Stillwater Creek (24 page)

He gulped and stood still, and his heart seemed to stop beating. Then the bodies moved. The bodies of a man and a woman. On a tartan rug that was not dissimilar to Mr Bates', they lay entwined and red-faced, and staring at him in surprise. He didn't know them though; they must have come downriver from Burford. It was the kissing rather than embarrassment that brought such a rosy glow to their faces and he felt himself blushing on their behalf.

‘Have you seen anyone?' he asked, staring resolutely towards the river, where a small motorboat was moored. Out of the corner of his eye he observed the woman pulling down her dress and the man sitting up awkwardly.

‘No, can't say we have,' the man said. ‘Apart from you, that is. Are there many more of you wandering around?'

‘Yes. A man and two kids. Have you seen them?'

‘We've been here an hour or two, and we haven't seen a soul.'

‘Sorry to disturb you,' Jim muttered, feeling even more awkward. ‘They must have taken the other path.' He turned and started walking back the way he had come.

Once out of sight, he started running again, hammering along through the undergrowth. His headache was returning, a relentless thump-thumping in his temples. High in the tallest trees, a group of magpies carolled, their clear wailing calls distinct against the thrumming of the cicadas.

There was no one in the glade, but the picnic things were still there and the launch still at anchor. He took the other path, north towards Jingera, along the river edge. Faster and faster he ran, the pounding of his feet in time with the banging in his head. Although beginning to feel slightly dizzy again, he went on, over the unyielding earth, the vegetation becoming dryer as he moved into the sclerophyll forest. Tripping over a rock, he fell hard onto the ground, grazing a knee. It began to bleed but he barely noticed in his haste to carry on. After several hundred more yards, the path opened into another small glade next to the river.

And there were Zidra and Mr Bates, sitting side-by-side on a rocky shelf at the river's edge, with their feet dangling into the water. Neither of them seemed to notice his arrival. There was no sign of Andy anywhere. Leaning towards Zidra, Mr Bates now put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. At this point Jim strode across the grass, which muffled his footsteps, and stood behind them.

‘What are you doing?' Both Zidra and Mr Bates jumped. Mr Bates had his left hand over Zidra's, just as he had on the boat.

‘I'm showing her how to attach a sinker to the fishing line.' Mr Bates removed his hand, revealing Zidra's small hand that was indeed clutching a fishing line wound around a piece of cork.

‘You've been asleep for ages,' Zidra grumbled, putting the fishing line down on the rock. Her face was tinged with green but it might have just been the light filtering through the trees.

‘Where's Andy?' he shouted. ‘Andy, where are you?'

‘Right here.' Andy emerged from the bushes. ‘Do you want to fish?'

‘No, I hate fishing all the time,' Jim said crossly. ‘What were you doing?'

‘What do you think? Having a pee, of course.' Andy grinned. ‘Then I got a bit distracted by the cicadas. Look, I found a Black Prince!' He held out a clenched fist. Slowly opening it, he revealed the dark locust. Without interest, Jim gave it a perfunctory glance. His head was thudding and he desperately wanted to lie down.

‘If you don't want to fish,' Zidra said, ‘you can help me finish the sandcastle. It needs more work.' She jumped up and stood by his side. Fishing or building sandcastles, he didn't know which was worse. Puzzled by what he'd seen, he nonetheless didn't understand why. Batesy was showing Zidra how to fish, that was all.

‘Well, are you going to help me finish the castle?' Zidra said.

‘Okay.' He thought of what Mrs Bates had said that morning and added, ‘We should all stick together, you know.'

‘Were you scared?' asked Mr Bates, standing up. ‘We'd never have left you alone if we thought that.'

At last they were back in the boat and heading towards Jingera. Soon the sun would sink below the escarpment and Jim could hardly wait for that moment. His head was throbbing even more now, and every flicker of light seemed like a spear piercing his skull with a sharp point of pain. The relentless putt-putt-putt of the launch's motor didn't help, shattering the peace of the bush and the river, and the stink of the diesel fuel made him feel even sicker.

There was something strange about the way Mr Bates looked at Zidra. He fawned over her too much and he stared at her all the time, as if she was a little doll or something. As if he worshipped her. Might be because he didn't have a daughter of his own, that could be the reason. Some men wanted daughters rather than sons and Mr Bates didn't have either.

