Little Exiles

by Robert Dinsdale

  ‘And you too, as soon as morning comes. Before anyone wakes.’

  After she has gone, he does not sleep, but sits up for long hours instead, lifting each trinket out of the miniature tea chest, recalling her stories. When he cannot remember them correctly, he changes and embellishes them, just the same as he used to do with bedtime stories for George. At some point they become, not stories about Megan’s family, but stories about his own, things his father left behind for his mother, things that were meant to be for Jon and his wife. He imagines what it would be like: his wedding day, back in Leeds, sliding this simple silver band onto her finger, looking up to see a peacock brooch fastened to her dress.

  In his head, the girl is English, some local girl from the terrace. She is dressed in Megan’s finery, but she is not really Megan at all.

  Now he cannot sleep. He packs away the trinkets, lies down, stands up, prowls the room like a stolen aboriginal girl in her cage.

  He opens the box a final time. Peering into it, he sees the things she would sell for him, her past in exchange for his own. You let your guard down, Jon Heather. She got a foot in the door, and somehow squeezed her way through.

  He flops onto the bed.

  But, God, it feels good.

  He wakes later than he meant, to the sound of footsteps in the passageway and a trolley wheeling past. Rushing to the door, he shoves Megan’s tea chest into his swag, forcing his arms into the sleeves of a shirt still soaking from the night before, and peers into the corridor.

  When there is nobody to see, he scuttles along the hall, sticking close to the wall. Doors flutter back and forth, revealing the dining hall by inches at a time. Somebody walks past, eclipsing his view, and it is only after they are gone that he knows it is Megan, her familiar scent rushing through the gap in the doors.

  There are men in the dining hall. At one table, a group of them eat breakfast, dressed in brown suits, with small cases for papers at their feet. Jon Heather cannot see any of their faces, but at least that means they cannot see his. Behind the counter, Megan’s father, squat and stern, is poring through a newspaper with some other guest. For an instant, Jon thinks it Cormac Tate — they have the same grizzled look, the same habit of taking their mouths to their food instead of the other way around — but at a second glance, it is just some bastard Australian roustabout.

  He is retreating along the corridor when he hears the footsteps behind him.

  ‘Jon, you promised …’

  ‘I know,’ he says, turning to see Megan hustle him back towards the room. ‘There has to be a back way …’

  ‘My father would know.’

  ‘If you distracted him, I could just go, straight through the dining room and …’

  ‘No, Jon.’ Her voice peters out, so that Jon knows something is wrong.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Promise me you won’t go into the dining room.’

  He remembers: men in brown suits with small cases for their papers at their feet.

  ‘The Protection Office?’ he breathes.

  She is trying to force him back into the bedroom, but he stands fast. ‘I tried to tell you before, Jon. It’s where they work. You thought it was just one little girl, well, it …’

  ‘I want to see.’

  Her eyes drop to the swag in his hand. She can make out the corner of her grandmother’s tea chest sitting ungainly within, giving shape to the fabric.

  ‘I want you to promise me, Jon. Not this time.’

  ‘They already did their work, didn’t they?’

  In spite of herself she shakes her head, watching as Jon Heather shrinks.

  ‘Think,’ she says, reaching for his swag. ‘Jon Heather, think. We can leave here tomorrow. You and me.’ She says it again, as if to hammer the idea into him. ‘You and me, Jon …’

  ‘I could have left the last time I was here. I was so close. A few more months, a few more jobs, and Peter and I could have …’ It feels as if somebody has their hands around him, holding him underwater. ‘I’m sorry, Megan.’

  He is marching back to the room now, but even though he is not marching towards the Protection Officers, there seems to be new vigour in his stride. Megan hurries after him.

  She slams the door, locking them both inside. ‘Do you want to go home or not?’

  ‘Stay out of this, Megan.’

  ‘In my hotel? In my home? When your hands are full of the things I’m selling to take you away?’

  Each question feels like a slap.

