by Sarah Hay
Skins
SARAH HAY was born in Esperance, Western Australia, in 1966. A journalist and public relations consultant, she began her career as a cadet livestock reporter in Perth. She has worked in England as a reporter for a national newspaper. She has also been a writer for two public relations firms in Perth. Currently an undergraduate at the University of Western Australia, she is completing a Bachelor of Arts in English and Philosophy and writing her second novel. She lives in Perth with her husband and son.
Skins
SARAH HAY
First published in 2002
Copyright © Sarah Hay 2002
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
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Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
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National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Hay, Sarah, 1966–.
Skins.
ISBN 1 86508 807 2.
1. Aborigines, Australian—Women—Western Australia—History.
2. Sealers (Persons)—Western Australia—History.
3. Aborigines, Australian—Western Australia—History. I. Title.
305.4889915
Set in 11.5pt on 14pt Adobe Garamond by Asset Typesetting Pty Ltd
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my family
Contents
Acknowledgements
Begin Reading
Afterword
A Note on Characters and Sources
Acknowledgements
I owe much to my parents Ian and Jan Hay for choosing to live in a special and remote part of Western Australia. This book could not have been written without the help of John Cahill who accompanied me on my trips to Middle Island.
CSIRO’s Dr Peter Shaughnessy and Dr Nick Gales, who is now with the Australian Antarctic Division, shared their knowledge of sea lions and fur seals on a research trip to Kangaroo Island. Malcolm Traill and Julia Mitchell from the Local Studies Section of the Albany Library were always helpful in their responses to my numerous enquiries.
My thanks to Marcella Pollain and Dr Brenda Walker of the University of Western Australia’s creative writing program for getting me started and Brenda for reading my completed manuscript.
Thanks to my grandmother Nancy Hay who read my chapters as they were written and for her belief in my work; my friends Kerry and Garry Walker for our Friday night discussions that helped me discover what I wanted to say; my husband Jamie Venerys for his support; Chris and Christine Bradley; Jill Bear; Stephen and Dorothy Purdew; and my son Robert for being there.
January 1886
Do you remember the island that lay in the middle of others? Rocks washed smooth by the sea. How frightened we were? But it was only the beginning. I am so tired now and there is a coldness inside me that is spreading.
Middle Island 1835, James Manning
Manning didn’t consider himself one of Anderson’s men. It was nearly two years since he had left the settled shores of Sydney Town for the new Swan River colony, a journey of some three and a half thousand nautical miles. That didn’t take into account the detours they would make to the sealers’ camps hidden on small rocky islands that broke the surge of the Southern Ocean swell. But Manning never reached the Swan River colony. He had left Botany Bay as part of the crew of a sealing trader called the Defiance but the schooner was wrecked off the coast of New South Wales. Some of the crew had taken the longboat back to Sydney. He and the others had gone on in the whaleboat to Kangaroo Island. It was there he met the sealer Black Jack Anderson.
Manning was sitting halfway up the sandhill that followed the curve of the main bay at Middle Island. It was called Goose Island Bay, named after the island that lay off its shore about one and a half miles to the west and which sheltered it from the Southern Ocean swell.
He watched a solitary seagull flap against the wind above the beach. It gave up and glided down and out across the dark foam-flecked sea. As it neared the tip of the waves, it flapped again, turning in a wide arc before it headed back to the beach, perhaps knowing that if it left the island, it would have to fend for itself instead of relying on the scraps left by the sealers. Manning thought if he was a bird, he would take his chances. He could see the purple hills of Mount Arid that was the mainland, six miles away. He would stretch out his wings and let the wind carry him there. No longer to be buffeted by the gusts that came up and over the island from the land of ice in the south. Manning threw out a piece of stale crust. He was tired of chewing the hard bread that stuck in his throat when he swallowed. The little gull swooped with its feet poised to take it. A black-winged Pacific gull came out of the sky and, just as the silver gull lifted the crust off the ground, the big gull snatched the bread and carried it up and over the sandhills.
Today was the 27th of March 1835. Manning knew that because he had scratched eighty-six notches on the stick he kept beside his swag to mark every day since he had arrived. He had come to Middle Island with Anderson from Kangaroo Island, on the promise the sealer would take him on to King George Sound. And from there to Swan River would be easy. But Anderson was a hard bastard, making him work for his food. Manning knew that if they didn’t leave soon it would be much later in the year before the winds would be favourable again. He also knew that if he didn’t get up from where he was sitting soon, Anderson would be after him.
