Nona and Me (12 page)

20.

2000

We are jammed together on the couch, between
Rripipi and one of her sisters. The lounge room is full. The TV is on. We're waiting for the race to start.

At school today, it was the only thing anyone could talk about.

“Did you see her in the opening ceremony?”

“Man, she's fast.”

“That French lady pulled out.”

“Why does Cathy wear that funny suit?”

“Do you reckon it makes her faster?”

“She's Aboriginal, you know?”

“Well, derr.”

I take a sip of green cordial. Nona is stuffing her face with popcorn. Jimmy and Lomu wrestle with their cousins for a spot right in front of the screen. The smalls are sitting on the floor holding someone's baby. Guḻwirri arrives with two of Bolu's sisters and their kids. Mum invited the whole family. Rripipi's small box TV was broken during the opening ceremony. An uncle got so excited about seeing the group from Yirrkala perform that he knocked the set off its stool and onto the concrete floor.

The room quietens as the runners approach the starting line. The competitors are announced, one by one. The first five are ladies we don't know or care about in outfits that look like swimmers or crop tops and bike pants. And then there's Cathy in her signature green and white suit. Only her face and hands, a soft honey-brown, are visible.

The TV announcer says, “Lane six – Cathy Freeman,” and the stadium crowd erupts in a roaring ecstasy of anticipation. In our lounge room, we are jubilant. She's going to do it for sure. She'll be the first Aboriginal person to win an individual Olympic gold medal. We can already taste victory.

A few extra bodies push into the room. It is Bolu and two men I don't recognise. One is older, short with greying hair. The other is tall and skinny. He looks about eighteen. The tall one winks at Nona and throws her a packet of jellybeans. She catches it, grinning, then turns back to the TV.

Cathy bends down low over the starting mark. Two triangles of yellow appear on her suit, just behind the arms.

Nona hands me a fistful of jellybeans. I can feel lolly man watching her. Why isn't he watching Cathy? I nudge Nona and whisper, “Who's that?”

“Who?”

“The guy who gave you the jellybeans.”

“You know Stretch?”

Jimmy turns and whacks Nona on the legs. “Shut up!”

The starter's gun is in the air now. Bang. And she's off. A torpedo of white and green. I think she's coming third. The TV commentary is drowned in a cacophony of high-pitched shrieks and Yolŋu Matha.

“Wa
d
itja!”

“Ma' wirrki wirrki!”

“Djulk'maŋuna!”

Cathy powers around the corner and draws level with the front group. With just seconds to go she surges ahead, far ahead. She's done it!

My eyes remain glued to her face as she sits down, gasping for breath. Why isn't she smiling? Is she sick? Is she going to cry? She closes her eyes for a moment, then stands and walks off the track.

I can hear the announcer now. “What a legend. What a champion.”

A female voice adds, “What a relief.”

The crowd in our lounge room is laughing, shouting. Tears are streaming down Rripipi's face. Beside me, Nona starts dancing with pure joy. On screen, Cathy is doing the same. Victory has finally sunk in. She's smiling now, holding two flags. One Aboriginal, one Australian.

“Yo, manymak!”

“Look at the flags.
Märrma'
together.”

Lolly man approaches us through the crowd, his eyes smiling from a round, friendly face. He towers over us. “Good race, eh?”

Nona says, “Good one – no, great one!”

Lolly man grins and pushes back his hair. It is thick and curly. He stands beside us a few seconds more, as if not knowing what to say, then turns and sidles away.

Nona yells at the TV. “Replay! Replay!”

I watch lolly man slide back in next to Bolu, then I ask, “Who is he?”

“I told you – Stretch.”

“Why'd he give you lollies?”

“He's my promised husband.”

I'm stunned. “What?”

“I'm gonna marry him. When I'm older.”

She sees the shock in my face, and shoves me, playfully. “You look like Cathy.” She contorts her face into a mirror of Cathy's shocked expression after she won. Nona's always been a good mimic. She grins, “Thought she was going to have a heart attack.”

I ask, “Is he nice?”

“
Yo
, he's from Gikal. Plays for Baywarra.”

She holds out the packet of jellybeans. “Lolly?”

“No thanks.”

I look back at the TV. Cathy is on the podium now, victorious, elated.

I guess some things take a while to sink in.

21.

2007

Mum and I eat a late lunch of toasted ham, cheese
and tomato sandwiches. Our silent munching is punctuated, every now and then, by a roar from the oval outside or the sound of a car horn tooting. I try to sound nonchalant as I ask, “Do you know who's playing today?”

Mum looks over at me, surprised. “You mean the football?”

“Yeah.”

I haven't shown any interest since I was small. Bolu used to play, and sometimes Jimmy and Lomu too. Nona and I would hang out with the girls by the side of the field.

There are questions in Mum's voice as she says, “I'm not sure.”

I chew the last bite of my sandwich and put the empty plate on the sink. “I might go down to the shop, get an ice-cream.”

