New Guinea Moon

by Kate Constable

  4

  ‘What about the time —’ Allan Crabtree wipes his mouth. ‘What about the time you put your Islander down in such a hurry, brakes squealing, and you jumped out like your arse was on fire. You couldn’t get out of that plane quick enough —’

  Tony chuckles. ‘And Curry here comes belting across the tarmac, screaming at the top of his lungs. You’re sacked! How dare you leave the effing plane in that state!’ He gives Julie a shy glance. ‘Except he didn’t say effing.’

  ‘You were shaking like a bloody leaf,’ says Allan. ‘Shrieking like a girl. There’s a snake in the cockpit; there’s a snake in the cockpit!’

  All the faces around the table, Tony and the four Crabtrees, turn expectantly toward Julie, for whose benefit these stories are being told.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ she says. ‘A snake?’

  Tony looks gratified. ‘I was flying in some green tree pythons for Baiyer River —’

  ‘That’s a wildlife sanctuary,’ says Ryan Crabtree, startling Julie with the first words he’s spoken all evening. He is Allan and Barbara Crabtree’s son, a year older than Julie, back from boarding school for Christmas. He shoots her a glance from under his long, slightly greasy hair. Julie had dismissed him earlier as sullen and miserable, but perhaps he is just shy. She supposes it isn’t his fault that his dark, heavy eyebrows give him a perpetual scowl.

  Barbara says, ‘Tony, maybe you could take Julie out to Baiyer River while she’s here.’

  Nadine, the Crabtrees’ thirteen-year-old daughter, chimes in quickly. ‘I want to go to Baiyer River. I’ve always wanted to go to Baiyer River. I want to see the baby deer —’

  ‘Shut up, Nads,’ mutters Ryan.

  ‘Nadine,’ says Barbara, ‘Uncle Tony’s trying to tell a story.’ She pushes back her chair and lights up a cigarette; she had waved away a bowl of fruit and ice cream when the housekeeper brought around dessert. She lowers her eyelids, heavy with eye shadow. Barbara has a dark bob, stiff as Cleopatra’s wig. She looks bored, as if she’s heard all these stories a hundred times, but she commands, ‘Go on, Mac.’

  ‘Well,’ says Tony. ‘One of the buggers got loose in the cabin. I managed to pin it down with a box before we landed, but its tail was thrashing around like a bloody whip. But Curry was screaming and yelling blue murder, how he didn’t give a f— didn’t give a fig about any effing snake — Pardon my French, kids. Sorry, Barb . . . You’ve got a responsibility to the flaming aircraft, get back in there and shut her down properly!’

  ‘I made him do it, too,’ says Allan with satisfaction. ‘Snake or no bloody snake.’

  ‘Damn thing tangled itself up behind the instrument panel. Took us hours to pull the bugger out.’

  Allan takes a swig from his stubby of South Pacific lager. ‘Remember the day Peter Manser clipped a tree, going from Goroka to Lae? He landed at Lae and the old balus was knocked about a bit, leaves hanging out of the flaps and what-have-you. Someone said, what happened? Peter says, “Oh, I hit a bird.” They said, “It must have been a bloody big bird.” “Yes . . . ” says Peter.’

  ‘It was sitting in a tree!’ chorus Ryan and Nadine.

  Julie laughs. Barbara blows out a stream of smoke and smiles a faint, tight smile.

  ‘Peter used to scare the —’ Tony coughs, glancing at Julie and Nadine, ‘— scare the suitcase out of his passengers. He’d pretend to read a novel while he was flying along, turn the pages, cool as a cucumber. Scared ’em witless! All play-acting, of course.’

  ‘Used to take out his false teeth and leave them lying around,’ muses Allan. ‘I found them, once, sitting on top of a bar in Madang.’

  ‘You can laugh,’ says Barbara sharply. ‘But it’s that kind of stupid behaviour that gets people killed.’

  ‘What, leaving your teeth out?’ growls Allan.

  ‘Showing off,’ says Barbara coldly.

  ‘Just a bit of fun, Barb,’ says Tony. ‘No harm in it.’

  Barbara flicks her cigarette over a yellow glass ashtray. ‘The younger pilots see this kind of adolescent nonsense from men old enough to know better, and they think they have to compete, to show how macho they are. Look at Andy Spargo today, racing the weather. Look at Kevin Griffen.’

  Tony and Allan fall silent. The only sound is the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen, where the housekeeper has started washing up.

