True Country

by Kim Scott

  Father Paul dragged hard on his cigarette. He pulled it from his lips like it was a bullet caught there, and crushed it in the aluminium ashtray. Annette wrinkled her nose. Father Paul leaned forward.

  ‘Before, ten years ago, the way we used to do it was with vouchers. That way you made sure there’s enough for food, for the kids, clothes ... Then what’s left over, the cash, they can use for cards, or whatever. But we can’t now. The church is out of it. It’s self-determination now.’ And he shook his head.

  Murray shifted his buttocks on the vinyl chair. Gerrard turned to him, but he dropped his head.

  Alex, wrinkling his brow and turning his hands palms up, said, ‘Why not? Why can’t we do it that way now?’ He suddenly put his forefingers together and pointed forward. ‘That’s the way to go, surely? Gerrard, you could give each of us the wages for our workers, and we pay them. We could pay them, or not pay them, daily. Immediate positive reinforcement. They’d see the consequences, immediately, of not turning up. We could dock their pays.’

  Gerrard squeezed his nose between thumb and forefinger, and his face showed pain. ‘Can’t do it. Ab Affairs, DAA—whatever they’re called this week—fly money out once a month. We’re accountable, and it’s for the previous month. Anyway, we can’t.’

  Father Paul snorted, and, leaning forward so that his elbows were supported by his knees, contemplated his cigarette.

  Annette looked at Alex, who drew himself up straight in his chair and said, ‘But you, or your girls, are always getting the timesheets mixed up anyway. Can’t we just fiddle it somehow?’

  Gerrard ticked something on the list before him. ‘We’re not getting anywhere here. Alex, Annette,’ he gave her a smile, ‘what other things do you want to say? This is the place to get it off your chest.’

  Annette decided this was her chance. ‘It’s just not good enough, that’s all. We work like slaves for their kids, and they’re just leaving it all up to us. They don’t care. And what about the power? The powerhouse breaks down—every second day or whatever it is—and there’s no air-conditioning. It’s hell in those rooms then. Talk about hot. And the smell! And the school seems to be the first to lose power as well, and last to get it back. How come? It’s all wrong.’

  Murray spoke. All eyes turned to him. ‘Actually, we gotta turn the power off at the moment because number three engine is the only one working well. The SEC are coming out next week to upgrade the lot. But, the school, and your houses ... It’s a big drain on power. All those air-conditioners. If you could turn them off when they’re not necessary.’

  Annette could not be stopped. Her cheeks were flushed. ‘But the kids must be most important! What are our priorities? And what about the water then? What about that? I’ve gone over to the store when the school has no water, and seen taps just running, wasting water, and we’re over here, with little kids, and we can’t even use the toilets. Now, is that right? Is it fair? I tell you, we’re getting sick of it. What we should do is shut the school every time the power goes off, or the water.’

  Alex seemed about to deny that they would do this, but Murray got in first. He spoke softly, but his voice was tight. ‘Try to understand. I’ve tried to explain about the power, and the water ... The river—that’s where we get our water from—the river is a long way from the school. You’re last in line. Because you have the newest buildings and homes, and there’s nearly always work to do on the pump, like everything here.

  When I turn it off, to fix it, or just run it down if I can, then it might be that some taps are left on somewhere, and no water reaches the school. They’re very thin pipes. I can’t be going spying, turning off taps everywhere. You can’t blame me.’

  ‘But Murray,’ Alex was trying on authority, ‘surely the school is most important, we’d all agree on that.’ No one said anything. ‘Can’t there be a diversion across, so that the school is not last. Or so you can cut the water off to the camp only.’

  Murray’s chin was up. ‘You do it then. You’re an expert? How are we gunna do that? Who? You know all the other jobs that need doing around here? You gunna help me train people?’

  Annette seemed swollen with anger, and choking. ‘And the power! We’ve been sitting here at night, sweating in the dark, and there’s been lights on at the mission. So how come? Tell me that.’ Tears welled in her eyes.

  ‘Maybe once,’ said Murray. ‘Only once. The mission is on a different line. But what are you saying? Just say it. Do I tell you how to do your job? Do I tell you how to teach? There’s plenty of things going wrong on that score, that I keep hearing about.’

