The Girl with No Name Page 7

  No-name laughed and shook her head. ‘ ’E my uncle; brother for my mother. Peter,’ nodding towards the boy Matthew had sat near to in the car, ‘that ’is son.’

  ‘Haven’t you got a father?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘Yeah, I got a father.’ No-name paused, then added: ‘But ’e in prison.’ She gave a smile and turned her attention back to the water, which had stopped pouring.

  For a moment, Matthew was speechless. No-name’s father in prison, in the same place where his own father worked? He pictured the black man in shorts and singlet taking orders from the white man in uniform. He felt his face burning.

  ‘I didn’t know. My father never said anything.’

  ‘Maybe ’e don’t know too.’

  ‘He must know. He knows all the prisoners. What’s your father’s name? Isn’t it the same as yours?’

  ‘No. My father got another name. I got name for my mother.’

  ‘Bulu, isn’t it?’

  No-name nodded. ‘But my father name is Freddy Ajax. ’E come from Warntu way. That’s ’is country.’

  ‘Warntu?’ said Matthew. ‘That’s right down in the desert, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. ’E’s a desert man, my father. ’E was born in desert.’

  ‘What about your mother? Is she a desert woman too?’ No-name shook her head. ‘No, ’e come from round here. But ’e was working on station one time. Same station where my father was working. That’s how my father did find ’im.’

  ‘I see.’ Matthew thought a bit. ‘How long is he doing in prison?’

  ‘ ’E get out before Christmas, maybe. They give ’im twelve months this time.’

  ‘This time? You mean he’s been in prison before?’

  ‘Yeah, plenty time. Grog get ’im into trouble. Only for one week, two week, something like that. But this time they give ’im twelve months.’

  Matthew wondered what the crime had been, but he didn’t ask. He was afraid it might be something No-name wouldn’t want to tell him. He always seemed to be asking questions, and he had noticed that No-name never questioned him about his family, though she seemed interested in anything he told her. Perhaps it was bad manners to ask as many questions as he did.

  The car bonnet slammed shut, and No-name’s uncle said a few words to her mother and got into the driver’s seat again. Peter jumped up behind this time, and No-name grinned at Matthew and climbed up next to him. Matthew followed. The car started, and was soon bouncing along the track past the camp. The day was joyous with warmth, and Matthew laughed aloud as he clung to the side of the ute, bracing himself against the bumps.

  Suddenly, No-name gave a cry and drummed with her knuckles on the roof of the car, which pulled up sharp. The barrel of a rifle appeared at the driver’s window, and Matthew looked in the direction in which it pointed. At once he saw what had caught No-name’s attention: in the shade of a tree, its neck stretched high and its eye inquiring, stood a large bush turkey. The barrel pointed towards the unmoving bird, and steadied. A magpie-lark gave its urgent call, and everyone seemed to hold their breath. A shot cracked, and the turkey crumpled, its wings splayed. It lifted its head, but did not attempt to get up.

  Peter was already off the ute and running towards the crippled bird. Seizing it by the neck, he half lifted it, and then handed it over to his father, who was just behind him. The man bent to let the ground take the turkey’s weight while he grasped the head in one hand, the neck in the other, and twisted in opposite directions. There was a spasm of wings, then the bird went limp. No-name’s uncle lifted it up by the neck and felt its chest, appraisingly. Then he swung it over his shoulder and carried it back to the car. It lay bloodied and heavy in the corner of the ute. Matthew leaned down and ran his hand gently over its silky smooth feathers. He saw that its eyes were closed.

  They drove on. Eventually the track ran out, and the car bumped over the grass a short way, then stopped near a fallen tree. The three young people jumped down from the back. No-name’s uncle reached over the side and lifted out an axe. Squaring up beside the tree he swung the axe and brought it down on a dead limb, again and again in the same spot, until the limb fell free. He split another and another in the same expert and methodical way. The grey wood was hard and dry. When the man had cut it into manageable lengths, the three helpers carried them to the car and stowed them around the turkey. Then they fitted themselves in between the pieces of wood. No-name’s uncle, who did everything in an unhurried, economical way, replaced the axe in the back behind the cabin and took up his place once more in the driving seat. He backed around until he was facing the way he had come, then headed the car back to camp.

