The Beloved Page 11

  ‘Hey you,’ Mama flicked Yonna with her towel. ‘Wake up! The boat’s stuck.’

  ‘Huh?’ He jerked awake.

  ‘Watch where you’re going.’

  Yonna took a paddle and shoved it into the mud, trying to free the canoe, but the paddle got sucked in so he let it go. He snatched up the spare and pushed it against a log lying in the mud. The log sprang to life, snapping jaws and lashing tail.

  ‘Puk-puk!’ Yonna howled.

  I craned to see but Mama grabbed me and pulled me into the bottom of the canoe. ‘Get down, Bertie.’

  I struggled against her. ‘No, I want to see it.’

  ‘For God’s sake, get down!’ Mama pulled me against her. I felt the pulse beating in her neck and the burning smell of her fear. There was a heavy thump on the side of the boat and the sky above me whirled.

  ‘Let me go!’ I grabbed the side of the canoe and peered over, and there it was, a floating island of leathery skin, shining eyes and a vast cold smile. For a moment we stared at each other. Then the motor spluttered to life and we chugged away, leaving the puk-puk behind.

  ‘Don’t you ever do that again, you foolish child. You could have been killed.’

  But I wasn’t killed, and Mama could have had photos of that puk-puk if she hadn’t been so scared. She was supposed to be the adult. The jungle-belted river passed us in flickering afternoon light and Mama disappeared behind her sunglasses.

  Half an hour later a jetty appeared, and a man stood there, waiting. He looked like a hunk of charcoal. Yonna tied up the canoe and the black giant leaned down and pulled my mother up by her arm.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’m Lily—’

  ‘You go long Jimmy.’ He dipped his head towards a satin-skinned man sitting on a motorbike. ‘Piccaninny come long me.’

  ‘Our bags . . .’ said Mama.

  ‘Bihain liklik em i kam,’ said the giant. ‘Coming later.’ He lifted me from the canoe and whacked his chest with a massive fist. ‘Nem bilong mi, Solomon. Kolim nem bilong yu?’

  ‘Bertie.’

  Jimmy took off so fast Mama nearly fell off the back of his motorbike. Solomon swung me onto the seat of his bike and climbed on in front. ‘Holimpas, Bertie.’ He wrapped my arms around his middle and clamped my hands together across his stomach. ‘Hold on real tight, olla time.’ He kicked the bike into life and we moved off. The jungle scooped us up, its dank air clearing my head and cooling my face. I leaned into Solomon, feeling his body vibrate with the engine’s throb as we wound beneath a darkening canopy of trees. The ground was rutted and slippery, forcing us to slow down to avoid roots, logs and a few snakes. But as the trail became firmer we went faster and faster, the wind streamed through my hair and the scenery blurred green. It felt like there was nothing in the world except Solomon and me and I wanted the journey to last forever.

  By dusk, Jimmy and Mama were so far ahead of us we couldn’t hear the sound of their motor. Solomon had slowed down to get us through a patch made slimy by Jimmy spinning his wheels. As he edged through the mud, a sound burst from the undergrowth. A beast with burning eyes and huge yellow tusks barrelled from the gloom.

  ‘Pik bilong bus!’ Solomon shouted and gunned the engine. ‘Holimpas, Bertie.’ We surged forward, fell back. Solomon twisted the throttle. I turned to look. The boar was keeping up. A ripple of fear, but also of excitement, surged through me. I pressed my cheek into Solomon’s tee-shirt and hugged him, not just with my body but with all of me. Solomon would keep me safe. Grunting, he heaved the bike through the slime. We hit a firm patch and pitched forward, only to hit something so hard my head nearly knocked Solomon off the bike. Behind us the boar’s hoofs pounded closer, its curved tusks and dirty slobber closing in. Solomon rocked the bike forwards and back, his muscles writhing beneath my cheek like snakes. With a mighty heave, he yanked the wheel over the root. The bike reared up and crunched down. We slid sideways and my foot touched the ground. Solomon hauled the bike back up. The wheels churned, mud sprayed, Solomon roared and whipped the bike till it screamed. The wheels gripped. We shot forward. The bike had wings.

  Jungle devoured us. Solomon reached back and patted my leg, his voice coming softly in the thick jungle air. ‘Okay now, Bertie. Pik gone.’

  I giggled.

