‘I heard about it.’
When Julie turns around, he is quietly smiling. ‘Don’t worry about it, mate,’ he says. ‘She’ll come round.’
Julie pulls a face. ‘You think so? She seems like the type to hold a grudge, to me.’
Tony laughs. ‘You’ve got no problem with her son, though . . . You’ve made a friend for life there, by the looks of it.’
Julie brings the sausages to the table. ‘Mm.’
Ryan has been at the house all day. He arrived on the doorstep bright and early, and settled in for a day of smooching on the couch. Which is nice enough, she supposes, but she doesn’t want to spend her whole time in New Guinea locked inside the house with the curtains drawn, with Ryan’s tongue in her mouth and his hands up her shirt. She tries to persuade him to walk with her to the library that Robyn has told her about, but he won’t come. He sprawls on the couch and complains about how boring it is in Mt Hagen and how he can’t wait to get back to Brisbane. ‘Except for you,’ he adds hastily. ‘You’re not boring.’
‘Gee, thanks!’ She lets him pull her down onto the couch, but after a few minutes she wriggles free and picks up Ryan’s guitar. ‘Play us a song?’ she coaxes.
‘What’s the point?’ he grumbles, but he takes the guitar and starts to strum, and soon he’s absorbed in the music, his lank hair falling like a curtain across his face, and Julie, watching, thinks that perhaps she likes him best like this, when he’s forgotten that she’s there . . .
Tony polishes off his sausages. ‘Not bad. Maybe we should ask Teddie and Spargo round one night.’
Julie looks up in alarm. ‘I don’t mind cooking for you, but I’m not ready for a dinner party.’
Tony laughs. ‘Teddie won’t be fit for a few days anyway. She’s off sick. Hopefully it won’t turn out to be dengue fever — Curry’s a bit cranky, he’s got no one to answer the phone for him now.’
The idea leaps from her mouth almost before it forms in her head. ‘I could do that! I could help out. I’ve done typing at school. And I’d love to come in and see what you do, and how it all works.’
Tony’s eyes brighten, but he says, ‘You sure? Don’t want to spoil your holiday . . . interfere with your social life, and all that . . .’
‘It wouldn’t,’ Julie assures him.
‘I’ll have a word to Curry, then. It’s not rocket science, just filing and that kind of thing. I reckon if Teddie can handle it, you should be able to do it standing on your head.’
Julie is surprised by the pride in his voice. She doesn’t know where to look.
He says, rather wistfully, ‘You’ve got your mother’s brains. She was always too clever for me.’
Julie can’t imagine Caroline and Tony together. Her mind baulks at the thought of it. They must have been different, when they were young; that’s as far as her imagination will stretch. She jumps up and turns on the tap to fill the sink from the water tank. ‘So, will you ring Curry now?’
Julie snaps awake in the morning when Tony’s alarm shrills. She lies in bed, wondering if she’s bitten off more than she can chew. Yes, she can answer a phone, and she’s done three terms of typing at school. But what does she know about running an office, or an air charter business? Tony expects her to be clever; she imagines his disappointed face. Never mind, mate, it doesn’t matter . . . She throws back the blanket. Her mouth is dry.
Tony has made her a coffee, strong and black, the way he likes it. Julie adds two spoonfuls of sugar, and a splash of UHT milk. She’s almost used to the taste of it now, though she can’t say she likes it. Nadine told her that when she’s down south at school, she misses long-life milk. Julie wonders if, when she goes home, fresh milk will taste weird.
‘Ready to go?’
She nods, still half-asleep, and follows him out to the car. Gibbo is just stumbling from his front door. Julie waves, and he blinks at her, baffled, as if he thinks he might be dreaming.
The sky is murky with night, the dawn just touching it, a dab of pale paint lowered into a glass of painting water. Or no — it’s as if each touch of the brush removes some ink from the glass, the water growing cleaner, clearer, with every moment. The sky turns grey, then white. Julie leans her head back against the seat as the car hums along the road to the airport. Because the mountains screen the horizon, the world is quite light, she can see around her easily, before the sun itself rolls above the ranges and floods the valley with gold. Mist boils off the mountains like smoke.