Jim pulled at the top of a fingernail that had got snagged on his fishing line that morning, and yanked it right off. The pain, as the nail tore off below the quick, distracted him for a moment from his anxiety and nausea.

He was desperate to get back home. A boat was a pretty claustrophobic thing. The others seemed tired too. Everyone had gone very quiet now. Even Zidra, usually so talkative, seemed subdued.

At last the jetty was in sight. Two figures were standing side-by-side, looking out for them. Mrs Bates and The Talivaldis began to wave when they saw the launch. Mrs Bates up and down, The Talivaldis from side to side as if she was royalty. Jim was glad Roger wasn't on board to make fun of that.

Jim glanced at Zidra just as she glanced at him. In spite of his headache and general irritation, he smiled. He wasn't going to allow her to think that he might find her mother ridiculous. Or that he was worried about Batesy fussing over her all the time.

Another Saturday night. George finished his bath and dried himself slowly. After donning pyjamas, he carefully combed his wet hair and wondered if Eileen would forgive him for that argument after dinner. It was the worst row they'd ever had. The boys had gone out in the yard to play after tea and he and Eileen had bickered again about the scholarship.
It isn't fair to Andy
was her latest war cry. She'd abandoned the previous one –
just think of the expense –
only days ago.

However it was Saturday night and he would try to make love to her. Surely it was one way of making up their differences, although he didn't feel much like it. For once, thinking of her naked breasts wasn't arousing. Shutting his eyes, he pictured her cleavage as he'd seen it over dinner, on display in the V-neck of her dress. He imagined sliding his hands down into that cleft and unbuttoning the dress-front and gently releasing those lovely breasts, and afterwards sucking at the nipples, those strawberries that he so loved to roll around his tongue, and lick and tease, though tonight the images didn't help. There was not even the slightest tingling in his groin.

There was nothing for it now but a spot of manipulation. Opening his eyes, he undid the tie on his pyjama bottoms and
picked up his penis in his hand. Lifting it and rubbing it had no effect: it remained as flaccid as a condom. They would have to be reconciled before he was able to make love to her again. Maybe he'd never be able to make love to her again. Suppressing a sigh, he refastened his pyjamas and went into the bedroom.

Eileen had left the bedlamp on but she had her back to him. Although the night was still hot, she had drawn the sheet right up to her chin and tucked it firmly under her, so he had to untuck his side of the sheet to climb in next to her.

‘I'm sorry about our disagreement,' he said, and he
was
sorry. If only she would quietly give in.

‘So you ought to be.' Her voice was muffled by the pillow but he was heartened she had deigned to reply.

‘I hate it when we argue.' Her dark hair was spread on the pillow next to his. Several white hairs he had never noticed before moved him strangely but he couldn't afford to become distracted. He switched off the lamp.

‘Jim's not going, George.'

‘Yes he is, Eileen.'

‘He's not.
It isn't fair to Andy
.' That was it, out with the new war cry, and her tone was so savage. ‘Andy would feel he was second-class if Jim went to Stambroke.'

‘Why should he? You've said yourself they're different.' He just couldn't see Andy being bothered by this, or at least not in the sense that Eileen was suggesting. Andy would miss Jim, no doubt about that; but he had lots of his own friends and wasn't exactly lacking in confidence.

‘Andy's just as talented as Jim. You only have to look at his artwork to see that.'

‘Even you have to admit that he isn't that good at his books,' George said, his resolve sharpening to such an extent that he
no longer minded what she thought of him. Taking a deep breath, he said firmly, ‘Jim's going to be allowed to take up the scholarship come what may and you can just put that in your pipe and smoke it.' This was perhaps the unkindest he had ever been to her in their entire married life.

She didn't seem unduly perturbed. ‘We'll see about that,' she said, and within a few minutes she was sound asleep.

Lying awake next to her, George felt his heart racing. So that was it. The end of communication between them.

Nothing was going to stand in the way of this dream. Nothing.

Once he had convinced himself of his resolution, and this took some time, he too fell asleep; only lightly, visited by strange fancies that drew him in and out of consciousness.

