Dancer downs the glass of water and pours himself another as Kim rabbits on. ‘He’ll give me some anyway I reckon. He wasn’t even going to boot me out when they rang. It was only you he wanted to get rid of. He must think I’m cool.’
‘Kim! Whha you talking ’bout? We gotta get out of here.’
‘No way. Just sit tight like Paddy said. You’re such a bloody kid sometimes.’
The glass slips as he goes to put it down, and shatters on the floor. Kim screams as she jumps backwards. Outside, the bull terrier launches into a frenzy of barking. Dancer feels like his head is about to explode. The door is pulled open, and there is Paddy exclaiming, ‘What the fuck!’ with the pair of bikies looming behind him.
‘The chick’s bleedin’,’ one of the bikies observes.
Dancer looks down and sees that there is a cut on Kim’s calf. It isn’t deep, but there is plenty of blood, seeping out amongst the shards of glass.
‘Is that black prick givin’ you a hard time, girlie?’ his bald mate asks.
‘No. It was an accident,’ she answers quickly. ‘He just can’t handle the ganja.’
Paddy steps in, boots crunching the glass shards, grabs a dirty tea towel and flings it at Kim. He leans in close to Dancer and hisses, ‘Get the fuck out of here. Right now.’
Dancer edges past him. Tries to signal Kim to come with him, but is ignored. He makes it out of the kitchen, but the bald bikie steps forward to block his path to the door.
‘Hey toerag.’
Dancer keeps his eyes down.
‘I’m talkin’ to you.’
Dancer can’t help shaking as he looks up.
‘Keep your fucken mouth shut, if you know what’s good for you.’
The bikie steps aside. As Dancer lets himself out, he hears the man snarl at Paddy, ‘It’s like bloody amateur hour mate, you better lift your friggin’ game.’
The dog is still barking wildly as Dancer fumbles his way off the porch in the dark. He sees the gleam of metal too late, and trips over the stand of one of the bikes. Still half out of his senses, the rage and humiliation burst forth as he gets to his feet. He plants a foot against the fuel tank of the Harley, and pushes with all his might. It topples, coming down against the other bike, and both go to ground with a crashing of metal and splintering of headlights and mirrors.
For a moment he is shocked into stillness. But only for a moment. As the door bangs, and the porch light comes on, he is off. Across the road, down into the drainage ditch on the other side, crouching as he runs.
‘You’re dead meat, you little cunt. You hear me! Dead meat!’
The angry shout echoes as he gains the cover of the bush. He crashes on, heedless of the scratching branches and grabbing roots. All he can think of is the Eagle Beach track a hundred yards away.
Part Two
5
Two Bob’s pew is about halfway back, but he can pick out Andy sitting in the front row.
Next to Andy, that’s gotta be … Yeah, that’s him!
When Dancer joins his father and uncles as a pallbearer, Two Bob cannot take his eyes off his grandson as they make the slow procession down the aisle, bearing Buster’s coffin.
He didn’t recognise me. But why would he.
The rest of the mourners depart. The sight of Dancer has unnerved him. He doesn’t feel up to going to the burial. He rubs at his bald spot before he puts his akubra back on and gets stiffly to his feet in the empty church.
He’d wanted to hide when he saw Rosa coming. Thought she was still chasing him to get involved with all the station humbug again. It’s not that he doesn’t care. He would be heartbroken if the station is lost. It’s just that … That looking after Riley is enough to cope with? Too much painful history involved? He’s just an old pensioner now, with weary bones? All these excuses flitted through his mind as he put on a smile.
But she hadn’t come about station business. A funeral notice had come in on the fax. ‘Buster Jirroo. He was family for Milly’s boy wasn’t he? Thought you might want to know.’
‘Yuw. Andy’s uncle, on his mother’s side.’
It wasn’t until that evening that the realisation hit him. Robert would be there! Dancer! A compulsion seized him to lay eyes upon his grandson. For the first time, he left Riley to look after himself, laying in a supply of tins and frozen bread, and promising to be back after two nights.
