Nona and Me Page 9

  Rripipi walks with us and the smalls, her eyes scanning the tree trunks for bees or signs of a hive. Guḻwirri darts ahead, weaving through the stringybarks, as if playing some strange combination of tip and hide-and-seek. For a moment I think we’ve lost her, but then she reappears. A slither of purple top. A flash of long leopard-print skirt.

  Jimmy and Lomu orbit around us, scampering through the bush with bare feet. Jimmy, at twelve years old, is the clear leader. Lomu is practically leaping, trying to match his brother’s long-legged pace.

  We reach a section of burnt-off scrub and the trees thin out. The ground is hot and black, and shade is scarce. I’m grateful for my hat and sneakers. Nona only has a pair of worn rubber thongs, but she hasn’t complained once. I’m full of admiration.

  I hear Guḻwirri call out, “Guku!” then the thwack of her axe cutting into hard wood. Nona gestures for me to follow her. “Go!”

  We run, stumble, trip towards the sound. The smalls start whimpering at being left behind. Nona doubles back to pick up Lilaba, and Rripipi hoists Yumalil onto her hip.

  I can see Guḻwirri now, resting by a fallen tree. She calls out, “Gapu.”

  Jimmy brings her a bottle of cold water. She gulps it down.

  Rripipi deposits Yumalil and picks up the axe. She brings it down on the tree trunk in loud, echoing thunks. The sagging skin on her arms shudders with each chop. After five swings, she’s had enough. Guḻwirri takes over again and cleaves the top side of the trunk clean away, exposing a well of sweet liquid gold. Jimmy dives straight in.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s Lomu, holding out a stick. He’s beaten one end into soft, fibrous bristles, like a paintbrush. His smile is kind. “Here, Yapa. Bush lollipop.”

  I take it gratefully, and use it to scoop the dark runny honey out of the trunk. I suck on it like a Chupa Chup. It is golden syrup heaven. I just wish Mum was here to share it.

  Nona and the smalls use their fingers, slurping and licking in contented silence. Jimmy and Lomu take chunks of thick brown honeycomb and suck them happily, off to one side. Guḻwirri scoops out the mapu, the eggs.

  Rripipi levers out the pollen, piling the powdery pieces of yellow into an empty yoghurt container, and gestures to it. “For your mum.”

  Mum likes to drink it mixed with water, just like the old people do. I think it tastes gross, but she says it makes her healthy and strong.

  I know it will take more than pollen to make her better, but I feel so grateful I could burst.

  “Thank you, Momo.”

  17.

  2007

  It is the last day of school before a month of holidays. I see Mrs Reid near the library. I hesitate, then make my way towards her. “Mrs Reid … I wanted to talk to you. About Nona?”

  She looks at me, distracted, like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

  I try again. “You know, you asked me about her a few weeks back?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, of course. Sorry, Rosie, my mind’s all over the place today. This Intervention thing –”

  Her phone starts ringing. She checks the caller ID then silences it, giving me her full attention. “It must be crazy out at Yirrkala. Is it?”

  She doesn’t wait for my answer, which is lucky as I have no idea how to reply. The streets in Yirrkala seemed empty this morning, but I didn’t see anything that would qualify as “crazy”.

  Mrs Reid continues. “I’ve been trying to call parents to tell them not to worry. But there are no Yolŋu students here today and apparently the airport is full of people trying to get flights out to the homelands. They think it’s going to be the Stolen Generation mark two. Not that that affected people here much, but you can understand why they’re worried.”

  My confusion must show because she adds, “Sorry. You wanted to talk to me about Nona.”

  I say, “I just wanted to tell you that her mum – Guḻwirri? Judy? She’s a drinker. You should try calling her grandmother instead. Her name’s Rripipi. She lives in Yirrkala.”

  She smiles, grateful for the information. “I don’t suppose you have her number?”

  “No, but my mum would.”

  “I’ll ask her. Thank you, Rosie. Nona did say you two were friends. If you see her, it’d be great if you could encourage her to come back. It’s not easy when you’ve missed a lot of school. As I’m sure you know, she missed a lot in Elcho, looking after her sisters.”

