by Terri Janke
‘I don’t want anything bad to happen here, Evan. Get her out of here.’
The cab driver has to stop about ten times before I reach my house. How will I ever face that group of people again?
survival concert
Sydney, 1989
The country is celebrating Australia Day, two hundred and one years of being a nation. Clarissa is singing at the Survival Concert. We travel out to Yarra Bay Oval at La Perouse in her Honda Civic.
She flicks cigarette ash into the overflowing ashtray. ‘Are you still thinking of giving up law? Mum and Dad have been really worried.’
‘No, I’m sticking at it.’
‘Good for you.’
Clarissa heads backstage and I walk around the front. There’s a crowd of people from uni sitting on the grass in front of the large stage. I’ve brought an old sarong to sit on. It’s a favourite of mine and has blue dolphins printed on it. The MC announces the next act. ‘And now we have a young woman with a big voice, our own Clarissa Shaw.’
‘That’s your sister, cool hey?’ says Jessie.
We clap loudly as Clarissa comes onstage hanging onto her guitar. Her voice sails through the air. ‘This song is for all you strong black sisters out there!’ I feel so proud to see her up there singing her own songs. When she finishes I scream, ‘Yahooo!’
The next act is a group of Aboriginal dancers. One dancer is covered in ochre. He scratches himself like a kangaroo. The crowd laughs. The sun closes over the bay and the stage is tinged in orange light. Clarissa comes out and tells us all there’s a big party on at the club. ‘Want to come, sis?’ A mob of people has already gathered around her.
‘Sure,’ I say and we head over to the sailing club.
In the morning, Clarissa leaves for Byron Bay. ‘Another festival,’ she says, ‘another dollar.’ She looks so free as she drives off, her cigarette hand out the window as she waves.
weeping skin
Sydney, 1989
Once again I go to the university doctor because my eczema has flared up. My ears are itchy and the skin inside my elbows is weeping. In the surgery I pick up a glossy magazine. A woman’s face stares up at me from the cover. Perfect skin, straight teeth, curved eyebrows, a winning smile. I flick through it. There are articles on movie stars, soap stars with fancy clothes. The feature article tells you how to choose the perfect man by the way he parts his hair. The next article shows you how to cook him a three-course meal for under fifty dollars. Then there’s a diet: ‘How to Lose Weight by Eating all You Want’. It’s no wonder the next article is ‘Feeling Anxious?’ It recommends aromatherapy.
The doctor has grey plaited hair. She tells me to take a break from working nights. She writes something on a pad, rips off the top sheet and hands it to me.
‘What’s this?’
‘A prescription for Valium.’
‘Do I need these?’ I ask.
‘They’ll relax you,’ she says. ‘See how you go.’
On the way home I throw the doctor’s paper in the bin.
‘I’m not coming into work,’ I tell Serge on the telephone. ‘What?’ I can tell he’s placed his hand over the receiver. He is yelling at someone but I can hear what he’s saying. ‘These bloody waitresses! Sick, my arse! They’ve been out drinking and fucking all night at the discotheque.’ He takes his hand away and asks me, ‘How am I supposed to feed the world?’
‘How am I supposed to get the rest the doctor says I need?’
He mumbles that if he goes broke it will be because waitresses drive him crazy. ‘Be better by the weekend.’
The phone is silent.
I go to bed. The others I live with are out because it’s a Saturday night. It is dark in the house, and cold, the middle of winter. I fall asleep. Four hours later, I am awake. I’ve had a dream, a nightmare. I dreamt that the edge of the world was a steep black abyss. There was a large fence around it. A sign was displayed near the edge. I couldn’t read what it said but I sensed it was a warning sign. I stood at the fence post and could see jagged rocks below. I knew I was close. I knew I should not look down. So I just stood there balancing, with my arms for wings, my hair about my face, my heart beating.
I turn the light on. I feel like getting dressed and going down to meet Corinne after she finishes at the restaurant. Maybe she and the others are going out. I could do my usual trick of staying up all night and crawling in before dawn, then miss the whole of Sunday and wake up late for Monday’s lecture.