Peter was awoken by a bell ringing. Not the phone. Not the old dinner bell outside the kitchen that was occasionally used by his few visitors. Must be the front doorbell that hadn't been rung in years. Easing himself out of bed, he picked up a dressing-gown on the way into the hall. The doorbell rang again. Moonlight washed into the hall through the fanlight over the front door and illuminated the wall clock. Its hands showed ten to two.

He turned on the verandah light and opened the door. Old Charlie stood there, blinking. His appearance was even more dishevelled than usual, and there were leaves and grass seeds on the greatcoat that he wore regardless of the season.

‘You'd better come in.' Peter knew Old Charlie would come to his house only if something really bad had happened. He led him down the long hallway and into the kitchen. Charlie didn't smell the best and it was a hot night, so he opened the outside door before offering his visitor a cup of tea and trying to get him to sit down at the kitchen table. The old man avoided the chair and attached himself to Peter's dressing-gown sleeve instead.

‘You've got to come with me.'

It was the first time Peter had ever heard Charlie speak more than a couple of grunts or a mumbled g'day and he was surprised at his coherence. ‘Can't it wait till morning?' he said gently. Nothing could be so urgent that it had to drag a man out of his bed on Saturday night, when the morning after was the only time all week he could sleep in a bit.

‘No.'

For an instant Peter wondered if the old man had been drinking, even though rumour had it that he'd never touched a drop. Peter sniffed and couldn't smell any alcohol although there were lots of other odours emanating from Charlie's person. ‘What's up?' he said.

‘You'll see.' Charlie was starting to look upset now and if Peter was not mistaken, a couple of tears spilled out of his rheumy eyes.

‘What will I see?'

‘Come with me.'

‘I've got to change first.'

‘I'll wait on the back verandah,' Charlie mumbled. He shuffled outside and parked himself on the step.

Peter pulled on trousers and a shirt, and slipped on his boots. No socks to be found so he'd just have to go sockless. Before joining Charlie on the verandah, he retrieved a torch from the cupboard underneath the sink.

But the moon was almost bright enough for them not to need the torch. Charlie led him down the driveway and onto the narrow path through the dense bush to the north of Ferndale. For someone whose gait was usually more of a shuffle than a walk, he could move remarkably fast.

Peter thought of his comfortable bed and wondered why on earth he was following a mad man through the bush when he
could be fast asleep. He grabbed hold of Old Charlie's greatcoat to slow him down. ‘Where are we going?'

‘Tommy Hunter.'

‘What about Tommy Hunter?'

‘Got to see him.'

‘Well I'm not walking all the way up to Wallaga Lake. We'll go by car.'

‘Not far from here. Two, three miles north.'

‘Of here?'

‘Yes.'

‘We're driving then.'

They retraced their steps. Peter unlocked the car and wound down the window before standing back to let the old man in. Now Old Charlie seemed a bit daunted. The shock of having to ride in a motor vehicle. Peter helped him into the car and shut the door behind him.

In silence they drove several miles north of Ferndale.

‘Stop here,' Old Charlie said, pointing to the edge of the road. ‘Look.'

Then Peter saw, in a clearing at the side of the road, a crouching man. He appeared to be holding something and was rocking to and fro. Peter stopped the car at once and retrieved the torch from under his seat. He directed the beam so that it illuminated the figure. It was indeed Tommy Hunter.

‘What's up, Tommy?' he said. ‘What have you got there?'

‘Lorna's cardigan,' he said, holding up a dark bundle. ‘And look what was in the pocket. That green elephant she carries round. Must've dropped the cardigan in the struggle. Welfare's taken her.'

‘Maybe she just dropped that when she was walking here.'

‘No. Look at them scuffle marks. They dragged 'er into the van, just like they did the other kids at the reserve.'

‘When was that?'

‘Yesterday. Welfare took lots of kids. Missus told Lorna to run and she did. Thought she'd got away till now.'

‘When did you find this?'

‘Three, four hours ago.' Tommy's voice broke and he coughed.

‘You've been here all that time?'

‘Yes. Old Charlie said 'e'd get you.'

