Bloodlines

by Nicole Sinclair

  ‘This is the haus win,’ Lena says proudly. ‘For us to use. Misis Val got that old man Moses to build him.’

  ‘House win?’

  ‘Yes. This house, he catches the cool breeze, the wind.’ Lena smiles.

  And then, the air knocked from her for a moment, Beth thinks of the courtyard where she sat with Sam in summer, sipping French beer from small brown bottles.

  Inside the haus win there’s a ring of flat smooth stones with old blackened coals in the centre. A bench made from bamboo thatched together runs along the far wall.

  ‘Good for relaxing. And we cook here too,’ Lena says, kicking up the salt-and-pepper sand with her toes. ‘That’s the toilet there.’ She points to the small concrete outhouse in the corner of the yard. ‘We say haus pispis,’ she says, and grins.

  ‘House piss piss?’ Beth laughs.

  ‘Yes, or haus pekpek for other business,’ titters Lena, her brown eyes shining, and Beth laughs again.

  Lena leads Beth around the corner of the duplex to three water tanks in a row.

  ‘We share.’ Lena points to the other two houses. ‘Ruth and Delilah—that’s the niece—live there. The next one is Misis Val’s.’

  Beth surveys the squat, low-set asbestos houses, moisture staining them the colour of weak tea, the roof and guttering painted either blue or red. There are louvres, open like gills, and thick wire screens to keep the mosquitoes out. She’s read how bad malaria is in PNG. Clumps of tropical palms wrestle with ferns and creepers in patches along the fence and fleshy white frangipani flowers and fuchsia hibiscus grow near the gate. Everything thrives, and she imagines the dark, rich soil spreading out beneath her. Outside the fence to the left is an oval where an old soccer net is upturned at one end. Dense jungle hems in the rest of the yard.

  ‘Like Australia?’ Lena asks, studying Beth closely.

  Beth laughs. ‘Nope. Not really, not where I’m from,’ she says. ‘When it’s hot like this everything is dry and burnt.’

  Lena gasps.

  ‘No, no, not by fire, not really burnt. By the sun. Dried out. Thirsty. We have a very hot summer and no rain.’

  ‘Ha! Not like dispela ples.’

  Beth scrambles for the words. It sounds like this fella place, so she says: ‘Nope, it’s nothing like here.’

  Lena smiles, and Beth thinks she must have got something right.

  They walk toward the back fence. Lena points to the large green leafy plants almost a metre high. ‘And this is food garden. Em aibika, dispela, this one,’ Lena says. ‘Local food. Nice with coconut milk. You will try it. And this is pumpkin, kaukau—you people say sweet potato—there are tomatoes and bananas up there.’ Lena is suddenly serious. ‘Once we had big food garden in the jungle, planti, planti greens, and one night raskols come and steal everything: watermelon, pawpaw, pumpkins, choko, beans, aibika. No good, some people.’ She shakes her head. ‘So we move gardens inside fence and no more problem.’ She waves an arm through the air, her bracelets jingling again. ‘You have what you like. That lapun man Moses looks after it.’

  ‘Lapun man?’

  ‘Lapun man mean old man,’ Lena chuckles. She crouches to pick three green tomatoes. Standing, she places them in Beth’s hand. ‘For you, susa bilong mi.’ She smiles. ‘For you, my sister.’

  Inside, Beth makes tea and stirs in sugar dotted with dead ants that come swirling to the surface. That’s what yer teeth are for, she imagines Clem saying. She takes the tea to her bedroom, sits on the bed. There is no give. She looks: a two-inch piece of foam covers the wooden frame. The sheets are threadbare and smell of cheap soap. But she’s tired after the flight, after everything that’s gone before, and she feels a faint breeze through the open louvres. Placing her tea on the old wooden school desk, she rolls out along the mattress. Songs in words she doesn’t know leak through from a radio next door, as she feels herself drift into sleep.

  1974

  Early home for once, thinks Clem, jamming his gear in the toolbox and heaving it onto the blue ute. Dog leaps over the sides of the tray and spins around, looking at Clem and wagging his tail vigorously.

  ‘Righto boy,’ Clem says. ‘I saw you. Bloody springs for legs, you have.’ He laughs, rubbing his knuckles over the white patch on Dog’s chest.

