Skins

by Sarah Hay

  In the first few days she really believed what she had said to Mary. That some vessel would pass by and they would sail east or west. She didn’t care in which direction they went just as long as they were safe. But it was drawing close to winter. There would be no ships then. And Anderson wouldn’t be taking them anywhere. She had overheard Jem and Manning. They said Anderson had threatened to kill Jansen for his boat.

  She untied the twine that fastened a tammar skin around her shoulders. She took it off and laid it on the rock. She pulled up her sleeves, noticing the black grime under her fingernails. She cupped her hands and buried her face in the cold water, bringing the blood to her cheeks. After drying her face with a piece of rag, she pulled a comb through her hair. Usually she and her sister did each other’s hair but today Mary had stayed in the tent. She wasn’t hungry and she seemed more listless than usual. Dorothea knew it was easy to feel like that on the island. For often it seemed there was nothing to do. Time expanded and the only way to fill it was to watch the ants as they trickled through tiny pathways, crossing over sticks and leaves, from one side of the clearing to the other. Then other times there was food to prepare and plates to clean and firewood to collect and no sooner had they lit the fire in the morning than they were stoking it up for the night.

  Hopefully, though, she wasn’t with child. Dorothea tied her hair with a thin strip of leather. She met Dinah and Sal as they headed into the bush with snares for trapping tammar. If they saw her they showed no sign for they quickly vanished without a twig snapping or leaves rustling.

  It was a clear, sharp morning. The sky had deepened to a dense blue. Black birds called to each other and wattle birds warbled and squabbled. The sea rumbled faintly in the distance. Smoke from the chimney hovered above the hut. Jem and Manning, unkempt wisps of hair framed in the golden light, sat cross-legged in the dirt facing each other with a skin on the ground between them. Jansen and two of the men from his boat were on the other side of the clearing. He seemed to be drawing something in the sand with a stick.

  ‘Why aren’t you sealing?’ she asked Jem.

  Her brother looked up, squinting. He was making a sheath for his knife like the one Manning wore on his belt. He put down the knife he had been using to punch holes with and shaded his eyes.

  ‘Anderson’s gone to the mainland in the other whaleboat.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For grasstree gum.’

  ‘Why?’

  Jem sighed and frowned, taking the knife again to the skin.

  ‘Got a leak that’s why. Stop asking me questions.’

  ‘So who’s gone with him?’

  ‘Don’t know. Isaac I think and a couple of the others.’

  Mary came slowly around the side of the hut. Her hair was flattened on one side and her head was lowered. She looked up and smiled weakly when she saw her sister. Her eyes seemed darker than usual, or perhaps it was her skin that was paler.

  A pot of water simmered in the fireplace. Mary sat down. Dorothea made tea from the ti-tree leaves they had collected. When Mary took the cup the sleeve of her gown slipped up, revealing red streaks that ran up her arm from her wrist.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘On your arm.’

  Mary turned it around. Then Dorothea noticed the weeping sore between her thumb and forefinger.

  ‘How did you get that?’

  Mary shrugged.

  ‘How long have you had it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She pulled her hand away and turned her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you? Give it here and I’ll clean it.’

  ‘It’ll be alright.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  Dorothea took her arm and laid it on the table. Mary’s wrist was hot. She dipped a rag in hot water and bathed the sore, wiping away the yellow crust. Mary winced. Dorothea shook her head. Neither of them noticed Mooney. When Mary looked up she saw her staring at her hand. Their eyes met and Mooney backed away. Dorothea smelt her musky campfire smell and turned around, noticing briefly the brownish mud in her hair and the chalky markings on the back of her arms and legs. She kept cleaning Mary’s hand.

  Then Mooney returned from the fire and held out her hand. In the middle of her palm was a grey greasy substance. She gestured with her other hand.

  ‘She’s saying rub it on,’ said Dorothea.

  Mary pulled her arm away and glared at Mooney who quickly cast her eyes to the floor and backed away. Dorothea stared after her.

  ‘You should try it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well it could work. They must have their own remedies. How do they survive in the bush?’

  ‘They don’t. They’re dying all the time.’

  But Dorothea had got up from the table and was standing over Mooney, watching her rub the salve into her own skin.

  ‘A little bit,’ she said, holding her thumb and forefinger together.

  Mooney froze for a moment and then held out her finger. Dorothea scraped some of it from her skin and returned to her seat at the table. She put her finger under her nose. It smelt of smoke and animal fat.

  ‘I ain’t having it,’ said Mary shaking her head. She held her hands out in front of her as though to push Dorothea away.

  ‘Just try it.’

  ‘I don’t need to.’ Mary stood up, moving out from behind the table. ‘And I don’t need you always telling me what to do!’

  Dorothea stared after her. She was surprised for she hadn’t heard Mary speak like that for a long time. She was pleased in a way for it showed she cared about something. But there was something else in her voice beside the frustration that Dorothea knew they both felt. It was hostility. Was it towards her? The sun cast rectangular light on the floor and lit bits of fluff in the air as they floated, some gently downwards, others spiralling dramatically. She turned away, her eyes now unaccustomed to the gloom. Mooney had become a formless shape by the fire.

