by Clare Atkins
But I don’t get the chance. Lilaba races towards us. “Go. We’re going to Momu’s house.”
“Why?”
“Women’s dance.”
I’m suddenly nervous. “I’ll just watch.”
Lilaba shakes her head, firm and decided. “Momu said to bring you too.”
*
We sit outside Rripipi’s house in her newly fenced yard. I watch as the smalls skip away to line the side of the road with wreaths and flowers. We sit for ages. One of my knees is touching Nona’s. I want to say something, but the moment has passed. There are too many people here now. Too many ears listening. I don’t want to embarrass her. I don’t want to embarrass myself.
The afternoon greys into evening, then glows into dusk.
Finally, the men approach, playing yiḏaki and bilma and singing. Nerves kick in as the ladies stand and start to dance. My hands are shaking. Nona gestures, indicating for me to follow. I try to copy her movements, flicking my feet in the warm red dirt. My hands make small dusting motions as we walk down the street. Before I know it, we’re back at the buŋgul ground, but this time I’m on the stage. Me and the ladies. Fluorescent lights illuminate our every move. They’re so bright that I can’t see beyond them, but I know there are hundreds of people watching from the darkness.
My stomach is churning. I’ve never been a performer. When we were little, Nona used to make up dances with Sheree and Minhala and other girls after school. Sometimes they’d perform them before the football games. I was given the job of operating the CD player. I’d stand back, happy to watch Nona shine. Her choreography was passionate and fun. She could do an incredible Michael Jackson impression. Her performances drew small crowds.
And now here I am on the buŋgul ground beside her. Someone shoves a wreath into my hands, and the clapsticks change from slow beats to a frantic hammering, faster and faster. The smalls and Nona take off, running, crouched low, their hands twisted in front of their faces. I have no idea what’s going on. I try to shrink back, hiding behind the old ladies. I spot my mum, but she’s over on the other side of the huddle of dancers.
Nona darts back in next to me, indicating the shelter with her lips. I realise she’s telling me I have to put the wreath out there. It suddenly looks miles away. I start to panic. Nona’s eyes are kind but amused. She gestures again. I tell myself it’s okay. I’ll just go quickly. I dart forward and hear Rripipi yell, “Wait! It’s not your turn!”
I blush, embarrassed, before realising she’s yelling at the other girls too. I’ve been concentrating so hard I hadn’t noticed. From the outside, these dances look harmonious and calm. But here, in the middle of things, it is busy, chaotic and loud. Instructions fly, crashing into each other mid-air.
Rripipi yells at me again, “Mätjala! Now!”
I rush forwards and hear her holler, “Dance properly!”
I try to mimic the other girls as I dance to the shelter and deposit my wreath. Some of Nona’s cousins are there to receive it. I spot Nona and hurry back to her side. She gives me a small smile of approval. I feel warm inside.
The music changes. The beat slows. The yiḏaki sends out mournful vibrations. I realise the older ladies have rocks in their hands. They must’ve picked them up while we were dancing. I can’t help staring as they start bashing the rocks on their heads in time with the bilma. I see blood. I look over at Nona, alarmed, but she’s in her own world now, hitting her bowed head with a closed fist. It’s the same action as the old ladies but not as brutal. I start to copy her, and we sink down to the ground. We sit cross-legged, thumping our skulls.
And then I hear it: the sound of a soul tearing into the night. A cry pierced with grief. I don’t need to look to know it’s Guḻwirri. From beside me, I hear Nona join in. The sound is terrible and primal. An aching, keening question to the world: Why?
I feel their pain inside me. I feel it exploding. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rripipi throw herself forward onto the ground. It is like when Bolu died, but worse. Her body hits with a sickening thud. Women help her up, but she throws herself forward again and again and again. Her body lies, looking soft and broken on the earth.
And then the music stops.
