Riley can hardly contain himself as Dancer gathers up their gear and they make their way back up to the Hilux.
41
Rosa does the talking, but not with her chairman’s hat on. This is a family gathering of the Rider clan. She has seated Dancer between herself and Tim. Riley is tying a bandanna of white cotton around his forehead to match the other men. ‘Your grandfather Wajarri, Two Bob, he came here long time. Before I was born. But his country is south from here. And on Highlands, us mob say a Rider is a boss for a Walker.’
Two Bob has heard the joke many times, and laughs along. ‘That’s what my Marj always used to say.’
Then Rosa’s tone takes on a formality, a gravitas, that marks this night as different to a meeting or a verandah chat. ‘My Auntie Marj, your grandma, she was a proper Rider, a proper boss for this Jimbala Wali country here. She was a big woman for the Kimberley your granny Marj. All the Land Council mob, all the Kimberley bosses came here to Jimbala Wali for her funeral.
‘Your grandpa Walker, he’s brought you back here. But you’ve gotta know your granny Rider’s story too. And your mother, poor thing. She was one of us. That means you’re one of us, Robert Rider.
‘You’ve just started to get that story little bit. But underneath that story is a song. And underneath that song is country, and law. You’ve gotta listen now to the junba for this Jimbala Wali country.’
And so the night begins. Tim and Riley lead the singing, backed by Rosa and a chorus of women. Two Bob is amongst the dancers, as is Jimmy. Dancer has no idea of the story being sung, but that knowledge can come later. Right now there is fierce contentment to be here in this circle, absorbing the song. Riley is transformed. The boyish innocence that seems so much a part of his character has dropped away. There is an intensity to his whole manner and bearing.
Dancer studies the dancers closely, watching the patterns and movements, noting the subtle differences to the Broome-side style he is familiar with. Sitting there cross-legged between Tim and Rosa he is starting to move from the hips up, feeling the dance.
Before he knows it Two Bob and Jimmy have stepped out, grabbed him by an arm each, and led him up to join them. He is dancing the Jimbala Wali junba. His new family can soon see why his Nyami Buster dubbed him Dancer. After a couple of verses his hesitancy is gone. Once he has the feel, there is a rhythm to his movement that belies the heavy set of his body, a firmness to his stamping with a quick strong lift into the next step, a sharp grace about the way he moves into each new position. There are calls of encouragement from the women and knowing smiles exchanged amongst the men. He looks up to see Riley’s eyes fixed on him. They both break into broad grins, without Riley missing a beat of the song.
He feels momentarily deflated when the junba comes to an end. Jimmy escorts him back to the spot between the Rider siblings. Tim ties a white strip around his forehead, and slaps him on the back. Rosa’s gravitas has gone. The twinkle is back in her eye as she asks, ‘Anybody let on?’
‘I had no idea.’
She sees the tears glinting in the corners of his eyes, and gathers him into a hug. ‘Welcome to your other country,’ she whispers, before releasing him, and saying in her normal voice, ‘Get ready for the fun now.’
Tim gives him an elbow nudge, ‘Looks like you’re bringin’ ol’ Two Bob back to life. Can’t remember the last time I saw him dancin’.’ And then a sly wink. ‘You’re a more better dancer than horse rider, boy.’ Blowing raspberries to loosen up his cheeks, he reaches back for his dijeridoo. ‘Watch this kind dancin’ now.’
Dancer dreamed that night that he was dancing a wangga.
He was entranced, from the moment of the slow, almost mournful start of Tim on dij, joined by Riley as singer. The prowling of the young men, then the surge as the clapsticks beat faster. The outburst of free-spirited exuberance, the flashiness of the dancers who each gave their all in whirls and leaps as the short crescendo peaked. Jimmy tried to drag him up to have a go after he had watched a few. But he resisted. He was tempted, but needed to wrap his head around this dance, so unlike anything he had seen before.
As the night wound down and everybody drifted back to their camps, he was still hearing Riley’s song, and choreographing moves in his head. After the last goodnights, as the three of them walked back to Two Bob’s camp, he suggested to Riley, only half jokingly, that next time they were down the river he should sing a few wanggas for him so he could practise some moves.
