Skins

by Sarah Hay

‘I ain’t got it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was for me passage.’

  ‘Does Anderson know?’

  Mary’s expression hadn’t changed. It was like she didn’t understand what he was saying. Matthew took his hand away from her.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And?’ asked Dorothea.

  He shook his head and brought his hand up to his forehead, rubbing his brow.

  ‘Why?’ continued Dorothea.

  He started to say something and then he paused, knowing that he had no explanation at all. Only that he had wanted so desperately to get away. The uncertainty of it all, of what might happen to him. Dorothea’s jaw was tight with rage. That he was prepared to sell his own wife, the bastard! Mary, who had been sitting dumbly beside Dorothea, suddenly leapt up and flung herself at him. He fell back. A noise erupted from her, violent and torn, and her head shook. Dorothea was motionless. Matthew tried to hold Mary’s wrists as she clawed him. Eventually she slumped sobbing on top of him. He pushed her off and got up, and without looking back, left the tent.

  Mary curled herself tightly on her side. Her eyes were closed and dark strands of slimy hair entwined her neck. She brought her fists up under her chin and hiccuped. Dorothea reached down and gently pushed her onto her back, straightening her arms and placing them by her side. She brushed her hair away and took a piece of clean rag from between her breasts to wipe her sister’s face. She talked softly about things that didn’t matter. But when she suggested that she get up, Mary turned away. So eventually she left her.

  Dorothea heard someone outside the hut. She moved to the doorway to see who it was. Anderson was bent over a bucket of water. She waited for him to see her. He looked up, and his eyes stayed on her face as he turned around and brought the knife up to a piece of rag. He slowly wiped the blade.

  ‘What do you want?’

  She gripped the doorway and the splinters pricked her hand. She took a deep breath and stepped outside, holding her skirt with one hand and shading her eyes from the sun with the other.

  ‘My sister,’ she began. He replaced the knife in his belt. She let her hand drop from her forehead and turned away.

  ‘My sister,’ she said more loudly, ‘is married.’

  Anderson grunted. She felt the heat in her face.

  ‘You can’t have her.’

  He looked down at the cloth in his hand, then he wiped his arm, which was covered in sand, and grinned.

  ‘It was her husband’s idea,’ he said mildly.

  ‘But you can’t keep him to it.’

  He shrugged and turned away, taking the track back to the beach. She watched his back as it disappeared between the trees and then she gripped her skirts with both hands and hurried after him. His long strides put distance between them quite quickly. She called after him as they neared the headland.

  ‘I want to know what you’re going to do.’

  Without running she was finding it difficult to keep up with him. He stopped.

  His expression had hardened and he said: ‘A dog doesn’t bark at his master.’

  Then he continued. Her pace slowed. She had no idea what he was talking about. She came to the seaweed beach and struggled through the mounds to the other side. It reminded her of a dream she sometimes had that no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t get to the end of the road and her feet would sink further and further into deep mud.

  She reached the whaleboat a few minutes after Anderson. At the same time Manning and Jem appeared from the other direction. She hadn’t seen them since the evening before. She was reminded again of how little she knew her brother. He hadn’t even acknowledged her. Mead and Isaac scraped the keel of the overturned boat and briefly looked up at them all. Anderson stirred a pot that simmered on a smouldering fire. It smelt of burnt toffee and its thick crimson liquid bubbled.

  Isaac grinned while he worked. ‘Can’t get rid of you then,’ he said to Manning.

  Manning reached for his throat.

  ‘We saw a sail,’ he said.

  ‘Over the other side,’ added Jem, pointing towards Goose Island.

  Anderson poured what looked like blood into the liquid and stirred some more.

  ‘Was it Jansen?’ asked Manning.

  Mead and Isaac looked up at the boys and then over at Anderson. Mead nodded.

  ‘Who was with him?’ asked Manning, glancing warily at Anderson.

  Anderson leant over the boat and with his knife wedged the resin into its joins. He didn’t appear to be listening.