*
Sand thumps onto the coffin. The minister, Stretch’s dad, says soft prayers in a blend of Yolŋu Matha and English. Song pierces the still evening air. The men’s voices are thundering and deep; the women’s, high and warbly. I remember what Nona told me when we were kids. They are singing Lomu home. Home to heaven, or his homeland, or both.
Nona sits beside me, her voice blending in and out of the others. Tears stream down her cheeks, dark rivers of sorrow.
I murmur softly. “Wherever he is, I hope he’s found your dad.”
A small, sad flicker of memory crosses her face. “Maybe they’re fishing together in Bawaka.”
Our eyes meet and, in that moment, we are so close we are breathing together.
The singing trails off. People rise slowly to their feet.
Nona holds my gaze. “See you tomorrow?”
I hesitate, confused. I thought the funeral was over.
She says, “Bukulup, you know? Where they wet you?”
Hazy memories resurface. “Am I supposed to come? Is it for everyone?”
“It’s for family.”
Her voice is laden with meaning. She’s giving me a chance to start over.
Rripipi has heard us. “It’s not just for family. It’s for people who’ve handled the body. Or anyone who’s felt grief or wants to be cleansed.”
I hold Nona’s eyes with mine, like two small hands clenched together in the dark.
“I’ll be there. What time?”
*
I stand in a row of people, behind Dad, in front of Mum. Jimmy is at the front, holding a long green garden hose. He hollers to Yumalil, who turns it on at the tap. A weak stream trickles out, pooling in the red dirt at his feet.
He yells again. “Bulu!”
She gives the copper tap a few more twists. The stream becomes a small fountain. The line starts to move slowly forward. One by one, faces and bodies are drenched. Cleansed. The men are first, the pallbearers and dancers. Aiden is amongst them. I watch as water soaks his blond curls. He raises his face to the spray and steps forward, before emerging out the other side, dripping and smiling.
I see Lilaba scamper past and wave her to my side. “Where’s Nona?”
“Went back to Gikal.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
I feel myself deflate. I wanted to do this with her, side by side. “But … she said she was going to be here – just yesterday …”
“Her mukul is really sick. Too sick to come to the funeral, even. Last night she called. Nona went with Stretch and his dad.”
“What about the cleansing?”
“Momu says she’ll just have to smoke any meat she eats until she can do another bukulup.”
In front of me, Dad shakes his wet head like a dog, spraying a shower of drops over everyone nearby. Mum laughs, but I can’t bring myself to smile.
A voice says, “Yapa.” But it’s not the voice I want to hear. It’s Jimmy, gesturing me forward. I step towards him and feel the beat of water hit my skin. It’s warm from the sun. He raises the hose and lets the water thunder down on my head. It drenches everything, from my eyelashes to my thongs. I feel small rivulets trickle down my body, seeping into every crevice and pore.
I thought I would feel released and whole.
I thought it would feel like I was starting again.
But Nona’s not here, and I don’t and it doesn’t.
37.
2007
Selena’s voice sounds tinny on the phone. “You coming to Nick’s party on Saturday?”
“I don’t know.”
She tries to wheedle me into it. “You have to. Everyone’s going.” She takes a guess at my hesitation. “You’re not mad at Nick for taking Tiffany to the formal, are you?”
>
I think about it for a moment and realise I’m not. I’m really not.
Selena continues, “I swear, they hardly hung out at all. Nick was with his mates all night.”
I say, “It’s not that. I’m just not sure I’m ready for a party, you know, because of the funeral.”
I feel like I’ve been living in another world. The dancing. The stories. The sense of family. The contrast of life and death. It makes this party seem frivolous. Of course I can’t say that to Selena.
She says, “I thought Nick said you were coming back to school.”
“I am. On Monday.”
“So that’s perfect. You can ease back into things on Friday night. Catch up on the goss.”
I’m silent.
“Come on, Rosie. This is a big deal, Nick finishing Year 12. He really wants you to be at this party. I mean, he hasn’t wanted to pressure you, but it means a lot to him, I can tell.”
