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by Larissa Behrendt

  With the paperwork finished, the officers returned to discussing the latest news of the war, ignoring Mrs Carlyle and her young charge. Mrs Carlyle looked to Garibooli’s bare feet still caked with black soil. Mrs Carlyle’s gaze swept across Garibooli’s new clothes and back to her bare feet. “Well, we better get you ready for the train. It’s a long way we have to travel.” Her tone was gentle, but firm enough that Garibooli could not summon the courage to ask where they were going and how long they would be gone.

  Euroke and Garibooli had always marvelled at the trains. The railway was new to the area, slowly replacing the steamships along the river. The two siblings would lie in the long grass by the track and wait for a train to come by. Few came so they had many hours to muse about travelling in the pod-like carriages and imagine the places the tracks would carry them: a circus with magicians like the one that had been to the town and had a man who ate fire, a rodeo with horses that danced with ribbons on them, or a magical place where the rivers tasted like honey.

  Now Garibooli was getting to go on the train with the sombrely-dressed, unsmiling white woman whose pursed mouth offered few words. She wondered if her brother would see her pass by. Euroke would know where she went. He would be able to find her or send someone to bring her back. She wished herself to be lying on the ground next to him, looking up at the sky, listening for the distant sound of a passing train.

  As the train whisked her forward into the night, all the soil from her home fell away. Garibooli could not know that she would never again see the place where the rivers meet.

  The train journey had been long. Mrs Carlyle had asked Garibooli several questions: How old was she? Could she read? Could she read the following verse from this pocket Bible? The woman noted all the responses in a notebook. The answers never seemed to meet with approval, received by tightened lips and a concerned frown. After the initial questioning, they lapsed into silence. Both looked out the window. Mrs Carlyle thought of a long-ago dance and a sister-in-law that she did not like. Garibooli looked at the landscape, hypnotised as it flashed past. If she didn’t focus, it all blurred; if she tried to see the grass or trees, they would disappear as soon as she made them out. Both ways of looking at the world made her dizzy. None of the land looked familiar to her. She tried to remember the countryside and its landmarks — the shape of the landscape, the clusters of houses — so that she could retrace her journey and find her way home.

  The train moves fast. It moves as fast as I feel I can run. Like wind. Soon this speed, this breeze, will take me home. Across the grass I love to run through. Home.

  "You are a lucky girl, Elizabeth. You have been given a chance, a chance for a better life.” The train clicked on. Mrs Carlyle stared out the window again for a moment before returning to stare at the teenaged girl whose head was bent down towards her shiny new shoes.

  “Look at me when I speak to you, Elizabeth.” Garibooli lifted her face and looked across into the blue eyes. She had been taught to look away when an older person addressed her. But then, she realised, Mrs Carlyle was not Eualeyai or Kamillaroi so it must be different for her. She looked at Mrs Carlyle’s sky-coloured eyes, noticed the wrinkles that danced around her tightly wound mouth and the thin layer of powder that clung to her skin.

  “You must do exactly as you are told in the house and do everything that the housekeeper tells you. Without complaint. And as best you can. The Howards are very kind to let you stay with them and earn your keep so you must do everything you’re asked. Do you understand? And from now on, your name is Elizabeth, and Elizabeth only.”

  Elizabeth — once Garibooli, now Elizabeth, and Elizabeth only — nodded, too fearful to ask the one question, the only question, that mattered to her: when was she going home?

  It was mid-morning when Elizabeth arrived in the country town whose trees were bursting with pink and white blossoms. The name was written on the station building, in big black letters: PARKES.

  They were met by a warm-looking, fleshy young woman in a brown felt hat. Elizabeth felt a surge of relief at the sight of the butter-coloured woman, a contrast to the steeliness of Mrs Carlyle. This was Miss Grainger, the housekeeper.

  Mrs Carlyle peered sternly into the young girl’s face, “Remember what we spoke about on the train, about you behaving and doing your best. Miss Grainger will look after you but you must be obedient and respectful to both Miss Grainger and Mrs Howard. Do you understand, Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth nodded, even though there was very little she understood about why she was here, sent so far away, to be with Miss Grainger in the home of Mr and Mrs Howard.

