The Crocodile Hotel

by Julie Janson

  There was a murmur of approval around the room as the speaker suggested they all stand to sing their national Australian anthem. They sang, ‘Advance Australia Fair’.

  She saw that it was a history scraped clean and rewritten to fit current thought, one of gold prospectors, overland telegraph, and Afghan camel drivers. ‘It looked like it had been strained through an Afghan camel-drivers underpants’, was one of her dad’s sayings. It was a story of sturdy cattlemen, loyal Aboriginal trackers. Why, it was what made this country what it was, a man’s country. It was a story of mixed-blood children removed from the corrupting influence of tribal blacks; they were often homeless and destitute, somehow lost in their own land. Accused of thieving or begging. There was a photograph on the wall. It showed pretty Aboriginal girls who wore pink bows and party dresses, like Topsy, their new white parents smiling benignly. They meant well. Jane nodded automatically while her heart beat loudly. She didn’t trust herself to be quiet. She might tear loose, swear or get really angry. She would be calm and respectful and listen. If not, they might have her taken away for disturbing the peace – mad as a cut snake.

  The museum had photographs of planes, mining equipment, and cattlemen. There were Aboriginal shadows in the background, but some pictures were of men on horseback with belts of ammunition, as if they were going off to a foreign war. They wore digger hats with cockades of emu feathers; they smiled at the photographer with what seemed like insolence. Beside them was a patrol of black police officers in uniforms, leather boots and swords, their eyes stared into Jane’s. The photo Jane remembered, of her father in army uniform in the war, would not have been out of place. They all smiled for the camera and the caption simply read, ‘Early police took care of pioneer safety’.

  She gazed at the curling photos of women in long white lace dresses picnicking on the river with children in straw hats, and standing to the side, an Aboriginal servant holding a white baby. The pioneers sat on cane chairs and tables in the shade of gum trees. Rifles stood against the tree. These were We of the Never Never images … Jane remembered her granny’s house, withered potted palms, mattresses on the floor, concrete laundry tubs filled with cracked dishes, a black wood fuel oven and scones lifted out in a mist of steam. A cream lace tablecloth.

  A neck chain and huge iron manacles in a glass case drew Jane’s attention. These chains dragged Aboriginal prisoners back to Darwin. Laid on a white crochet doily were fragments of Victorian crockery, baby buttons and a pair of lady’s silk gloves. In another case was a wooden cradle with the caption ‘Made by Mr Gunn for his first born’. In the last case were some old boomerangs and spears. No caption.

  Jane moved from the exhibit to another dusty room and other visitors followed. A man in shorts, pink tie and white socks stood near her.

  ‘Gee, the early settlers did it tough. Nice collection isn’t it?’ he said. Jane breathed deeply. Now was not the best time to reveal herself, but she couldn’t stop.

  ‘It is a reconstructed past. It’s devoid of Aboriginal history. They either don’t exist or weren’t important enough, just flora and fauna.’

  She realised that her thoughts and beliefs were very threatening to white people, but she couldn’t keep quiet – she would be complicit. At Harrison, the men had been ordered to cut up the wood for their own funeral pyre. To heap the logs into a mountain. Chains had been looped through manacles, like the ones in the glass case. They had been shot even though the Lanniwah held axes – how had it happened? They might have thrown them like stone tomahawks straight through the white men’s heads. Listlessness covered her, she lacked the will to fight this consensus view that white was right.

  ∼ ∼ ∼

  Jane looked at the window of the Australian Womens’ Association; she might even get a lamington cake. The shop had a sign that said ‘Women welcome. Make new friends in Katherine’. Yes, that sounded great, that’s what she needed, new friends. Women of the world, unite. The window had decorations from Christmas and a plate of fresh scones, crocheted baby booties and lace doilies. A bell tinkled as she sat down at the table and smiled at the sunburnt women who welcomed her. It was great start. Who cared if what was she wearing looked a bit strange? Was that an embroidered see-through ethnic blouse? Well, she looked almost like a hippy with that long gold hair.