  Ah, yes. So they have this big meeting so they can get things off their chest? They gunna have big chests then. And that Annette, she have biggest milk. Big ones out here, eh? She look like little tank with big guns right out front then.

  Loose Tongues

  Jasmine came with a bottle of whisky and a puppy. She held the bottle firmly by the neck, but the puppy was unrestrained. It bounced around, almost tripping her, and ran, slipping and sliding on the linoleum, into the kitchen as soon as the door was opened.

  ‘Shit, an invasion!’ The puppy cannoned into walls, ran under the table, and slipped and scampered away from their attempts to get it back out the door. Eventually they succeeded.

  They sat at the kitchen table with glasses of whisky before them. ‘Ah. Like Somerset Maugham or something isn’t it? Living in the tropics, living in more privileged circumstances than the locals, sweating and drinking whisky.’

  ‘Wasn’t it gin?’

  ‘Hardly appropriate here.’

  ‘I’m going to get myself a pith helmet, and a monocle,’ said Liz. ‘Perhaps a whip even.’

  ‘For Bill? Kinky.’ Jasmine wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. They had more whisky. ‘I think I’d get myself a houseboy,’ Jasmine continued after a time.

  ‘For your housework? Or to cool your passions. You want your desires slaked, woman?’ asked Liz. Then, seriously, ‘How come you came to a place like this anyway Jasmine? Unusual for a single woman, isn’t it? I think so anyway. I wouldn’t be able to do it, not on my own.’

  ‘I was unhappy. I’d split up with my man, I wanted a baby. I thought I wanted a baby. I think maybe I’m running out of time. I’m thirty now.’ She laughed at herself. ‘Oh, and the CES just said the job was available. This was in Perth. And I’d been up here before, in Broome and Derby anyway.’

  They mouthed little words then, for a time. Jasmine was probably relieved when she thought of something with which to change the subject. ‘You know old Walanguh is sick? So they say, very sick apparently.’

  ‘Is he one of them that stays down under the mango trees, near those old tiny huts? Fatima’s husband?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. With all the dogs. And naked most of the time, so the Sisters are always saying.’

  ‘Yeah, I was over there the other week. I was walking back from the river and Sebastian yelled out to me. He was talking to the old bloke. So I went over there. He was hard to understand. I could hardly understand what he was saying. He looked all right though, not sick or anything.’

  ‘They reckon he’s been sick off and on for a long time. But now it looks like he’ll probably die even. They flew him into hospital, which shows he’s sick, otherwise he wouldn’t let them send him in there. So everyone is saying.’

  ‘Sebastian told me that he’s a “powerful one”, or was anyway. I s’pose that means they have a lot of respect for him.’

  ‘The mission reckon he killed a lot of men when he was younger, so the Sisters and Brother Tom say, and they’ve been here longest. They say he was a great storyteller, and singer and that. And, the Sisters say, a womaniser.’

  ‘Maybe they like to think about that, the details.’ They laughed, an easy joke.

  More whisky. Billy noticed that Jasmine’s throat was flushed. Suddenly the pup barked and leapt from the verandah. The three at the kitchen table turned their heads and saw Murray appear in the frame of the doo
r with the pup leaping up at him, its tongue and tail waving. This time they managed to keep the dog out.

  They pulled the curtain across the sliding door. ‘In case someone comes it wouldn’t look too good if we’re all here getting pissy.’

  The rain began. ‘First afternoon rain for a while, eh?

  ‘Yes it’s starting to dry up now. Tourists’ll be in in a couple of months, or less. And the locals’ll be going out for, in with, grog. You hear they wanted to fly old Walanguh out, to hospital? He wouldn’t go.’

  ‘Yeah, we were just talking about that.’

  ‘There’ll be a big funeral if he dies, just about everyone here’s related to him one way or another. He’s Fatima’s husband, did you know? The mission married them, but I don’t think there’s any kids, they certainly don’t seem to have much to do with one another these days.’

  More little talk, more small whiskies. Their words not finding targets, not so well aimed, but more abundant, and criss-crossing, colliding in space between them.

  ‘Look at that pup.’

  ‘We should be getting our vehicle in soon.’

  ‘He was the last of the litter, the runt. From Samson, you know, the dancer, the family that look after Deslie.’

