The Crocodile Hotel

by Julie Janson

  ‘Can I help you, old grandfather?’ said Jane.

  ‘Nothin’, you do nothin’. This fella bin jig jig my promise wife, jig jig in bush’, said Old Pelican.

  ‘I didn’t know’, Jane said.

  ‘I love him’, said Mayda.

  ‘Don’t say anything, honey. I want to take you away’, said Daniel.

  Dogs barked furiously and Beatrice arrived with some women from the camp. Before Jane could move, Beatrice hit Mayda on the back with a waddy. Beatrice laid into her.

  Jane cried out. ‘Please don’t hit her. It’s not right. Leave her, I beg you.’

  ‘She bad girl. She wife now. Not come to school no more.’

  Mayda fell to the ground. Beatrice dragged her up to her feet and walked her away into the dark. The men looked at the ground in front of Daniel. Awkward. Then Beatrice returned and pushed the young woman in front of Jane. Beatrice pulled Mayda’s head up by her hair. Her face arched in pain. Daniel said nothing.

  ‘This girl she lay down wid dat teacher’, Beatrice said.

  ‘Which teacher?’ Jane whispered.

  ‘Dat Orlando fella.’

  Mayda began to cry. It was a low pitiful moaning. Jane nodded; she felt sick. Beatrice pushed Mayda into the dark.

  Daniel didn’t move. Old Pelican put his spear thrower under his arm and followed. Old Burnie stood in the dark, looking at Jane. He put his hand over his eyes and sighed deeply.

  ‘This fella no good. He your friend?’ asked Burnie.

  ‘No, I hate him’, said Jane.

  ‘Yeeai, tellem to get. You my daughter. I watch out for you alla time now.’ Burnie disappeared.

  Daniel lit a cigarette and stood awkwardly in front of Jane. She didn’t know what to do. She wanted the ground to swallow him up.

  ‘Well, that went well’, he said.

  ‘Do you realise who you are insulting? How important a man Old Pelican is?’

  ‘Look, be cool. I really like Mayda. I think I’m in love. She’s sensitive and funny. She’s eighteen; she knows what she wants. They do have some human rights, you know. What about your feminist stuff? One day, I’d like to take her away from all this … We can go to Sydney; we could have a life. My family might act up a bit, but hell, they’d grow to love her too … Okay, I’ll be gone by morning.’

  He rolled out his swag and climbed in, relaxed and oblivious.

  Some hours later, just before dawn, Jane heard strange noises. Daniel was singing and mumbling as though he was very stoned. She watched out her window as he staggered to his feet and rode off towards the river through thick bush. His motorbike roared and wobbled, he fell off then remounted. The last she saw of him was his back fading into shadows of acacia trees.

  Three days later, Hubert drove with a slow pace to Jane’s place. He pulled up in his truck. He looked worried, and very serious; his face a mask, white and staring. He rolled a cigarette with violently shaking hands. What on earth had happened? Perhaps he had been charged for his crime. Had Edie done something? Suicided? Run off?

  Jane stood fixed to the step of the caravan, unable to move. Against the white earth, there was a silhouette of Hubert’s body, earth, his shadow large, towering. He beckoned to her. Why? If only he had spoken, given her some hint, a warning. Her eyes stopped on the green canvas in the back of the truck. It covered … what? A fresh killed bullock? There were no stockmen, no guns, no gum leaves to keep off flies.

  ‘You got a minute, Jane?’ he said.

  ‘What’s up? If Flash has been after your chickens, I’m sorry’, she said.

  ‘Nope, we found something up the river, a long way up in the mangroves. The boys tracked it.’

  He had his hand on the canvas. She saw kapok fluff balls gathered in the creases, lifting and whirling in graceful arcs. A bluebottle fly landed on Hubert’s hand; he brushed it away.

