Nona and Me Page 21

  We emerge onto the beach and drive along the hard wet sand. Blue Mud Bay lies sprawled to our right, its calm aqua waters hazy with heat. It is breathtakingly beautiful. A brahminy kite drops and dives, emerging with a fish in its beak. I suddenly understand why Dad and the community have been fighting so hard. This place is as much about the ocean as the land: to not have sea rights would be to give so much away.

  Dad is uncharacteristically on edge. “So, Rosie …”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you came. There’s a lot I want to show you here. People I want you to meet.”

  I cut him off, pointing to a small shelter set back in the dunes. “What’s that?”

  It is little more than a corrugated iron sheet propped up on dead tree trunks.

  Dad follows my gaze. “A men’s shelter. They send sniffers down here to dry out. There are three there at the moment. You remember Nona’s brother? Jimmy?”

  I remember him from the funeral – gaunt and shabbily dressed.

  “He’s using his Yolŋu name now, Batjula. Anyway, he’s one of them. Got caught breaking and entering last month. High, of course. Did your mum tell you about this?”

  If she did, I don’t remember. “Maybe.”

  Dad misinterprets the Nick-sized gap in my memory, and nods. “Batjula has been in a bit of trouble lately. It was lucky your momu was there to argue on his behalf. The court agreed to let the community bring him down here. It was either that or jail.”

  I look back at the shelter as we drive past. I can see the black smudge of an old campfire in the sand, but there’s no trace of anyone there now.

  Dad guesses at my thoughts. “Probably gone out hunting.”

  He drums his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel.

  *

  As we drive into the community Dad points out the sights. The shop. The art centre. The women’s resource centre. The school demountable. It’s bigger than I imagined. There appear to be three streets. The houses are low grey brick and corrugated iron, like the ones in Yirrkala. I wonder if they were all built by the same people at the same time. They are worn and old, but there’s a touch of pride about them here. Most have well-kept gardens. One is immaculate, with frangipani and pawpaw trees, and a carefully trimmed green lawn. I point to it. “Who lives there?”

  “The traditional owner.”

  “Nice garden.”

  “His son works on it all the time. He’s had to put a sprinkler on the grass lately, but it’ll go nuts once the wet sets in. Bloody build-up feels like it’s going forever this year.”

  He pulls into the street closest to the beach, and stops outside a newer-looking house. I get out, grabbing my bag from the back seat. “Is this your place?”

  “Yep.” But he just stands there, fiddling with his keys.

  “We going in?”

  He nods, then slowly leads the way up the path. He pushes the unlocked front door open to reveal a lounge room looking straight onto the bay. I gaze out at it. “Wow. Great view.”

  “Not bad, huh? This house was built just before I moved in.”

  I look around. There are two Education-Department-issued couches, a coffee table and a TV. The room is neat but sparse.

  Dad sees the fine beads of sweat on my face. “I did warn you we don’t have air con.”

  “It’s fine.”

  An open bedroom door reveals a jumble of colourful blankets and a pile of mattresses, both doubles and singles. The other bedroom door is only slightly ajar. I peer through the crack and see a carefully made double bed with a blue floral blanket. In the back yard there’s a washing line, hung with Dad’s shorts and T-shirts, mixed in with bright cotton skirts and singlet tops, a kaleidoscope of patterns and colours.

  I’m confused. “Do you live here by yourself, or …?”

  He seems nervous. “Well, it’s my house. As a teacher I get a house. But I choose to share it. Rosie … I’ve been seeing someone down here. A woman.”

  My mind goes into freefall. “Who? Is she Ŋäpaki?”

  “Yolŋu. She’s not here at the moment. She’s in Darwin doing some language work with the university.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Muthali.”

  “Does Mum know?”

  “Yeah. She does.”

  I feel like screaming. How could she not tell me? Or make Dad tell me? Then I remember our fight. Mum hurt and angry, saying Dad wasn’t honest or open like her. That he didn’t tell me things. Is this what she meant?