I know she’s right. Nick has been amazing. He hasn’t pushed me at all about coming, just let me know the option is there. I want to go, for him, but I’m scared. Scared of what, I don’t know. My mind flip-flops between yes and no, stay home or go. I say, “I’ll think about it.”
*
Mum leans against my bedroom door. I’m brushing my hair, starting to get ready.
She says, “You look beautiful.”
“I don’t feel beautiful.”
She hesitates, then says, “I’m sure Nick would understand if you didn’t feel up to going.”
“I know. This is my decision.” For the first time ever, I add, “Pick me up at eleven?”
Mum laughs. “Someone scrape my jaw off the floor! No arguments, then? No negotiating?”
“Nope.”
She fiddles with some flaking paint on my doorframe, trying to look disinterested. “I didn’t know if you and Nick were still together …”
Irritation flares. “Well, we are, Mum. And tonight is a big deal. He’s finished school forever. And I’ve already missed so much. The least I can do is go to his party.”
Mum raises her hands in surrender. “Okay. Fair enough. I just thought –”
“Well, don’t.”
She reaches out to hand me something she’s had clenched in one fist. I take it and hold it up. It’s a dress of plain calico, adorned with bells and colourful tassles. I try not to gag or laugh. “When did you get time to make this?”
“I didn’t make it. It used to be mine, when I was young. Can you believe it?”
I pretend to admire it, as she continues: “Talking to your Dad about the old times reminded me I still had it. I don’t have much from those days, but I kept this for you. Try it on.”
I slip the dress on, over the top of my singlet top and shorts. It fits perfectly.
“Wow. If your dad could see you now …”
He flew out this morning.
Mum is beaming. “Lucky the ’70s are back in.”
“Are they?”
Her face falls. “Oh, you don’t have to wear it. I mean, if you don’t like it. I just thought … I know you love it when I make you clothes. You have ever since I made those matching pants for you and Nona when you were little … but, as you know, I haven’t had time. It’s been so exhausting with the funeral and your dad staying and work …” She looks suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry, you don’t need to hear all this.” She starts again. “I thought you might want something special to wear.”
She’s trying so hard I can’t bear to say no.
I say, “Thanks, Mum.”
I hug her.
She hugs me back, squeezing like she doesn’t want to let go.
*
I arrive at the party feeling conspicuous, and not just because of what I’m wearing.
Mrs Bell ushers me in, exclaiming loudly, “Wow, would you look at that dress! It reminds me of when I was a girl.”
I try to sound upbeat. “Yep, it’s original ’70s.”
She looks impressed and thrusts a party pie into my hand as I follow her through the lounge room and out to the back garden. They’ve gone to a lot of effort. The trees are smothered in fairy lights and citronella torches smoulder, keeping mosquitos at bay. The pool glows translucent blue. Girls wearing bikinis splash in and out. Most of the boys are near the bar. The line for drinks looks about three bodies deep. Daft Punk is pumping from speakers strategically placed around the yard.
Mrs Bell weaves through the crowd, to where Nick and his dad are setting up a keg in the back corner. “Nick. Look who’s here!”
His face lights up. “Hello, stranger.” He kisses me on the lips.
Selena appears from nowhere. “Oh my God. Do you want to come to my room and get changed? You should’ve texted. I could’ve met you out the front.” She drags me off to her room before too many people see me. “I can’t believe your mum made that …”
I don’t bother correcting her.
She opens her wardrobe, and designer dresses bulge out. She indicates for me to have a look, but my heart’s not in it. What I wear doesn’t seem important. I’m waiting for her to ask me about the funeral or how I’ve been or what I’m feeling. But she doesn’t. She just asks, “Do you want sexy or sophisticated?”
“You choose something.” I feel numb, as if I’m not really here.
She claps her hands like an excited kid. “Oh good. I love it when you let me choose.”
She selects a low-cut dress in pale pink. It’s something out of a David Jones catalogue, something I would never usually wear, but I can’t be bothered arguing. I slip it on.
Selena says, “Did you see who’s behind the bar?”
“I didn’t get a chance –”
“The Elites.”
