True Country

by Kim Scott

  So. People were heading out for Broome. And Alex took Stella with him to Broome, too. He needed contact with his kind. There was a teachers’ meeting; it was a Principals’ Conference and an Aboriginal Education Workers’ Conference held together. Maybe Stella was not so happy to go, but she’d see other people from other Aboriginal communities there. She knew lots of people from those places.

  Anyway, Alex had arranged for her to go. She did work at the school sometimes. He could not go if he didn’t have an Aboriginal school worker with him. He didn’t trust anyone else. He had also spoken to the hospital in Broome. One of the special doctors who had looked at Beatrice when she was sick, and who had been there when our old people fixed her, was visiting Broome. He wanted to see her. The hospital people would look after Beatrice during the day while Stella was at the meeting. They had a day care centre there. People were happy for that doctor to see Beatrice, and to wonder at how we were so clever.

  You understand that Raphael was not very happy that Stella was going. But then, he finished going himself also. And in the true finish no one was happy. No one.

  Alex, Stella, and Beatrice touched down in Broome just before the sun. It is a long fight in such a small plane. They were later than Alex had planned. Another principal, a man, drove them to their accommodation. Alex and that other man boomed cheerfully together in the front seat. Stella, in the back, held Beatrice under one wing and brooded over the plastic shopping bag full of clothing and toiletries which she clutched between her thin calves. Her ears still rang from the roaring plane, and she remained partially deafened by their unpressurised descent. She felt nervous, trapped between the pink necks of the men in front and Alex’s big suitcase in the boot of the car. Sometimes the men turned and brayed, and their blue-green eyes bobbed and leapt all over her. The car was air-conditioned, the windows wound tightly up. A cold wind whistled within it. Stella eyed the streets, silently calling to the people she knew who walked them. Beatrice was silent also, but not sleepy. Silent and big-eyed, she rested her head against her mother’s breast.

  They were staying at a resort by the beach. It was a big, new place, like a village, with chalets spread around its grounds. There was a swimming pool, restaurant, crisp sheets, a television toilet shower in each room.

  Alex went to eat with some of the others who were there for the conference. Stella, who had not yet seen anyone she recognised, did not want to go. She said she had a little headache. She and Beatrice wanted to stay in their chalet and rest. They walked to the beach and had fish and chips, just like a couple of tourists.

  The AEW who was supposed to be sharing Stella’s room did not turn up. So she and Beatrice had it to themselves. They sat in bed together in the darkened room, watching the bright, flickering television. Beatrice fell asleep, and late in the night Stella heard the voices of the others, loud and laughing, trailing away to the other chalets.

  The dusty Toyota with its shivering passengers crowded on the tray rumbled into Derby that same evening. They stayed with relations to sleep, and Moses drove with some of them to Broome the next day.

  When Alex knocked on Stella’s door in the morning that mob in Derby were all still asleep. So was Stella. And Beatrice. They were snuggled up nice and warm and quiet. The knocking on the door hammered its way into their dreaming.

  ‘Stella? Stella? Wakey-wakey. You’re not at home now. Haven’t got yourself a fella in there have you?’ Haw haw.

  Stella opened the door, smiling shyly. Her dressing-gown, bought for this trip, was tied tightly around her waist and held by her arm across her body, her hand gripping her shoulder in reassurance. Alex returned in a short while and took Beatrice to the day care centre at the hospital. There were tears in her eyes but she was quiet. Stella should have left her at home. Perhaps Stella should not have gone to this silly conference. Alex took Beatrice away by the hand. She looked back. Alex bent down to her as they walked, she leaning out from him and held by his hand. He spoke quietly. What did he say? It looked like deadly kind. She straightened her little self up, didn’t look back.

  To start the day some people—one of them was an Aborigine—spoke to all of the people at the conference. Later they sat around in small bunches. The room had lots of varnished pine and bits of bright colours and green pot plants. The bright sun fell in slices from the window blinds. It looked strange to see such a room with so many black people in it, arranged in clusters. Stella said that.