  Dad guesses at my thoughts. “Your Mum wanted me to tell you before you came, but … I didn’t want to say it on the phone and … I thought it’d be better in person.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me when you were up for the funeral?”

  The look in his eyes is pathetic. Weak. He can’t even answer. We both know there’s no excuse.

  I ask, “Is it serious?”

  “We’ve been together a few years, since I moved here from Gapuwiyak, really –”

  “A few years?!”

  “I didn’t want to say anything until I knew if it would last.”

  “And when was that going to be?”

  He shrugs lamely, and stares out at the bay. Disappointment wells deep inside as I realise what this means. All our catch-up coffees when he’s come to Nhulunbuy, the times I’ve poured my heart out to him on the phone, and he’s said nothing.

  I am suddenly struck with a thought. I feel like vomiting. “Have you got any other kids?”

  “I had the snip when you were six. Rosie, where are you going?”

  I realise my legs are in motion. I walk through the kitchen and out the back door. I find myself on a deck, and trip down the steps, into the sandy backyard. There are no fences here, so I make straight for the beach.

  Dad is following me. I snap back at him. “I’m going for a walk. By myself.”

  “It’s the middle of the day. Can’t we talk about this?”

  “No.”

  I can feel the sun burning me. My T-shirt clings to my body. I remember the pilot telling me it was ninety-six percent humidity today. Was that just this morning?

  Dad calls from behind me. “Rosie. At least take some sunscreen. Or water. What about water?”

  I ignore him and keep walking. I can’t go back there now. How can I stay in that house? The house they share. I can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears coursing down my face.

  When Dad finally catches up with me, he’s a panting mess of red cross-hatched cheeks and bulging eyes. “Rosie, please. Come back. It’s too hot out here.”

  I turn to face him. “Get me on a plane out of here. Today.”

  “I can’t. You know that.”

  “You planned this, didn’t you? So I couldn’t leave?”

  Guilt flickers in his eyes. Even if that wasn’t his plan, it must’ve crossed his mind. He holds his hands out as if calming a skittish horse. “Don’t get hysterical.”

  “I’m stuck here.”

  I look down the flat white-sand beach. The sun glances off the water, searing my eyes. There’s nowhere else to go.

  “Come back. Come on. This doesn’t change anything.”

  “Are you kidding? All my life I thought you were out here for some big ideal. Indigenous education, the whole Blue Mud Bay thing, sea rights, blah blah blah. I sat and listened to you have a go at Nick –”

  “I believe everything I told him. Just because I have a partner here –”

  “– and all the time you were shacked up with some woman.”

  “– she’s not just some woman. I love her, Rosie.”

  His words stop me short. I can hear myself breathing, loud and ragged. And then I’m sobbing. Sobbing for my dad and some woman I’ve never met. For my mum and her boyfriends who’ve left. For me and Nick and his hurtful words. For Lomu and his tiny daughter. Nona and her unborn baby. For love and hate and all the confusion in between.

  Dad pulls me into his arms and holds me in a sweaty embrace.

  I let
myself cry salty tears.

  *

  As we walk back up from the beach, Dad says, “I thought you’d want some privacy, so I set you up a tent outside.”

  He points to a two-man tent pitched in the shade of a tree to the side of his house. It’s angled towards the bay to catch the breeze. There’s a swag in there, and a clean sheet folded neatly on the end. He’s made a real effort.

  He says, “Of course, you can stay inside if you want –”

  “This is fine.” I suddenly feel exhausted. “I might have a rest.”

  “Is there anything I can get you?”

  “I’m right.”

  Dad looks like he’s about to say more, but he closes his mouth and takes a step back towards the house. “I’ll be around if you need me.”

  He heads inside. I crawl into the tent and lie down. It feels like an oven. I don’t know if I sleep or pass out. Whatever it is, it’s sweaty and dreamless.

  *

  I feel like I have been clubbed over the head. I can hardly move. My body is on fire. I force myself to sit up in the tent and notice that Dad has left some cool water near my feet. At least, it used to be cool, now it’s lukewarm. I gratefully take a sip and wipe my face on my damp T-shirt.

