Nona and Me Read online

  We sit on the bottom step, side by side.

  “He’s pissed off at me about uni.”

  “He still thinks you should study Business?”

  “He thinks I should study something.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t submit the forms. The UAC ones – you know? Where you say your preferences for unis and courses?”

  “What do you mean you didn’t submit them?”

  “I didn’t hand them in. They were due before the holidays.”

  “Did you forget?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t want to go to uni.”

  My heart does an involuntary leap at the news he might not go. Maybe he’ll stay here. Maybe I won’t be left alone. I know it’s selfish, but I can’t help hoping. I try not to smile, but maybe it looks more like a smirk because he says, “You too, then? Think I’m ruining my future?”

  His expression is pained, vulnerable and raw. It catches me off guard. This isn’t the boy I joke around with at the pool, or the popular guy from school.

  I say, “Of course I don’t.”

  “I bet you’ll go to uni.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Will you?”

  “I’m in Year 10.”

  “But when you graduate … will you?”

  “I don’t know.” I want to, but I can’t imagine leaving Mum. How would she cope by herself?

  Nick says, “Selena said you want to be an artist.”

  “I do.”

  “So don’t you need to study for that? I mean, if you want to be really good?”

  I’ve never talked to anyone about my uni dreams before. Not Selena, not Anya, not Dad. I sound hesitant, even to me. “Mum took me to this exhibition once, when we were down in Sydney to see my grandpa. It was at a school called COFA. College of Fine Arts. I took a brochure about it, which was stupid ’cause I was only in Year 8. But I’ve still got it. I look at it sometimes. I know. It’s kinda lame.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re talented, Rosie. You’re going places. Not like me.”

  “That’s a stupid thing to say.”

  “I have no idea what I want to do.”

  “So take a gap year. You could always work at the mine. You were saying yourself –”

  Nick snaps over me. “There’s no way I’m going to work with Dad.”

  “Or stay here and teach swimming.” Nick looks across at me. I take hold of his arm. “You’re a brilliant teacher. And you can save money for whatever you do next … ’cause whatever you do is going to be awesome, I know it.”

  I can’t tell if the look he gives me is gratitude or love. He jokes, “Can you tell my dad that?”

  “Yeah, right, ’cause he looooves me.”

  A small smile surfaces on Nick’s lips. He mimics me. “No, he likes you. He really does.”

  I roll my eyes as Nick adds, “He just thinks you’re a freak for living out here. And your mum’s a left-leaning hippy.”

  I open my mouth in mock outrage and shove him.

  He tickles me. I tickle him back.

  We’re laughing now, and the world feels right again.

  I have hope; Nick might stay.

  *

  Mum takes Graham to the airport for the morning flight to Cairns. I expect her to be gutted when she gets back, but her face is tense and angry. She stomps into the lounge room and picks up the phone. “I’ve got to call Sadie.”

  Sadie is her best friend. She’s a nurse at the hospital in town. She’s been here almost as long as we have. I watch Mum as she dials. She was a mess when her last boyfriend left, requiring endless cups of Earl Grey and whole packets of Tim Tams. But not today.

  I eavesdrop shamelessly. Sadie answers and Mum launches in. “Guess who I saw at the airport?”

  She pauses, irritated. “What? Yes, Graham’s gone. But I saw Frank flying out and he said they’re amalgamating the councils. No – what’s the word they’re using? Streamlining. Which basically means they’re scrapping Dhanbul.”

  Dhanbul is our local Yolŋu-run council. It’s probably one of the biggest employers in Yirrkala. Mum sounds outraged. “They were all given notice today. The guys at Yirrkala tip, the garbage collectors … it’s all going to be done by people in town now. One white guy with a truck.”

  Mum listens, then says, “Well, no … I don’t think it’s officially part of the Intervention, but you can’t say it isn’t related.”

  She makes sympathetic noises before exploding. “Those were Yolŋu jobs! Who cares if they were CDEP?”

  Another pause, then, “It’s fine. I can hear them screaming in the background. I’ll let you go. Bye.”

  She hangs up, shaking her head. “Talking to Sadie makes me glad I only had you. I swear those kids have scrambled her brain.”