‘Best part of the day,’ says Tony. ‘Shame to waste it lying in bed.’
The HAC terminal is bustling. Pilots come in and out, sipping bitter coffee, grimacing, joshing one another, filling out forms, intently studying coloured pieces of paper. Later Julie will learn about flight plans and cargo manifests and NOTAMs, but for now it is all mysterious. Gibbo appears. ‘Choose a job you love,’ he says. ‘And you’ll never have to work a day in your life.’
‘I know,’ says Julie. ‘You told me that already.’
In the cargo shed, the bois are busy shifting sacks of rice and coffee beans, heaving them onto the all-important big scales, while someone adjusts the brass weights along the slide and sings out the results. Allan Crabtree barks orders, his chest pigeon-puffed. When he sees Julie, he points to a chair. ‘Sit there and stay out of the way. I’ll get to you later.’
Of course, it will be Allan, not Tony, showing her what to do. She should have expected that. She hasn’t thought this through.
But there is something intensely satisfying about being awake and part of all this busyness, while the rest of the world is asleep. The terminal hums like a machine. Before long, planes are being loaded. One by one, the pilots abandon their coffee mugs, drop their paperwork on the desk and stride out to start their engines. One by one, the planes roar into life, whirring like dragonflies with the early morning sun on their wings. In an orderly procession, they trundle onto the runway, then, at an invisible signal, they zoom along the tarmac, before lifting, as clumsy as beetles, as elegant as birds, into the soaring sky.
With a start, Julie realises that everyone has gone — everyone but her and Allan and the kago bois. Allan is barking at someone on the phone, and the bois are moving purposefully around in the shed, rearranging piles of boxes. The head boi, Joseph, pokes his head around the doorway to give her a friendly grin. Julie grins back, and feels better.
She collects up the coffee mugs and takes them out to the back kitchen to rinse and drain at the tiny sink, careful not to get in the workers’ way. The whole building has a peculiar, particular smell — a mixture of condensed milk and cats, cleaning fluid and avgas — with the musty background New Guinea smell of sweat and smoke that she has almost stopped noticing. There is a box of kittens in one corner of the kitchen, to keep the mice down, she guesses, and the grubby table is littered with dog-eared playing cards, Phantom comics and well-thumbed copies of Australasian Post, with bosomy cover girls in skimpy bikini tops.
Allan marches in. ‘Come on then, Miss McGinty, let’s get cracking.’
To Julie’s relief, he is much more amiable when there’s no one around to yell at. The work he gives her isn’t difficult, mostly answering the phone and taking messages, and typing out letters with messy sheets of carbon inserted between the pages, staining her finger-tips purple. She tidies Teddie’s desk and puts away some filing she’d pushed to one side. She feels competent and efficient and grown up.
All morning, the planes come and go. Some of the nearest airstrips are only ten minutes away. At lunchtime, Joseph produces a hot meal — roast meat, mashed potatoes, sweet corn, bread and butter — enough for everyone. The pilots stroll in, help themselves to coffee, and sprawl around the kitchen table with their ties unknotted. Julie is shy; she carries her lunch into the office and eats at her desk.
When it’s safe to come out, she takes her plate back to the kitchen, and kneels by the kitten box. She lifts out one tiny scrap of fur and rubs it against her cheek.
Joseph comes
in and squats beside her. He croons softly as his calloused, scarred finger gently reaches into the box and scratches a kitten’s fur.
‘Dispela, I take home,’ he says. ‘Long pikinini.’
‘You have children, Joseph? How many?’
He grins. ‘Faipela.’
‘Five! Boys or girls?’
‘Tripela gel, tupela boi.’
They chat brokenly about his children for a few minutes, but Julie is hardly listening. Joseph is a father, a grown man, and yet every day of his working life, he is called boi by men young enough to be his sons. Shame spreads warmly through her. She resolves at that moment never again to call an adult national a boi. He is a person; not just part of the exotic scenery.
By now it’s afternoon, and the planes are coming back, dropping gently from the sky onto the runway and nosing their way back to the terminal, like tired horses snuffling back to their stable.
