Kimberley Sun

by Di Morrissey

  ‘Always ready. Maybe a game of golf again, Kev?’

  ‘Sure thing. The diary has a blank page most days but there’s always something happening. I don’t know how I found time to go to work! So what’s new?’

  ‘I’ve just come back from the Star Two pearl farm. We got chatting up there about various things connected with the break-ins and the murder of Matthias Stern. Didn’t you guys go up to the races? After you found Bobby and the accident with Stern?’

  ‘We were going that way, and we were the first people on the scene. Kev was with Bobby when they found him,’ said Bette.

  ‘And Stern was sent to Broome hospital and Bobby decided to go to the Bradley races with you guys,’ said Ross.

  ‘That’s right. He was concerned about the fellow Matthias was meeting, it’d seemed so important to him at the time. Though it didn’t turn out to be,’ added Kevin.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He was a bit surly . . . We saw him briefly and then he took off.’

  ‘You saw him? Did you talk to him?’

  ‘No. He talked to Lily. Bobby told us about him. But he looked an unpleasant sort of chap. Even in the pictures.’

  ‘You have a picture of him?’ asked Ross incredulously.

  ‘Sure, want to see it? It’s just a crowd scene.’

  ‘Definitely. Could you show it to me now? It could be important.’

  ‘Sure,’ Kevin said. ‘It is strange that Stern just left the hospital, didn’t get in touch or anything. Bobby said he’d look him up and bring his bag to him.’

  ‘But his friend or associate, whoever it was, took the bag away from Bradley Station with him,’ Bette added.

  ‘Run that past me again,’ said Ross.

  ‘Some kids at the races got into everyone’s gear, took small stuff, and they were caught and it was all returned. Lily told us the story,’ said Bette. ‘By then the bloke had scooted out on the supply plane with Stern’s bag. Guess he didn’t know it’d already been pilfered.’

  ‘And that was how Bobby ended up with the sun medallion thing. The one he gave Pauline to copy,’ said Kevin.

  ‘I’d like to see that photo,’ said Ross.

  ‘Bette’s a great chronicler,’ said Kevin a few moments later as he handed Ross a packet of photographs.

  They were photos of scenes around Bradley Station, Bobby saddling up and winning the camel race, and several crowd and group shots.

  ‘There he is, that’s him there. Near Bobby,’ said Bette, pointing to Hajid. ‘Here’s a better one, it was the first day.’

  Ross squinted at the picture. ‘Mind if I borrow this, Bette? Let’s see if anyone knows this guy. You’re sure this is the fellow Stern was going to meet?’

  ‘Oh definitely, Bobby was sharing a tent with him. He couldn’t understand why Stern wanted to meet him as he was so surly.’

  ‘Right. Thanks, I’ll see you guys later.’

  Sami heard Harlan’s footstep on the verandah and turned expectantly. But his face told her the news wasn’t good. He sat down in Tyndall’s old wooden settler’s chair, looping his legs over the arms, and closed his eyes. ‘I’ve been trying for you, Sami. Leila’s case is a no go. The authorities just can’t make an exception. She has to go through the process like everyone else. It could take months, years. And she might never qualify,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘But she has nothing back there!’

  ‘They argue that her country is getting back on its feet, with a few stumbles, but the immediate threat has gone. And she broke the rules.’

  ‘Trying to save her life and her children,’ said Sami bitterly. ‘Have you ever broken a rule, Harlan?’

  ‘Of course. Maybe in small ways but inevitably I’ve broken white man’s and black man’s rules.’ Harlan turned his head to look at Sami in the late afternoon light. ‘Leila and those like her are not the only dispossessed, the only people society rejects. I became a lawyer to help our people and we have a long way to go. The old men rarely sing anymore,’ he summed up simply.

  Sami drew a breath. ‘So what do I tell Leila?’

  ‘The truth. But we’ll tell her we will continue to support her, help her, be her friends,’ he said quietly.

  ‘We?’

  ‘I’m still coming with you. I’d like to explain things. Tell her I will act for her, that I’m in the front line fighting for her.’

  ‘Thanks, Harlan. So we leave in the morning as planned?’

