by Clare Atkins
There are tears in his voice and in the corners of his eyes.
Maybe everyone who grows up here has their Nona.
*
It is my last night in Yilpara. The campfire is a smash of burning embers and our stomachs are full of stingray and roast potatoes. I sit next to Dad under the wide open sky. He picks gentle melodies on his guitar; they float from us out into the ether. The fading evening light makes the sand glow in pale pinks and mauves. A translucent moon hangs low, kissing the ocean. Along the beach, I can see the glint of other fires, and huddles of families cooking whatever they caught that day.
I lean back on my elbows. “I can see why you like it here.”
Dad puts his guitar down. “Yeah? What do you like about it?”
“You can forget the world exists. When you’re here, it’s all there is. You’re just … being.”
I know Dad understands.
I ask, “Think you’ll stay here forever?”
“Maybe.”
I search for the words. “Dad … how do you know you’re doing the right thing?”
He sounds surprised. “I don’t.”
“But you always seem so sure …”
I’m thinking of Nick, of course. It’s a bad habit that’s hard to quit. Sometimes a few hours pass, then a memory slaps me across the face. Or my thoughts drift back to his grin, his eyes, his laugh. I miss that Nick. I miss him so much it hurts.
I tune back in as Dad says, “I don’t feel sure. Some days I wake up and think we should all just leave. All the Ŋäpaki. Just get out of here and leave the Yolŋu to sort things out. But I know, realistically, that’s never going to happen. So I stay and I teach even though I’m full of questions … Hell, sometimes I think even me teaching English is damaging the culture. But I don’t have any easy answers, Rosie. All I know is the answer is not to do nothing …”
I wonder if that’s where I went wrong. If I’d done something, said something, earlier, would Nick and I still be together? Would Nona and I still be friends? I realise I’ve been paralysed by indecision and fear.
We sit in silence. He is completely at ease with it. He’s been living and working with Yolŋu people for almost twenty years now. I suppose it makes sense that he’s taken on some of their ways. I gaze into the embers until their orange glow is imprinted on my eyeballs. Brightness dances across the darkness wherever I look.
Eventually, he says, “I hope you’ll come down again and meet Muthali.”
“I’d like that.”
Dad looks relieved.
We look up at the stars.
He points out the Milky Way and the Southern Cross. I think of Nick and his tattoo, and Nona and her unborn baby.
I see the red blink of a plane flying over.
*
I wake before sunrise and walk down to the beach. It stretches out in front of me, a gleaming white curve of sand. The ocean is still and quiet. Deep marine blue. I walk just below the dunes. My footprints leave a solitary track.
In the distance, I can see three black figures walking along the water’s edge. They have spears in hand, and a small white dog trails behind them. One of the guys has a familiar strut. As they get closer, I see it is Jimmy. I don’t know the other two. They are all just wearing shorts. No shirts. Their smooth black muscles ripple in the soft light of early morning.
As they approach, Jimmy gives me a nod. I remember Dad telling me he uses the name Batjula now, so I use it and he smiles. He says something to the other guys that includes my name, Mätjala, and the word yapa. The guys nod hello and keep walking. They’re intent on their fishing, but Jimmy walks up the beach and plants his spear in the sand next to me. He squats down, looking out at the ocean. “Dolphins out there this morning.”
“Yeah?”
“Milkie was playing with ’em. Swimming out and diving.”
He indicates the little white dog, who has taken a grateful seat beside him. I smile, using the excuse to look at Jimmy’s face, his eyes. They seem clear. Focused. Healthy.
As if he can read my thoughts, Jimmy says, “Police sent me down here. Too much sniffing. I’m not doing that anymore. Don’t want that.”
“That’s good.”
“Think I might stay down here. There’s good hunting. Good fishing.”
“You mean live down here?”
He nods. “Too much trouble in town.”
I think of the healthy kids here in Yilpara. Their glowing black skin and full white smiles. “Maybe it’s better for you.”