  Sadie has three children under five. Her house is a permanent chaos of nappies and crappy plastic toys. Mum seems suddenly exhausted.

  “Mum … do you want a cup of tea?”

  “Thanks.”

  I fill the jug and turn it on, watching her out of the corner of my eye. I am waiting for the waterworks to start, but they don’t come. I place the sweet, milky Earl Grey in front of her, finally venturing to ask, “So how’d it go … seeing Graham off?”

  She snaps, “Why is everyone so bloody concerned about Graham? He had a choice. He left. Let’s worry about the people who are still here – like Larry and Frank and Lomu …”

  The last name catches my attention. “Lomu?”

  Mum nods. “Didn’t you hear what I said? The garbage run’s been contracted out. All those guys are out of a job.”

  She sips her tea in tortured silence.

  After a few minutes she says, almost to herself, “I just feel so gutted, Rosie. This whole thing is … devastating.”

  I wonder if she’s talking about the council, the Intervention or Graham.

  *

  Mum nudges me from my sleep. “Hey, Rosie, get up.”

  I look over at my clock. Fluorescent green numbers glow in the darkness. It’s 5.31am. I sit up, groggy and confused. “What’s happening?”

  “We’re going for a walk to Shady Beach.”

  “Now?”

  “Yep. Come on.”

  I groan. “Muuum. It’s too early.”

  But she isn’t taking no for an answer. “You can go back to bed later. You’re on holidays.”

  When I still don’t move, she drags my thin doona off me, determined. “Get up. Let’s go.”

  I turn on my bedside lamp and dress in light pants and a T-shirt. As we stumble out the door I see stars. I grumble, “This is unnatural. Humans aren’t nocturnal.”

  Mum is forcefully upbeat. “The sun will be up any minute. You’ll see.”

  We walk up the hill, around the school, past the spot where I catch the bus. The rest of the community is happily sleeping. Which is what I should be doing.

  For a while, all I register is the rasp of my sneakers, as tiny rocks of bauxite crunch underfoot. Gradually, my senses awaken. I smell salt from the ocean, feel the damp cold of morning. I hear the trill of birds waking, and the gentle shush of the bush rustling in the breeze. The darkness dissolves into pale blue.

  I realise Mum has been talking, soft and sad. “I must be an idiot. I really thought Graham was different. He seemed genuinely into this relationship. And he liked you. He liked us. I know that. So why did he leave?”

  I know she doesn’t need me to answer. I’m her sounding board, a silent companion.

  We reach the rise in the road. We heave up and over it and the beach comes into view. A pale curve of sand, ending in deep red rocks. Sun pierces the sky, tingeing the low-lying cloud a milky orange. The little island just off the coast, Barrpira, appears to float on the horizon.

  I look over at Mum. The sight of her tear-streaked cheeks breaks my heart. She wipes them away. “I don’t want to be alone anymore, Rosie. I�
�m so tired of being alone.”

  I know it’s not what she’s talking about, but I say, “You’ve always got me.”

  She puts a grateful arm around me as we walk on together.

  I squeeze her waist, wanting to reassure her. “Things will get better.”

  But I have no idea how.

  18.

  1999

  We are in the back of Mum’s troopie, with a bunch of old ladies yelling like crazy. “Bump him! Bump him!”

  A wallaby has just bounded across the red dirt road into the bush. They point after him, calling out. They want him for dinner. Guḻwirri is at the wheel. She grins across at Mum, who is sitting in the front seat. “Want to?”

  Mum shrugs. Her voice is flat. “Up to you.”

  She’s been quiet the whole drive. Everyone else is in high spirits. We’ve been singing tunes from Aladdin, “Dr Jones” by Aqua, and songs in Yolŋu Matha like guku marrkap’mi and dhum’thum, the wallaby song. But Mum has just sat there, silent. She’s been like this since Dad left, swinging between miserable and angry.

  A few days ago, Guḻwirri came over. She took one look at the still-unpacked boxes and said, “You need to get away, Yapa. Just for a weekend. Let’s go to Bawaka.”

  Mum had agreed, but without her usual enthusiasm. And now she can’t even smile, while everyone else hollers and whoops.

