by Kim Scott
The school, apparently, had a reputation for arranging performances of traditional dancing for community visitors. Alex told us near the end of the first school week that the school would be putting on a dance for some visitors in a couple of weeks. He would get a few of the local adults to come in to help with rehearsals.
A couple of days later the whole school gathered in the shade of the mango tree in the centre of the schoolyard. Some of the elder women from the community dipped chewed twigs or small paint brushes into tins of white ochre as the smaller children clambered over and around them. The children closed their eyes to have their faces painted and stuck out their chests when the ochre was placed there. They were all laughing and chattering, with the women occasionally shouting ‘Keep still!’ or ‘Shut up you, you...’ Alex paced around them.
The adolescents were reluctant. The older girls leaned against a fence several metres away on the edge of the shade.
Some of them sat facing away from the rest of us. It was hot. Francis, awkwardly bursting out of his clothes and seemingly growing before one’s eyes as his hormones bustled, polished his thick spectacles and looked bewildered. The other teenage boys joked.
Sylvester, one of the tallest, called out. ‘Look at little Willy! Proper blackfella Willy.’ Tiny Willy stomped his feet furiously as if in a corroboree.
Deslie shoved Sylvester and turned away pouting. ‘I’m not dancin’. I don’t like dancing. No men here.’ I could see Alex glancing angrily over to where the high school students were. I was responsible for them.
I went over to them. Alex wanted the boys to change into the lap-lap things and be painted, to enter into the spirit of the occasion, he said, and not destroy the enthusiasm of the young ones. One of the boys said, mockingly, ‘We should do it or we’ll lose our culture.’
‘Yes Sylvester, that might be right,’ I said earnestly.
‘But so what? I’ll still have me.’ Sylvester puffed out his chest and pounded it. ‘Rambo,’ he intoned in his deepest voice. The others laughed with him. Francis, with his head tilted back to stop his spectacles sliding from the bridge of his nose, gave a loud and high-pitched laugh.
‘Come on now boys, you have to join in.’ I turned back to the younger children, shouting at them to get down from the tree, off the verandah, away from the school gate, to stop fighting, stop throwing rocks ... I smiled at the old women who were laughing as they watched two small girls hurling fists and tearful words at one another.
One of the senior primary boys swung from a branch of the tree, screaming out ‘Ninja!’ and fell, with a different scream. Liz tried to help him up from the ground where he lay, beginning to sob. ‘Sir! Miss! Look! Cyril fell!’ Voices everywhere, yelling, laughing. Through his tears Cyril groaned, ‘My fuckin’ arm, don’t you laugh Willy, I’ll lift you boy you you ... I’ll make you sting.’
On the outside of this crowd, this whole excited school jostling around the tree from which bodies and sticks were thrown and fell, I saw Annette with two small boys. The boys danced around a rubbish bin, pounding the earth with their bare feet and exhaling in noisy bursts. Annette turned away as she praised them, calling to the crowd. ‘Isn’t that good? I want to see more of this, all of you.’ But I think only I heard. She saw the chaos, her words not heeded, and her smile fell. Her face became a pale tissue, crumpled.
One of the old women lifted her eyes from painting a small face, and I heard her say, with a little smile, in all that noise, ‘We doin’ your teachin’ for you.’
Liz and I met Alex as we were walking across the school lawn from our class late in the day. It was almost sunset and the air had thickened. Everything was deep and rich in colour as the day turned overripe.
Alex stood bare chested before us in his thongs and sagging shorts. ‘It’s a shambles, a bloody farce.’ His brow furrowed again.
‘Yeah it wasn’t too good.’
‘Ha! They don’t teach. They expect the kids to just do it!’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘Could you work it out, step by step?’ Alexander pounded his feet rather feebly on the lawn.
He stopped, and looked at his feet. There was a little silence. ‘No. No, not quite, mate.’
‘What a mess. There’s no teaching method.’ Alex turned away, shaking his head.
‘But,’ Liz tried to insist, ‘that’s their way, maybe.’
I said to him, ‘Alex, what about the men? How come only the women came?’
