The Silent Kookaburra

by Liza Perrat

  I ran into my parents’ room, Nanna Purvis hobbling along behind me. Dad was holding my scarlet-faced, shrieking sister high up. And shaking her.

  ‘That’s enough, Shelley,’ he yelled again.

  I was shocked; my father rarely shouted, except at Nanna Purvis.

  ‘Stop shaking her, Dad!’

  My father had arrived home from hospital only a few hours ago, to a forty-degree furnace. The hottest day of 1972, just before Christmas, and already things were not better with him back at Gumtree Cottage. No, they were worse.

  ‘Put Shelley down, Dobson,’ Nanna Purvis said. ‘Everyone knows shaking a kid like that can kill it.’

  ‘How could you shake her, Dad?’ I snatched Shelley from my father and hurried down the hallway with her, the screams echoing back at me from the walls. ‘It’s okay, little gumnut girl,’ I soothed. ‘Your big sister will make it all better.’

  I made up another olive oil and salt mixture, took her into my bedroom and undressed her. I made wide, massaging motions, rubbing the mix over her little body. ‘That’s it, nice and calm. Poor baby.’

  Once she quietened down, I took the bottle from the fridge that Mum had prepared, sat down and fed Shelley. After her burp, I put her in her pram beneath the gum tree –– the only shade in that god-awful heat. There was still no sign of my mother but from the noise coming from the laundry shed, I figured she was busy washing again.

  ‘Fancy a trip down to Eastbridge, Tanya? Think I’ll get those seat belts fitted in the Holden,’ Dad said, loping out onto the back verandah, calm as ever, as if he hadn’t been shaking his baby so angrily just half an hour ago. There wasn’t a trace of the desperate rage in his smile, in the one eyebrow raised like Uncle Blackie’s. As if my father was two completely different people.

  When the Holden got repaired after the accident, Dad had wanted to get seat belts fitted but Nanna Purvis kept insisting he wait until they were on special.

  ‘Kmart are selling those seat belts for just under six dollars at the moment, including installation,’ he said. ‘And maybe we’ll find something nice for you too?’

  I nodded, walked over to the pram to check on Shelley before we left. Her eyes were still closed but instead of its usual rosy shade, her face was pale. Ghost-white. She wasn’t moving, not even a fingertip.

  She was too calm, too asleep. I stared at her chest, waiting for it to rise and fall. It stayed still.

  I turned to my father. ‘I can’t see her breathing, Dad!’

  Mum scuttled out from the laundry, wide-eyed. ‘Not breathing?’

  ‘What?’ my father cried, reaching the pram before my mother. He reefed Shelley from it.

  The baby opened her eyes wide, as if in great surprise. She howled. We all let out our breath, long and slow.

  And for once Shelley’s cries were a welcome noise.

  ***

  While we waited for the seat belts to get fitted, we bought groceries in Coles which, being almost Christmas, was heaving with shoppers. Dad went to hold my hand but I pulled it away. ‘Only kids hold their father’s hand, Dad.’

  I hadn’t seen Uncle Blackie since the photo shoot; hadn’t had a chance to sneak back to Albany for more pics, and that mix of thrill, shame and fear still churned me up. As if I’d swallowed a Redskin lolly whole, and it had got stuck in my throat.

  If I was honest with myself, I wasn’t even certain I did want to go back to Albany. It ended up being fun shopping with Dad, who bought me three of the week’s USA Top 40 singles: Helen Reddy’s I Am Woman, The Temptations’ Papa Was A Rollin’ Stone and Carly Simon’s You’re So Vain.

  ‘Fancy one of these nice crocheted jackets, Princess?’ he said, as we wandered through the Ladies Clothes section. ‘Or how about a halter-neck frock?’ The frocks were nice, with a smocked bodice and a pattern of tiny red apples, but I started to ask myself why my father wanted to buy me all these things. Something wasn’t right. Was he trying to make up for the car accident, or for shaking Shelley like that?

  On the drive back home, strapped snugly into the new seat belts, I found out what was bugging him.

  ‘I’m going away for a while, Tanya.’

  ‘Away?’ Goosebumps broke out along my arms as he turned into Gallipoli Street. ‘But why ... and where?’

  ‘There’s not many brickie jobs around in the summer holidays so I’m heading up to Mount Isa to work in the mines ... I’ll earn a lot of money. You’ll be able to buy anything you want.’