  The house, with its white Federation accents, was dark against the morning sky as it shielded the rising sun. Massive and ornate, even in shadow it looked mythical. Elizabeth and Miss Grainger entered through the back door and Elizabeth was shown to her room, just off from the kitchen. “You will sleep in here.” Miss Grainger pointed to a thin mattress on a wooden bed frame with a blanket on the end. “We’ll make some curtains and things and fix this little nook up, and it’ll look much more homey then.”

  Elizabeth didn’t quite know what Miss Grainger was talking about but recognised kindness, somewhere in her soft, chubby flesh and her subtle scent of lilac and flour. Elizabeth’s “Thank you, Miss Grainger” was for the tone in her voice and the tenderness in her eyes.

  Miss Grainger showed Elizabeth the clothes hanging in the closet — two black dresses, two white aprons, two white caps, and a calico nightdress — then left her to settle in.

  Elizabeth had cried so much she did not think she could cry again. She lay on the bed and tried to get comfortable. She looked at the sloping ceiling and thought about everything that had just happened to her. It was only two nights since she listened to old Kooradgie’s stories and looked up at Mea-Mei, her head in her mother’s lap. She closed her eyes and tears slid down her face. She imagined the world as it looked from up in her tree and saw the figure of her baina tending the campfire. She heard her brother calling her name. She saw his face, getting smaller and smaller as she was carried faster and faster, further and further away. Then she saw Euroke’s face again, this time larger. It was still distorted, but with laughter as she tickled him, teasing him that he would be eaten by a big fish.

  My name is Garibooli. Whisper it. Whisper it over and over again.

  5

  1918

  THE INSIDE OF THE HOWARD’S HOUSE on Hill Street fascinated Elizabeth with its polished wood, sparkling glass and gas lights. It offered a thousand curiosities in the shiny silverware and crystal that danced in the light and in the fine china plates that seemed to be the same white colour as Mrs Howard’s skin. The dining room was a mysterious place with heavily embroidered chairs, garland-patterned rugs and a long teak table. Heavy gold-framed pictures of stern men with whiskers and women in stiff, starched garments hung on the wall. Light refracted off every shiny surface. What Elizabeth loved most was the dark wood dining-room table’s centrepiece: its silver vine with silver leaves holding real flowers and candles. When the flickering candles were lit, the glass and gold in the room would radiate and she would be hypnotised, her eyes darting to catch every escaping sparkle.

  Miss Grainger, plump and neat, her golden hair tied back into her cap, ensured that most of Elizabeth’s time in the kitchen was spent usefully and efficiently. Her work was to be that of a kitchen maid, Miss Grainger told her, but she would also do some duties of a house maid, such as sweeping the rugs, washing the linen and the interminable dusting.

  Elizabeth’s day was more than thirteen long hours of hard work from six in the morning until ten at night, with a half hour for dinner and an hour and a half in the afternoon. This was supposed to be free time, but instead Elizabeth seemed to be required to do needlework. There was a hierarchy of servants: Miss Grainger, as the housekeeper, was on the top, Elizabeth was on the bottom. Other girls from the town were employed in the Howard house, but only Elizabeth and Miss Grainger lived there. Elizabe
th often found herself on the receiving end of the teasing of the casual staff, to be saved only when Miss Grainger overheard and intervened. Keeping Elizabeth in her place was a privilege jealously maintained by the housekeeper.

  Her first duty of the morning was to clean out the large stove before the cook arrived. She couldn’t tend to the ashes without thinking of the fires of the camps. She would be reminded, as she brushed the hearth and arranged freshly cut wood, of the way her mother would stroke her hair, the strength of her father’s hands, the way Euroke would lead the younger boys off to fish, her aunt’s soft singing and Kooradgie’s stories. She would think of these glimpses of the life she wanted to return to before turning her mind to the rigorous schedule of the life she now had.

  Elizabeth was shown how to scrub, wash, iron, sew and cook. She would bake bread, make butter and light the copper to wash the clothes. With her skin raw and red, she would scrub with soap she had made until the dirt was lifted from fabric and then she would boil the linen and garments again. She preferred the ironing where, on the cold mornings, she could be close to the heat of the stove. Miss Grainger once told her that making the material for a shirt takes thirty minutes but requires about twelve hours of washing, starching and ironing throughout the years of its use. Although she burnt herself several times at the beginning — once so badly that the cast iron’s triangular scar remained — Elizabeth became adept at laundering. She observed closely and learned quickly.

