Donnie never witnessed the old man sleep. Of a night, when he should have been slumbering himself, he would observe his grandfather quietly from his bed, through the opening between the two rooms. William would lean back in his handmade rocking chair in front of the dying fire, sipping cups of leaf tea and quietly humming to himself. Occasionally, he would reach into the fireplace and take a stick, which he used to light his pipe. As the tobacco flared, Donnie would catch the old man’s face in the light. Fascinated by his brown, wrinkled forehead, long hooked nose and proud moustache, Donnie would wonder at the origins of this mysterious figure. As the flame died, William would blend back into the darkness where, as a dark, dark man, he seemed to Donnie to belong.
As Donnie’s time on the island with Jack approached a year, Jack began to notice his uncle’s failing health. The decline had been slow and gradual but now was very evident, although Donnie was quick to dismiss the matter when it was raised. His one remaining interest was their family’s connection to the island. As time went on, this interest turned to fascination and then to obsession. Jack would accompany Donnie on his expeditions around the island in search of ruins and remnants of the old families’ lives. They filled Jack’s hut with all types of bottles and coins and buttons – treasures that they found or dug up. Donnie discovered a stash of broken inkwells, smothered by a century of discarded pine needles, under the great macrocarpa down by the jetty. He was adamant they once belonged to Lucy Beeton’s school, the first school on the islands for Aboriginal kids.
One unnaturally still afternoon, under a violet, electrified sky and at Donnie’s unrelenting insistence, they searched carefully through the pieces of a stone wall behind the island’s old homestead. At the southern end of the wall, under a piece of glittering basalt, Donnie found a battered jam tin. The tin was so old that the hinges had seized and its lid had fused shut. Donnie’s excitement over the find was contagious and the two practically ran back to Jack’s hut with their find. Lingering thoughts of mortality brought on by Donnie’s fading vigour were forgotten as they held counsel over the opening of the tin. After failed attempts using heat and muttonbird oil as lubricant, they finally cut it open with a rusty can opener.
Inside, bundled in a greasy cloth, was a large handful of gold sovereigns. They were English coins, with dates ranging between 1819 and 1823. The find was worth a fortune – they both knew it. But neither man, for reasons of his own, sought riches for himself. The true value in the find was in the history and the corroboration of their family’s origins. Donnie reckoned that the coins belonged to the original Beeton, the whitefella who came out from London on a tall ship and discovered a relative peace on the islands, with an Aboriginal wife and family. Donnie was truly like a boy who had found where X marks the spot. His body allowed him this triumph and celebrated with a sudden return to health, for a few days anyway.
Then, just as unexpectedly as he arrived, Donnie left.
When Donnie didn’t return one evening, Jack assumed that he had run out of daylight during his now-daily search expedition. But when the next silent evening came, he knew that Donnie was gone. No planes had landed, so Jack reasoned he must have departed, opportunistically, on a passing boat.
His uncle had left behind his bag and his treasures. The only item Jack found to be missing was his best length of rope – his strongest rope, the one they had used to lash their raft. Donnie even left behind his beloved gold sovereigns, which had already dulled considerably since they first opened the tin.
~
Jack picks up the envelope left by the police. His eyes flick past the writing on the front, careful not to read it.
What’s the point of reading it?
It is a letter from Uncle Donnie, of course, with tales of his latest jaunts through Thailand and Vietnam, or musings over his past and his thoughts on being Aboriginal. How he misses his gold coins and, although he wishes he had taken them with him (to show off to his latest lady friend or his mates on the oil rig), he is glad they are still on the island, where they belong. That’s all that will be in the letter. Why should he read it? He’s got far too much to do.
Jack throws the envelope on the fire and walks outside. It is a hot day. He gets on his knees and works in the garden. After a time, he rises and wipes the sweat from his face with the inside of his t-shirt. He stands to full height, with his shirt raised to his chest, allowing the sea breeze to cool his body. His gaze moves across the horizon and over the islands in the distance. He can’t believe the police were on his island, only hours earlier. Did that really happen? If it wasn’t for the letter, now ashes in the fire, it might all have been a dream.
Jack’s gaze lands on his island and sweeps across the dry landscape, past the agave plant on the foreshore and the ruins of William Beeton’s hut, and settles on the dark she-oak forest nearby, where his eyes linger a little longer than he usually lets them.
SUMMER GIRL
You stare at me while I steer the old Holden through the bends. It’s a look that says you will do anything for me – and I know you will. You have proven yourself on sweaty nights and lazy mornings. But not with love, so much as devotion.
‘Where are we going to camp?’ you ask, indicating the choice is mine. ‘I can’t wait until we’re in the tent together.’ You pull your legs up under you, allowing your whole body to face me.
My lower back hurts from the long drive and I stretch forward closer to the wheel and shift my hips from side to side.
‘It’s okay, baby,’ you say. ‘I’ll massage you tonight.’ Your husky tone envelops my brain and trickles down my spine like warm oil.
‘Thanks,’ is all I can manage, under the spell of you. It’s a lame response but you don’t seem to mind.