  ‘But Mount Isa’s so far away. Isn’t it all the way up to Queensland?’

  ‘It is,’ he said. ‘But the money’s good and ... and it won’t be for long.’

  Ants crawled up my arms: hundreds of them, itchy tingling. ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay around for Christmas and the holidays ... wouldn’t want to miss our beach trips, would I?’ He gave me a thin smile but his hand patting my leg trembled.

  As we drove up Figtree Avenue, I didn’t believe his going to Mount Isa had anything to do with earning a lot of money. No, my father was planning on leaving us.

  Well, never mind, I thought, breathing away the weight squeezing the air from my lungs. I no longer needed Dad to buy me things, or to do stuff with me. I had Uncle Blackie now.

  17

  ‘Oh boy, it’s for me, Uncle Blackie?’ I sat on the flowered seat of the sparkly red bicycle and pushed the bell. Tring, tring, tring. I ran my fingers through the brightly-coloured streamers dangling from the handlebars. ‘It’s really mine?’

  ‘It sure isn’t for me,’ Uncle Blackie said with a laugh. ‘Course it’s for you, Tanya.’

  With Dad still at home recovering from the car accident, it was after Christmas before I’d got a chance to sneak back to Albany. But I’d finally made it, and I couldn’t believe Uncle Blackie’s far-out surprise. Better than any of the ordinary Christmas presents at home.

  ‘I can’t take the bike back to Gumtree Cottage,’ I said. ‘They’ll ask where it came from and you’re ... you’re a secret.’

  ‘Why not leave the bike here, Tanya? You can ride it up and down Wattle Road every time you come and visit me.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, disappointed I couldn’t show it off to Stacey Mornon. But I understood I still had to keep my new friend a secret.

  ‘What about if I take a photo of you on the bike?’ Uncle Blackie said, turning away from me to pour himself a whisky and a Tang cordial for me. ‘So you can look at it when you’re at home. That’s if you’re still up for more photos?’

  He downed the whisky in a single gulp. ‘Or still too embarrassed about your lovely body?’

  ‘Nope, not embarrassed,’ I lied, wincing at the taste of the Tang cordial –– kind of strong and bitter. But I was thirsty and finished it off. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll keep the bike photo hidden, I’ve got some beaut hiding places at home.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ he said as I hitched up my frock to sit astride the bike again.

  ‘How’s this, Uncle Blackie?’

  ‘Perfect.’ He pointed the camera at me. ‘Just like those models on bicycles and motorbikes.’ Click-clack. Click-clack. ‘Smile a bit more. Yeah, fabulous!’

  Click-clack. Click-clack.

  ‘You looked fabulous in your school uniform for the last lot of photos,’ he said, laying the camera on the table, ‘but as you’re not wearing it this time, I’ve got a better idea.’

  ‘Course I’m not wearing my uniform, we’re still on holidays,’ I said. ‘What idea?’

  ‘Did you know,’ Uncle Blackie said, in the dreamy voice, ‘that famous models sometimes have to be photographed in their underwear?’

  ‘Only their underwear? No, no, no ... I didn’t know that. Oh boy!’

  ‘It’s fine, Tanya. It’s just art. That’s what art’s all about.’

  ‘You want to take photos of me in my underwear?’ I said. ‘I can’t ... I’m so fat.’ I was starting to feel strange, like my brain was swirling around inside my too-h
eavy head. A doll being swept out to sea on a current. I hoped I wasn’t coming down with a flu or something.

  ‘That’s just how you see yourself. You’re a beautiful girl, almost a woman.’

  The heat rose up my throat, spread across my face. ‘You really don’t think I’m fat?’

  ‘Course you’re not. You need to ignore those nasty kids,’ Uncle Blackie said. ‘And listen to me, someone who knows what he’s talking about.’

  I didn’t move; too shy to take off my sun frock.

  No way can I do this!

  Uncle Blackie cocked his head to one side and gave me the meltiest smile. ‘You said you trusted me, Tanya?’

  ‘I do ... I do.’ Why had my voice had gone sluggish, slurry like Dad’s beer-voice?

  ‘So?’ He got up and took two long paces, so close to me the whisky breaths fanned my hot brow. ‘You can do this ... I just know you can.’

  ‘I can?’ I sidled towards my beautiful red bicycle. ‘Should I sit on the bike like before?’

