The Crocodile Hotel

by Julie Janson

  ‘We have several, Madam. Who do you want?’

  ‘I want to see David Yaniwuy. Please, if it’s no trouble. I am the head teacher where he works.’

  ‘Not possible. He’s been charged with assault. He has to face the magistrate.’

  Reverend Wiltshire moved out of the darkness and his hand rested on the door.

  ‘I am a minister of the church. May I see the prisoner?’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  They saw it all: the terror, rage, hatred, love – it flickered around her. The image of this young policeman possibly kicking David’s head in – no, not possible. But it might be if David resisted incarceration.

  ‘Come back tomorrow. Look he’s alright, don’t worry. I gave him a hot feed of stew. Home cooked.’ The door shut slowly. They looked down the ghostly street. Jane indicated silently to Wiltshire to stay. What was she doing? She moved towards the road and a voice cried out.

  ‘Jane, here. It me, David. Over here.’

  At first, she could not see David; he was behind the cell bars. She smelt vomit on the floor. He stood shivering in a thin grey army blanket. The same blanket that her great granny wore in the orphanage. A red line ran down one side; it was frayed it smelt of wasted lives. Her smarter self had cautioned her to not go to the police station: ‘Trouble’. Her fingers reached his as they clung to the bars. She stroked his cold grey skin.

  ‘Go home – too much humbug here.’

  ‘No, I will talk to the police in the morning.’ She gripped his fingers in a goodbye. She stopped and stepped back against the cold stone. An Alsatian dog barked on its chain.

  ‘What?’ he whispered.

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid; you will be alright.’

  Wiltshire appeared by her side, put out his hand and touched David’s.

  ‘It’s just a building; they won’t hurt you. You are a dissident, a political prisoner. I will pray for you. Jesus will protect you. They have no right to hold you, I will put in a complaint to our church head; he will instigate action on your behalf. We have a policy to fight the racist imprisonment of young people like yourself. Have faith in the good will of all men. We will overcome.’

  She heard David sob. She hoped what the Reverend had said was true. For Aboriginal people there was so much fear in a cell: the ghosts of dead inmates, claustrophobia and the damp and cloying hell, fear dribbling from the concrete. The terror of being alone could kill. Jane saw the grey conglomerate walls, the cell held pain in its essence. She knew that for David the experience of a locked cell alone was the worst punishment he could endure. David would rather be flogged or speared. But she believed in his sense of survival, he was courageous.

  The next morning something strange happened. Wiltshire and Jane were sitting in the police station when the sergeant answered the phone. The Reverend was bent over his clasped hands praying. The police officer looked at Jane.

  ‘Mrs Reynolds, seeing as you have the minister with you, I can release the prisoner in your care.’

  ‘Do I need to get bail money? How much?’ she said.

  ‘Nope. Mr Barkley has dropped the charge. He doesn’t want to proceed.’

  ‘Thanks be to God.’ The Reverend laughed.

  Jane slumped on the wooden seat.

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. I don’t care. I’m being transferred back to Nightcliff in a few months.’

  They collected David and he asked them to drop him at the Lanniwah town camp. He was quiet, thinking, and he didn’t communicate. Jane was relieved that he was free; he needed to stay away from his country until people forgot about the incident. He didn’t realise Jane was deeply afraid of police and all authority figures, a fear that was ingrained.

  Her father had despised the police for their corruption. He watched mates dragged off to prison for being radical unionists or for just being Aboriginal.

  Jane wondered how she as a single mother could be a threat to Australian society. She had shown her courage in just keeping her illegitimate baby. She had not allowed the Royal Sydney Hospital authorities to take him. The matron with her starched headdress had grabbed her hand and tried to force her to sign the adoption papers – ‘How do you think you will feed the baby? You have no husband, no one to support you, how will you work? Give him up. Don’t be so selfish.’ But, Jane had stood up to the matron’s ferocity and contempt. She had had the baby alone, a long labour, and then he was gone for a whole day. At last, when she held Aaron, she knew she would never surrender him. She signed herself out of the hospital. They lived on brown rice and Weetbix as she struggled to finish her honours degree. She was determined to become a teacher.