You spin the dial on the radio. Your fingernails are the colour of ripe eggplant. As each station comes and goes, you watch my face intently. A mishmash of songs assembles out of the ether and dissolves again into the harsh hiss and crackle of static. The drone of a newsreader fades in and out, and something on my face – the slight deepening of the cleft between my eyebrows, perhaps – makes you return to the news channel.
‘Cheers,’ I say. And it is such a thin word, so out of place, when spoken to you.
You smile. The sun behind you, as we reach top of the pass, silhouettes your face and lights up the ends of your stray hairs, like fibres in an optic lamp.
We listen to the announcer give an update on some lost fishermen off the east coast, close to where we are heading. A local gardener comes on and gives autumn planting advice in an accent of red leather and aftershave. Michael Mansell is the next guest speaker. He explains how an Aboriginal treaty in Tasmania could work. He’s really selling it. He makes it all seems so possible, so right.
You trace the barbed-wire tattoo on my wrist with your fingernail. Goosebumps spread to my upper arm, where a full-coloured flag has been deeply etched.
‘I support a treaty,’ you say.
And, oh, do I believe you.
~
We stop for coffee at a general store. It’s one of those country shops – the ones where the family lives out back. A teenage girl, with greasy hair and unbranded clothes, appears from behind an internal door to serve us. I catch a glimpse inside before the door springs shut. Cloth nappies hang on a wire rack before a wood heater – and somewhere further back, a loud American soap is drowning out a whingeing toddler. You order me a long black decaf, delivering the words with confidence. The upturned corners of your mouth betray your pride in remembering how I like it. On the counter, you place two large bottles of water. You tap the top of one with a hard fingernail.
‘This one’s for next to the bed,’ you say with a wink before sauntering out with the goods, leaving me to pay. A bell is strung to the door with rough jute twine. Its jingle, so welcoming upon our entrance, sounds flat and false as the door shuts hard behind you.
~
‘Tell me something,’ you say, when we’re back on the road. You are tucked up on the seat again, facing me.
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. You’re the writer – weave some magic.’
‘Sorry, the gold is for the page,’ I say, winking.
You think I’m joking, but the silent seconds that follow tell you I’m not. You pout and twirl your ponytail around your index finger. Turning back to the front, you find a music station with a song you like. It is ‘Bad Medicine’ by Bon Jovi, and you belt out the words into an invisible microphone. You shake off your sulk, jilting your body to the power ballad like a rock queen. It’s well before your time and I admire, as I have before, your ability to transcend age.
The mood now lightened, I sing along with you. Your thin, tie-dyed skirt has ridden up your legs and is bunching around your hips. You catch me looking at you and take my hand from the wheel and place it on your upper thigh. I hover my palm across the delicate peach fuzz on your bronze, unshaven skin. Your radiant heat is concentrated life: so pure. Everything else is death in comparison.
‘Let’s stop for a while,’ you breathe into my ear.
I don’t reply, but flick on the indicator and crane my neck for the next private place to pull over.
~
‘Any spot you pick will be perfect,’ you say, when we finally reach the coast. You sense my agitation and rub my back as we crawl along the dirt track.
Most of the camp sites are taken – full of families and college kids on their P plates. Dusty mountain bikes (shiny Christmas gifts only days earlier) lie on their sides on the edge of the road. Salt-crusted kayaks lean against the boughs of trees. Wet towels drape over the open doors of expensive 4WDs.
‘Look at this, will you?’ I say, as we pass a large camp, taking up multiple sites. They have created a compound using a shade-cloth wall. ‘I bet one of them came and stuck a couple of little tents up here a few weeks before Christmas to secure this spot. It shouldn’t be allowed.’
You are quiet while we look for a camp site. At the end of the track, you point out a small, gravelled alcove, hemmed in by drooping trees. It is not the pick of the camp sites, but it is empty – and now it is ours. I pull up the Holden and a dust cloud overtakes us. In the mirror, I notice that your cheeks are wet and your eyelashes have clumped together.
‘I’m so sorry,’ you blurt out, before I can react. You take my hand in between yours, rubbing it softly but vigorously, as if time is suddenly limited.
‘For what?’ I ask, cupping your face and swiping at your tears with my thumb.
‘For what my people did to yours.’ Your eyes well up again. ‘You owned all the land and now you have to struggle – like now, just to get a camp at the beach.’ Breaking into a sob, you collapse into me. The fullness of your chest heaves against my shoulder and your fingers dig at my arms in a kind of desperation.
If you could see my eyes right now, it would kill you to witness them roll in irritation. I suppress an annoyed sigh and calmly wait for you to settle. Your breath forms droplets on the skin of my neck and combines with your tears to pool in the hollow of my clavicle. Wanting this over, I bring our foreheads together, creating a space in which nothing but us exists.
‘It’s not your fault,’ I say.
‘You’re so kind,’ you whisper.
~
You walk barefoot around the camp, unconcerned about the bull ants and the broken glass. You are so much braver than me. We erect the tent together, but you refuse to let me help you make the bed. That’s your nest to create – and I’m fine with that.
