21
I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘Wake up, Cee, I gotta leave for the airport right now. I overslept.’
I pulled myself out of sleep immediately and sat upright.
‘You’re leaving? Now?’
‘Yeah, that’s what I just said.’
‘But . . .’ I climbed out of bed and looked for my shorts. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No. I’m not good at that kinda stuff.’ Then she pulled me to her and hugged me. ‘Good luck with finding out who you are,’ she said as she released me and walked towards the door. I didn’t miss the double meaning behind her words.
‘I’ll keep in touch, promise,’ I said.
‘Yeah, I’d like that. Whatever happens,’ she said, then reached out for the door handle.
The sight galvanised me into action and I walked towards her. ‘Look, I’ve really enjoyed being with you, Chrissie. These past few days have been, like, well, the best of my life really.’
‘Thanks. Sorry about last night and all. I shouldn’t have . . . well.’ She smiled bleakly. ‘I gotta go.’
Then she reached for me, her warm lips brushing against my mouth as she kissed me. We stood like that for a few seconds before she pulled away. ‘Bye, Cee.’
The door slammed behind her and I stood in a room that suddenly felt lonely and sad, as if Chrissie had taken all the warmth and love and laughter with her. I sank down onto the bed, not really equipped to know what to think or feel. I lay back, but the silence pounded in my ears. I felt just like I had when Star had left to go down to Kent to be with her new family: abandoned.
Except, I thought, I wasn’t. Even if what had just happened had been a shock, Chrissie had told me she loved me.
Now that really was a revelation. So few people in my life had said those words to me before. Was that the reason why I was feeling all gooey inside about her? Or was it . . . ? Was I . . . ?
‘Shit!’ I shook my head in complete confusion. I’d never been good at working out my emotions – I literally needed a Sherpa and a flaming torch to walk me through my psychological paces. I was just thinking about the fact that maybe I should join most of the Western world and offload everything to a professional when the phone by my bed rang.
‘Hi, Miss D’Aplièse. I’ve gotta guy down here who wants to see ya.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘A Mister Drury. He said he met you at Hermannsburg mission.’
‘Tell him I’ll be down in a tick.’ I slammed down the receiver, put on my boots and left the room.
I found the man from Hermannsburg wandering around reception, reminding me of a large wild animal who’d just been put in a small cage and didn’t like it one bit. He towered over everything, his dusty clothes and sun-worn face out of place amongst the modern plastic furniture.
‘Hi, Mr Drury. Thanks for coming,’ I said, defaulting to the politeness that Ma had always drummed into us as children and holding out my hand.
‘Hi, Celaeno. Call me Phil. Is there somewhere we can go to have a yak?’
‘I think breakfast is still probably on the go.’ I looked at the receptionist who nodded.
‘The buffet closes in twenty minutes,’ she told us, and we wandered through.
‘Here?’ I indicated a table by the window in the half-empty dining room.
‘Suits me,’ he said and sat down.
‘Want anything from the buffet?’
‘I’ll grab a coffee if there is one. You go ahead with the tucker.’
Having ordered two coffees – both strong and black – I dashed over to the food and piled up a plate with cholesterol.
‘I like a woman who enjoys her grub,’ Phil commented as I put the plate down opposite him.
‘Oh, I do,’ I said as I ate. Judging by the way he was staring at me, I reckoned I might be in need of brain food.
‘We had our meeting with the elders last night at Hermannsburg,’ he said, having downed the dainty cup of coffee in a single gulp.
‘Yeah, you mentioned you were going to,’ I said.
‘Right at the enda the meeting, I handed round your photograph.’
‘Did anyone recognise the young guy in it?’
‘Yeah.’ Phil signalled for the waitress to pour him another coffee. ‘Ya could say that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I couldn’t understand why all of them were looking at it and pointing, then having a right old laugh.’
‘Why were they?’ I asked, anxious to cut to the chase.
‘Because, Celaeno, the bloke in the photo was present at the meeting. He’s one of the elders. The others were all giving him gyp about the pic.’