  ‘Oh no, not on the bike this time, Tanya. You see, these sorts of photos must be taken lying down on a bed. Because, in that position, I know how to make you look real slim and curvy ... just like those magazine girls.’

  My head spun as he took my hand and led me into the bedroom. The palm-beach and red-roses posters were stuck to the wall, which was weird. I was certain they’d been on the living-room wall before, but maybe I was mistaken.

  Slowly, gently, he turned me around, unbuttoned my dress. I hoped he couldn’t feel me shaking as he swivelled me back around to face him and dragged the sun frock over my head.

  The caterpillar eyebrow twitched as his fingers brushed against the wisps of hair lining my armpits. Uncle Blackie threw my dress aside, his gaze travelling from my face down to my singlet, my belly. Stopping at the shadow beneath my undies.

  I clamped my arms across my chest. Sure my nipples had gone all pointy, I wished I had a training bra beneath my singlet to hide the flabby little boobies. But my mother was too busy ––too crazy! –– to get me one, or even think I might need one.

  ‘Okay, Tanya?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Lie back then. That’s right, good.’ He took his camera, loomed over me and started shooting. Click-clack. Click-clack.

  ‘Arms down by your sides. Great ... you’re the spitting image of a world-famous model,’ Uncle Blackie said. ‘Smile, don’t forget to show the photographer those white teeth. Excellent, that’s the way, my girl.’

  ‘A world-famous model, really?’ Despite my lead-brain, I couldn’t help giggling, lips pouty, body slim.

  After a few moments Uncle Blackie laid the camera on the bed and pulled me up to a sitting position. I thought we were about to have another drink break but that Tang had tasted so awful I didn’t want any more of it.

  ‘And now,’ he said, ‘are you up for the best part, Tanya ... the biggest challenge to a model?’

  ‘Challenge?’

  ‘Yes. You know by now that models are photographed in clothes and underwear, don’t you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘But did you know that sometimes they have pictures taken with no clothes at all?’

  ‘What, totally naked?’ My cheeks flushed hot just imagining that. But I must have heard Uncle Blackie wrong; he couldn’t have meant that at all.

  ***

  ‘Oh don’t worry, Tanya, the photographers are used to it. They don’t even see the body in front of the camera ... too busy trying to get the best shot. And the models want to show off their bodies. They love it.’

  ‘No way, Uncle Blackie, I could never do that.’ Not only my cheeks burned; my whole body was a furnace. A drop of sweat leaked from my forehead into my eye. I hunched into a sitting ball, arms wrapped around my knees.

  ‘That’s okay, Tanya.’ Uncle Blackie let out a sigh, poured himself another glass of whisky. He took a sip, licked his lips. ‘No worries, but I did think ... thought you trusted me?’

  He fell silent, finished the whisky, poured another. He wasn’t looking at me anymore but staring out through the window, at some point beyond the overflowing garbage bins. He looked so unhappy.

  ‘I do trust you, Uncle Blackie.’

  Of course I trusted Dad’s brother who spoke like a mermaid would if mermaids could speak. My uncle who bought me groovy presents, who cared about me, unlike my own parents.

  ‘Well then?’ Uncle Blackie didn’t move from his chair.

  I breathed deeply; still couldn’t imagine taking off all my clothes. It was bad enough sitting there in my singlet and undies. I shook my head.

  ‘Ah, never mind,’ Uncle Blackie said with a shrug. ‘I must have misunderstood you ... just imagined you were ready to be a grown-up model. But I got it wrong, you’re still only a child. I’m sorry, Tanya, really I am.’ He zipped up the camera in its case.

  I followed his gaze out to the living-room, to my sparkly new bicycle. I felt so ungrateful, so selfish.

  ‘Is the bike still mine?’ For some reason I was afraid he was going to take it away from me.

  ‘Of course it is, you silly thing,’ Uncle Blackie said with a sad little smile. ‘Why don’t you go and ride it right now? We’ll think more about grown-up modelling and photo shoots in a year or two, when you’re old enough.’

  ‘I am old enough.’ I stamped my foot. ‘Right now, I’m old enough.’

  Uncle Blackie smiled again and shook his head. ‘It seems you’re not, Tanya. Not old enough for a model’s biggest challenge. Look, just don’t worry about it, forget I ever mentioned it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said with a sharp nod. I hoped he hadn’t heard the tremble in that one short word; couldn’t hear my heart thumping against my chest, my brain ricocheting against my skull. ‘I’ll do it.’