  No-name’s mother exclaimed her appreciation when she saw the turkey, which Peter held up in front of her, having to use both hands to lift it.

  ‘Warawu!’ she said, in a tone that made it sound like Hurrah! ‘Fatfeller, all right!’

  Peter dragged the bird off to a bush at one side of the camp. He dumped it down in the shade, sat cross-legged in front of it, and started pulling out the feathers. Matthew helped No-name and her uncle throw the firewood out of the ute onto a heap next to the fire. He noticed the plump, moon-shaped damper her mother had already cooked and set to one side. Her uncle built up the fire and dug a pit in front of it – a bigger version of the one No-name had scraped out to cook the goanna the first time he had met her.

  ‘You want to help clean ’im?’ No-name asked, pointing with her pursed lips towards the turkey with which Peter was wrestling. She ambled over to lend her cousin a hand and Matthew followed. He had never plucked a bird before, and found it harder than it looked when Peter and No-name did it, sending feathers flying all ways. Clearly these two had had a lot of experience.

  It is not easy for several people to pluck a turkey together, for they all tend to pull in different directions. Soon the exercise had turned into a game, the three young people sitting cross-legged on the ground with the turkey between them, its carcase being tugged back and forth from one to another as the feathers came free. The soft down from close to the body blew about light as air and caught in their clothes and their hair. No-name and Peter looked as if their dark curls had been through a snow storm. Matthew set aside two of the long brown mottled flight feathers to wear in his hat.

  When the turkey was naked and white, Peter carried it to the fireplace. His father picked it up by the neck and threw it on the fire, turning it this way and that till it was singed all over in the flames. This singeing seemed to be an important part of the cooking process in the bush.

  Matthew went to his pack and pulled out the fresh food he had brought, and a packet of tea, putting it all on the ground near the milk tin and sugar, for everyone to share. He left the tins of meat behind, since there was going to be turkey for dinner.

  ‘You want tea?’ asked No-name’s mother, nodding towards the steaming bucket. They all did, so Peter picked up three tin mugs from around the camp, shook out the sand that had collected in the bottom, and scooped tea from the bucket into the mugs. He handed one each to Matthew and No-name.

  No-name’s grandmother, who had disappeared while the ute was away from the camp, came back now, carrying a plastic bag overflowing with nuts of some sort. She emptied the bag on the ground, and Matthew recognised a woody fruit he had noticed before hanging in clusters from gum trees. He had assumed at first that they were the trees’ fruit, but then he had seen the true fruits in the familiar eucalypt form also hanging there, and had vaguely wondered what the larger ones could be.

  ‘You know tartaku?’ the old woman asked Matthew, who picked one up, examined it and shook his head.

  ‘They call ’im bush coconut,’ said No-name. ‘You want to try ’im?’

  Settling herself on the ground, the old woman sent Peter to the car for a hammer and then used it to break open one of the fruits. Inside was a mass of something soft and pink. The old woman passed the opened fruit to Matthew.

  ‘Eat ’im!’ No-name told him. Matthew hesitated,
so she picked up a second opened fruit and tossed the contents into her mouth. ‘Good one!’ she said, smiling a challenge. Matthew mustered his courage, threw back his head and opened his mouth. He shook out the pink substance and swallowed it. Not delicious, but not bad.

  It was only when the old lady opened a nut in which the contents had further matured that Matthew realised what they actually were. The new nut was filled with a swarm of minute winged insects, of which the soft pink grains he had just eaten must have been larvae. As if to confirm Matthew’s deduction, No-name showed him the inside of one of the fruits – firmly attached to the fleshy white inside the shell hung a bright green sac that looked suspiciously like a legless grub. No-name pulled it off between thumb and finger, offered it to Matthew, who shook his head, then swallowed it herself.

  Matthew was relieved when No-name’s mother broke off a piece of damper and handed it to him. He smeared it with apricot jam from an open tin she pushed towards him, and ate it washed down with tea.