But I’m chasing those old demons. I sit at my desk. Flicking through my study guide, I start to read as the rest of the houses in the street darken. My room is still illuminated in the small hours of the morning.
green hill fort
Thursday Island, 1992
The afternoon ebbs. Mum wants to nap. I take the opportunity to visit Granny Penny, in the hope of getting some information. Maybe she knows something about the butterfly carving. She’s pretty old, maybe she saw it when she was a younger woman.
We sit together in front of Aunty Margaret and Uncle Ron’s house. ‘Sit down and talk to me,’ she says.
‘Granny, do you remember if my Grandad Kit ever made a carving from pearl shell?’ I hold up the newspaper clipping.
She looks at the paper. She looks for a long time.
‘Did Grandad Kit ever carve a butterfly?’
‘So that’s what it is. Darling, my eyes are no good. My memory is slipping too.’
I sigh.
‘Well, what I can remember is that your grandad was pretty happy to meet your grandmother. He loved to sing. He always sang and played the guitar, too. Couldn’t get that guitar away from him. But your grandmother’s brother Essa, he was angry. He never spoke to your grandmother again.’
‘What songs did Grandad Kit sing?’ I ask.
‘All types, you name it, make up his own too. Proper deadly some of them. I don’t remember the words, my memory is gone, but I still like to listen to the music. Put that tape on for me now.’
I turn over the tape and press the play button. From the garage I can see the rise of the hill in the distance. ‘What’s up there, ay?’ I ask.
‘That’s Green Hill Fort,’ she says, ‘that’s where the soldier fort was. I kept well away from it when I was a girl. From the top you can see the whole of the island.’
‘I might take a walk up there then.’
Green Hill Fort is steeper than I imagined, but I stop often to take sips from my water bottle. At the top of the hill I can see the remains of the fort. The big cannons are empty and heavy, abandoned like a lost outpost. Japan’s entry into the Second World War made this place a hub for the Australian servicemen. According to the sign, more than two thousand Australian troops were stationed here, and hundreds of American aircraft and servicemen also came during the period of the war. There was even a Torres Strait Islander Light Infantry, made up of Torres Strait Islanders. The officers, of course, were white. When the fighting started, the island had to be evacuated.
I sit on the concrete slab and place my hat low on my brow. I can see across the water to Horn Island. It is very peaceful here.
leaving thursday island
Thursday Island, 1942
War moved into the Pacific like the creep of coral rot. Francesca and Kit had married the year before and Kit left for the cane-cutting season. He got a work permit and went to Cairns. Social restrictions were relaxing; there were fewer white labourers due to the war.
‘When I get enough money I’ll send it back for you to come,’ he told her when he left.
Francesca continued to work at the laundry. More and more people were getting scared about the war. When it came closer to Thursday Island, Kit organised for a boat to take her to Cairns. Later the white people were evacuated. Women, aged men and children were the first to leave. Then it got so bad they even packed off the Islanders.
The day she left the weather was foul. The captain was a novice. He had not been on this route before. On the morning of the se
cond day, the boat caught on the coral shelf.
They were on top of the reef when the boat tipped. Francesca was scared. She was not a strong swimmer. People waded in the water, clinging onto buoys as they headed towards the island nearby.
‘Help me!’ yelled an old blind man.
Francesca knew the man; he was from the other side of her island. He’d once been a pearl diver, but now he was just a cranky old man who was always telling the young girls they should be looking after their parents or working in the garden. ‘Don’t waste your time talking to those soldiers,’ he would say. What he didn’t know was that Francesca had already pledged her heart to Kit.
She touched the old man’s shoulder. ‘I’ll help you, Uncle.’ She led him across the rocks. His grip was tight.
‘There was a big tidal wave here a long time ago,’ the old man told her. ‘I’ve heard that the bones of divers were washed up around here.’
‘I can’t see them,’ she said.
‘No. But I can hear their spirits calling.’
Francesca felt even more frightened. She began to pray.
