Taboo

by Kim Scott

  Tilly was unwell, they said. Headache, or something. It was all rather disappointing.

  He made his excuses as soon as he could, and drove around the few streets of Hopetown, foolishly looking for Doug. He had driven back as far as Kepalup, and driven around that little town also, looking for his son’s car, Doug’s car. And then – inexplicable really – had returned to this caravan park. He sat in the car, momentarily awed by the night; its stars, its space and silence after the confines and rushing wind of the cab. Was he going mad? It was very late, around 11pm – hours after his usual bedtime – and it seemed that everyone had gone to sleep.

  Then he saw a phantom, an apparition in a gown or some old dress, take Tilly’s hands and lead her gently toward the ablution block. Beside them, a tall lamp – its halo of light dissolving in the moist night air – seemed a tall flower of steel and glass and electricity.

  Dan watched them walk across the rectangle of bleached, dew-glistening grass. The lamp fizzed in the damp air. Vague human forms hung in the air. Laundry.

  ‘See you later, Mr Horton. Dan,’ she had said the other day. For a moment he had thought she was going to say ‘Dad’. He watched the two women – young and old – disappear into the building.

  The peppermint trees stood silent, waiting for him. Hush said the sea, and hush again. Dan got out of his car, kept walking in the darkness. He knew the band of trees on his right was very narrow, beyond it the beach sand. But say you didn’t know that? He listened to the waves caressing the beach. The sea sighing. The windows of the old pub on his left were lit up like movie screens, but there were few customers to be seen. Music, throbbing softly. He looped around the trees and back onto the beach. How many boots, working boots like his own, had crossed these sands? As against bare feet. Holiday makers. Natives forever before and, they said, forever after.

  Sand gleamed silver. The sea’s ruffled presence, whispering and sighing; was trying to tell him something. Did God speak to us this way? The sky above. A shooting star. It was surely vanity to feel so special.

  And now his prodigal son had returned.

  He drove back to his home, his humming regularly broken by long sighs. When he arrived home he sat for a long time in the car, looking at his house. Waiting for a light to come on, a door to open. Waiting to be welcomed.

  II

  MUM N DAD

  ‘I never tried to keep you away from him, Matilda.’ Tilly’s mother, Ellen, braced herself against the steering wheel and stared straight ahead, but she was not really looking at the cars parked all around them nor at the towers and walls topped with barbed wire. Ellen wore trackpants, t-shirt, scuffs; as she had already told Tilly, she was not going to be visiting anyone in prison. She turned to Tilly and – perhaps it was the result of being about to meet her own father for the first time – Tilly saw her as a stranger: the sloppy clothing, the sunglasses so large they might have been designed to hide behind, the dry and freckled hands on the steering wheel. ‘But,’ her mother continued, ‘he is in prison. He’s spent most of his life there. He said himself, he didn’t want any of his children to see him in “lock-up”.’

  ‘Other children?’

  ‘Well, yes. Not with me, Tilly.’ Her mother sniffed disdainfully.

  ‘I have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Apparently. Tilly, he has asked to see you. I can’t . . . I would have told you, I guess, in good time, and I’m sorry they got in touch before I had a chance to tell you.’

  ‘How long were you going to wait then, Mum?’

  ‘Well, perhaps I did wait too long, but count your blessings, darling – you’ve been lucky enough to have a good man be a father to you. While you let him, Tilly.’

  ‘Mum. He’s your boyfriend, not my father.’

  Ellen had brought Tilly up on her own. Tilly had never known her biological father, and certainly hadn’t known he was an Aborigine until recently. A Noongar, they said. Tilly’s first thought was it made her really Australian, but of course it was more than that. Then she realised she knew nothing, not even herself. She hadn’t met many Aboriginal people. But then again, it seemed you couldn’t necessarily tell, not by looking at them. Herself, for instance? Was she?

  Tilly had not been to a prison before. Her mother again said she’d wait in the car. She and Tilly’s father had not known one another long, she told Tilly. It didn’t work out. He went to prison soon after they met. Her mother kept looking away from her.