  He stared at me. ‘You’re absolutely certain you’re not too young for this?’

  ‘Certain.’

  And before I knew it, Uncle Blackie was sitting on the bed beside me, removing my underwear. I couldn’t help myself, and clamped my arms over my breast buds, crossed my legs.

  ‘Come on, Tanya, stand up in front of those nice palm trees, show the camera how lovely you are. And don’t you worry, nobody else’ll see the photos,’ Uncle Blackie went on in the ripply voice. ‘Because they’re just for you, to show you what a beautiful girl you really are. Besides, I develop them myself, right here in my own bathroom.’

  I pulled my arms away, hung them by my sides, limp and awkward, breathing deeply to fend off the giddiness.

  Click-clack. Click-clack. ‘That’s it. Side on now, Tanya. Throw that pretty head back over your shoulder. Smile ... fabulous!’

  His voice, rising with excitement, spurred me on. Click-clack. Click-clack.

  ‘Now shift a bit to the left, in front of the rose poster. That’s right ... beaut. Don’t look so anxious, a model must look relaxed, confident. Perfect, you look just like Twiggy.’

  Me, the famous and skinny super model Twiggy?

  The warmth bubbled inside me and I threw my arms up in a dramatic pose, a hip cocked sideways. Thin and beautiful Twiggy.

  It must have been the way I angled my head so that, through the doorway into the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the sink.

  Suddenly the sickness gorged up from my guts and it all felt wrong. I was swamped –– a great frothy wave crashing over my head, dumping me onto the sand. It mashed up my face, my body, into fat and ugly Tanya once again.

  ‘No more photos.’ I groped about for my underwear, my dress, hands fumbling, trying to cover my nakedness. ‘I’m no Twiggy ... ’

  Uncle Blackie placed his camera on the table, came over and wrapped his arms around me. Same as any caring uncle. ‘I told you before, don’t listen to those teasing kids, you’re beautiful to me.’

  I looked up to his smile, inhaled the whisky fumes.

  ‘I have to get home.’ I pulled away from him; from something hard in his trousers pressing against me. I almost fell over i
n my hurry to put on my clothes; to cover myself as quickly as possible.

  ‘You’re okay, aren’t you, Tanya?’

  ‘Sure ... just have to get home, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll drive you back to Figtree Avenue. We’ll stop at the corner shop, get you some lollies ... or anything else you want?’

  I shook my head. ‘Prefer to walk.’

  ‘Okay, but remember this is our secret. Because modelling photo shoots are only for adults and you’re almost a grown woman now, not a silly kid anymore. It’s nobody’s business but ours.’

  ‘I’m no silly kid.’

  Clutching my sandals in one hand, my Indian bag slung over the other shoulder, I hurried away from Albany without looking back.

  18

  The afternoon sun scalded the cricks of my knees as I trudged back up the Gallipoli Street hill, the sizzling rays burning their mark into my skin, branding me like one in a herd of cows. Clouds of grey-brown smoke surged from the Port Kembla chimney stacks.

  Things were different. Something had changed but I didn’t know what. I didn’t feel like a child any longer but this new adult world didn’t make sense. Something told me it was wrong of Uncle Blackie to take those naked photos, but he –– an adult and Dad’s brother –– knew better than me how things went; what was right and what was wrong. He was probably this minute thinking what an idiotic kid I was, when I’d so wanted him to think I was grown up. He had made me feel grown up, the way he’d spoken to me –– looked at me –– as if I was a real model. Until I’d lost my stupid nerve.

  Dried grass spikes pierced my feet, the bindiis needles through my soles.

  ‘Ah, ouch, ouch.’ I limped from the bindii patch to the kerb, sat down and slipped on my Roman sandals.

  By the time I reached Figtree Avenue, the sky over Mount Kembla had darkened to ash-grey, a giant effortlessly pushing storm clouds towards the Pacific.

  The wind turned squally, my nostrils flaring with the fruity smell of approaching storm, the gusts twisting the gum trees as if they were flimsy frocks.

  I was a sailor lost at sea, unable to get my bearings. My ship was rocking about in a night-storm, jerking and tilting against gigantic, chevron-spiked waves, keel all askew.