Teenage boys have taken to riding their bikes right up to our end of the road. They make a show of skidding their tyres and doing tricks in front of our camp. You are good to them, waving and smiling each time they appear. The boys are all whispers and long stares. I admire the way you see the world, without malice and suspicion. You are so vulnerable that part of me wants to shield you, cup you like a butterfly, giving you just enough space to stretch your wings. Another part of me wants to squash you in my fist for being so naive as to land upon my open hand.
‘Could you at least write me a poem?’ you ask, returning to our conversation from the car.
‘Sure.’
‘What will you call it?’
‘How about, “My Summer White Girl”?’
Your face lights up for a moment and then stiffens out, as you search for the meaning within the title. ‘I would prefer just, “My Girl”.’
~
After dinner you run ahead of me on the beach, laughing and doing cartwheels on the hard sand. Your skirt rides up your body, exposing your underwear for brief moments in the remaining sunlight. Campers spread out along the beach, twist their necks to see you: a brief distraction from their seaside comforts. Brand new reclining chairs with cup-holders. Iceboxes full of beer and juice boxes for the kids. Catch-buckets plastered with brand-name stickers, mostly empty. Some have tall surf-fishing rods, their lines reaching far out beyond the narrow channel where the smaller rods are cast, hoping their superior position will bring in the Big One.
You move to the water’s edge, allowing the tide to flow around you. You summon me and I hug you from behind. A warm gust deflects off the sand, making your clothes and your hair swirl wildly. You push back against me. Your flesh is firm and moulds to my body. Directly across from us, a long rock wall is breaking the rollers, creating a haven for boats to access the sea.
‘Where is the Aboriginal heritage around here?’ you ask.
I look upriver, following the edge of the bay as far up as the township of St Helens. Past the camping reserve, it is all private land, with houses and boatsheds built to the shore. Here and there, roughly sawn timber jetties, mottled with pale-green lichen, jut out into the water. The contour of the land has been shaped and manicured. I want to tell you the truth. I want you to know how my heritage along this coast has been bulldozed, smoothed over like warm butter on a crusty scone. The land formed into a fresh, new surface for the wealthy and the privileged to shape as they saw fit. You deserve to know the truth, but you are like a child in some ways. You look at me as a child does a parent, silently begging me to preserve your belief in the good of the world.
And your contentment is more important to me right now than the truth.
‘Let’s see if we can find something tomorrow. There should be some middens up the coast.’
~
Well after dark come the torches. You spot them first, rounding the bend before our beach. As they reach the front of our camp you call out. One of the search party approaches our fire. It’s a police officer in an orange jumpsuit. He is handsome and young, but tired looking. His eyebrows are caked with day-old sunscreen.
‘We’re looking for the missing fishermen,’ he says to you, ignoring me. ‘We think they may have washed up along this part of the coast, possibly alive. We could do with some help in the search.’
Even in the dying firelight, you brighten up – invigorated somehow, by the thought of being useful.
‘Can I?’ you ask.
‘I’ll watch camp,’ I reply.
You take the torch without another word and follow the policeman to catch up with the group, now some way up the beach. I listen until the calls of the search party meld into the roar of the waves on the ocean side of the point.
~
It is late when you return. You enter the tent quietly and undress in the dark. I have been waiting for you. My body, now accustomed to the makeshift bed, is hot and relaxed. You throw the covers over you and curl into a naked ball without a word. The wind picks up, shifting the trees. There is a light zipping sound as she-oak needles snap off their branchlets and slide down the tent. You recoil when I touch you, your skin like ice.
‘I’m so cold,’ you say. ‘I’m sorry. I just need to sleep.’
‘Did you
find anything?’
‘One of them … washed up in the rocks … what was left, anyway.’ You shiver and I know it’s not just the cold.
I should let you sleep but I need you right now. My mind keeps returning to your words in the car.
‘Funny, isn’t it? How the whole world turns out for a couple of white fishermen …’
I let that sit in the blackness of the tent like a malicious entity.
‘… when it was around here that the sealers abducted our tribal women and took them to the islands to be their slaves. And nobody came to their rescue.’
You roll over and press your nose to mine. I can smell the brine of your tears.
‘Shhh, don’t talk,’ I say.
You spread yourself across me, engulfing me completely. You are my summer white girl – my delicate joey, hand-reared. I know that you will always return. You are devoted to me, indebted.
One day I will set you free, but not yet.
After all, summer isn’t over.
DESCENDANT
Ms McGregor cast her eyes around the room. ‘How many students in this class identify as Aboriginal and/or Torres Strait Islander?’
Dorothy snapped a freckled hand towards the ceiling, oblivious to the ugly sweat mark at her armpit. ‘I am.’ She waited, uncaring, for the sniggers to come from the back of the class. And come they did.
The teacher looked straight through Dorothy and surveyed the rest of her Grade Ten social science class. ‘Anyone else?’ she asked with a sigh.
Dorothy waved her arm and wriggled in her chair. She was, after all, the chairperson of the ASPA committee. ASPA stood for Aboriginal Students and Parents Association. She’d convinced the principal to allow her to set up the ASPA committee three years ago, when she was in Grade Seven. She wrote to the Department of Education twice a week for almost an entire year until they eventually agreed to provide the funds.
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