Peering around for Old Charlie, Peter saw him crouching motionless nearby, a squat dark shape, and breathing heavily through his mouth. The trees seemed to be looming in, squashing them, so it was becoming a struggle to breathe. ‘I think I'd better go to the police. See if I can find out what's happened. You want to wait here?'

‘She won't come back. Won't let 'er back.'

‘But she's a …' Peter didn't know quite how to express what he was thinking. If both parents were full-blooded Aborigines she shouldn't have been removed. It was the mixed-race kids they took away.

‘Missus 'ad 'er by whitefella when she was fifteen.'

‘I see.'

‘I'm comin' with you. Old Charlie wait here in case.'

Old Charlie nodded.

Peter opened the car door for Tommy, who was still clutching Lorna's cardigan. The drive south to Burford seemed interminable but it was probably only half an hour. The Burford streets were deserted. Peter parked right outside the police station with its depressing blue light illuminating the entrance. Tommy refused to get out of the van. ‘'Aven't got m' dog tag on,' he said. ‘They'll lock me up.'

Inside, Peter found a bored policeman slumped at a desk, a red-faced man in his late forties. So happy was he to see some
break in the routine that he almost embraced Peter, but his expression altered when Peter explained why he was there.

‘A half-caste Abo. Yes, they've been taken away.'

Peter felt disembodied, as if it were someone else, and someone he didn't know all that well, standing in the police station.

‘Lorna Hunter's ten or eleven. The daughter of a good friend of mine,' he said.

‘Not your daughter then?'

If Peter hadn't felt so shaken he might have resented the man's patronising tone.

‘No. Can you check your records?'

The officer went into the back of the police station, leaving Peter alone in the waiting room. He could hear the murmur of voices from out the back. Pacing up and down, he occasionally stopped to check on his car parked outside. The last thing he wanted was for Tommy to get arrested for being in town after six without his tag.

Presently the officer returned. ‘Take a seat, mate,' he said. ‘It'll be a few minutes before my colleague finds the file.' Peter sat down on one of the hard wooden benches.

‘Want a cup of tea?' The man took a thermos flask from under his desk.

‘No thanks.' Peter stared glumly out the window.

‘Abos were moved on from here last week,' the man said, taking a noisy sip of tea. ‘We started shifting them up by Jingera and then came back here to move the local buggers on.'

‘Where to?'

‘Where they're supposed to be. Up at Wallaga Lake Reserve.'

‘That girl Lorna Hunter went to school in Jingera.'

‘She probably wasn't there much. Terrible truancy rates the Abos have. Kids in and out of school, it's no wonder they're
not educated.' Putting his feet up on the desk, he rocked the chair back and forth. ‘We moved the Burford coons on after the Welfare Board took the half-caste kids. I reckon Welfare will have their hands full.' He laughed.

Peter tried to imagine what it would be like to lose someone you loved and found there were tears in his eyes. Becoming emotional would never do. Looking out the window again, he blinked rapidly several times. ‘Where did they take them?'

‘The Gudgiegalah Girls' Home or the Kinchela Boys' Home.' The man paused before adding, ‘It's for their own good. They'll have the blackness bred out of them in a generation or two. Once the half-caste kids were gone, we moved on the full-blooded Abos. They'd been fouling up the land, doing their business anywhere and everywhere. Public Health had to close the conveniences at Burford Oval because the niggers'd been using them all the time. They were that filthy no white person could bear to go in.'

‘They've got to go somewhere,' said Peter.

‘Yeah, Wallaga Lake.' The officer now emptied the last of the tea from the thermos into his mug.

‘No, they've got to go to the
toilet
somewhere. If the Council shuts up the public toilets in the park, the Aborigines have got to do their business somewhere.' Peter's head was starting to spin. It must be the fatigue; maybe he should have accepted that offer of tea but it was too late now.

‘Nah, they do it anywhere even when they've got proper toilets. Not a nigger-lover, are you?'

‘I reckon they're people just like you and me.'

The officer laughed indulgently. ‘You see another side of life in this job,' he said. ‘And it isn't too nice, I can tell you.' He got up and went into the back of the station again. A few moments later he returned.

‘Yes, Lorna Hunter's gone. She'll be sent to the Gudgiegalah Girls' Home. Ain't nothing you can do about it, mate. Sorry about your friend, but that's the long and the short of it.'