  There seemed to be some accusation floating in the air, the smell of rotting garbage, mangrove worms and mud, a putrid dead animal, a stench that made bile rise up, gagging green fluid. A riding boot stuck out of the mess. Hubert leant his head on his arm, exhausted, on the metal gate of the truck. The red cattle dog jumped on the back of the truck and stole something, then moved off the truck and began to eat it. Hubert kicked the dog, took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully picked up the flesh to replace it under the canvas. His eyes led hers to the large shape. She walked towards it. Black mud oozed on the wooden floor of the truck tray. Was he going to show her a crocodile? Why was he showing her? Didn’t he hate her? She certainly hated him. Was it a sick joke? Or was it Aaron? Fear choked her. Where was he? No, he was up at the camp. It was so quiet. Hubert wouldn’t look at her. She approached the greasy canvas and Hubert pulled it back.

  Jane peered at the greenish mess of a half-eaten human body. A terrible stink. A croc had been eating it, the face blackish and gouged, only one leg remaining. She gagged and blocked the smell with her shirt.

  Then she saw it … the ragged remains of the Bob Dylan tee-shirt, ‘Don’t Look Back’. She cried great gasping sobs, her body convulsed with the grief and horror; she dry retched and Hubert put his arm around her.

  ‘Oh hell, it can’t be! It’s not Daniel?’ she said.

  Hubert replaced the canvas and wiped his face with a handkerchief.

  ‘Sorry, it’s a bloody awful shock. A croc will do that; drag a feed up the mangroves to eat later. I’ll get Edie to make you a cuppa. He’s Orlando’s mate.’

  ‘I don’t understand it – why would Daniel swim a crocodile infested river?’

  ‘Must have gone troppo. Are you okay?’

  ‘I feel terrible, it’s devastating.’

  Hubert let his head roll forward, he scratched his scabs. He sniffed. No tough bloke now. Jane thought about how fragile life could be. The terrible uncertainty. The extremity of the violent death was horrific; everyone would reel at the devastating impact of his last hours. Who would tell his family? He must have had one – who would talk to his crying mother? So painful and ghastly. The crack of huge jaws, the gleaming yellow eyes, the reptilian massacre. All for what?

  Aaron ran back down the road and over to the truck. Jane stopped him. Hubert covered the corpse. He turned to face Aaron and patted the child’s head. All casual. Jane almost loved Hubert then.

  ‘No, Aaron, let’s go up to the school. The Boss has some business to do.’

  ‘Why are you crying, Mum?’

  ‘Nothing, darling; it’s just I feel a bit sad today.’

  She choked back tears and walked away. Hubert drove to the back of his house and called to Edie to help him pull out their old freezer. He had something to put in it.

  CHAPTER 11

  Letter From Head Office

  A few months passed and brought a new period for Jane. She was light, had a sense of freedom from the stress of relationships with men; she was single and strong with a rush of energy. She had applied for a transfer to a new school. She gleamed. People had basic goodness; no one was all evil.

  Then one morning, a letter arrived for Jane from Head Office. Edie pulled it out from the mailbag and held it in her hand. Jane reached for it. Edie pulled it away. Jane felt like punching her. Then Edie reluctantly handed it over. The letter said that Jane had to travel to Darwin for an interview. It wasn’t clear about what. Jane wasn’t worried about her job. So what? If she were fired, it would be all right; she could get a job anywhere now. She didn’t give a damn anymore. She was a good teacher who could take on any remote position and be very successful. Why, she could work for the Catholic schools or even become an overseas volunteer.

  The Darwin night was humid; Jane strolled past pandanus trees and riotous pubs. A sailor fell at her feet. She saw lonely men looking in shop windows and she had a flash of single motherhood, a child’s tears for absent fathers, no money, and pathetic nights in front of television. She might have become one of those women who always got dumped, but she was not going to be a failure. She grabbed a taxi to go to the YWCA. Th
e taxi driver slid his arm along the back of his seat and adjusted his crutch.

  ‘You look like a nice chick; want to come for a drink?’ She declined and looked out the window, watching the tropical red hibiscus shrubs and palm trees as the taxi swerved down the street. As he dropped her off, he cocked his head out the window.

  ‘You’re gorgeous’, he said.

  ‘Sorry’, she said. Then she walked the dark street without her usual fear of attack and crawled into bed.

  The next day she had the interview with a handsome young Department of Education man in brown shorts with a grey tie. He wore white long socks with sandals, of course. She waited for him to read the report on his desk.

  ‘A large Lanniwah Aboriginal community of students in one demountable class room, an occasional teaching assistant and for a few of those months just one relief teacher. Is that about it?’ he asked.