Even as I say it, I think of Nona.
Jimmy says, “Midiku’s out at Gikal now.”
It takes me a moment to remember that Midiku is what brothers call their sisters. He’s thinking of Nona too.
I say, “She told me. At Wäwa’s funeral.”
I can feel his eyes on me. On my face. “She was happy, you know. To come back from Elcho. To go to school again and see you. When she come back, some of the boys was teasing her, ‘Why you want to go to school? Are you woman or a girl? Only little girls go to school.’ But Midiku didn’t listen. She said, ‘My friend Rosie goes there. She the same age as me. She gonna help me.’ And the boys say, ‘Who this Rosie? Yolŋu yäku?’ She told them, ‘Yäku Mätjala but she Ŋäpaki one.’ And they laugh, saying Ŋäpaki is different. But the next day she go anyway.”
I can’t meet his gaze. His story is new to me but I know how it ends. It ends with Nona walking out of a science lab and never coming back. It ends with graffiti on the road near the airport. Nona unable to meet my eyes. Us dancing together, but worlds apart.
I look up at Jimmy and know someone must have told him everything. Nona or Rripipi, probably. I force myself to meet his eyes. “If you see her … can you say … if she wants to study again, I’d like to help. I don’t know how but … if I can …”
Jimmy returns my gaze. “You prob’ly see her before me.”
*
Mum picks me up at Gove airport. I can see the questions in her eyes, but she holds herself back, simply asking, “How was it?”
“Good.”
“How’s your father?”
“Good.”
“Just good?”
I don’t know where to start. I say, “How about we go home and you make me a cup of tea and I’ll tell you all about it?”
She smiles. “Sounds like a good trade.”
Mum peers out at the darkening sky. A front of smouldering dark grey is rolling towards us. There’s a flash of lightning in the distance, and mist on the road ahead. As we drive towards it, a few droplets spit onto the front windscreen. “Looks like the wet’s about to begin.”
By the time we reach home it’s pouring. The rain buckets down, hard and urgent, grateful for the release.
I climb out of the troopie and let it soak into me, my face, my body, my legs and arms. Fat drops explode in the dirt at my feet. I smell earth.
I stand there, getting drenched. Cleansed.
Mum gets out and does the same.
She raises her arms to the sky.
39.
2008
I lay low. Mum and I have a quiet Christmas and New Year’s Eve. The wet season gives me a good excuse to hide. I spend lots of time inside, either online or watching DVDs.
Outside, the days build to a humid crescendo. I’m reminded of an experiment Ms Bamkin told us about once. They put a frog in hot water and slowly turned the temperature up. It went up so gradually the frog didn’t notice when it was boiling. Luckily for me I am saved from a similar fate by daily downpours of driving rain. They cool the whole place, and then the cycle starts again.
Some days, I feel lonely. I think about calling someone, but Selena’s on a family holiday in Bali and, anyway, things are awkward between us now. And I don’t feel comfortable calling anyone else because I haven’t called them in ages. Mum becomes a kind of surrogate friend.
One morning, over yoghurt and muesli, I say, “Hey, Mum … I was thinking …”
“Yeah?”
<
br /> “Do you still need help at work? Or did you just need someone before Garma?”
She looks pleased and surprised. “I’m sure we could find you something to do.”
We wait for a break in the rain, then walk across to the art centre together. The grass by the side of our path is waist-high and luminescent green.
She says, faux-casually, “Oh, by the way … I meant to mention, I bumped into Anya’s mum at the post office yesterday. I thanked her for having you to stay last year, and she said you and Anya haven’t hung out in ages. Well, not at her house, anyway.”
I should’ve known I’d never get away with lying in a place as small as this. I consider making up another cover story but it doesn’t feel right. “I stayed at Nick’s. It was his eighteenth. Nothing happened. I mean, nothing … you know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied.”
“I guess you know I’m going to have to punish you, right?”
“Do your worst.”