  If Miss Grainger told her the proper way to iron a shirt or instructed her to make the tea a certain way, she would do her best to make sure that she did what she was told. It was a reward to her when Miss Grainger would study what she had done and would announce, “Yes, that’s right. Good.”

  Miss Grainger would dispense sixpence a week pocket money on Fridays, except for the times when Elizabeth broke a dish or damaged her uniform. Elizabeth lived in secret hope that Miss Grainger might show her some affection and that if she were good, if she did as she were told, she would get to see her parents and her brother again. Obedience and respect, instructed Miss Grainger, were important qualities in domestic servants. Elizabeth was instructed to model herself after Christ, the Suffering Servant, and sacrifice her own interests without complaint for those of Mr and Mrs Howard. The lessons from the Bible would remind her of the Reverend who lived near Dungalear Station. The memories of those sermons and the way the children would giggle at the Reverend when his back was turned, brought back memories of the home that she had left behind, of the place where the rivers meet.

  Running day and night. Never stopping to catch my breath.

  But without the wind in my face.

  Without the grass against my legs.

  Without the soil under my feet.

  Without the pleasure to move free.

  Elizabeth slowly became accustomed to the world of the Howards’ house; she came to know its rhythm and pace, its rules and routines. She was not allowed to enter the house through the front door and she was not allowed to speak to the tradesmen who came to do work at the house. When Peter, the boy who delivered the mail, came he would try to make jokes with Elizabeth to make her grin. “There’s a lot of letters here for you,” he would wink. “You must be real popular.” He would smile at her and his face, with its crooked nose, would transform and seem almost handsome. Elizabeth couldn’t keep from giggling.

  “Watch him,” Miss Grainger would caution. “He’s a Catholic,” she would add, as if that were enough said. Despite this stem warning, Elizabeth was always happy when it was she who received the mail.

  Miss Grainger was Elizabeth’s only ally. It was only when Miss Grainger’s own frustrations ran high that she would scold and smack Elizabeth, though remorse and generosity with pocket money followed any cross outburst. Elizabeth came to notice that Miss Grainger’s mood swings usually occurred when Mrs Howard was at her worst; it was then that Miss Grainger would withdraw her kind words into a sullenness that would not lift easily.

  Elizabeth also learnt to avoid Mrs Howard, who was always uncivil towards her with a briskness that shook her youthful sensitivities. Just as Miss Grainger’s comments about how good her work was felt like a pat on the head, Mrs Howard’s indifference made her feel scolded. When cleaning or dusting in a room that Mrs Howard was in, Elizabeth would fuss and work harder in the hope of being noticed. This only seemed to irritate Mrs Howard more. She would respond with a frustrated, “Come back and do that later.”

  The girl noticed that Mrs Howard was bitingly curt if her husband had just left, had just arrived or was about to leave. Elizabeth had been curious yet frightened of Mrs Howard from their first meeting but she was also intrigued by the fine bone features and luminous skin with soft trails of veins, like a fragile flower petal. She was fascinated by the silky flowing floral cloth that hung softly over Mrs Howard’s twig-like figure. Elizabeth had been surprised that Mrs Howard was not much older than Miss Grainger; she seemed to be made from a totally different material. For Elizabeth, it was easy to work out; everyone at home was descended from different animals. Elizabeth was dinewan*, and so was her mother. But her father was biggibilla, echidna. Elizabeth thought, even though she was white, that Miss Grainger was like a rabbit and Mr Howard was like a fox and Peter was like a camp dog and Mrs Carlyle had been like a sheep. Mrs Howard didn’t seem to be made from anything. It was as though she had come from thin air.

  * dinewan = emu

  But it was Mr Howard’s presence that filled Elizabeth with an anxious anticipation. He was tall and muscular, with tawny features and eyes a colour Elizabeth had never seen before, the stagnant green of slow-moving water. They would sweep past her, sparingly acknowledging her — she could have been painted into the fine patterned wallpaper. Like Miss Grainger, her eyes would follow his figure as he moved past, though Miss Grainger’s stare lingered.