‘Yuw, yuw! We can do that. You’ll be best wangga dancer, Dancer! Dancer dancer!’ Riley did a jig, delighted with his pun.
When they reached Two Bob’s yard, Dancer tried an opening step; the crouching prowl, hands held low with fingers pointing.
‘Woorroooh!’ Riley purred his approval and followed suit. Dancer pivoted, stretched another step.
Riley straightened and began to sing.
‘Down the river,’ said Dancer, holding his hand out for a low five.
Riley tapped his hand. ‘Yuw.’
42
The next morning Dancer makes a prearranged call to Andy from the phone box by the office. Andy is in good spirits. The hay carting gig is going smoothly. Not long to go now, then he’ll head back up after a day getting gear sorted and doing a bit of shopping. Dancer asks if he can put in a couple of requests for the shops. His first one draws a guffaw from Andy at the other end of the line. ‘Ol’ Two Bob still into the Phantom is he?’
‘Yep, and Riley.’
‘He used to make me read the bloody things to him. Milly thought we were nuts. I’ll see if I can get a few. Only you can do the bloody readin’, mate. What else?’
‘See if the newsagent’s got any of those sketchpads. You know, the big ones, double the size of a notepad. A couple of them, and a few of those drawing pens for Riley.’
‘See what I can do. Sounds like you’re gettin’ on ok up there then?’
‘Yep. I was dancing last night. The Jimbala Wali junba for all the Rider mob.’
There is real pleasure in Andy’s laugh down the line. ‘Two Bob need anythin’ else?’
‘Nah, he reckons it’s all good this end. He said to tell you he’s got a couple of good horses for you.’
‘Not sure I can trust the ol’ bugger on that. He can be a bit of a trickster you know.’
‘We’ve been walking them on and off the float, and they’re just about right with that. We’re doing another run-through today.’
‘He was always a stickler for detail. You’re in good hands with your grandpa.’
‘Yep. We’re gunna take the plant out on a night camp tomorrow. Day’s ride to Ruby’s Bore, then hobble them out, and come back the next day. He reckons if they handle that all right, we’ll be set to go.’
‘Proper old style! Gotta say I’m lookin’ forward to a bit of ridin’ after all these years. See you in a few days time.’
‘See you, Dad.’
He feels good this morning! He gives a stomp, and shimmies a move from last night’s dance as he leaves the phone box.
‘Whoo Dancer!’ It is a couple of teenage girls who were there last night, heading towards the store. One of them copies his shimmy, and they burst into giggles. He does not even feel embarrassed; just laughs back, and heads down towards the yards. He reports to Two Bob on the conversation with Andy, adding that Andy is a bit dubious about what sort of horses they’ve lined up for him. The other three can’t quite hide their conspiratorial smiles.
‘You’re not setting him up are you?’
‘No, promise. You an’ me are gunna poke along at a walk, but I reckon your ol’ man’ll want to go for a bit of a gallop, just to remember what it used to be like. Andy’s a good man on a horse. Falcon here’ll give him a good run if he wants it.’
No-one talks about the dancing, but Tim and Jimmy are more chatty than they have been. Dancer floats through the day. He’s not sure why, but he decides on a name for the little gelding he’s chosen as his main horse – Buddy. He’ll find the jokes before he gets
back to Broome. They leave Buddy in the night paddock. Dancer’s job in the morning will be to bring in the rest of the plant whilst the real horsemen get everything ready for the third test.
The result is bizarre, but the intention is clear. Riley has put in an effort. He’s made a rare trip down to the store. Every tin plate and plastic bowl from Two Bob’s meagre kitchen cupboard has been commandeered. There is ice-cream – already starting to melt – and tinned apricots. The spaghetti and the Irish stew have been heated in separate saucepans. There is margarine on the toast.
And there’s a sparkle in Two Bob’s eyes as they enjoy the feast. He tries to not smoke in the evenings, but tonight he pulls out his tin and rolls up. He lets out a burp, gives his stomach a pat, and excuses himself to head out to the verandah. Dancer can feel Riley watching as he does the dishes. He wipes down the bench, squeezes out the rag, and turns to see Riley standing in the doorway of his bedroom, waving Dancer towards him. He ushers Dancer into the room, peers back out suspiciously, then pushes the door shut.
