One Place

by Cara Shaw

  “What?” said Balin shocked.

  “He isn’t going to die,” she said. “I know it. I’ll look after him until he’s better.” She stood up, “I’ll go and build a gunyah, and when I’m ready you can carry him over,” and with that she left.

  Wowhely and Balin were mortified. Not only had the girl given them a direct order and spoken to them openly to their faces, she had assumed that the decision was hers to make.

  Wowhely opened his hands helplessly at Balin, “I don’t suppose it makes any difference really Balin, and the girl is crazy – everyone knows it.”

  Balin sighed and put aside his discomfort, “Let her have her way, it won’t matter in the end,” and they carefully stepped around Gudderah who lay totally silent on his possum rug, to get on with their day.

  Later on Alaara came back and asked two of the warriors to carry Gudderah over to her new camp. They obliged by lifting the corners of the skin with the man on it, and depositing him in the gunyah Alaara had built. The whole camp was curious about the arrangement for a while, but as time passed everyone lost interest, as the girl basically tended to the sick man daily and did little else. Weeks, passed. Thinawaal was relieved that Alaara had finally left her camp, and paid no attention to her. Weena had given up trying to make her attend lessons, and wandered over occasionally to Alaara’s camp, good woman that she was, to check on her and give her suggestions about what medicines to give the sick man. Whilst puzzled by Alaara’s behaviour, the tribe could not help noticing the dutiful manner in which she tended to Gudderah. For the first time in her life Alaara listened graciously, and then carried out Weena’s instructions to the last detail. If only Alaara had attended to her lessons with the same diligence thought Weena regretfully, she would be in a much better position.

  Gradually Gudderah improved. After two weeks he was sitting up, possum skin draped around his shoulders, and he kept close to the campfire. Alaara ran back and forth, feeding him honey and mashed yams, plying him with tender morsels donated to her from other people’s hunts. She helped him when he needed to empty his bladder and bowel, holding him around the waist while he leaned on her shoulder to find a private spot where he could do his business. She approached one of the initiated warriors and asked that he come to cut Gudderah’s hair and beard, as she was forbidden to undertake this task. Even Alaara was not silly enough to cross this boundary, as to do so would bring her the worst kind of luck. A generous natured fellow came to her camp and cut the man’s hair, all the while glancing at Alaara who had matured into a desirable young woman. She ignored him and disgruntled he took the hair and beard away to bury and returned to the men’s camp. Gudderah’s bald head and face were scabby and covered in bites, so she rubbed his head with emu oil to clean him up and to heal the marks.

  The older women called a meeting to discuss Alaara’s behaviour. Everything she was doing went against the usual practices of the tribe. Firstly, she was uninitiated and living with a man who was not even a relative; secondly, she was being physically intimate with him by tending to his needs, which was strictly against women’s law as they were unmarried, and she hunted and gathered only for herself and Gudderah, and did not contribute to the rest of the tribe. No one was sure what to do. Weena suggested that she be the one to seek Alaara out and try to talk with her and the others agreed. She found Alaara at the creek, sitting on her heels digging for yams.

  “Alaara,” she called.

  The girl looked at her with her dark eyes, and did not respond.

  Weena crouched down next to her. “I need to talk to you. There has been discussion about you and Gudderah in the camp.”

  “So?” said Alaara, continuing to dig.

  “Alaara,” said Weena gently. “You must not be doing these personal duties for Gudderah. You are unmarried and uninitiated, the way you are behaving is against the law. Now that Gudderah is better, he needs to return to the men’s camp where he will reside until the elders decide what his next course of action should be. You are bringing a great deal of trouble to yourself,” Weena stopped.

  Alaara had ceased digging and was staring at Weena in fury. She leant forward and hissed angrily, “Leave us alone,” and she took the pannier of yams and walked back to her camp. Weena sat back on her heels and pondered over the girl’s response. She felt a shudder of spirit run through her and then she too got up and returned to the women’s camp to talk to the elders.

