Butterfly Song

by Terri Janke

  If the butterfly was stolen, or taken without Francesca’s consent, then surely Mrs Nash has a defective title? That means her entitlement is flawed, because she has possession of the butterfly without the real owner’s permission. A thief has no title to the property he steals and can pass no title to a third party. But how did Doctor Nash come to get possession of the butterfly? Perhaps he stole it, or someone else stole it? What if he found it somewhere on the street? But Uncle Tally says he remembers that Granny Francesca had it the day she went to hospital. Doctor Nash worked at the Cairns Base Hospital, and the article in the paper said that the butterfly had been in his private collection since 1954. If that’s correct, there was only a short space of time in which the possession of the brooch could have been transferred from my grandmother to Doctor Nash…

  old mango

  Gordonvale, 1992

  Mum and I sit in Aunty Sugar’s kitchen. Aunty Sugar is making sandwiches. The knife cuts through pink flesh, stopping at the bone. Aunty Sugar’s hair is white, but it was grey the last time I saw her. I take a swig from my water bottle.

  ‘They sell water in bottles now,’ she says. ‘Who would’ve believed it? Next they’ll be selling air in boxes with ribbons around ’em.’

  ‘Aunty Sugar, do you know a butterfly carving that Grandad Kit made for Nanna Francesca?’ I ask.

  ‘I can’t remember. I met your grandad when he moved here to Gordonvale with Francesca for the cane-cutting. I’m Francesca’s cousin, you know. My Tom was cutting cane then too. Francesca moved away after Kit died and your mum and Uncle Tally came back to live with us when she died. In those days we didn’t have water in bottles, we had to get water from the creek.’

  ‘Do you have any photos or stuff from those days?’ I ask.

  ‘People had cameras and photographs, yes, but the water was not in bottles, not like today.’ Aunty Sugar leans forward.

  Mum rolls her eyes and mouths the words, ‘She’s a bit dippy.’

  A big fat mango tree stands close to the house. ‘How old is that mango tree?’ I ask as we munch on ham and chutney sandwiches.

  ‘Old, very old. It’s even older than your mother,’ says Aunty Sugar.

  ‘I’m not that old, you know, only just turned forty.’

  I look at my mother and she smirks at me.

  Aunty Sugar says, ‘Your mother used to eat the mangoes from that tree when she was a little girl.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ says my mother. ‘It was always so big we kids couldn’t climb it. We called it Old Mango. I’d lie underneath those thick arms. I remember picking green mangoes for hot spicy mango chutney. There was a special recipe Uncle Tom would make. So good it would make you goona yourself. Tally and I had to pick the mangoes early in the summer, before the birds and flying foxes beat us to them. Those mangoes were like big green gems.’

  I take another bite and imagine that big old mango tree whispering to the walls in the windless afternoons. It’s so old that I think it has a heap of knowledge stored deep beneath its scratchy, flaking bark.

  Later, Aunty Sugar asks us to take her to bingo. We drive through the main street and drop her off at the community hall.

  ‘Mum, we didn’t find out if she has any old photos.’ My hand is gripping the steering wheel.

  ‘We can come back later. Give her a chance.’ Mum waves to Aunty Sugar as we drive away.

  mango heaven

  Gordonvale, 1949

  Francesca found the child moping under the mango tree. They sat together on the grass. Francesca peeled the ripe skin and gave the fruit to Lily. The sticky juice dripped from Lily’s elbows. The stringy bits caught in her front teeth.

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’ she asked, wiping her hands on her dress.

  ‘He’s in heaven now.’

  ‘Tally says Daddy’s buried in the ground and the worms are going to eat him.’

  Francesca hugged the child close, enveloping her like a cocoon. ‘His body is in the cemetery but his spirit is in heaven.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to drop the eggs. I’m sorry, Mummy.’

  ‘I know you didn’t. But that’s not why Daddy died.’

