by Terri Janke
She hugs me close, then takes something out of her pocket. ‘Here, you have it.’ She hands me the brooch box. ‘It’s so very precious. You must be careful.’
Mum has a special connection with this object. This butterfly, spiritually, is a connection with her family, her mother and father.
‘I can’t take it,’ I say.
‘Yes, you’ve earned it. I always felt loved when I saw my mother wearing this butterfly. Even as a child, after Dad died. We never wanted for anything, despite the fact we were without a father and we were poor.’
‘But it’s yours.’
‘No, it’s ours, our family’s. Thanks for getting it back. You need it now.’ She closes my hands over the pearl-shell butterfly. My mother kisses my cheek. ‘I love you,’ she says.
The sound of a plane above our heads disturbs the intimacy. I cannot cry in this busy airport lounge. Why am I leaving to live in Sydney? Don’t I want a mother who lives up the road and has me around for Sunday barbecues? A mother who washes my clothes and mends my buttons? A mother who gives me advice when times get tough? I want her nearby. I want her to be around always. I feel like I’m being abandoned, yet I am the one who is leaving, again.
‘I love you too,’ I reply, and walk towards the gate.
I arrive in Sydney two and a half thousand kilometres later. There are three hours between us, and two airport lounges full of moving people, speaking but not listening. In my bag is a butterfly, made of hard pearl shell and smooth to the touch.
my learned friend
Sydney 1993
The courthouse is an old sandstone building and although it has been refurbished, it still has a colonial air about it. Outside the main door a young man in a creased, oversized suit lifts his sunglasses to the top of his head. He puffs out smoke with a worried look on his face. Two older people, perhaps his parents, stand with him. Their eyes are down, looking at the ground.
In the corridor a group of people stand in front of a bulletin board. I try to poke my head through to read the lists but I can’t make out the small print. I go into the toilet, and when I return the crowd has left. A tall woman with a security tag around her neck is now pulling the lists down. In response to my querying look, she points to a room down the corridor. ‘Room 7A,’ she says.
I see the crest above the door and I push it open. It’s heavy and falls back against me. I push again and it opens. It makes a noise as it closes. Am I supposed to bow? I’m not sure. I feel strange doing it, so I sort of brush my hair back.
The room is full of people. Some are standing with their arms full of files. The young man in the creased suit is sitting near the front, and the two older people who were with him are up the back. I shuffle forward and take a seat in the row he’s sitting in. My skirt seems a bit short, maybe too short. I place my thin file on my lap. Next to the man is a woman who is flicking through the pages of a thick red book. She finds her page and places a post-it sticker at the top.
This is my first time in the courthouse. I’m only just getting used to all the form-filling and paperwork. Today is just a call-over, not the full hearing. I’m working on a medical-negligence case, but my client is not attending. It’s a matter for the lawyer to handle. I go over the instructions from the senior partner in my head.
‘The registrar will only be making directions about progress on the case. Then the matter will be listed for conference, mediation or a hearing. You just have to stand and advise the registrar that our client is ready to go to a hearing.’
Sounds easy enough. I can do that, if my heart would only stop beating so loud.
At the front of the room, a man sits in the middle of the bench. A court officer is filling his glass of water.
‘The Crown versus Julie Marie Richards,’ the court officer calls. ‘Julie Richards, please stand.’
No one answers.
‘Are you Julie Richards?’ asks the man at the bench. ‘The charges are theft, property damage and driving without a licence.’
There is more silence. I turn and look over the shoulder of my new navy-blue suit to the row of people behind. It’s not a mistake – the man at the bench is talking to me. I turn to face him but still cannot speak. I can hear fidgeting around me. It’s just like when I was at university. One of those embarrassing moments in class when I felt so out of place.
The woman with the red book leans over to me. ‘The magistrate is addressing you,’ she whispers. ‘Do you need Legal Aid representation?’
My lips are stuck together. I can’t seem to open my mouth.
The magistrate is talking again. ‘We are waiting for our next defendant. What is your name?’ He looks down at me through black-rimmed glasses.