  Guḻwirri looks at Mum again and seems to make a decision. She makes a sharp turn and the troopie lurches off the dirt road, into the bush. Scrub snaps under our wheels and stray branches scratch the car. Guḻwirri swerves suddenly to avoid a tree, then a big termite mound. Nona and the smalls giggle with glee. Rripipi hoots. Everyone is yelling, pointing.

  “Wirrki, wirrki!”

  “Put your foot down!”

  “Bundjirr maŋu!”

  Mum is jolted to attention. She clutches the door handle and glances back to check I’m okay. I grin at her, my eyes wide with excitement.

  We can see the back of the wallaby now. It’s right in front of us. We’re catching up. I watch the blur of his brown fur. The white underside of his tail. His frantic, jerky jumps. Then bang. We’ve mowed him down.

  Guḻwirri screeches to a stop. The aunties jump out the back of the troopie to claim their prize. A hint of a smile flickers across Mum’s face. She shakes her head at Guḻwirri. “You’re a maniac.”

  Guḻwirri just grins. “Go.” Come on.

  Mum helps the other ladies drag the wallaby back towards the troopie. He’s a big one. They struggle to haul his dead weight onto the roof racks. I stare at his black eyes, frozen open, glazed with fear. His back, where we hit him, is a mess of mangled fur and blood.

  They finally finish loading him on. We all pile back in, ready to go. Guḻwirri turns the vehicle around and starts driving, more calmly this time, following the path of flattened grass and bush back to the road.

  I see something on the front windscreen, like a dark red crack appearing in our vision. I realise it’s wallaby blood. Guḻwirri presses a button. There’s a spray of water. The windscreen wipers flick on. But instead of cleaning the blood away, they create a crimson wash. The trees are smeared pinky-red.

  And suddenly I hear Mum laughing. It is a sound I haven’t heard in months. It starts as a soft snort, then grows into giggles, and erupts in a hahahaha. Guḻwirri joins in too, then me and Nona and Rripipi. Everyone is laughing. Amidst cackles Mum manages to say, “Anyone want to sing the dhum’thum song again?”

  Peals of laughter ring out again.

  I can’t stop grinning.

  19.

  2007

  We walk home from Shady Beach along the corrugated dirt track. I can feel the first fingers of heat starting to grasp the morning air. The sun is up now, and the colours of day swim into focus. The lush greens of the banana farm. The crisp yellow of dry grass. Dusty terracotta hoof tracks and an enormous black turd. I keep a wary eye out for buffalo as we walk.

  Mum is more upbeat. She takes a deep breath of fresh air. “See? Worth getting up for, isn’t it?” A few steps later, she says, “Hey, want to spend the day together? There’s a community meeting, kind of a protest –”

  “I’ve got plans with Nick.”

  “Can you cancel them?”

  “Mum …”

  “I feel like I’ve hardly seen you these holidays.”

  We cross the thin strip of bitumen marking Boundary Road. We’re back in the community. I look around. The street is strewn with torn garbage bags and knocked-over bins. The camp dogs are having a field day.

  I ask Mum, “What’s with the rubbish?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why’s the place so dirty?”

  She looks annoyed. “It’s been like that for weeks now.”

  “So? What’s the story?”

  “It’s the garbage contractor from town. They pulled all the bin poles out. So now the bins get knocked over by dogs, there’s crap everywhere and the new guy only comes here once a week.”

  I remember Mum’s angry voice on the phone: All the Dhanbul jobs gone. Garbage collectors fired. Lomu out of a job.

  I say the only thing I can say. “Oh.”

  There’s disappointment in her face. “Honestly, Rosie. Does your mind still live here, or just your body?”

  I’m about to defend myself when she adds, “At least you’re coming today.”

  Mum one, Rosie nil.

  There’s no getting out of it now.

  *

  I trail Mum reluctantly down our driveway, and cross the road to Rika Park. It’s not much of a park, just a flat expanse of grass with some weather-beaten play equipment and a sprinkling of trees. It’s next to the ocean, though, which is nice.

  I feel the breeze as we approach. I’m on my phone, texting Nick as we walk.