  No one had yet explained to Matthew why they had not come out to the bush the night before as planned, and he asked No-name now. She shrugged. ‘No money,’ she said, casually. ‘We never had money for fuel.’

  Matthew felt an almost physical jolt. No money. He had never in his life heard his own parents say they had no money. True, they often told him they couldn’t afford to buy a particular thing, but it was usually something big they were considering – a washing machine or a new car. Never had they been unable to go anywhere for want of the price of fuel. He couldn’t imagine how it would feel to have no money at all, even for one day. He wondered how No-name’s family had managed to get money for fuel on a Saturday morning.

  ‘The boss give us two jerry cans,’ explained No-name.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Yeah – community boss – chairman. ’E got one full drum, and ’e give us some. My uncle can pay him next time.’

  ‘Have you always lived at the reserve?’ asked Matthew.

  ‘Not really always. When I was little girl, we lived bush. My father and my mother was working on a station, like I said.’

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘My father was doing any kind work: riding horse, mustering, fencing … and my mother was working in the house. Washing plates for the kartiya, cleaning, all that.’

  ‘Why did you leave the station?’

  No-name shrugged. ‘My father fell off a horse, hurt his back. ’E was in hospital, might be three months, something like that. ’E can’t work any more. No more riding horses, doctor tell ’im. That kartiya wouldn’t let us stay after that. We had to go and live in town.’

  ‘Your father never had a job since then?’

  ‘No. We get Social Security.’

  Matthew thought about that. He imagined the proud stockman suddenly being unable to work, and his family having to leave their home because of it. No wonder he had taken to drink. He felt sad, and shot a look of sympathy at No-name, but she was thinking about something else.

  ‘My grandmother …’ No-name looked over at the old woman. ‘My grandmother was riding horses too, when ’e was young woman. ’E was a stockman. Good one, too.’ Matthew glanced over at No-name’s grandmother, astonished. He tried to imagine her as a young woman, riding around on a horse, mustering cattle. He knew she must be fit, capable as she still was of walking many miles when she went hunting. He now looked at her with renewed respect. She smiled back at him, having been half-listening to the conversation.

  ‘Yeah, I bin good rider,’ she told him. ‘We bin go everywhere, us girls. But then the manager bin tell us: you can’t go riding any more. Government bin say: woman can’t do stockman work now, only man. We never go mustering after that.’

  She paused, her eyes focused on the distance as she remembered.

  ‘After that, they bin take me to leprosarium.’

  ‘Leprosarium?’ gasped Matthew. So he was right – the old woman had had leprosy. ‘I thought that was closed down long ago.’

  ‘Closed down all right. But I bin sitting down there before.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘Mm. Not bad. But I never like it. I bin run away plenty times.’ She gave a mischievous laugh. ‘Kartiya got strong medicine today – they don’t lock people up now, for that leprosy.’

  The old woman stoked the fire with more wood, and put the bucket of tea to heat up again.

  ‘Where were you born?’ Matthew asked her, shyly.

  ‘I bin born bush – long way from here. In my father country.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘Oh, kartiya bin say: everyone gotta go station, working. They never like blackfeller stopping long bush.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  The woman shrugged: ‘I dunno. Maybe they never like us spearing cattle!’ she laughed.

  ‘Did your people spear cattle?’ Matthew had heard stories of people being savagely punished for doing that. The old woman laughed again.

  ‘Sometimes, might be,’ was all she said. Matthew longed to ask more, but he didn’t want to seem too inquisitive. No one had asked him any questions about himself. They all just seemed to take him as he was.

  The turkey’s feet had slowly curled up with the heat, and were now sticking out of the sand. ‘Wake ’im up,’ said No-name’s mother, nodding towards the cooking place. Peter pulled some leafy branches from a low-hanging tree, and arranged them on the ground. No-name stood up, grabbed the curled-up feet, and tugged until the bird came free. Then she laid it on the bed of leaves. With another sheaf of leaves she brushed off the sand and ash still clinging to it.

