by Clare Atkins
When the waters will be one
Treaty yeah treaty now…
We sit together and listen.
*
I cradle the phone and speak as quietly as I can. I can hear Mum rattling around, washing dishes in the kitchen.
“Dad … can I come and visit you some time? In Yilpara?”
There’s silence on the other end. Not the reaction I was expecting – or needing.
I prompt, “I was thinking … maybe when you fly back after the funeral.”
“Won’t you still have school?”
“Well, in the summer holidays, then.”
His voice sounds strained. “That’s not the best time of year to come.”
“I know that but –”
“We don’t have air con.”
“We don’t have air con here either.”
“The build-up in Yilpara is stinking hot. And then if the wet starts there are heaps of mosquitos.”
“I know what the weather’s like in December, Dad.”
“It’s not that I don’t want you to come …”
But that’s what it sounds like, and it hurts. I’m confused. Why doesn’t he want me to visit? I stayed with him in Gapuwiyak, but I’ve never been to Yilpara. He only transferred there a few years ago. I thought he’d be pleased I want to come. I catch sight of my reflection in the bedroom window. I look thin and pale.
“Rosie, I know you’ve been having arguments with your mum.”
“What …? I think I liked it better when you guys didn’t talk.”
“Look, it’s normal. You’re a teenager. But if you’re trying to run away from that –”
“I’m not. I just want to visit my dad.”
“It’s not a definite no. Just let me discuss it with your mum.”
“It’s your decision, not hers.”
“I know that. And … I’ll think about it, okay?”
My eyes are hot and prickly. I blink, hard, to keep the thunder storm of tears at bay.
*
I draw the trunk first, curving up and around the hollow in the centre. Then the branches, reaching up like arms to touch the sky. Then the roots, long and dripping, thick and sinewy enough to swing on. I don’t need to go and look at the banyan tree to know its shape, its form. Nona and I used to play there all the time, near the buŋgul ground, where they do ceremony and bury people. We would climb as high as we dared, or until an adult told us to come down.
I use charcoals in ten different shades of brown, and blur them into grey and green. The roots become hair, wiry like her afro. And under that, the earth becomes her face. Not as it is now, etched with worry and years of grief, but as it was when Nona and I were young. Round. Plump. Vibrant, with an open smile and browning teeth.
It is Rripipi. My momu. It is what her name means: the place in the hollow of the banyan tree, amongst the roots. A place of safety.
*
Nick catches up with me as I’m heading to the bus. “Hey, I was thinking, I’ve got work this arvo, but maybe you could come and do laps. I finish at four. We could hang out after.”
His expression is sweet and hopeful. I’ve been distant lately and we both know it. He thinks it’s about the death. I know it’s about more. But I don’t want to get into it now, so I say, “I’ve got lots of homework.”
I see a flicker of hurt in his face. His joke comes out as a snap. “Hey, I’m the one in Year 12. Exams start next week, remember?”
I try to keep things light. “Then maybe you should study too. In case you change your mind about uni.”
“That’s not going to happen.” Nick kicks at the concrete. “When am I actually going to get to see you, Rosie?”
I feel bad. “It’s not that I don’t want to hang out, it’s just … the funeral starts tomorrow.”
“Where is it?”
“In Yirrkala.”
“What time?”
I realise he’s picturing a Western ceremony, with people dressed up in suits, and a priest. The kind where people stand around and cry for a few hours, then go home.
I say, “These things can go on for weeks, sometimes months.”
“Well, which bits are you going to?”
“All of it.”
“You serious? So you’re going to be missing school?”
I nod. He looks disappointed and annoyed and confused all at the same time. I can see him searching for the words, wondering what to say. Eventually, he comes out with, “Well, tell them not to take too long, okay?”
“Nick …”
“I’m joking. I just … I’ll miss you, Rosie. I already do.”
He moves closer and kisses me oh-so-gently on the lips. Something inside me starts to melt, then I hear a car honk from across the road. I look over and see my dad grinning at us from the driver’s seat of mum’s troopie. What is he doing here?
