Brown Skin Blue (11 page)

The ladies all loved him for different reasons. For some it was his body: lean, hard muscles and dark looks. The way they'd have to look up at him and blink to find his eyes way up there somewhere, lost in the height of him, wondering where he came from. Some loved his smile and the way he'd promise them the world and not mean a damn word of it. Some loved him because he could take them away from their greasy lives with stories about the seas and adventure like they couldn't imagine.

Ah, love, down at the bottom of the sea, when your only lifeline is a hollow pipe and air, you're stepping through the garden of heaven, but you're banging on hell's door.

But every woman with pearls around her neck loved him because he found the best of them. They didn't know he existed, in
all likelihood, but his hands had touched every perfect pearl that came from anywhere up the Top End of Australia. His simple name was Jack, but everyone in the business called him Lovejack.

Gotta love ya, Jack,
it began at first. He never came up from the bottom of the ocean empty-handed. Only the best South Sea pearl oysters. He had an eye, some said, or the heart for it.

Here he comes, bring us the love, Jack,
it became when everyone knew he wove magic under the water every day he was on the job. It was Lovejack forever the day three of his crew were lost. Two to the bends and one to a shark. Not only did Jack survive that day but he came up with two natural pearls. One of which, some would forever say, was the perfect pearl. You can dig up a ton of oysters and not find a single natural pearl among them. But Lovejack could feel them.

Pearling's a bloody rough business, but blokes do it for the love of it. You can never tell the true cost of a pearl around a lady's neck. Men may well have died for it.

Once, pearling was an art. Japanese and Chinese divers searched the seas for the rare gems. Diving to unnatural depths to find them. Dying, too, for the passion of the pearl. And just like everything else that's worth money in the wild, man learned how to farm it. Catch it, grow it up, multiply and sell it.

It is said that Lovejack carried a pouch of pearls in his pockets for meeting ladies. Just before he made love to them he'd place one in the hollow of their neck.
Now you know you've been loved by Jack.

But men like Lovejack know that magic is a rare gift that can't ever be made white and fixed and grown. The taste of it was in him, by some miracle, but it was not his and he didn't own it. He
was at the mercy of nature's rarest gift of all and it ticked inside him like a clock that would one day stop.

He disappeared from the pearling luggers, one day, just like that. Gone in a mystery as strange as the magic that made him. Some say it was fear. The odds for any pearler were bad anyway, and he'd stacked up so many odds on the other side it was sure to even out sooner or later. And the later he left it, the sooner it was going to happen.

His pearls ran out around Gove and he was a man without his master. Just the shape of his body, his memories and his name was all he had.

The idea of it all was enough for Dolly Mundy.
Oh what a life.
She had a magic of her own, if the truth be told, and she had plenty of it to spare. She could imagine the feel of the pearl well enough in that soft hollow at her throat. Sometimes just thinking about it meant she found it hard to swallow. She didn't need the real thing.

‘Good weekend?' Boof asks.

It's cooler this morning. The air has a crisp feel to it and there's a breeze. It's easier to breathe in the Land Rover today. ‘Yeah. Not bad.'

‘There's fish for ya in the back,' Boof says. ‘The fishing was good. We did alright.'

‘Great.' I'm wondering what I'm going to do with the fish. There's no way I'm eating it, but I'm not going to be rude and turn it down. The foam esky squeaks every time there's a bump in the road.

‘Say,' he says, ‘we're going to Mindil markets on Thursday night. Want to come along?' He doesn't give me a chance to answer. ‘You ever been there?'

I shake my head.

‘Best around. It's good, Barramundy. You'll love it. Food
an' fun an' all sorts of entertainment. We take chairs and an esky. It's right on the beach. Watch the sun go down. Nothin' better, mate. True.'

‘Yeah?'

‘We'll go straight from work. Bring a change of clothes to work, okay?'

And it's settled. I'm going to Mindil markets with Boof and Cassie on Thursday night.

I look out of the window. The road seems like the only thing that doesn't change. Everything else whizzes past in a blur, but the road seems to be under the car, in front and behind all at once. Endless and motionless.

Bait's in the back. Snoring. I turn to look at the mangy thing and he's flopped in the seat with his tongue hanging out. Peaceful, content. Loud as a bloody chainsaw. I feel a flicker of affection for the little bastard.

‘You want me to cut the meat today?' I ask. It's the least a mate can do.

Boof looks at me across the wheel. ‘Last time I asked you to do that you looked like you were gonna puke on me boots,' he says with a smirk.

‘Na. I'm good. I'll do it. No problem.'

The pig meat has to be hacked into chunks that can be hung on the croc hook. Boof does it in the mornings, usually, and stacks the icebox. It's loaded up in the top deck of
The Darling
ready for the day's feeding.