  I nod, but the truth is I don’t know much about Nona’s life now at all. Mrs Reid’s words hurt my heart.

  “If I see her, I’ll tell her, Miss.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  *

  It’s the school holidays and we hang out as a foursome. Me, Nick, Selena, Benny. No-one suggests inviting Anya.

  We go to the pool, spend time at Skate Park and at each other’s houses. Well, at their houses, not mine. Yirrkala is too far away and too boring.

  Mum is far from thrilled. “I think we need a few ground rules.”

  I groan. “Come on, Mum. It’s the holidays.”

  “You’re in town or at Nick’s house every day.”

  “What am I supposed to do? You’re working.”

  “Not in the evenings, I’m not.”

  “So I have to be home when you are? That’s fair.”

  She hears my sarcasm and sighs. “I’m not trying to kill your social life, Rosie. I just want you to be safe.”

  That’s Mum’s favourite rationalisation. It’s hard to argue with “safe”.

  “No more coming home late. If Nick’s driving, I want you home by dark. Otherwise I’ll come in and pick you up any time before eleven. I think that’s pretty reasonable.”

  “You hate driving into town.”

  “I’m willing to make the sacrifice.” There’s a wry note to her voice.

  I try again. “Nick’s a safe driver.”

  “I’m sure he is, but he’s on his P’s and I don’t want him driving home alone in the dark either.”

  She manages to make it sound like she’s concerned for his welfare too. She’s clever like that.

  I ask, “What if there’s a party?”

  “Eleven’s your normal curfew anyway.”

  “But I can just stay at Selena’s like I usually do.”

  “Oh sure. I know what that means now you’re going out with Nick.”

  “Their parents would be there.”

  “Hmm.”

  Mum doesn’t think much of Nick and Selena’s parents, not that she’s really given them a chance. She’s polite when she picks me up, but never says yes to Mrs Bell’s offers of coffee or tea. I’m secretly glad about that. You don’t have to be a genius to know they wouldn’t have much in common. Even the bumper stickers on their cars declare it: Mum’s says Stop Jabiluka mine and the Bells’ says Why work when you can go fishing?

  Mum puts her foot down. “No more sleepovers at Selena’s. Home by dark or picked up by eleven. Those are the rules, Rosie. Stick to them.”

  *

  “Man, the water is cold this morning. Aren’t you guys freezing?”

  Selena climbs the ladder and perches on the top rung of her backyard pool. It’s twenty-five degrees but she’s shivering and her skin is a mottled grey-blue. She’s only lived here a couple of years; she’s acclimatised quickly.

  Nick grins at her. “We’re okay.”

  I’m lying next to him on a blow-up li-lo, soaking up the sun.

  Selena says, “You two are totally hogging that thing.”

  Nick smirks. “Eat me.”

  She makes a face. “I’m getting out.”

  Benny grins as he hurries to follow. “I’d better help her warm up.”

  They head inside to the sound of Selena’s giggles.

  I snuggle into Nick and close my eyes.

  Deep male voices float over to us from the carport. Nick’s dad, Roger, has a mate over. He’s showing off a bar he’s just bought. It’s made of timber, with a serving area and high counter, just like you’d find
in a pub. He’s set it up with barstools, and draped an old fishing net on the carport wall.

  His friend says, “This is a find, mate. Where’d you get it?”

  “The wife found it on the Gove noticeboard.”

  “Who was dumb enough to sell this?”

  “Some guy who worked for the government. Was leaving town.”

  “Thought they were trying to get extra people up here, not lose them.”

  “You mean for that Intervention thing?”

  Their voices are louder now. I peek over at them as they make their way towards us. They take a seat by the pool and sip cold beers, fresh from the bar. Roger is about fifty, balding but fit. Roger’s friend looks a bit younger, with warm brown eyes. He’s wearing board shorts and a Bonds singlet that leaves too much body hair exposed.

  Roger continues. “Place’ll probably be swarming with bureaucrats before we know it. Bloody paper shufflers. Don’t know how they think throwing money at the problem will help. What they need to do is get people working.”