The morning’s flurry is repeated in reverse — the planes unloaded, the passengers disgorged, the cargo stacked for collection. The pilots lounge at the front counter, or prop their feet on the kitchen table. More paperwork piles up in the tray on Julie’s desk. The day has raced by.
‘How did she go?’ asks Tony.
‘Not bad,’ says Allan. ‘Not bad at all.’
That night Ryan rings to complain about how boring his day has been. ‘Thank God I can come round to your place tomorrow.’
‘Well — your dad wants me to work again. I said I would.’
‘Jeez, how much are you getting paid for this?’
Julie is embarrassed to admit that she hasn’t even asked about money. She’s not entirely sure that she’ll be paid at all. ‘Plenty!’ she says, resolving to ask Allan first thing tomorrow.
‘So you should be. It’s ruining the whole holiday.’
‘I think it’s kind of fun.’ And it is; it’s like playing offices when she was little, except that the typewriter and the telephone, with its sophisticated three separate lines, the cashbox and the filing cabinets, the notice-board with its flight roster, are all real. She feels deft and cool, rolling the paper into the typewriter and making the keys clatter with a din that fills the room.
By the next day, she has already become part of the tribe. ‘Morning, Julie.’ ‘G’day, Julie.’ ‘Jeez, you’re bloody keen, up at this hour. Don’t let the old man work you too hard.’
Julie and Allan work well together. ‘Makes a nice change, bit of peace and quiet, none of that bloody racket Teddie Spargo blasts through the place,’ he growls.
It hasn’t even occurred to Julie to switch the radio on.
‘Bloody hell,’ he says later. ‘Can’t remember the last time I saw the top of that desk. I’d forgotten what colour it was.’
‘I just thought I’d tidy up a bit —’
As she types, she imagines herself living here, working every day, getting up with the sunrise. She could leave school; she is old enough. She could live with Tony all year round . . . There is no reason why she couldn’t do it. She could stay here forever. Teddie will have a baby soon, everyone says so. Allan will need someone in the office. Her fingers fly across the keys, her mind busy with daydreams.
In reality, if she ended up working as a mere secretary she knows her mother would have fifty kinds of fit. All those Women’s Lib, you-can-do-anything lectures wasted . . .
And if Julie did stay here, she would miss her mum. It was funny, they were getting on much better now that they were hundreds of miles apart. Caroline’s letters from Sydney were funny and affectionate, sprinkled with more hugs and kisses than she ever gives Julie in real life. And it is much harder to have arguments in cramped airletters than face to face. Her mother had actually rung her a couple of nights ago, a quick, cheerful phone call, and before Caroline hung up, she’d actually said, I love you . . .
If Julie stayed in New Guinea, she would miss Rachel, too, and her other friends. Maybe Rachel would come and visit in the holidays. Julie could show her everything . . .
That afternoon, Allan calls her aside and gives her an envelope with twenty dollars inside. It’s the first money she has ever earned in a real workplace. She clutches it against her chest.
Allan eyes her reflectively. ‘Shame you’re not a couple of years older, Miss McGinty. I’d offer you the job.’
Her first reaction is a rush of pleasure: perhaps her dream really could come true. But what she actually says, before she can stop herself, is, ‘Barbara might not like that.’
Allan scowls. ‘Barb’s not the bloody boss here!’
‘Yes, Mr Crabtree,’ says Julie meekly.
He softens. ‘Don’t you worry about Barb. Nadine told me the whole story about Koki. You did the right thing.’
Julie gazes modestly at the desk, hoping he’ll say more, but at that moment his eye is caught by a movement outside, in the waiting area. He shoots out of the office like a pea from a blowpipe.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
There is a breathless, mumbled reply; a mumble that Julie recognises. She hurries out behind the counter and sees Ryan, dusty and bedraggled, pushing the damp hair off his flushed and sweaty face.
‘Just rode out to say hi,’ he mutters. Julie can see his bike, dropped on the gravel outside. He shoots her an agonised glance from beneath his fringe.
‘You didn’t ride ten kays out from town for the pleasure of saying hi to me!’ barks Allan. ‘Your girlfriend’s busy! We’ve got four flights due to land in the next half hour, and Julie’s got better things to do than waste time canoodling with you!’
‘Jeez, give me a break!’ says Ryan.