  Clem whistles as he drives into Hope Valley. He’ll get the post for Eva and then head home. It will still be light enough to set some traps. Blasted rabbits making a mockery of his cauliflower and spuds. As he drives past The Bottom pub, he sees her: she wouldn’t be more than twenty, with dark curls spilling down. She stands outside MacMillan’s, a grey pack behind her slumped against the shop front. She’s wearing a red dress—who wears a dress in Hope Valley?—and hiking boots, and she’s kicking at a spot on the pavement, over and over. Clem parks the ute in front and the girl looks up, all big green eyes and clear brown skin.

  ‘G’day,’ he says, slamming the door.

  ‘Hello.’ Her voice is cool.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says, eyes flashing. Clem sees flecks of gold.

  ‘You need a lift?’

  ‘I’m okay. Thanks.’

  ‘You waiting for someone?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, warily.

  ‘Who?’

  She doesn’t answer.

  ‘This place is small,’ he tells her. ‘I’ve lived here all my life. Chances are I’ll know ’em.’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Harry Smithson. He said he’d be here at three.’

  ‘Well, if Harry said three, he meant five!’ Clem laughs. ‘Or tomorrow even! He’s always late—except for a drink.’

  She’s just a little shorter than him, and has long brown legs; he’s just noticed them and wishes he hadn’t. He shoves his hands in his pockets, suddenly aware that his nails are black with sheep shit. His trousers are greasy and he wishes he’d shaved that morning. He tries not to look at her legs.

  ‘Harry’s me neighbour,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you a lift if you like.’

  She eyes him. ‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘Suit yerself then, but it’s no problem. I gotta get the mail.’ And he pushes aside the plastic strips in the doorway and walks inside MacMillan’s. Old Smithson, he thinks, shaking his head. What the hell is he up to? He takes milk from the fridge and a loaf of bread from the counter. He thinks about those legs again. Maybe she’s a relative. He gets the mail, briefly chats to Joan, wanting to get outside as quickly as he can. He sniffs his armpits and wishes he’d had a shower last night. Two days of ewes and wethers is a bit rich.

  He walks outside and she’s still there, patting Dog, the mutt leaning down on his front legs, tail furiously wagging. Canine heaven.

  ‘He’s beautiful,’ she murmurs, and Dog, on cue, lifts his big brown eyes to look at her and then rests his head on the side of the ute. Clem rolls his eyes. The girl strokes the whole length of Dog’s body.

  ‘You sure you don’t want a lift?’ Clem says, walking to the cab. He opens the door and tosses the mail, milk and bread on the seat. ‘We don’t bite. And Harry won’t mind. He’ll be glad for it. He’s probably at home and forgotten.’

  She looks hard at him, like she’s weighing him up.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I’ll get my gear.’

  She hauls her rucksack onto the back of the ute. Dog scuttles out of the way.

  ‘God, sorry,’ she says quickly.

  Clem laughs. ‘Dog’s okay. Tough as boots. Get in.’ He holds the door open for her, then jogs around the back of the ute to the driver’s side, whistling.

  As the road peels south out of town, over the river and past the oval, Clem points out the tiny cemetery nestled in the side of a hill, the grain bins by the railway line. By the time he pulls into Smithson’s driveway he realises he hasn’t shut up. He knows nothing about her. He feels like a fool. Waits for a few moments. Then, quietly, he asks: ‘So. What’s yer name?’

  ‘Rose,’ she says. ‘Rose Chadwick.’r />
  ‘Hello, Rose Chadwick, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’ He smiles, looking over at her. ‘I’m Clem, and he’s Dog.’ The kelpie’s head is right next to his, and his tongue’s hanging long, ears flattened in the wind. ‘And if you look over there’—he points to a house with green tiles she can just make out through gum trees—‘that’s my place.’ He swerves suddenly to the right. ‘And this is the Smithsons’.’

  They clatter over the cattle grid.

  ‘They’ve got a nice place,’ he tells her. ‘Harry keeps the lawn trim as a bowling green and Pat, she works wonders with the roses, specially with the water issues we have round here.’

  Two rust-coloured kelpies yelp and bound up the drive toward them. When the ute finally stops, Dog leaps down and the three of them bark and tear off round the yard, kicking up dust and nipping at each other.

  ‘The welcoming party,’ Clem says, and smiles.

  Fleshy Pat Smithson waddles down the path toward them, drying her hands on her red checked apron, and they get out of the ute and walk to meet her.

  ‘Clem,’ she says. ‘Hello Clem.’ She looks at Rose. A hand goes to her hair and she touches her grey bun. ‘Hello there.’