  “Well?” said one, “What did she say?”

  “Nothing,” said Weena. “This is out of our hands. Best to keep well away.”

  “I suppose,” an older woman replied. “Perhaps the situation will resolve itself.”

  Her words were portentous, for a few weeks later the tribe woke one morning to find that Alaara’s camp was empty, she and Gudderah, who had recently been walking every day and gaining strength, had left. It was Weena who went over to clean the area and pull down the gunyah that Alaara and Gudderah had been living in for months, and she searched the camp for any signs that would give her a clue about the couple’s departure, but could find nothing. Perhaps they have left to start their own tribe she thought, as she tossed the bark strips from the shelter into the bush; and while she was sure that this is what they had decided to do, she was equally sure that they would not be missed.

  The cool season ended. The tribe was growing restless in the warmer weather and new game had started to appear. It was time to leave. The tribe began to pack and clean, and undertook the tasks that would end the cycle of their stay there. Everyone was eager to leave and make a fresh start for the new season. Other babies besides Nerala had been born in recent weeks, and their cries could be heard throughout the camp. On the last day before their departure, Balin had made an extremely good hunt and in the early evening he, Narramaroo, Weena and the children were sitting at the campfire resting together after eating a big meal, while Narramaroo roasted yams to have as a sweet treat. The two girls were playing a bunyip game with Balin, who growled and grabbed at them while they ran around him in circles. Narramaroo, holding the baby, could not stop giggling. Weena, who was trying to put together a special hair belt for one of her friends, although irritated with them all, stayed on as she was waiting for her yam. All of a sudden Kooloona stopped playing and her eyes widened in fright.

  She looked across at an empty spot next to the campfire and rushed into Balin’s lap.

  “Spirit here Daddy!” and she hid her face in his chest.

  Balin stroked her hair softly, “Ah,” he said, joining in the game, “Don’t worry little one, a relative has come to join us!”

  As the words fell from his mouth he felt a cool touch on his cheek, which was not quite right for a warm spring evening and he thought he saw a figure, sitting in the very spot Kooloona pointed out. He drew the little girl further into his lap to comfort her as he turned to chat with Narramaroo and Wyomee. The family ate their yams and Weena retired to the women’s camp so she could concentrate on her task, the others barely noticing when she bustled away.

  For thousands of years and many generations, in the vast and plentiful land, this tribal life carried on for the people who lived in Duradjuri country. Where their lives unfolded in reliable cycles in accordance with nature and spiritual law, and all things – man, nature and the animals were constantly regenerated and reborn. Before others came to take away the sacred land that sustained the insulated and tightly held tribes within the nation. A time when people were free to sing, dance and to make love. When with fierce pride they protected each other and the land that was given to them by their spirit ancestors. The ones who had descended from the sky to make a good life on gondwana, under instruction from the greatest spirit of all, Biamie who loved and cared for each and every one of the tribal people as his own beloved children.

  Chapter Nine

  After Armistice in 1918 Maria continued to work at the hospital even though she was four months’ pregnant. A
lthough the fighting had ceased on November 11 at 11 o’clock of that morning, the wounded streamed unendingly into the packed hospital with more injured soldiers arriving every frantic minute. The last assaults on the final day, the moments of intense combat had driven the casualty rate even higher. Maria never knew how she coped during those last six weeks. On Christmas Eve she collapsed in the mess hall and curled up to sleep on one of the benches. The next day she was awoken by another nurse who offered her a cup of tea and a slice of fruitcake.

  “Merry Christmas,” the girl whispered in her ear.

  Maria sat up eyes glazed, hand resting on her stomach. It would be a miracle if Robbie had survived this last ultimate round of carnage, perhaps his luck had run out after the gas attack. She would have to wait to hear from him. The child in her belly concerned her as well. Her diet had consisted almost exclusively of porridge, tea and hard biscuits since August, and her nurse’s instinct told her the constant bland fare was not enough to nourish a baby. She bore it all for one more week and then arranged a meeting with the Chief Surgeon to hand in her resignation.

