Barefoot Kids

by Steve Hawke

  ‘Tich!’ Janey exclaims. Bella smothers a laugh. ‘When I die!’ She reaches over and takes Tich’s face in her hands and gives her a shake. ‘I’ve told you before, little one, it goes to Janey. It’ll pass down through the women’s line.’

  ‘But I’m a woman too,’ Tich says with a pout.

  This draws another laugh from Bella and a derisive snort from Janey. ‘Indeed you are a woman, but just a wee one yet, as your mum would say. Janey’s the oldest with Jirroo blood in her after me. That’s why it will go to her. I’ve got no kids of my own, and my little sister Maisie, bless her soul, only turned out your dad and all those other useless boys.’

  Mary’s voice rings out across the yard, calling Tich home. Bella holds out her hand for the pendant. ‘Go on now, your mum’s callin’.’

  Tich still looks put out as she gets up. Bella makes an offering. ‘I might let you wear it now and then, if you promise to be very careful with it.’

  Tich’s eyes light up and she gives Bella a hug and a kiss before she trots off. Bella turns to Janey and takes her hand. ‘Don’t you go worryin’ yourself about Jiir before there’s any need. Buster’ll check it out. He’ll let us know what’s goin’ on.’ She changes the subject. ‘Hey, how’s the music goin’?’

  This gets a smile. ‘Good, Mimi. Me and Jimmy were going great today.’

  3

  BY EIGHT THE next morning the kids have been going for an hour at the shack. They had ridden their bikes down, too impatient to wait for the grown ups.

  Jimmy had put the idea to Janey the night before. They’d been talking for a while about having their own band. Now they’d worked up this tune, why didn’t they see what they could all do with it? Jimmy on lead. Janey on rhythm. Buddy on drums. Dancer was already starting to experiment on Andy’s old bass. Jimmy could transpose Janey’s chords for Tich’s ukulele, or she could do percussion with Mary’s marimbas.

  The kids were all fired up with the idea by the time Micky and Little Joe came back after dinner. They hadn’t found Buster, but they’d left word at the reserve. It was agreed that everybody would head down to Eagle Beach the next day, as soon as Buster turned up. The business of the pegs involved everybody in the family, but Buster was the one who had to take the lead.

  Buddy is a natural when he takes his drumming seriously, and he is getting right into it this morning. After a few false starts Dancer has worked out a bass line that fits beautifully, and is really starting to pound the strings.

  Tich is biting her lips, concentrating intensely. She is not confident enough to play by ear, and looks to Jimmy to call out the chord. She is still missing a few of the changes, but the ukulele blends in well a couple of octaves above Janey’s guitar, giving a sweetness to the tune.

  It’s not perfect. Jimmy is keenly aware of the flaws. The others know he is a harsh judge and are watching him as they play. When the last chord fades out he grins. Janey grins too. ‘We’re getting there Jimmy. We’re getting there.’

  ‘Pretty damn good for our first try, if you ask me,’ Dancer says.

  ‘It’s not bad,’ Jimmy admits.

  Janey gets up to stretch. ‘Only we’re going to do our own music, aren’t we? I mean, I love the Dreamers, but I get sick of those same old cover songs.’

  ‘We need lyrics if we’re doing our own stuff,’ Dancer says. ‘We’ve got one tune and no lyrics so far.’

  Tich’s mind is racing ahead. ‘What are we going to call ourselves?’

  ‘What about the Little Dreamers,’ suggests Dancer, deadpan.

  The others look at him in horror. He holds up his hands. ‘It was a joke.’

  Janey claps her hands. ‘I’ve got it!’

  The others look at her expectantly.

  ‘The Barefoot Kids!’

  She says it with conviction. She has no doubt. The others look dubious though. ‘Like Michael called us — barefoot mob. But that’s the point you see. We’re Broome kids. Barefoot kids. Look at us.’

  She points down at their feet, all shoeless. ‘He can be a Yankee clone if he wants, with his Nikes and his basketball caps. We’re from here. Our music’s from here. Barefoot’s our style.’

  Dancer smiles his slow smile. ‘You could be right Janey. It’s got a ring to it.’

  Jimmy looks from Dancer to Janey. He punches the air and says it loud and firm. ‘Barefoot Kids!’

  Tich jumps up and repeats Jimmy’s cry. ‘Barefoot Kids!’

