Nona and Me Page 8

  Mum tries to pull me towards her. “Come here.”

  I push her away and start running. I can hear them calling after me, but I’m already out the door, up the driveway and onto the road. And I keep running.

  I’ve got to get out of here.

  I’ve got to find Nona.

  15.

  2007

  We’re eating a roast dinner with Graham when Mum finally snaps. “Rosie, I’m starting to think you don’t want me to meet this boy, and if you don’t want me to meet him, maybe you should ask yourself what you’re doing together.”

  “It’s not that –”

  “He’s continually busy.”

  “I told you, he teaches swimming and –”

  “How many lessons could he possibly be teaching in June?”

  “He –”

  “What? Saves the world in his spare time?”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  Mum looks to Graham for backup. She always does this. Until recently, he’s been a reliable right-hand man. But now it’s like he’s mentally checking out of our family dramas in anticipation of leaving. He gives me a small smile and says lamely, “I’d like to meet him.”

  Mum seizes on this shred of support. “Exactly – and Graham is leaving in four weeks if he doesn’t extend his contract.”

  It’s said pointedly. She doesn’t want him to go. It’s been the source of many heated late-night discussions. Graham says, “I still might be able to.”

  But his voice lacks conviction. I see the pain in Mum’s eyes and it hurts me too. I don’t know why he won’t stay. Mum turns on me with renewed intensity. “Do you think we can do this before Graham goes?”

  “I’m sure we can,” I say.

  “When?”

  “I’ll ask Nick –”

  She stands and smacks an angry finger on a random calendar square.

  “Twenty-first of June. Either Nick comes then, or you don’t see him again ’til Graham and I have met him.”

  Graham nods. Apparently, they’re still able to maintain a united front on some decisions.

  *

  “So … my Mum wants to meet you.”

  Nick glances up at me, surprised. We’re lying under our mango tree again. Today, it’s just us. Selena is off supporting Benny in some football game, and we hardly see Anya anymore. She’s stopped making excuses for not sitting with us at lunchtimes: now, it would be weird if she did.

  Nick says, “That’d be great to meet her.”

  I’m not convinced. “Yeah?”

  “You’ve met my mum.”

  “Yeah – your mum’s normal.”

  “Define normal.”

  “She bakes, makes chitchat, volunteers at the canteen. She’s … domestic.”

  Nick says, “Your mum sews.”

  We both grin. I say, “Yeah – tea-towel dresses!” at the same time as Nick says, “Remember that tea-towel dress?”

  When we finally stop laughing, Nick says, “She can’t be that bad.”

  I feel suddenly guilty. “I never said she was bad. Just different. It’s hard, you know, she’s a single mum, working full-time. She doesn’t always have time to do things … like cook elaborate dinners like your mum does … or drive me places … or eat …”

  “How can anyone not find time to eat?” He’s incredulous.

  I laugh. “Sometimes she just forgets. Her mind’s somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “In work, politics, her relationship, the community.”

  “So I should expect her to be a bit vague?”

  “No, I don’t mean that. I mean … I don’t know. Just come and meet her.”

  “When?”

  “The twenty-first of June.”

  Nick gets out his phone and consults the calendar, confused. “Next Thursday? Why is it a Thursday?”

  “Because that’s where her finger landed on the calendar.”

  Nick looks at me as if to say, Are you for real?

  I nod. “See? That’s what I’m talking about.”

  *

  Nick arrives at six on the dot on the twenty-first of June, bright red hibiscus flowers from his mum’s garden in hand. I raise an eyebrow as he hands them to Mum. He shrugs, giving me a mock-innocent grin. I wonder if he’s done this before with other girlfriends’ mums. We avoid talking about his exes.

  Mum takes the flowers with a smile. “Thank you.”

  “No worries, Mrs Grains.”

  “Call me Jen. And this is my partner, Graham.”

  Nick and Graham shake hands with blokey vigour.

  Graham says, “Nice to meet you. Can I get you a drink, mate?”

  Mum is suddenly flustered. “Oh, I was going to do that! Sorry, Nick. What would you like?”