  ‘Why did he die?’

  ‘It was his time and God called him to be in heaven with the angels.’

  ‘Can Daddy sing and play the guitar with the angels in heaven?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can Daddy eat mangoes in heaven?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will Daddy remember me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I miss Daddy.’

  ‘And I miss him too.’

  ‘Can you sing me the butterfly song?’

  Francesca sang, softly at first and then, with each word, her voice grew louder, more confident.

  holy communion

  Cairns, 1992

  I walk through the large church doors. I stop to dip two fingers in the holy water. In the name of the father, and of the son, and of the Holy Spirit. There is a sense of familiarity about this place. I genuflect before sitting on the pew. There are purple flowers in a glass vase on the altar. To the side, beyond the confessional box, I can see the tabernacle. I can see the heart of Mary. Her hands are held up as if to question but then accept.

  We used to sit as a family in the middle row of the church, always four pews from the back. I knew all the words to the prayers. My favourite hymn was ‘Sons of God’. That was in the days when the priest was the only one who could feed you the body of Christ, and it had to be put into your mouth and not in your hand, as was the practice that developed later. I made my first holy communion in this old church, in the dress my mother made me. The veil was itchy in the morning heat. For my communion gift I selected a denim-covered copy of Good News for Modern Man. I liked to read the story of the birth of God’s son, over and over.

  In the name of the father.

  In the days when I had to be good or else the Devil would get me.

  And of the son.

  In the days when I was scared of the Devil, of dying and going to hell.

  And of the Holy Spirit.

  God is love. Love.

  in the name of love

  Cairns, 1949

  Francesca’s knees ached on the hard, warm wood. Father O’Halloran waved a fly from his perspiring face as he delivered the morning sermon. He spoke of temptation and evil as he stood before the cross. There were only five other people attending the Wednesday-morning service. The sun shone celestially through the louvred windows, illuminating the wall space just below the feet of Jesus Christ and directly above the tabernacle.

  ‘The church has been good to the natives. We have educated them in civilised ways of life. We have given them worthwhile and concrete activities. But we must be careful to not allow their native ways to lead them towards sloth and temptation.’

  Father O’Halloran delivered his sermon with eloquent fervour. ‘Let us pray to the Father, the Lord our God.’ He crossed himself. He grabbed the wineglass and took a swift gulp.

  Francesca had not minded that Kit was not a religious man. He was spiritual and he believed in the afterlife. He told Francesca that the spirit was in the land and the water. He could see it in the wandering clouds. He did not need the Christian god, the white man’s god. After Francesca married Kit, she turned away from the church.

  ‘I ask your forgiveness,’ she whispered softly. ‘Please look after my dear, sweet Kit.’ His gangrenous body had been buried three days ago.

  Was God punishing her? Father O’Halloran’s voice wafted through the empty church and hung in the humid air. ‘Repent and be saved!’

  She was still young, but here she was dressed in black and with two children to fend for. She felt pain but she was also angry. If there was a God, why had he punished her by taking away the man she loved? Had she betrayed God the Father? There were ten commandments. There were seven deadly sins. The Holy Trinity. The catechism. There was only one Holy Catholic Church. She must never forget that. The Church was the only th
ing that could lift the stone in her belly. Thou shalt not commit adultery. There would be no other God, and the God she had neglected would be her guide and steer her away from impure thoughts. The stakes were set.

  ‘I will give you my soul, Christian God, and you will look after me, you will keep my children safe.’ She prayed with her eyes shut so tight they hurt.

  As she left, she genuflected once more. A splinter on the wooden floor caught her knee, breaking the skin. On the walk home the cut bled, but she could not feel it.

  the doll

  Cairns, 1953

  Lily woke to the sound of her mother humming. She removed her nightie and pulled on her school uniform. Her mother was boiling water on the cooker. Lily saw the doll on the table, sitting in a frilly dress, black shoes, and white socks with rose lace around the edges. Her face lit up and her small fingers grasped the body. She brought the doll closer to her face, feeling the smoothness of the porcelain against her cheek. She could smell the fragrance of the dark hair. Real hair.