  ‘What did he do, Mum?’

  ‘Best if you ask him that, don’t you think, Matilda? Wouldn’t you want it like that, if you were him? Not me telling you?’

  Tilly said, ‘Shall we go?’

  It had been arranged that an aunty of Tilly’s – aunty on her father’s side, of course – would accompany Tilly to see her father, since she was still not yet eighteen years of age.

  ‘Yes, you go, Tilly. You don’t need me.’ She accompanied her daughter until they reached a roofed but otherwise open area with a few timber tables and benches, just outside the Visitors’ Office. A woman was waiting at one of the tables. Aboriginal woman, Tilly reckoned, and quite young.

  ‘I think you’ll be right from here, Tilly,’ her mother said, turning back. ‘I’ll wait in the car.’ Tilly dropped her gaze until she got close and, as she looked up, saw the lone woman was looking directly at her.

  ‘Tilly Coolman,’ the woman said, leaping to her feet and giving Tilly a hug.

  ‘Smith,’ said Tilly. ‘Tilly Smith.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But, you know what I mean,’ the woman said. ‘You’re a Coolman.’

  Tilly felt overawed by the woman’s beauty and the way she was dressed. Most of the people she’d seen moving from the car park were dressed very casually, as was her mother. But this woman – Cheryl, she had introduced herself as – wore clothes you might see, thought Tilly, at an art exhibition or a big horserace or something. Not that Tilly had ever been to any of those things, but she’d seen pictures. Cheryl wore a hat (that was what brought horseracing to mind), a short skirt, strappy shoes and a lacy top. Tilly thought she looked gorgeous. She felt proud to be seen with her, though ashamed of her own appearance. It wasn’t fair.

  ‘Look at you,’ Cheryl said. ‘You got your dad’s good looks alright.’

  Tilly felt more sophisticated, just being with Cheryl. It was impossible not to notice the attention that came their way. Tilly walked beside Cheryl, taking her cues from the other woman’s confidence. Cheryl walked up to doors as if she expected them to be opened for her, and looked right into the camera when they photographed her eyes (or whatever it was they were doing). She threw her little clutch of objects – phone, purse, keys – into the locker and confidently answered the uniformed staff’s questions. Tilly tried to look like her; as if she had nothing to fear and was ready to take on the world.

  They were led to a room full of small tables around which prison inmates and their visitors sat, and Cheryl chatted to the officer the whole time. Flirting with him, Tilly realised, and he wanted to please her. The prison officer pointed to a seat at an empty table and Tilly felt many eyes on them. Were they thinking two pretty young women? Or one beautiful woman and a fat little girl?

  Her mother had no photographs of Tilly’s father. Nothing. It was a one-time thing, she said.

  A fling?

  ‘I suppose some people might call it that, Matilda,’ she had said. ‘I’m sorry, love, it was a long time ago, I don’t like to talk about it. You judge for yourself. He wants to see you now. They say he’s dying. He hurt me, Tilly. You make up your own mind. Be careful, my darling.’

  The prisoners all wore a green uniform; it was as if they were all in pyjamas. Of course, Tilly had seen this on TV and the movies. It was a prison, after all. But still, it was a shock; the loose, unstructured clothing made their limbs seem knobbly levers, and their uniformity focused attention on their arms, hand
s and, of course, their faces.

  Perched on a plastic chair attached to the floor and at a similarly fixed table, Tilly tried not to stare, but it was hard; she did not even know who her father might be, until Cheryl beamed at an approaching prisoner and prison officer (the officer’s uniform was belt and buckles and creases, buttoned pockets and pleats and epaulets). The prisoner, seemingly unperturbed by the situation and his costume, came to a stop and held out his arms. It was an invitation to hug, not insistent. Perhaps, the gesture seemed to say, if she liked, they might embrace. Tilly held out a hand, and he took it in both of his own. He was quite small, and lean. Like she should be, if she was not so greedy and weak-willed. She resolved that she would fix that again soon enough. And he was lively, walking not with a swagger but with a sort of loose bounce, as if he might leap into action at any moment, might spring in some unexpected direction. She noted he quickly scanned the room as he held her hand, and gave small nods of acknowledgement. She thought he seemed proud to be seen with her.