  His friend nods. “No more sit-down money.”

  “Like the guys who work at the mine. They’re okay. They’re putting in a hard day’s work. Like that guy VJ.”

  “You mean BJ?”

  “No, VJ. Or DJ, was it?”

  Both men laugh.

  Nick grins over at his dad, trying to catch his eye. Nick’s weird like that – he swings between saying his dad is a money-focused moron and craving his approval.

  His dad’s friend asks, “What happened to him, anyway? Haven’t seen him around lately.”

  “They gave him an apprenticeship. Trained him up. Next thing you know he’s shot through to Darwin. Couldn’t handle the pressure.”

  Roger catches sight of me listening and nods towards our li-lo. “This is my son, Nick, by the way. And his girlfriend, Rosie. This is Tim. He’s fly-in fly-out at the mine. I used to work with his dad in Sydney. You remember Stuart, Nick?”

  Nick nods politely, but I’m fairly sure he doesn’t.

  Roger asks, “Where are you staying then, Tim? Out at the G3?”

  Tim nods. The G3 is mining accommodation that was built last year. It houses three thousand workers. A huge expansion. Mum and Dad were both against it. Lots of people were. They thought it would change the “family atmosphere” of Nhulunbuy, and maybe it has.

  Roger says, “Rosie’s mum works out at Yirrkala.”

  Tim asks, “Where’s that?”

  “Bit out of town. It’s an Aboriginal community.”

  “Yeah? What’s it like?”

  “We could always drive out there and have a look. They just got rid of the permit system, didn’t they?”

  I nod, uneasy. Nick jumps in. “I wouldn’t bother. There’s not much to see. Bombed-out cars and crappy houses.”

  I’m quietly annoyed by his response.

  Roger says, “What do you reckon, Rosie? What percentage of people out there’d be on the dole?”

  “I wouldn’t know –”

  “Take a guess.”

  I can tell what he wants to hear, but I say, “Oh, there are people working. Like the old man who drives the bus. And the artists who paint with Mum. There’s a team that collects garbage. And Yolŋu people working at the school and the clinic.”

  “Huh.”

  I feel a small pang of satisfaction, but it dissipates quickly as Roger says, “Hey, I heard a good one the other day. You know Miwatj Health? The Aboriginal Medical Service? Me watch. You work.”

  He’s always telling jokes like that when I’m around, like it’s something we’ll both relate to. I squirm, as Tim laughs and Nick says, “Or what about YBE? Yolŋu Break Everything.”

  He looks to his dad for approval and is rewarded with a husky chuckle.

  Roger explains for Tim’s sake. “YBE does maintenance in town.” He holds up his empty bottle. “Might grab another beer. You want one, mate?”

  The men head back to the carport.

  I must look uncomfortable, because Nick squeezes me lightly. “They’re just jokes, Flipper.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not like it’s hurting anyone.”

  But there’s an ache deep in my gut.

  I twist out of his embrace, slip off the li-lo and escape underwater.

  *

  I sit beside Mum, sullen in the front seat of the troopie.

  I mutter, “Nick was happy to drive me home.”

  “I was coming into town anyway. I had to get groceries.”

  “At seven o’clock?”

  “Why not? It’s after work.”

  Gove FM is playing softly on the radio. Some cheesy pop song. Mum turns it off.

  “What they call music today – half of it’s just noise.”

  We lapse into a silence broken only by the soft growl of the troopie’s engine. I stare out the window. It’s just getting dark.

  Mum attempts conversation. “Work is crazy at the moment. I’m trying to get all the prints done in time for the Gapan Gallery. At least it keeps my mind off Graham. I don’t think he’s going to stay, Rosie.”

  She waits for a response, but I remain quiet. I don’t want to talk about Graham: it makes me worry about Nick. We’ve only been together a few months, but I can’t help my mind racing ahead. He’s in Year 12. All the Year 12s leave to study or travel. Will I be like Mum then? Pining and grieving?