‘I don’t know. The AEWs—Aboriginal Education Workers—said the men would come, but apparently they were playing cards or something. Commitment eh? Anyway,’ he turned to go once more, ‘there’s a meal on at the mission tonight, for us. About six. Everything supplied.’
He walked away, shaking his head on his rounded thin shoulders. Alex moved like a puppet on strings; high-stepping and as if hesitating just before each foot fell. His pale skin gleamed, and then faded away as he passed under the mango tree where the darkness first gathered.
We sat at a long table in the courtyard of the mission monastery built, Father Paul assured us, some fifty years ago. Brother Tom mentioned, as we admired the illuminated courtyard and the solid walls made of stones from the riverbed, that the natives weren’t much help building this place. They helped as they could.
A fan whirred overhead. We were surrounded by palms and tropical greenery. Father Paul introduced us to the others: Sister Dominica, Sister Therese, Murray, Brother Tom, Gerrard, Jasmine.
The loud fizz-static of insects dying as they hit the insect electrocuter punctuated the whirr of the fan. It seemed an appropriate accompaniment to the prickling heat, the sensation of sweat trickling beneath my fresh clothes.
The tablecloth was white and the Sisters were dressed in white. Everyone was clean and scrubbed. Knives and forks scratched, glasses clinked, jaws masticated.
Annette sighed and settled her stout body in the chair. ‘A week in Karnama seems like an eon. Suddenly, here we have it again. Civilisation.’ She raised her arm as if proposing a toast, a wine glass in her fist.
Father Paul leaned forward. ‘So, you’re finding it a bit difficult then?’
‘Oh, it’s so frustrating. Kids that don’t know how to sit still, and not getting to school until recess time. What are their parents doing? Do they feed them? No, they’re playing cards. Alex goes out to see them, like to get them to help with the dancing, and they’re all yes sir no sir but as soon as he’s gone they forget.’ She drained her glass.
Alex glanced nervously at his wife and tried to catch her eye. The other conversations around the table had lulled. Brother Tom called from the far end of the table. ‘Ah yes, it can be trying, working here with the Aborigines.’
Annette lifted her chin. ‘Well, we were in a little town in the Wheatbelt last year. Alexander was the principal there. When you were the principal’s wife you were somebody. And there was sport to play. It wasn’t so far from Perth. But here! People laughed at us, other teachers, they couldn’t believe that this was a promotion for Alexander. They didn’t understand that.’ She smiled at her son, Alan, beside her.
People looked around the courtyard, listened to another insect electrocuted.
Liz tried to joke. She tapped her temple and made faces. ‘Well, a thicko like me is going to learn a lot here. The kids might not, but I’m sure I will. I need to!’ Everyone laughed with relief.
‘Oh, they’re lovely, friendly people,’ we agreed, all nodding and sipping at our drinks.
‘Everyone in the office is lovely,’ said Jasmine. ‘They might not work too hard, but they’re sweet, really. This lovely old lady came over today, the first baby born on the mission she said.’
‘That would be Fatima,’ said Brother Tom.
‘Yes, I think so, very tall and heavy. Quite old I think. Well, she’d have to be if she was born...’
‘The mission moved here from out at a bay past the river mouth, Murugudda,’ Father Paul interrupted, ‘about fifty-odd years ago, she was born at the old mission.
In the middle of the yard I understand.’
‘Fatima, ah yes, she likes to talk, very much!’ offered Sister Dominica. Her skin was tight and lined as if she was too tightly tucked into the folds of her white habit. She spoke with a strong Spanish accent. The mission staff chuckled at the sister’s comment.
‘We see her a lot. We feed the very old people, and her. She helps. Her husband lives with the old people, he’s sick. They’re a very strange couple, very strange.’
‘She must have some interesting stories to tell. She would have seen a lot of changes in her life, when you think about it.’
‘Yes, that’s true. She might even colour things a bit, ham it up if you give her enough attention for it. They’re like that,’ smiled Father Paul.
‘Okay, just improve the story.’