  Jimmy goes back to his chair and picks up his guitar. ‘Barefoot Kids it is. A one, a two …’ And he leads them into another rendition of the tune.

  The kids grin at each other as they finish up. ‘We still need to get the ending right but,’ Jimmy says.

  ‘Sounds pretty good to me.’

  The kids look up, startled. It’s Buster, padding silently down the path towards them. He is a tall, handsome man in his sixties, darker skinned than his sister Bella. He is always clean shaven, with his short white hair neatly combed. He carries himself erect, with a dignified air. His eyes often sparkle with fun or with mischief — especially when he gets his harmonica out — but not this morning.

  ‘You been to Jiir already Nyami?’ Dancer asks in an anxious tone.

  Buster shakes his head. ‘Little Joe only just tracked me down. I been camp at Paddy’s place last night. Joe’s gone down the beach to get the other fellers. I been hear you mob playin’ while I was waitin’ — thought I better have a look.’

  ‘You want us to come?’ asks Buddy. ‘We can show you the pegs.’

  Buster looks at him sternly. Buddy quickly adds, ‘Only halfway, I mean. Where we took Micky.’

  ‘No Buddy. Micky can show me. But you kids did good, letting me know about what’s going on. I got to look after that place.’

  Little Joe has come down the path while they are talking. ‘You right uncle? All the boys and Micky are ready.’ Then he turns to the kids. ‘And what are you mob up to?’

  Jimmy is about to say something when Janey gives him a kick and cuts in. ‘Just messing around.’ Little Joe shrugs. Buster gives Janey a wink and a secret smile. He turns and ushers Little Joe back up the path.

  He lets Little Joe get a few paces ahead, then says in a low voice, ‘Let me know if you need a harp player.’ He follows Little Joe and calls back in a louder voice, ‘See you at the beach later on.’

  Once the men have disappeared Jimmy turns on Janey. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘You were going to tell Little Joe, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘Listen Jimmy, if this is going to be our own band, we should keep it to ourselves until we’ve got our act together properly. The grown-ups’ll take over if we tell them.’

  ‘Not Little Joe. He’d be rapt. He’s always on at the others about doing original music.’

  Janey gives Jimmy that look of hers. ‘I know he’d be rapt. That’s just the trouble, don’t you see. He’d be all over us, trying to help, making suggestions. It wouldn’t be ours any more.’

  Jimmy looks down. He doesn’t want to meet her eye, because as soon as she spells it out he knows exactly what she means. But there is nothing he would rather do than show off his tune to Little Joe.

  Dancer chuckles. ‘Buster worked it out, soon as he saw Janey kick you. But he won’t say anything.’

  Janey looks at the two youngest band members. ‘What you reckon?’

  Buddy shrugs. He’s not really bothered. Tich has no doubts, she loves the idea. ‘Secret’s more better.’

  Janey is the natural leader amongst the kids. She is always thinking ahead, springing new ideas. Even if the others aren’t always sure she is right they usually go along with her. ‘All agreed then? Barefoot Kids stays between us five until we all agree we’re ready to go public?’

  There is a chorus of agreement, though Jimmy’s is muted.

  They play the tune through one more time, then head for the beach where Bella, Ally and Mary have set up camp.

  The longer they wait for
the men, the more the morning drags, and the more worried they become. They switch between moody silence and dire speculations as to what might be going on.

  Tich drifts up the beach, tight red curls shifting in the breeze, poking through the shells left at last night’s high tide line. Every now and then she squats down to examine one more closely. Her bedroom walls are covered with drawings she has done of cowries, trochus shells, crab claws and the like.

  She reaches the end of the beach where it begins to give way to the rocks. A fish skeleton catches her eye. Bluebone, she’s pretty sure, good size too. Lost in these idle thoughts, she is taken by surprise at the greeting.

  ‘’Ello little one.’

  The scratchy, singsong lilt is immediately recognisable as Teoh Tom’s. She whirls round, and there he is standing atop a rock, with his callused feet, bandy legs, fluorescent green shorts and a raggedy, faded singlet. He has a shock of white hair and a mad, lop-sided grin that looks more like a leer than a smile. There is a machete dangling at his hip, and he is brandishing a short length of bamboo with a wicked looking spike wired to one end. A Coke can is impaled on the spike.