I mentally file through her options: grounding, housework, no lifts to town, no internet, no mobile phone.
“No more seeing Nick. I think that’s appropriate, don’t you?”
I look over at her. She winks. I double-take. She’s actually smiling.
I smile back at her and say, “I don’t think that will be a problem.”
“Good.”
I guess, sometimes, Mum can be kind of cool. In her own weird way, of course.
*
I help Mum with a linocut workshop she’s running for seven sisters. Rripipi is one of them. I’m guessing my momu got control of the stereo this morning: Elvis plays softly as they work, making prints for a special exhibition.
As I hand my momu a piece of lino, I ask, “What’s this exhibition about?”
“It’s the story of seven sisters who went out in their djulpan. Their canoe. They gathered all the different foods: turtles, fish, yams, berries. You can see them in the sky at night. Seven stars together.”
One of her sisters leans over, grinning. “Actually we have eleven sisters, but that didn’t fit with the story.”
I have to laugh. “What, so four of them just didn’t make the cut? How did they feel about that?”
Rripipi shrugs, grinning. Her sister cackles and says something in Yolŋu Matha. They both laugh, deep and hearty.
Rripipi translates. “She said we voted them out – like Yolŋu Survivor.”
“You watch Survivor?”
Rripipi grins. “She does. Not me. I like Law & Order.”
She chuckles again. They’re good company, these ladies. The cackling sister says, “You call me Momu. Like your momu here, okay?”
I nod. Rripipi sees her sister’s blade slip a little, and quickly admonishes her in Yolŋu Matha. She catches me watching and explains, “This is Yirritja – our mother’s clan art. We’re the djuŋaya. We can’t make mistakes.”
The sister pushes the ruined piece of lino to one side. I hand her a new one from a nearby pile. Rripipi sticks out her bottom lip, using it to indicate the ground beside her. “Sit there. Make a print. Use one of those spare ones.”
Mum has heard. She nods from a few ladies over. “It’s fine. As long as you still jump up and grab things if the ladies need them.”
“Sure.”
“I’m not paying you to slack off here.”
“Five bucks an hour. That’s got to be below minimum wage, doesn’t it?”
“You complaining?”
“Hell no.”
We’re both grinning.
“What are you going to do with the money, anyway?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you could start saving for uni.”
I look up at her sharply. She’s never mentioned uni before. I didn’t think it figured in her mind.
Rripipi mutters, “Nhä … uni, eh? Manymak.” She’s already deep in concentration, drawing her design in pencil on the lino. I make out a stingray and a turtle.
Mum nods at Rripipi. “There’s an art school in Sydney that would be perfect for Rosie. COFA. But Sydney’s so expensive, she’d have to start saving now.”
She looks at me, as if to say, What do you think?
I’m stunned. Has she known all along? Something inside me soars. I try to play it cool. “I’ve still got a few years, Mum. But, yeah, I guess it can’t hurt.”
I am smiling as I look back at my blank grey square of lino.
I begin sketching.
*
My print starts to take shape. It is the outline of two girls, lying one in front of the other on the side of a swimming pool. They are in identical positions – bodies long and flat on the tiles, one hand trailing in the water. One is wearing a one-piece swimming costume, the other a wet T-shirt and shorts. For the first I carve thick, deep lines, so her body will come out white. For the other I leave solid lino and carve around it, knowing it will come out black. Their faces are turned away. They could be anyone. But they’re not.
Rripipi looks over at my work. I can see understanding in her face.
She says, “Yapas, ŋi’?”
Sisters. I nod. She looks approving. “I’ll take a print of that. When you’re finished. Send it out to Gikal for your yapa.”
I like that idea. I hope Nona will see it like I do: a reminder of how things were before they got complicated.
Rripipi turns back to her own work. She’s almost done now. Her panel is awash with sea creatures and a boat floating on reflected stars.
She feels me looking, and points to one corner. “See that? Mätjala. Driftwood, like you.”