I've got the pig carcasses in front of me, the meat
cleaver in my hand. All I have to do is lay into the flesh with the blade, hack through the bone, and load the esky. Easy. It's beastly, is what it is. But I don't shy away from hard work. It's only fair.

I'm slamming the blade down, too gutless at first, and it doesn't sever the bone all the way through. I've got to get tougher. Roughen up a little.

‘You right,' Boof calls out behind me. I look up, turn around and nod.

Be brave, Barry. Lay into the bloody thing.
So I slam the cleaver down again and again, and after a while it doesn't feel too bad. It's just meat and bone, and I've got a job that has to be done. After a while it's satisfying work. The esky is full and I'm taking it to the boat. The crocs have to be fed because the tourists have to be pleased and I'm the man with the axe. My hands smell like raw steak.

‘You seen Bait?' Boof is climbing the stairs of the boat up to the top deck. I've got the hook ready and the esky is full. My strides are a bit on the dirty side, and I didn't bring a change of clothes. I suddenly think about Sally and lunch. I swallow hard and I'm dry. My water bottle is in the back of the café in my bag near the mops.

‘Na.'

‘Bloody dog. I've been callin' for a half hour at least. Not like him,' Boof stands lookin' back at the bank with his hands on his hips. Scanning left and right like the dog will appear any second.

There's a bus just pulled up in the car park and people are arriving in cars and Hertz-hired motorhomes. The usual stuff.

Cassie's in the office ready to take their money and give out the tickets. Then it's a half hour while the people look in the small souvenir shop and duck into the café for a bite to eat and drink. Sally will be flat out and Bob will be there to help until the boat leaves. I'm starting to hate Bob for a whole new reason.

‘Bait,' Boof yells. He's gettin' edgy. His legs are restless and he's taking his hat off and putting it back on. ‘I'll be back in a jiffy,' he says and he's off down the stairs, running along the jetty back to the bank. He dodges through the crowd and heads through the café to where the toilets are out the back. Sometimes Bait hides under the mangrove trees near the edge of the river where there's a small wire fence along the edge.

I sit down under the small canopy up top and wait. The sun's hot as usual. But at this time of the morning, the light skitters across the water and sparkles like diamonds. It's glary and I've left my sunglasses down by the pig area. Damn.

I haven't seen Sally this mornin'. I don't know how to talk to her. I mean, I've got no rules for this kind of thing. It's bloody awkward. Lunch seems like a noose, but I can't wait either. Life's a bloody confusing business all round.

People are lining up at the jetty and it's almost time for the cruise. I see Cassie striding out of the office, edging her way through the crowd. Her hat bobs and her hips spread out below it. She opens the gate at the entrance to the jetty
and lets the people pass. She collects their tickets, nods her head and says small encouraging things like ‘thanks, ta, lookin' forward to it.' Stuff like that.

Boof and Bait are usually up here with me by now, but Boof hasn't returned. I try to catch Cassie's eye, as she comes through the boat to take the wheel, but she doesn't see me. She expects Boof to be where he always is. Like clockwork.

I leave the top floor and climb down the stairs. The motor starts up and it's vibrating through my legs.

Cassie goes through the first list of precautions. Stuff you'd think a person with their head screwed on right would already know, but you'd be surprised how daft people are. She tells them things like, ‘Don't go out onto the small deck at the rear of the boat while the crocs are being fed. Don't go out there when the crocs are swimming towards the boat.' Every couple of trips some dickhead does, though, and it's any wonder we haven't had a passenger taken by a cunning croc. It would serve them right in my opinion. But no doubt they'd sue the whole operation for not taking proper precautions.
What,
I'm thinkin' in my head,
like teaching crocs what they can and can't do with people?

Cassie told this story over Friday drinks about this stupid bloody woman in America who bought a brand-new motorhome. The story goes that she drives onto the freeway and sets the cruise control then she goes into the back to make a cup of tea. And ‘surprise, surprise', the bloody thing crashes and tips over. She sues the company for not mentioning
not
to leave the driver's seat in the instruction manual. The judge fines in her favour and she ends up with a wad of cash
in her bank account and a brand new motorhome! I keep thinkin' about that story and how fucked the world is. I heard another story of a bloke that broke into someone's house and accidentally locked himself in the garage, having to survive on hot soft drink and dog food. The family were on holidays and didn't return for a week. He sues them for not having an adequate means of escape. And wins! Maybe I could sue the state for letting Blue loose in the world. Maybe I should sue God or the aniseed lolly company. I'd probably win.

I walk through the centre of the chairs to where Cassie has the wheel in one hand and the handpiece for the loudspeaker in the other. She raises her eyebrows at me.

‘Boof can't find Bait,' I say quietly.