  Francesca watched her daughter intently. The delight she saw on Lily’s face made her effort worthwhile. She had risked her pension to buy that doll, cooking, washing and ironing for the boarders at Calypso House.

  ‘Happy birthday, my darling girl!’

  ‘She’s beautiful, Mum. What’s her name?’

  ‘She doesn’t have one yet.’

  Lily stroked the doll’s hair as if it were a precious jewel. Her lips widened and then snapped shut. Lily sighed and released her words quickly. ‘I will call her Bridie.’

  ‘That’s a nice name.’

  Lily held the doll gently, rocking her like a baby. ‘Yes, and she will be my special friend.’

  Bridie was Lily’s best friend. Bridie’s eyes blinked when Lily laid her down in a bed made from curtain rags.

  ‘There’s a good baby.’

  Lily could hear her mother coughing again.

  ‘You’ll be all right.’ Lily turned the doll on her stomach and patted her on the back.

  ‘Get me a Bex and some water, Lily.’

  The child hurried outside to the tap. She prised the folded paper open. It crisped in her small hands like dry petals. She delivered the Bex powder to her mother, who was lying on her side. Lily could see a bloodstain on the sheets.

  ‘Mum, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I just need some rest. Be a good girl and go play with your doll.’

  Lily tasted her own tears on Bridie’s cold cheek. ‘She’ll be all right, Bridie. Don’t worry. I get scared sometimes too, you know, but don’t you worry, I’m here.’ She sang a tune, one she remembered her mother and father singing.

  It was dark before Francesca could force herself up off the bed.

  Lily packed Bridie in her school bag, along with a spare dress for Bridie to change into and an old piece of cotton that served as Bridie’s blanket.

  Francesca pulled Lily’s arm. ‘Don’t take the doll to school.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you might lose her.’

  ‘I won’t lose her.’

  ‘Well, then the other girls might break her.’ Francesca reached out a hand to take the doll.

  ‘But I want to show them.’ Lily pulled Bridie close to her chest. ‘I want them to see her.’

  Francesca plucked the doll from the child’s arm. ‘Leave her here.’

  It was a long walk from school back to Grafton Street. When Lily and Tally returned to the shed, Mr Wang’s market was closed. The vegetables were packed away and the sellers were hosing down the aisles. Francesca was not home yet. They found the key under the mat and let themselves in. Tally went to the kitchen cupboard, grabbed a piece of bread and ran back outside. Lily saw her doll lying on the floor. She picked it up and turned the face towards her. Bridie’s face had a crack that extended from her cheekbone, across her nose to her left eye. There were small holes where the doll’s face had been nibbled by rats.

  Lily screamed. Her heart was pounding. Her baby doll looked like a devil spirit. She grabbed it by the hair and threw it against the wall.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Francesca when she returned, picking up the broken doll.

  ‘The rats ate Bridie’s face.’

  ‘We can fix her.’

  ‘No, I don’t want her. She has the plague now.’

  Francesca threw the doll on the incinerator pile at the back of the market, along with the old crates Mr Wang burnt every second or third day.

  Lily sat, her chin in her hands. ‘Bridie’s dead.’ Her eyes were expressionless. ‘Everything I love dies. You won’t die, Mummy, will you?’

  ‘C’mon, stop this. It’s just a doll.’ Francesca crouched down. ‘It’s not like losing a real person.’ She reached out to touch her daughter’s face. She caught a tear on her ring finger.

  ‘It’s just a doll,’ Francesca repeated.

  you can take the woman from the island

  Cairns, 1953

  The Calypso Boarding House provided temporary quarters for wayward coloureds. Whether you were looking for work or looking for comfort, the Calypso’s roof was a transient home.

