The Beloved Read online

  ‘Jenny.’ She looked my leg, but not as if she cared.

  ‘Why aren’t you swimming, Jenny?’

  ‘I’m not allowed. Only white people can swim here.’

  ‘Is it true?’ I asked Mama.

  ‘Yes, sadly.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Rules.’

  ‘Silly bugger rules!’

  ‘Careful with that language.’

  ‘Well, they are,’ I grumbled. If people could see colours they’d know your skin made no difference to how you were inside.

  Mama was staring out to sea. I followed her eyes but all I could see was the blue Pacific rim.

  ‘Mama.’

  Her eyes were locked on the horizon. What was she thinking about? Why did she do this so much lately – daydreaming on her own?

  I touched her arm. ‘Mama?’

  Nothing.

  I shook it. ‘Lily May!’

  She blinked and ran her hands down her shins. Her skin had gone the colour of maple syrup and she’d had her hair cut in a short bob. People had always looked at my mother but now they looked longer. She didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Hot,’ she said. ‘God-awful hot, but I like it here anyway. Did you call me Lily May?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m your mother and you’re my child. You call me Mama.’

  I agreed with her about Port Moresby. It was a funny place, lazy and exciting all at once, but not a place you could hide. Dad said there were only six thousand white people in town and they knew your business almost before you did. Moresby pressed against you with hot damp hands and filled your head with the musky smells of frangipani, copra, rotting plants and dead fish. There were sheets instead of blankets, fans instead of heaters and sundresses instead of sweaters. More than anything, Moresby was colour – the blood-red hibiscus Mama pinned in her black hair; the dark natives bent at the waist, sun flashing off their twisted serif-blades; the green mango leaves, dark purple betel juice and orange paw-paw. Colour was everywhere, and all of it begging to be painted. Which I did, on paper Dad brought me home from his office.

  One day he came home with a big mahogany radiogram. He plugged it into the wall and turned it on and music burst in a shower of colours from a swarm of holes on the front. Then came the voice of the announcer.

  ‘Radio 9PA, Port Moresby. It is now six o’clock. Here is the news.’

  Two people had driven their car off the dirt road coming down from Sogeri, a village in the hills. The lady was dead, the man had been flown to Brisbane for surgery. Another lady had been killed in a fight between two of her boyfriends. A little boy had been stung by a stonefish and was fighting for his life in hospital.

  ‘Cheerful lot,’ said Dad. ‘Let’s have some music.’ He unwrapped a stack of records. Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite made me feel dark blue and creepy but Carmen was yellow and light as a butterfly and I made Dad play it again and again. But the best part of music was drawing it, turning the sounds into colours and shapes: Mozart into blue and yellow waves, Beethoven into orange and purple volcanoes and Gershwin into green wings.

  ‘What on earth’s that?’ said Mama.

  I was getting sick of her asking that question so I used my best Pidgin to explain I was drawing Schubert’s piano.

  ‘Bokis bilong music me fight ’im teeth bilong ’im.’

  ‘Good Pidgin, Bertie, but it’s not a piano.’

  ‘Yes it is, and that’s Schubert playing it.’

  She sighed. ‘Poor old Schubert, if only he knew. Lucky for him he’s dead.’

  The dog Dad promised us arrived from South. South was what people called Australia. He was a pedigree terrier, black and white with short hard hair and one ear up and one down. We named him Snifter because his nose was always glued to the ground like a small vacuum cleaner. He was a dear little dog but straight away he became Tim’s, which was just as well because we were fed up hearing about monkeys.

  All of them were happy. Mama sweated, Dad had a pile of orders and Tim had Snifter. I had clouds. Thick grey clouds that stuck to my windpipe, and every time I breathed I could feel them getting bigger.

  Chapter Seven

  It was only six thirty in the morning but already the floorboards were warm. Moose and I lay on them, gazing at fluff balls under the bed. Today was the first day of the new school.

  I fingered my locket. Mama had taken out her dreams and put in photos of her and Dad. She’d been in earlier to get me out of bed.

  ‘I’m sick,’ I’d said.

  ‘Oh dear. I must be a cruel mother to force you to the coal-face ailing but you’re going to school anyway. Come on. Up.’ She’d strapped the calliper on my leg. When I refused to get out of bed she’d sent in Dad.

