by Julie Janson
The next day, Jane learnt about David’s new promised wife. The older girls at school loved Jane, and spoke in hushed tones about David.
‘He got new one, Miss Jane. We cry for you. She young pretty one from Gove’, said Mayda. Jane patted the girls on their shoulders and smiled.
‘It’s okay, don’t worry. I don’t think about that stuff. He’s my friend, my teaching assistant, that’s all.’
She couldn’t tell the truth and when David left the school for the day, she ran on and on, through the back camps, mad with jealousy. She was afraid of the smell of dust, dog shit, cooking meat. Some wild animal, some kind of reptile with speckles, had been beaten with sticks, and now lay on the coals, alive, skin curling, its legs stuck up in the air with crinkled claws. She ran in the heat from her jealous anger. Vicious thoughts burst open the door to David’s ragged house. She would discover him with this new girl, like two backed beasts, her red cotton shift bunched up at the waist, his buttocks pushing into her. The girl’s squealing pleasure. She could see herself opening a tub of Dulux paint, yes, yellow and viscous, pouring it over them or ripping the girl to pieces.
The sound of distant clap-sticks and cicadas, a child crying. Now, Jane hated David, hated his easy way with women, and hated how easily she had said yes. She wanted to have him to herself. They could run away together; go to Darwin. She could get a good job; he could too. They could live in a nice, new, clean white town house in Casuarina. They’d go to the Parap market on Saturday, drink mango smoothies and buy tropical flowers. There were plenty of mixed couples there – or were there? They could be free of prying eyes and Christian condemnation. How dare people judge her? Orlando was promiscuous; no one accused him of being immoral. It was a double standard, always!
The air was full of smoke, someone was burning off the dry grass, and fires trickled between the houses. Flies stuck to her face and eyes. This land had become a dirty, smelly place full of rubbish. She didn’t want to be there anymore. She hated everyone and everything about the place. She was going crazy. She fell on her bed and cried with shivering convulsive sobs.
The fan whirred; she heard a distant didgeridoo playing. An old man had been singing since dawn. It was cooler. Jane felt better: everything was going to be good: she would get over this silly infatuation and she would never go near David again.
The dreams of little lizards, crocodiles, sea turtles and caramel milk shakes tormented Jane. She crawled under the teacher’s desk in the classroom and slept.
A spasm of sadness as Jane hung out the washing. Her arms ached from work, and red dust stained the clothes. Grief took her away, left her sobbing, for whom? David? Orlando? Her dad? For lost loves? Her body shook; she knew this feeling, the helplessness in the hands of some thief, the savage shaking. She put down the wash basket: Aaron must not see her like this. The Boss mustn’t know – he would say she was losing it.
A wild bullock stood in front of Jane, fiery eyed, nostrils flared, pawing the dust. She moved slowly, backing away; she had taken the wrong turn on the track; fear stuck to her sweaty skin. ‘Climb a tree.’ She hid until the bullock wandered off. Green ants stunk in her hair, ashamed: everyone knew about the affair. A dark shadow of doom approached. She could see it rolling across the plain, grey and ominous and full of destruction of her job, home, family. She tried to psycho-analyse herself. What was it? It was a blur. Being all alone in this country was dangerous. For Lanniwah, a lone person might be someone who had transgressed, outcast, to be avoided.
She tidied up her room and then unpacked a small worn handcrafted cedar box with metal corners that she had brought with her.
It had belonged to her father, long ago. Aaron asked about the contents. There were old Box Brownie photos of his war time in Borneo; Sam standing next to his mates, slouch hats on, leaning on shovels; Japanese prisoners of war also leaning in the sun with well-fed smiling faces. One picture was of a radiant-eyed young Indonesian girl, in her best sarong, love shining out to Jane’s father, written underneath, ‘Don’t ask’. Old bullets from the war, a fishing sinker and big Japanese teeth. He had dug gold teeth from dead men and they rattled in the bottom of the box.
She held up the large metal fishing sinker – yes, that was the one, from the rock ledge, the night he had drowned. She took it from Aaron’s hand.
‘Not that, darling. You can’t play with this: its Mummy’s special treasure. It was my dad’s.’