  ‘G’day, Pat,’ says Clem. ‘Harry about?’

  ‘He’s in the shed.’ Pat turns away and shouts: ‘Harry! Harry! Clem’s here!’

  Clem stifles a laugh and sticks a finger in his ear, shaking his head and sneaking a look at Rose. A smile plays at her lips.

  ‘Haaaarrrry!’ Pat Smithson bellows.

  Harry comes out of the shed, looking down and wiping his hands over his overalls covered in grease.

  ‘Jesus, woman,’ he says, irritated. ‘What now?’ And stomping towards them, he looks up: ‘Oh, g’day Clem. How are you today, mate?’ A thick black smear stripes his left cheek.

  ‘Fine, Harry, fine. How’s the tractor?’

  ‘Blasted thing’s still not going.’

  Rose shuffles from one foot to the other and Clem feels the colour rising up his throat. He’s forgotten what he’s supposed to do.

  ‘Umm, Harry and Pat, this is Rose. She’s been waiting in town for you. I thought I’d give her a lift.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Smithson,’ Rose says, stepping forward. ‘I’m Rose Chadwick. We spoke on Tuesday.’

  ‘Aw Gawd,’ Harry says, mortified. ‘Oh Lordy. I am so sorry, love. I plain forgot. Geez. Sorry.’

  Pat glares at her husband. ‘Lucky Clem spotted you,’ she says to Rose.

  Clem knows what Harry’s thinking: how could you not? Rose is a beauty.

  ‘Well, let’s get your things and go inside,’ says Pat. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. You’ll have one, won’t you, Clem?’

  ‘Breathin’ aren’t I, Pat?’

  Pat and Harry chuckle, Rose shakes her head.

  ‘You’ll get used to this one,’ Harry says, jerking his head toward Clem. ‘He likes his tea nearly as much as the sound of his own voice. You’ll see for yerself anyway, he’s part of the team you’re cooking for.’

  Clem, stunned, looks at Harry.

  ‘Meet the new cook, Clem—you already have, I guess.’ Harry laughs. ‘I gave ol’ Charlie the arse. His food is lousy and there’s no use pretending. Thought we’d try a woman’s touch, and Pat could do with some decent company of a night.’

  ‘That’s the truth of it,’ Pat says under her breath.

  Rose walks to the ute and lugs her rucksack on her back and Clem, wordless for once, follows them all towards the house, a little dazed, watching Rose’s red dress swish round those brown legs as she takes the steps two at a time. He smooths a hand over his hair, and then down his shirt, before leaping up the stairs behind her.

  Val toots the horn loudly but there’s no sign from Beth’s house. She blasts the horn again. Moses, bent over in knee-high aibika looks up and Val, embarrassed now by her impatience, waves as she slams the ute door and strides through the gate.

  ‘Beth!’ She knocks. No answer. ‘Beth! It’s me!’

  A few moments later the door’s wrenched open and there’s Grace standing before her, big pink knickers falling down, belly sticking out, dark eyes shining.

  ‘Hello Aunty,’ she says.

  ‘Hello Grace. Misis Beth stap we?’

  ‘Misis Beth na mummy stap insait long haus win.’ Grace takes Val’s hand and leads her through the kitchen, down the back steps and across the grass to Lena and Beth, sitting in the haus win sipping tea and chewing slices of pineapple.

  ‘Hello there,’ Val calls.

  ‘Hi Val.’ Beth smiles.

  She’s slept, praise be, Val thinks, and got some colour back.

  ‘Thought you might want to come for a drive, see the place,’ she says.

  ‘I’d love to,’ Beth says, standing. ‘Thanks for the tea, Lena.’

  Grace slips her hand into Beth’s and strokes the soft hair of her forearm.

  ‘Grace nogat!’ says Lena, hitting her hand away.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Beth says. ‘Really. No problem.’ And she runs a hand over the stumpy tufts of hair on Grace’s head and follows Val.

  By the ute Val calls, ‘Moses!’ and Moses, taking time to straighten and then steady himself, hobbles over. ‘Moses, nem bilong em Beth. Beth, this is Moses.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Moses.’ Beth sticks out her hand and, hesitantly, Moses shakes it. Val can see Beth studying the knobbly hand, the bent fingers, so dark against her own.

  ‘Moses looks after the garden for us, here and at school. If you need anything—wood, gas, vegetables—Moses will see to it. He won’t speak English but he understands it all right, don’t you, Moses?’