I start to blush as he jumps out and makes his way towards us. “You must be Nick. Great to meet you, mate.”
He pumps his hand enthusiastically. Nick looks bemused. He’s probably wondering where this mad bushman came from. Dad is dressed in khaki shorts and a Garma T-shirt from 2001. His chin is covered in stubble and his hair is greying, pulled back in a thin twist of ponytail. His nose is sunburnt red: the dusty Akubra on his head can’t be too effectual.
He sees Nick’s confusion. “Oh, sorry. I should’ve said. I’m Rosie’s dad, Pete.”
“Um, right … Nice to meet you.”
“Just up for the funeral.”
Nick nods. He’s taking this pretty well. I’m gaping like a goldfish.
Dad grins. “Thought I’d surprise you, pick you up from school … Surprise!”
I force a laugh, wishing he or Mum had warned me.
Dad says, “Why don’t we all go and grab a coffee? I’ve heard so much about you, Nick, and I only come up here now and then.”
I jump in quickly. “Nick’s got work.”
It’s not that I mind them meeting, and Dad seeing me kiss Nick is embarrassing but hardly a disaster, but I know if we sit down and talk, the three of us, it won’t be pretty. Dad will work out I lied; he and Nick have nothing in common. He’ll think all the crap Mum’s no doubt told him is true, and maybe some of it is. I don’t know how I feel about Nick right now. I mean, I love him. I understand him. But I don’t always like what comes out of his mouth.
Nick smiles at Dad, eager to please. “I finish at four.”
Dad’s grin widens, as he turns back to me. “Great. We can go for a swim, I’ll buy you an ice-cream, then we’ll grab that coffee – and be home in time for dinner with your mum.”
“I have homework, Dad –”
“Stuff homework. You’re outvoted. Nick and I agree, don’t we, mate?”
“We do.”
*
The Irish waitress at the Walkabout brings our order over. We’re at the cafe out the back of the motel. “Two cappuccinos and an iced coffee?”
The iced one is for me. I’m happy with my choice. Dad insisted on sitting outside, where there’s an undercover area with tables and chairs. The fans aren’t working and we’re all coated in a thin sheen of sweat. I’m so on edge I’d be sweating even if we were sitting in ice-cold air conditioning. I feel like I’m picking my way through a minefield, trying to keep the conversation on safe ground. So far it’s been okay. We’ve stayed in neutral territory, polite questions like what Nick’s planning on doing after school (teaching swimming) and how long Dad’s been a teacher (about fifteen years).
The waitress looks hot, her pale skin flushed red. She shoves the drinks onto the table. Chocolatey foam spills onto saucers. She ignores it and stalks towards the motel pool.
There’s a Yolŋu mum there with three kids, about to go for a swim.
The waitress leans over the metal fence. “You lot eating here?”
“Bought some chips.”
“You need to have a meal to swim.” Not even her beautiful lilting accent is enough to make it sound friendly.
/> She moves back inside, scowling. The family start to gather their things. No arguments. No fuss. Dad shakes his head and mutters, “Shame job.”
I brace myself, and sure enough it comes.
“They’ve got to have rules.”
Dad looks at Nick, unsurprised. In that moment, I know Mum has told him everything. All her thoughts and fears about Nick. Her attempts to get us to spend less time together. Dad says, “Do you think if we wanted to swim, they’d let us?”
Nick shrugs. “That’s different.”
“How?”
Nick knows how much I admire my dad, but I’ve never heard him lie about his opinions, and he doesn’t start now. He says, “Well, they’re different, for a start.”
“How are they different?”
I hate Dad at this moment. It seems like a carefully laid trap. I try to interject. “Can we talk about something else?”
“In a sec, Rosie.”
Nick meets Dad’s gaze, head on. “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not ’cause they’re black. I’m not racist.” He struggles to find the words. “It’s just their culture … it’s totally different to ours.”
“Everyone’s different – the Tongans, Africans, Iraqis …”
“Yeah, but they still live like us, in normal houses in town. Their kids all go to school. They want to learn English and get jobs.”