  ‘Hup-ho, CP. Rise and shine.’

  I pulled Moose over my head.

  ‘Here comes the crane, one two three!’ Dad picked me up, sheet, Moose and all, and dumped me on the floor. I still lay there, worrying about the day ahead. What if kids ganged up on me like they did in Melbourne? What if they bashed me? What if the teachers spoke only Pidgin or Motu and I couldn’t understand them?

  Mama came back and went to my wardrobe for a dress. She picked one with sleeves like elephants’ ears and tossed it on the bed. ‘Get up, Roberta, now.’ I dragged myself off the floor. Coronation School didn’t have a uniform but I hated that dress so I went to the wardrobe for my second-best dress. In the bathroom I sloshed water over my face, scrubbed my teeth and gargled.

  ‘Quit that racket and get out here, Roberta,’ Dad roared from the kitchen. He meant it when he said Roberta.

  I shambled down the hall. Sun beat through the fly-screen and bounced off the new white laminex table we’d bought at Steamies, which was short for Steamships Trading Company. There was another big store in town, Burns Philp, which Mama called Bee-Pees and Dad called Bee’s-Pee. Mama turned from the stove with a plate of pancakes. ‘You can’t wear that dress, Bertie. Not for school. Go change.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Do it.’

  ‘I hate that other dress.’

  ‘Do it.’

  Mama gave Tim and me packed lunches of peanut butter sandwiches and Vita-Weat biscuits glued together with butter and Vegemite and came downstairs to see us off. Because it was our first day, Dad was taking us to school and picking us up again afterwards. From tomorrow, we’d catch the bus.

  Mama kissed my forehead. ‘Have a good day.’ I grabbed a handful of her skirt and pressed it against my face. ‘Come on, love.’ She prised my fingers loose. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. You’re a big girl now – grade three!’ She ruffled Tim’s curls. He flattened them again with his hands.

  We climbed into the jeep and took off down the long road that led over the hill to Boroko. Dad drove flat out, whizzing around bends, making Tim slide across the back and shout with excitement. Then suddenly we were there, skidding to a stop in the gravel driveway of Coronation School. Through the dust I saw long low buildings with wooden louvres and wide verandahs set around a big square. There was a shelter shed, a wide shady poinciana tree and a dusty playground.

  Dad lifted me out. ‘There you go, honey bun. Have a good day. How about a kiss for your old man?’

  I kissed his nice face with its tickly brown moustache and smell of Old Spice aftershave. He put his hand on Tim’s shoulder. ‘Have a good day, son, and look after your sister.’ Tim took my hand, his eyes behind the Coke-bottle glasses serious. Dad grinned, waved, gunned the motor and slammed the gears. ‘See you at three o’clock,’ he shouted and the jeep shot forward, bouncing up and down. Mama said he drove everything like it was supposed to fly.

  A teacher took us to the quadrangle and a bell clanged; not a whirring bell but a big clunking bell. Kids ran in and formed lines. No black ones! Didn’t black kids go to school?

  ‘We gather here for marching to class, Roberta. Can you march?’

&
nbsp; I nodded, and she took me to stand with the grade threes. Tim promised to wait for me at play lunch and went to stand with the grade fives. Kids craned their necks at me but before anyone could say anything a little man in khaki shorts stomped onto the verandah. His stumpy white legs were smothered in black hairs and his red mouth opened like a cave.

  ‘Silence!’

  The National Anthem crackled out and all the kids began to sing.

  God save our grey – shusqueen,

  Long live our no – bullqueen,

  God save our Queen.

  The little man glared. ‘Good morning, children.’

  ‘Good moor-ning, Mis-ter Bos-well.’

  ‘A new term, children. I have great expectations.’

  The sun beat on my head, the air wrapped me in its great sticky arms and Mr Boswell talked.

  ‘Those not prepared to uphold our traditions of hard work, dedication, and godly behaviour can expect six of the best.’

  My leg ached, I felt dizzy. Would he ever stop? At last the music scratched out.

  ‘Lef! Lef! Lef-ry-lef!’ Mr Boswell roared, and hundreds of feet pounded the dust.