‘I haven’t got time to deal with you now. You can make yourself useful, or you can piss off.’
Ryan eyes him warily. ‘What do you mean, make myself useful?’
‘Joseph’ll find you a job. You could sweep out the shed. The wall out front could do with a coat of paint. That bathroom’s a disgrace, someone needs to clean that bloody toilet.’
‘I’m not doing that!’ Ryan’s face is pink, with indignation now, rather than exertion. ‘That’s a boi’s job!’
‘It’s bloody work, that’s what you’re afraid of!’ roars Allan, his own face purple. ‘Jesus Christ, who would have thought I’d raise a son who’s scared of a bit of hard work? I started off in the cane fields at Bundaberg! Now that was bloody hard work! You wouldn’t know hard work if it jumped up and bit you on the arse!’
‘A plane’s coming in, Curry,’ says Julie.
Through the big window, a blue-and-white plane sways slightly as it lowers itself toward the ground, the sun glinting off its windshield.
‘Right!’ yells Allan. He swings on his heel and stalks off through the doorway to the cargo shed. ‘Joseph!’
Julie turns to Ryan, thinking he might be grateful to be rescued, but he’s already pushed through the glass doors and picked up his fallen bike from the gravel. As Julie watches, he swings his leg over the saddle and pedals away.
12
‘Curry’s got a new client, he’s shouting us all drinks at the Highlander,’ says Tony over the phone, his voice a shade too loud. In the background, Julie can hear the clink of glasses and the muted roar of the bar. ‘You’ll be right, won’t you? Why don’t you pop over to the Crabtrees’ before it gets dark? Barb’ll run you home later.’
‘Mm.’ Julie curls the phone cord round her finger.
‘You and Barb are mates again, aren’t you?’
‘Sort of. Yeah, I might do that. See you.’
‘I shouldn’t be too late,’ he says. ‘Gotta work tomorrow.’
After she hangs up, Julie decides that an evening to herself is just what she needs. She eats the spaghetti she’d prepared before Tony rang, and two helpings of ice cream. She’d quite like to speak to her mother, but Julie feels shy about ringing up someone she’s never met, Caroline’s Sydney friend; and it’s only a few days since Caroline last rang, anyway.
Julie slots a cassette into the tape playe
r and turns up the volume while she indulges in a long, hot bath. She could write some letters — she owes one to her mother, and she hasn’t written to her friend Rachel for a fortnight. But Rachel and Caroline seem very far away, and letters are more fun to receive than they are to write . . . Without consciously deciding to do it, Julie finds the telephone under her ear, and her finger dialling the number for Keriga. Perhaps enough time has passed for Simon to forget the humiliation of their last conversation. She decides, if Patrick or Dulcie answers, she’ll pretend it’s a wrong number.
But it’s Simon.
‘Hi . . . It’s Julie. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’
‘No, it’s okay. I was just reading to Dad.’
‘Reading out loud?’
‘His eyes get tired these days. He loves Graham Greene.’
Julie hasn’t read any Graham Greene. She makes a noncommittal noise.
Simon says, ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’d prefer a spy novel. There’s a new John le Carre out; it’s meant to be really good, but I haven’t read it yet . . . Graham Greene’s a bit sad for me.’
‘So the spy stories are happy, are they?’
Simon laughs. ‘Fair point.’
Julie doesn’t want to tell him that she hasn’t even heard of John le Carre.
‘So,’ says Simon after a moment. ‘How’s your boyfriend?’ Julie’s heart leaps into her throat. ‘Do you mean Ryan?’
‘What, is there another one?’
‘No! But . . . Ryan’s not really my boyfriend.’
‘Not really?’
‘Well, he’s not,’ says Julie. There is a pause, then she admits, ‘But he might think he is.’
‘That’s unfortunate,’ says Simon.
For Ryan? Or for him? Julie says, ‘It is a bit awkward.’
‘So, are you planning to break the bad news?’
‘I thought he might just . . . get the hint. Eventually.’
‘You should put the poor guy out of his misery.’
‘I’m only here for a few more weeks. Then I’m going back to Melbourne and he’ll be in Brisbane.’
New Guinea Moon Page 9