But Anderson would always be after him. A gust of wind sent pricks of sand across his face. He picked up a handful and watched it trickle through his fist. It made him think of time passing but that was strange for since he had been on the island he had felt as though it stood still. It was very fine sand and white like snow, perhaps. He looked up, his chin resting on his knees. Suddenly he saw something on the horizon. Could it be a sail? He stood up, brushing the sand from his ragged trousers, and squinted into the distance, motionless for a moment, his eyes fixed on that point. The swell had been whipped up by a storm a couple of nights ago. Now the wind had swung around to the east and was blowing hard across the bay. It was difficult to see through the salt haze, which hovered above the white-capped waves. But yes it was the sail of a small boat. He expected to see a ship further out but there was no sign of one. He kept watching the boat as he came down the hill and along the beach. He reached the granite beyond the camp which was tucked in behind the sand dunes. Once he rounded the headland he lost sight of the sail and Goose Island blocked his view of the mainland. He continued west along a short beach littered with clumps of brown seaweed. He climbed over boulders and small rocks to reach another bay. This time he faced the massive granite dome of Flinders Peak, which stood on the northwestern corner of the island. The sun came out from behind a cloud and intensified the orange and brown stripes that ran down the purple rock face.
Anderson’s whaleboat was pulled up at the foot of the sandhill and lay tilted to one side. Usually they
brought their catch to the main beach but today Anderson had taken his boat around to the other side because it was sheltered. Away from the wind the sun was hot on the back of Manning’s neck. A tripot rested on a ring of granite boulders. As he passed by, he felt the heat from the coals on his legs. Dinah was placing slabs of quivering white fat into the pot and stirring, her skin shiny with sweat. Anderson’s other woman Sal, who was shorter and broader, squatted a short distance away and used a wooden paddle to scrape the fat from a skin pulled tight over a rock.
He walked into the smoke and the thick stench caught the back of his throat. He reached Anderson and his men at the water’s edge. Seals were laid out on the sand like giant slugs. The men sliced and peeled the skin from the carcasses, widening the red stain around them. Their knives flashed as they caught the light. They brought them under the neck and down the belly to the tail, turning the seal over to take the fat and the skin from its back. And then the hide was turned inside out over the flippers like clothing being removed. Squawking gulls swooped and fought between them. Anderson looked up.
‘Soger,’ he growled at Manning.
He straightened, unfolding the full strength of his black body, which was barely clad in seal and kangaroo skin, looking for the pail of fresh water Manning was to have brought with him. Both hands were bloodied. A piece of dirty cloth was tied around his forehead to prevent the sweat from entering his eyes.
Before he could say anything else, Manning said: ‘There’s a boat.’
They stopped and looked out towards the channel between the islands but they couldn’t see anything.
‘Who is it?’
Manning shrugged, looking down at the ground. Anderson wiped his knife and put it away and walked towards the sandhill. He gestured for Manning to follow. They climbed the steep hill to the track through the dense bush to the camp so that they wouldn’t be seen from the sea. It was hot inland. Thin scraggly trees lined the pathway and dead foliage lay amongst the undergrowth. Sticks cracked beneath their feet. Soon they reached a large area of granite that was almost completely surrounded by bush. A short track led to Anderson’s hut. Anderson disappeared through the doorway and returned with his musket.
The whaleboat glided into the bay on the stiff breeze. There were nine people on board and it was low in the water. As it came closer, they could see that two of them were women. From the helm there was a shout and a man stood up, waving his right arm.
‘Oy! Anderson!’
Anderson gave no sign he knew him. But Manning knew that he did. It was Evanson Jansen, the captain of a sealer trader Anderson had paid in skins to bring him and his men to Middle Island. Jansen’s cutter the Mountaineer had left Kangaroo Island fully laden with Anderson’s whaleboat, skins, supplies and men, as well as Manning, and had dumped them all on the beach only three months earlier. Manning wondered what had happened to the Mountaineer. And it was clear that Anderson wasn’t expecting its captain. Manning knew no sealer liked an unexpected visitor, no matter how well he knew him. Anderson stood, legs apart, holding the musket in one hand.
Manning stared hard at the women, realising that he hadn’t seen the skin of a white woman for nearly two years. Their faces were pale, framed in tatty bonnets. The men leapt from the boat into the clear green shallows, some of them too soon since in parts it was too deep to stand. They splashed through the icy water and waited for the swell to propel the boat forward. Then they heaved it up onto the beach.
Anderson stood over the men who surrounded him. He held the gun across his body, the end of the barrel resting in his left hand. Manning saw Jansen glance uneasily at it and then clear his throat. Manning knew Anderson well enough to know he was angry. The sealer had made Jansen promise not to reveal his whereabouts to anyone and had given the man his best skins to keep him quiet. But Jansen had brought strangers to Anderson’s camp. Manning recognised two of the crew from the trip over. And there was also another man who seemed familiar but he wasn’t sure why. The others he had never seen before.
The captain of the Mountaineer reached into his pocket for a flask and held it up to his ginger-bearded face, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Jansen then spat, his pale, red-rimmed eyes looking out to sea.
‘We lost her at Thistle Cove. Anchors dragged and she ran aground on the beach.’