  ‘I get so tired here, in the heat.’

  ‘No one wanted him.’

  ‘They’ll be able to get grog in soon, in the dry.’

  ‘No one was looking after him. He’s a petrol sniffer. And there are, or were, very few petrol vehicles here. Samson’s his cousin, or uncle...’

  Too many words. They said many things. Murray said, ‘I’m glad to get away from the mission a bit. Everyone’s bitching about Father Paul, and then practically cheering, secretly, that he’s leaving.’

  ‘Leaving? Really? When?’

  ‘On sabbatical, I think it’s sabbatical. Soon. Maybe a few, or several, months’ time. I think. Something like that.’

  Murray’s boots rocked onto their toes, and onto their heels. Then one leapt over the other as he crossed his legs, and stretched them out. His foot bumped Jasmine’s.

  ‘Sorry,’ he blushed.

  ‘S’alright.’ Did she notice the blush? She spoke to Billy. ‘How’s the taping going?’

  ‘What?’ Murray’s question.

  Liz explained. Murray raised his eyebrows. ‘Why bother? You want to encourage them? They’ll lie to you you know. Still, I guess you could fix up their English when you write it up for the kids or whatever.’

  ‘Not necessarily, not just that. Look ... I’m not finding time to write them up anyway.’

  ‘No one’ll thank you for it.’

  ‘Ha! Ah well. What else can I do? I like that sort of thing. And I’m Aboriginal, of Aboriginal descent. A bit of tarbrush in me.’ Oops. He gave a derisive snort of laughter. Too many whiskies for Billy maybe. ‘So I’m interested. That must be part of the reason I asked to come here. Most chalkies only come here if they’ve got no choice. I dunno. Maybe it’s stupid any of us being here, if we look at it.’

  ‘Why are you here then, Murray?’ Liz focused on Murray. All the eyes turned on him. She continued, perhaps protecting her husband from criticism that may have been about to come. ‘You’re not a lay missionary, are you? You get paid?’ Murray was spotlit. Everyone else around the table sat in a dimmed, shadowless light.

  ‘No, no.’ He was quick to deny the occupation. He was looking at Jasmine. ‘I’d been labouring, plasterer’s assistant, for years. Lifetimes.’

  ‘How old are you?’ interrupted Liz.

  ‘Twenty-nine,’ he said promptly.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Liz. The spotlight was off. ‘We’re all doing our ages. It’s dark in here, isn’t it?’ She turned on the room light. Thin shadows returned.

  Murray continued, ‘So I came here, voluntary, when I saw it advertised in a local church bulletin. After three months Father Paul asked me to stay, for wages.’

  ‘You are a Christian, committed then?’

  The spotlight flickered.

  ‘My family are. I go to church, here, once a week at least. Father Paul explained that that would be required.’

  ‘So, you’re not a Christian?’ Liz was raised as a Catholic, lapsed in her early twenties.

  ‘Yes, but ... this mate of mine, he was at uni, he sends me reading. Kierkegaard ... like Graham Greene, have you read...’

  Talk, talk, and blue smoke drifting from Jasmine’s cigarette. The smoke was the colour of the clouds outside. The room’s light glowed yellow as the late afternoon light faded. The airconditioner roared, as ever, unnoticed.

  A figure, having materialised from the darkness, was knocking at the door. They feebly pushed at their whisky glasses, temporarily wanting to be rid of them. Billy went to the door, feeling tipsy.

  ‘Milton, what’s up mate?’

  Milton was annoyed at feeling shy, awkward at the door of this new house, teacher’s clean house, these gardiya all caught together with their glasses before them, and he alone.

  ‘Come in, Milton.’

  ‘No, I must go, supper now. Maybe we go fishing tomorrow, my car. You, me, Liz too, Alphonse.’

  ‘Yes, great, yes.’

  He left. They called their goodbyes as he closed the sliding door. Their eyes ricocheted as they returned to their drinks, and their laughter was tainted with guilt.

  ‘He’s a nice man, isn’t he?’ said Liz.

  ‘Yes, very. And so good looking. Adorable.’

  Murray looked at Jasmine as she said this, watched her soft throat as, dragging on her cigarette, she tilted her chin back. He pressed his fists between his thighs and stretched his legs.