  Solomon giggled. He turned on the headlights and we rode together through calm, descending night.

  The settlement was lit with kerosene lamps. There was a fire, chatter, brightness. Solomon cut the engine and helped me off. Knife scars, long and deep, ran down one side of his fierce, beautiful face. Our eyes met and for a moment there was no Solomon, no Bertie. Just us.

  My mother sat by the fire, nursing a whisky. ‘Are you okay, Bertie?’

  ‘Yes.’ Better than okay. Something inside me had cracked open and freed feelings I had no names for, feelings that made me bigger and stronger than I could explain.

  Ted Sinclair strode out to meet us. He was dressed like Dad in his uniform of the tropics; white shorts, white shirt, white socks. He puffed on a pipe.

  ‘Hello, Roberta.’ He smiled. ‘Did you have a nice ride?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Did Solomon behave himself? Did you behave yourself, Solomon?’ he asked with a wink, and I thought, he knows the Solomon I know.

  ‘Bit of a lad, our Solomon.’ Ted struck a match and dipped it into the bowl of his pipe. ‘Out on parole.’ He sucked two or three times until a coil of smoke appeared. ‘Murder.’ He shook the match. ‘His wife’s brother was playing around with Solomon’s twelve-year-old sister so Solomon hacked him to pieces with a machete.’

  The wedding took place on the beach at sunset the next day. Thirty white people in floaty frocks and dark suits and forty locals in red ramis and bright dresses gathered on the black sand. As the sun dipped into the sea and the waves thumped, a priest in a ruffled white collar sandwiched the hands of Ted Sinclair and his bride in holy matrimony. There was a party in the garden. White flowers – bougainvillea, hibiscus and frangipani – had been scattered among the trees and over the ground. A roof of woven palm leaves covered the reception area and trails of red and orange bougainvillea lit the white-clothed tables like small fires. There was music from the gramophone, dancing, heaps of food and drink. Everyone got stuck in, including the bride, who was dancing on the table even before the speeches had finished. Someone doused the wedding cake in brandy and set fire to it, someone else sprayed it with a soda siphon to put it out. One lady kissed another lady’s husband and copped a glass of whisky in her face, but nothing dented the party spirit. My mother laughed and ate and drank her way through the night along with everyone else.

  Ted Sinclair had a son, Craig, the same age as me. He liked drawing as much as I did and we spent the night sneaking pieces of brandy-soaked cake and doing sketches of adults acting silly. Over the next few days we did more pictures together: kids splashing in the sea and standing on their hands in the sand, meris weaving baskets and cooking. Although we painted the same things, our pictures were very different. Everything in Craig’s were the right size and colour and in the right place. Mine were more like Aunt Tempe’s. My favourite picture was of Horace, Craig’s tame hornbill. He was a big bird with a hooked beak and bold colours and I painted him blue, black and yellow against a background of green and purple flowers.

  ‘What’s that?’ said my mother, appearing from nowhere, as she had a habit of doing when I was painting.

  ‘Horace.’

  ‘Really? It looks more like something he left behind to me.’

  Solomon and Jimmy took Craig and me for bike rides along the beach. My mother had been furious with Ted for telling me about Solomon being a murderer but I didn’t care. I knew he wouldn’t hurt anybody who didn’t have it coming.

  When the time came to say goodbye he touched a hand to his chest, and then to mine. ‘You strong, Bertie. Like Solomon. You got Solomon heart.’

  He helped me into the canoe, Yonna started the motor and we chugged away from the wharf.
I watched as Solomon grew smaller and smaller, then we rounded a bend in the river, and he disappeared.

  Chapter Eleven

  April 1959

  The international terminal at Jackson’s Strip was an old Quonset hut left over from World War II when Port Moresby had been a base for B-17 bombers. There were no bombers on the runway that morning; there were no planes at all apart from an ancient Avro Anson. Qantas Empire Airways were on strike and a bunch of people desperate to get to Sydney had banded together and chartered the only plane they could find.

  ‘Don’t go poking the old girl’s sides,’ Dad said, jiggling coins in his pocket. ‘It’s just a mishmash of wood and fabric and your finger might go through.’ He pulled out a small parcel. ‘This is for you.’ Inside was a fountain pen, a beautiful lapis-blue. ‘Write to me, CP, and don’t grow up too fast.’