  “No, not now,” he’d said. “I can let you go in February though, we’re waiting for the Red Cross to send us more volunteers as it is. I simply cannot spare you.”

  His freezing office was jammed with medical supplies, equipment and hundreds of folders, he was desperately thin and smoked anxiously.

  Maria crumpled. “Sir, I can’t take any more, I’m pregnant,” and she stood there crying pitifully.

  The man softened, “I see. Well that changes the situation somewhat doesn’t it. You must realise, it’s very difficult to lose another pair of hands. Look, I’ll sign you off, and I’ll give the you an orderly’s basic wages so you can travel back to your family.” He patted her on the back. “Be strong, it’s good that a new life is to come into the world after so many have left it.”

  Nodding gratefully Maria swallowed her tears and the surgeon made an appointment for her to see the bursar the next day.

  When her shift ended she walked back along the road to her little cottage at Ho1lebeke. The winter weather had brought in snow drifts which sat heaped on the side of the road and her legs and stockings were soaked. The deceptive white covered everything and masked the wreckage that had once been a pretty town. Robbie had sworn to her that the weather in Australia at this time of year would be burning hot – something she could not even imagine. He said that on Christmas Day his whole mob would jump into the river to cool off, after a big lunch of chicken, damper and potato. She felt her tears well and her whole being yearned for Robbie, simply wanting to lean into him and smell the special scent that resided in his beautiful dark skin. Never in her life had she felt so lost and frightened. The world she lived in now was dangerous and sad, and all sense of stability and structure had been blasted away. Hollbeke existed as a skeleton of a town, there were no people anywhere and the only faces that were familiar to her now were the soldiers, and the exhausted orderlies she worked with at the hospital where everyone was grim and silent. The last time she had laughed or smiled was when she was with Robbie. She reached the stone church and made her way down the slippery side path as she usually did, and in the dusk saw Honoria roosting quietly by the door.

  “Honoria!” she cried, “What are you doing here?” and bent to pick up the old hen to bring her inside.

  It won’t do her any harm to spend the night with me, thought Maria, at least she’ll be warm. When she picked up the bird, its head rolled to the side and Maria saw that her eyes were open. Honoria was dead. Maria stood motionless, holding the hen close to her, its chest still warm. She walked into the barren garden and placed her in the old coop and arranged some of the musty hay around her.

  “I’m sorry,” she kept whispering through chattering teeth, although she wasn’t sure exactly what for, and she returned to the cottage to make tea and eat apples and cheese. That night, stricken with grief over Honoria’s death and at a complete loss as to what to do next, she prayed to God.

  “Please help me, show me where to go,” she pleaded.

  What was she to do? She was alone and pregnant and she couldn’t bear the thought of returning home to face her family. She wasn’t even sure they would accept her back into the home considering the state she was in and she fell asleep, wracked with worry.

  The next day she packed a small bag and walked back to the hospital to collect her pay. The bursar handed over her money and discharge papers and she went to wait in the hospital courtyard, huddling in her coat and stamping her feet against the cold. Dozens of lorries arrived and left this spot every day, and when she saw that one of the trucks carried a tiny French flag she went over to speak to the driver.

  “Where are you heading?” she asked.

  “Lille,” he answered shortly.

  Lille! God had heard her prayers after all – her old friend Yvette lived in Lille and Maria still had her address.

  “Can you take me there?” she said

  “Love, if you’ve got five francs I’ll you to Africa,” he said, and Maria climbed into front of the cab with relief.