  ‘There were seven of them,’ replied Mead. ‘Jansen’s mob and that mad bastard Johno. The boy too. He’s gone. Bugger me, why they took him.’

  ‘What about Owens?’ asked Manning quickly, his eyes shifting from one person to the next.

  ‘He’s gone,’ said Mead slowly, watching him.

  Manning shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He seemed to be studying the ground. His long thin hair covering his eyes. Then he looked up. All of them except Anderson were watching him. Then Anderson looked up too and some of the boiling liquid dropped onto his palm. He didn’t flinch.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Anderson.

  ‘Me and him.’ Manning took a deep breath and nodded at Jem. ‘We want you to take us to the mainland.’

  Anderson straightened. He wiped the back of his hand on the rag around his forehead but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. In his hand the red liquid on the end of the stick hardened to a thick glassy substance. Manning looked over his shoulder at Jem and together they walked away, following the wet line of the tide. Jem stopped to look at something washed up by the sea. Manning reached down. But as he did so Dorothea caught the desperate look he gave Anderson.

  She was going to speak to Anderson again but she sensed Isaac watching her. The look on his face made her skin prickle for he had eyes like the wild dogs that came in for scraps around the Sound. He scared her more than most men. She turned around and followed her brother and his friend along the beach.

  ‘What were you talking about?’ she asked Jem as she caught up with him.

  He looked sideways and then across at Manning.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Why couldn’t he act like her brother, just once?

  ‘You would tell us if you were going to leave?’ she continued.

  This time Manning answered, and he sneered as he spoke: ‘Why would he tell you anything?’

  She looked at him, wondering why he was so hostile towards her. She noticed her boots were collecting sand in the holes at the toes. She stopped to sit on a rock to take them off. Manning was standing over her. She recognised his expression.

  ‘Bugger off, you little bastard,’ she spat, sickened, feeling almost as though she had been propositioned by her brother.

  Manning’s slippery look vanished and he walked on. She didn’t try to catch up with them.

  She felt sick, apprehensive sick like when they set sail from the Sound. Jansen had gone. And even though she had wanted to be free of him, his leaving made her feel more isolated than ever. She had been left behind on an island with sealers, men who had their own rules. She felt as though she was on the edge of the world, or perhaps she had fallen off into some halfway place. It wasn’t living and it wasn’t quite hell. She could feel the wind changing. The sea between Flinders Peak and Goose Island was ruffled with wind gusts and white-capped waves. And in the same direction a solid band of black clouds had formed and was spreading. Manning and her brother continued on past the camp to the other end of the beach where she could see Matthew. He was probably trying to trap fish on the reef. She hoped her sister wasn’t in the camp for she couldn’t face her.

  A blackened log smoked in the fireplace and threatened to go out. She gathered some dry leaves and sticks and tried to poke it into life. Small flames wavered and smouldered and smoke filled the room. She gave up and let the smoke sting her eyes into tears. She couldn’t even get a fire started. There wasn’t anything she
could do and she was tired of feeling responsible for everyone. It had always been like that. She had nursed her mother and tended to her cuts and bruises and made sure that all the children were fed. Mary had helped sometimes but only when she was asked to. Dorothea knew she was beaten. She had always felt she could take care of her sister. Together they were stronger than if they acted alone. It had changed of course when Mary was married, but it hadn’t stopped Dorothea from wanting to try. Perhaps it was her fault that Mary was the way she was. Her sister was not unlike the short-beaded weed that grew beneath the waterline on the rock: swept one way and then another by the tide, never to stand straight.

  She knew Mary was distraught. She hated Matthew for that. She knew that being married had to be marginally better than being single. But how foolish women were to believe they were protected. There was no security, ever.

  She moved away from the smoke into the damp dark recesses of the room. The walls huddled around and thin pieces of stringy-bark hung drably from timber posts. She ran her hand over the table’s rough surface and heard the rustling of a small creature in the eaves. Leaves and sticks scratched the roof as the wind pushed them back and forth. Looking around she noticed the half-empty barrel of black-strap stowed in the corner.

