The Secrets We Keep

by Shirley Patton

  ‘You mean some of them were still there when the bombs went off?’

  ‘Yep, and some who were further away tell stories about the cloud drifting over them. Some of the tribes the Cundeelee people belonged to used to walk across that country before most of ’em were rounded up and taken to the mission that had been set up. It was bloody devastating for their culture, Aimee. Their traditional grounds became radioactive and officially off limits.’

  He’d told her his wife Jan knew of ongoing concerns about radioactivity and rumours of small groups still out there. She hadn’t known what to say, it all sounded scandalous. Who else knew? It wasn’t something she’d been taught at school or university.

  She looked towards the horizon. The late afternoon sun was beginning to sink and she had to squint against its blinding rays. ‘What do you mean, good intentions?’

  ‘As I told you before, they reckon there’ll be a better water supply at Coonana,’ Gerry replied, turning to look at her, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘And is there?’

  Gerry’s mouth narrowed and he stared straight ahead. ‘Well, let’s say, it’s no worse.’

  ‘But I heard some people say they don’t want to move again.’

  This morning they had been sitting in two circles on the ground, Gerry talking to a group of men, Aimee nearby with the women, under a scrawny peppercorn tree. It provided little shade from the December heat but she appeared to be the only one sweating—it tickled under her arms, pooled between her breasts and lapped at her sides. Her red linen shirt and black cotton trousers felt like heat packs. Gerry looked cool in his light grey short-sleeved shirt and dark grey shorts despite the sun darting around his bald spot, between the shadows of the leaves. Nearby she could see small children playing, most of them naked, chasing each other with sticks, falling over each other and several dogs who scampered in and out of their game. Their squeals and laughter and the dogs’ barking replies were the only sounds, the older children still inside the mission school building. In the distance the heat shimmer signalled the flat horizon.

  She heard Coonana mentioned; Gerry had told her earlier the move had been the subject of ‘protracted negotiations’ over the past few years due to the department’s concern about water shortages after a prolonged drought and the community unhappy about leaving.

  Edie, an older woman sitting beside her, looked at her with milky eyes then turned away and said softly, ‘Ngayula talypu.’

  A linking murmur joined the women. The men continued talking. Her grasp of Wangka was still minimal, enough for basic communication only but she recognised the words—the women were tired. She glanced back at Edie—there were tears on her cheeks. She’d felt a different heat rising inside of her.

  ‘You’re right, they don’t want to go,’ Gerry said. ‘But the government’s had to cart in a lot more water this year and they reckon it’s more cost-effective to set up a new settlement. There’s more run-off at Coonana so they’re better off moving.’ Gerry wriggled in his seat. ‘That’s the official line,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’ She turned to look at him.

  ‘Nothing.’ Gerry kept looking ahead.

  ‘But what about what the people want?’ She pressed on. ‘I mean, it wasn’t their choice in the first place from what you’ve told me but they’ve been there for more than thirty years now, haven’t they? Surely the water costs were factored in all those years ago when they set it up. What’s changed? If we have water shortages in town we don’t move everybody, do we, we build a bloody pipeline.’ She was getting worked up.

  Gerry looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know, Aimee. I agree with you but what can you do? They’ve already started moving. Coonana’s not that far away really and it is closer to the railway line.’

  She knew the Tea and Sugar train dropped off supplies to isolated railway siding communities along the Trans Australia railway line across the Nullarbor. Jan had told her that before the completion of the line in 1927, linking east and west from Port Augusta to Kalgoorlie, crossings were often a death sentence for the new arrivals. But Aborigines had been crossing it for centuries. She tried to imagine the intelligence, skill, physical endurance and resilience necessary for men, women and children to navigate such arid country over vast distances, and to survive the harsh conditions. Now they were gathered on a mission, to protect them from the radiation, in their best interests. In whose best interests? The thought niggled at her. Jan had also told her that many in the community pined to return to country, indeed needed to, to carry out sacred work and perform rituals that maintained the land and the people.