  Nadine asks in a small voice, ‘What did happen to Kevin Griffen?’

  ‘He was killed,’ says Allan shortly.

  ‘Nineteenth of July,’ murmurs Tony.

  ‘I knew Kevin Griffen,’ says Nadine, in the same thin, small voice. ‘He was that tall guy, wasn’t he? With the big mouth, like Mick Jagger?’

  Ryan stirs. ‘We all know who he was, Nads.’

  ‘But what happened?’

  There is a painful silence. At last Tony says, ‘He was flying into Telefomin. He just disappeared. You know how rough the country is up there — never found any trace of him. Weather was shocking. He should have turned back, but he must have decided to go for it.’

  ‘The clouds up here have rocks inside,’ says Tony to the tabletop. ‘That’s what they say.’

  Ryan meets Julie’s eyes. ‘They call them chocolate-box clouds, up here,’ he says. ‘You never know which ones have got hard centres.’

  Julie looks away.

  ‘Ex-MOA,’ growls Allan. ‘Always knew it was a mistake to hire him.’

  ‘Mission of the Air,’ murmurs Tony, seeing Julie’s puzzled face.

  ‘Those MOA bastards think they can get away with anything! Always flying into gaps that aren’t there, because God Almighty’s watching over them! Stupid pricks.’

  ‘They do a lot of good work,’ says Barbara. ‘You’ve got some missionaries living next door, Julie. Graeme and Robyn Johansson. Remind me to give you a bundle of clothes to pass on to them, before you go.’

  Ryan says, ‘Which plane was it?’

  ‘Hotel Alpha Kilo,’ says Tony. ‘One of the Barons.’

  ‘The Barons can be twitchy little buggers,’ says Julie.

  Everyone looks at her, startled, and there is a gust of laughter.

  ‘You want to keep an eye on this one, Mac,’ says Allan. ‘Jeez, she’s quick! She’ll be after your job before you know it.’

  Julie can feel Ryan staring at her from under his heavy dark brows, but when she looks back at him, he drops his eyes.

  The housekeeper, an elderly local woman with hair as grey as steel wool, emerges from the kitchen and pads around the table, collecting the empty ice cream bowls. The soles of her bare feet look as tough and pliable as rubber thongs. Julie gives her an embarrassed smile and hands up her bowl. The woman flashes a brief smile back. No one else around the table speaks to her or pays her any attention; she might be invisible. Julie has never been waited on by a servant before; she doesn’t know the rules. Does the housekeeper live here? Does she have her own little house somewhere? Or does she live in one of those grass huts?

  The others are discussing someone who has moved back to Australia.

  Barbara says, ‘You can’t blame him; he’s got no future here.’ She gives a bitter laugh. ‘Let’s face it, none of us do.’

  Julie leans forward. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s talking about Independence coming next year,’ says Ryan, slouching in his chair. ‘You must have heard about it, it’s been all over the papers for months.’

  ‘New flag, new money,’ says Tony. ‘That’s all it is.’

  ‘More than that,’ says Allan. ‘Goodbye Aussie. They’ll be running their own show.’

  ‘They’re running it now,’ says Tony. ‘They started self-government last year.’

  ‘Still had the Europeans to hold their hands, though.’

  ‘Europeans?’ says Julie. ‘Isn’t it mostly Australians?’

  Tony flaps a hand. ‘All the expats get called Europeans. Doesn’t mean they’re from Europe. Though we have got Germans, Canadians, Dutch, all sorts . . .’
/>   ‘It means white people,’ Nadine explains, in a loud clear voice. A ripple of embarrassment runs around the table.

  Barbara frowns. ‘Nadine —’

  ‘What? What? It does!’

  Ryan says, ‘So are we going to become PNG citizens?’

  ‘May as well,’ says Allan, and ‘Certainly not!’ says Barbara emphatically. They glare at each other.

  ‘Haven’t even set foot in Oz for fifteen years,’ growls Allan. ‘What’s the point of hanging onto bloody citizenship? Our whole life’s here. May as well sign up for it properly.’

  ‘You haven’t been down south for fifteen years,’ says Barbara. ‘I have. And what about the kids? They’ll be at uni soon, getting jobs. Their future’s in Australia, not here. If the New Guineans don’t want us, we should just get out and leave them to it. See how they manage without us.’

  Allan scowls. ‘You’ve got to face facts, Barb. This place is our bread and butter. When Independence comes, they want us to make a choice, that’s fair enough.’