  During that morning Raphael, Bruno, some other fella arrived at the conference. They just walked in. They looked shabby, silhouetted more grey than black as they hesitated in a triangular chunk of sunlight propped against the glass doors. They saw Stella, started toward her. Alex cut them off before they could reach her hearing or find her voice among the many. He told them everyone was very busy. See? They better come back later, in the afternoon, say three o’clock. They shuffled out, in single file until they passed through the doors.

  They were back just after lunch. Again Alex spotted them and herded them out as if they were bullocks. He told them Beatrice was at the hospital day care centre.

  They didn’t come back. Before the meeting was closed for the day Stella asked Alex to ring the day care centre. But Beatrice, she wasn’t there any more. Stella rang the woman at the day care centre, and that woman said Beatrice wasn’t there.

  When Alex and Stella arrived the woman smiled at them. It was a nervous smile. She was worried. A man had come in, she told them. He said he was Beatrice’s father. She described Raphael. He didn’t seem to have been drinking, she said. He said he was taking her home, she wasn’t some animal for a zoo he said. He didn’t want no gardiya looking at, no hospital using, his poor girl.

  Well Stella was upset. Alex was cranky. He thought it was another typical cock-up. It was like handling kids constantly, dealing with these people.

  He had to help. It was their conference. He drove Stella around and around in the hired car, around and around looking for Beatrice. He needed that air-conditioner. He had steam leaking out of his ears, a face that was all red, a mouth tight and skinny like a scar. They looked in town, they looked in parks, they looked at the football oval, they looked at the beach, they looked in the pub.

  Eventually Alex left Stella at the house of someone she knew. She could keep looking, with their help. He had an appointment.

  Halfway through his tennis game, just as he’d been serving aces to his colleague, Alex was called to the telephone.

  The day care centre. ‘Who’s picking up the girl and her mum and dads?’

  Her dads? Shit!

  ‘I’ll have to forfeit mate. Your game.’ Alex reminded his rival of who was really winning. ‘Bit of strife with my AEW. You know what they’re like.’ He regretted saying that. The other one just nodded, smiled. Smugly. They both knew it was not the right thing to say, not at a conference like this. Not to another principal of a tiny, isolated Aboriginal school who is vying with you for promotion. So Alex lost.

  Alex was relieved to see only Stella, Beatrice, and Raphael at the centre. It could have been better though.

  ‘G’day, Mr Seddum.’ Raphael was ingratiating, a bit tipsy. Stella was quiet. It was difficult for her to smile.

  Raphael and Stella asked for a lift to where the others, from home, were staying. When they got there the house was empty. Alex sat in the car, both hands clenching the steering wheel, and watched Raphael, Stella, and Beatrice knock, wait, look through the windows. They walked around the house, twice. At the completion of the second lap Stella slowly walked across to the car, and to Alex, dragging Beatrice. They talked through the driver’s window. The motor was still running. Because of the air-conditioner.

  Alex reminded Stella that she was in Broome for professional reasons. A lot of school money had been committed to her being at this conference.

  Stella and Beatrice drove back to the resort with Alex, and Raphael continued circling the house. Dinner was booked for seven o’clock.

  Alex sit
s at a table with the other headmasters. His gut contracts when he sees swaggering Raphael, bloody staggery Milton, shrinking skinny Bruno bastard entering the room. He didn’t think they’d have the nerve. Cheeky. Bastards. Cheeky black bastards. That’s what he thinks. All the efforts he’s made. Must’ve been too soft with them. They’re jacking up against him.

  He watches them walk over to the table, on the far side of the room, where Stella sits. They stand around the other table, and seem to know the other people, Aboriginal people, who sit there. Alex watches them over the shoulder of a colleague sitting opposite him. It is hard for him to concentrate on what the man is saying. The room is noisy with conversation, with people eating, waiting for their food. The intruders sit at Stella’s table. Did they know there’d be spare seats? They gunna bludge a meal? Oh, Alex must’ve been feeling pretty wild. His beer turns warm in his hand. He smiles quite politely and chats with his colleagues as he watches them laughing, eating, drinking at Stella’s table. He cuts his steak so savagely that the fork bends. His colleagues are too polite to notice the intruders, even though the laughter from that table is loud. Hooting, voices competing for attention. But not Stella’s.