  Now in the Territory, she received strange unsigned threatening letters, with words like ‘black bitch’ or ‘southern do-gooder’ or ‘nigger lover’. Maybe people suspected she was a drug taker and not suitable to teach children. She was accused of putting them in ‘moral danger’. Jane felt that there were people watching; her sexual freedom meant she was tainted. She could be sacked at any time. She had experienced the shame of having to collect store vouchers from the police station, with the burly copper leaning over the counter to look down her dress. ‘You sleeping with anyone?’ She had felt the shame that all the Aboriginal girls lined up behind her had felt. Jane had smiled and said, ‘No, are you?’ He muttered, ‘He who eats of the fruit must water the tree’.

  In the past her store vouchers were stamped under the regulation for Food Famine and Flood Relief, at least it was alliteration. Jane could only buy food from certain big supermarkets. The checkout chick would stare at her in contempt. She would barely touch the voucher with her fingertips. She said; ‘You can’t have sanitary products on this, only food. Can’t you read?’ Jane had felt a burning shame as she replaced the Modess sanitary pads.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mummy? Why can’t you have your lady things?’ Aaron said. Country women sporting broad bosoms had looked on with amusement or pity. Jane had picked up Aaron and her bag of groceries and slunk out of the store.

  In her current position, Jane was not going to be pushed around. She would fight for her survival.

  As they passed through town, she saw Daniel in a building construction four-wheel drive. He waved and pulled up. He was tanned, his bright blue eyes dazzled.

  ‘I’m comin’ out your way soon; want me to bring you anything? Fresh vegies? I can bring a slab’, he said.

  ‘No, I’ve got all I need.’

  ‘What happened to you and Orlando? He looks like shit.’

  ‘Nothing, all good. He was called back to town’, she smiled.

  ‘Come on Janey, lighten up – he loves you. Hey, I respect what you’re doing out there, Jesus saves!’

  Wiltshire waved. ‘Yes, he does!’

  ‘Okay, gotta go’, they drove off.

  It was exhaustion more than anything else that surrounded her on the drive home. Thomas Wiltshire chatted amiably most of the way. He was delighted that David was free, delighted to have been of use. Jane drove the long road back to Harrison. She needed to refuel when she got home. She knocked on Hubert’s door. He grunted and she went inside the house to find Harry, the stockman who had terrorised her and the kids, sitting at the table eating peanut butter toast. Her face froze. She backed away. What kind of trouble would he be up to? Harry stood up and pulled out a chair for Jane. She was surprised. He seemed like a gentleman. He poured her a cold tea, but he looked nervous and embarrassed. Gertie was washing up; she raised her eyebrows at Jane.

  ‘Get Missus Reynolds a hot cuppa, Gertie’, said Hubert.

  Hot tea from the tap was poured and plonked in front of Jane.

  ‘I brought some mangoes for the school kiddies. It’s a big sack from my tree at the homestead – they’ll love em’, said Harry.

  ‘He’s not all bad. Tell her about your plan for a tree house’, said Hubert.

  ‘We’re gunna put it on the big coolabah tree. Your boy can play in it too.’

  J
ane wandered if Harry had sobered up or maybe he was trying to show a better side of himself. Harry walked down the steps to show Jane where the tree house would be. He stopped at the big white tree.

  ‘I’m sorry for that business when your Toyota broke down. I drink too much; this country is tough. I get pissed and lose it. Sorry. I mean, I’m really sorry. It was shameful’, he said.

  ‘Okay, let’s forget about it, Fourex can be lethal.’

  ‘It’s the Bundaberg rum that does it. You won’t believe me, I joined A A in Katherine, yeah me. Twelve steps and all that. Dad made me do it.’

  Jane felt prickly around her neck. He was actually trembling. He had his hat in his hands, strangling it.

  ‘By the way, we saw your friend Daniel a few days ago. He’s been up at the blacks’ camp.’

  ‘No!’ she said.

  ‘Saw him on his bike. He’d better watch it.’

  Harry smiled and stared at her.

  ‘They’ll get him. It’s dangerous stuff. I sleep with a rifle. It’s a war’, he said.

  ‘Yeah, yeah’. She turned to leave.