  Outside, I can hear voices singing what sounds like gospel songs. I wonder if I’m hallucinating. I crawl out of my small oven and stand up. Dizziness hits me, then passes. The singing peters out. I look across the yard and see four Yolŋu women and a straggle of kids watching me from the shade of a tree. They smile shyly, but don’t say anything. I take a step towards them as my mind grasps for the words.

  I manage, “Nhämirri nhe?” How are you? Then I revert to English. “I’m Rosie, Pete’s daughter. You know the teacher? He lives here.”

  They nod and smile amidst a flurry of words I don’t understand. I catch the word ŋatha – food – and realise I am hungry.

  The lady closest to me indicates the little girl on her lap. “This is Nyiknyik, small mouse. She’s your ŋamala, your little mother. She’ll take you down to the beach, look for mud mussels and crabs.”

  Nyiknyik stands with a shy smile. Her hair is cut short and curls around her face.

  I hesitate. “Have you seen my dad?”

  “He’s ŋorra gurra.” When she sees I don’t understand, she explains, “Having a rest. You go. We’ll tell him.”

  I quickly walk back to my tent, grab the bottle of water and follow Nyiknyik down to the beach. It’s a pretty arc of white sand with a small estuary and mangroves to one side. Ideal croc territory. The other kids follow us in a ragtag procession. I ask their names as we go. I start to remember basic phrases in Yolŋu Matha. “Yol nhe yäku?” What’s your name?

  Muthimuthi, Djet and Bandawi help me look for mud mussels near the mangroves. It’s low tide and the mudflats are exposed. I remember doing this with Nona, competing to see who could find the most. Today, we pile them into a communal Woolworths bag. Nyiknyik comes back with a crab she’s found somewhere deeper in the tangle of roots and branches. She flashes me a wide, white-toothed smile.

  I slap at my legs and ankles, feeling something biting. Djet laughs. “Yakaay! Mintjirri. Sandflies.”

  The kids don’t seem to be affected, but I’m getting massacred so I retreat. I sit in the dappled shade of what they tell me is a luŋiny tree. The sun is lower now. I realise hours must’ve passed. Whole hours without thinking about Nick. It’s a welcome relief.

  Bandawi comes back and starts to make a small fire. The others tumble out of the mangroves and roast our haul amongst the flames. They hand me things to eat, telling me what they’re called. Mud mussels, oysters and crab.

  Dhän’pala. Maypal. Djinydjalma.

  The flavours explode in my mouth, transporting me back to a time when I ate these every other day, to the point that I’d gone to Sydney with Mum and insisted on ordering oysters, then refused to eat them because they weren’t milky enough, not fresh from the rocks.

  I repeat the words back to them and consign them to memory.

  Dhän’pala. Maypal. Djinydjalma.

  I chant them over and over, imprinting them on my brain.

  This time I won’t forget.

  *

  Dinner is fresh fish cooked over a campfire. The kids and ladies eat with us too. A few Yolŋu boys join us, their dark, laughing faces illuminated by the flames. They joke around with Dad, sometimes in English, mostly in Yolŋu Matha. They clearly like him. He fits here. I watch silently, taking it all in.

  Once the food is gone, the boys drift away, and the ladies and kids start singing a gospel song, the same one I heard this morning.

  I help Dad carry some cups and plates inside. I wash them and he dries up. Dad looks over at me and smiles. A peace has been made, but it’s still tentative between us.

  I make an effort. “Are those boys related to Muthali too?”

  “I think everyone’s related down here. One way or another.”

  “Do they live in this house?”

  “No, they’re students. It’s just me and Muthali and her sisters who live here – the ladies you met this morning? Them and their kids – the ones who took you to the beach.”

  I’m curious. “Doesn’t it bother you, having all these people coming and going?”

  He shrugs. “Everyone shares everything here. It’s gurrutu – you know, kinship. The best and worst thing about Yolŋu life. You can always ask for things, but you’re always being asked for them too. It drove your mum crazy when we first moved to Yirrkala.”

  I look up at him, curious. He hardly ever talks about Mum.