  She recalled old newsreels she’d watched on television, a few years back, about the testing, grainy images of men in baggy khaki shorts at the test site, watching the explosion from what must have been deemed a safe distance—where there was none. Men, who on command turned their backs, momentarily, for protection then eagerly turned back to absorb the mushrooming magnificence, and they would have absorbed, absorbed the dust in the fallout and in the ‘clean-up’ later. As would have the desert dwellers. What had become of them, she wondered.

  No doubt her father would know. She stared out the window at the dry landscape. Her mother had rung several months ago nudging her, as usual, to ring him for his birthday, but she didn’t; she’d sounded worried about him, said he seemed concerned about some developments regarding the government’s partnership with big business. She knew her father’s socialist background would make dealing with the big end of town a difficulty. He’d talked about the government’s plans at her birthday dinner earlier in the year; she hadn’t seen him that animated in a long time. Her father was most charismatic when he spoke from the heart about justice. How inspired she had once felt, how she had loved him, believed she could do anything because he’d believed she could.

  Until, until that night …

  A sharp left swerve of the car made her grab at the air then, as it thumped up and down she slammed her head, hard, into the roof.

  ‘Ouch!’ she yelled, rubbing her head, her eyes smarting from the sting. She wiped her arm across her eyes and peered angrily through the window, beyond a ballooning cloud of red dust to a large grey kangaroo bouncing away at a sharp right angle, its powerful hind legs taking only seconds to get a safe distance away.

  ‘Sorry, Aimee,’ Gerry said, ‘I swerved to avoid the roo and hit a pothole. You right?’

  No, she wasn’t right. None of it was right. Not the way people had been treated, not the decisions made on their behalf for others’ benefit, regardless of culture, not the feeling from Gerry that something else was still going on … not the decisions she’d had to make all those years ago. Her thoughts and feelings tangled themselves into a tight ball. Her head hurt.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, I’m okay, don’t worry,’ she assured Gerry who was looking anxious, ‘I’ve had worse things happen.’ She rubbed her head again, checked there was no blood around the growing lump and looked back at Gerry. He stopped the car and turned towards her. A range of emotions consumed her; she wasn’t sure which one to allow him to see. Vulnerable, she wanted to cry; lately the contents of her life seemed to juggle and unsettle her in more and more unexpected places. The concern on Gerry’s face threatened to unnerve her further; she forced a smile.

  ‘I’m fine, I am. Come on, let’s get moving, I need to be back before the office closes—I’ve got some phone calls to make.’

  It was only a week till Christmas and she still had several home visits to arrange, including the Steeles. Though not urgent she’d tried to keep in regular contact with the family. The office would be closed between Christmas and New Year and she wasn’t on the after-hours duty roster—Patrick and good old Ron had volunteered. She was looking forward to Christmas lunch with Lori’s family. Patrick was coming too apparently, assuming he wasn’t called out. Aimee wondered if Lori always invited lonely work colleagues for Christmas.

  Gerry started the car again. ‘Yeh, we’d better get moving, I don’t w
ant to be on this road at dusk or we’ll definitely hit a roo. And Jan will want you in one piece for lunch on Sunday,’ said Gerry, laughing, leaving a shower of dust behind them as he hit the accelerator and ploughed back onto the road.

  Aimee focused on the narrow road ahead. Thank goodness for the Christmas break, she thought. I need it.

  Moonlight shivered the curtains and rippled the bedroom wall with shadow; a silvery cord of light slid under the white canopy and over Amber’s face. Kerry ached to hold this moment forever, to trap Amber’s innocence in a glass case, a precious dome, something sacred, never to be tampered with, sealed from touch. She felt her heart race but took a long slow breath before her mind caught up then another as she pressed her feet into the floor, imagining them sending down roots, down through the boards, into the earth below, the way Aimee had shown her.

  She stilled.