Dancer hasn’t been in here before. He’s surprised at how orderly it is. With Riley, he’d expected a chaotic mess. Riley motions him to sit on the bed, puts a finger to his lips, then goes to a cupboard. He pulls out a spiral-bound sketchpad and clasps it tight to his chest. Dancer assumes it is the same one he saw the other night. ‘Have you done another Phantom comic?’
Riley shakes his head firmly. ‘Two Bob.’ A downward handflick – the ‘nothing’ sign. Then thumb and forefinger drawn slowly across his lips – ‘mouth zipped’.
‘Don’t say anything to Two Bob?’ Dancer interprets.
Riley nods. Then, ‘Andy.’ He repeats the pantomime.
‘Don’t say anything to Dad.’
Riley double-nods, then licks his middle finger, dashes it in a cross across his chest. ‘Cross my heart an’ hope to die,’ he blurts. Dancer is hesitant. Riley repeats the lick, the gesture, the words, more urgently. With an uneasy feeling Dancer repeats the ritual and the words. He can sense how tightly wound his cousin is, as Riley lowers the pad down onto his lap, then slides it across.
Dancer flips the stiff cardboard cover open. He’s only paying cursory attention to the details, until his eye is caught by a panel at the foot of the second page. It is the young woman and the child who have featured in most of the other panels. In this one the child has his head close to the woman’s rounded stomach, eyes wide with delight, and a huge smile. Tremor lines around the stomach suggest movement. The woman too is smiling happily. Her face is the same as the one in the picture in the hallway at home. His mother’s.
Riley sees that Dancer has twigged, and is almost bursting with pride.
Dancer goes back to the start. It is obvious now. Idyllic scenes of Milly and Riley fishing. The bad guy in black clothes and hat, scowl-faced as he towers over Milly, is clearly Andy. In one panel the child Riley cries forlornly in the foreground as black-hat Andy and Milly drive away. He’s not sure he wants to turn the page. He runs his eye over the panels of the first two pages again, astounded at the intricacy and accuracy of the drawing.
The next two pages tell a story he knows, though there are details which are new to him. A white nurse examining Milly with a worried look on her face, and a series of panels showing Milly and Andy and the nurse in tense then angry exchanges, all drawn from the low perspective of a child. The final panel shows young Riley on Two Bob’s hip, head buried, refusing to watch as Milly and Andy drive off, with Milly looking back, crying and waving.
He turns another page. The cartoon is interrupted. Across the two opened pages is one large line drawing. The boab tree from a distance. The station track disappearing into scrub as it winds towards the distant Gibb River Road. Under the boab tree two figures sitting on flour drums; Two Bob in profile, and a little boy with his back turned. Something about the pair, small in the landscape, speaks of loneliness and sadness.
The next double-page is blank.
‘Is that all?’
Riley gives a short shake of the head, twisting away as Dancer licks a finger, and turns a sheet to reveal the next spread. Dancer can’t help the gasp that escapes him. The first page is taken up by a portrait of his mother’s face that is too painful to look at. He briefly takes in the wild hair and the haunted, vacant eyes, then with a shudder folds the spine of the sketchbook, to hide her away.
He thinks he should stop, but cannot.
The other page has six panels, all framing exactly the same view. A woman with wild hair seen from behind, sitting cross-legged on a sandy bank with a waterhole in front of her. Pandanus thickets on the far bank. A big paperbark on the right, branches kissing the water. His mother is sitting in exactly the same spot where he sat most of yesterday.
In the first five panels Riley is cavorting around her. Catching a fish. Offering it to Milly. He cartwheels in front of her. The water explodes in a splash as he does a bombie. In each panel she sits, unmoved. In the last panel on the page, the boy is walking out of frame, head bowed, and still she sits, exactly the same. Dancer wipes a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand, then briefly places the hand on Riley’s knee.