I took a deep breath and then a sip of coffee, wondering whether I was going to scream, jump for joy or throw up the enormous breakfast I’d just stuffed down myself. I wasn’t used to this much excitement in the space of twenty-four hours.
‘Right,’ I said, knowing he was waiting to continue.
‘The laughter eventually died down, and the fella who’s in that photograph came to talk ta me afterwards when the others had left.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Want me to be honest?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well.’ Phil swallowed. ‘I’ve never seen an elder cry before. Last night, I did.’
‘Oh,’ I said, for some reason swallowing a massive lump in my own throat.
‘They’re big, strong men, y’see. Don’t have none of those girly emotions. Put it like this, he knew exactly who you were. And he wants to meet you.’
‘Oh,’ I said again. ‘Er, who does he think he is? I mean . . .’ I shook my head at my crap use of language. ‘Who is he to me?’
‘He thinks he’s your grandfather.’
‘Right.’
This time, I couldn’t stop the tears or I really would have thrown up my breakfast. So I let them pour out of my eyes in front of this man that I didn’t even know. I watched him dig in his pocket and pass me a spotless white handkerchief across the table.
‘Thanks,’ I said as I blew my nose. ‘It’s the shock, I mean . . . I’ve come a long way and I never really expected to find my . . . family.’
‘No, I’m sure.’ He waited patiently until I’d pulled myself together.
‘Sorry,’ I offered and he shook his head.
‘I understand.’
I held his soggy hanky in my hand, reluctant to let it go. ‘So, why does he think that he might be my . . . grandfather?’
‘I think it’s his place to tell you that.’
‘But what if he’s got it wrong?’
‘Then he has,’ Phil shrugged, ‘but I doubt it. These men, they don’t just work on fact, y’see. They have an instinct that goes far beyond what I could even begin to explain ta ya. And Francis, of all the elders, is not one to muck around. If he knows, he knows, and that’s that.’
‘Right.’ The hanky was so wet now that I resorted to wiping the back of my hand across my still dripping nose. ‘When does he want to meet me?’
‘As soon as possible. I said I’d ask you if you’d be able to spare the time ta come back with me to Hermannsburg now?’
‘Now?’
‘Yeah, if it suits ya. He’s going Bush soon, so I’d suggest there’s no time like the present.’
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but I don’t have any transport to get back here.’
‘You can kip at my place tonight if necessary, and I’ll drop ya back in town whenever ya want,’ he replied.
‘Right. Er, then I need to get my stuff together.’
‘Sure,’ he nodded. ‘Take your time. I got some errands ta run in town anyway. How about I see you back here in half an hour?’
‘Okay, thanks.’
We parted in reception and I ran up the stairs to my room. To say my head was spinning didn’t even begin to describe it. As I packed my stuff into my rucksack, I felt as if I’d been trapped in a film that had gone on for hours – i.e. my life before this morning. And then, it had suddenly been fast-forwarded so that lots of things all happened at once. That was the way my life felt right now.
Australia, Chrissie, my grandfather . . .
I stood up and felt so woozy that I had to steady myself by leaning against the wall. I shook my head but that only made it worse, so I lay down instead, feeling like a wimp.
‘Too much excitement,’ I muttered, trying to breathe deeply to calm myself. Eventually, I stood up again, seeing I only had ten minutes left before I had to meet Phil downstairs.
Go with the flow, Cee, I thought as I brushed my teeth viciously and looked at my reflection in the mirror. Just go with the flow.
The receptionist told me there was nothing to pay, and I realised that Chrissie must have used the little money she earned to clear the bill. I felt terrible that I hadn’t thought about it and got there first. She was obviously proud, like me, and didn’t want to feel as though she was taking advantage.
The dusty, battered pickup truck I’d seen in the car park at Hermannsburg was outside the hotel.
‘Throw your pack in the back of the ute an’ climb aboard,’ Phil instructed me.
We set off, and I studied him slyly as he drove. From the tips of his huge dirt-spattered boots, to his brawny wellmuscled arms and the Akubra hat atop his head, he was the archetypal Australian bushman.
‘So, quite a moment for ya coming up, young lady,’ he commented.