  ‘And another thing, yer teacher assistant’.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He was seen handing out land rights pamphlets in town. He’s hangin out with radicals from Darwin – what an idiot. You see, this country is everything to me; my father worked himself to death lookin after this place. I love this land: it’s in my blood’.

  Jane walked away; she felt exhausted, and she needed to pick up Aaron.

  CHAPTER 5

  Policemans And Mardi Gras

  Jane went to Katherine for the annual Mardi Gras parade, she stayed with Rosie and Brian. Early in the morning she was awake first. There was a knock on the door. Jane was surprised: it was not the light tap of the children; it was a loud assertive pounding. She was quiet; she remembered hiding behind the couch as a child, when the debt collectors or a woman from the Department of Child Services was knocking, voices telling her to be quiet. Maybe the visitor would come to check on the family, to inspect, and they would see the dirt and poverty and charge her mother with being an unfit mother, they might remove the children. What was this knock? Maybe it would bring the repercussions for her political work on land rights. Maybe a big thug who wanted to warn her off, to accuse her of provoking the locals into standing up for their rights.

  Jane opened the door; a police officer stood there. Oh no, worst fears. Had he followed her after she arrived in town? The police officer was young, she recognised him from the lock-up in town. He asked respectfully if he could come in. Jane’s heart beat wildly. He sat on the divan and wrote notes.

  ‘Miss Reynolds, while you’re in town for Mardi Gras, I have to ask you some questions. You’re staying with known poilitical agitators … Back in Harrison, have you been stirring up trouble in the Aboriginal camp? We believe that your teaching assistant is a cheeky bloke and the Boss doesn’t like his sort.’

  ‘I thought you were being transferred. No? My teaching assistant, David, has left. Look, I’m a teacher. I have too much to do to bother with politics’, she said.

  He nodded, unconvinced. Rosie had got out of bed and was standing beside him.

  ‘Okay then, I have to ask these questions. Have you talked about land rights in the school room?’ She winced.

  ‘They can’t even read – what possible way they would know about land rights?’ Rosie spoke up.

  ‘Miss Reynolds, you have been reported for signing up Aboriginal people to vote. Did you know that it is an offence to coerce Aborigines to sign up to vote?’

  Jane smiled and put on her most innocent coquettish look. ‘No, officer, I didn’t. But even if I had, I would have signed them up anyway.’

  ‘Mr Barkley, would be in his rights to stop you taking Aboriginal people to town to vote’, he said. She got up and mixed coffee and milk powder in a jug.

  ‘Iced coffee?’ He nodded and sighed and an embarrassing silence enveloped them.

  ‘To tell you the truth, the local conservative party doesn’t like your activities. They have made a formal complaint to the Department of Education and to us. One of their people saw David Yaniwuy handing out pamphlets against mining. You would be advised to avoid getting involved with his sort. But you are already, aren’t you?’

  She drew in breath.

  ‘Sorry, but this is your first and last warning. I don’t want to go out to Harrison to find you.’ He had a look of condemnation, as though he thought, Whose side are you on?

  ‘I have some biscuits somewhere.’ She stood up holding a dusty packet of Custard Creams. ‘Want one?’ said Rosie.

  He laughed, and accepted a biscuit.

  ‘Nice. I like Tim Tams best.’ They ate in the quiet whirring of the fan.

  ‘Hot, isn’t it?’ he laughed.

  ‘Sure is.’

  He closed his notebook and stood. ‘I’ll be on my way. If you see Yaniwuy, well, you better stay away from him, for your own good.’

  Rosie stood on the step watching him drive away.

  ‘The Northern Territory, a place of homicidal white men free of the morality that civilised cities can bring. Here they have the freedom to be lords over the blacks. Back down south they might have been bank clerks but here, kings. Starving Aborigines pushed into camps, squalid with no running water and no future, for God’s sake. And the coppers, just lackeys, yes men.’