Like the true teacher he is, Dad says, “Well, let’s deconstruct that –”
I’m mortified. “Dad!”
But he ignores me. “The housing thing for a start. I admit, most of the houses in Yirrkala …” He shrugs. “They’re awful. They are. But there’s twenty people living in some of them. And they’re old. They were built when I was a kid. I grew up out there, did Rosie tell you that?”
“No.”
“It was a mission. My parents were with the church. They taught English.”
Nick shifts in his seat. “Well, I think that’s good. They should learn English.”
“I agree. Yolŋu elders do too. But they also want to be strong in their own culture. Their own language.”
I can tell Nick’s out of his depth. He retreats to more familiar ground. “Dad says the council fix those houses all the time, and they just get trashed again. They don’t look after things. Like their cars. I always see them on the side of the road, broken down or out of petrol.”
“Because people aren’t used to handling money –”
“Yeah, and they waste it on booze.”
My inhalation is so short and sharp it’s audible. I expect Dad to explode, but he keeps his voice low and quiet. “And why do they do that? I mean, it’s a massive generalisation but let’s run with it. People who drink that much are trying to escape reality, or create a new one in their heads.”
I think of me at the lookout party. Before I realise what I’m doing, I nod. Nick sees this and gives me a look, as if to say, Whose side are you on? I stop nodding.
Dad continues. “They’ve had their whole way of living dismantled in three generations. They got lumped with a mine they didn’t want –”
Nick seizes on this. “But they get money for that. Heaps of money. And special treatment, too. Like the kids at our school. They get so much help, a special room, different homework … and they all drop out by Year 10.”
“If you tried to learn in German, you’d probably struggle too.” Nick shakes his head, but Dad continues. “Those kids have real knowledge – it’s just not reflected in the classroom. Take them out bush, and it’s a whole other story.”
I think of our childhood trips to Bawaka and say, “It is pretty amazing how well they know the land, how it’s all connected, the plants and animals, the seasons …”
Dad nods, “And kinship. That’s a complex mathematical concept.”
Nick’s face is a frown. He drains his cappuccino. It has to be cold by now. “I’m not saying they don’t know stuff, or they can’t be nice people … just that they’re different … you know, underneath …”
“We’re all fundamentally human. We all feel, bleed, hurt, love.”
I know Nick’s thinking of Shaniquwa when he says, “It’s not the same. Rosie understands.”
Dad looks at me, not comprehending, as Nick continues, “She told me – it’s Yol-noo and Na-paki – them and everyone else.”
Dad looks at Nick, then back at me again.
There’s a heavy disappointment in his eyes, but he nods and lets it drop.
*
Dad is silent as he drives Mum’s troopie back to Yirrkala. It’s the first time he’s driven me home from school since I was little. It should feel great. My dad is here and he’s acting like a real dad. It’s a shame it comes with parental disapproval.
I stare out the window. The dirt at the side of the road blurs from deep cocoa to bright apricot to white and back again. I see white dhaŋarra flowers in the bush. I think of Lomu and his family. Our family too.
I feel like I need to explain. “Dad …?”
He grunts an acknowledgement that he’s heard.
“I know you didn’t like what Nick said … but some of it is true … at least, it’s true as far as he’s seen in school or town. He’s only been here two years … and he had a bad experience in Sydney. I think it really affected him …”
Dad’s expression is impassive. Blank. At least he’s listening.
“But if you just got to know him better you’d see he’s pretty amazing … he’s fun and funny, and caring and sweet … You saw how patient he was with the kids he’s teaching at the pool. He tries to come across as tough but he’s not … inside, he’s not … inside, he’s just like you and me …”
I realise the irony of what I’ve said too late.
Dad scoffs. “Fundamentally human, eh?”
I don’t know what else to say, so I fall quiet.
The air thickens and greys as we approach a tract of bush that’s being burnt off. Eagles circle and swoop above it, searching for prey. The smell of smoke fills the car. I wind my window up and look out. We pass the edge of the fire. Ribbons of flame dance into green-brown bush, leaving scorched black grass and white ash behind.