  The top was firmly fastened. She found a knife and levered it off. She dipped her cup and covered the bottom. Just for a taste. She leant against the wall and stretched her legs out in front of her. Nestled in the dark corner behind the table, she was hidden from anyone entering. The fire burnt weakly and produced purple clouds that hung in the middle of the room. They tumbled about, turning this way and that and drifting up towards the roof. Dusty spiders’ webs hung like clotted pieces of silver from beams and were bunched into corners. Her backside was cold and numb but then after a while she wasn’t sure where the ground ended and her body began. Feet came in and out of the hut. Some stayed for a while, resting under the table. A pair of boots grinned where the soles were falling away. They were battered and scuffed. And there were feet that were black with soil and sores. She knew at the time whose they were but now she couldn’t remember. Someone giggled and she smiled too. Then she opened her eyes. The black women were above her.

  She could hardly see them for the fire had gone out. But she held up the cup that had been refilled more times than she could remember and muttered for them to sit down. Dinah took it from her. She dipped the cup into the keg and settled beside Dorothea. The others sat down and they passed the cup around. Dorothea nodded enthusiastically. Shy smiles flashed white like the bone around Dinah’s neck. Dinah and Sal spoke to each other in their own language. Mooney handed her the cup. She drank some more. Dorothea said something. Dinah answered in English and although Dorothea wasn’t sure what she said, it didn’t matter. They all grinned. Time swelled and contracted. She basked in the warmth of their eyes and the grog wound its way round her body.

  A woman’s wail broke into her soft-edged thoughts and sharpened their focus. She was surprised they were still there. Not that she could see them for it was dark, but she sensed them. She couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. She was cold and everything felt strange. She couldn’t move. Whatever it was that they were doing, it resonated through her body. The sounds and the rhythm of their music combined to become a thread of sorrow that wound around them and wove them together.

  She cried for their helplessness. But their broken voices continued their story and then, without warning, they stopped and she heard footsteps and men’s voices. Dread loomed large like a bad spirit. She had to get up. But it was too late. Anderson was standing over them. He drew one of them up and threw her over the table. The women stayed silent. Dorothea was pulled by her hair and held against the wall. The hand around her neck was rough and tight. She saw over his shoulder in the flickering light the shadows of the women on the wall as they got up from the floor and slipped into the darkness. She also saw her brother keep his face to the fire as he fed it with more wood.

  The firelight caught one eye and it was hard and cruel. The other was in shadow. Her consciousness retreated to a dark corner and it was as though she was peeking through a crack in the door at something that didn’t involve her. There was no fear only vague curiosity as to what would happen next. Her arms were limp by her side. She heard him but it was a voice from a distance, then his hand left her neck and she was flung across the room. She almost fell but he was behind her again and he pulled her into the other room where she fell into a pile of skins. She lay still. But there was no movement behind her. She inhaled the deep musky scent of the fur and moved her face against its softness. So soft like silk, turning her head to look into the semi-darkness, but he had gone. She didn’t move but then the fight had left her anyway.

  Sometime later but she wasn’t sure how much later a triangle of yellow light passed across the wall. Anderson held the lamp out in front of him and black animals prowled the room. She was lying on her side. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him move across the room and set the lamp down and then the animals were still. She curled herself into a tighter curve. He was standing at her feet.

  ‘Think I prefer you anyway.’

  She closed her eyes.

  ‘Or maybe I’ll have you both.’ He chuckled to himself.

  ‘No!’

  Her head swung around and she looked up at him, wide-eyed. He started to unbutton his trousers but then he stopped. He knelt down and pulled her legs so that she was lying on her back.

  ‘Take off your gown.’

  No one had ever asked her to take off her clothes. She wrapped her arms over her breasts and stared up into his face. It wasn’t that she was scared, it was just that it was unnatural. The whites around his eyes weren’t as white as she’d thought. More like yellow with a lot of spidery red lines. And his eyes, they bulged a bit and were big and round. And they were so dark that she couldn’t make out the coloured bit from the black circle in the middle. They were sort of expressionless like he hated her. Just before his fist connected with her jaw she knew he was going to hit her. The side of her face burnt and her ear rang. Salty liquid seeped onto her tongue.