He tells himself he should hit the road now. Plenty of time to make it to Derby before dark tonight. Maybe even a bit further. Camp on the road. That way he can be home with plenty of daylight still tomorrow.
Blachan.
The thought is suddenly there unbidden. It must be from seeing Andy. He’d love some to spice up his stews. He finds himself walking the two blocks from the church to the courthouse gardens. In the unfamiliar bustle of the markets he spots a likely looking stall. ‘You’re in luck,’ the young woman smiles in answer to his query.
He walks away with three jars, plus one of mango chutney on the house, feeling ridiculously pleased. Should hit the road, he tells himself again as he stows the booty in the ute. But instead, he drives to the cemetery. It is deserted now, but the freshly filled grave is easy to find. I’m older than you were Buster, he thinks, as he pays his respects.
A glance at the angle of the sun as he starts up the ute. Plenty of daylight still.
Longest time since I been in Broome. I’ll just have a little bit of a look round.
Driving the streets of the old town he recognises a gaggle of cars from the church service parked outside a corner block. He pulls over down the street a little bit and watches the comings and goings; men in white shirts and dark pants, women mostly in black. He can’t kid himself any longer.
Even as he walks up the driveway he shies away from contemplating his actions, falls back on the familiar ground of wondering how Riley is doing. He mounts the verandah steps and stands there at the front door, at a complete loss when a woman appears.
‘Come on in. I’m sorry, old man, please forgive me for not recognising you, but all are welcome on this day.’ As she steps aside to usher him in, he takes off his hat and introduces himself.
‘Two Bob Walker.’ He hesitates. ‘Dancer’s grandpa.’
The woman’s jaw drops. Her eyes dart to a photograph in the hallway. Following her gaze, he sees a photo of Milly and Andy and baby Dancer. She recovers herself, puts a hand on his arm and says, ‘Wait here, I’ll go and get Andy.’
He can hear singing from the back yard. Kids’ voices. He wants to flee back to his car. He does turn to go, is about to step off the verandah when Andy appears. The two men look at each other across a gulf of sixteen years. Two Bob drops his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Andy. It’s a bad time.’
‘Mmm.’
‘I was … I was wonderin’ if you could … if I could … see Dancer.’
‘He’s taken off somewhere. He’s pretty upset. Him an’ the old feller were real close.’
Two Bob feels his heart tearing. ‘Could you tell him I came?’
‘Sure.’
‘Could you …’ He has no idea how to finish the sentence. ‘Maybe I’d better go.’
He can’t look up at Andy. He puts his hat on as he turns away.
‘Come back in the mornin’, old man. He’ll be here then. We’ll have a cuppa tea eh.’
But Dancer isn’t.
There.
Andy is about to go out looking for him and tells Two Bob to come back later.
‘But I can’t. Riley. I’ve got to get back.’ Panic rising. Of all the scenarios he had imagined last night this was not one of them. Grasping for something, anything, to keep this tenuous thread from breaking, he latches on to the first thing that comes to mind. ‘Andy, you gotta ring me. You gotta come up. The station. It’s in trouble, we might lose it. Rosa’s asked me to help.’
But Andy is not listening. ‘I’ve got to find Dancer, Two Bob. He never showed up last night. Come back later on. Ok?’
He leaves Two Bo
b standing there in the front yard, twisting his hat in his hands.
6
‘Jee-sus Dad!’
Dancer’s head whirls, catching a glimpse of the bullock as it is thrown in an ungainly arc to the road’s verge, dead before it lands.
‘You’re awake! Sorry mate. But I’m not gunna roll the truck for some bullamon that decides to walk in front of me.’ Andy grinds down through the gears as he approaches the single-lane bridge. ‘You do what you gotta do, boyo.’
The truck crawls across Willare Bridge with a rhythmic clunking. Dancer looks down, taking in the murky green of the late dry season waterhole of the Fitzroy River. He can feel the momentum of the road, of change, of saltwater country receding and river country rising. And with it he feels the weight of the last few weeks starting to ease. He turns to his father.
‘And that’s what you’ve been doing, hey Dad?’
‘That’s what I’ve been doin’.’