  He said something, performing the words like a declamation. Tilly did not know the words, it was a language she did not understand, and so she did not immediately know that he told her she was beautiful and his daughter and that his heart was smiling. But then he told her the same, in English. They faced one another, separated only by the length of their arms. He was clean-shaven. His eyes bright. His thin hair was cut very short and growing grey.

  Cheryl had waited silently, and now he turned to her. They embraced chastely.

  Her father turned to the officer who had been glaring at them, but kept his eyes mostly on Tilly even as he addressed the man.

  ‘My daughter, Mr Daniels.’ There was pride in Jim Coolman’s voice. He sat down and arranged himself so that his back was to the officer, who looked away disinterestedly.

  ‘They’ll be thinking,’ he said, tilting his head toward the rest of the room, ‘that you’re both my girlfriends. I know we just met, Tilly darling, and I’m a silly old man, old enough to be your father and of course that’s exactly what I am. But know this: if there is anything worthwhile I can do for you in our lives, please let me. I know it’s late, and I’ve never been a father to you . . . I wish I could teach you a little bit of our old language.’

  He must have seen she looked disappointed, because he laughed a little, to himself, perhaps about himself.

  ‘You are cool, Tilly. Ha. In the old language I might say yoowarl koorl which, if you wrote it down might look like “you are cool”. But it means, “come here”. You are cool, Tilly, and you came here.’

  Tilly thought no one had ever paid her so much attention. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Now, I want you to tell me all about yourself.’

  ‘What did you do to my mother?’ Tilly asked.

  Jim Coolman straightened. ‘I was young and silly and I hurt her. I hurt her, Tilly. I was selfish, jealous, violent. Drugs . . . It’s not for me to say how much I hurt her or what I did, Tilly, it’s for your mother to tell you. I don’t want to. It’s gone, can’t be changed, all in the past, but it means you are here. You and me. Father and daughter. Now.’

  *

  Her mother was standing by the rear of their car, and there was a man on his knees beside the back wheel.

  Their faces turned at her cough.

  ‘Matilda.’ Her mother was excited. ‘We had a puncture.’

  The man hammered the hubcap into place with the heel of his hand. Even on his knees you could see he was big. His head, completely bald, gleamed with a sheen of sweat. It must be his coat – an expensive-looking leather item – that her mother held.

  ‘It probably happened just before you got to the car park,’ the man said, his eyes moving from Ellen to Tilly.

  ‘Doug Harper, this is my daughter, Matilda.’

  The man rose to his full height. He was even taller than she’d thought, and heavily built. Younger than her mother, older than herself, he was dressed in a white shirt and blue jeans. Doug wiped his hands on a cloth Tilly’s mother pulled from under a car seat. He smiled. His face was mobile, and glossy, surprisingly attractive; the eyebrows – the only hair to be seen on his head – were expressive, constantly moving squiggles. When he smiled the skin around his eyes formed deep creases.

  ‘Lovely to meet you, Matilda, but we’ll have to shake hands another time.’

  He held out his hands, palms up. They were marked with dirt and grease from changing the wheel.

  Tilly was disappointed. She didn’t think his hands were so dirty.

  He turned his back to her mother, and held out his arms.

  Tilly’s mother helped him into his coat like she was his servant, and Doug clenched his hands as they entered the sleeves. Such big fists, Tilly thought, almost as if she were in a fairy tale.

  She thought it must be hot with that coat on.

  Her mother drove in silence, but for the radio. It was news, often a single voice: Tilly’s mother could not abide advertisements.

  ‘So what’d you think of your father?’

  ‘Oh, he’s . . . It was good. Said he made a mistake not staying with you.’

  Ellen snorted. Tilly was not sure if it was amusement or contempt. Her mother lifted her chin like she did when pleased with some achievement or perceived victory.

