by Julie Janson
A few weeks later, the Lanniwah women waited for the return of the baby from Katherine hospital. The white nurse got out of the four-wheel drive with the child. Lanniwah mothers began to cry as Shirley took back her baby and she took the bottles and formula from the nurse’s hands. Jane watched critically – why separate mother and child? With no way to wash bottles, the baby might not survive. Jane ached to look after this new baby and feared for her health.
Jane nursed baby Elizabeth and asked Old Lucy about David.
‘They scared him bilka because dey not know his foot print. He might be making witchcraft. If he walk through a wangarr place, might be losem strength in bones, dey break. He might go crazy, bamu’mitti.’
‘Lucy, do you know where David is?’ said Jane.
‘He in might be Arnhem Land; you not worry bout him.’
A few weeks later, Jane was suffering. Hubert and Edie totally ignored her because of her affair with David: she imagined them calling up on the radio to the education office and speaking to Mr White. She saw herself being run off the property with a bullwhip. The missionaries were leaving; they packed up their tents. There were omens everywhere: something bad was about to happen; Jane could feel it.
It was near dawn when Jane woke up; there was some strange sound close to her window. She sat up and looked out into the dim light. A huge owl sat on a gum tree branch overhanging the caravan. The bird was grey and had piercing light bulb eyes. His massive yellow talons gripped the wood.
A shiver of fear, a memory. Jane’s dad had told her about owls and their dangerous power of foretelling, yes, death. If they arrived over your door, you had to be ready for the bad news. When her dad had drowned, she remembered the snowy owl, the same visiting presence, eerie and unfathomable, perched right over their suburban back door. Jane got out of bed and quietly went to the door. Aaron was sound asleep on his fold-out bed in the kitchen, unaware that an unwanted visitor was searching for them with gold, torchlight eyes. She opened the door and the owl stared at her. Still, he didn’t move those eyes. Then the bird flew off with a flutter of powerful wings. Jane stood in pink light as the dawn broke.
That morning, the Toyota filled up with the cranky old women; all of them wanted good fishing and a ride to the outstation of Third River. It was a four-hour drive into Arnhem Land. Old Lucy and Gertie took the best spot next to Jane in the front. Aaron rode on the back with a crowd of children. He was one small blond head amongst the black haired ones. They travelled for hours bumping over a corrugated road.
The Dry season was full of dusty winds in the pandanus palms. Jane wrote letters to Batchelor College in case David was there. She missed him. She drove Shirley and Old Lucy to the coast to swim, and hunt turtles and dugong. They would eat wild food: fish, waterlily, sugarbag honey, wild yams, kangaroo, goanna, blue-tongue lizard, blanket lizard, fresh water turtle, plus flour, Uncle Toby’s Oats, Corn Flakes, rice, sugar tea, syrup, jam, tobacco, molluscs, crustaceans, dugongs, duck, tern, jungle fowl, croc, kangaroo, wallaby, possum, bandicoot, echidna, reptiles. They drove with no one talking for an hour. Finally, Jane pulled up alongside paperbark bough shades and blue tarpaulin sheds. Spears stood in neat rows outside the dwellings. A generator thrummed, barrels of fuel were covered with branches. There were a couple of destroyed four-wheel drives and a new white Toyota belonging to the clan headman. There was a new bough shade for a mobile clinic and Shirley sat inside with her baby.
‘You seeum dat ring of black stones, dey for big pot, trepang. Makassan cookem up, sellem. I dive for trepang when I young womans. Now alla ghosts. Yeeai, dat trepang sea slug pack in salt. Over dere, ghost men sail prahu ship to Makassar’, said Old Lucy.
‘You dived?’
‘Yeeai’.
Cooing, laughing, barefoot children were everywhere. A palm bough shade became the clinic building. Hanging in the air was the smell of the old people, pungent and fishy. Jane’s emotions were raw and extreme. She looked at Shirley’s pale daughter and wondered if Hubert would ever come to look at his child. Jane sat on a blanket under a tree with Old Lucy; they minded baby Elizabeth while everyone hunted.
Dreams of other lives criss-crossed Jane’s brain. Maybe she should have gone to Africa to work with Albert Schweitzer’s team or joined the Hare Krishnas. They seemed light-hearted. She felt she was obsessed with caring for others.