  She’s still talking. “They’re expecting over a thousand people at the Garma Festival this year. I honestly don’t know how I’m going to get everything ready. I’ve got Wäkwak helping, of course, but I could use an extra hand. If you wanted to help me with the printing I could pay you.”

  I see through her immediately. “Are you asking because you need me? Or so I don’t spend so much time with Nick?”

  She smiles sheepishly. “A bit of both?”

  I roll my eyes. She never gives up.

  We’re almost at Yirrkala now. Mum’s headlights glance off a large light-blue sign on the side of the road. I haven’t seen this one before. It’s new. I try to read the words, but the white writing is lost in reflected glare.

  “What could they possibly need another sign for?”

  “It’s about the Intervention. They put it up today. This is a prescribed area. No alcohol. No pornography. Blah, blah, blah. If that’s what they’re looking for, they should go and check the G3.”

  “What are they really going to do about it, anyway?”

  “Not much that I can see. Although they are giving us sensor lights and fences, I found out this morning. That’ll keep all those pesky paedophiles at bay, the ones lurking out there in the dark.”

  I hide my smile, pretending to gaze out at the dimly lit street, as we drive into the community. I wouldn’t want Mum to think she is amusing.

  *

  Mum’s face is set in a contorted smile. I can tell she’s trying not to cry. Her words are short and sharp. “It’s fine. I understand.”

  She dumps a packet of raw pasta into a saucepan, then moves to the sink to add water. Graham hovers near the back door, like he wants to be able to make a quick escape. “Please don’t be like this –”

  She shrugs him off. “It’s your decision. If you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go.”

  I am doing my homework at the dining table. I can see and hear everything. Not that I want to. I’ve seen Mum’s heart break before and it’s not pretty.

  Graham says, “I just don’t want to be here when some huge team of doctors rolls in …”

  Mum snaps, “We don’t even know they’re really coming. There’s no sign of the army –”

  “That’s different. They’re serious about the health checks –”

  “They were ‘serious’ about Closing the Gap last year and nothing happened.”

  She starts chopping onion. Thwack, thwack, thwack.

  Graham says, “Jen, trust me. I can see how this going to go. They’re going to get paid three times what we do, to do health checks we’ve already done. I
don’t want to be any part of that.”

  “You wouldn’t be ‘part of it’, you’re already here.”

  Mum’s chopping becomes more furious, as if she’s visualising killing those doctors. Or Graham. Then the thwacking stops. I don’t have to look to know she’s crying.

  She says, “Bloody onions. I should wear goggles while I chop them. You know some people do that? Sadie swears by it.”

  Graham’s voice is gentle. “Come here …”

  Mum lets him hold her this time. She sags against his chest. I hear a sniffle, then a low sob. I can’t bear it anymore. I pull my iPod from my school bag and stick the earbuds in.

  As I scroll through the songs, I hear Graham murmur, “We both knew I’d have to leave some time …” and then “… this just seems like a natural time to go …”

  Asshole.

  I choose the John Butler Trio, and select the song “Good Excuse”.

  I turn it up loud to drown Mum and Graham out.

  *

  Nick comes to pick me up. Gravel crunches under his wheels, as the Hilux stops in the drive. I bound down the front steps and put my head in his open window.

  I’m smiling. “Hey, you. Did you want to come in?”

  He keeps his eyes on the gearstick. “Nah. Another time.”

  “Mum’s at work, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m not ‘worried’ about your mum.”

  He sounds irritated. I try to reassure him. “She likes you.”

  He scoffs, so I quickly add, “And even if she didn’t, who cares? You’ve seen what she’s like.” He doesn’t say anything so I keep going. “Dad’s the sane one, which is probably why he left.”

  He looks up at me, interested. “You talk to him much? Your dad?”

  “Every Wednesday.”

  “What’s he like?”

  I consider it for a moment. “He’s … down to earth. Stable. And passionate about what he’s doing. I admire him.”

  “You’re lucky, then. Mine’s a moron.”

  “What happened?”

  I feel silly talking to him like this, through his car window. I pull the driver’s door open. “Hey, come on. Get out. Sit with me for a moment. We’re not in a rush, are we?”

  He climbs out slowly, reluctant.