  He sits down, wants to bawl out. ‘Listen to me when I say this,’ he says. ‘Those men out there, they’re going to destroy those little girls. The same way they did to me and George and Peter. To Judah Reed and Cormac Tate! They’re going to grow up in some Home somewhere, or on some station, or on some farm, and … it’s not going to be them. They’re going to make them what they’re not. They’re going to hate it. They’re going to hate themselves …’

  ‘Jon, how can you possibly know what …’

  He stands. ‘Because I hate myself, Megan. I hate waking up in the morning. I hate going to bed at night. I hate hearing my voice with this stupid fucking drawl. I hate knowing how to mend fences and butcher goats and play stones.’ He opens his suitcase, snatches up the first book that comes to hand and hurls it so that she must either catch it or take a blow to the face. ‘I hate reading these bastard books, over and over and over again, as if they might keep me English. I hate the boys who came through it with me. Just because they remind me. And …’

  ‘Go on,’ says Megan, fingers grasping the pages: Strangers At Snowfell, with its dainty picture on the front of children stranded on a train.

  ‘When we were last here, Peter didn’t want me to go after them. He said I was losing all my senses. But I had to — I had to see for myself. And, when I saw, how could I just look the other way? I wouldn’t let him stop me, and he was my best friend. So tell me …’ His eyes, roaming the room, stop suddenly and hit hers. ‘… why should I listen to you?’

  Her back against the wall, Megan utters, ‘Because I’m me.’ She hurls the book back at him. ‘Jon, please. All you need is a few more hours, another deep breath … and I promise you, you’re going back home.’

  Her shoulders sag, she turns her back and inches open the door. ‘You’ll be safe in here until dark. Hit the highway south. I’ll find you in Perth. There’s a place …’ She takes a pencil from the dresser and, when she cannot find a scrap of paper, snatches the book back from Jon and scribbles on the inside cover. ‘It’s the place we stayed when I was a girl, where my mother came from. I’ll find you there.’

  Jon snaps the book shut, the frayed picture of the children and the train staring back. ‘You’re not …’

  ‘Not without saying goodbye. My father doesn’t deserve that … again. But you — you can’t stay here, Jon, not with …’ She has in her hand a key, and she slides it into the lock. ‘Do I need to do this?’ she asks.

  Silently, Jon shakes his head.

  She seems to think twice, but then drops the key in a pocket. ‘Jon,’ she says slowly, as if she is still thinking about not saying it. ‘If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me. If you love me at all, if you really want to go home, please …’ Jon realizes, for the first time, the way her voice is fracturing, the way she must concentrate to rein it in. ‘Just look the other way.’

  After she has gone, Jon throws himself down, buries his head in a pillow. When finally he looks up, the copy of Strangers at Snowfell has fallen open at his side, the address that Megan has scrawled looking up at him. Underneath the address she has written, in clearer type, a simple word — Please.

  He gets up, takes hold of the dresser and hauls it against the door, so that no man could get in — and no man get out. All the while, he is saying the same thing to himself: please, Jon; please, Jon Heather; just a few more hours, another deep breath … and you’re going back home.

  Never has he waited so long.

  In the small o
f the afternoon Megan brings him food. Jon has no appetite, but he eats what he can, not knowing where and when he might get his next meal. He packs his swag, his books, over and over again.

  He wonders, for the first time, where Pete and Cormac are now. He spends an hour picturing them on their smallholding, raising fences and harrowing patches of land while Dog careens about, massacring nests of baby rabbits. He has been dreaming of it for what feels like an age, when something hauls him viciously back to the present. It feels like he has gone ten rounds with a bare-knuckle boxer. There is no earthly reason, Jon Heather, why you should daydream of a life on the land, not when you are this close to home.

  Night comes. He knows because he hears the evening meals served. Probably the Protection Officers are dining out there. If they are still here, Jon reasons, it means that today was not the day. Perhaps they went into the bush, spent long hours spying — but, if they are still here, their work is not yet done.