  After dinner Stella sidles over to Alex, who is drinking beer to calm and cool himself. The beer steams and hisses as it touches his angry red-hot lips. She asks Alex if he will ask the pilot if Raphael can return with them on the plane.

  ‘Stella,’ Alex’s voice is too tight. It is like he is holding himself by the throat to restrain his anger, to keep himself seated. ‘Stella, I think you should ask him yourself.’ He makes a mental note to see the pilot as soon as he can and tell him no. ‘Ask him yourself.’ His grip loosens a bit and he nearly snarls, ‘He’ll have to pay you know.’

  Stella returns to her table. Everyone in the restaurant is noisier. The talking is ferocious, particularly at the table of intruders. Look at them; dirty clothes, unshaven faces. Alex’s shaven face is like stone. He is not talkative. The person opposite him is. Alex doesn’t hear what he is saying, he just sees the mouth flapping. Raphael, behind the mouth flapper, beckons Alex. Alex doesn’t move, but the words he might shout to Raphael fairly scream in his ears. Raphael comes over to his table. Those people with Alex wonder at the scruffy black man, but offer polite smiles and pretend to continue talking to one another.

  ‘Oh yes ... Well, in my experience ... consequences ... what you must realise ... try to imagine...’

  ‘You might say no when I ask you this,’ says Raphael.

  ‘I probably will, but you won’t know until you ask.’ Grim Alex. This is better for him, eh?

  Raphael wanted to borrow two hundred dollars for a taxi to Derby where he was going to buy a car he’d heard about. When Alex said no the other intruders came over. They waved their arms about, talked loud, complained that no one ever helped them out when they really needed it. A lot of people were looking.

  Alex was angry and embarrassed. In his head he probably had images of himself failing about with a chair and chasing those black men away.

  They left.

  And the restaurant got noisy with talk again.

  Alex and his fellows spoke earnestly about the difficulties of being a school principal in remote communities, and working with the community, with Aborigines.

  At many other tables they said different things and tried not to laugh too much, too loud.

  Raphael, Bruno, Milton walked back to the pub. They were sparked up. Maybe they’d get some beer, more money from Annie maybe, flagons; head back to the mangroves. Some house? The pub?

  ‘Others be at the pub still, you reckon?’

  What Hollow Ones See

  Earlier that day they had all been there, in the mangroves between the main shops and the high tide mark. There were many people, a couple of flagons. Nearly always, it seems, there are some people there, drinking. Hiding away, trying to disappear from this world, make one where they fit better. That mangrove spot is not bad when the mozzies and midgies stay away. You can catch up with people, everyone will be there some time. Play cards, talk; not all people drink.

  It is almost only Aboriginal people that go there. There must be some shame to it, then.

  But on this day it was like a holiday for our mob. A time to see old friends and some family. For Franny it was his first time there as a nearly-man.

  So. It was warm there, this day, in the dappled light and on the dry sand. It was pretty happy.

  The time went quick. No one got drunk, some maybe just a bit sparked up. Franny had a drink and was tipsy, being young and not used to drinking. And he had a little puff of a joint that someone lit up.

  People came and went. There was guitar music for a little time. Raphael, Milton, and Bruno wandered off for a while and you know something about what happened with them. They came back too late.

  Then a bunch of people were moving off to the pub. Franny saw the world in such a different and new way. Never again would he see such a day. He would have been feeling good, then, like a hero and a warrior, walking the streets proud with the gardiya tourists and with his own people. A man of a tribe. The light was bright. Maybe this day had a special cruel light, but he wouldn’t have seen it, would’ve hidden the word and the thought away. It might have been a warning, if he’d listened.