‘Yeah. If this guy really is my grandfather . . . I just don’t understand how he could know it’s definitely me. I mean, he’s not seen a picture of me or anything, and I know it was my adoptive dad that named me.’
‘Well, I’ve known Francis half my life, and he’s not someone who’d normally react the way he did when I mentioned you ta him yesterday. Besides, you had that piccie of him, remember?’
‘Yeah, maybe he was the one who sent it and gave me the inheritance?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What’s he like? As a person, I mean?’
‘Francis?’ Phil chuckled. ‘He’s pretty hard to describe. Unique would be the word. He’s getting on now a’ course – he was born in the early thirties, I think, so he’s well inta his seventies, and his painting has slowed down a bit recently . . .’
‘He’s an artist?’
‘Yeah, and pretty well known round here. He lived at the mission as a child. And from the way the elders were teasing him last night, he followed Namatjira around like a pet dingo.’
‘I’m an artist too.’ I bit my lip as I felt the swell of tears again.
‘Well, there y’go. Talent runs in families, doesn’t it? Not sure what my old dad passed down ta me, apart from a hatred of towns and people . . . No offence to you, miss, but I’m far more comfortable with my chooks an’ dogs than I am with humans.’
‘So I’m definitely not related to Namatjira?’ I thought how disappointed Chrissie would be.
‘Doesn’t look like it, no, but Francis Abraham is still a decent rellie to have in ya closet.’
‘“Abraham”?’ I questioned.
‘Yeah, they gave him a surname at the mission, like with all the orphaned babies.’
‘He was an orphan?’
‘It’s best he tells ya. I only know the basics. All you need ta know is that he’s a good, solid bloke, not like some a’ the rubble round these parts. I’ll miss him when he retires from the committee. He keeps the resta them in line, if ya know what I mean. They respect him.’
My heart rate began to rise as we finally pulled into the Hermannsburg car park and I wished Chrissie was by my side to calm me.
‘Righto, let’s go an’ get ourselves a cool drink while we wait for him,’ Phil said, springing out of the truck. ‘Best leave yer stuff where it is – you don’t want any unwelcome visitors climbing inta that rucksack, do ya?’
I shuddered and my heart rate went up by another ninety thousand beats as panic rose through me. What if I actually had to stay the night here? In the Outback, surrounded by my worst eight-legged nightmares?
Come on, Cee, be brave. You’ve just got to face your fears, I told myself as I tramped across the hard red ground behind Phil.
‘Coke?’ He reached into the chiller cabinet.
‘Thanks.’ As I pulled off the top, Phil went to the rack of books, searching for something.
‘Here we go.’
I watched him leaf through a big hardback entitled Aboriginal Art of the 20th Century, and I only hoped he wasn’t going to give me an enormous essay to read.
‘Knew he was in here.’ He pointed a finger to a page and tapped it. ‘That’s one of Francis’s. They got it in the National Gallery of Canberra now.’
I looked down at the glossy picture and couldn’t help but smile. Given that my possible grandfather had learnt from Namatjira, I’d been expecting a watercolour landscape. Instead, my senses were blown away by a vibrant dot painting – what looked like a round swirl of fiery red, orange and yellow – which reminded me of the Catherine wheel that Pa had set off in the garden at Atlantis for my eighteenth birthday.
As I looked closer, I began to make out shapes within the perfect spiral. A rabbit perhaps, and maybe that was a snake weaving its way through the circle to the centre . . .
‘It’s amazing,’ I said, for the first time understanding what a talented artist could do with dots.
‘It’s called Wheel of Fire,’ commented Phil from behind the counter. ‘What d’ya think?’
‘I love it, but it wasn’t what I was expecting because you said he learnt from Namatjira.’
‘Yeah, but Francis also went up ta Papunya with Clifford Possum long before Geoffrey Bardon came on the scene. The two a’ them helped start the Papunya movement. Here, I’ll show you Clifford Possum’s work.’
I was embarrassed that this man was talking a whole new language to me. I’d no idea who Geoffrey Bardon or Clifford Possum were, or where Papunya was. Some art scholar I am, I thought.