  Jansen’s bulk filled the doorway, his two men behind him. They scraped the dirt with their feet and roughly pushed the chairs away from the table. She knew he wouldn’t have entered had Anderson been there. She ignored them.

  ‘Make us a tea, my lovely.’

  The other two smiled sickly. From the corner of her eye she noticed Mooney slip outside.

  ‘Get it yourself … Anyway, what are you doing here? If Anderson sees you, he’ll have you.’

  Jansen moved his thick forearm across the table, sliding it back and forth.

  ‘Aye. He won’t be back for a while and we got important things to discuss.’

  Dorothea raised her eyebrows.

  ‘So … get us a cup of tea.’

  She got up from the table and poured tea into three cups.

  ‘So what are you up to then?’

  Jansen looked across the table at the other two men.

  ‘Perfect weather for sailing.’

  ‘There’s no wind,’ said Dorothea as she pushed a cup towards him.

  ‘Aye ’tis changing … it’ll be from the east by morning.’

  His face was raw and his lower lip black from bleeding blisters. He brought the tea up to his mouth but before he swallowed he cleared his throat and spat sideways onto the floor. Light shone through the gaps in the wall and striped their faces. They drained the contents of their cups. Black creased knuckles, yellowed and broken nails.

  ‘Are you leaving?’ she asked.

  He studied her and wiped the whiskers above his mouth with his hand. She thought there had probably been a time when he had been considered handsome, but the grog had reddened his skin and clouded his eyes.

  ‘You can’t tell anyone. Not even that sister.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Are you leaving us here?’

  He leant back and folded his arms behind his head. Eyes narrowed.

  ‘Could take you, I suppose. What do you think lads?’

  ‘Anderson’ll kill you if he finds ou
t.’

  ‘He ain’t going to, is he?’

  She looked down at her hands that were holding the edge of the table. Her knuckles were white. She wanted to leave the island. They all wanted to. But she couldn’t leave her sister. And besides, did she really trust Jansen to make it back to the Sound?

  ‘Who are you taking?’

  ‘You don’t know anything.’

  He reached over and wrapped his coarse fingers around her wrist. He grinned and his eyes were sparkling slits. She tried to pull away but he held more tightly. They laughed as she struggled some more. Finally he let go but not before he had pressed hard enough to leave red welts on her skin. She turned away from the table, rubbing her wrist.

  She struggled to get the lid off the keg of flour. She left the storeroom for a knife and returned. It was musty and lit only by a gap between the walls and the eaves. Drums and two large chests were against the wall and on the floor was a pile of kangaroo, tammar and seal skins. Rope and twine of twisted grass and roo tendons lay coiled amongst them. She prised the keg open. It was the flour saved from the Mountaineer. How long would she be on the island if she didn’t leave with Jansen? It seemed that supplies were low. They brewed ti-tree leaves instead of tea. Men were running out of tobacco. But the vegetable seedlings were sprouting in the garden.

  She returned to the kitchen with her bowl of flour. By the fire she picked out the maggots. They sizzled as they hit the coals. She remembered being in the inn with her sister and Matthew. They had just returned from organising their passage on the Mountaineer and Captain Jansen had arranged to meet them. She didn’t realise that Matthew had promised to introduce her. Jansen was clean-shaven then, except for a ginger moustache which he waxed at the ends, and his eyes were clear and the palest blue. He had looked into her eyes instead of letting them wander over her face and her neck and her chest.

  So she had listened and smiled. There was nothing for her at the Sound. After they set sail she realised her mistake. He was no different from the others. In fact she would’ve been surprised if he had even bought her a gown. Thankfully he had left her alone on the island but she guessed it was because he hadn’t wanted to draw attention to himself. He was such a fool, she thought. Why had he brought them here? He must have known what another boat was worth to a sealer.

  She poured some water from the pail into the flour. With the bowl nestled between her thighs, she plunged her hands into the mixture, squeezing it between her fingers. She widened her hands and took in the whole mass, punching and rolling and working it into a stiff dough. She glanced over her shoulder. Jansen was watching. She clenched her teeth and took the dough out of the bowl. She laid it on the cloth that was the reverse side of a kangaroo skin. She shaped the dough into a loaf of about four inches by eight inches then brushed it with dry flour. Then she dug out a hole in the fireplace and placed the loaf in it, covering the top with hot ashes.

  The smell of bread baking filled the air. It wafted through the camp and brought the men through the door like flies to rotting meat. She wiped her hands on her skirts and pushed back the strands of hair that were stuck to her face. Matthew entered, followed by Church. She hadn’t seen Church since the fight. It hadn’t really been a fight, more like a performance by one of Jansen’s crew who had it in for Church. One afternoon she and her sister had come through the trees to find Church on his back in the dirt. The man was standing over him. Men were jeering and joking. The man had a knife that was long and curved and it flashed when he twirled it with both hands above his head. He pointed it towards Church, the body in black. The man’s face was expressionless except for his eyes. They were bright with excitement. The tip caught the fabric of the stock and he hooked it slowly and it tore. Everyone watched Church’s eyes roll around in their sockets. She was unable to move. She had almost wanted to clap as though she’d just witnessed the act of a street performer. Afterwards she knew she hadn’t wanted him hurt, but when Mead stopped the man from going any further, she had felt almost as disappointed as the rest of them. The cut on Church’s face was still raw. He would be left with a scar. Church took a seat at the end of the table. She wondered if he knew of Jansen’s plans. Matthew sat against the wall. He looked around nervously as though he was expecting something to happen.