Cassie rolls her eyes and starts ad-libbing about crocs while we wait for Boof. I'm starting to sweat because I'm thinkin' that if he doesn't come soon, she'll want me to handle the meat hook. I've just advanced to pig meat mutilation, but one thing at a time. I'm not going the whole bloody hog in one day. I turn and head back up the stairs before she gets that idea.

Crocodile facts courtesy of Cassie on the loudspeaker:

Okay folks. I'm going to tell you a little bit about the estuarine croc, or the saltwater crocodile. Or as we call 'em round here, salties. These magnificent reptiles evolved about 200 million years ago and lived at the same time as the dinosaurs. Just think about that for a minute and you'll never underestimate these reptilian giants again. They've managed to survive whatever killed the dinosaurs. They've outlived everything else on this earth. They may look old and ugly
and ancient, but they're smarter than you or me, despite the fact that their brain is the size of a walnut. There, that should make some of you on-board feel better. Especially you blokes who like to compare sizes. And speaking of size, male crocs reach sexual maturity at eight years of age, ten for the female. And given that a male croc can live for fifty years, that's a long time of happy livin'. And if you men out there think you're the master species, think about this, the sex of a crocodile is solely dependent on the temperature and depth of soil they're buried in as eggs. Anything below 30 degrees in temperature is female. Above 32 degrees is male. So it's true, ladies, men really are the hot heads.

Boof still isn't back. Cassie bangs on the roof with her stick, I don't respond because there's still no sign of him. Cassie continues:

A female croc will become extremely aggressive and defensive of her babies, but if they don't grow up and move on after three months of age, she will eat them if food is scarce and competition is high. You could say her maternal instincts are short-lived.

Boof jumps over the small fence at the edge of the jetty, runs along the timber slats and leaps on the boat. He's coming up the stairs and I make room for him. He's up next to me, leaning down and banging on the roof. I don't know what to say to him. There's no sign of Bait.

I'm sitting with Sally having lunch. Bob's in the dunny. Boof and Cassie are out lookin' for Bait, and the feeling around here is pretty bad. Like a sulphuric wind has just come off the river.

‘You think Bait's okay?'

Sally plays with a stray piece of lettuce on her plate. ‘Hope so.'

I nod. ‘Listen, I've been thinkin' about, you know. How we...'

Sally looks up and meets my eyes.

‘I should have taken care of things.'

‘Don't get ahead of yourself, Barry.'

‘You alright?' I ask. ‘You don't look great.'

She flicks her fringe. ‘Thanks a lot, Barra. Just what a girl wants to hear.'

Bloody hell, I'm a useless bastard. ‘Na, I didn't mean it like that, I meant—'

‘What was that, Barraboy?' Bob is back from the dunny. I don't mind being called Barramundy – like I don't have a last name – but if Bob calls me that one more time I'm gonna snap.

‘Don't call him that,' Sally says, slapping him playfully on the arm.

‘Touchy, touchy,' Bob whines. He stands behind Sally and puts his hands on her shoulders, kneading into her muscles. I might slap him now.

‘Leave off, Bob,' she says.

He bends down and kisses her ear. I expect her to push him away or say something else, but she doesn't. Bob sits down in the chair next to her. Sally leans away from him.

‘Don't you think a nice girl like Sally should have a bloke, Barraboy?'

Sally looks at her lettuce.

‘Tell her, Barramundy, a nice girl like her should be hooked up to someone good. Like me, don't you think?' he adds, sitting back against his chair and crossing his arms.

The bread from my sandwich feels like a stodgy lump in my throat and I just might throw up.

‘Geez,' Bob says loudly, ‘cat's got both your bloody tongues today. Mopey bastards, the pair of ya.' He reaches over and grabs my can of coke. He takes a mouthful and puts it back. ‘Thanks Barra.'

Boof is suddenly rushing past the doorway with Cassie close behind him, her plait whipping her back. Bait's in Boof's
arms. The little mutt is limp, and the front and back ends of his body hang over the sides of Boof's arms.

‘Bloody snake, I reckon,' Boof yells.

Cassie runs to the Land Rover and opens the front door. Boof lies Bait on the front seat. He jumps in the driver's seat and starts the engine. ‘You'll have to handle the hook, Barra, I've gotta get Bait to the vet.'

He's off with a squeal of tyres and a cloud of dirt. Cassie's just standing there, puffing and watching. She shakes her head. ‘That bloody dog.' It's all she says before she strides back into the office. There's another cruise ready to start in half an hour and the cars and buses are already arriving.

Sally's beside me. She shrugs. ‘Come on. Better get to it, then.'

Fester is at the boat. I'm up the top with the meat hook in my hand. On the end is a gristly chunk of pig. The scenic ride is over, the kite birds are fed, and we're onto the third stretch of crocs. Fester, Dina, Tibbit and Sinatra.