Gertie tapped Jane on the shoulder.
‘You white women think you know everything. You like little baby, like Elizabeth asleep alla time. Not see big trouble you make. You not take that man,’ said Gertie.
‘What man?’
‘You know ’im. He promised. You break law; dey might kill you. Wake up! Not sleep no more. You take David, his woman from Gove might beatem you.’
Jane felt like running away, running into the bush to disappear. Old Lucy hugged her and laid her head on Jane’s shoulder.
‘I suppose you never made a mistake? You’re too busy taking orders from Missus Boss. You like being treated like dirt?’
‘I work for money, dat all. You break law, ’cause you thinkem you better than us’, said Gertie.
‘You’ve got no self-respect.’
‘No fella respect you – look at yourself’, said Gertie.
An azure kingfisher darted over the car bonnet; it shimmered with blue light. The air smelt of grevillea nectar.
Jane offered to look after baby Elizabeth while Shirley caught some fish. The infant seemed feverish and she whimpered. She was a sweet pale delicate child, pink brown lips with bubbles of milk on her tongue. She had chocolate eyes that smiled into Jane’s eyes. Jane carried the baby over her head as she crossed the flooded creek at low tide. Everyone else had gone out fishing from Raymond’s tinny boat; but Jane misjudged the tide. It seemed as though it was going out but it was coming in, rushing, and she misjudged the crossing. As she waded into the water, she realised that it was very hard to keep going against the current of water. The strong rip pushed against her, getting deeper and deeper. Jane tried to turn back, her heart pounding, but she had gone too far. Panic filled her mouth and chest. The water got deeper and began to pull her in towards the crocodiles’ mangrove home, malu. She struggled against the rush of water, up to her chin. The baby cried as Jane held her higher and higher and pushed on towards the beckoning sand on the other side.
At last Jane sat down, alone on the riverbank, she felt terrible – so close to killing the baby. The beach stretched out in emptiness. Not another human in sight. She felt lost. She knew it was madness to have had David as a lover; she would end it for good. In addition, she was a neglectful mother: she let Aaron run wild. She couldn’t even be responsible for a sick baby. Jane lay Elizabeth on a towel in the shade and fanned her. The baby was hot. Jane washed her down with cool fresh water. Tears came; Jane fell on the sand and howled. All seemed lost, death hovered. It was not the end of the world but she could see it from here. When Jane told the family about the tide, everyone laughed at her.
Next morning near dawn, Jane felt Shirley touching her face.
‘What’s wrong?’ Jane softly enquired,
‘Baby sick, got fever.’
Jane knew that the old women had made a mistake. They were ignorant of medicine. She was angry.
Shirley was no more than a girl herself. Jane tried to look away, feeling rising panic, but aware of calm under the bough shade clinic. The Lanniwah health workers steadily processed every patient. Everyone clustered on plastic benches, quietly waiting, children held on knees. An old man with streaming nose held his ancient head in his hands. His granddaughter with saucer eyes touched his shoulder as it heaved.
With desperation in her eyes, Shirley shook the sick baby gently. The health worker had endless patience. She whispered in Lanniwah language a rhythmic purr with occasional mnymik, good. Everything was good – no one dying today. The women dispensed medicine in plastic cups. They offered drinks of water. The health worker was smiling, soothing the sick baby. She walked into the treatment roo
m. Through the canvas and leaves, Jane could see her worried interaction with the mothers, heads shaking at the tiny form.
‘You have to take her to town. This baby will die! What are you doing?’ Jane said.
‘You no tellem us Lanniwah what to do – you not queen here!’ said the health worker.
Shirley pushed into the clinic, snatched back her baby and sat under a tree in tears. She wrapped the baby blanket around the tiny baby, and with her trembling younger sister walked away from the tin building.
‘Will she be okay?’ said Jane.
The health worker sadly shook her head. ‘Maybe die.’
Jane felt a shock of indignation. She couldn’t accept the situation. Her impotence burnt.
Sweat poured down her back, thirty-eight degrees and humid. She asked where the qualified missionary nurses were today.
‘Day off, at bible study, no duty for them today. Dey not come.’ Jane left the rough building. She walked past tamarind trees planted by the Makassans. Fragrant sticky pods clung to her shoes. Water glistened beyond flowering jacarandas.