‘Wanna tell me?’
‘Willare comin’ up. Time for breakfast. What you reckon?’
‘I reckon. I’d kill for a bacon and egg burger.’
‘Two for me.’
Dancer has no memory of making his way from Paddy F’s to the shack at Eagle Beach. He can dimly recall plunging into the ocean when he woke the next morning, but feeling no better for it. He was afraid. A dull dread, blunted by sheer inertia in the aftermath of that fateful bong, as if he’d been wrung out and tossed aside; by emotional overload from the weeks of sitting with Nyami Buster through his final illness; from holding himself together for the funeral; from the shame of fucking up the night before. He felt overwhelmingly weary.
The fear became razor-sharp that afternoon. He and Andy were in the yard, sitting in the cab of the truck, as he tried to explain what had happened. Two Harleys rumbled slowly past, then turned and crawled by again, with the bikies giving them the evil eye each time.
Dancer still doesn’t know how Andy sorted it out, and still doesn’t feel reassured. He made it through the next day at school in a fog, hardly acknowledging the condolences for Buster. Jess cornered him, tried every way she knew to prise out some sort of account of what had happened. Kim was freaked out, she reckoned, and told her to tell Dancer that she never wanted to see him again.
Walking home with Jimmy and Buddy, his gut churned at the sound of the two Harleys turning the corner. When the bikes U-turned, and idled slowly along beside them, it was all he could do to stop from breaking into a run. He kept his eyes firmly on the ground as the one with the ginger beard snarled at him, ‘Your old man’s saved ya skin kid, I’ll leave you be. But ya card’s marked. You better not cross me again.’
He spent the next two weeks in a funk. Refusing to go to school, to even leave Jirroo Corner. Andy could hardly get a word out of him; frantic with worry, he remembered his Sunday morning encounter with Two Bob.
Andy concentrates on the tucker until he’s demolished his first burger. He takes a gulp from his mug of tea. ‘It’s a strange world.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘B&E burger at Willare. I was just thinkin’ I had the same thing way back, when I was headin’ up the Gibb River Road to escape from Broome.’
‘What were you running away from?’
‘You’ve heard that ol’ story about the great Simpson Beach stampede eh?’
‘Just once or twice. How true is it?’
‘Depends who’s tellin’. Thing is, though, we couldn’t claim the glory. Not till ol’ Sarge Griffiths left town. Somehow he knew it was me an’ Georgie. Couldn’t prove it, but he knew. He cornered me one day an’ told me my card was marked. He was gunnin’ for me.’
‘Your card was marked?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘That’s what the bikie said to me. The red-haired one.’
Andy shivers. ‘Same mentality. He was a bad bastard, Griffiths. Maybe not as bad as these fucken bikies, but I was spooked. I pulled out of the band an’ lined up the job at Boxwood. Had a bacon an’ egg burger here on the way up. I was only a year older than you are now mate. An’ I didn’t have an ol’ man to help me sort my shit out!’
‘How did you sort it out, Dad?’
Andy watches Dancer and chews a bite from his second burger. ‘They’re thugs. Thugs an’ scumbags. An’ they want your guts for garters. That’s the truth of it. The way they see the world no-one gets away with disrespectin’ ’em. But they’re not completely fucken dumb. They’ve come to town to do business with Paddy F an’ his type. That was me angle.’
‘You went and fronted them?’
Andy nods through another mouthful.
‘In their clubhouse?’
‘It’s just a shed in the light industrial area.’
‘Still.’
‘I didn’t go on me own. I’ve got a few scungy mates from when I did time for the car smash. They set up the meet, an’ came to cover me arse.’
‘So what’d you say?’
‘I told ’em if they want to do business in Broome they need to show it some respect. I said if any harm comes to you, every blackfeller in town’ll be on their case. Theirs an’ every dealer they supply. I told ’em it wasn’t worth it.’
‘Weren’t you shitting yourself?’
‘Deeply. But I offered ’em a deal as well.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. We’d stay quiet – no losin’ face for anyone. You got that clear?’
‘Got it.’