Fester is one of the biggest males in the run. He's a dangerous bastard, I think. Of all the crocs his eyes are the most deceptive. Some of the other crocs have a playful nature. They're in and out for their meat quick as you like, then they're back to the bank. Fester takes his time. He enjoys the hunt, the stealth and tease. I've felt him bang the bottom of the boat before.

Boof talks to the crocs. In a quiet manner. And it's not even for the crocs to hear, it's more for himself, it's like he talks himself through the routine.

Okay, Fester. It's you and me, boy. You hungry today! Yeah, it's you I've gotta keep my eye on.

I feel like a right dickhead as it is. Just my bloody luck that Fester is the first croc I have to feed.

The trick with this job is to dangle the meat above the water and watch for when the croc's about to jump. Then you have to lift the hook up so the meat's a fair way above the water to make them jump high. There's no point being a tourist in a glass cage if you don't get a good look at the croc's body. It's a game of show and tease. But you don't want to tease 'em too much or else they'll get shitty. No one wants a shitty croc.

So here I am with the meat hook above the water, Fester at the boat. It's show time. I see his snout shoot out of the water and I jerk back on the hook. The meat leaps up. I can hear the people in the boat gasping. Fester doesn't budge. I lower it back down. He raises his nose, I jerk, but this time more gently. Next thing he's out of the water twisting his body side to side and his jaws are open. He snags the meat and I feel the weight of him on my rod. For a moment there's an aniseed ring on the end of the hook. And it's Blue in the water. He's big and fat. Smiling wide.

Fester splashes back in the water and the meat is gone. The rope on the rod goes slack and bounces up in little circles. I reel it back in and slump down on the deck. I just fed a bloody croc. I took a pig, cut it up, put a chunk on the end of my rod, lured the croc to me and made it dance for its dinner.

It's suddenly clear to me. Any of those little things alone
won't do it. But string them together into a well laid-out plan and you've got yourself a show.

I'm shaking.

I don't tell Mum about Blue being my friend. He's mine. My bum feels a whole lot better with the cream he gave me. Suddenly it's me and him against her. He knows what it's like to be a kid. I can tell.

I'm in the van. Mum comes back after a while and doesn't say anything. I don't look at her. I look all around the van. The floor. The ceiling. The crumpled pile of clothes on her bed at the other end. The chequered fabric on the L-shaped couch I'm sitting on.

She stands at the sink for a minute. Looks out the window. Then she picks up the wooden spoon that's standing in the utensil holder and disappears through the door. The van shakes. Then settles. I sit up on my knees at the table, turn and open the curtains to the little window. I watch her bend over and dig in the dirt with the spoon. Then she throws it in the hole she's made and kicks the dirt over the top with her feet. She wipes her hands and spits on the ground. She looks towards me and I quickly turn and sit back down. The curtains ripple as they fall closed. Nothing more is said about it.

It's nearly dark and she comes to sit beside me on the bed. She tells me this story.

See, there was this girl once. She had the most beautiful hair. Long and brown. Like a horse's mane. Everyone told her how lovely she was. She was going to grow up to be someone special, there was no doubt. Then one day, she gets to thinkin' that she's old enough to go her own way. That she's big and beautiful and wise and wonderful.

All the men love her. And she wants to please them. They call her princess and stroke her hair and buy her fancy food and drinks with little umbrellas in them. She keeps the umbrellas in a small box underneath her bed; every single one of them. Some nights she gets them out and lines them up on her quilt. Each one of them, she thinks, is like a miniature wand. All she has to do is find the right one, point it at what she desires, and ‘poof' it will appear. But the more men she meets the more umbrellas she keeps. And the harder it is to find the right one for the right thing she wants. It's not long before none of the umbrellas work and she doesn't even get them out of the box any more.

But then one day, she closes her eyes, reaches into the box and chooses one at random. It's blue. She holds it over her stomach and wishes for the most precious thing a woman can wish for. A child. Someone who will never leave her. Who will always love her.

Before long her stomach begins to grow with a child. She has the child and it is a boy. Blue umbrellas for boys. But the doctors tell her there won't be any more children after that. It was a one-time thing for her. And she's empty from then on.

There aren't any more umbrellas after that either. Instead she buys wooden spoons for all the cakes and pies and slices she and the boy'll make together over the years. She puts the spoons in a canister next to the sink. But there's never time. Never enough money. Never enough room.

‘It's not a very good story,' I say.

‘Well, sometimes stories aren't very good. But they still get told,' she says. ‘Now go to sleep, Barry.'

I've got one aniseed ring left in a packet that I've squashed between the wall and my bed. Mum's gone. I reach into the space with my hand. I suck it while I try to fall asleep knowing I'll have to get some more in the morning.