She placed the silver coloured sinker back, heavy with memories. Her dad had sat on her bed with her (to her amazement) and sobbed uncontrollably. Shuddering tears, nose running, gasping tears of sadness, his heart somehow broken. He gave Jane this precious box of treasure – teeth, for heaven’s sake, to a fourteen-year-old girl. ‘Keep this safe sweetie, my princess. I don’t know what is going to happen to me’, he said, as if it was the crown jewels. Yes, that had been when the snowy owl had come, sitting every night over the back door, with the broken fly screen flapping in their poverty.
Brian and Rosie arrived to visit Old Pelican and Jane. Oh joy, oh joy! They parked their Suzuki under a tree. Brian cooked dinner for Jane and sat with Aaron in his knee. Rosie took him away and put him to bed. Jane poured cask wine into plastic cups and they sat by the campfire outside the caravan. Jane broke down and told them she had an affair with David. They nodded and toasted her courage or madness and the isolation and the beauty of Lanniwah country. Living in the Territory could drive you wild or drive you troppo, like Xavier Herbert addicts, with between-culture obsessions and loneliness.
‘It was born in me. I’m not consciously making these wild decisions; maybe I’m pre-programmed to be a bad seed, and can’t help being attracted to men like this. It’s positively Freudian. I loved my tall dark dad. David looks a bit like him – well, so did Orlando for that matter. What hope do I have?’
Brain and Rosie listened as they always did to these deprived and isolated folk. Then Brian took some papers from his brief case, he laid them on the table and began to read.
‘You wanted to know about this place, its history, we found it: Report of a Special Board created by the Federal Ministry in 1930, to inquire into the killing of Aborigines by police parties and East Africa Cold Storage Company cattlemen.’
‘You found it.’
‘It’s not pleasant, but it helps us find the truth.’
‘Old Lucy and Pelican are witnesses.’
‘Listen: Mr R M Whiley, police inspector of South Australia, decided that shootings had been justified, necessary in self defence.’
Rosie spoke up: ‘Police investigating police. ‘This is what they wrote: Police had been been attacked by blacks with boomerangs, spears, nulla nullas and tomahawks. There was not a scintilla of evidence that the shootings had been in the nature of a reprisal or punitive expedition. Why had thirty Aboriginal women at Harrison been permitted to run free if a massacre had been intended?’
‘They were run down by men on horses who smashed their heads in with pieces of wood. The report is all lies.’ Jane sighed.
‘It was not believable that the constable would have dismounted and gone amongst the blacks, if a massacre was intended. The blacks were a willing work party in the chopping of firewood. They expected payment in tobacco. Further, the police on evidence could have shot a hundred blacks with ease had they so wished.’
‘Then there would have been no Lanniwah left to to talk.’
‘Okay, we are getting to the end here: the Board found that no provocation had been given to the Aborigines which could account for their attacks on whitemen. The tribe had advanced while on a maurauding expedition threatening to wipe out settlers and working boys.’
‘Old Pelican said they were hungry and hoped for some flour.’
Rosie paced the floor and took hold of the paper.
‘We found this report at the Museum of South Australia. It is damning evidence. We will include it verbatim in our writing.’
‘You can show David and Old Pelican. The metal ring
in the tree is a memorial.’ Jane sighed.
Brian held Jane in an affectionate hug:
‘Not all white men are monsters. Rosie and I are working to uncover this history, despite the holdups, we will get it published.’ They waved goodbye and drove off.
The following days were so slow. Jane didn’t go near David after school hours. She could hear people gossiping about David and teacher; it was like a chattering noise that beat in her brain.
CHAPTER 2
Another Love Affair
Edie stared across the road in a floating bad mood as she brought Jane the mail; there was an old newspaper with headlines “Capture of Gang of Four: Cultural revolution ends”, Jane shrugged: it didn’t relate to anything in her universe. Edie held out another item, she pushed it towards Jane as though it was a turd. It was opened. The letter from the Northern Territory Education Department said it all: ‘Inspector’s report of misconduct: Failure to comply with Department regulations; possible recall or Dismissal. Another inspection is proposed.’ Someone had told the Department. Jane was obviously a fallen woman – not a vanguard for the sexual revolution and political activism, but immoral, and therefore a bad teacher and terrible mother. Sex had been her downfall, and it was obvious that she was some kind of social deviant. She didn’t fit into respectable society; she was ‘a bad moral influence’.