  ‘I’m sorry we can’t take her better news, Sami. There are many like Leila.’

  Rosie had packed art supplies, picnic food, water and cake as well as their camping gear. They took turns driving, stopping every few hours to walk a bit, let Rakka run and to experience the utter silence of the desert. They saw an occasional lizard, a high wheeling eagle, a bundle of prickly dried grass rolling along the red pindan. They rarely spoke as they walked, each lost in their appreciation of the timelessness of space and sense of freedom.

  Once Sami commented, ‘You can understand people thinking this is no-man’s land, untouched. Our footprints will be gone before we get to Webster’s.’

  ‘But it’s not empty. All around us are stories and songs, Sami. The Great Sandy Desert might start across the nineteenth parallel on whitefella maps, but beneath our feet, in the air, in the rocks, is the ancient knowledge of the songlines and ceremonies of this tribal country. Some civilisations honour their monuments and certain buildings, but for us we honour the earth itself, the land is where we come from and where we return.’

  ‘I was beginning to grasp that at Biddy’s . . . farewell,’ she said, for want of a better way of describing it. Thinking back on the experience, the ceremony had been so unlike a funeral or even mourning. ‘It made me think about the family stuff,’ she said a little shyly.

  ‘That’s okay. You don’t have to make any decision, any announcement of where you stand, how you feel. Don’t make this whole Broome and Aboriginal connection a big thing. Though I suspect your mum wants you to come out and say X, Y and Z. A little awareness, some appreciation of all sides of the issue, feel good about who you are – that’s what’s important.’

  ‘Thanks, Harlan, that’s probably the best advice I’ve been given.’ She glanced at the handsome Aboriginal man. ‘I really admire you and Rosie.’

  ‘That’s because you understand us because we mix comfortably in your world. Biddy was more of a challenge for you and yet you seemed to enjoy being with her. I think you might be surprised at what you’ve absorbed from here when you go back home.’

  ‘Mum is still hoping I’ll base myself up here. But how can I? I have a PhD to finish at Sydney Uni, my career prospects are in a place like Sydney. Much as I might want to come back here as often as I can.’

  ‘To see your mum, and us? Or anyone else?’

  Sami smiled. ‘Well, there might be. I got to know and like Tim Hudson much better on the trip. It was all a bit emotional so I’m waiting till I see him again under normal circumstances.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ They both turned about and headed back to the car.

  At sunset Harlan stopped the car. Sami woke up and looked to where he was pointing. In the late afternoon light the flat horizon was relieved by the stark outline of a bulbous, flailing armed boab tree. Sami could imagine the goblins and mythical creatures it harboured in its giant belly and weird stubby branches.

  ‘Symbol of the Kimberley,’ said Harlan. ‘Provides food, water and on occasion, refuge in its hollow trunk. And, of course, Aboriginal prisoners were often chained in the hollow trunk.’

  ‘Yeah, like the one outside Wyndham. Aren’t some of the trees a thousand years old or more?’

  ‘Quite possibly. They always seem like creatures to me – animalistic rather than botanical.’

  ‘I can believe it. I wouldn’t like to sleep in one, no matter how cold the night.’ Sami shivered. ‘Do you believe in spirits, Harlan?’

  ‘Do you? Have you seen any?’ he countered.

  �
�I think so,’ said Sami carefully.

  ‘That means you’re accepted and tuned in. It’s a good omen,’ he said. ‘Well, we’d better get moving again. But I thought you’d enjoy that scene.’

  Sami had the feeling there was more to talk about concerning the spirits, ghosts and the creation stories – another time.

  They stopped overnight with Webster and his family, and learned that Farouz had been through a few days before. Sami looked puzzled. ‘That’s odd. He didn’t tell me. I’ve left several messages for him that I was coming out here with Harlan. Did he say anything about his trip?’

  Webster shook his head. ‘Nah. Hardly said anything, as a matter of fact. He seemed very absorbed by something and anxious to get to the outstation quickly. For the first time since I’ve known him he didn’t even talk about camels, and that’s something for the record books. So what are you two going there for?’

  Sami looked questioningly at Harlan, who responded with a nod.