  Mara was sitting at the table. Her hair was greased and pinned up tight behind her ears. The bruise on her face was still visible through heavy makeup.

  Francesca walked in with a basketful of clothes, followed by Lily, who was carrying a pot.

  Mara broke into a wide smile. ‘Francesca! Have you opened your own Chinese laundry here in Cairns?’

  ‘Mara!’ Francesca put the basket on the table and went to hug her old friend. ‘I haven’t seen you since – how long? – that night at the dance back on Thursday Island. How’s it going, Mara?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him for a while.’ Mara folded her arms.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I left him a long time ago now. I’ve been travelling a bit.’

  ‘Are you staying here?’

  ‘Been here a week.’ Mara’s hands reached for her cigarette packet. ‘I heard you married Kit. How is he?’

  ‘He died four years ago.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘We had two children. That’s my daughter, Lily.’

  Lily had placed the pot on the stove and was standing on a chair, stirring.

  ‘Lily, say hello to your Aunty Mara,’ Francesca laughed. ‘Do you know, Lily, I’ve known this woman since I was your age. We went to school together over on Thursday Island.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, and you look just like your mother did back then.’ Mara smiled at the child. ‘Looks like you got a good feed there, Lily. What’re you cooking?’

  ‘Fish soup.’ Lily tapped the wooden spoon on the side of the saucepan. Two clinks. She moved to sit next to Mara.

  ‘Can you go and deliver these to Mr Peterson?’ Francesca passed a bundle of ironed shirts to her daughter. Lily nestled them to her chest and headed up the stairs.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Mara sighed.

  ‘I have a son too –Tally,’ said Francesca.

  ‘Kids are so sweet. You know, I had a child of my own just after I left the island.’ Mara played with her tortoiseshell hair comb.

  ‘What happened to your child?’ Francesca asked.

  ‘They said I couldn’t keep him, that he’d be better off with the white grandparents.’ Mara buried her head in Francesca’s shoulder.

  ‘Mr Peterson’s fixed the wireless.’ Lily had returned.

  ‘We live over behind the market,’ Francesca told Mara. ‘I’ve got a small place of my own. Just the kids and me. Come on over for tea.’

  They walked back to the warehouse behind Mr Wang’s market. Francesca adjusted the dial on the wireless and a man’s voice came on the airwaves, crooning to a strong, swaying tune.

  ‘Why don’t we go out?’ Mara held up a hand and blew on her red claws. ‘To a dance. Remember we used to have so much fun?’

  Francesca remembered. Mara had been in demand as a dance partner. She was a magnet with h
er wide red smile and the way she’d laugh and toss her head back. Other girls had thought her a flirt, a temptress. She would go too far, they said. It was Mara who’d been one of the first to leave the island and she’d married the white soldier. Everyone said he wouldn’t take her, but he did. Everyone said it wouldn’t last. It didn’t.

  ‘No, girl, I can’t go out on the town.’ Francesca said. ‘I’ve got the kids to look after. A woman’s got to take some responsibility –’ She bit her lip. Mara looked at the door.

  ‘I didn’t mean …’ Francesca let her arms drop.

  ‘That’s okay.’ Mara tilted her head. ‘Sometimes, you know, sometimes I think it was only a dream, that I didn’t even have the boy.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Francesca.

  ‘They said I couldn’t look after him. That he’d be better off with them. You know, he’d be a little bit older than Tally.’

  ‘There, there.’ Francesca placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder.

  ‘C’mon,’ called Mara, standing and turning up the wireless.

  The three of them danced and laughed as the afternoon drifted. Francesca’s eyes grew bright as she twirled Lily under her arm.

  ‘Oh, girl,’ said Mara, her hands in the air, swaying in a hula, ‘you can take the woman out of the island, but you can’t take the island out of the woman.’

  the interview

  Cairns, 1953

  ‘Here he comes,’ Lily whispered to Tally.