She dragged herself to school but the older children like Ricky and Mayda were doing most of the teaching while she wallowed at her desk.
Later in her caravan, Aaron sat on the bed.
‘Don’t be sad, Mummy.’ He patted her head.
‘Don’t cry; it will make your face red. I will make you happy.’ He used his kindest voice. ‘Would you like me to make a cup of tea? I can make Vegemite biscuits too.’
‘Make some powdered milk first’, she said.
He ran to the kitchen to make Mummy better. He was the man of the house again.
Edie walked into the caravan, sat down and, with no polite waiting, sat back on a chair and lit a cigarette.
‘You pushed that Orlando away’, she said.
Jane was astounded.
‘What are you talking about? He left months ago. We had a fight like you and Hubert’, said Jane.
Edie chewed her plaits.
‘He was nice, he could sing, and play guitar. I miss that, and you couldn’t keep him’, Edie said.
Jane turned her back and put on the kettle, went through the motions of making tea. ‘You have no right to talk about my private life’, said Jane.
‘Why not, there’s not much else to talk about out here. He seemed to be in love with you. What did you do to wreck it?’ said Edie.
Jane planted the cups of tea on the table. Edie sipped.
‘He had someone else, and Hubert didn’t help, as you know. Or have you forgotten? He threatened to kill my teaching assistant,’ said Jane.
‘Just a bit of fun – you southerners can’t take a joke.’
‘No, guess not.’
‘You’re not married are you? Never have been? So Aaron is a bastard?’
‘That’s right, but you knew that’, said Jane. The air was like syrup.
‘You were too smart for him or you thought so.’
‘Enough, Edie…’ Jane replied. Anger rose up in her chest.
‘But you have your eyes on a blackfella don’t you? Now they’re both gone’, Edie continued, as Jane snatched the tea from Edie’s hand and threw it down the sink.
‘Please excuse me, but why don’t you rack off?’ Jane walked to the screen door and opened it. Edie giggled and stood up.
‘I know when I’m not wanted’, Edie said.
‘Get out! I don’t need your patronising advice’, said Jane as Edie tossed her hair and walked down the steps.
‘People won’t like it: moral danger for kids, sex with a darkie, not good’, said Edie.
‘Why, you tried one?’
Edie’s voice was tight and sinister. She was a dog sniffing a scared rabbit.
‘Bye, thanks for the tea. Next time make sure the water boils’, said Edie.
Jane leant out of the window as Edie stepped over Aaron’s toy cars.
‘He’s a man, not a darkie, he’s Lanniwah. And anyway, I’m Aboriginal as well. I’m a Darug woman from Sydney!’ Jane shouted.
Edie stopped. Her shape was a silhouette, the ringlets swung back and forth. Jane watched her back in the midday sun. Edie turned and leant on her knees to hiss: ‘Well, that would explain a few things. You’re a black whore, not a pure white teacher after all’, she said.
‘Pure, who is pure? You sound like a Nazi! No one is pure, the whole human race is from bloody Africa!’, said Jane as Edie strode back to her house.
Jane slammed the tinny door and sat on her lounge. She had finally told the truth, it felt recklessly good. She was in the mood to destroy something. She went outside and grabbed a shovel. What could she kill? The chickens? That bloody red dog? No, it would be nasty and messy – all that fur and feathers, too cruel. Jane saw Edie’s precious geranium garden. She jumped over the fence, swung the tool and smashed the plants to bits. She took particular pleasure in crunching up the prize winning lemon-scented variety. She cut deep into their little flower heads. Edie looked over the veranda, her mouth gaping. Jane threw the shovel onto the dirt. She felt great.
‘I hate geraniums!’ Jane shouted.
After this breakdown in communication, Edie stopped allowing her children to play at Jane’s caravan. Aaron was welcome at the big house but he was aware of the frosty atmosphere.