  Mum’s dragging me 2 sum protest. Wud rather B swimming with U!

  He texts back within a few seconds.

  Wot did I tell U? Raised by a hippy ;-)

  I smile.

  Mum waits for me to catch up. “Can you put that phone away for one second?”

  I glare, feeling manipulated. “Well, if I was with Nick, like I planned to be, I wouldn’t have to text him. Do I really have to come to this?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “You said spend the day with you, not you and half of Yirrkala.”

  “This is important, Rosie.”

  I look around the park. There are about a hundred people gathered, most of them Yolŋu. They sit clustered under the big banyan tree, or in the weak shade of palms. A few men are crouched in the sun, starting a small fire.

  I ask, “What are they doing? It’s not that cold.”

  “Larry said they’re going to burn the Intervention documents.”

  There are only a few Ŋäpaki around. There’s a guy I’ve never seen before, filming. Two nurses from the clinic wave at Mum but she keeps walking, probably to avoid talking about Graham.

  I see Aiden across the lawn, sitting with two Yolŋu guys. I recognise one of them as Nona’s brother, Lomu. He and the other guy are in a band with Aiden; it’s called East Journey. They’re really good. Lomu says something to Aiden, their heads momentarily close. Aiden smiles and answers. I wonder if he is speaking Yolŋu Matha. Does he know how to? I’ve never thought to ask.

  A tall, skinny Yolŋu man taps the wireless microphone and starts to speak. It’s in English, and I listen as I follow Mum.

  He’s emotional. “We Yolŋu used to feel strong. We felt like we knew how to raise our kids. If they were doing the wrong thing, we felt we could give them a slap. But now we don’t know what to do …”

  We reach our Yolŋu family. They’re sitting on a red plastic mat under the banyan tree.

  White teeth and dark eyes greet us as we approach. Mum folds herself onto a corner of the mat, while I sit stiffly behind her. I expect Rripipi to tell me off for what I said about Nona at school, but she just smiles and says something in Yolŋu Matha. Years ago, I might’ve unde
rstood. Now all I recognise now are the words gaminyarr, grandchild, and Mätjala.

  Mätjala is the Yolŋu name she gave me when I was born. It means driftwood. I’ve never liked it. Driftwood seems insignificant: debris swept around at the mercy of the tides. I remember whining to Mum, “How come Nona gets to be named after some magic spirit, like a fairy, and I get a boring old chunk of wood?”

  I shift, feeling awkward. “Hello.”

  She holds out her arms, switching to English. “Give your momu a hug. Come on. Come here.”

  I lean in, and feel her bony arms around my shoulders. She pulls back, grinning, her face folded in a map of dusty creases. I notice her wiry black afro is now mostly grey. I try not to stare. How long has it been since I’ve seen her up close? A year? Maybe two? Is it possible she’s aged so much in that time? I remember her as lean, graceful and strong. Now she sits stooped and tired. I do a quick calculation and guess she couldn’t be more than fifty. She says something to Mum, which ends with “marrkap’mi”. She’s pleased about something, but what?

  The tall, skinny man has finished talking. He hands the microphone to another Yolŋu man, this one average height and thicker set. It’s Galarrwuy, one of the leaders of the Gumatj clan. Everyone knows who he is. He seems angry as he waves a thick wad of white A4 paper in the air.

  I lean forward to Rripipi. “What’s he saying?”

  I know she’ll be able to explain: she works as an interpreter in town and for the courts in Darwin. She speaks four Yolŋu languages and her English is perfect. She learned from Dad’s parents, who were Methodist missionaries here in the ’50s.

  Rripipi translates softly, so only Mum and I can hear. “He’s saying the federal Intervention is worrying and sickening, the lowest level of anybody’s form of policy … we need to fight the sickness of this government setting out to simply take away what’s ours … he refuses to sign the ninety-nine-year lease … he says our land has already been taken by mining, he won’t let it be taken again.”

  A few minutes later, she says, “He’s speaking about money now. Money for health and housing and education.”

  Her words remind me. I try not to let my guilt show, as I say, “There was a lady from school – Mrs Reid. She was trying to get in touch with Nona. I told her to call you – did she?”