‘Here.’ Phil tapped a page and another glorious painting appeared before my eyes. The artist had created a picture in soft pastels, the shapes formed by thousands of the tiniest and most delicate dots. I was reminded a little of Monet’s Water Lilies, although it was as if the painter had taken the two different schools of painting and mixed them together to produce something unique.
‘That’s called Warlugulong. It sold for over two million dollars last year.’ Phil raised an eyebrow. ‘Serious moolah. Now, ’scuse me, Celaeno, I need to check out the dunny – found a Western brown in there yesterday.’
‘Right. Did he . . . my, er, grandfather, say when he might arrive?’
‘Sometime today,’ Phil said vaguely. ‘Take what you need from the fridge, love, and I’ll see ya in a bit.’
Armed with a bottle of water, I picked up the book and looked for somewhere to sit and flick through it. There was only the high stool behind the counter, so I perched myself on that and opened the book at the beginning.
I was actually so engrossed, not only in the amazing paintings, but in trying to decipher the Aboriginal titles of the paintings and their meanings, that I only looked up when I heard the door to the hut open, having obviously missed the sound of a car.
‘Hello,’ said the figure standing in the doorway.
‘Hi.’
At first, I thought he was a tourist come to visit Hermannsburg, because he couldn’t be my grandfather – all the old Aboriginal men I’d seen in photos were small and very dark, their skin parched by the sun into wrinkles and crevices like dried-up prunes. Besides the fact that this man looked far too young to be him, he was tall and thin, with skin the same shade as my own. As he removed his Akubra hat and walked towards me, I saw he had the most incredible pair of eyes. They were bright blue with flecks of gold and amber, so that the irises appeared rather like the dot paintings I had just been looking at. Then I realised he was staring at me as hard as I was at him, and I felt the colour rise to my cheeks under the intensity of his gaze.
‘Celaeno?’ His voice was deep and measured, like honey. ‘I’m Francis Abraham.’
My eyes locked with his in a moment of recognition.
‘Yes.’
There were more pauses and staring, and I realised he didn’t know how to play this moment any more than I did, because we both knew it was BIG.
‘Can I take some water?’ he asked me, indicating the fridge. I was thankful that he’d broken the moment, but also wondered why he was asking me. After all, he was an ‘elder’, whatever that meant, so I was pretty certain that he could take as much water as he wanted.
I watched him stride over to the chiller cabinet. The way he walked and then stretched out a muscled arm to pull open the glass door belied how old Phil had told me he was. How could this strong, vital man be in his seventies? He was far more Crocodile Dundee than OAP, which he confirmed as he used the lightest touch of his thumb and forefinger to screw off the bottle cap. I watched as he drank deeply, perhaps using the gesture to play for time and think what to say.
Having drained the bottle, he threw it in the bin, then turned to me once more.
‘I sent you that photograph,’ he said. ‘I hoped you’d come.’
‘Oh, thanks.’
A long silence ensued, before he gave a deep sigh, a small shake of his head, then walked around the counter to me.
‘Celaeno . . . come and give your grandfather a hug.’
As there wasn’t room to actually go anywhere in the tiny, confined space behind the counter, I just reached forward to him and he took me in his arms. My head lay against his heart and I heard it thumping steadily in his chest, feeling his life force. And his love.
We both wiped away a surreptitious tear when we eventually parted. He whispered something in a language I didn’t understand, then looked heavenward. As he was closer now, I could see fine wrinkles criss-crossing his skin and ropes of sinew in his neck, which revealed that he was older than my first impression had suggested.
‘I’m sure you have a lot of questions,’ he said.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Where’s Phil?’
‘Gone off to look for snakes in the . . . dunny.’
‘Well, I’m sure he won’t mind if we use his sleeping hut to chat.’ He held out his arm. ‘Come, we’ve got lots to talk about.’
Phil’s sleeping hut was just as it said on the tin. A small, low-ceilinged room with an ancient fan dangling above a rough wooden bed that boasted only a sleeping bag on top of the stained mattress. Francis opened the door that led from the bedroom onto a shady veranda beyond it. He pulled out an old wooden chair for me, which wobbled as he placed it down.