  “What have you got?”

  She opens the fridge and scans its contents. “Iced tea, milk, water … prune juice?”

  I lean forward. “Didn’t you see I put Coke on the shopping list, Mum?”

  “You know I don’t buy that stuff, Rosie.”

  Nick says, “Water’s fine, thanks, Mrs – Jen.”

  He stands stiffly by the kitchen bench as Mum pours him some cold filtered water. I make a mental note to ask Mum if we can get some bar stools like they have at the Bells’.

  Graham says, “So … it’s good you could make it.”

  Nick nods. “I was happy to be invited.”

  I hold my breath. Nick smiles, oblivious to the fact there were tens of invitations I never passed on. Mum, luckily, is on her best behaviour. She swallows any sarcastic comments she could make about him being “busy” and hands him the glass of water. Nick takes a polite sip. His gaze drifts to our lounge room walls. They are a shrine to local art. There are lino-cut prints, bark paintings and carvings. Many of them are presents to Mum from Nona’s family or people at the art centre.

  Mum sees him looking and asks, “Do you like Aboriginal art?”

  Nick shifts uncomfortably. “Ah … it’s not really my thing, to be honest. Mum likes it, though.”

  “Fair enough. It’s not to everyone’s taste.”

  There’s an awkward pause. Is this what it’s going to be like all night?

  Nick makes another effort. “Dinner smells great.”

  “It’s lentil soup.”

  “Is that like tofu?”

  “It’s a legume.”

  I can see this means nothing to Nick, but he nods. “Right. Smells good.”

  Another gap in conversation.

  Mum tries to sound casual. “So … Rosie tells me you’re in Year 12. What are you thinking of doing next year?”

  Nick shifts feet, uneasy. It’s something we haven’t discussed.

  He says, “I’m not sure yet. Dad’s keen on me doing Business, but I don’t know.”

  Graham puts his two cents in. “Whatever you do, don’t choose a course just to please your parents.”

  Mum gives him a wry look. “I’m sure your parents were devastated when you chose Medicine.”

  “I only studied Medicine postgrad.”

  Mum’s surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Because I don’t generally tell people about my shameful other life doing Actuarial Studies.”

  Nick asks, “What’s that?”

  Graham grimaces. “Maths. Boring, horrible, endless maths.”

  He’s smiling now, and Nick grins back at him. “Sounds like a shocker.”

  “It was.”

  “Whose idea was it – your mum’s or your dad’s?”

  “Both. They thought it would be a ‘solid career’.”

  Nick sounds almost grateful. “That’s exactly what Dad says about Business.”

  “There you go.”

  The men swap another smile. Mum ladles out her lentil soup.

  *

  Over dinner, Mum raves about the virtues of organic food and her attempts to start a vegetable garden. She’s constantly “preparing the soil” or buying seedlings from Ian at the communi
ty nursery. But while our neighbours are harvesting baby tomatoes and pawpaws and rocket, we’re yet to get anything more than a clump of spring onions.

  “It could be something to do with the fact you always forget to water it, Mum.”

  She’s indignant. “Well, you could help me.”

  “If I didn’t have to catch the school bus at seven twenty I would.”

  Nick sounds amazed. “I’m not even out of bed by then.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What time do you get up?”

  “Six thirty.”

  “Ouch.”

  I turn back to Mum. “If we move to town, I’ll help you water your garden.”

  Mum’s retort comes quickly, her irritation hidden behind a smile. “If you find me a new job in town, one that comes with a house, we’ll move. How’s that for a deal?”

  Nick is completely innocent as he says, “Dad reckons the mine’s always looking. They’re expanding, you know. A guy from school started there this year. Straight out of Year 12, says he’s earning two grand a week just for holding a sign.”

  I brace myself for a lecture about how the mine has insidiously destroyed Yolŋu culture and knowledge and poisoned the land. But Mum holds back and gives Nick a polite smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I give Mum a grateful look and she smiles back, as if to say, See? I can act normal.