  Our classroom was big and airy and our teacher was Mrs Potts. She had frayed, dust-coloured hair and a face like copha but her aura was a lovely lemony-pink. She took my hand and I thought she was going to show me to my desk but instead she led me to the front of the class.

  ‘This is Roberta, children, and I want you to make her welcome. Roberta has had polio and wears a brace to keep her leg straight until her muscles become strong again. We all know how much suffering polio causes and we don’t want to add to it, do we?’

  Fifty round eyes stared at Mrs Potts. ‘So if I hear of anybody teasing Roberta or upsetting her, they will go straight to Mr Boswell. Is that clearly understood?’ Everyone dipped their heads. ‘Right,’ said Mrs Potts. ‘We’ll get on.’

  I went to my desk, the clunk of my boot filling the room.

  Mrs Potts pointed to a list of sums on the blackboard. My heart sank. Two long lines of numbers. I copied them in my book, twirled my pencil and felt sweat trickle down my chest. Mrs Potts came down the aisle and peered over me, so close I could see the black hairs of her armpit spread like spiders’ legs over her skin.

  ‘Having trouble, dear? Well now, you add up this column first . . .’

  A boy across the aisle smirked. I felt my eyes mist and numbers swam across the page.

  ‘You don’t understand?’ said Mrs Potts. ‘Never mind, we’ll sort it out later.’

  When the bell went for play lunch she called me to her desk and wrote some shorter sums on the blackboard. She handed me the chalk. ‘Can you do these?’ Through the louvres, I could see Tim waiting. I stared at the board, feeling the chalk grow sweaty in my hand. How could little shapes like 8 and 5 cause so much trouble?

  Mrs Potts sighed. ‘Never mind, Roberta, I’ll speak to your parents. You might be better off in grade two.’

  No! Mama would be spitting mad. The bell went. Tim disappeared. Spelling and reading were next but I couldn’t concentrate. My book was wet with sweat and my pencil wouldn’t write through it.

  At lunchtime Tim and I found a patch of shade on the verandah and sat down to eat. I reached into my satchel. Something crawled across my hand. I yanked it back and at the same moment Tim leaped to his feet.

  ‘Crikey bloody hell!’

  Ants surged from my satchel into my lap. Tim hopped, swatted and slapped.

  Nearby, kids laughed. ‘You should’ve put your lunches in a fridge.’ They pointed to a row of fridges at the end of the verandah. Too late now. I shook my lunch out of its wrapping. Ants crawled across the bread and struggled through peanut butter. In the Vita-Weats you couldn’t tell ants from Vegemite. I remembered Dad saying he’d eaten an ant once, covered in chocolate . . . I picked up a Vita-Weat.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ said Tim.

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘So am I but we’ll have to wait till we get home.’

  The bell clanged. Lunch was over.

  Mrs Potts came to my desk. ‘Don’t worry if you can’t keep up this afternoon, dear. Just get through as best you can.’

  I stared at the dips and curves on the blackboard . . . New Guinea . . . no, New Zealand . . . and my eyelids drooped. While the rest of the class drew maps I fell asleep over my desk.

  At three o’clock the bell went and Tim and I waited on the front steps for Dad. By half-past three everyone had gone, except for the teachers, and by four o’clock they’d gone too. At four fifteen we were still waiting.

  ‘He’s forgotten,’ said Tim. ‘I’ll have to walk home and get Mama and come back for you.’

  ‘You can’t walk, Timmy. It’s miles!’

  ‘Only two and a half. I’ll be quick.’

  ‘No! You can’t leave me on my own.’

  He began to move away. ‘I’ll run, Bertie. All the way, I promise.’ And before I could stop him, he was gone.

  I stared at the bend in the road where it disappeared between high bushes, then turned and looked behind me. The school yard was empty and the light was beginning to change, the sky turning the purple-yellow of an old bruise. Overhead thunder rumbled and the air went damp and still. Birds stopped singing. My breath came loudly in my ears.

  How fast could Tim run?

  How long before Mama came back?

  . . . No! Dad had the jeep, Mama couldn’t come back . . . breathe.