Jane thought about how Shirley lived in the shack with Gertie and Raymond. There was no two-storey house like the one the council chairman at the outstation had – no new Toyota or light plane for her. She had to feed her baby from a dirt-encrusted bottle. Some misplaced reasoning by nurses had allowed for the weaning of the baby while they had her in the hospital. Shirley went home on a truck without Elizabeth … Jane had taken note – was it a deal with Nestle to sell more baby formula?
At Third River, there was genteel eating with fingertips from the shared leaf-plates. The old women waited for Jane to take her share of crayfish. Old Lucy tipped seawater from a pannikin over cooked white fish; it was barramundi, with its crackling skin pulled back. The sun set in orange and purple. Tiny Elizabeth was hot, too hot. Jane and Gertie bathed her and administered miniscule drops of baby Panadol in boiled water.
‘I can take you back to Harrison. We need to see Edie. She’ll know what to do’, Jane said. Shirley shook her head; it was too far, too many ghosts on the road, the danger of losing the Toyota in deep bulldust, and too many buffalo on the road. No, she would be okay: Old Lucy had given her some bush medicine.
Beatrice woke Jane from her swag. Jane thought a crocodile might be coming along the quiet black beach. The night was navy velvet, a cool breeze swept the white sand, and the waves were small and perfectly formed. Beatrice’s face was close to Jane’s.
‘You come Jane, quick’, said Beatrice. Jane followed to a group of women under a casuarina tree. Shirley sat with her head in her hands. Jane looked at the tiny bundle on her knees. Shirley’s baby was still. Jane took possession of her, and held her close. The baby could barely breathe, she was burning up, and shaking breaths like puffing came out of pale blue lips. Jane handed her to Shirley; she shook gently, and the little breath came. Then her breathing stopped. Shirley shook again, and looked wildly at Jane.
‘What wrong with Elizabeth? Help her’, she cried.
Jane leant over Shirley and laid the baby on the blanket. She was dead.
The baby was warm but began to cool like a billy of tea. Jane cleared the tiny mouth with her finger; she gently rolled her on her back and knelt over the infant. Jane tilted back her head.
‘Elizabeth, come on sweetie, come back, breathe, please’, whispered Jane. She tasted the little lips and nose as she blew – one-two, one-two. Mouth tiny and pale. Around her in the dark, Jane could see only whites of eyes and gleaming Lanniwah teeth. She was desperate; the urgency beat in her throat; her heart raced. And it was too awful. Shirley shook the child again, willing to shake her life back. Jane’s head throbbed, a knife in her brain, glass in her temple. She felt stupid and useless; she knew nothing about how to bring back life. She looked up at Shirley; her face was a wall of grief and tears bubbled out.
‘You fixem, Miss Jane. You fixem Elizabeth – she not dead, she sleep. She sleep …’ Gertie took her daughter in her arms and rocked her back and forth. The tiny baby pressed between them in her rug. Grandmother, mother and daughter all one.
‘My daught, your little one gone now; she fly away in the stars. You lookem, see her going.’ Gertie pointed upwards to the night.
The wailing began; women fell in crumpled heaps on the cool sand. Gertie took a rock and beat her head; blood dripped down. Too much death, too much crying. When would it all stop? Shirley wrapped the little body in the cotton Peter Rabbit and Jemima Puddleduck rug that Jane had bought in Katherine. The baby’s tiny hands were pressed in prayer under her chin. Shirley lay next to her all night, her small breast near her mouth, waiting out the terrible haunting night as her mothers and aunts sang, waiting for sunrise.
Back at Harrison, Shirley, Gertie and sisters, grandmothers and aunts, danced a desultory ceremony with their foreheads caked in white ochre. It was a day of dancing, a mortuary ceremony for the little wrapped body, as small as a package of rice. The men played didgeridoo for the child, but there was not much ceremony for such a little, yellafella life. Old Burnie sat with clap sticks in his old hands, spindly arms raised, his eyes cloudy with glaucoma. Robert played the didgeridoo; he stopped and stared at Shirley. Raymond sat on his plastic chair just outside his shack, tears running down his face. Jane wondered if she had the right to attend, as it was only her adopted clan.
‘Come sit’, they said.
‘Come dance wid us for this baby. She gone to Jesus now’, said Lizzy.