The next two spreads are a series of half-page sketches, four to a spread. In each the landscape is similar; a range on the horizon. In the first the wild-haired woman looms large in the left foreground, half a head and right shoulder, seen from behind. The landscape stays the same, but with each drawing she grows smaller and more distant, moving across the frame of the pictures from left to right, but always walking straight into the distance. Dancer does not know how Riley has achieved the effect, but as his mother disappears further into the distance she becomes fainter, with the landscape starting to be seen through her form. In the last she is barely a distant glimmer.
Riley has edged away from him. There is now a metre between them, as his cousin sits frozen on the corner of the bed. Dancer stares for a long, long time at the last frame.
There is a single smallish panel on the next spread. A boy lies curled in sleep, in the spot on the sandbank where Milly sat. There is a caption bubble. But there are no words: the bubble shows the boy’s dream, a miniature of almost the same landscape that Milly disappeared into. But the view has shifted slightly. The horizon range is further to the left, and in the centre of the landscape is a flat-topped mesa which Dancer immediately recognises as Flat Iron Hill.
‘Unggulala,’ he murmurs as he turns the page.
The left sheet is blank. The right is drawn in a completely different style to what has come before. The boy is a small, crude stick figure in shorts. Unggulala is drawn in thick outline, with the rest of the landscape only faintly sketched. He turns another page. The same small stick figure. This time Unggulala is larger and darker, the rest of the landscape has disappeared altogether.
And again. Unggulala almost fills the page, hatched in darkly, overwhelming the small figure which now has shiver lines, and this time a small speaking caption, filled with the asterisks and exclamation marks used to indicate swearing.
The final page of the sketchbook is inked black. Completely. With hard, fierce strokes that have torn at the paper.
Dancer sits staring at the black page. Eventually he leafs backwards until he finds one of the landscapes with his mother disappearing. Yep, there is Unggulala, cut in half by the right edge of the panel. He keeps leafing backwards until he knows the next page will be his mother’s face. He closes the sketchpad and places it on the bed between them.
‘Tell me,’ he says.
Silence.
‘Tell me,’ he says, more forcefully.
More silence.
He gets up. He kneels in front of Riley, who is twisting his neck almost off his shoulders to avoid looking at him. He struggles to keep his voice even. ‘Fucken tell me.’
The words are almost unintelligible as Riley contorts rigidly, straining away from him. ‘Not yet. Later. Not ready yet.’
‘Then why the fuck did you show me this?!’
; He grabs the sketchpad and throws it at Riley, who lets out a scream as he catches and cradles the pad. He slips around Dancer and stashes the pad away and slams the cupboard door shut. He throws himself on the bed, and lies there rocking himself whilst frantically crossing his chest with his middle finger and muttering over and over, ‘Cross your heart an’ hope to die. Cross your heart an’ hope to die. Cross your heart an’ hope to die …’
Dancer is still kneeling by the bed, stunned, when Two Bob throws the door open and takes in the scene. He takes Riley in his arms and begins to rock him, giving Dancer an angry glare and waving him out of the room with a dismissive gesture.
43
‘Hey Buddy, am I stressing you out?’
To his surprise the horse gives a toss of its head, which he takes as a no. He realises that the name is not about playing a joke on his little brother. They have never been apart for this long. In some odd way talking to horse Buddy helps bridge the gap.
Tim has already gone, driving to Ruby’s Bore. Jimmy is somewhere up ahead, riding Falcon. And Two Bob is not far behind, leading the packhorses. Before they set off, Two Bob had instructed him, ‘If you start feelin’ cranky, you just pull up an’ climb out of the saddle an’ have a spell. Your horse can always tell, Dancer. You get cranky, Buddy’ll get nervous. If he gets nervous, anythin’ can happen. You always gotta be careful travellin’ with packhorses. Can’t have ’em shyin’ with that load on their back.’
Dancer leans forward and gives Buddy a rub between the ears. ‘This is life in slow-motion, bro. Bit hard to stay wound-up at this pace.’
Last night he’d been wound tight, pacing a groove in the dirt around the boab tree.
Riley knows something!
I’ve got to tell Dad. This is bullshit. We should pull out.
After Two Bob had glared at him and waved him out of the house, his first instinct had been to ring Andy. But his father was probably about halfway between Halls Creek and Fitzroy Crossing hauling two trailer-loads of hay.
The Valley Page 15