Goldenscale

Monday March 13th

28

Len’s friends stayed away from the excursion to Ooralloo.

‘Excellent,’ said Mr Flack, rubbing his hands. ’Let ‘em stew.’

He looked caught Beth’s eye when she boarded the bus. ‘I want to talk to you. Soon.’

Embarrassed, she nodded and found a seat next Sarah. They were then joined by Jo.

After a few minutes, Sarah got up, mumbled something to them and moved down to the other end of the bus, striking up a conversation with one of her sporting mates.

‘What’s up with Sar?’

‘She’s ashamed,’ said Jo. ‘Is my theory, anyway.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of Len. She found out what he’s been saying about me.’

‘So she stops talking to you? That’s stupid.’

Jo shrugged. ‘I kind of understand her. It’s the sort of thing my mother would do. Too bloody proud. She’ll get over it.’ Jo’s face was drawn, the whites of her eyes laced with broken blood vessels. Noticing Beth’s scrutiny, she turned away.

She’s been crying, Beth thought.

The school bus trundled along Dairy Road, then turned left onto Fivepence Lane, passing Dr Graydon’s laboratory. Hemming Heights receded and the Jugamai hills grew larger, rougher, higher. The bus shifted down a few gears, engine labouring around a succession of hairpin bends.

One too many bends for Natasha Stotte, who noisily threw up on her seat. Two other girls in her clique followed suit. Irritated, the bus driver pulled over at a scenic viewpoint and ordered everyone to disembark while he cleaned up.

Conformists,’ said Jo, watching students milling about.

Eventually the trip resumed. Soon they were in the boulder-littered highlands.

Ooralloo village was small and half hidden by trees. The houses were mostly weatherboard, and freshly painted. An old and straight-backed man with a white beard walked onto the road and waved to them.

‘That’s Jack Netcher,’ said Mr Flack. ‘Our guide for the day.’

The class piled out and stood self-consciously in the street. Mr Netcher ambled across to them, grinning.

‘Where are the kids?’ said Irene loudly.

Jack laughed. ‘At school! We have our own school. European stuff and our ways as well.’

He took them on a tour. At each stop, an elder would come out and explain another aspect of local aboriginal culture to them. Beth wondered how much of the culture still lived, and how much was just memory, or memories of memories.

After lunch on an expanse of lawn, young men acted out several of the Gugamai people’s legends, involving wars, frogs, seduction and, to Beth’s disappointment, no dragons.

Jack was proudest of the Ooralloo Art College, an airy wooden building with vast windows. ‘This is the college of arts. Notice, no dot paintings. My people never painted in that way. That’s the fellas up north. We paint all different styles anyhow. And sculptures. You know what the worst thing about bein’ first peoples these days is?’

A few kids shook their heads.

’People expect us to only do tribal stuff. Carve boomerangs, skin possums, all that type of thing. If I said, ‘I’m writing a book, most people think it would be about my people. But maybe it’d be about dance, or business. This is our world, too.’

Jack was an accomplished showman. Two hours had passed and few of the students were showing any signs of restlessness. On one occasion Beth realised she hadn’t thought of the dragon for over half an hour.

Sarah remained distant, avoiding both Beth and Jo. By contrast, Jo was almost excessively chatty, as if trying to distract herself.

‘Questions?’ Jack asked.

Irene’s hand shot up. ‘Do you have television?’

‘Oh yeah,’ Jack drawled, ‘I’m a South Park guy, myself.’

Beth coughed and raised her hand.

‘Mr Netcher. What did your people eat before Europeans got here?’

He smiled and held up a hand. ‘Good question. But if I told you that, I’d be doin’ Mara’s job for her.’

Mara was a large and loud woman with wild black hair, spinning jokes and tales so fast that Beth heard only one word in three. ‘Well then,’ she stated. ’I don’t s’pose you know much about bush tucker. ‘Cept the stuff you pop with your cap opener.’

She launched into a long discussion of the food gathering knowledge possessed by traditional aboriginal women. ‘That’s the supermarket,’ she said, waving at the bush, ‘and I’m goin’ to take you down a few of the aisles.’

Mr Flack stayed behind to yarn with Jack. Mara took the class into the forest, stopping frequently, explaining the way her people used the forest.

‘This is woman’s work,’ she said, ‘collectin’ the roots, plants, most of the food.’