‘Shaw.’ I stand. A deep breath. ‘Tarena Shaw.’
‘That name is not on the list of defendants. Does the police prosecutor have Tarena Shaw on his list?’
The police prosecutor stands and consults a small pad in his hands. He shakes his head. ‘No, I can’t find that name.’
This is my chance to run. I can be free of this. I want to be free of this feeling of needing to vomit and scream. I want to break the chains. It would be so easy to run. It would be easy to hide under the frangipani tree, like I did as a child. But in these high-heels, across the carpet and then the smooth floor of the corridor, I would be risking serious damage to my skinny ankles.
I cough, stammer and clear my throat. ‘Your worship, I am a lawyer.’ I can feel the sweat gathering around the elastic waist of my pantyhose. ‘My case is Haines versus Symons.’
No one is laughing.
‘It’s a medical-negligence matter due for call-over this morning,’ I continue.
The magistrate blinks. ‘Then you’re in the wrong courtroom, my learned friend. This is the criminal court. The civil courtroom is down the corridor.’
‘Thank you, your worship.’ I manage to say it clearly and slowly, without sounding nervous.
I turn and leave the courtroom. My face is hot but I’m not itchy. As I enter the next courtroom down the corridor, I tell myself I will learn and I will get used to all this.
I touch the pearl shell hanging from the leather string around my neck. I imagine I am a butterfly, my wings spreading as I rise from a frangipani, flying towards the sun.
gathering spirit
They say that each generation draws from the spiritual strength of those who came before. We might not know them in this physical space, but their lessons are timeless. Their wisdom compounds. Our mentors are our mothers, our fathers. Our families, our ancestors. The people we love. The people who gave us breath. Our places, our lands, our waters. Our homes, our ways. Our stories and songs. The things we all long to dream about.
It’s a cycle, a cultural circle, and when the time comes, my dear great-great-grandchildren, you will remember my story, you will draw from my strength, and you will know I’ll always be there with you.
acknowledgements
Butterfly Song is a work of fiction, but in writing it I have been guided by my family history. I am grateful to my mother, JJ, my driving force; my father, John F, the first great writer I ever knew; my sister, Toni, who kept me on track; my brother, JP; and Uncle Tony Anno, Aunty Betty and Uncle Dick Williams, Shane and Kel Williams, Granny Betty Hunter and Uncle Johnny Majid.
The song quoted on page 4 is from the Torres Strait, and many people attribute it to Jaffa Ah Mat. The story of the poinciana woman was told to me by my uncles and is also known to many Torres Strait Islanders. Some say it may have Malay connections. The tombstone opening is based on one hosted by Uncle Johnny Majid.
In 2000 I received a mentorship with the Australian Society of Authors and was lucky enough to work with the most talented and patient mentor in the world, Pearlie McNeill. Pearlie, keep throwing up those balls!
My thanks to Anita Heiss for her dedication, Célestine Hitiura Vaite for her talent and determination, Sally McCausland, Robynne Quiggin, Stephen Gray, Professor Martin Nakata, Jenny Pilot for gu
idance on cultural references, Uncle Seaman Dan, Dr Karl Neuen-feldt, Gladys and Mial Bingarape, Andrew Kenyon, Chris Dellit, Lincoln Crowley, Leilani Bin Juda and the Gab Titui Cultural Centre, Rosie Barkus, Vanessa Seekee, the Australian Society of Authors, Aboriginal Studies Press, Shirley Smith, Sonia Cooper, and my good friends Veronica Dounis and Nancia Guivarra.
Thanks, too, to Debbie Golvan and Colin Golvan for encouraging me to think big, and publisher Clare Forster for giving me a first-class opportunity. As for Meredith Rose, editor, her skills are only matched by her heart and dedication. I am also grateful to Debra Billson, designer, for the stunning cover.
And finally, thanks must go to Andrew, the love and rock of my life. And our beautiful children, Tamina and Jaiki – thanks for the cuddles.