  Graham is looking distractedly towards the kitchen. “Is there something in the oven?”

  I can smell it too now. The smell of burning. Mum jumps up from her seat. “Oh no. The dessert.”

  She hurries to the oven and opens it. Grey clouds of smoke billow out. She grabs a tea towel and pulls out a black and brown lump of sizzling something. “Ouch.”

  The smoke alarm goes off: a high-pitched beeping. Mum flaps the tea towel at it, ineffectually, as Graham opens the window wider and tries to wave the smoke outside.

  I glance over at Nick, who is trying hard not to laugh. I’m sure his mum never burns anything. I shake my head, embarrassed.

  The alarm finally stops.

  Graham indicates the ex-dessert. “What was it going to be?”

  Mum whacks him, smothering a smile. “Shut up. It’s apple pie. Can’t you tell?”

  I can’t help myself. “Did you use organic apples in that, Mum? Smells delicious.”

  Mum is grinning as she says, “You can all go to hell.”

  Graham is quick to joke back. “Is this what they serve there? Charcoal pie?”

  Mum laughs. Nick finally lets himself laugh too. And then we’re all laughing. It feels good to laugh together. And for a brief moment I think maybe this dinner could go okay.

  *

  We finish our plain vanilla ice-cream, and relocate to the lounge room to watch the ABC news. I’m appalled that Mum insists on watching it even though we have a guest over, but Nick tells her it’s cool, he doesn’t mind. He’s in the home stretch now, on his way to gaining full parental approval.

  Graham settles into a velour armchair and puts the footrest out. Mum perches in the matching armchair. Nick sits on the couch and I awkwardly take a seat next to him. I don’t know how close to sit. What says “together” but “innocent”? I don’t want to freak Mum out. Should I hold his hand? Put my hand on his knee? No, too intimate. Nick solves the problem by slinging a casual arm around my shoulders. I glance at Mum to see if she’s noticed, but I needn’t have worried. Her eyes are firmly on the TV.

  The newsreader is talking about something called the “NT Intervention”. I’ve never heard of it before. The Prime Minister, John Howard, comes on screen, his round glasses glinting in the flash of cameras. “It is interventionist. It does push aside the role of the Territory to some degree, I accept that. But what matters more? The constitutional niceties or the care and protection of young children?”

  “What’s he talking about, Mum?”

  “Shhh.”

  She listens intently. The newsreader’s words wash over me. Federal emergency. Child abuse. Paedophilia. Sacred. Alcohol. Permits.

  I wait for the story to end. “What does it mean, Mum? What are they doing?”

  Her voice is dark with sarcasm. “They’re finally addressing ‘the Aboriginal problem’.”

  Graham says, more to Mum than us, “It’s a political stunt. It’s got to be. Another ‘children overboard’.”

  Mum nods. “Howard has to know he’ll get the boot when there’s an election.”

  Nick misreads their tone and scoffs his agreement. “Did they say there are paedos here?”

  Mum’s head snaps to look at him.

  I try to catch Nick’s eye, as I say, “Well, not here exactly, in Aboriginal communities in general –”

  “Like that’s some big surprise.”

  Disbelief and outrage well in Mum’s eyes. I jump in again. Rosie to the rescue. “It’s getting late …”

  Nick senses the mood has shifted, and tries to clarify. “Hey, at least they’re doing something about it. I mean, sending in the army. That’s good, right? They’re taking it seriously.”

  But Nick has already dug a hole so deep he may as well buy a coffin. I can tell Mum is about to explode, so I pull him to his feet. “We should go.”

  “What? Oh. Okay. Night, Jen. Nice to meet you, Graham.”

  “You too, Nick.”

  I drag my boyfriend out the door.

  Outside, there’s a cool breeze. A raft of stars floats in the inky sky.

  I can hear Mum starting to rant inside, so I walk Nick quickly down the stairs to his Hilux, hoping he doesn’t hear.

  He can tell he’s stuffed up. “I said something wrong, didn’t I?” He’s genuinely oblivious as to what that could be.

  I shrug. “Let’s just forget about it.”