  It took them four hours to drive from the hospital to Lille. The roads were boggy and partially blocked by abandoned munitions, buggies and furniture. As they struggled along Maria could see the stories of peoples’ lost lives scattered along the ditches, abandoned prams stacked with clothes, open suitcases, contents wet and ruined. Ordinary people like her, driven to survive in a war that they did not invite or want. The driver was quiet as they travelled, smoked incessantly and took frequent sips from a hip flask he kept tucked by his side. He passed it to her after a while and she gratefully took a mouthful of the surprisingly fine brandy. Black market she thought as the warmth flooded through her. She was thankful, her feet were ice cold, her old leather lace-ups gave no respite from the truck floor which was cold and damp. When they came to the Belgium border a single tired soldier waved them through, and quickly returned a gloved hand to his coat pocket to keep warm.

  The driver dropped her off in a street that was devoid of any signs and littered with rubble and dirty snow.

  “How will I ever find my friend’s apartment?” she said to the driver in dismay.

  The man shrugged. “This is war,” he said and the truck shunted away, spitting out rancid smoke from the exhaust.

  Maria began to walk, it was after lunchtime now and her stomach was beginning to rumble. Lille had once been a fine city, with well-built apartment buildings that lined wide streets and generous plazas. Until the 1600’s it had been a Flemish town, but after a determined offensive France had annexed the profitable border city to bring it under French rule, thereby reserving the right to collect merchant taxes to develop its military. Lille had continued to flourish from the 1700’s onwards and substantial money was spent on solidly designed buildings and business centres that supported the town’s active merchant trade. Handsome facades had once lined relatively well-kept streets, and ornate doorways led to roomy apartments that overlooked cobbled public squares and lane ways. Now, the destruction of war had abnegated the firmly grounded municipal into a disparate series of rubble and bombsites that littered the once busy streets. Maria looked around, helpless. She felt the baby moving inside her and she thought she was going to faint. Shabbily dressed people wandered past her, some carrying baskets, with warm hats pulled low and tightly wrapped scarves.

  She approached an older looking man who wore heavy boots. “Excuse me?”

  He stopped and looked at her kindly.

  “Can you tell me where Rue de Matale is?”

  He gave her the directions, luckily it was nearby.

  “Are you looking for someone?” he asked sadly.

  “Yes,” she replied, “A nurse I worked with in Ypres. She said to come to her if I needed help.”

  “To be honest with you, she might not be there,” he said. “Lille got hit very badly, tho
se who stayed behind are living in basements or sheds. I know one family who’re living in a post office.”

  Maria’s eyes filled with tears, “I’m desperate, I have to find her. I have nowhere else to go.”

  “If you can’t find her, go to the town hall. There’s soup and blankets there, you can stay as long as you want. The Lille Chamber of Commerce set it up to help the city.” He reached into his basket and broke a piece of bread away from his baguette and handed it to her. “Good luck,” he said and he moved on, dark boots tramping wetly in the slush.

  She chewed on the bread as she trudged along, hope draining steadily away as she passed cavity after cavity of decimated buildings. At last she stopped before an apartment building that only had one side blown away, the rest still intact. Feeling foolish, she rapped on the door frame which was covered in burlap. She heard slow footsteps coming towards her and when the burlap was pushed aside, Maria was ready to make one last inquiry before giving up to find refuge at the town hall. A woman’s face peeked around the brown sacking, and her eyes widened in surprise. Maria drew in a sharp breath, it was Yvette.

  “Maria?” she exclaimed.

  Maria sagged a little, “Oh, Yvette, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know that Lille was in such a mess…” and a despairing tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Come inside Maria, you’ll freeze to death. It’s not much but it’s warm,” and she led the way down a dark hallway. They climbed a set of stairs and Yvette took her into a little apartment where red-hot embers glowed in the fire grate, and warm rugs lay on the floor. A pretty dark-haired woman came forward to greet her.

  “Maria, this is my aunt, Julia. Auntie, this is Maria the nurse I told you about, we worked together in Ypres.”

  Julia looked at her in sympathy. “Sit down, let me help you,” and she pushed her gently onto one of the couches and knelt to remove her boots. “I’ll put these in the scullery to dry,” she said kindly, and then wrapped Maria in an old blanket. “Wait, I’ll bring you some soup,” and she exited through a narrow doorway.