‘An’ compensation.’
‘How much?’
‘Ten K.’
‘Ten K?! It was only some scratches.’
‘What? You stopped to inspect the damage did you?’
‘Where’d you get the money from?’
‘I’ve got three months to pay.’
‘Shit Dad … I’m so sorry.’
Andy balls the burger wrappers into a tight wad as he pushes to his feet. He hurls them into the bin.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dancer repeats. ‘I just …’
Andy is on his way back to the truck, speaking over his shoulder. ‘Your uncles’ll bail me out if it comes to that, but I’d rather they didn’t have to. I’ve got that hay cartin’ contract when we get back from Highlands, but that’s not goin’ to be enough on its own.’
7
Two Bob tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter if they make it tonight or in the morning, but he’s not sure he can stand another night of anticipation. Either way, he’s going to have the stew ready, just the way Andy likes it. Or used to. He slides the rough-cut potato chunks into the camp oven and gives it a stir.
He hasn’t been this edgy since … since he can’t remember when. He is by habit a man of caution and deliberation, but from the moment he watched Dancer gather himself and lift the coffin to his shoulder he’s been running on raw instinct. He’s not sure what he has unleashed, or whether he’ll be able to ride this bronc.
The thud as the boab nut hits the hard-packed earth not two feet away startles him. The nut bounces, rolls, and comes to a stop at his feet. It has cracked open. The janga, the yellow-white pith, is exposed.
He reaches down and picks it up. A segment of the chalky fruit has broken loose. Breaking the habit of a lifetime, he plucks the piece of pith from the nut and places it on his tongue. The tart, lemony taste floods his mouth. His first instinct is to spit it out. But he holds it in, then swallows, and lets the flavour and its memories overwhelm him.
Bessie sent the boys out, telling them they better not come back without some sugarbag. They made a day of it, tracking wida the bee, and found two nests. Bessie mixed the honey with the janga she’d gathered and pounded, to make up a sweet paste. Janga thought it was a great joke, eating himself. But Bessie railed against it. Wajarri and Sarah shared her unease.
They couldn’t always find sugarbag. Without it Wajarri could hardly bear to swallow the bitter pith. Mother would prepare it for them, but refuse to eat it herself. On these days her haranguing of Billy would become merciless.
‘You fucken whitefeller you, makin’ us all live here like a bunch of munjons. I can’t eatem my son. I want damper. I want tea an’ sugar. An’ nicki nicki. All my family still there Fitzroy side. I’ll take ’em this lot kids and fucken leave you here on your own you bastard.’
The twins and their big sister Sarah had learned to take these outbursts with a grain of salt. For all the fire she displayed when this mood took her, they knew she feared the world beyond, and especially feared for the fate of her children in that world. Nevertheless, she could keep it up for hours at a time. Billy could lay down the law ruthlessly to the children, but he had a different manner with his Bessie. His silence served only to goad her on.
At the turn of the year, as the days started once again to lengthen, Billy disappeared for a few days, as he sometimes did. He returned in good humour, with his precious pouch of gold heavier than it had been, and informed them all that he was taking Wajarri with him to Moonlight Valley to find Sohan the cameleer.
‘I’ll get ye a camel load o’ flour, and a whole saddlebag full o’ chewing tobacco, me darling,’ he promised Bessie.
Janga was outraged. But Bessie was just as adamant as Billy. Many a time she’d told them the tale of her young brother. Back at Fish Creek he’d been snatched away one day by the police patrol, never to be seen or heard of again. Every time she told the story she cried anew. And until he grew old enough to be able to shrug her off, every time she would hold Janga close, whispering, ‘An’ he was darker’n you, Janga. Darker’n you.’
He’s gone … He’s gone, an’ he’s never comin’ back.
Two Bob winces. He can still hear himself translating his mother’s grievous wailing when they returned home that awful day. Can still remember his father’s anger disappearing in the instant. The way he stood there, frozen, as she snatched up the leg-iron and began to beat him with it, screaming in English now, ‘You’re allasame Twelbinch, alla fucken same.’
The Valley Page 5