  A man in khaki shorts waved us towards the Anson. ‘Time to go, folks.’

  Dad folded me in his arms. ‘I’m going to miss you; I’m going to miss both of you.’

  I pressed myself against his crisp shirt and he lifted my chin. ‘Goodbye, my Roberta. Have a wonderful trip. Think of your old dad sometimes, slaving away in the tropics while you build snowmen.’ He planted a soft whiskery kiss on my cheek then turned to Mama and pulled her close.

  ‘Five months, Bean. A long time. Will you miss me?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She smiled. ‘But it’ll go like that.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Well, mustn’t keep them waiting. Come on, Bertie, let’s go.’

  It wasn’t hard to spot Aunt Tempe among the crowd at Sydney airport. Her long face and gypsy shawl made her look like a beatnik. Mama, in a swirly silk dress and narrow belt, looked like a movie star.

  ‘Slug!’ said my aunt. ‘Look at you – so tall, so grown up. Ten already.’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Oh, well. That makes all the difference.’

  We laughed. She shook her head. ‘The duckling’s becoming a swan.’

  A swan. A beautiful, long-necked gliding creature. I could feel myself glowing.

  That evening we had dinner on Tempe’s balcony overlooking the harbour. Afterwards, Mama set up her new tripod and took some night shots, but I was tired and went to bed. Sounds drifted through the open door – dishes clattering, water gurgling down the sink and snippets of conversation. Mama told Tempe how disappointed she was that Tim had missed out on going to Vic Grammar but said she wasn’t going to make the same mistake with me. My name was down for St Catherine’s in Waverley and Dad had been warned.

  ‘Sounds serious,’ said Tempe.

  ‘It is,’ said Mama. ‘Bertie’s bright enough but she needs a lot of pushing. Lousy at math, unfortunately.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes, it does. I want her to have a career. Medicine, I hope.’

  Medicine? No way. I was wide awake now, listening.

  ‘What does Bertie want?’

  ‘She doesn’t know, she’s too young.’

  There was silence, and the clink of coffee cups.

  ‘How will you manage her schooling while you’re away?’ Tempe asked.

  ‘Correspondence.’

  ‘Bell’s has lots of teaching material. Can I help?’

  Bugger.

  ‘Grade five supplementary math would be wonderful.’

  The next day Tempe and I waved Mama off to Melbourne to spend a few days with Tim before we sailed. Then we went to Tempe’s office at Bell’s Books. Port Moresby had two good bookshops, Beadles and Boroko Books, but Bell’s was astounding. Books were stacked on every counter, lying on tables and crammed into shelves so high you needed ladders to reach them. There was a whole section for children and I found my old favourite, Eloise, which I loved because of the drawings. Eloise’s slitty eyes and wry mouth told you so much about what she was really like.

  ‘You like books, Slug?’ said Aunt Tempe.

  ‘Mmm, especially ones with pictures.’

  ‘Well, I missed a few Christmases and birthdays so why don’t you pick out some things you fancy.’

  I eyed a stack of boxed pencils, opened one and sniffed the woody fragrance. ‘May I have these?’

  ‘Of course, but what for?’

  ‘Drawing.’

  ‘Oh, HBs are no good for drawing. We can do better than that.’

  ‘Do you have Lakeland colouring pencils, Aunt Tempe?’

  ‘No, I mean pencils for sketching. And let’s drop the “aunt”, shall we? It makes me sound old. Now, come with me and I’ll introduce you to someone.’

  She led me to a wide bright room overlooking the bustle of Pitt Street. A woman sat at a big table by the window, sketching. She looked like an overgrown kid, with masses of loose flaming curls and freckles across her nose. When she smiled she reminded me of my old doll, Molly.

  ‘My niece, Roberta,’ said Tempe to the lady. ‘Bertie, this is my friend, Mrs Valier. Our resident artist and book illustrator.’

  ‘Did you do Eloise?’ I asked.

  ‘No, not children’s books, unfortunately,’ said Mrs Valier. ‘Ordinary things: birds and flowers.’ She handed over a book with a drawing of a kookaburra, so detailed and lifelike it looked as if it could fly off the page.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Mrs Valier is heading off to your part of the world, Bertie, to draw New Guinea’s wildlife. Her brother owns Boroko Books in Port Moresby. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Mr McIntyre’s shop. Mama buys my school books there.’