  Barbara ashes her cigarette. ‘Any fool can see they’re not ready to govern themselves. There hasn’t been time to train the nationals up properly. Maybe in another twenty years . . . Why the rush, all of a sudden?’

  ‘Bloody Gough bloody Whitlam,’ says Allan. ‘Don’t get me started.’

  Julie sits bolt upright. Her mother voted for Whitlam. They had a party at their house the night Labor won the election, beating the Liberals for the first time in twenty-three years. She says, ‘Independence is a good thing, though. Isn’t it? Nations should be run by their own people. You can’t have empires any more.’

  ‘Australia’s hardly got an empire,’ says Tony with a smile. ‘It’s just one country to look after!’

  ‘A good parent takes care of the children until they’re capable of looking after themselves,’ says Barbara. ‘Don’t you think? That’s just common sense.’

  ‘I haven’t seen my father since I was three, and my mother’s sent me to New Guinea by myself,’ says Julie. ‘Maybe I’m not the best person to ask.’

  Ryan gives a snort of suppressed laughter. It seems to explode into the uncomfortable silence which follows.

  ‘Sorry, Tony,’ says Julie. ‘I didn’t mean — I was just making a point.’

  Tony gives an awkward smile and shrugs one shoulder. ‘Guess I earned that one.’

  ‘Serves us right for talking politics,’ says Barbara abruptly. ‘Cheese?’

  She pushes the platter down the long table. Julie keeps her head lowered as she busies herself cutting a wedge of cheddar.

  Tony clears his throat. ‘I’ve got another story for you,’ he says. ‘Once upon a time, so they say, Curry here went off to visit the Controller of Civil Aviation. He didn’t have an appointment, so they wouldn’t let him in. Well, he marches up and down the office, effing and blinding — you know the way he does — and he insists that he has to see the Controller urgently, immediately! Secretaries start to cry, they threaten to call the police, but he won’t go away; he won’t give up. At last they let him in. And Curry throws a map down on the Controller’s desk and stabs his finger down on it, and he yells, this mountain is in the wrong bloody place! What are you clowns going to do about it?’

  Julie feels herself beginning to smile. ‘What did the Controller do?’

  Tony smiles back, enjoying himself. ‘The poor bastard didn’t even think about changing the map. Oh, no. He picked up the phone and ordered some bulldozers. Come on, boys, we’ve got to shift that mountain!’

  Julie laughs, as Ryan groans and Nadine says, ‘I’ve heard that story a million times.’

  ‘Haven’t we all?’ Barbara scrapes back her chair and gestures to the lounge area at the other end of the long room. ‘Shall we?’

  The Crabtrees’ house is large and white and built of brick, with an expansive, parquet-floored living and dining room opening out onto a big verandah and the valley beyond. It’s a house built for parties. ‘The most expensive house in Hagen,’ Allan had told Julie with gruff pride before dinner. ‘Every bloody brick flown in. Cost a fortune.’

  Tony and Allan settle themselves in deep armchairs with tumblers of whisky and begin to talk shop — flight routes and business prospects, which plane is due for a service, which pilot has leave coming up. Barbara drops onto the couch, her eyes hooded as she lights up a fresh cigarette and leafs through a magazine. Julie hesitates for a second, not sure if she wants to sit next to Barbara, then sits down on the rug. Nadine plumps down beside her. Ryan slouches over to squat next to the stereo.

  Without looking up, Barbara says, ‘Put on something decent, for God’s sake, not that horrible wailing you insist on subjecting us to.’

  Ryan scowls, but he says nothing as he flicks through the LPs. Perhaps he hasn’t heard.

  ‘Has your housekeeper worked for you for a long time?’ Julie asks Nadine.

  ‘You mean Koki? Oh, yeah, she’s been with us forever. She came when Ryan was a baby. She looked after both of us. She’s kind of like another mother.’ Nadine giggles. ‘She’s probably taken care of us more than Mum has.’

  ‘I hardly think that’s true,’ says Barbara sharply.

  Nadine pulls a face at Julie. ‘It is, though,’ she whispers cheerfully.

  ‘What does she do when you and Ryan are at boarding school?’

  ‘Who, Mum? I dunno!’

  ‘I meant Koki . . .’

  ‘Oh, she cleans and cooks and everything,’ says Nadine vaguely. ‘That’s what meris do. Everyone here has a meri or a haus boi . . . And she looks after the animals, of course. There’s Roxy the dog, and the birds, and George my cuscus . . . He’s sort of like a possum. He got his foot caught in a trap but I rescued him. Do you want to see him?’