Aaron came up to the little bundle, wrapped in yellow flannelette and gum leaves, and stared down at the little corpse.
‘Why is Elizabeth dead? Can’t you give her medicine and bring her back? Jesus did that; he brought back Lazarus’, he said.
Raymond blew his nose and called Aaron over to him.
‘She’s gone now, mate. Her soul is gone, just an empty little body now. It’s okay to cry, we all cry in this life.’
Aaron sat on Raymond’s lap and laid his blond head against the white beard.
Jane knew that this baby would join the hundreds of babies whose names were crossed off the lists in the health clinic book, little deaths due to gastro or bronchial infection – so senseless. So many dead at two weeks, one month, ten months, three years – all gone to Jesus.
Hubert rode by the ceremony on his motor bike, then stopped and parked in the dust. He walked towards the ceremony, his hat crumpled in his hands. No one looked at him openly. It was a Greek tragedy. Jane watched with fascination. What would he do? What did he dare do? Old Lucy grabbed her hand and leant her old eyes towards the ground, averted from the Boss. Hubert walked, a man on a mission. He squatted next to Raymond’s chair and offered him a cigarette, lit it for him; they smoked in silence. Hubert’s head bent forward, his shape like Rodin’s ‘Thinker’. Was he crying? Jane ached to see, but could only see his balding skull rocking above his bent knees.
Shirley was with the women dancing. She proudly looked away, intent on her best dancing for the baby’s spirit. After ten minutes, Hubert stood up, touched Raymond on the shoulder, then he gave the old man the cigarettes – a half packet of Benson and Hedges for a life? Hubert moved towards Gertie, but she walked away. He followed and put something in her hand. Then he kicked over the engine and rode away. The motorbike roared. So was that it, the atonement? Jane walked over to Raymond.
‘Thought you were going to kill him?’ she said.
‘He’s a good Boss; didn’t mean any harm’, he said. Gertie took a crumpled fifty-dollar note from her bra. She held it out to Jane on her palm.
Jane looked at it. ‘Okay, that’s it then?’ Jane said.
Gertie tossed the money onto the dirt in front of Raymond, brushed her dress down, and with great dignity walked away.
‘The Boss is going to give me his old nag. She’s a good horse; we can get around a bit, you know’, said Raymond.
Jane’s throat filled with green bile of rage. That night she wrote a letter to the Member of Parliament for Arnhem Land, Hen
ry Cotton. He was a friend who dropped in on Lanniwah and Wunungah alike, a good honourable man, funny too, married to a Tiwi wife who was majestic and smart.
A month later, Henry wrote back from Darwin – ‘A great letter, Jane; made me cry, etcetera’. He told her that he would look into baby Elizabeth’s death. Jane’s letter claimed that the missionary nurses had been negligent. They had allowed unqualified Lanniwah health workers to run the clinics at the outstation and babies were dying. She asked him why the nurses just prayed when faced with impending Lanniwah deaths. Why wasn’t there an airlift to Gove? Why was there no air evacuation for Aboriginal communities? Hadn’t this baby been very ill? Was she the only person who could see that? No flying doctors here: they were for the white cattle station people. Injustice burnt. Henry would hand the case to the coroner. A few weeks later, the missionary nurses called on Jane and solemnly tapped on the screen door.
‘You have accused us of negligence!’ The air crisp with anger and Christian repression.
‘It’s the devil’s work’, they said. Jane shamefully backed down, apologising, snivelling, and praising the church’s missionary work. After all, she had to survive amongst majority missionaries and cattlemen both. She hated herself as she poured the tea.
‘Powdered milk?’ Smiling nurses accepted her apology..
Shirley was found guilty of neglect by the Darwin coroner. Charged with not being a fit mother, leading to the death of an infant. There had been no place to clean a bottle in a windswept shed; it was a scandal, a shame, and the mother’s fault of course. Perhaps she would face criminal charges. Jane’s letter was evidence, a piece of Judas kiss? She tore her hair in disbelief. Poor Shirley, poor golden Shirley. But nothing came of it. The weeks passed.
Aaron and some little boys played with Shirley outside the caravan. She pretended she was a teacher and they were students. They had a little piece of masonite as a desk, and she walked back and forth with a ruler in her hand.
‘Shirley, where is your baby gone?’ Aaron asked.