broome, camps along the foreshore, this place, and they tried a couple of others.’
‘He was a man ahead of his time, I guess,’ said Lily, still struggling to adjust to this information.
‘Generous too. He looked after his people. I’ve done a bit of historical homework, as well.’ Dave grinned with some pride. ‘I reckon his two closest people were Yoshi, the diver, and Ahmed, his offsider. Loyal, they were. In fact, one of Ahmed’s relatives still has the original old camp.’
Lily looked surprised. ‘I didn’t know that, who is it? Where is it?’
‘Ah, it’s nothing much to look at, love. It’s just an old shack Tamerah’s family kept on. I think it’s empty most of the time now. It’s at the back of town, facing the bay, like all the camps were. They’d cut the mangroves and pull the luggers up on the shore and set up their base camps.’
‘I know it,’ said Lily weakly. ‘I’ve been there. I just met Ross Tamerah. It belonged to his uncle.’
‘There you go. History in Broome is alive and well.’ Dave rose stiffly. ‘I guess you’d like to have a look around.’
Lily felt slightly faint. Was it the heat, the long walk, or the emotional impact of strolling into the world of her great-grandfather? Her heart was racing. ‘Yes, Dave. Thank you. That would be very nice indeed.’ She struggled to hold back tears. ‘Please excuse me if I appear a little emotional about all this, but, well, it is something special.’
‘Ah, that’s all right, love. Grab your hat and we’ll do the rounds. It’s about time I checked out what the blokes are up to in the sheds anyway.’
For the next hour they wandered around the property, meeting the handful of workers tending the shell that was currently being seeded or packed into wire panels. Despite the rather rundown condition of many of the buildings, the operation was clinical and efficient.
Dave was clearly proud of this part of the farm. ‘This is the heart of the whole show,’ he explained to Lily. ‘I’ve always got a kick out of what happens here, the sense of expectation that goes with every harvest.’
Lily could relate immediately to what he was saying. She, too, was taken by what was happening around her in a way that was far different from what she had seen at the Lakes’ farm. This time it all seemed so personal. Somehow she knew that it was part of her heritage. ‘Do you think you will keep farming here much longer, Dave?’ she asked, trying hard to make it sound like a casual question.
‘Nah, I don’t think so, Lily. Look around, it’s a big job and there’s a lot of competition. It’s all high tech and marketing nowadays. Mind you, no one’s told the oysters that.’ He chuckled.
‘If you had some money behind you, would you do this again?’ asked Lily.
‘Bloody oath, I would. The water out there is rich in nutrients, if you can keep them feeding in the clean water out in the bay, they’ll make pearls fit for a queen.’
‘So?’
‘I’m no spring chicken, it’s been hard meeting payments, keeping the boys on, maintaining the boats and gear. I run a small operation. I have a decent lot of shell hanging out there for the last couple of years. Who knows what it’ll bring . . .’ His voice trailed off and he looked at the creek that led to the bay. ‘That’s not to say I didn’t have big dreams once. Captain Tyndall started with one boat.’ He turned to Lily as they walked towards the old lugger. ‘So, you just looking around?’
‘It’s a long story, but I’ve been coming back to Broome for years now, ever since I got a grip on the family history and its links with the area . . . and pearls. Each trip seems to hold me here longer.’
Dave George gave her a friendly pat on the back. ‘I know exactly what you’ve been feeling. It’s amazing just how many people catch the Broome bug.’
When they got to the lugger neither spoke as if in respect for the old ship. Lily’s eyes ran over every part of the boat. ‘Beautiful. Truly beautiful,’ she said softly.
He rattled off the statistics. ‘The beam is a third of her length, she’s sixty feet. See that heavy keel? That slows the drift when divers are working below. And those solid ribs are curved like a wineglass so she can lie on her side in the mud. I reckon in those days the shipwrights never drew plans, they just did a bit of a rough sketch.’
‘And the wood?’
‘Jarrah. Queensland white beech, masts Oregon pine, cajuput.’
‘Is it true there’s always a silver coin under the foremast?’
‘Yep. Men of the sea are a superstitious bunch. It’s a pity we couldn’t afford to get her up to scratch. There’s life in the old girl yet, mind you.’
‘I’m sure there is,’ said Lily. ‘I’m sure there is. By the way, what do you call this place?’
‘Nothing clever. I was hoping some of Tyndall’s luck would rub off – it’s called “Star Two”.’
Two hours later Lily shook the old man’s hand, politely turning down his offer to drive her back to Damien Lake’s farm, saying she’d enjoy the walk. He didn’t press the offer, figuring that Lily needed the quiet time to come to terms with the discovery of so much that went to the heart of her family’s history. He watched her walk back to the rough track that threaded through the dunes, and he ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. There goes a lady with a lot on her mind, he thought.