  Some women were obviously from the landed gentry. They spoke about horses, gymkhanas, polo, and the Bachelor and Spinster ball. Everyone had a nickname like Poopsy, Tricksie and Floss. They wore pastel linen dresses or riding pants bought from a catalogue, had smooth blond bobs and black velvet headbands, discreet gold earrings and old money taste. Jane imagined their all-white gardenia gardens and perfectly matched silver cutlery. Still, it was her lucky day, they said. There was to be an address by the regional president of the AWA and there was a semi-circle of plastic chairs lined up in the shop. Jane nodded at the women as they moved aside to let her in.

  An overhead fan turned in the heat. It started with a demonstration of a recipe for lamingtons, ‘Dip the sponge into runny chocolate icing’. Then magically the atmosphere intensified as the president began talking about the subject of schools. They smiled at her but were sniffing out unorthodoxy. Perhaps they had heard about Jane – she shuddered to think about what they might have heard, so chose an expression of optimistic niceness. She could recognise some of them as members of the evangelical mission, or ‘the antisex league’. They would see through her and her Indian cotton skirt. The president warmed up her theme of cleanliness: one could keep a class free of contagious diseases if one acted appropriately. Apparently, in NSW it was easy to have Aboriginal children, or as she called them ‘our dark brethren’, removed from your local school. Simply make a complaint to the school principal or directly to the Northern Territory Department of Education.

  Jane sucked in breath and sweat dribbled down her back. Now, she could speak up now.

  ‘The children can be expelled for health reasons’, said the president. Jane was stuck to her seat, scone crumbs stared back at her from the floral porcelain. Her head was beating.

  Some of the women lapped up the information, and they made notes on paper napkins. A few looked mortified. Jane was in the presence of a horrible ecstasy of caring. She could see herself losing control, her mind full of the history of this place. Who was it that profited from the slavery of Aboriginal people and smashed holes in babies’ skulls, wiped their white grandfathers’ sabres and guns after a nigger hunt, a bushwhack? ‘Out, out, damned spot’. It was like a current of electricity that filled the room. Some muttered kindly that it was a shame ‘but they would all die out’. They felt sad about it, but it was nature, the survival of the fittest.

  Jane stood up slowly. The president spoke directly to her: ‘So nice to have a new member in our midst’. Jane took a pink iced cake from the plate and stuffed it in her purse, then wrapped three lamingtons in a napkin. She reached for the sandwiches. The women stared. ‘Don’t mind me,’ Jane moved towards the exit but at the last moment found her voice.

  ‘Have you heard of Martin Luther King? Or Charlie Perkins? Perhaps Pearl Gibbs? Kath Walker? You’ve heard of her surely? The rules about denying Aboriginal children schooling are terrible and cruel! I teach in an outback school and the children love to learn. They are bright intelligent people and respectful.’

  ‘Someone whispered, ‘Don’t get upset, dearie.’

  Jane smiled. ‘The cakes are a bit dry, try using real butter and not Tulip margarine.’ She was learning to hide her feelings.

  Jane slammed the screen door … As she walked away, one of the women followed her and touched her on the shoulder.

  ‘Hey, don’t go. It’s not always like that. Many of us raise funds for the Aboriginal children in the hospital; we pay for a layette for new babies. We’re not all racists.’

  The fair woman brushed her hair from her face and smiled. Jane stood in front of her and couldn’t speak. She nodded and thanked the woman; they shook hands and parted. Jane knew th
at there was kindness in the outback; she just had to look for it. She hurried off to meet Hubert.

  Cattlemen lounged outside the hardware store and nudged each other as Jane passed. One smirked and yelled: ‘Hey, nice sort. You wanna get lucky?’ Jane observed the women looking at her, but she held her head up and strode forward. Her feminism often cut out when it came to using her beauty for her advantage. To survive in a male dominated world she had to be smart enough to know the allies from the spies. She had to identify who could accept her.