  He goes to the door, pulls back the dresser he is using to imprison himself and creeps into the corridor. Where the doors open to the dining hall, he presses himself against the wall. He can hear snatches of conversation, idle, boring things, from the other side, but it is not enough. He steels himself, thrusts out a foot, pins the doors ajar, and looks through.

  There they are: two men who could only be Protection Officers, one much older than the other, dining with the very same policeman who took them out the last time. Jon can see no sign of the aboriginal guide, but, he supposes, a man like that is not welcome in a dining hall like this.

  He is still standing there, watching them eat, their smiles, the funny furrowing of their eyebrows as they share some joke, when he sees Megan waltz across the hall, bringing them beer. She does not linger with them long, but the easy way she has with them, the tipped head as the policeman raises his glass in thanks, makes Jon want to stride out.

  It is then that he sees the book in his hand. He did not know he had brought it, cannot say why, but he brings it up and fingers the inside cover. There, the pencil lines now smudged, is Megan’s hand: Please, she implores him, all over again. The word makes him pause. He sags against the wall, drawing back his foot, and the dining hall disappears from view.

  There is no rain tonight. Indeed, the skies are clear for as far as he can see, all those familiar, alien stars and constellations. Once the dining hall is empty, he gathers up his suitcase and swag and, head buried in Megan’s raincoat, strides through. He does not pause on the veranda, but ploughs across the road, straight onto the dirt oval. There is, he decides, only one stop he will make. Even with Megan’s scrawled word emblazoned on the backs of his eyelids, he will afford himself this.

  He walks the ocean road until he reaches the lock-up, where the big boab tree sits out front. There are no lights inside — and that, at least, bodes well. In the scrub out front a police ute is parked, but there is no sign of the policeman, nor of any Protection Officer. He creeps closer.

  There are holes in the wall, with window grilles but no windows. He peers into the first and sees nothing peering out. It is difficult to scrabble around the back, for here the scrub grows wilder, but he forces himself as far as he can go, until, at least, he can peer into one other cell. Here, again, there is nothing. Nobody.

  Back on the ocean road, he looks in the direction of the Old Arabia.

  They are still there, he says to himself.

  Pete’s voice: this has got you all riled up, hasn’t it?

  Megan’s hand: Please …

  He shoulders his swag, swings his suitcase and hurries off.

  The highway once plunged him straight into town; now it will take him far away. It is never a good thing to beg for a lift so close to a town, so he lopes across the dirt oval and starts to march. He goes at a quick pace for an hour before he takes a rest. By that time it must be midnight, and he marches again.

  In the starlight he sees a hollow at the edge of the road. He fell asleep in a hollow once before, waking up in the back of some farmhand’s ute, but he will not let it happen again.

  Some time later, headlights appear in front of him. Whoever it is, they are heading back into Broome. The highway is so straight and true that it is an age before the wagon draws past, forcing Jon Heather off the road. A horn blasts. He imagines it is the driver wishing him farewell.

  When he can go no further, he finds a bank where the scrub is thin and he can check easily for snakes, and makes a cushion out of his swag. He dares not sleep, for then he might miss his lift south, so he begins to play a game: he finds sixteen small stones, lines them up, and prepares to toss them with one hand and catch them on the back of the other. He will not play this game when he is back in England, but tonight he will play until he beats his old record.

  He is relearning old tricks, knowing how to shuffle stones from one knuckle to the next, when he sees headlights, some wagon coming south out of town. Quickly, he casts the stones into the scrub, and skids back down to the road. He need not have hurried; the headlights, pinpricks in the distance, take another age until they are near enough to spot him.

  The wagon draws down. Its headlights, still full-beam, dazzle Jon Heather so that all he can see are shreds of a silhouette. A door flies open, changing, for an instant, the quality of the light. Then he hears footsteps.

  ‘You all right, boy?’

  Jon hunches down as if to get under the glow. ‘How far are you going?’ he asks.

  ‘Only as far as Thangoo Station.’

  It is still an hour further south.

  ‘Hop up front, boy.’