  If Eagle Beach is Jirroo territory, then Three Mile Creek and the tangled wilderness of mangroves beyond it is Teoh Tom’s domain. This little stretch from the rocky point to the creek mouth is common ground. The kids know they are free to go crabbing there, as long as they don’t get too close to his camp, or cross over the creek to his main fishing ground.

  Teoh Tom and his older brother before him have lived in the camp by the creek since before the war. They came from the Philippines to work the luggers, back in the old days.

  The kids are well aware of Tom’s obsession for keeping his territory free of the debris of modern life. At the back of his camp are mounds of cans, plastic, and assorted rubbish he has carted home over the years. To others his camp looks like a rubbish dump, but he would rather have it there than littering the bush or the beaches.

  Teoh Tom is hopping about on the rock, waving the Coke can at Tich. ‘This one belongin’ to you?’ Tich knows the old man is no threat, but that doesn’t mean she has to like him. Quite apart from his weird appearance and rumours about his magic, he’s always popping up out of nowhere like this, scaring the wits out of her.

  ‘Your rubbish? Hey?’

  She shakes her head nervously. ‘N-n-not mine, Teoh … I got to go now.’ She turns and runs back down the beach, telling herself not to be scared. But she is relieved to see the others — and Buster with them.

  Buster is pacing along the shoreline. He is barefoot, his hands are clasped behind his back and his head is bowed. The kids hover around him, keeping pace with his strides.

  ‘How far do they go, Nyami?’ asks Janey.

  ‘Right up,’ the old man answers.

  He begins to stamp his feet hard and deep into the sand. With each stride, he calls, in a heavy tone, ‘Peg … peg … peg … peg.’

  He stops his pacing and turns to face the sea. ‘All the way. They stop right there in the rocks where Old Man Jiir the eagle is livin’.’

  The kids step back to give him some space. They exchange anxious looks. ‘So what will happen?’ Janey asks.

  Buster clearly has only half his mind with the kids, ‘Nothin’ yet. That’s only little pegs. If they make a road though, somethin’ like that, and they wake up old Jiir …’

  He leaves the sentence unfinished. The stillness hangs heavy until they all turn at the sound of Tich calling for her nyami as she charges up the beach. Buster squats and spreads his arms, wrapping them around her as she runs into him. ‘What’s up, Tich my girl?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she shakes her head, panting for breath.

  Buster is not convinced. ‘Nothing?’

  Tich looks at him. ‘Teoh Tom. He reckons I was chucking cans on the beach.’ She sounds offended at the very thought.

  ‘Don’t you worry about old Teoh Tom. He’s all right.’

  Now that the spell of silence is broken, Janey starts quizzing Buster again. ‘What about that sacred sites law?’

  Buster snorts, but Janey presses the point. ‘Places like Jiir Rock are protected aren’t they? No-one’s allowed to damage them?’

  Buster’s words have the resigned tone of someone who has learned by hard experience. ‘You can’t trust that whitefeller law Janey. It’s always changin’.’

  4

  THE DREAMERS ARE on a low bandstand set up in front of a cluster of palm trees. Col sits calmly underneath his black hat, drumsticks in hand. Eddie and Little Joe are pretending to tune their guitars. Eddie can feel the pressure of the scrutiny from up above, and keeps glancing anxiously at the entrance. According to Andy’s phone call from the roadhouse, he should have been here half an hour ago.

  The scrutiny is coming from Big Al, surveying his domain. Alan Steer is his full name, but people would have to stop and think if you used it. Everyone in Broome knows him simply as Big Al. He started as a ringer on the cattle stations. Owned one himself at the age of twenty-three, and a dozen by the time he was thirty. Now in his fifties, he’s got a finger in most of the pies worth anything in Broome town. But the jewel in his crown is the Bay View Hotel.

  Big framed, big bellied, with a flash cowboy shirt and hat like he’s dressed for a rodeo, Big Al is leaning on the balcony rail outside his office. High up on Kennedy Hill, the balcony looks out over the garden bar and an expanse of green lawn fringed by flower beds and bougainvillea. His latest improvement has been a deck looking out where the hill tumbles down to the mangrove-lined foreshore. Sitting there, you feel like you are almost in Roebuck Bay.