As we near the community, Dad says, “I’m not going to lecture you, Rosie. It’s your choice who you go out with. Do what feels right for you.”
The problem is, I don’t know what that is anymore.
*
I walk with Mum and Dad to the buŋgul ground next to the old banyan tree. It seems eerily appropriate that the grandmother clan decided to hold Lomu’s funeral here. The place where we once played. Where Lomu’s life started and ended.
The tree is roped off and the lower branches are covered in shadecloth now. It has become a place of mourning. No-one is allowed to sit or walk under it, or play amongst its dripping roots. I look up at the majestic branches and shudder.
Dad tells me it has already been smoked, Momu’s house too. He heads off to find the men. I follow Mum to a nearby shelter to sit with the ladies. It is just metal poles and a roof of branches and leaves, but it provides shade and relief from the afternoon heat.
Rripipi is sitting on a woven plastic mat, in front of a two-room tent. She’s surrounded by sisters, daughters and grandchildren playing. Guḻwirri sits to one side, staring numbly at the fine orange sand. She looks devastated. Mum sits beside her. I do too.
I see two young women adding water to a cut-off plastic milk container. It is filled with gapan, white clay paste. I watch them mixing it, checking the consistency, and realise it’s the smalls, Yumalil and Lilaba. They must be twelve and thirteen now. Women already. They start to smear the gapan on each other’s faces. A thick white line across the forehead, then a thinner one back over the centre of the skull. Black hair turned white, a stripe like a skunk. Most of the other ladies are already similarly marked.
The smalls make their way towards us. “Hi, Yapa. amaḻa.”
“Hi.”
They look at us, gapan in hand, their faces a question. Mum nods
and Yumalil kneels next to her. Lilaba squats by my side. She is a miniature Nona, just skinnier and shorter. I tilt my face to the sky and close my eyes. Light dances through my eyelids. I feel four bony fingers smear cold, chalky paste on my skin. Across my forehead. Over the top of my head. Hair pulled taut.
I open my eyes as she adds another layer, her eyes full of gentle concentration. She catches me watching her and grins. “Looks good.”
I smile back at her, then look around. Mum and I blend in with the group now, apart from our pale white skin. Despite this difference, I feel part of something.
The sound of a yiḏaki hums from a cluster of men nearby. And suddenly there’s movement. The men walk forward, then dance towards the structure that holds the body. It is a small room, made of black cloth walls pinned to a frame of branches. Flags line the approach, fluttering gently in the breeze. They are the colours of the clans: red, yellow, rainbow, black, white. The men stomp and flick their way towards it, in time with the yiḏaki, clouds of sand erupting at their feet. Their shrieks pierce the evening air, cries of war and grief. Three young boys, each no more than four years old, follow, mimicking the men’s steps.
I catch sight of Aiden, doing his best to keep up. He’s slightly back from the group, copying another young guy. He knows the basic steps, though. His body moves in unselfconscious angular jabs and thrusts. I feel almost jealous. He looks so at ease. The way I used to be.
Just behind him, a group of women are dancing. They twitch their hands and feet in small, precise motions, as if dusting or picking leaves.
Time passes, in a blur of buŋgul and manikay, dance and song. The fabric of the funeral is, of course, death. Grief hangs in the air. Grief at losing someone so young. A brother, a father, a son, a nephew, a cousin. But as I sit there, watching, listening, I realise there are threads of life woven in too. It is a gathering, a celebration, a sending-off. A ceremony to ensure Lomu’s spirit reaches the next world.
People approach and fold me into their open arms. Some I know, or recognise vaguely from childhood. Some I haven’t seen since Bolu’s funeral. Those I don’t know introduce themselves as my aunty, mother, uncle or child. They call me Mätjala, or my skin name, Ŋarritjan. I relearn to respond to these names. They say sorry about my wäwa. I can’t help feeling I haven’t earned their condolences. I haven’t been here. And I wasn’t there for him. He had become a stranger. Like Nona.