‘Sexists here, too,’ Jo muttered.

Mara shook her head and smiled. ‘Can’t judge the old time life by modern standards, you know. It’s not so bad, eh? There’s power in this job, right. Knowledge. We know what cures, and what poisons. Good tastin’ stuff, and bad. How to stop babies, how to make babies. Not that I’m gonna tell you young people about that kinda stuff.’ She cackled lewdly. ‘Not that I need to nowadays.’

A few metres on they halted before a stand of tree ferns. ‘Good tucker,’ Mara said, patting a trunk. ‘Take out the centre and bake it. Like potatoes, really.’

Or bad turnips, thought Beth, with a jolt. She felt as if the dragon was right behind her.

Mara talked for another half-hour, drawing a surprising number of questions from the boys in the class. All the while Beth thought about the ferns, and pondered how to broach the topic with Mara or any of the other locals.

Time up, they walked back to the bus, chattering loudly. Mr Flack began to thank the elders, and the students actually applauded, a first in Beth’s experience.

Time to do some research, she thought, and struck away from her fellows. She saw Mara standing alone, and walked over to her, feeling nervous. Her palms were sweaty. ‘Excuse me.’

‘Yes, girl? You want to know where the dunnies are?’

‘Uh, no. I’m sorry.’ Don’t apologise. ‘My name’s Beth.’ She felt unsure of what she was about to say. ‘I would like to do a project on your people for school,’ she improvised. ‘Would you mind if I came up here and talked with you some time next week? Asked some questions?’

Mara looked at her for a few seconds, eyes searching Beth’s face as if looking for minute character flaws. ‘We’re living, don’t forget,’ said Mara with some force. ‘Don’t think we’re some dead thing from the past, you know. This place is not a museum.’

‘Of course,’ said Beth quickly. ‘But I want to ask about your history too. It’s very interesting.’

Mara smiled, her inquisitorial expression gone. The abrupt transition startled Beth. ‘Oh, sure. You seem like a nice kid. Call me and make an appointment. Bus comes up here from Goolgoorook twice a day.’ She handed Beth a card with phone, email address and a web address. Beth examined it, noting a border of animal shapes that ran around the business name: Ooralloo Native Fine Foods Pty. Ltd.

‘You’re wanted,’ said Mara, pointing back towards the bus. Sure enough, expectant faces were turned her way. Mr Flack had a very odd expression on his normally placid face — almost angry, but also curious. He wants to know what Mara was telling me, Beth realised. Why?

‘I’ll see you then,’ said Beth to Mara, wishing she could have all her questions answered now.

Jo’s conversation dried up on the way back to Goolgoorook. As the town drew closer she became agitated.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Beth.

No reply. Jo angled her face away until it was mashed up against the bus window.

‘So … I’m getting the silent treatment now.’

Jo turned back to her. ‘You are the most impatient person I know.’ She put a hand on Beth’s arm and began to cry silently. ‘I should tell you something before you come around for dinner.’

‘Is it your Dad?’

A fresh surge of tears dripping on to Jo’s jumper. ‘He’s in jail.’

‘What!?’ Heads turned along the length of the bus. Gossip was the only thing in Goolgoorook that travelled faster than the speed of light.

‘Shhh. Big ears everywhere. He was arrested in Fiji.’

‘What for? A mistake?’

Jo shook her head.

‘They found drugs in his luggage. Lots of them.’

Beth gasped. ‘What sort?’

‘Amphetamines, I think. It doesn’t matter. He wants Mum to go to Fiji and bring some money for bail. Probably to bribe people with too.’

‘Will she? Bribe people?’

‘She’s so mad at him, Beth. She always thought he was honest. But she didn’t know much about his business.’

‘Why hasn’t this been in the news yet?’

‘No charges yet. Waiting to see how much he can pay.’

‘God, how awful. Should I come tonight?’

‘Of course! Mum’s already neurotic. She thinks people in town will avoid her if they hear of this. She’s right, you know. She’s tried so hard to be accepted, but she’s an outsider.’

‘I’ll come straight home with you after school,’ said Beth. ‘Mum knows I’m going already.’

29

Mrs Aarons gave no sign of her problems. Her face serene and long dark hair tied back, she greeted them at the door wearing an embroidered cornflower blue sari.