  But he can hear Mum’s raised voice floating out to us now. We don’t catch the words, just the tone. Nick is kicking himself. “I thought that’s what she’d think too. That it’s good they’re doing something. My Dad would say it’s a waste of money. I mean, places like this … they’re screwed up, right?”

  I don’t know what to say. I constantly put Yirrkala down, but now part of me wants to defend it. To say there are good things here too. Good people. Community. Not that I’m really part of it anymore.

  Nick scuffs his feet in the gravel. “Sorry. It was going really well ’til then, wasn’t it?”

  I nod. He gives me a light kiss on the lips. “Think I can win her back over?”

  “I don’t know.”

  But I do. There’s no way Mum will approve of Nick now.

  *

  “Is that really the type of boy you want to go out with?”

  Mum is outraged, in full flight. I shoot an arrow, trying to bring her down. “He’s a nice guy, Mum. Just because he has a different opinion to yours –”

  “Mine? What’s your opinion, then?”

  “I don’t know. They only just announced this thing. I don’t know what it means. Nick probably doesn’t either.”

  “It’s going to be a disaster.”

  “Well, don’t blame Nick! He didn’t order this stupid policy, or whatever they’re calling it.”

  “I don’t like him, Rosie.”

  “You thought he was fine before the news came on!”

  Mum hmmphs.

  I grasp at excuses on Nick’s behalf. “He’s never spent time in a community.”

  “Well, I could tell that.”

  “Just give him a chance.”

  “I gave him one tonight and what did he come out with? Paedophiles and the army.”

  “That was the news, not him.”

  “Did Nick have anything to do with what happened at school?”

  “What?”

  “You saying Nona wasn’t your sister?”

  “What? No.”

  She looks disbelieving, so I persist. “He didn’t, Mum. Come on. Be fair. He made one comment. He’s not some … evil person.”

  Graham watches the argument fly between us like
he’s observing a ping-pong match. He stays quiet, careful not to get involved.

  Mum tries to calm herself. She takes a deep breath, then says, “I’m just … worried, Rosie. I see you hanging out with a boy like that. I can see the appeal. I really can. He’s good-looking, friendly, probably considered very cool. But those attitudes …”

  “Mum –”

  She stays her course. “… those attitudes run deep. And I don’t want you starting to believe them.”

  “I won’t. I don’t.”

  “It would break my heart, Rosie. After raising you in this community …” Her voice breaks.

  I want to reassure her. “You don’t have to worry, Mum.”

  But her concern hangs between us, so real and present it is almost visible.

  16.

  1999

  We are bumping along a dirt track, in the back of Guḻwirri’s ute. It’s got an open tray with a grubby double mattress jammed inside. Nona and I are sitting on top of the mattress, along with a tumble of family members. The only person missing is my mum.

  She chose to stay home today, saying she “needs to get things done”. She wants to unpack, set up our new place. It makes me sad to think of her back there, in that big empty house, alone. I offered to stay, but she said no, she needs some space, she needs time to think. She needs a lot of things lately, and nothing I do seems to help.

  Nona knows I’m sad. She tries to cheer me up. She grins and points to her long orange cotton pants. “Need new ones. Got holes.” She pokes her fingers through the holes and wiggles them at me. I barely raise a smile. The pants make me think of Mum all over again. She’s been sewing us matching pants for as long as I can remember; I used to complain about the scratchy grass when we went on bush trips, and when Nona saw my pants, of course she wanted some too.

  Through the ute’s back window, I see Rripipi slip an Elvis CD into the stereo. “Nothing but a Hound Dog” booms out at us. Nona starts miming the words, the wind whipping her hair as we drive along.

  We pass a beat-up grey Land Cruiser parked on the side of the track. Guḻwirri pulls over in front of it and cuts the engine. The music stops. Nona and her brothers jump off the back like excited dogs let off the leash for a walk. I climb out more slowly. Guḻwirri gives a long, low call. A male voice echoes back. Nona’s uncle, Larry, came out looking for yiḏaki earlier. We start off in his direction.