A loud scraping noise made them all turn around. The boat tipped over and disappeared, like a submerging dugong. They would have to wait on the island for the next passing boat.
That night they ate fish and slept on the sand. In the firelight they listened to warplanes going overhead. Next day, a navy vessel headed for Cairns arrived. The Islanders were squashed into an area no bigger than a dinghy. The morning after that they reached Cairns. Kit was there waiting. Smiling like he’d caught a star from the night sky.
terra no-heart
Sydney, 1989
It is just after midday when I open my eyes. They feel crusty and dry. The harsh noon sun has stolen the final episode of my dream, exploding it into millions of tiny specks of dust that are now in the process of being transported up to the heavens in a stream of light.
I slam shut my eyes. I see purple, orange and red. The ache in my head beats like someone with a metal spoon is in my skull, stirring my brain like hot coffee. When I open my eyes again, particles of dust still hang in the beam. I lie on my side, facing the lopsided terrace-house window.
‘What happened to you?’ asks my housemate after I’ve showered and dressed. She is rolling out a piece of paper, her design assignment, on the kitchen table.
‘Big night out with the guys at Madonna’s Mirror.’
‘Should you be going out drinking so close to semester exams?’ she asks.
‘Give me a break,’ I say as I head out the door.
On the way to the bus stop, I see my tired face in the window of a parked car. My head still hurts. I must plan what I am going to do. What choices do I have? What job could I possibly get as a lawyer? I’d be way too shame to talk in a courtroom. Can I stick with the course? Have I got it in me? Time. Feelings. Waiting. I’m juggling. Balancing. Walking the tightrope, far across distant space.
I wait for the 389. A woman dressed in a white linen suit glances sideways at me. I feel like saying, Haven’t you ever seen a blackfella before? But I don’t. I light a cigarette, and draw hard on the butt as the bus arrives.
Looking out the window, I eye the urban landscape. The cars, the streets, the faceless people, the grey oblique buildings – they are in stark contrast to the rainforest landscape, the green trees and warm weather of the north. I long for my mother’s smile. For one of my dad’s adventures. For my brother, my sister, my aunties, uncles and cousins. Friendliness and smiling are not part of the code of conduct here. There are no wall-to-wall smiles. Only the open-edged statement. Terra Nullius. I have got terra nullius of the brain. They have got terra nullius of the heart.
a feast
Thursday Island, 1992
Mum is wearing flowers again. Big floral patterns swirl on her skirt. She wants me to try on a drop-waisted style she has bought for me. It is bright orange with red and yellow hibiscuses.
‘It’s nice,’ Mum says. ‘Wear it. You’ll look good in it.’
I always wear black, no colours, especially not florals. ‘No, I don’t want to wear it.’
‘Here, tie this around here.’ She waves the skirt about her own waist, then tells me again to try it on. ‘C’mon, it suits you. It’s got beautiful flowers.’
I reluctantly oblige, but how can I tell her I’m not a fruit cocktail?
When I was sixteen I brought home a black bikini with purple hibiscus flowers on the bra top. The bottom was a rectangle with ties on the side.
‘You can’t wear that,’ Mum said.
‘But other girls are wearing bikinis just like this.’
‘It barely covers your susus.’ Her hands pulled the small triangles over my breasts, trying to stretch the material wider.
Mum returned the bikini to the boutique the next day and demanded my money back. The shop assistant refused, but did agree to an exchange for a navy-blue Speedo swim-suit. ‘More practical swimwear,’ Mum said. You couldn’t tell the front from the back. I didn’t go swimming much that summer.
We catch one of only four taxis on the island to get to the hall. The people from the gathering at the cemetery are dressed up. The women are wearing high-heels and makeup, flowers in their hair.
‘That’s a nice shirt, Ron,’ says one woman. Uncle Ron is wearing a bright, colourful shirt with ships and waves on it.
‘You can’t have it, dear,’ he tells her. ‘Every woman here has been drooling over me.’
‘Don’t let it go to your head. It’s not you they want, only the shirt.’