  A soft evening breeze trembled the curtains and creaked the door against her arm. Amber stirred and turned to face the wall; she had been reluctant to go to bed despite them telling her the quicker she went to sleep the quicker it would be Christmas. She’d sat on their bed next to Paul, who, propped up on several pillows, kept sliding off them due to her excited wriggling. They’d laughed at Kerry’s half-hearted protests as she’d lifted Paul back into a sitting position. It was hard holding sadness and happiness in the one moment but she was getting used to it.

  At first she’d felt guilty if she laughed, as if she had no right to feel anything but sorrow as the days passed and Paul weakened. But over the past few months of talking with Aimee, she’d come to see it differently. It wasn’t anything Aimee had said exactly, more what she had come to herself, from talking to Aimee and thinking about things. She’d wanted this time to have love in it, love for Paul, love for Amber but the way she’d been feeling had been stealing that from her. So she’d decided that whatever she felt was all right. Paul agreed. He’d been talking with Aimee too—she left them alone sometimes, saying she had to go hang out the washing or something.

  And yesterday they had finally agreed when they would tell Amber. New Year’s Day. New beginnings. They’d have this Christmas together, and then she’d be ready. Well, as ready as she ever would be. She was still nervous but the alternative made her more nervous. Aimee had given her helpful information to read on how to talk to children about adoption although a book about relinquishing mothers had upset her. She’d never really allowed herself to think about that.

  Amber’s bedroom door creaked again. She gripped the doorknob and lifted the door slightly, noiselessly closing it. She tiptoed down the hall and into the lounge room. Just one last look before she went to Paul. She didn’t turn on the light. The room glowed off and on with the flash of the Christmas tree lights; the plastic green tree was nearly as old as Amber and so were most of the decorations. They’d gone silly for her first Christmas. Actually they went silly every Christmas. They each had a chair to put their presents on, a single one for Paul and her, and the sofa for Amber; under the tree went presents for Kerry’s mum. They weren’t expensive presents but there were lots of them. She would wrap up several special presents for Amber but also everything that she’d had on lay-by for summer anyway—shortie pyjamas and thongs and bathers and, for school the next year, a new school bag, pencil case and pencils.

  This year there was also a present for Aimee, just a little thank you. She’d hoped to see her before Christmas but Aimee had called to apologise yesterday for being unable to make it and arranged her next visit for after the New Year.

  Amber would know by then, so perhaps that was better.

  She took in the room, the presents, the tree with its flashing lights, and the wobbly angel on top. The angel was the first Christmas decoration that Amber had made at school and despite its inability to remain upright had retained the top spot. She smiled, then, caught sharply, she panicked. This was what they always did together, Paul and her, this last look before going to bed, the only night they left the lights on. And they’d never do it again. She wanted to run, and grab him, and stand him beside her, and say look, look, look. Look with me.

  She rushed across the hall and into their bedroom, startling Paul awake. She stopped, her hand to her mouth and tried to breathe, to breathe, to breathe.

  Paul stared at her. ‘What love, what?’

  She saw his anxious eyes and tried to calm down for both of them. The bedside lamp haloed his pale face, his lips redder in contrast, his eyes darker. She loved his lips, they were full and soft and she found herself yearning to suck them, to take everything she needed from them. She took a step towards him then stopped. Her face reddened from her thoughts. They hadn’t lain naked together for weeks and she wanted to, now. She pulled her nightie over her head and threw it in the corner. Paul watched her as she slowly moved towards him, watched as she pulled back the sheets and pulled down his pyjamas exposing his thin legs. She fingered the sharp curve of his hips and reached down to kiss the hair on his stomach. She ran her tongue up his chest and laid herself along him as she gulped at his mouth, a half-cry smothered inside her own.

  It would be the last time.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Christmas morning shimmered awake. At five o’clock the sun shot over the horizon and by seven a dense heat filled every crevice, in or out of the shade. Crows circled in upward drafts, their dry squawks pre-empting a rising mercury that would fail to deter the early morning firing up of stoves in kitchens across town.