  I took a step. Suddenly, the sun burst out. Two and a half miles. Eighty-eight steps to the end of the driveway. Everything will be fine. Four hundred and sixty-four . . . four hundred – no, six hundred and . . . Timmy would be running flat out, arms pumping, feet flying, up the hill, down the other side, along the straight road to home . . . eight hundred . . . This is Roberta . . . wears a brace to keep her leg straight . . . one thousand four hundred and . . . goblins were gnawing at my leg . . .

  A small truck went past, slowed . . .

  Stopped; sat with its motor running.

  It had a canopy on the back.

  No-one could see you in there if . . . I swallowed. The lump in my throat wouldn’t go down. The truck began to reverse, its whine filling the air. It came level. A black face peered out.

  ‘Where you going, piccaninny?’

  There were whiskers around his mouth and the whites of his eyes were yellow. I jammed my sticks into the dirt. My head was wobbling so hard it nearly fell off. I took a step forward.

  ‘Hey, piccanin’.’ He put the truck in gear and snailed along beside me. ‘I arksed you where you going?’ He leaned his elbow on the window as he drove, rolling a cigarette and licking its edge with a purple tongue. ‘You lost? You want a lift?’

  ‘No. My father’s coming. He’s coming right now and he’ll get you. Go away!’

  He grinned.

  I swung a stick over my head. ‘I’ll bash you!’

  He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and snorted. ‘You wanna walk? Walk. Doesn’t bother me.’ He spat and a slimy gob hit my boot. I stared at it sliding down the leather; heard him put the truck in gear. Gradually the sound of it grew small.

  The pain in my leg was like the goblins had bitten right through. I sat down at the side of the road by a ditch. Where was my father? The sun burned. I picked up a stone, drew stringy hair and whiskers in the dirt.

  In the distance, I heard another motor. A car was barrelling down the road towards me, a small brown blob that got bigger and bigger. I slithered into the ditch and made myself small. I heard the car coming closer and closer and . . . slow . . . slower. Tyres crunched across the gravel.

  The engine stopped. For a moment everything was quiet, and then came a voice. A man’s voice. Not Dad’s.

  ‘I’m sure I saw something,’ he said.

  I reached out and filled my hands with stones. A shadow fell across me. I pulled my arm back and flung the stones as hard as I could.

  ‘Shite!’

  I grabbed two more fistfuls. />
  ‘Bertie, no!’

  Mama?

  She slid down beside me. ‘God almighty, baby, are you all right?’ She pulled me against her chest.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  I pulled back my hand.

  Mama put hers over mine. ‘It’s okay, Bertie; it’s Doug Davies from down the road.’

  We sat in the back seat of his car. Mama cupped her hands. ‘You can give me the stones now, love. You’re safe.’

  I would have given her the stones but my hands wouldn’t let go.

  ‘Never mind.’ She dusted my face. ‘What on earth made you walk? Don’t you know how dangerous it is for a little girl out there on her own? Anything could have happened to you, sugar. Anything.’

  Timmy was sprawled at the end of the couch poking at blisters on his heel. Mama held a cup of Milo while I drank. My hands still wouldn’t let go the stones.

  We heard the jeep crunch into the yard. A heavy red ring appeared around Mama’s neck.

  He whistled as he came up the stairs. Bounced in and tossed his Gladstone bag on a chair. ‘Hello, all.’

  I stared at his face as it began to shift and drop.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.

  Mama put down the Milo. ‘You left your children.’

  Dad sucked in his breath. ‘Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I forgot.’

  ‘They waited over an hour for you then Tim ran home, two and a half miles in this stinking heat to get help for his sister who was forced to wait alone at school – aged seven, if you remember, but old enough to work out that I couldn’t go back for her because I didn’t have a car. So she decided to walk home and guess where we found her, Doug Davies and I? In a ditch at the side of the road because a man had come along and scared the pants off her. Look at her. Look at her hands. She can’t let go of the stones. How could you?’

  Mama put socks over my hands before I went to bed and during the night the stones fell out. Tim and I went to school the next day on the bus. We put our lunches in the fridge and I made it through another day of grade three. That night Dad brought home a dozen colouring pencils for me, a set of farm animals for Tim and a bunch of roses for Mama which came from the highlands and cost fifteen shillings. She left them on the table to die.