‘It was a moving ceremony, Uncle Ron,’ I say, ‘and the tombstone is beautiful.’
‘Aunty Janine loved hibiscus,’ he tells me. ‘Back in the old days, when your grandfather played in the band, she would dance with a hibiscus in her hair.’
Aunty Margaret tells everyone to come close. It’s time to welcome the guests. A man wearing a white robe calls for silence. Grace is said in three different religions. Then, with a swift strum of the guitar, people are signalled to sing the chorus of a hymn before eating.
The food is laid out on the tables. Dugong, turtle, pork and chicken have been cooked underground, kapmauri-style. There are prawns, fish, sop sop and rice – all island foods. Uncle Tally piles his plate.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘Blachan, it’s hot, try some.’
‘No thanks. If I have some of that I’ll be dancing all night.’
forbidden music
Thursday Island, 1992
‘You cook good island food,’ my mother says to Aunty
Margaret. Mum’s plate is empty except for chicken bones.
Aunty Margaret eyes my plate. ‘Did you try some turtle, love?’
‘No thanks, I’m a vegetarian. Well, at least since two months ago, when the doctor suggested I give up meat and dairy because of my eczema.’
‘Huh?’ As she shakes her head, the flower in her hair moves. ‘We Islanders love turtle meat, it’s proper good food. Makes your belly grow big and strong. Just look at your Uncle Ron there.’ She points to Uncle Ron, who is filling his plate with turtle eggs.
‘You might need some island medicine for your skin,’ he calls. ‘I can make it for you from the turtle gizzards.’
‘Stop teasing the poor girl,’ Aunty Margaret laughs.
We finish our meal and clear the tables. Uncle Ron takes out his guitar. Strumming in island fashion, he sings a song I remember hearing as a child: ‘Pearl girl, you are my world, Pearl girl …’
Some of the women have already kicked off their shoes. Their hands are swaying. They glide around the floor. They laugh and sing with Uncle Ron.
‘Hey, you think you’re Harry Belafonte,’ calls Aunty Margaret to her husband.
‘No, you thought I was, that’s why you married me.’
Next, Uncle Ron plays a hula song. My mother, the hula dancer, is up on the floor, her hands already curling in the air. Her long fingers move from her ears, out to the audience, and then ba
ck to her mouth.
That’s when I see him, the guy from the tombstone ceremony who was playing the guitar. He is standing by a window that opens to the verandah. He is standing with a group of younger girls, teenagers. They are laughing and throwing their heads back.
‘Who’s that?’ I ask Aunty Margaret. But she is too busy laughing as the hula dancing continues.
My mother coaxes Granny Penny from her seat. Granny Penny has old bones; she is born of this island. She is my grandfather’s sister but we all call her Granny Penny. I watch her move her hands gracefully, and picture her as a young woman with a red hibiscus in her long dark hair. She calls to me and I am up on my feet.
I don’t know how to move; I am feeling very self-conscious, especially in this bright floral dress. I stick close to the huddle and we sway in a large circle until the sweat pours from our foreheads. After the music stops, we return to our seats. I look over to the window. The guy is gone, although the group of girls are still there.
‘How about some traditional Island-style dancing now?’ calls Granny Penny.
Another group of girls are at the door near the kitchen. They are wearing floral dresses tied around the waist and have flowers in their hair. One girl at the front is leading the movements. She shakes in her hand a small bundle of seeds which are tied together and vibrate like the thrash of a soft drum. They enter and mark time for the first chorus of the song. Then everyone sings along as the dancing begins. They finish and people clap.
‘C’mon, you kids,’ says Uncle Ron. His grandchildren stand together in front of Granny Penny. Shyly they begin to sing. It is an old island song. Granny Penny encourages them and corrects their pronunciation.
‘This song was one my mother used to sing to me when I was a baby.’ Her hand rises to command a second chorus. ‘When we were kids we were told we couldn’t sing this song. The missionaries forbade it. We could only sing hymns in English. But now our kids are learning it all over again, at school.’