  He juts his chin in the air.

  ‘He speaks the local languages too. Understands it all, don’t you Moses?’ He smiles, his teeth rotting, gums black. ‘We go to town, Moses,’ Val says, opening the door of the ute. ‘Show Beth around.’

  ‘Bilas ples,’ Moses calls out, his voice scratchy.

  Beth winds down the window as Val hauls the ute out onto the road and they head toward the sea. She feels the thrill of being somewhere different, curious about what she might find. And she likes it, this feeling. Returning her to something, even as she looks out onto everything new.

  ‘To the right is the golf course,’ Val says.

  Massive raintrees grow everywhere, rubbish collecting round the base of them. In places, the grass looks over a metre high. A group of young men and boys, all with their shirts off, their shorts falling over their hips, play rugby. Their bare backs shine.

  Val points to the left. ‘That side is mission land,’ she says.

  Beth sees masses of thick jungle, then some cleared land for food gardens. A few houses.

  ‘Wander down to school when you’re ready,’ Val says. ‘The blue buildings over there. Take the path through the mission and I’ll show you around.’

  Further along she points to a large circular wooden-and-brick building with huge panels of stained glass. There’s a cross, slightly skewiff, on the roof.

  ‘Church,’ she says. It’s on a hill overlooking the sea, surrounded by tropical palms and hibiscus.

  The view from the windows must be spectacular, Beth thinks. Even here, the church has the best real estate. Garlands of white and pink flowers, discolouring now, are piled outside the closed door.

  ‘Church every Sunday draws a big crowd,’ Val says. ‘Like the airport! Only some are Catholics, the rest just go for a look and to sit under the fans. Including the dogs!’ She laughs. ‘And don’t worry, you don’t have to go.’

  Beth hasn’t been to church voluntarily for years. Maybe never. She had to go when she was still teaching at the girls’ school on the hill near Fremantle, the priest carrying on about sin and the sly ways of men, while the girls sat hunched in the pews, picking off split ends from their hair. The last time she was in church was with Sam, Eva and Clem at Christmas. She was surprised when Sam knew all the prayers and she moved closer as he belted out ‘Silent Night,’ drowning out Eva’s
straining, old-lady voice. Outside under the jacarandas, they’d sipped sherry from plastic cups and nibbled Lions Appeal Christmas Cake till the priest switched off the lights and told everyone to go home. He had Mass in Claytonville at eight in the morning.

  *

  Val turns left at the beach. The windows are down but there’s no breeze. Beth shifts on the seat, her legs itchy from the vinyl, her skirt sticking to her thighs. Val points out the Fisheries Department, a big building surrounded by tin sheds, two old demountables and a bitumen car park. A barbed wire fence encases the lot, and a guard in a dusty, khaki uniform stares at them, then raises his hand as they pass. Beth waves back. On the wharf, men inside the belly of an old tanker with Filipina Lady written on the side throw bags of cement to a line of men snaking across the pier. No trolleys or forklifts. Tough work in the stifling heat.

  Raised huts made from bamboo, wood and thick leaf roofs line the coast. Women sit close to the road under a tree or a faded Coca-Cola umbrella, swinging a frond, swatting flies hovering above silver, turquoise, black, pink fish in all different shapes and sizes lying on the ground.

  ‘They’ll be fresh enough,’ Val says, eyes not leaving the road. ‘And much cheaper than the market. If you want any, ask Moses in the morning and he’ll get some. And here,’ she says with finality, ‘is the haus sik. The hospital. Only one on the island.’

  A dog runs out in front of them and Val wrenches the wheel left, slams the brakes hard.

  ‘Jesus!’ she yells, then gasps, eyes closed, a silent sorry ushered north. ‘These blasted dogs are ...’ She trails off, stops the engine.

  Behind the barbed wire fence are some faded green rectangular buildings, black paint peeling off the roofs. The cement pathways teem with locals. A man is attached to a drip, the trolley lopsided on flat tyres. Two people limp past with one crutch each; a girl pushes an old man in a wheelchair with the back ripped, the man’s blue shirt flapping; a small boy, naked, clings to his mother, heavy with another baby inside, as she charges towards Reception. And everywhere behind the ute, along the beach, people sit in clusters under trees, spitting red or smoking. Beth’s seen this kind of thing before, the poverty, the sickness, the struggle, but this time she’s not just passing through.