It was stifling with not a breath of wind, and the harsh light bounced off the white sand into Lily’s eyes. Back by the shore of the bay she spotted a leafy tree that provided reasonable shade and sat beneath it to rest and think. She felt drained, not so much by the heat and the physical exertion as by the overwhelming impact of coming into the orbit of her distant white family in this unexpected way. Until today her remote links to a multiracial and Aboriginal family had dominated what had been a search for identity. Here, among these dunes and on that water out there, her great-grandfather had worked and dreamed. He had probably often gazed across the bay and wondered if a fortune awaited him in its depths. Of course, Tyndall had a thriving business in Broome back the
n and the Red Rock Bay base must have been a gamble, but at least it was still there and yielding pearls.
Suddenly, inexplicably, she was seized by a vision that she realised had emerged from the impressions that had come flooding in from the moment she saw the lugger and the camp. It had a simple but staggering message – follow in his footsteps.
The thought made her shiver in shock for a moment. Follow in his footsteps, are you mad? It must be the result of too much sun. No, don’t try so lightly to dismiss the idea. Think about it. Sure there’s a problem of finding enough money, sure I haven’t a clue about actually working pearls as distinct from wearing them, and practically everyone will think I’m mad. Ah, but Tyndall had the wonderful Olivia for support. What had she advised him? She had always been so encouraging and daring. Who can I turn to? she thought. Who will share this vision? And the commitment needed to make it a reality?
Lily idly ran her hand through the sand as thoughts whirled, and it was only when her fingers touched something hard that she concentrated on what she was doing. She dug a little deeper and pulled up a discarded pearl shell, the inner surface still silvery and glossy. She shook her head in surprise. I wonder how you got under this tree. A wild coincidence, or something else . . . a signal, perhaps.
Touching the shell brought vividly to mind the moment she’d first worn Olivia’s beautiful pearl necklace. She was only a tiny child then. How those lustrous, wondrous pearls had captured her heart. Against her skin they seemed to be alive, shining, breathing, glowing with life. And yet her mother had hidden them away, rejected them. Lily knew they were rightfully hers. How she treasured that brief bright memory of Olivia – a grand and elegant old lady, draping them around her neck, delighted that they dangled to her knees. But Georgiana had come upon them in the Perth garden and said they looked ridiculous and had taken them off. With the glance and the whisper that passed between Lily and Olivia, the only time she met her great-grandmother, she knew those pearls were meant for her. She wore them now as often as she could.
More than ever before, Lily was obsessed with their creation – that they had come from this coast, these waters, painstakingly collected by Tyndall. She tried to imagine the surge of excitement at finding just one such pearl.
Now much of the confusion she associated with having no challenge, no goal to achieve, no sense of direction, seemed to clear like a mist lifting with the sunrise. She was over fifty, retired from her job in Sydney, and everyone was expecting her to take it easy. It was taken for granted that she was past the time of Great Passion – whether it be a love affair or a business venture. Lily decided to prove them wrong. Perhaps here was a means to do that. It was daunting even to consider such a step. She would have to think this through, sleep on it. Maybe, back in the comfort of her modern apartment in Broome, this would seem a wild, but delicious, pipedream. What she did know was that there was no one she could ask; this decision was hers alone.
Lily got to her feet, and trudged back around the deserted shoreline, still trying to clear her mind. But all the while she kept seeing snapshots of the Star Two farm, the abandoned Georgiana, and the portrait of Tyndall back at the old house in Broome with his twinkling eyes that now seemed to say to her, ‘I dare you.’
Sami hadn’t laughed so much in weeks. She and Palmer had gone for a morning walk. Rakka ran ahead of them, loving every moment of this outback adventure – except when she’d been left at camp to ‘stand guard’. Sami had become accustomed to the bagpipes that Palmer played at almost any time of the day, though he favoured early morning and evening. Between blasts on the pipes, and conducting imaginary orchestras as he hummed classical tunes, Palmer talked. He was never lost for a subject. It seemed that he even thought out loud.
He talked about his Scottish mother – ‘a Celtic queen of fantasy’ – and her family, about growing up with a diehard Aussie dad. ‘I was brought up on myth, legend, limericks and larrikinism. That’s one of the reasons I love the stories and beliefs of Aboriginal people. The white man’s sciences are not nearly as poetic as the custodians’ stories,’ Palmer said to Sami.
‘Like what?’
‘They tell me that those caves we saw were clouds, now solidified into cloud stones to protect the interior of the caves.’
‘Is rock art your speciality?’
‘Not really. But that’s what I love about anthropology, almost anything can come under its umbrella.’
‘So you can look at the character, science and culture of man – or woman,’ Sami said. ‘I’ve tended to study fine art, meaning period and ancient art.’
Palmer looked at her profile as Sami concentrated on the rough track. ‘And you never thought scratches on a rock wall in a remote cave could qualify as significant art?’