‘Sit?’ he asked.
‘Thanks.’ As I sat down, I saw the view in front of me immediately made up for any lack of facilities inside. Uninterrupted red desert in the foreground rolled down to a creek. On the other side of it, a small line of silver-green shrubs that depended on sucking out the limited water supply to stay alive grew along the edges. And beyond that . . . well, there was nothing until the red land met the blue horizon.
‘I lived along that creek for a while. Many of us did. In, but out, if you understand what I mean.’
I didn’t, but I nodded anyway. It dawned on me then that I stood at the junction of two cultures which were still struggling to come to terms with each other two hundred years on. Australia – and I – were only young and trying to work ourselves out. We were making progress, but then making mistakes, because we didn’t have centuries of wisdom and the experience of age to guide us.
I felt instinctively that the man sitting opposite me had more wisdom than most. I raised my eyes to meet his again.
‘Ah, Celaeno, where should we begin?’ He steepled his fingers and looked at that distant horizon.
‘You tell me.’
‘Y’know,’ he said, turning his gaze back to me, ‘I never imagined this day would come. So many moments that one wishes for don’t.’
‘I know,’ I agreed, wishing I could place his strange accent, because it was a mixture of so many different intonations that every time I thought I’d cracked it, I knew I was wrong. There was Australian, English and I even thought I recognised a hint of German.
‘So, you received the letter and the photograph from the solicitor in Adelaide?’ he prompted.
‘I did, yes.’
‘And the amount that went with it?’
‘Yes. Thank you, it was really kind of you, if it was you that sent it.’
‘I arranged for it to be sent, yes, but I didn’t use these hands to earn it. Nevertheless, it is yours by rights. Through my . . . our family.’ His eyes crinkled into a warm smile. ‘You look like your great-grandmother. Just like her . . .’
‘Was that the daughter of Camira? The baby with the amber eyes?’ I hazarded a guess from what I had listened to so far on the CD.
‘Yes. Alkina was my mother. I . . . well.’ He looked as if he might cry.
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘So.’ Francis visibly pulled himself together. ‘Tell me what you have discovered so far about your kin?’
I told him what I knew, feeling shy and uncertain because this man had such presence, an aura of calm and charisma, that made me feel even more tongue-tied than I usually did.
‘I only got up to where the Koombana had sunk. And the dad and both brothers had been lost at sea. The person who wrote the book seemed to be saying that there’d been a really close relationship between Kitty’s husband’s brother – Drummond, was it? – and her.’
‘I have read it. It suggests that they had an affair,’ he agreed.
‘I know how people just write stuff to sell books, so I didn’t necessarily believe it or anything,’ I babbled, feeling terrible that I might be slandering a close member of his – our family.
‘Celaeno, are you telling me you feel this biographer may have sensationalised Kitty Mercer’s life?’
‘Perhaps, yes,’ I hedged nervously.
‘Celaeno.’
‘Yes?’
‘When you hear what I have to tell you, you will know that she didn’t sensationalise it enough!’
I watched in amazement as Francis put his head back and laughed. When his eyes turned back to me, they were full of amusement. ‘Now, I will tell you the real story. A truth that was only told to me on my grandmother’s deathbed. And we are not laughing about that, because she was one of the most dear, precious human beings I ever knew.’
‘I understand and, please, don’t tell me if you don’t want to. Maybe we should get to know each other better, so you know you can trust me?’
‘I have felt you since you were a seed in my daughter’s womb. It is you I worry for, Celaeno. To never know your roots, where you came from . . .’ Francis gave a deep sigh. ‘And you must know the story of your relatives. You are kin. Blood of their – and my – blood.’
‘How did you find me?’ I asked. ‘After all these years?’
‘It was my late wife – your grandmother’s – last wish that I look once more for our daughter. I didn’t find her, but instead I found you. To help you understand more, I must take you back. You know the story up until the Koombana sank, taking all the Mercer men with it?’
‘Yes. But how do I fit in?’
‘I understand your impatience, but first you must listen carefully to understand. So, I shall tell you what happened to Kitty after that . . .’