I hesitate, then ask, “Why did you call me that?”
She looks up at me, not understanding. I try again. “I mean, driftwood is a funny name, isn’t it? It just kind of floats around, like it’s lost on the ocean …”
She shakes her head. “Yaka, ‘float around’. It’s a strong name. The wood is strong.”
I’ve never thought about it like that before.
She adds, “Anyway, everything has its place. Like my sister Ritjilili here. Her name means muddy water, like waves. Muddy water’s important too.”
The cackling sister raises her eyebrows at me, indicating her agreement. They do that a lot, these ladies. I’d almost forgotten how much is conveyed by their bodies.
Mum indicates for me to help her clean up the printing area. As I stand, I hear a familiar voice. “Rosie.”
Mrs Bell is hovering by the door to the print space. She looks uneasy and out of place. “I was hoping you might be here.”
“I work here now, actually. At least, for the holidays.”
“Oh, that’s great. We just got back from Bali.”
She looks so nervous that I say, “It’s good you came out.”
She smiles, grateful but flustered. “Oh, you know, I’ve been meaning to ever since we moved up here. And I remembered you saying last year … that it was fine …”
“More than fine. The art’s here to be seen.”
She shifts from one to foot to the other. I wonder what she wants. “I’d show you around but we’re just about to print.”
“Oh no, that’s fine. I can look around myself. I just wanted to say … I’m sorry about you and Nick.” She lowers her voice. “I was really disappointed when we found out about that … thing near the airport. I thought he’d gotten over that stuff. I mean, the graffiti stuff, but also what’s behind it. I’m sure he told you about that girl in Sydney … the Aborigine?”
I nod.
“That whole experience really shook him up. It shook us all up, actually. It’s why I was scared to move up here, why I was worried when he started going out with you. Not that it’s an excuse. I mean, I know there are still lots of good Aborigines around. Like, I’m sure, these ladies here. Creating this beautiful art.”
I look over, praying Rripipi and her sisters haven’t heard. Luckily, they’re engrossed in putting the final touches on their work.
Mrs Bell puts a gentle hand on my arm. “Anyway
, I’ll look around. Who knows … might even buy something.”
She gives me a smile and moves back into the main part of the art centre.
I watch her go.
*
The breezeways and corridors are filled with chatter. Students huddle in the undercover areas to keep dry. The trees are dripping from an early downpour, their trunks painted dark by the rain. The grass is texta green. It’s the first day back at school. Everyone wants to know who went where. Who hooked up with who. Who broke up. Who did what. Who said what. Who likes who. The past couple of years, this has been one of my favourite days. But today I feel outside the gossip.
The only thing that catches my interest is Selena telling me that Nick stayed in Bali. He started a dive instructor’s course while they were there on holidays. His parents paid for him to stay and finish it. Now he’s working over there. Despite everything that’s happened, I’m happy for him.
I say, “He’ll be good at that – after all his swimming teaching.”
Selena nods. “That’s what I thought too.”
We talk like it was an amiable break-up, like Nick and I are still friends. Pretending makes things easier somehow. I still sit with Selena in class, but at recess she has other plans. She doesn’t go to the mango tree. There’s no point, now that Benny and Nick have left school. Instead, she starts towards the metal seats in front of the computer lab. She looks back at me. “You coming?”
I hesitate, unsure.
“Steph invited us to sit with them.”
I’ve never sat with the Elites before – I’ve never been asked – but I’ve heard them talking in class. It’s always inane gossip and bitching about other people.
I say, “I might go to the library. There’s a book I wanted to get.”
Selena doesn’t seem surprised. “Suit yourself.”
She turns and walks away. I stand there for a moment, feeling lost. How have things changed so much since last year? Have I changed? Has she? Or is it the whole world that’s shifted?
I hear a flurry of wings in the sky above me. I look up to see a blue-winged kookaburra come to rest on the metal fence near the library. It perches for a moment, then opens its beak and, to my surprise, starts to laugh.