  Church laid a stack of paperbark on the table and placed a limpet shell beside it. He filled the shell with thick, bright red liquid from a small flask. He also took from his pocket the quill of a big gull. Dorothea stood over him.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘Seal’s blood, I’m going to write in seal’s blood,’ he said.

  Dorothea looked at Matthew. He shrugged his shoulders. Jansen heard and laughed unpleasantly.

  ‘What are you writing? Help?’

  The others sniggered.

  Dorothea picked up a sheet of paperbark. It was soft and spongy and cream coloured. On the other side were pink fibres. Gently she prised the creamy layers apart into single sheets that were clean and firm.

  ‘What are you going to write?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Something, perhaps, about where we are.’

  January 1886

  George and I were married only ten years ago. Does that surprise you? I was fifty-nine years old before I was married in a church. It was the Wesleyan Church behind my house in Duke Street. I wore a gown of white merino with a white satin bonnet and fall. George also bought me a China crepe shawl which hangs behind the door.

  Middle Island 1835, James Manning

  Manning pretended to look away when Dorothea spoke to Jem. But he watched her from the corner of his eye and then more openly as she turned and followed her sister into the hut. She walked with a straight back, her hair swaying across her shoulders. He swallowed loudly and turned his attention to Jem who was bent over a piece of skin. He frowned and decided that Jem was useless. He took the piece of skin from his hands.

  ‘Here, like this.’

  He poked the leather strip through the hole using the tip of his knife. He handed it back to Jem who took it, but when he looked down, hair fell into his eyes. Irritated, Jem pushed the curls off his face. But they continued to fall into his eyes. So with the knife he hacked off his fringe and brushed the hair from his knees.

  Manning glimpsed someone hovering behind a wattle tree at the edge of the clearing. He remained out of sight until Manning decided he must have gone. But then he saw his head around one side looking behind the camp. It was that rat, Owens. The bastard was up to something. Then he noticed the young boy coming down through the trees from the granite. He passed Owens and continued towards the beach. Owens was visible now. He seemed to be waiting. Shifting his balance from one leg to another. He looked towards the hut and saw Manning. Manning turned away. When he looked up again, Owens had gone.

  ‘Jem …’

  Jem’s mouth was twisted and he frowned as he concentrated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got to see what that bastard’s up to.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That bleedin’ rat.’

  Manning sprang up. When Jem looked up he had disappeared between the trees.

  A thread of foam moved back and forth over shiny sand. Beyond it the sea was a rippling turquoise, darkening in places where weed lay beneath the surface, and then it was an inky blue. The hills of Mount Arid stood clearly defined and the break on the edge of the cape flashed white. Crystal wavelets rose and lapped gently at the rock’s edge. They swept over ribbons and broad-leafed weed that swayed with the current. He watched his step for the rock was uneven. He had knocked the skin off his toes so many times that the sores wouldn’t heal. He caught a glimpse of Owens as he rounded the headland. He paused, waiting for Jem.

  By the time they reached the seaweed beach there were only footprints on the sand between the brown lumps. The sea had arranged its discarded weed in piles a couple of feet high and over a distance of about twenty feet or more. They were thick bunches of ribbon that dried gr
ey on top and that crackled as their feet sank into it. Occasionally they’d step on the sharp edge of a shell, and sometimes they’d catch the smell of something rank as though a fish had been trapped in its net.

  They reached the end of the beach and faced Flinders Peak, both breathing heavily. Manning glimpsed the bobbing head of Owens as he climbed over the rocks at the other end of the next beach. Sweat was stinging his eyes. The sharp edge of the rocks in front of him softened and wavered and the sun on the water sparkled. He paused for a moment. And then an image he had tried to bury rose up in his mind. He remembered the feeling of his backbone pressed against the foremast. He had been looking for a place to hide. But he knew the way below was blocked. The ship was pitching and he got down on his hands and knees and crawled across to the forehatch, carefully lowering himself down. He looked up and the light from below contorted the rat-like features into a face from hell. The pain from Owens standing on his fingers was nothing compared to what he knew would come later.

  Manning set his jaw.

  ‘Come on,’ he muttered.

  Jem frowned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Watch me back.’

  They passed Anderson’s overturned whaleboat and the dorsal fin of a shark that poked up out of the sand. Anderson had shot it the last time they were sealing. The shark had measured twelve feet and three inches long and eight feet round. They tied rope around its tail and towed it behind them. It attracted other sharks, which they shot and left in the sea to sink slowly, white bellies disappearing into red clouds. They pulled it to shore and slit its stomach, releasing the pungent smell of ammonia from its gut and the remains of a seal bitten in two with a spear through it. They cleaned the shark and cut away the fillets, leaving its fins and grey rubbery skin part-buried in the sand.