  As ever, Jon Heather would rather lie in the back, where he doesn’t have to breathe a word in polite conversation — but, in the blinding light, he can see the dark mounds of the man’s cargo piled up on the flatbed. He scurries around the side of the cab and sinks into the passenger seat. Amorphous pools of colour swim across his field of vision, blotting out the road.

  The door beside him slams and the driver eases the engine off again.

  ‘Thank you,’ he breathes, closing his eyes so that his sight might come back more quickly. ‘I was afraid I’d be out there all night.’

  Jon opens his eyes. The pools of colour have dwindled to tiny points floating across the dashboard. He shifts, tries to make room to set his suitcase down at his feet, and looks up. In the mirror hanging over the windscreen, he sees the driver’s eyes.

  The policeman glowers back. ‘Steady now, boy,’ he utters. ‘We’re going at sixty klicks. There’s neither of us coming out of this pretty if you start up again …’

  Jon throws a look behind him. Through the glass, he sees now what the mound of cargo is: nothing but an empty wire frame, arcing over the back of the ute. His hand fumbles, instinctively, for the door, opening it a crack. Hot wind rushes past, a swarm of grains of burning sand.

  ‘We heard a rumour that you were kicking about town. That you were gone bush,’ the policeman says. He has one hand on the steering wheel and one hand hovering just off, as if expecting Jon Heather to pounce. ‘Really, boy, to wander into town like that, to wander into the hotel … What did you think, that us country types just forget?’ The door whips open just a little wider, and desert wind rampages within. The driver watches from the corner of his eye. ‘You know what the ground would do to you at this speed?’

  As he says it, he presses his foot firmly to the floor. The ute lurches forward, snapping the door shut.

  ‘How long have you been here, sloping about under my nose, Mr Heather?’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘We made it our business to know your name.’

  There was no record at the Old Arabia. Of that, he is certain: he only ever stayed there in rooms Cormac Tate had booked. It must have been Megan’s father — or some other guest.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re doing,’ Jon insists. ‘I’m out of here. I’m getting out of Australia …’

  ‘Don’t you know what you did that day?’

  ‘I got
that little girl away from you, didn’t I? Didn’t I, you bastards?’ Jon swings out with his fist. In the confines of the cab, he cannot cut a proper arc, and makes only a loose connection. The policeman is bigger than Cook ever was, and wears the blow well. When Jon tries to pummel him again, he brings his own fist up, hammers Jon back into the door. The latch catches, the door swings wide open — and suddenly Jon Heather is flailing about in the whirling desert air.

  He feels a meaty fist close around his wrist and haul him back in. The door still flaps wide.

  ‘You sent her back to the bush,’ he says. ‘A goddamn little girl. She might have grown up proper, had an education … And, because of you, she’ll just grow up wild, pump out a hundred more like her. We’re trying to stop that. We’re trying to help her. Don’t you know what happens to girls from the bush? She’ll end up selling herself to some stockman somewhere, and you could have stopped it.’

  ‘I saw her mother,’ says Jon Heather. ‘I saw them sobbing in the scrub. You put them in your car, tricked them. You threw them out.’

  The policeman’s voice seems to pale. ‘I know what you’re saying, son. But you can’t pick right or wrong. You got to pick best or worse. And you ruined that little girl’s life.’

  The road widens where a dirt track cuts east, and the policeman slows so that he might bring the ute around. When he begins the turn, Jon Heather senses his chance. He has his hand tight around his swag, but the suitcase of books is at his feet. It will, he decides, have to be left behind — those books have been tormenting him for too long already.

  The driver locks the steering wheel into as tight a turn as he is able — and Jon Heather thrusts the passenger door wide open. He hits the road at a roll. Though he tries to cushion his fall with his swag, his shoulder hits the dirt and he bawls out in pain. He lies there for an instant, determined to gulp it back down, and hears the ute skid to a stop. The driver’s door flies open and the policeman barrels out.

  There is still time. Pull yourself together, Jon Heather, pull yourself up. He lifts himself, first onto his knees and then onto his haunches. The policeman is still on the other side of the ute. He will not outrun him along the highway — but there is always the bush.