‘Park your bikes down the side, girls. Come in, Beth. How’s things? You’re looking tall. Pretty, too,’ she laughed. ‘Almost a grown woman.’

‘Still working on that,’ said Beth, embarrassed.

She liked the interior of the Aarons house — simple timber furniture, white walls, a courtyard with a small fountain and enough indoor pot plants to make the place feel like a jungle.

Sitting in the lounge, they dipped pappadums into cucumber and yoghurt. ‘Your mother says you’ve had some tremors,’ said Sylvia. ‘Your house, I mean.’

Beth started a little. She was now so inured to secrecy on the subject that she forgot that other people knew anything about it.

‘Sort of. Dad thinks the ground is settling under the house. They can’t agree on it.’ I’ll have to talk this down, now. Don’t want people getting too interested.

Gradually Jo cheered up a little, and began to join the conversation. After a few minutes, dinner was ready, and they went into the dining room. The chairs were so heavy Beth had trouble pulling hers back. They ate large portions of chilli prawns, curried lamb, creamed spinach and rice.

‘I’m as fat as a puppy,’ said Beth. ‘Really outstanding.’

‘My cooking is not so bad, eh?’ Sylvia smiled and raised her eyebrows at Jo. ‘That is not what my daughter says sometimes.’

‘That’s only when you try to blow my head off with chillis,’ said Jo. She put a hand on her mother’s arm.

‘It is good for your digestion.’

Afterwards, they played twenty one and poker for Monopoly money. Sylvia distracted them with small talk and consequently won most hands.

‘This Lenny Crappit …’

‘Crabbit,’ Jo corrected her mother.

‘He is bad news, no? Spits on Josie. Disrespects everyone.’

‘Everyone at school hates him,’ said Beth. ‘Jo’s popular with all the nice kids.’

Jo rolled her eyes.

‘And he hates them,’ said Sylvia. ‘When I was growing up in Fiji, I saw bad things between Fijians and Indians. Bigots on both sides. But most people got along.’

‘Lenny’s sister is nice,’ said Beth.

‘Ah yes. True. My goodness, that poor girl. Such a brother! I must invite her to dinner too, one night. Maybe I’ll need to go away for a while before that, though.’

Jo took Beth to see her latest paintings, the ones she didn’t bring to school. Some were small and detailed, others large and gestural. All were vividly coloured.

‘You could make a living now,’ said Beth, impressed.

‘Artists don’t make a living,’ said Jo scornfully. ‘They scrape by. Who wants to starve?’

‘Me.’

‘Oh, bollocks,’ said Jo. ‘Would you like to stay over?’ she asked, ‘Mum can let your parents know. The lounge folds out. We can watch a DVD. Got a few new ones. You can borrow a set of Mum’s pyjamas.’

‘No thanks’ left Beth’s brain but never arrived at her mouth. Jo needed at least one reliable friend. But I need to go and talk to a creature in my cellar. Who is certainly hungry and probably angry with me. I’d better bring him ten bags of food tomorrow night.

‘That’d be great.’

The movie — involving time travel, the search for the Holy Grail and a shootout in an abandoned warehouse — was entertaining. Sylvia served them ice cream as the credits rolled.

‘Do you think Sar will get back to normal?’ Beth asked.

‘Probably,’ said Jo. ‘Don’t set a deadline.’

Beth didn’t enjoy sleeping away from home. Her bedroom was a familiar place, while her friends’ houses had odd shadows and unexpected noises. Other families had different rules, and she was afraid of breaking them. Still, it was nice to fall asleep without fear of waking under the house. She slept well, and her dreams evaporated without trace on waking.

Up early, Beth made herself toast and a cup of black tea. She stood in the lounge, studying a photograph of Jo with her mother and father. Mr Aarons was tall and handsome, with silvered hair at the temples and a broad bandit-style moustache. Like a young Omar Sharif, she thought. Footsteps crossed the floor behind her.

‘Bastard,’ said Jo, on her way to the bathroom. ‘He could sell anyone anything.’

‘What’s your mum doing today?’

‘Going to the bank. They had a joint account, you see — it might be seized. Proceeds of crime and all that. She wants it all in cash before that happens.’

School was only a short ride from Jo’s home. They played computer games until ten to nine and were five minutes late to their first class.