  “I was constantly loaning things out or giving things away – money, lifts, kitchen utensils. She’d be cooking dinner and I’d hear this ‘Pete! Where’s the small sharp knife?’”

  “She used to cook?”

  Dad laughs. “Don’t tell her I said this, but she was never very good. I did most of the cooking, but she still tried to do dinner every now and then, so I didn’t feel like a neglected husband.”

  I smile in recognition. “That’s exactly what she says when she sews me dresses. Except it’s ‘neglected only child’.”

  Dad smiles too. I feel warm in the glow of our shared history. I was only seven when he left. I don’t have many memories of the three of us together, but now I realise our memories are linked across time and space by my mother.

  Dad says, “She’s a good woman, your mum.”

  I force myself to ask. “Why’d you leave us?”

  He looks at me in surprise. “Your mum asked me to move out.”

  I’m stunned. I’d always assumed it was the other way around. “Why?”

  He knows he owes it to me to be honest, and forces himself to meet the question head on. “When I think back now, I see there were hundreds of reasons. I knew and loved this place. She was from Sydney. It took a while to adjust. Me being away teaching every week probably didn’t help. I knew she felt isolated but I didn’t really understand. I blamed her for being negative, for not making the most of it here. We found out later she had post-natal depression. If it wasn’t for Guḻwirri and Rripipi …” He shakes his head. “They helped her through the worst of it. Made sure she was never alone.”

  *

  I spend my days with the kids. We collect bush foods and berries. We go fishing, and hunt with spears for stingrays in the shallows. Knee deep in water, I’m nervous at first. “Are you sure this is safe? Aren’t there crocodiles in here?”

  Nyiknyik smiles, unconcerned. “We’ve got Tiger.”

  Tiger is a ratty little camp dog, who the kids adore.

  “If bäru come, he take Tiger.” The thought of Tiger being devoured doesn’t seem to bother her. She shrugs. “Anyway, bäru don’t live here. They live over there.”

  She waves towards an inlet just around a sandy corner. I feel a bit safer, but not much.

  I let my hair get greasy. My legs are covered in bites – fleas, sandflies and mosquitos. At night, I scratch in my sleep. But I don�
��t care. I feel alive and free. I feel like a kid again. The only thing missing is Nona. I think about her a lot. I wonder when I’ll see her again, and what she’ll remember most: dancing the buŋgul together, or my words at the school. They are seared into my memory. I’m sure they’re etched into hers. The whole sister thing, it doesn’t mean anything … I don’t even know her anymore.

  Dad is happy I have company during the days. It’s school holidays, but he always seems to be busy. There’s someone to drive here or there, or something to fix, or someone to talk to about school or politics. I don’t mind. I know I’ll see him in the quiet of evening. That’s when we talk. Our conversations span generations and cultures.

  He tells me what Yirrkala was like when he was growing up. There was a market garden on the oval, and people lived in humpies on the beach. They grew sugar cane and peanuts where the mine is now. People had to work and send their kids to school for rations. He tells me how confused it made him feel. On one side, he had Grandpa and Nan trying to “let the natives maintain their language and culture”. Yolŋu Matha wasn’t allowed in the classroom, but beyond the desk it was fine. Unlike other missionaries, my grandparents even learned to speak it. But on the other side, he had his wäwa, Nona’s dad. Bolu hated school, even from a young age, and said he “felt like he was being taught to live like a white man”. Dad was caught between two worlds. He escaped to boarding school and university, where he studied teaching, but the red dirt was in his veins.

  “I couldn’t wait to get back here. I convinced your mum to come too. It’s such a great life for kids here. I loved seeing you and Nona grow up together …”

  “Yeah?”

  “You were inseparable. Like me and Nona’s dad when we were small. We were always at each other’s houses or out bush together, hunting and mucking around.”

  “Did you stay close?”

  “Not as teenagers. I went away for most of high school. He stayed here. When I came back to visit he was drinking, smoking pot. It was only as adults that we found a common ground again. Once we both had kids. And then I lost him all over again, for good …”