  ‘Supplied by me,’ said Tempe. ‘Mr McIntyre is going overseas so Mrs Valier will be minding his shop while he’s away.’ She smiled at her friend. ‘Bertie and I need sketching pencils and maybe a tin of good paints.’ She turned to me. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, so quickly they both laughed.

  Mrs Valier picked out pencils, brushes, a tin of paints and paper. It wasn’t smooth like the paper Dad brought home from his office but thick and rough.

  ‘We’re off to lunch,’ said Tempe. ‘Then home to show Bertie how to use these things before she goes to Canada.’

  ‘Canada!’ said Mrs Valier. ‘How wonderful. Lucky you.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed.

  ‘When you get back to Port Moresby, come to the bookshop and bring your drawings so I can see what Canada looks like.’

  Tempe looked at her watch. ‘Lunch time.’

  We ate in the elegant gloom of a Cahill’s Restaurant, in our own leather-padded booth with silver cutlery, starched serviettes and a vase of carnations. I studied the menu. So much to choose from: soups, soufflés, roasts, galantines, cakes and custards.

  ‘I’ll have a toasted cheese sandwich with tomato sauce and a chocolate malted milk.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  I nodded. ‘Em tasol.’

  Tempe snorted. ‘How prosaic.’

  My milkshake came in a heavy glass with a waxed yellow straw and my sandwich was exactly right: crunchy outside and squishy inside with tomato sauce oozing out the edges.

  ‘You know what else tomato sauce is good for?’ I said, watching how Tempe followed the waitress with her eyes.

  ‘I’m not sure I want to know.’

  ‘Painting.’

  ‘Painting?’

  ‘Vegemite’s even better. Vegemite, tomato sauce, peanut butter, jam – all good. Dirt’s all right too. Mud. You know.’

  ‘No, can’t say that I do.’

  ‘You should try.’

  ‘You should try paint – a viable alternative. Now, tell me about New Guinea. Does Josie go around in a grass skirt and no top? Do her husbands have feathers in their hair and bones through their noses?’

  ‘Don’t you know anything?’ I said, rolling my eyes.

  Tempe wrinkled her nose. ‘Nup.’

  Her shirt came down below my knees and I had to roll up the sleeves but I felt like a real artist. Tempe’s garage door had been replaced with big windows. More windows ran the length of the r
oom and at the end a large desk overlooked the bay. Canvases leaned against the walls; there was a clay-spattered pottery wheel and a sagging leather sofa. She cleared the clutter from her desk with a sweep of her arm and pulled out a sheet of heavy paper. She drew a few sweeping lines then handed me the pencil. I drew it across the page as I would have with an HB and left a thick black line.

  ‘Whoa,’ said Tempe. ‘Let’s start from scratch. These aren’t ordinary pencils. You have to use them sensitively, as an extension of your hand, like drawing with the end of your finger.’

  This time I guided the pencil softly across the page, feeling how responsive it was. Nothing like ordinary pencils. It didn’t need force, but seemed to know what I wanted and pictures began to drop onto the paper.

  ‘I didn’t know you could draw so well,’ said Tempe. ‘These faces are great.’

  ‘I can do caricatures.’

  ‘Can you? Can you do one of me? No, wait. I’ve a better idea.’ She rummaged around in an old shoebox and pulled out a picture of Grandma.

  Poor old Grandma, it didn’t seem right to make her nose even longer and her chin more wreathed in fat. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Okay. What about this?’ She gave me a photo of a lady with a heart-shaped face, dark curly hair and round button eyes.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My friend Allison.’ Tempe’s voice was light but her ears had gone bright red and for some reason, I didn’t want to do a caricature of her friend either. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, what about someone we don’t know?’ She flipped through a Women’s Weekly magazine. ‘How about the gorgeous Garbo?’

  The gorgeous Garbo was a series of lines – a wide thin mouth, triangular cheekbones, heavy eyelids and a snooty expression. I began to draw, setting the eyes far apart and darkening the lids. I sharpened the cheekbones, widened the mouth and narrowed the haughty nostrils.

  ‘It’s terrific, Bertie. I couldn’t do a caricature that well. Now let’s try something else.’ She drew the outline of an apple, shaded it and put shadows underneath. By leaving a little blank square on the side she made it look as if the sun was shining on it.