‘Why can’t Elisha come here to play? She’s a good girl’, said Aaron. Jane patted his head.
‘She just can’t.’
‘I’m going to be a scientist when I grow up. I need roads to go bush. I can ask Edie if Elisha can help.’
Jane fell into a sweaty lump of tears. She was bold in the daylight, a bright competent teacher but at sunset she embraced a deep gloom. She felt worthless: she deserved the pain, she was not good enough. She longed for connection, to be part of a family that functioned. Sobbing came naturally. She went about the caravan with tears rolling down, splashing in the curry. It was humiliating, the affairs, ignominious moral squalor; she was still waiting for her future and all she had was teaching. The Sundays were gloomy, she watched happy groups of Lanniwah going fishing, they belonged to each other. She was determined not to fail, not to die like a dog. She clenched her fists and drew wild charcoal sketches of hell.
The mail truck from town arrived and the bag disappeared into the big house. Jane had an idea that she might not receive any mail again, and then she would be really cut off. That would be the moment to shine as an outback Aboriginal woman, or go stark raving mad and take up being an axe murderer. Edie would be first.
David was back at school the next day, as though nothing had happened. Jane saw him strolling about with the children. Jane went walking alone. She needed some space to think about David, but the place seemed full of death. Shattered bones littered the stony ground, thorn bushes reached out, spiky insects and huge jumping ants populated the land. Grey sand, orange sand, speckled black crawling things, prickly melons on vines. There was nowhere to lie down, the earth looked utterly alien.
In the morning light, amongst crackling leaves and the smell of eucalyptus, she found a creek. It felt like a more peaceful place. The sound of water running comforted. She bent to pick up leaves, tried to blow them into a tune. Then she heard human sounds, panting, moaning, and a gurgling laugh. She thought that she should disappear as soon as possible. She was quiet and still, then walked softly and saw a ute parked near a kapok tree. The Reverend Wiltshire was making love to Edie, doggy style. The Reverend groaned and collapsed on the grass and shuddered. They kissed gently and Edie wiped her fanny with a lace hanky, pulled up her knickers and threw the cloth onto a thorn bush. The minister lay on the ground and cried. Suddenly, Edie turned around and gazed at the rock where Jane was hiding. Jane quivered with expectati
on as Edie walked towards her and seemed to be about to speak. But she turned slowly around and went back towards the ute, Jane’s heart beating furiously.
Jane slid down into the grass and stayed hidden until Reverend Wiltshire stood up and broke a branch from a kapok tree. Jane watched as the Reverend knelt down and whipped himself with the fluffy leaves. He could have chosen a thorn bush. He whimpered and muttered a prayer. He then got into the ute emblazoned with ‘God Saves’ and drove off with Edie. A white dingo sniffed around the tree.
That night, Jane invited David to dinner and made a special fish barbecue. She saw Aaron watch with curiosity as she flirted, so she stopped smiling and her conversation took on a professional tone. She didn’t want to confuse her son.
The next day, David walked down near the billabong. Green ants made nests above his head in a tree.
‘Are you following me?’
‘No, just walking’, she said.
‘Hey, I’m goin fishin’.’
‘ So am I.’
‘You a real strong good woman.’
‘I want you’ said Jane.
She knew there were eyes in the bushes. ‘They all lookin when we walk to the creek. People laugh, you know, whisper. Might as well just doori out here on the road’, David said. ‘There no secrets in dis place.’
She was uneasy. He stopped and held out his hand. She was lost in those brown eyes, so soft. He murmured as he stroked her long hair.
‘I don’t wanna shame you.’
‘Then go away’, she said. Nevertheless, he led her to a grassy bank hidden by pandanus palms.
‘Come walk with me, take off your, you know, dress. Lie on the grass with me. You want me? Come on, bub.’
She could smell the nectar blossoms; she closed her eyes and breathed in the pandanus. She ached for his love. The sand flies swooped.
‘You wanna make babies, Jane? You got real pretty skin. Like you want me for lover? You shiverin’. I’m not gammon, your eyes flashin’ and sweat on your lip, your breasts, real fine.’