  ‘And that Doug. Lovely man, don’t you think, Matilda? Works with the parole board, I think he said. Helps the prisoners.’

  *

  Tilly’s grandfather – her father’s father – passed away. Tilly never knew him. Her mother said she wouldn’t go to the funeral. No way, she said. I’m afraid no way not me.

  Aunty Margie gave Tilly a lift. She was another relation Tilly had recently met. They were late to the service.

  She saw her father at the far edge of a sea of dark clothing and lightly bobbing skulls; one of a raft of prisoners, each with a uniformed office beside them. Nearby, more centrally, bodies in the front row of seats leaned into one another. A keening voice rose above them, and the little crowd pulsed with sobs.

  The man at the lectern asked if anyone Wished to Say a Few Words.

  Tilly’s father got to his feet and lifted his shackled wrists, tightening the chain that held him to the officer. The officer got to his feet, and Jim turned his back and began to walk to the lectern. Wife and sons and daughters milled around him; two girls had their arms around him, almost hanging from his neck, and he and a son hugged strongly, somehow, in the midst of all those bodies. They were a little younger than Tilly, this brother and sisters; they were a cluster, the father the nucleus and the mother kept at the edge. Jim Coolman held his head high on the swaying column of his neck, trembling ever so slightly. A small man, he had grown taller and now seemed at the centre of what was almost a dance, his children circling close, touching him, and backing away, clearing his path. Of course Tilly wished to be with them.

  Jim Coolman held his arms out before him, wrists closer than even the handcuffs demanded. His body language insisted the audience notice the shackles. At the lectern, in the space it gave, he held the chain between him and the officer taut, moving his wrists in a little circle. The officer stepped closer, stood just a step behind, in Jim’s shadow.

  Her father enjoyed the little power, enjoyed suggesting he was in control despite the way it might appear.

  The other prisoners remained in the front rows, officers stiffening at the spectacle unfolding before them.

  Jim Coolman commanded the attention of the room and, varying the volume and rhythm of his voice, went through a list of names. ‘All the boys,’ she heard him say, and mention Comancheros and Mixed Bloods and God’s Garbage. Brothers in prison. He talked of family, of his now departed father, of identity and heritage.

  ‘What I had never had the chance to learn, because history, because we been just black people in King George Town.’

  Tilly felt a swell and summoning of spiri
t in his audience, was buoyed on this sea of occasion.

  ‘And Gerry, my brother, Dad loved you. Loved you for your interest in the old ways, and what you and him were gunna do, our people’s history, our old language.’

  The sea was calm, but you felt its depths.

  ‘And what we been doing in the prison, me and some of the boys, we couldn’t’ve done it without you and him, what you sent us. I disappointed my father, I know, my drugs . . . violence. I got that from him too, same as what I know now. But what we really are. It’s not what we’ve been, not even what we are now.’

  ‘He’s good,’ someone near her whispered.

  ‘High as a kite.’

  ‘One of his girls must’ve slipped him something.’

  They made eye contact, Jim Coolman and his daughter Tilly, and across that dark sea of strangers and skulls turning to her, open-mouthed, he called, ‘Matilda, my daughter, my lovely, I’m only sorry you never got to meet your grandfather.’

  Connected by their shared gaze, she and her father floated above the crowd, and other daughters and sons they stood back, arms at their sides, acknowledging her while some long leash stretched and looped and pulled them all together.

  *

  Cars streamed past the entrance to the cemetery.

  ‘That was lovely how he mentioned you, Til,’ Aunty Margie said.

  ‘He was . . . deadly,’ one of the other girls said.

  ‘Special.’

  At the cemetery Tilly stayed at the outer perimeter of a crowd of men in dark clothes, some with ties so tight they kept turning their heads like discomforted and wary tortoises, and women detouring between graves who lifted their feet high to pull their stabbing heels from the soft ground. A grey day, and the sheoaks leaned in the wind and murmured. Her father was at the crowd’s centre, by the grave, and a group of mostly young people milled about him, the stooped mother at their edge. Call her Aunty?