‘She seemed nice. Proud of herself too,’ said Jasmine.
‘She’s among the last of them with any understanding of their culture, you know, ‘though lots of them believe parts of mumbojumbo,’ said Brother Tom.
‘But some sort of new culture must evolve, surely?’
Father Paul snorted. ‘But look at what it is,’ he said. ‘You’ll see. I don’t think it’s very creative or promising. When the mission first came here they were dying out, in terms of numbers. It’s only in the last couple of decades that the numbers have started to increase. There’s a lot of children now.’
‘As a people they can’t last,’ said Alex. ‘They need to organise themselves. Set some sort of goals. Face up to the way things have to be done nowadays. A management plan. And look after finances.’
‘There’ve been a couple of project officers run off with the loot. It’s quite common in these sort of communities. It doesn’t help.’
‘At least they look okay,’ Annette offered her wisdom. ‘In the Wheatbelt ... well, you know. What a way to be. Better not to last if you end up like that.’
‘But they’ve been here, everywhere, in Australia, for such a long time. Maybe they’ll still be here, long after we’ve gone.’
Some of those who heard Liz’s comment appeared to be in pain. They winced. But Jasmine nodded enthusiastically at Liz, and said, ‘Yes! Maybe not quite the same, but...’
‘Like cockroaches you mean?’ suggested Alex, and small laughter circled the table.
He turned back to Jasmine with a sharp little movement of his head. ‘You’re new here aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Bookkeeper, that right?’
Gerrard spoke for her. ‘Yep. And I’m the new project officer, so Jasmine and I form the team at the office. That’s the shed near the basketball court.’ He leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms on the table.
‘Some basketball court.’ I think Annette hiccupped as she said this. She gave a wan smile, her red lips stretching to reveal her teeth. Her lipstick had spread to her teeth and glass.
‘It’s unusual to have so many new people, white staff, arriving at once,’ said Father Paul. ‘It’s a coincidence that the previous staff left at the one time.’
Murray called out from where he was serving himself more dessert, a lavish salad of tropical fruits grown on the mission plantation. ‘So, it’s pretty well a new bunch all round.’ He waddled back to the table.
‘And a wet bunch we’ll be too, if this rain keeps up,’ said Liz. ‘I bought white shoes to wear to school, and they’re nearly ruined already.’
‘It’ll probably get wetter,’ said Father Paul. ‘It’s not unusual to flood at this time of year. The river comes up, and the creeks the other side too, and we turn into a sort of island.’ He waved his arm around to indicate where the water would surround them, and the smoke trailing from his cigarette marked the arc he made.
More insects stuttered and exploded above us. The whirr of the fan was louder. We sat around the table, looking at one another, as if in the midst of a battle. Huddled in the light, within these walls, in this courtyard, in the great expanse of night.
Brother Tom returned to the weather. ‘It really upsets things here when it rains heavily. The Aborigines just sit at home, because there’s no work for them, and play cards. Play even more than usual, that is. Play guitar. Talk. The kids can’t come and work here straight after school when it’s too wet. So they get up to mischief, and cause trouble. Everyone gets cranky, very cranky.’ He had a soft voice, and spoke slowly. His skin was covered with red patches.
‘More wine anyone?’ Murray asked, holding up a new bottle. He filled Annette’s glass first and she sipped at it before placing it back on the table. Murray tossed the bottle into the bin before he completed his lap of the table. The Sisters had gone to bed. Brother Tom excused himself also.
‘You get thirsty living in this heat. Well, I seem to anyway,’ I said, and my voice seemed to echo. I took another sip.
‘Much drinking among the natives here?’ Alex leaned forward as he spoke, and placed his elbows on the table the better to pivot his swinging forearms and hands. His chin went into one of those hands and kept it still. I wondered whether he was about to tie himself in some sort of knot.
‘Sometimes.’ Father Paul leaned back in his chair, his large working boots propped against the legs of the table. He didn’t look like a priest. ‘It’s a bit of a bloody cock-up really.’ He didn’t sound like one either. ‘Officially, there’s to be no drinking, that’s the council’s decision. But, it happens. Most of the councillors drink, but at the same time they say they oppose allowing it.’