  ‘We’re going to have a chat with the Afghan woman at the camp,’ she said without attempting an explanation, knowing that by now Webster almost certainly knew about Leila and was being discreet. ‘It seems there’s nothing much we can do to help her, in the legal system that is.’

  Webster scratched the back of his neck in brief contemplation of the news. ‘I’m not surprised. It was only a matter of time before the real world caught up with her. You can’t run and hide forever, I always say. From what Farouz has told me, she’s a really nice person.’

  They dropped the subject and concentrated on enjoying the evening meal Maggie had cooked, and discussed all the problems of the world – Webster and Maggie were dedicated listeners of ABC Radio and seemed to know what was going on in even the most obscure places.

  They left early the next morning with a message from Webster for Farouz. ‘Tell the old bugger that a big mob of feral camels has just moved in and they’re causing a lot of damage to waterholes and saltpans. Maybe his mates at the outstation might like to round them up.’

  When they arrived at Dari outstation it was very quiet. There weren’t the usual scuffling children and dogs, the scatter of men and women sitting in groups talking or cooking, or working on their art. But as they pulled up, Gussie stuck her head out the door of the main house and spotting Sami gave her a wave. Rakka jumped down as soon as Sami opened the door and bounded over to her. Gussie lifted a foot to boot her away. ‘No flaming dogs in the house!’

  ‘She’s mine, Gussie. She’s not a working dog, she’s a spoiled house pet, sorry. Where is everyone?’ Sami went to greet her as Harlan leaned against the car taking in the scene.

  ‘Heard you was comin’. They’re round. Farouz came. He gone agin.’ Gussie didn’t seem very effusive.

  ‘Where’s Leila?’

  Gussie looked away. ‘Who dat fella?’

  ‘My cousin. He’s a lawyer. He’s going to help Leila.’

  ‘Central Land Council fellas bin round. Said we get in trouble lookin’ after her.’

  Sami’s heart did a flip. ‘Harlan, can you come over here,’ she called. Gussie eyed him suspiciously with his smart clothes, his trendy haircut and sophisticated white ways.

  Harlan greeted her courteously and when he spoke in Kukaja, Gussie softened instantly and they had a long and serious exchange. Sami heard Leila’s name mentioned frequently, but couldn’t understand what they were talking about. Finally, Harlan nodded to Gussie and spoke in English. ‘Okay. Leave it to me.’ Then he turned to Sami and took her hand.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, feeling a sense of foreboding. ‘Has Leila gone with Farouz?’

  Harlan shook his head, and before he could explain Sami went on. ‘She hasn’t turned herself in, has she? I promised her that you’d help, that we would come back here –’

  ‘Sami.’ Harlan interrupted sharply. He grasped her arms and forced her to look at him.

  She stiffened. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Leila is dead.’

  Sami stared at him, unable to take in his words, finally shaking her head. ‘No, no, that’s not right. It can’t be! After all she’s been through. What happened?’ She looked wildly around. ‘When? Where is she?’

  ‘Leila disappeared one night. Walked into the desert to a place that was meaningful to her. And cut her wrists. The women think she’d been planning it for a long time.’ He wrapped his arms around Sami’s shuddering body and held her close.

  ‘She never gave me a chance to help her.’

  ‘Sami, in her heart she must have known it was hopeless. And you said she had no immediate family left back there. The women say she tidied things up, talked about you keeping that carpet bag.’

  Sami began to cry, then struggled to regain her composure. ‘In the back of my mind I had this naive idea she might have a new life here, find someone else, somehow make another family. She must only have been about forty years old.’ She pulled away from Harlan, accepted the handkerchief he offered and dabbed the tears from her cheeks. ‘I’m okay, thanks,’ she whispered. Then she took his hand and led him to the art shelter where a group of women were working quietly.

  He stood to one side as Sami sat down amongst them. They smiled, acknowledged her but kept working. Sami saw they were all doing traditional work. Some paintings were spread out on the red dirt to dry in the sun. There were some finished woven baskets. An unusual purple and red woollen weaving with the design of a totemic emblem on it was propped against a pole supporting the thatched roof.