  Just then her uncle walked over with a sheath knife and a small hand axe. He sat down cross-legged in front of the turkey, and started cutting it up. He cut off the legs, and large pieces from the chest, and laid them on the leaves next to the carcase. Then he offered the lower part of one of the legs to Matthew, and handed the other pieces around to everyone else. Matthew took a bite from the leg. The meat was strong-tasting and firm, more like beef in texture than chicken. He was soon eating it with relish like everyone else. No-name’s uncle finished his piece, then attacked the carcase with the axe, cutting through the breastbone. He handed out more meat, but Matthew hadn’t finished eating his part of the enormous leg.

  After the meal, everyone was so full there was only one sensible thing to do, and that was to rest. One by one people found themselves a spot in the shade and stretched out unselfconsciously on the ground. No-name lay next to her grandmother, and Matthew found a place under the same tree as Peter. For a few delicious moments he was aware of his body relaxing. He looked up through the foliage at the glimpses of blue sky in between. There was nothing he wanted more at this moment. Smiling to himself with quiet happiness, he soon drifted off to sleep.

  nine

  Emu in the Sky

  Matthew woke to the sounds of other people moving about the camp, and for a moment he was unsure of where he was. Then it all fell into place like a jigsaw puzzle putting itself together. He sat up and looked around. The sun was at half-mast in the western sky, and everyone else had either gone or was going away from the camp into the surrounding bush. Matthew just caught sight of No-name’s dress disappearing amongst a patch of acacia trees. Dismissing a momentary feeling of pique that she hadn’t waited for him, he scrambled up and hurried after her.

  No-name showed no reaction when he caught up with her, and seemed to have been expecting him. Matthew fell into place behind her. She was carrying a polished wooden hunting stick, and her eyes were now on the ground, now glancing up at the country around them. Matthew wondered what she saw. Where he saw only trees and wattle bushes, and found himself thinking again about the peacefulness and beauty of the bush, she must be noticing all sorts of details that escaped his attention.

  As if to confirm his thoughts, No-name pointed casually at a small green shrub Matthew hadn’t noticed growing in amongst the grass. Its leaves were attached to stems that swept upwards like candelab
ra. ‘Bush tobacco,’ she told him, without breaking her stride. ‘You smell ’im.’

  Matthew bent to break off a sprig of the plant, and sniffed its surprisingly strong fragrance. It seemed to him wonderful to find such perfume in the wilderness. He held the sprig of tobacco to his nose as he hurried to catch up again, then pushed it through the buttonhole of his shirt. From time to time he bent his head to get another whiff of the scent.

  ‘Do people smoke this tobacco?’ he asked No-name.

  ‘Early days, they used to dry ’im and chew ’im. Today, they get plug tobacco from shop. They like that strong one.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Matthew. Although No-name was keeping an eye open for tracks, the purposefulness of her stride told Matthew she was heading in a particular direction.

  ‘I’ll show you something,’ was all she would say.

  Before long No-name stopped and signalled to Matthew to keep quiet. Then she crept forward slowly, apparently heading for a tree several metres away. Matthew, following at a distance, saw a big hole dug into the ground at the base of the tree. No-name beckoned to Matthew, then knelt down and looked inside the hole. She put in her hand, grabbed something and pulled it out. Then she handed Matthew a little sandy-coloured puppy. It had white paws, and a white tip to its tail, and smelt of that familiar puppyish smell that Matthew loved. It cowered passively in his arms.

  ‘A little dingo!’ said Matthew, stroking the pup gently to reassure it. ‘It’s beautiful. But how did you know it was here?’

  ‘My uncle did tell me. ’E seen the hole before, when the babies was just borned. Can’t go near ’im then. That mother dingo, ’e’ll bite you!’

  ‘Where’s the mother now?’ Matthew looked around, half expecting to see a ferocious female dingo charging towards them.

  ‘ ’E gone hunting.’

  No-name felt around in the hole again, and pulled out a second pup exactly like the first. She held it up to look at the underside of its body. ‘Two little girls,’ she said.