‘The Aborigines like their drink,’ said Father Paul, as Gerrard handed me a beer from his great height.
‘The school gardener, Milton, he’s a pretty good worker.’ Something in Murray’s voice seemed to indicate that he had definite ideas on who was, and who was not, a good worker. ‘That’s relative to this community,’ he added, ‘they’re none of them real top workers. Can’t rely on any of them really. Rather have a good time, and be with their mates, fishing, playing cards, talking.’
There were only the four of us left.
I think I went home very late. The darkness smelt of mud and rotting vegetation as I picked my way through the puddles and heat. Even at that late time of night, and in all that darkness, I heard a ball bounce among the cowpats on the basketball court.
Kidnapped
I saw Jasmine and an old Aboriginal woman under the school mango tree. I watched them from the classroom window. At that distance I couldn’t hear their voices and their legs had so dissolved that they, and the tree, sat upon the wavering heat waves between us. Their heads were close together. The older woman held her hand palm up, as if in offering, and Jasmine nodded her head.
Jasmine lifted her face to me as I approached, weak-kneed from the heat. She flicked her hair back with a shake of her head and lifted her right hand to me, half waving half pointing, and bracelets slid down her arm like railway cars shunting.
The old woman slowly turned and peered short-sightedly. The lenses of her spectacles were very thick and her eyes moved behind them like dark fish in a bowl. Her hair hung in thick grey ropes and stopped just short of her shoulders. She gave a small, diffident smile.
‘Good afternoon, Jasmine,’ I said, very formally. Jasmine leapt to her feet and curtsied. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Bill, sir!’
She laughed at me and I saw the old woman looking at the two of us with a puzzled expression for a moment. She grinned.
‘This lady,’ Jasmine held her hand toward her, ‘is Fatima, the person I told you about.’
Fatima remained seated, but shifted about on her buttocks. ‘You like stories? You want I tell you stories, about old people, long time?’
I nodded. ‘Yes. I’d like that, if you don’t mind. I’m interested, and it would be good, I think, for the kids to read. To learn to read about things to do with here. And read it the way you speak, sort of.’ I felt awkward.
‘I can do that. I can give you that.’ Fatima was positive. ‘Not today but,’ she added hastily, apologetically. ‘Today I help the sisters, and feed some people. I see
them. I will get someone bring me, when you finish school. Or what?’
We agreed and she began to get up. She twisted her body, put both hands palm down on the bench to her left, and levered herself to her feet. Jasmine and I attempted to help her. She was a very big woman, much taller and heavier than either of us. Her skin was cool and soft. ‘Ooh, my knees. I am too old.’ We still held her arms. ‘Thank you.’
I watched the two of them walk away. They left the shade and went across the wide yard toward the gate. Next to the lumbering bulk of Fatima, Jasmine looked sickly white, tiny, and as if about to fade and dissolve in the powerful sunlight.
Fatima came to the house the next afternoon. I came out when I heard voices. A youth was helping her up the steps. He held her forearm, and she lifted one foot, rested it on the next step, paused, then brought the other foot up beside it. She stopped again, her free arm holding the verandah support, and puffed at the strands of hair across her face. ‘I am too old.’
The youth with her nodded a serious greeting. Fatima waved him away. ‘Go.’ As he walked away she said ‘Alphonse’ to me by way of introduction. He turned and flashed a smile.
Now that the steps had been conquered she held herself erect and solid on her bare feet. Her arms hung loose at her sides and the fingers on her large hands were splayed. ‘I can tell you stories, about the old ways.’
I made tea and we sat opposite one another at the kitchen table with a small tape recorder between us.
‘...then I’ll listen to the tape and write it out for the kids to read, or me to read to them...’
‘Oh no!’ Fatima gasped. She put her hand to her mouth and dropped her head. ‘I feel shame.’ I thought she didn’t want me to do this. But it was merely that she had put the wet teaspoon back into the sugar bowl.