  ‘I’ll have to leave. My turn to wash dishes tonight. Thanks for the drinks,’ he said. ‘Hey,’ he addressed Jasmine. ‘Seeing as how Bill and Liz are sorted out, what are you doing tomorrow? You could come with me and Father Paul if you want. We’re going out to one of the creeks to fish, maybe a beer. Or if we don’t go, I could help you make a fence for your pup.’

  ‘Um, look, um, I’ll come over early. You’ll go early? I’ll come over early if I want to come, otherwise it just means I need my sleep. All right?’

  First Meeting

  ‘Your net?’ asked Billy as he and Alphonse climbed into the back of the Hilux.

  ‘No. We got it from the mission, from Father Paul. Gun too.’

  Milton drove, and Liz sat in the cab with him. Billy and Alphonse sat on the corners made by the upright sides and rear of the tray, gripped the uprights tightly, and planted their feet on the tray itself. Billy struggled to keep his balance and cushion himself against the shocks of the track. Sometimes they sped along. To Billy it seemed they went too fast for such a roadway. But, often, they remained in first gear as they crawled through washaways and rocks. Twice, Alphonse walked in front of the car through river crossings. There was one muddy patch in which the car sank. The mud was like porridge. Milton revved the motor and repeatedly changed between first and reverse, rocking the car. The wheels spun, mud spattered, the car stayed stuck. They had no tools, shovels or jacks with them. Billy thought of what the people at the mission would say when they heard about this, when they came to rescue them. How far was it back to the camp? Walkable? In this heat? Milton and Alphonse threw a dozen or more large rocks into the mud around the wheels. It seemed a miracle when they drove out.

  Alphonse yelled out and pointed at a large goanna as it ran of into the scrub. Milton slowed and looked after it. They kept driving. ‘When you see him,’ Alphonse pointed after the reptile with his lips, ‘you say “Maa”, or some people whistle, and they don’t run. You just walk up to him slowly, and grab ’im!’

  The next time they saw one, and were driving slowly, Alphonse tried a whistle. The goanna didn’t falter. ‘You whistle one way, it doesn’t work for me. Milton’s father can do it. Walanguh, some others. The old people, they knew how.’

  Billy moved so that he was sitting on top of the net with his back to the cab.

  They stopped under
a boab tree just before the slope of the beach began. There was very little wind. In the silence of the motor’s absence they could hear the tiny waves lapping the beach. Liz twisted around to look at Billy. She was flushed and sweating in the heat.

  Alphonse took the gun and Milton carried the net. They walked across the grey driftwood bundled at the high tide mark and down to where the mangroves began. The men were barefoot. Liz was pleased she’d worn light sandshoes because Billy found it uncomfortable walking in the shallows where the short mangrove roots stuck out of the sand.

  Milton and Billy took an end of the net each. They dragged the net between them through the waist-deep water and Alphonse and Liz attempted to scare fish into the space between Milton and Billy. When one was trapped Milton pulled it to his mouth and, with his hands and teeth, broke its spine. He took it from the net and put it into a bag tucked into his waistband.

  The shallows stretched a long way. They waded no deeper than their waists. Sometimes they scared a small shark, or a stingray and it darted about at incredible speed, the stingray like an alien spacecraft in some sci-fi film. Often Liz was screaming and trying to get the net between her and the frantic fish, while Billy tried to hide his own anxiety, and Alphonse fired the small rifle at their prey. Once one of the larger sharks cannoned into the net, and there was a ferocity of splashing and screaming before it broke over, or through, the net.

  ‘What about crocs?’ Liz summoned up her courage to ask.

  ‘Sometimes, maybe. This be clear water but. That’s why we got this rifle from the mission.’ Even to Liz’s inexperienced eye the rifle seemed too small for such a task.

  There had been a small box full of bullets which Alphonse carried in his pockets, but he was shooting so often that they were rapidly being depleted. His targets, however, were quite safe.

  ‘Sight’s buggered,’ he said, squinting along the barrel.

  It was tiring, walking through thigh-deep water, dragging the net, worrying about sharks, stingrays, the possibility of being shot. When they had maybe a dozen fish in the bag they headed back to the car, but first, on Milton’s suggestion, they tied the net at the mouth of a creek.