  She wondered again if she should tell Hubert about her Aboriginal heritage. Somehow, spending her life denying her Aboriginality was becoming untenable. Maybe she was a fraud – she wasn’t Aboriginal like the Lanniwah, they certainly didn’t see her as one of them, not black enough. No, she might as well keep quiet, and enjoy the lovely wages. Jane stood in between, acceptable to neither side, suspecting she might be a traitor to the Aboriginal cause – if she couldn’t take the racism then she didn’t deserve to be accepted. She wondered if she was ashamed or just being pragmatic while working for a greater good. What if she came out to Hubert and he complained about having an Aboriginal teacher? What if he told the department about her non-appearing husband? Worst of all, she might lose her job; go back to poverty in Sydney, share houses and handouts from a pension or charity. It made her want to vomit. She spiralled into fears of unemployment and homelessness, the picture of herself hitchhiking with her baby on her hip with nowhere to sleep that night. The status as an unmarried fair Aboriginal mother: it was a position that came pretty low in the secret Australian caste system.

  Jane and Hubert walked along the quiet riverbank. It was a clear, blue-sky day, champagne pink gum trees stretched along the levee bank. Jane flicked flies from her face.

  Suddenly, a heavy stocking, full of wet sand, like stone, flew past Jane’s head. It fell with a thud at her side. Hubert yelled, ‘Jesus Christ, somebody hates you!’

  He jumped down the levee bank and ran over to a hill. He was a hero. He searched but they had disappeared like the white rabbit.

  ‘The idiot has gone!’ he shouted. Jane was alarmed. No one had ever tried to hurt her before. Hubert picked up the heavy stocking.

  ‘Someone has taken the time to fill this up with wet sand, it’s like a cudgel, and it could have fractured your skull or killed you. Or me.’ She touched the weapon, ran her finger over it.

  ‘Nice quality panty hose’, she said.

  He dusted his Akubra. ‘Maybe it’s time for you to get out of the Territory.’

  ‘Nope’, she said.

  An eagle cruised overhead, swooped, landed on a wallaby carcass and began to pick out its eyes. Jane asked herself if her country had always been this way, seething in anger, a treacherous place where nothing was, as it seemed. They walked back to the main road where the familiar sign said ‘Welcome to the Northern Territory, God’s own country’.

  Hubert and Jane arrived at the airport. Some skinny dogs ran across the tarmac, then a black rock wallaby bounced by. He told Jane that he had young women begging him for a dance at the Katherine Picnic Race Ball; he could rumba with the best of them and his Hammond organ playing fantastic, sexy, every woman’s dream.

  Jane sweated on the plastic seat as Hubert took off in the Cessna. He pulled on the throttle; the plane shook, then was steady. He stared out the window, leaning and squinting through at the vast grey and green land. He smelt of beer.

  ‘You know, I’m not really a hard man.’

  Jane shifted nervously – not again! Please, could they just fly? Her dress crawled up her backside and the vinyl seat became glued to her skin. She could smell his strong scent of masculinity, his hands stained yellow with tobacco.

  The sound of the plane roared in Jane’s ears. They flew for twenty minutes without speaking. It was a beautiful flight; she watched the ochre coloured landscape, like a Utopia earth painting. Exquisite and serene, she was so happy. Suddenly the top of Hubert’s head began to sink towards Jane’s knees. Was he falling asleep or having heart attack?

  A rising panic, not again. ‘Are you okay?’ she whispered.

  He let out a wild moan and began to cry. This was alarming: she could see herself trying to fly the Cessna and nose-diving into a waterfall or the flooded desert.

  Hubert wiped his nose with his sleeve; he peered upward and sniffled. ‘It’s Edie, she doesn’t understand me.’

  ‘Oh, okay, I’m sure she tries, Hubert. It’s hard on a woman, the isolation.’

  He clenched his fist and slammed it against the dashboard. A gauge flickered red. The tears rolled down his face. He whispered; ‘She’s a real bitch at times. Gives me flamin’ hell. Sorry, shouldn’t swear.’

  Jane breathed out.

  He wept openly now while still flying the plane. She tentatively patted his big back as it hunched over the controls, and felt a rising panic.

  ‘There, there, it’ll be alright.’