  On full moon nights you can’t get a seat on the decking. The hotel guests grab the prime seats hours in advance so they can watch the famous Stairway to the Moon. The rising moon lights up the ripples of water at low tide, and a golden pathway stretches right across the bay.

  No full moon tonight though. There’s something else to keep the tourists happy — the Dreamers’ regular golden oldies gig. On the balcony Big Al is drumming his fingers impatiently. Mack, his chief henchman, glances across at him. Mack has a mean face with a slit of a mouth; his slight build is emphasised by the size of his boss.

  Next to Mack is the number two offsider, Horse. He’s keeping a nervous eye on his son Pony. Pony and his friend Michael aren’t really meant to be up here, but they’re enjoying the feeling of being above the crowd in the boss’s eyrie.

  ‘Not a bad crowd,’ Mack offers.

  ‘Lot of locals and the show’s running late,’ Big Al answers sourly.

  Mack tries to cheer him up. ‘Tourist bus just pulled in. They’ll be in for a drink and a listen once they’re unpacked.’

  Big Al leans across to snap at Horse, ‘Roost those Jirroo kids off that front table will you. Those spots are for the tourists. And keep an eye on old Micky — check he’s not making a nuisance of ’imself.’

  Down below, unaware of Big Al’s attention, the Jirroo boys are eavesdropping on Nyami Micky. Micky is up to his old trick of cadging drinks from the tourists by entertaining them with tales of the pearling days. They get value for money though, and some of the tales are even true. Dancer and Buddy are only half listening. Their attention is on the entrance; they haven’t seen their dad for two weeks now.

  They see Horse coming in their direction. But before he can get close enough to growl at them they are running, Buddy in the lead.

  Andy is out of breath as he stands, guitar case in hand, scanning the crowd. He hardly acknowledges Janey’s greeting, but his face lights up as he sees Buddy and Dancer racing towards him.

  Buddy leaps into his father’s arms and Andy juggles his youngest son as he reaches out to tousle Dancer’s hair. ‘Sorry boys. Trouble with the truck.’ He brushes dust from his shirt. ‘Didn’t even have time to change. I better get up there.’

  He’s not the only one who thinks so. Big Al has come downstairs. ‘Get a move on will you. The music was supposed to start half an hour ago. This isn’t a
benefit. I pay you guys good money and I expect you to start on time.’

  Andy starts to explain but Big Al cuts him short. ‘Gawd, look at the state of you. You back on the grog or something Andy?’

  Andy glares at Big Al, stiffening with anger. But he bites his tongue. The real test of Andy’s capacity to restrain himself is not Big Al though, but Georgie Jordan, who has appeared with Michael and Pony. He has heard Big Al’s jibe, and is smiling broadly at Andy. Buddy, bubbling with rage, steps in front of his father. ‘Dad gave up drinking years ago. Everyone knows that.’

  Big Al is already walking away, but the Jordans can’t resist twisting the knife. Michael leans in and leers at Buddy. ‘Wooh, touchy.’

  Georgie, his eyes fixed on Andy, says, ‘That’s not what I hear, Buddy boy.’ There is a hatred that burns in his look, a fierce emotion that goes far deeper than the jousting that takes place between his son Michael and Andy’s two boys.

  Andy steps forward so he is standing almost on Georgie’s toes as he hisses at close range, ‘That’s a lie Georgie, and you know it’s a lie.’

  Georgie enjoys the reaction. He holds his ground with a challenging look. It is Dancer who breaks things up. He puts a hand on his father’s arm. ‘Come on Dad, it’s not worth it.’

  Buddy’s blood is up though. He is searching for words he can get away with in this public place. Dancer calls warningly, ‘Buddy,’ and he slowly backs away, giving the finger to Michael, whose mocking enjoyment of Buddy’s anger is an echo of his father’s.

  Big Al has moved away from the confrontation, but not very far. Something has caught his attention. He stops in the shadows of a pillar to get a better look. He is staring at Tich with a fixed look of barely suppressed excitement.

  Near the table where Janey is helping Ally and Mary taking the entrance money, Bella has set up a folding chair next to her old pal Rosa. Tich is settled happily in her mimi’s lap, wearing the pearl shell pendant and tracing the lines of the pattern on the shell with a finger. She looks up for a moment and sees Big Al staring at her. She turns away from him quickly, unsettled by his strange look.