  Elizabeth had little chance to explore the town, except when doing errands for Miss Grainger. At those times, she enjoyed the walk amongst the banks, stock companies, and hotels housed in wattle and daub with corrugated-iron roofs and plaster surfaces ruled to give the impression of masonry or bricks.

  She was, on occasion, sent to the Chinaman’s store for forgotten or newly needed provisions. She felt trepidation when face to face with the Chinese shopkeeper. His abrupt speech sounded like a barked order.

  Elizabeth would not have been nearly as brave had the shop owner’s daughter not been there. Behind the crowded rows of food, the large canvas bags of flour, the large crates of oils and the tins of tea leaves, the girls would talk timidly.

  “You’re new here,” the Chinese girl said to her on Elizabeth’s first unaccompanied trip to the store.

  “Yes. I’m at the Howard’s house. I work there.”

  “It is so big.” The Chinese girl said, her eyes widening, “What is it like inside?”

  “Well, there are lots of glass and shiny things. A big chandelier and the biggest table decoration you ever saw.”

  “You’re lucky to live there.”

  “Well, the part I live in is like one of those crates over there. And all those fancy lights and ornaments, they just make for more dusting.”

  The girls’ giggles quickly escalated into laughter.

  The Chinese girl had two names, Elizabeth would learn. She was ’Helen Chan’ for white people but was born ’Chan Xiao-ying’. Helen’s secret name was like music. Xiao-ying, like a soft breath, was much more captivating than Helen, just as ’Garibooli’ was to ’Elizabeth’. The language Xiao-ying spoke with her father was Cantonese. When he used the language he knew best, his voice softened and he would appear a calmer man than the one who spoke English.

  The physical differences between Xiao-ying’s family and her own fascinated Elizabeth. They were as unlike Mrs Carlyle, Mrs Howard and Miss Grainger as her own mother and aunts were. One time, screened behind the shop’s crowded stock, Elizabeth had touched Xiao-ying’s eyes; their shape captivated her, the skin around them pulling them
tight, making them the shape of gum leaves. In response, Xiao-ying felt Elizabeth’s skin, rubbing it softly, giving her forearm a tentative caress. Their differences, under their fingertips, were tangible.

  “Where do you come from?” Xiao-ying had asked her.

  “My family lives far away from here in a place where the rivers meet,” Elizabeth explained as clearly as she herself could understand it.

  “Did they not want you?” Xiao-ying asked, her voice low and her eyes cast to the ground.

  “They made me leave,” Elizabeth answered, realising as she spoke that she had not made it clear who “they” were.

  The young Cantonese girl’s fingers fumbled to unclasp a small brooch. She placed in on Elizabeth’s calloused palm and wrapped Elizabeth’s fingers around the small gift. It was all she could think to give a girl whom no one wanted, a girl who caused a flood of feeling inside her, which Xiao-ying hoped could be relieved through this tiny gesture.

  Elizabeth studied the carvings in the deep green jewellery that looked like a flower shedding its petals. She felt the coolness of the stone on her fingertips.

  “I’ve never had anything so pretty before. It’s even more beautiful than the things that Mrs Howard has.”

  Elizabeth was awash with guilt for not having explained herself properly but she did not know how to correct the misleading impression she had given, especially after her new friend had shown her the tenderness that she had not been able to elicit from Miss Grainger. She didn’t know how to explain that her family — although they loved her — had not been able to stop her from being taken away, and had not come for her, at least not yet.

  My name is Garibooli. Whisperit. Whisper it over and over again.

  Elizabeth would sit on the back porch in the dark of the late evening and look at the stars. Other nights she would walk out into the endless back garden and lie on the cool grass, her body pressed against the earth, the blanket of sky above her. The stars were scattered in the same patterns as they were where she came from so, she reasoned to herself, she could not be that far away from her family and the camp. The moon hung above her, an incomplete question mark; the Mea-Mei, the seven sisters, twinkling down over her. She could hear Kooradgie, the old storyteller, his voice rising out of the sounds of the evening.