  ‘Rosie Wallangou sent you supplies. Lot of art stuff,’ said Sami finally.

  ‘Good paint? Canvas, not boards?’

  ‘Very good materials. She likes your work. She’s coming to sit with you. Talk business. Rosie will look after you. She’s honest. That’s her husband out there.’

  ‘She got that gallery in Broome. Good one place, eh?’

  ‘That’s right.’ There was silence. Sami sat and watched them work, remembering Palmer’s advice to sit and just be with people. It wasn’t necessary to make small talk. White people often became uncomfortable in these silences, but gradually the tight knot in Sami’s chest began to ease. Eventually she pointed at their work. ‘You doing your way. Not the new style, eh?’ She looked around then asked, ‘Any weavings?’

  ‘Don’t do that way no more.’

  ‘Oh. Rosie liked those last ones – they were different.’

  ‘Special lot. No more.’

  Sami understood. For whatever reasons – and she guessed Rosie would know and tell her – without Leila they were not painting her stories any longer. She’d passed on, a chapter in their lives had ended and they were continuing with what they knew – their stories. Perhaps one day, in some creative work, there would emerge the story of the lonely Afghan woman who came to the desert from a land far away across the sea, shared their dreams, then went to join her spirit babies.

  Sami got up and went to find Gussie who was pouring tea for Harlan from the big blackened teapot at the edge of the smouldering campfire. ‘Which way, Gussie?’

  She pointed with a teaspoon.

  ‘I won’t be long, Harlan.’ He nodded, understanding her wish to be alone.

  With Rakka leading the way they left the camp and walked towards the east. The dog sniffed the ground and seemed to know where they were going even though she hadn’t been here before. But Sami knew. They’d walked this way before, Leila and Sami.

  It must have been bitterly cold that night Leila chose to walk out here alone, not intending to come back. A clear sky beneath familiar stars. The distant pink breast-shaped dunes breaking the straight line of the horizon. Some spinifex, a spindly woolly butt, the fragile looking but hardy acacias. Then the small bloodwood tree where they’d sat and talked so many times. And near it, the small tree of Kimberley roses, still in bloom. Was it her imagination, or could she also see splashes of brown, once red blood, on the flowers dropped at its base?

  There was a grave with a boulder as a headstone. Carved into it was a
full sun and a crescent moon and the Arabic figures that spelled Leila’s name. The hand of Farouz was obvious. They’d buried her and said nothing to avoid trouble. But they’d cried for her.

  Such a lonely place, so far from the land she’d loved so dearly, where she’d grown up with dreams and hopes, fallen in love and borne children. A place of culture and faith, where people welcomed strangers, believing guests were a gift.

  Sami sat by the grave and touched the stone. ‘You were a gift to us, Leila. I promise we won’t forget you.’

  C h a p t e r T w e n t y - o n e

  LILY DROVE DOWN THE TRACK FROM THE FARM TO the gate conscious of just how familiar it now was . . . the trees, the undergrowth, every turn of the road. She saw some cattle that belonged to the community had strayed onto their land and made a note in her mind to get them back where they belonged. Ross could organise that, she decided. It was good to know Ross would eventually be living close by and getting Don, a local Bardi man, involved in the Aboriginal youth project.

  Yes, Lily thought as she drove slowly towards the gate, there was so much to be grateful for, not the least of which was what she’d hidden under the beach towels on the back seat – the flat boxes filled with plastic bags of graded pearls. They were the cream of the crop so far. She was taking them to Pauline to choose the ones she wanted to use in the jewellery Lily had commissioned her to make. Properly displayed on black velvet under the lights in Pauline’s showroom, they would impress the Japanese investors far more than seeing them on the work table in her cabin. Several oysters that looked like they might hold good large pearls had been set aside to open for the Japanese when they arrived at the farm.

  Lily latched the gate behind her and as she got back in the car she had a creepy feeling someone was looking at her. She glanced over her shoulder but saw no one, then as she drove into the dappled sunlight, she saw Munda standing by the track. Before she could react to slow down or stop, he gave a grin and lifted his hand in a thumbs-up signal, then immediately turned and strode into the bush from which he had come only seconds before.