  In Katherine, there was a Mardi Gras carnival, not a gay one, but a white community event with returned soldiers in old army tanks from the airfield. Jane scanned the crowd with Aaron; she hoped to see David or Orlando. There was a marching band with girls in silver mini-skirts badly throwing batons in the air. Boys dressed in woollen Scottish kilts banged drums and blew ghastly noises from bagpipes. It was an Australian town on the Queen’s Birthday weekend. It was Edinburgh and the military tattoo mixed in with American marching. Then the new Northern Territory flag arrived. It looked like pair of white false teeth on a background of baby pooh – hideous.

  In town, there were scratchings on toilet walls about white supremacy and the Ku Klux Klan. Aboriginal readers ignored it. Most couldn’t read or even speak English. What the Lanniwah at Harrison wanted was their land back and access to Pink Lily Lagoon to harvest water lily seedpods and perform renewal ceremonies. In the meantime, they asked politely if they could have the gates unlocked. They wanted to sing the songs on country so the ancestral beings would wake up. It was in direct conflict to the white land usage.

  On the corner, stood a lone Aboriginal man with another new flag – the Aboriginal one. It was David and he did not wave it, but stood still and silent. Jane watched him. He had a pride and dignity. He was vastly outnumbered by white people but he stood his ground. The flag had black for the people’s skin, red for the blood spilt and a yellow sun for the land. It was beautiful. Everyone on the street ignored him but he stood there proud. Jane approached; he saw her and smiled.

  ‘Like my new flag? A Koori fella from down south make it’.

  ‘It’s wonderful. Are you coming back home?’

  ‘Not yet. I gotta see some Northern Land Council fella, there’s a meeting with the traditional owners from here.’

  ‘Some people here in town won’t like you waving this flag.’

  ‘They reckon some outsider fellas told Gurindji to walk off Wave Hill. But we are bosses ourselves.’

  ‘Be really careful.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I got brothers in town, big fellas, they even talk to dat Shire Council. Not your worry no more, okay?’

  Jane went to the meeting in a hall at the museum. Old Lucy, Burnie and David sat on a platform with the representative of the Northern Land Council. Photographs of Territory pioneers hung from the wall, old coloured streamers hung limply on windows. There were a few people in the audience, mostly Lanniwah local and Jane spotted Rosie and Brian at the back. The overhead fan turned, the Land Council man stood up to speak.

  At that moment, there was movement outside
the door, a loud voice. ‘Let me in! I demand to be heard.’ Rainer Shire Council Chairman, Renway walked in. With him was Harry, he pushed past the Lanniwah audience and waved at Jane.

  ‘Look who’s here’, he said. Jane ducked her head; she felt fear and revulsion.

  A local police officer cleared a path for the Shire Council chairman. Renway moved with power, his blue lapel shirt stretched across his huge girth. The whole room stared. He moved heavily like an ox to the stage.

  ‘I’m Chairman Renway and I’ve got something to say to all of you.’ He faced the people on the stage, his back to the audience. Jane thought he needed drama lessons. Some of the Lanniwah audience got up to leave but Harry blocked the door, his arms folded. Renway seethed and tore a land rights poster from the table and screwed it up.

  ‘Look here, you fuckin’ black cunts ….’

  He turned to look at Jane. He pointed at Brian and Rosie.

  ‘And you fuckin’ do-gooders from down south! ’

  ‘This is a private meeting!’ said Jane.

  Renway leaned over David and Old Lucy; he pointed his finger at their heads.

  ‘You’re not getting fuckin’ land rights! Not now, not in ten years’ time, not ever!’

  ‘We see about dat!’ said Old Lucy.

  His fist clenched and he slammed it against his other palm.

  ‘We’ll burn your house down first’, yelled Harry.

  ‘They don’t have any houses’, said Jane.

  Renway pointed at Jane.

  ‘You, we’ve got your name, lady. We know about your agitating. We’ll fix you, all right. You’ll wish you stayed in Sydney with your student radicals.’

  ‘We wantem National Park for dat Rainer River; gib back tribe land for us mob; we look after dat sacred place’, said Old Lucy.

  Renway ignored the old woman.

  ‘Sacred, my arse. It’s our river, our place, our tourism money, my tour boats, the town’s life blood. You’re not goin to steal it or destroy it. You got that?’

  He punched his fist against the wall next to David’s head. The room trembled. David tried to stand. Harry walked forward and pushed him down.