  He looked up with piggy red eyes, and his lips distorted. He yelled; ‘You’ve got to believe me, I don’t touch little girls; it’s not like that, it was …’

  ‘I haven’t heard a thing. Please, don’t worry …’

  The sound of the engine buzzed in Jane’s head. She begged it to drown out Hubert’s conversation.

  ‘She sang me, you know, the girls have magic love songs. They’re like Greek sirens. You try to block out the singing, but it gets in yer mind and torments you. Girls take up their cat’s cradle strings, their breasts move, they twist their girdles, it’s all in the song, drives a man mad. They flutter their lashes and purse their lips to show pink inside, and weave the song like string. Oh, you think I’m crazy.’ Hubert coughed and laid his hand on her knee. She was trapped like an insect under a bull.

  ‘Hadn’t you better watch where we’re going?’

  He stirred and looked at the looming landscape.

  ‘Yeah, it’s fine. I just wanted one person to believe me. You believe me don’t you? Because my own bleedin’ wife doesn’t. She thinks I’m a low down liar and gin jockey.’

  Jane grimaced and slid her knee away from his sweaty hand.

  ‘All women get stressed out here; it’ll be alright’, she said.

  ‘You believe me?’

  ‘Yes, yes, no worries. I’m sure you’re not a liar’, she said.

  Her mouth was as dusty as Gravox powder. She dribbled inconsequential babble. She had a vision of him naked with his dick in his hand, covered in blood, still crying. Hubert took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  ‘Sorry, Jane, sorry for using the whip on the kids. You know a man goes a bit troppo out here. You believe me.’ The roar of the engine filled the air. His eyes looked fiercely into hers. She spoke in a monotone, would tell him anything he wanted, would do anything. She wanted to live.

  ‘Sure, stuff happens, not your fault.’

  She did not believe him; she loathed him. He was a pathetic weak lustful man, probably a child abuser, and children would never recover from him. Jane wished that he would fling himself out of the cockpit and smash onto the purple and yellow sandstone below. A Hubert of strawberry jam. They were flying over that cliff again, where Jedda had jumped to escape her tribal husband. Hubert stopped sobbing. He flew the plane on a steady course and they didn’t speak again. Embarrassment stuck to the windshield.

  Below them, a hundred pale grey donkeys ran through white water, spooked by the plane. Jane wondered if any native animal could survive in the onslaught of European ferals, and she reflected on the desecration of the land in such a short two hundred years.

  He landed the plane, another hair-raising set of bumps. Jane laughed outright in relief.

  ‘Great flying Hubert, we must do it again sometime.’ It was a weird inner world where her brain was ripping with images of violence, but on the outside, she could be the polite and modest young teacher, grateful and oozing respect.

  He mumbled and lumbered back to his house.

  Jane went to her caravan and open
ed the bottle of whiskey.

  Old Lucy sat outside cooking beef ribs on a fire.

  ‘You okay, my daught?’ She said.

  ‘I have a dress for you. See. I care.’ She pulled the floral shift from a bag with a flourish. Old Lucy touched its newness.

  ‘Me gibbit young womans, me no needem. Good one, eh?’

  ‘You cookem dinner for me and Aaron?’

  ‘Yeeai, cookem. Good tucker, for blackfella. You see how we cookem.’

  The old woman bustled about the small kitchen; the flour for damper flew into the air. It was like having granny back: it was peaceful, listening to the soft muttering language.

  CHAPTER 9

  Ceremony

  Each day at Harrison was a revelation. Jane expected that a disaster would wake her up. She could make some horrible mistake. She waited for the visit from the school inspector, who would come unannounced and find her swimming with the children or asleep and snoring under her desk after lunch. The Department would realise that Jane was incompetent, that her lesson plans were rubbish and that she couldn’t survive this remote posting. And that she was a bald-faced liar. They might ask her to leave and she would be swallowed by an unemployment queue. She would be homeless again and desperate.

  ‘Mrs Reynolds, you reckon we’re made of money and it’s all right to let the older people use the school after dark?’

  ‘Some are learning to read’, said Jane.

  ‘It uses too much electricity, we won’t be responsible for the bills’, said Edie.