  There were too many at the pub. All different peoples. Chinese ones, Aborigine, gardiya; old, young; men, women. There were singlets, jeans, long socks, white ankles under tanned legs, cracked bare feet. There was music, and roaring and shouting. Sometimes, in some places Franny stood, the music was so loud he listened to it with his chest. It was like he was hollow inside, and his chest vibrated like a drum. He smelled sweat, soap, perfume sharply sweet, stale beer, urine, tobacco and clove cigarettes. The interior bar was gloomy. There were strips and slices of light scattered around and over pool tables, and the old carpet was soggy and sprouting cigarette butts. Voices everywhere: taking off, screeching, snarling, flapping through the curling smoke and thin trunks of light like bats and birds. They alighted on shoulders and repeated repeated themselves, pecked and stabbed, or stroked with soft downy wings. Sometimes in a relative quiet, you could hear the click of ball and cue. Stabbing sounds of glass and stainless steel. But then the music would start again, a great blanket of it, angry and smothering.

  Outside, in the yard where the band is playing, it is bright sun and people must squint. Their faces wrinkle up, their eyebrows come down. Sometimes, with beer in the belly, and a little craziness in the head, you might not know if it’s noise hitting you or someone thumping bumping your back and chest. Out in the sun, the music noise is not like a great blanket, not even a bit soft. It is hard. The bass notes are maybe like bricks wrapped in hessian slamming into you. But it’s all right. It’s happy time. You shouting with the rest of them. Sing, dance, wriggle and stagger about. The white froth of the beer goes up into the hot and patient blue sky. The yellow liquid settles in scrawny guts and big hairy belly.

  Franny is there. He too young, but he be there all right. Sitting hunched, then laughing and showing the cord of his throat as he lifts his head back. Others leave. Franny won’t go with them.

  Franny getting tired. Head on his arms on the table.

  The day goes on. Much drinking, much noise. Some people get cranky and argue. Maybe if the people in this hot and sunny place stopped shouting touching dancing drinking for even just a little time then they feel unhappy, sad, angry. Hollow maybe. Maybe that helps explain why such bad things can sometimes happen.

  This day goes on. The dark time comes. The sun falls below the noise and the floodlights of the concrete and fibro courtyard.

  Franny lifts his head from the table when some people sit at it. He feels sick. His mouth is furry and his head aches. The faces of the people around him are those of strangers. They are caked with powder. Many are pale, stubbled, and streams of blood run through their eyes.

  Out in the car park, in the comforting darkness again, Franny leans on a car. He v
omits. With tears in his eyes he stumbles to the next car. Somehow, he opens the back door, and sways there, gripping the handle. The poor silly boy. He knows nothing, alone and sick.

  It doesn’t matter who the two men were that saw him. Their names don’t matter. One was a bouncer, come up from Perth to work here. The other one worked on station, lived up this way long time. They been all day in a motel room, drinking and complaining and making themselves heavy, and only now come out.

  Franny is about to fall onto the soft seat of the car.

  Those two men stood at the edge of the car park and saw. They didn’t shout. They ran over there, angry angry. Angry and wild. They pulled him out of the car, almost like he bounced up from the seat. Oh, he was black! Aborigine! They hit him, kicked him, punched him. He was like a bag, he didn’t fight back. Groaned. Maybe they enjoyed feeling their fists and feet striking his flesh. They held him up to hit him. He slid to the ground; maybe yelled, sobbed, whimpered. Pick him up, hit him more. He fell again. Bang! Hit head on the bitumen. One of them killers hit him with a big brick. Oh, yes, they told us later. Oh, they jumped up and down on him. His heart went away.

  One of them, proper thinking like, not like crazy, got his knife. They held his head back and sawed through his throat. Fish scales still on the knife. Cut his throat like he was bullock kangaroo turtle. Oh he was dead dead dead. Blood bits of meat on the ground. His heart floating around. Him, him no more.

  How can this be? And those men? Well. They bayed at the moon maybe, savage dogs. Mad as mad. Very bad things. What did they do, those killers? They drink some more beer? Tell their mates they just stuck a boy, killed him? Wipe the blood and skin from that knife on the beer mat in the bar? Who can know the truth or their minds? They cannot be real people, these ones.

  We thought, when we knew, that the law would get them. We stopped some of our people that wanted to kill them. We thought, you know, justice. White man’s justice.