‘Dr Palmer, are you challenging me?’ she asked in an exaggerated defensive tone, causing him to smile. ‘Fair comment, in a way. I wish I’d had you as one of my lecturers.’ Then after a moment she added, ‘I have to admit I found those very raw, primitive cave paintings and the sun carvings extremely powerful.’
‘And yet as whitefellas we can’t fully appreciate or understand their true depth. Sure, we can look at the colour and shape, and guess at their meaning, but we’ll never really know the story behind them. Only what we’re told by those who do know.’
Sami glanced quickly at the laconic yet perceptive academic.
He caught her look and shrugged. ‘You can’t live out here and not become aware of the importance of the traditional stories and beliefs. It’s part of daily life for Bridget, the old men, and Rosie Wallangou. I pick up bits of knowledge from all of them.’
Sami knew about her relative Rosie from her mother, she had seen photos of her. Rosie had even written to Sami. She assumed Palmer knew little about her background but changed the tack of their conversation just in case.
‘Being there really makes the difference,’ said Sami. She was still trying to understand why the cave art and carvings had affected her so deeply. ‘I was looking for spiritual elements in art in the western sense. Depictions of sacred figures, symbols, places of worship and so on. These places were very spiritual and yet so few people know of their location or their significance.’ She knew she would have to go back and spend time just sitting in the rock shelter, studying the paintings to try to fathom how to approach the work.
‘It’s all tied together. The creation of the art – though that’s not really the right interpretation. It wasn’t created as art in the sense we know it. It’s bound up in the place, the land, the people, their story, all are as one.’
‘So how do outsiders ever understand the depth of Aboriginal cultural expression? You feel like you’re trespassing.’
‘There’s another layer or more, an inner story, a hidden heartbeat in Aboriginal art. Even a bloke trying to sell a rough picture for a few bucks to buy a flagon of booze believes that. When you’re in Broome talk to Rosie at Little Street Gallery. She’s local and very knowledgeable.’
‘What we’ve been looking at out here is obviously old art, very old art. The modern stuff seems overwhelmingly commercial, right?’ Sami asked.
‘There are some contemporary Aboriginal artists gaining a toehold in the international fine art market,’ said Palmer. ‘Its greater value though, is in consciousness raising out there in the wide, white world. Even a reproduction on a humble T-shirt, if it has been made with respect and the permission of the community, is sending a message, alerting people to the fact that we Australians have a special heritage that’s worth looking at a little more closely. End of sermon.’
They were silent for a few moments as Sami digested her feelings and Palmer’s comments. Then she said, ‘It’s as if all these pictures hold a secret. People buy a painting and hang it on their wall and have no idea what is under the paint.’ She was conscious that the words failed to really clarify the hazy thoughts that were stirring in her mind. ‘And maybe one night the picture comes to life, or starts throbbing or singing. Fanciful, bu
t I mean would they ever really understand that inside story?’
‘Do they want to? Need to? Some people appreciate the exterior form and that’s enough.’ He glanced at her. ‘Something tells me you want to get beneath the surface.’ When Sami didn’t answer Palmer started whistling, but he was thinking that this was a girl with a lot of questions. Unlike many young women he’d taught, Sami didn’t prattle on about her personal life, didn’t talk about her studies, future work or plans of any kind. She was obviously bright, well brought up, but despite her polite exterior there was a reserve he didn’t understand. He’d sensed that she had experienced more than an academic interest in the old caves. She had been emotionally moved, unexpectedly so, it seemed to him.
Ted Palmer thought back to when he’d been doing his PhD. It was a stressful time. He’d seen a lot of students drop out, delay, give up, get depressed or manic. Being divorced and never having had children, he was nonetheless a caring man who young people related to. He’d been told this was because he treated them the same way as he treated his peers, who were in their fifties. The world was made up of equals in Palmer’s eyes. He was prepared to meet everyone as a person of intelligence and compassion and treat them as such – until they proved their brilliance or stupidity. Sami was like a tightly closed flower bud, he decided. The Kimberley sun would coax those petals to open.
He sang softly to himself as they continued their walk. In a little while he saw the tension in her jawline relax so he asked, ‘Are you having fun?’
She gave him a surprised look. ‘Fun? I’m trying to absorb all this and how it affects my own research. It’s intriguing, fascinating, disturbing even.’
Palmer stood back with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Ah, wait till you get to Broome then. That’s fun.’
Lily was back in Broome, but she couldn’t shake the memory and mood of being at the Star Two farm and her conversation with old Dave. She sat on the balcony staring at the tide coming in when suddenly it hit her. Why hadn’t she seen it before – the remarkable coincidence of Georgiana rejecting Broome and her family ties just as Sami, her granddaughter, was doing to Lily.