  ‘Okay,’ says Julie, but she doesn’t get up. She looks around the living room. ‘Don’t you have a TV either?’

  Nadine laughs. ‘There is no TV up here.’

  ‘No television at all?’ Julie stares at her.

  ‘We make our own fun,’ says Barbara briskly. ‘Canasta nights, parties, the Drama Club. We have a terrific time, don’t we, Ryan?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Ryan. He lowers the needle onto a record and suddenly a Neil Diamond song blares into the room.

  ‘Turn that down!’ barks Allan. ‘A man can’t hear himself think with that bloody racket.’

  Ryan flops into a chair.

  ‘Why don’t you kids have a dance?’ says Barbara. ‘Go on, Ryan, ask Julie for a dance.’

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t —’ says Julie.

  ‘God, Mum!’ protests Ryan at the same moment.

  They look at each other. Julie isn’t sure whether to be grateful or offended that he seems as reluctant to dance with her as she is to dance with him.

  ‘I’ll dance,’ says Nadine. She scrambles up and throws herself into an energetic shimmy.

  ‘Show-off,’ mutters Ryan.

  ‘She does jazz ballet,’ says Barbara. ‘Do you do jazz ballet, Julie?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t. My mother —’ She stops herself. She can’t say, my mother thinks jazz ballet is stupid.

  Barbara says sympathetically, ‘Your mother will miss you while you’re away.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ says Julie. ‘When I rang her this afternoon she was all excited about going to Sydney to visit her friend.’

  ‘Oh, well, she’ll need to keep herself busy,’ says Barbara vaguely.

  That’s never a problem, thinks Julie, but she doesn’t say it aloud.

  Carefully Tony sets his whisky on the table, then heaves himself out of his chair. ‘Dance with an old man —?’ He glances sideways at Julie, then loses his nerve. ‘— Barbara?’

  ‘Why not?’ She closes her magazine and stands up, smoothing her dress over her thighs, and she and Tony step out into the middle of the floor.

  Ryan covers his eyes with his hand. ‘It’s kinder not to watch,’ he mutters, and Julie can’t help a giggle. In fact, she thinks, Barbara and Tony don’t dance t
oo badly, for old people. She vaguely remembers her mother saying something about Tony being a good dancer. Back in the days when Caroline believed in dancing . . .

  Allan sits with his hands resting on the arms of his chair, like a medieval king on his throne, surveying his court. ‘Mac!’ he commands. ‘Ask your daughter to dance with you, for Christ’s sake. And get your hands off my wife!’

  ‘What do you care?’ says Barbara tartly. ‘I could grow old and die waiting for you to ask me.’ But she pats her hair and sits down.

  Slowly Julie climbs to her feet. Tony is waiting, his arms hanging by his sides. She walks across the polished floor, feeling them all watching, certain that they’re all exchanging secret smiles. Her face feels hot. Tony pulls a small private grimace, to show her he feels awkward too. Julie holds out her hands and Tony takes them, and they shuffle on the spot together. Julie fixes her eyes on the Christmas tree behind Tony’s shoulder; Tony looks at the floor.

  Then a new song comes on: ‘Sweet Caroline’.

  Instantly Tony and Julie drop their hands. Their eyes meet and they both begin to laugh. Tony shakes his head. ‘Nah, mate, no — not that one.’

  ‘What’s so funny?’ demands Nadine.

  ‘Julie’s mother is called Caroline,’ says Barbara.

  Julie says, ‘She’s not exactly sweet, though.’

  ‘I feel inclined . . .’ hums Ryan. He’s watching Julie.

  ‘Take the poor kid home, Mac,’ Allan barks. ‘She’s dead tired. Look at her; she can hardly stand up.’

  ‘I thought we’d take you to see the market tomorrow,’ says Barbara briskly. ‘We’ll pick you up at nine.’

  Exhausted as she is, Julie finds it hard to fall asleep. Her brain whirls with the people she’s met and the things she’s seen since this long day began. It seems years ago since she last went to bed, far away in a Brisbane hotel. Julie smiles to think how excited she’d been about staying in that hotel alone; it seems like another planet.

  Frogs throb outside the window, pumping their calls out into the night. Julie gazes out into the darkness. A half-moon, like a tiny tin boat, sails in the sky high above. She lies down and closes her eyes. The frogs’ song drums in time with her own heartbeat, steady, unhurried, a soothing beat . . .