  Jane sat twisting her scarf in her hands, her mouth dry. The report would say more.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. We taught all of them some basics of reading and writing in English and maths. It’s been a big two years.’

  ‘Your Aboriginal teaching assistant went away? Is that right?’ he said.

  ‘Some important ceremonial business, I think.’

  ‘There always is’, he said.

  ‘David is an excellent teaching assistant, a teacher really. I can give him a great reference.’

  ‘I’m sure you can … It says here that there were, how shall we say, some personal difficulties, Mrs Reynolds. Is that correct? I have a rather peculiar letter from a Reverend Wiltshire.’ He looked sharply at her and she shrank in front of him, then raised her face and looked directly into his eyes. He winked.

  ‘No, absolutely nothing wrong. It was wonderful all the time. Two professionally rewarding and challenging years. Academically excellent, and we had great sporting results at the annual carnivals. Can I go now? I have to pick up my son from the child-care drop-in centre’, she said.

  He smiled and smoothed the paper; he took off his glasses and slowly wiped them. He sighed.

  ‘You know, I really admire you. Anything you want to say, um, the need for a doctor’s assessment?’

  ‘Do I look mad?’

  ‘I didn’t say …’ he said.

  ‘I have waded to school in chest-deep crocodile infested water, while carrying my seven-year-old son on my back and balancing my books and lesson plans on my head, during the three-month flood. I have taught fifty-two children to read and I have planted a garden of Chinese cabbages, bandaged scabies infected legs, cleaned nits from hair, dealt with a racist cattle station manager, kept my caravan nice and clean and written the school’s semester reports. My little son and I survived gastro, king browns and wild buffaloes and being broken down in a Toyota some hundred kilometres from help. I was nearly raped; a Lanniwah man punched me in the mouth. I undertook to enquire about Aboriginal land rights on behalf of the head man and learnt a considerable amount about Lanniwah culture, language and history. I was adopted into the clan and a number of very important elders hold me in respect. A baby died. A crocodile ate a man. I managed.’

  He sat forward and stared at her with his beatific smile. He closed the folder on his desk. Frangipani trees blew outside in the breeze.

  ‘Okay, that seems to be all we need. Thank you for coming in.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stood up and walked her to the door; his hand was on her elbow. She stepped out into the hallway. He called out.

  ‘Any comments about the Reverend Wiltshire?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on, just a hint.’

  ‘Well, alright, you might be interested to know …’

  He leaned forward and looked alert.

  ‘… that the Reverend Wiltshire ran away from his mission post.’

  ‘I guessed that.’

  ‘And was found naked in the Rainbow pool at Churinga Springs, shouting in tongues and preaching to the flying foxes; that is, after he was caught having sexual relations with Mrs Barkley, and her husband threatened to shoot them both. However, Mr and Mrs Barkley forgave each other. Oh, and he trained a new Lanniwah pastor and was supportive to me in obtaining release from prison of a young Lanniwah man. All good work.’

  ‘Priceless’, said the officer, and gave a loud raucous laugh. He held his hand over his mouth to gain control.

  ‘You know, you are very funny. We will let you know about your request for a transfer and the outcome of these other matters’, he said.

  She stepped out the door, then turned around and looked straight into his eyes.

  ‘One other thing – please put it on my records that I identify as being of Aboriginal descent, Darug from the Hawkesbury River. Make sure it says that – it’s very important.’

  ‘You don’t look Aboriginal.’

  ‘And you don’t look racist’, she said.

  He smiled and ushered her out of the building.

  Jane walked into the bright sunlight of the city and felt that a huge weight had lifted. It would be difficult to leave the Lanniwah but it felt like she had experienced with them a true homecoming. The old women had enlightened her, she was awake to her Aboriginality, and it would never leave her. She had entered a new realm; it felt like the revelation of strength. Nothing, no government department, or fear of authority or white or Aboriginal man would ever oppress her again.

  She walked past young soldiers out on the town, drinking themselves into oblivion in the outdoor bars. They sang while she danced up the street.