He turned back to Anderson and sighed.
‘We got off a couple of barrels, brandy and flour, then she broke up.’
Anderson’s eyes were fixed on his face and Jansen looked away.
‘You’d have a good camp here, wouldn’t you?’
His eyes ran across the top of the sandhills and to the thicket of trees that lay behind them. Manning followed his gaze. Anderson’s hut was completely hidden from view. Jansen focused again on Anderson and the thumb that stroked the barrel of the musket.
‘We’re just waitin’ for the wind to change. And … well … there are women.’
‘The wind has changed,’ said Anderson.
But all the same he looked at the women who stood clutching each other a short distance away, their bonnets screening their faces until the taller one looked up and met his gaze briefly. He turned back to Jansen and inclined his head towards the boat.
‘Well I ain’t feeding you for nothing so you better find a way to pay me.’
Manning watched the men empty the boat. The one who was familiar caught his eye. Manning saw him untie the sail and fold it. He stepped back and walked around to the other side of the boat, letting someone else lift the sail higher up the beach. Manning thought he knew then who it was. The man he was thinking of was slightly built and had reminded him of a ship’s rat because of his sharp face and small, dark, shifty eyes. The man reached down and threw something that landed at the edge of the granite where the contents of the boat had been unloaded. The other men lifted the whaleboat onto wooden rollers and brought it into the corner of the bay well above the high-tide mark. Manning realised he had been staring for some time and hoped that no one had noticed. He put his hands in his trousers where there had once been pockets and walked slowly up over the granite, trying to convince himself that it couldn’t be the same person. The man with a face like a rat turned and watched Manning disappear over the headland.
When Manning reached the other side of the rock the work had almost been done. The women had boiled the soft white fat into clear oil. Some skins had been rubbed with salt and others would be dried. The men sat in a half-circle on rocks that poked out of the sand, cleaning their knives while the boy Jimmy took a bucket of water to the whaleboat and washed out the blood. Seeing Manning, they stopped what they were doing, curious to know who was visiting their island.
‘Twas Jansen,’ said Manning to Isaac, who asked.
Isaac tugged at his long thick beard, straightening it. He looked over towards his woman. She was called Mooney because she had a round face. Manning could see her climbing over the rocks looking for shellfish. But her face wasn’t round any more and he knew that the clear whites of her eyes were now tinged with yellow.
Manning had been with Isaac and three sealers from another boat when they took Mooney from the mainland near Kangaroo Island. Manning was told to keep his mouth shut while they waited in the bush. They grabbed Mooney as she passed and another woman who fought like a polecat. He felt for his ear where Isaac had cuffed him for letting her get away. Mooney had squirmed like a dying snake and the baby at her breast was torn from her and left in the dirt, screaming. Three men held her as they pulled and dragged her towards the boat. She wailed in a way that made Manning think she would summon a strange spirit to crack open the red earth. He had hurried to get into the boat. She sat at the stern facing him. Her head slumped forward. And as he pulled on the oar, blood from her nose dripped onto the wooden deck and into the water lying at the bottom where it swirled like thin red ribbon. He pulled again on the oar and peered over the top of her head at the line of breakers, which surged towards the shore. A dark figure entered the water.
When he didn’t come up Isaac and the others laughed. A couple of days later they said they were going to hunt kangaroo. Afterwards, he heard how they went back and took two men around the point and shot them and beat out their brains with clubs.
Manning didn’t like Isaac very much, especially when he was in one of his moods. His eyes seemed to widen then and bulge, and the black bit in the middle stood out so that it looked as though he had fish eyes. They all kept out of his way. Usually he went after Mooney and bashed her. One time though he hit Sal by mistake and that’s how he came to have a red knife mark along his cheek. For Anderson didn’t like other men messing with his women.
‘Baccy Isaac?’
‘Son of a bitch,’ said Isaac in the same way he always did.
Manning stood scratching his lank sandy hair for a moment. Isaac had never parted with any of his tobacco before but it never stopped Manning from asking. When he turned away he stubbed his toe on a rock. He swore under his breath. The boy Jimmy giggled. Manning swung around as though to clip him for laughing at him.
But instead he spat: ‘Little bastard.’
Isaac’s eyes narrowed and he said to no one in particular: ‘So … Jansen’s back.’
At the place where two rocks sat like stone tablets, leaning against each other, Manning met the young lad from Jansen’s boat coming the other way. He had brown eyes, a protruding bottom lip that made him look a bit simple, and a thick lock of brown hair which flopped across his forehead. He seemed to be wandering aimlessly. But when he saw Manning he took his hands out of his coat pockets and grinned.
‘James Newell. Jem, most people know me as.’
Manning nodded. ‘Got any bacca?’
The lad pulled out a small bundle wrapped in oilskin from his pocket. ‘Yeah, I nicked it, when they was unloading the boat.’