  Lori greased the turkey in butter with one hand and wiped sweat from her brow with the other; she pulled out the tea-towel tucked into her apron and lifted the seven-pound bird into an enamel baking dish. Papa would have been proud of her; he loved Christmas and he loved turkey. Before he died, all of their Christmas lunches had been here, Nonna and him presiding over their extended family. Since then her parents had put on Christmas lunch but this year it would be Lori, though it had taken some persuading: her mother worried it was too much for her to take on, working full-time; her father worried about carting everything around to her house; and Nonna, well, she just worried. But her sisters thought it was a great idea, they wanted to reclaim the tradition under Papa’s pergola. So it was decided they would share the cooking and Angela and Gina’s husbands would bring over the wooden pews. Everyone would help. So her mother relented, her father looked relieved and Nonna became teary but looked happy.

  The phone rang as she closed the oven door on the turkey. She checked the clock over the stove—eight o’clock—plenty of time for it to cook.

  ‘Merry Christmas, darling,’ her parents sang down the phone.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mum, Dad.’

  She heard a rustling.

  ‘Buon Natale, Lori.’ She could hear the emotion in her grandmother’s voice; today would be bittersweet.

  ‘Buon Natale, Nonna. Thank you for coming here for lunch.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’m happy. Are you coming for church?’

  ‘No, Nonna, I’ve a lot of things to do.’

  ‘I had many things to do but still I would go to church.’

  She heard her father’s voice call out and then her mother, Karen, came on the phone.

  ‘Okay, love, we’re off to church then we have a few people to visit then we’ll be round about eleven. I’ll leave the vegetables on low and finish them off at your place. Nonna has made dessert, make sure there’s room in the fridge, there’s two slabs. Angie’s glazed the ham, I hope it’s big enough. Sophia’s already cooked all the chickens, she’s covered them in tinfoil and she’ll reheat them before she leaves. The—’

  She heard her father call out, ‘We’re going.’

  ‘All right, I’m coming. Bye, love. See you soon.’

  Her mother hung up before she could answer. She smiled; her mother was the best organiser but the biggest worrier. Lori was more like her father, and Papa—excitable but calm under pressure. She put down the phone and looked out the back door to the patio. It already looked like Christmas; the t
restle tables from the back shed and the wooden pews from her parents had been set up the night before. Several eskies waited for ice in the corner; everyone would bring their own drinks. The red and green paper streamers looped over the pergola’s wooden beams contrasted with the dangling fat bunches of black grapes. The thick vine leaves shaded the patio and the wet paving stones cooled the air but still it would be hot at lunchtime.

  She hoped Paddy would remember to bring his fold-up camping table and chairs for her sisters’ children to sit on—except for Angie’s eldest, who would expect to sit with the adults at the long tables this year and have a small glass of the weak red wine they all drank on occasions like this. They loved wine with their meals but they rarely drank it any other time. Paddy didn’t drink, but the meal they’d shared at a restaurant last month had still been relaxed. They’d talked all night and the owner was closing up before they’d realised the time.

  She’d invited him for Christmas lunch—a collegiate gesture, no more. Lori grinned. She knew it was more than that. Nonna would be pleased. No doubt she’d corner him. Sweat trickled between her breasts. The thermometer on the nearby window ledge read twenty-one degrees and it wasn’t yet nine o’clock. We’re in for a scorcher, she thought. She looked at the bag of potatoes to be peeled for roasting and decided to turn on the water cooler. She wheeled it out of the laundry into the kitchen, checked the water level and switched it on; it was noisy but cooling as the water blew over the wet pads.

  The tap groaned as she filled the kitchen sink, the old pipes rattling. She reached into the kitchen drawer for a potato peeler and nicked her finger as she pried it out from amongst a dozen other small utensils.

  ‘Ow,’ she muttered, sucking the drop of blood from the same place as the paper cut she’d received last weekend, culling files with Ron. It’s always the tiny cuts that sting the most, she thought. She picked up a potato and started peeling.