  CHAPTER 12

  Death Of Old Lucy

  Old Lucy’s family were in the dark, under the canopy of the bough shade. They sat near the deathbed. It was very quiet with no movement, just faint snuffles from babies. Jane knelt by the bed. Old Burnie played didgeridoo nearby. She felt a great pulsing of emotion as she looked at the tiny hand laid on the sheet, twitching. The frail hand waved upwards and took Jane’s heart with it. Jane moved forward and laid her head next to Old Lucy, unable to pull her eyes from the wizened face, the white hair soft as it crowned her head, transparent tendrils lying on the pillow. She hoped to hear some last words. The family leaned as one into the old woman’s approaching death; sounds of crying began to waft around the figures. They were waiting to be with her spirit, to see it through to another world.

  Didgeridoos played and the singing of the old men was loud, and heart breaking, and never ending. Edie sat on a plastic chair and held the old woman’s other hand. At her feet was a bunch of pink tea roses from Edie’s garden. Old Lucy lifted her head, pain etched on her face.

  ‘I go now, grand-daughter. You tell em about dat place’, said Old Lucy.

  ‘What place?’ said Edie.

  ‘Where her family was killed’, whispered Jane.

  ‘I’ve heard about that place, alright’, said Edie.

  David stepped into the space, his presence magnetic. He washed the old woman’s face with a towel and held her head up tenderly to drink some water. He seemed taller, stronger, as though there was a shift in his aura; he wore a land rights tee-shirt.

  ‘I can give her a shot of morphine for the pain’, said Edie.

  Lucy looked at Edie and shook her head. David sat on the ground and laid his head against the sheet. Jane looked up at the sheaves of fresh wattle and gum leaves hanging from the branches above. It was beautiful and full of peace. Edie moved from beside the bed and sat down with Jane amongst the wailing women. Old Beatrice cried and hit her head with a stone. Blood ran from the sorry cut. Every member of the family walked past, all leaning forward to say goodbye, little children clasping the old woman’s hands. Shirley wept and rocked back and forth, the end was coming. Edie put out her hand to the girl.

  Old Lucy looked up again. ‘Take Missus to that place’, whispered Old Lucy.

  The old woman sighed and stopped breathing. She was gone. A great wail of crying burst out from the family.

  Later, no one was al
lowed to mention the old lady’s name; the ceremony went on for a week. The women painted Aaron and the Lanniwah boys in white ochre. The girls – Shirley, Lizzy and Mayda – danced alongside Gertie, Margie and Old Beatrice. Flags of batik and plain bright colours flew in the breeze and Jane joined a procession to pay her respects to the coffin. The coffin was painted with ochres of orange, yellow, cream, black, and inscribed with the old lady’s Dreamings. The wailing kept up hour after hour and women beat their heads with sorry stones, blood mingling with tears on their cheeks. Babies cried and people danced each ceremonial moment of the dead woman’s Dreaming cycle. For Jane and Aaron, it was sad, ancient, and overwhelming.

  Jane went to the mortuary ceremony after school. Hubert stood nearby with his hat in his hands; he hung his head. The coffin was first mounted on a four-wheel drive truck and slowly, with dancers alongside, the procession moved through the land. People were dressed in full ceremonial costume, with men in feathered headdresses with sacred dilly bags in their mouths or hanging from their shoulders. Their ochre-painted bodies glistened with their Dreamings – animals, fish, birds, goannas, and turtles all attended the mortuary ceremony. Jane, covered in white ochre, danced with the women. They arrived at the gravesite in the small cemetery and men carried the coffin to the edge. Jane looked at the mounds of shells and small white stones; she touched the lucky stone in her pocket. Wailing rose to a crescendo. The dancers leapt in and out of the open grave. Men carried spears and the drone of the didgeridoo roared out. At last, the men put the wooden coffin in the grave and Sammy read the short service and closed the bible.

  CHAPTER 13

  New Job

  The letter was on her caravan steps, an unmistakable envelope with a little window. The Department of Education wrote of her ‘outstanding two years work in a remote school’. Jane received her promotion and she would be the new head teacher at Kiperinja School, six hundred kilometres away. She was not going to be sacked. She was admired. She was professional. All her fears washed away. This was her redemption, her spiritual rising. Jane picked up Aaron and danced around the yard. Flash barked and ran in circles.