  He wavered through the watery film in her eyes. Slowly she sat up and looked down at her feet which were bare. She edged back to the wall behind her and slid up it. He watched as though he expected her to come at him like some old klapmatch. She leant sideways against it, facing away from him, slowly reaching for her buttons. Edging her shoulder, rounded and white, from the top of the gown, the fabric peeling away like the skin from a seal, and she stood huddled and cold against the prickly timber. He came closer and pulled her wrist so that she stood facing him and he stepped back, eyes narrowed and breathing louder. She watched the insects flying into the lamp. He came towards her again and placed a hand on her breast. She looked down as it covered the rounded mound of her skin. His touch was hot and almost gentle but the rest of it wasn’t. Crushed by his weight, the wet salt of his sweat and the rank odour of his breath, she lay without moving beneath him. When he rolled off, the cold air seared her raw skin.

  ‘Get out,’ he said.

  She fumbled for her gown and dressed in front of him, and as she left she glanced over her shoulder at his naked body. She clutched the side of the doorway as she passed into the other room, unsteady on her feet. Orange eyes winked in the hearth. She felt her way around the table and chairs to where she knew there was a pail of water. The only sound was that of her feet shuffling across the floor. Perhaps they were the only ones left. Perhaps the others were dead, or maybe they had left in Anderson’s boat. Thunder rattled the rafters and she jumped. But she knew that was fanciful too. She could see plates and fish heads on the table. The wet dirt stuck to her feet. It had been raining. She had forgotten where she had left her boots. But it didn’t really matter for they weren’t much use any more. The bucket should be there but it wasn’t. She bent over and felt with her hands along the edge of the fireplace but she couldn’t find it. She was so thirsty; she would die if sh
e didn’t have some water.

  Outside the air was crisp and clouds rushed across the moon. It was lighter too. And the leaves glistened. The wet ground deadened the sound of her footsteps, but still as she followed the track she heard the thump, thump of the tammar as they warned one another and rustled through the undergrowth. Carefully she parted the wet branches that crossed her path and continued until she came to the well. Her feet were numb, caked with sticky mud, and the sleeves of her gown were soaked. She wasn’t cold even though the water was warmer than her hands. She drank from them, sitting on the side of the well with the pail between her legs, listening to the joyous song of the frogs.

  There was a sound to her right, not a normal night sound. She dared not swallow. Her pulse pumped as though her heart would jump right out of her chest. Straining her eyes to form shapes in the blackness. Something radiated warmth and smelt of charcoal. And then the clouds thinned over the moon and its light caught the bone around her neck which rose and fell on her chest as she breathed.

  ‘It’s you,’ Dorothea murmured.

  Dinah didn’t answer but moved closer. Dorothea was relieved it wasn’t Isaac or any of the others, but then she was uneasy. Dinah held out her hand as though she wanted to give her something. Dorothea looked at it for a moment and then held out her own and felt Dinah place in it something smooth and hard. It was a bone strung from plant fibre, like the one Dinah wore. Dorothea turned it over and looked up but Dinah had gone. Even though it sat neatly in the cradle of her palm, she felt repulsed by it. But when she touched it with her thumb she was comforted by its smooth luminous surface.

  She carried water back to the hut and washed by the coals that still gave off some warmth. Then she went into the storeroom and lay on the pile of skins in the corner.

  A bird warbled as though dawn was close but it didn’t feel as though she had slept. But she must have. Her head ached and she heard Anderson moving around in the other room. His footsteps went into the kitchen and when she stood in the doorway he was shovelling ash from the hearth and replacing it with a mess of firewood. He bent over, bare to the waist, blowing clouds of ash as he coaxed the spark into a flame. He sensed her behind him and he moved quickly to face her.