I don’t get it. Selena’s hated the Elites ever since they kicked her out.
“Steph was hinting that they wanted to come. Like, major big fat hints. She even offered to be in charge of making cocktails. So I relented and invited them.”
“Since when is it ‘Steph’?”
Selena shrugs and grabs my hand. “Come on. You look wicked. Let’s get us a margarita.” She drags me back outside into the crowd.
I feel myself swallowed up by the music and noisy chatter.
*
I drink. Selena’s right. The margaritas are good. I stand sipping as she giggles and gossips with the Elites by the bar. “Steph” and her followers are all dressed immaculately in short skirts, singlet tops and fake tans. They flirt with the Year 12 boys and laugh a bit too loudly.
I look around for Nick and spot him near the now-set-up keg. He told me a few nights ago that his dad was buying this especially for the occasion, like some kind of strange male peace offering. A sign that he’s proud, despite Nick not going to uni.
I make my way over, hoping we’ll get a moment alone, but Nick is mid-conversation with Reggie and Matt. Some Year 11 girls stand next to them, hanging off their every word. I think they’re the same ones from Libby’s party, so long ago.
Reggie is smirking. “Some dickhead broke into our house today.”
“Yeah? What’d they take?”
“Petrol from the mower and a pair of thongs.” Laughter from the girls as Reggie says, “Yolŋu for sure. Left my iPod just sitting there.”
Matt chuckles. “Too funny.”
Nick throws me a nervous glance. “Guys …”
Reggie just looks at him. “What? It was sniffers. They cut the hose too – right in the middle. That’s the part that gave Dad the shits. You should’ve heard him. ‘Why couldn’t they take it from the end so I could still use the damn hose? Fifty-dollar hose, that.’”
Nick says, “It’s not like he can’t afford a new one.” He’s trying to move the conversation on, but Reggie doesn’t take the hint.
He looks straight at Nick. “It’s like you were saying about the lookout – they just do whatever the hell they want, like they have some supreme right. Someone should tell them how the world really works.”
Nick looks frozen to
the spot. He doesn’t meet my eyes. I want to feel surprised that he said this, but I don’t. I just feel sad. I pull on his hand. “You got a moment?”
He lets me lead him away from the group, looking guilty as he asks, “What’s up?”
I don’t want to get into an argument, so I try to keep it simple. “My head’s not in party mode. Sorry. I might call Mum, ask her to pick me up.”
His body sags. “You can’t be serious.”
“I just … with the funeral …”
“I told you, you didn’t have to come.”
“I wanted to be here. It’s just that, now that I am … I don’t know.”
His face softens. He pulls me into his arms. “At least let me drive you home. I’ve barely seen you.”
“It’s your party. You can’t leave.”
“It won’t take long.”
“Are you okay to drive?”
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
I hesitate, then nod. I want to tell him everything that’s happened. I want to make him understand. I want to feel his arms around me, hear him say everything’s okay.
I follow him back into the house to get his keys.
Reggie is stuffing his face with chips from the snack table. He sees us pass. “Nicko, where you going?”
“Just a quick drive out to Yirrkala.”
Reggie looks interested. “Yeah? Maybe we’ll come.” He calls across the room. “Matty boy, you up for that little mission?”
“What – now?”
“Why not?”
“I’m a bit pissed to drive.”
“Nick’s giving us a lift, aren’t you, mate?”
I shoot Nick an uneasy look. What are they talking about? Why do they want to come? I just want to be with him. I want to block the world out. I want to block us in.
We’re on the front lawn now. Nick turns back to them. “Fellas. Another time. I’ve got to drop Rosie home.”
“So drop her, then we’ll do it.”
I ask, “Do what?”
There’s steel in Nick’s voice. “Not now. We want to be alone. Rosie’s been away –”
“For the two-week funeral? What a bludge. I might need to go to one of those.”
“Shut up, Reggie.”
Reggie sees he’s serious and stops walking. “Bloody lovebirds.”