Mum can't help herself. She raises a curious eyebrow. We never buy anything from the Yirrkala store anymore. We used to; when I was little it was community-owned. But now that it's run privately it's a complete rip-off. I expect Mum to object but she just hands me a twenty-dollar note. “Get one for me too? That should hopefully cover it.”

I smile back, grateful for the lack of questions.

I stuff the money in my pocket and slip out the door, clunking down our front stairs and turning left into the street. The football looks like it's drawn a decent crowd. The shop car park is almost full and there is a line of battered old four-wheel drives parked by the side of the oval. Groups of Yolŋu fill the small metal bleachers and huddle in the shade of nearby trees. A police paddy-wagon cruises past. They seem to be out here more often lately.

I walk towards the store, nodding polite hellos at three ladies who pass me with boxes of greasy chicken and chips.

I reach the front of the shop and push the thick plastic doors open. Inside, the light is dim and musty.

A few kids giggle as I pass. One of them says, “You Jen's daughter.” Another asks, “Where's Jen?”

I say, “At home,” and smile as I head towards the freezer. There are no prices marked. I grab two Magnums and carry them to the counter. The lady in front of me is buying two loaves of white bread and a jar of Nutella. The man at the counter rings up twenty-one dollars. She hands it over without blinking and sails towards the exit, the cheeky kids hurrying to follow her out.

The man scans my Magnums. “Sixteen dollars, thanks.”

Outside, I hold Mum's ice-cream by the end of the packet, as I open mine. I fold back the crinkly packaging and take a cold, creamy bite.

I start to walk towards the oval. In just a few steps, I'm there. I check the scoreboard: 50–52. I'm guessing that means it's close. A thick metal pipe runs around the perimeter of the field. I sit down on it to watch, licking drips from my melting Magnum. In front of me, four boys chase a mini-football, wrestling it off each other in imitation of the main game. By my side, there's a group of Yolŋu ladies sitting on a dusty, old sheet. One of them smiles up at me, so I ask, “Who's playing?”

She says, “Ŋuykal
ga
Baywarra.”

Anyone living here knows Ŋuykal is one of two teams from Yirrkala. They won the final last year; there were fights with the other Yirrkala team every night for a week.

I scan the field. Baywarra is all Yolŋu, but Ŋuykal is a mix. I spot Aiden up the back, near the goal, in a double blue Ŋuykal shirt. He watches the ball as it sails towards him, only to be out-jumped by a Baywarra player at the last minute. The ladies on the sheet next to me go crazy. The guy with the ball has thick, curly hair, but it couldn't be him: that player looks about my age. My eyes keep roving and, bingo, there's a tall guy with a round, open face. He soars over the other players, snatches the ball out of the air and kicks it. His movements are smooth, his body lean and muscly. Athletic. He must be in his mid twenties now. What would it be like to be married to him? Would he be gentle? Kind? Do they live together? Where? With his family or hers? Do they have their own room?

Baywarra must have scored, because the ladies on the sheet start whooping in unselfconscious celebration. A siren sounds and the players troop off the field. My new friend looks up and smiles again. “Half time.”

The Baywarra team retreat to a small bleacher on the other side of the oval, beside a huddle of ladies on plastic mats. And then I see her. Nona.

She says something to one of the women beside her. I feel Mum's ice-cream melting in its packet, and reluctantly turn to go.

I wonder if Nona watched the football on Elcho Island.

Does she like the game, or does she just come to watch him?

*

School's back in, and we fall into a routine. Nick drives me home three days a week, on the days when he doesn't work at the pool.

Some days, like today, when we know Mum won't be here, he comes in.

“You want a drink?”

“Coke?”

“You know we don't have that.”

“What hippy stuff have you got, then?”

“Iced rooibos tea.”

“Hit me.”

I pour us both a long, cold glass. Outside the kitchen window, I can see workmen putting up a fence around our house. It is low, only about a metre high, made of metal piping and wide loops of cyclone wire. I remember Mum's joke and smile.

Nick says, “What?”

“See that fence? It's to keep the paedophiles out.”

He looks nonplussed. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“You know the Intervention?”

“Was that the thing with the army? Weren't they supposed to come?”

I can't believe he's forgotten so quickly. “Doesn't matter. It's not important.”

He takes a sip of his iced tea, then puts the glass on the bench. He leans in and kisses me, slowly but deeply.

It gets passionate quickly. His hands begin exploring. I inch backwards. He follows. It's a dance we've started doing to a song with no words.

I angle away. “What if Mum comes home?”

“Didn't you say she's working 'til five?”

He's all hot breath, licks and fumbles. I think I love Nick. I think he loves me. But I'm just not ready yet. Not like this. Not here. Not now.

I push him back, this time more forceful. “Nick, there are guys working right out there. What if they come in?”

He leans back against the kitchen bench, frustrated. “Man, Rosie. There's always some excuse, isn't there?” He drinks his tea, staring off in the direction of the lounge room.

I look back out the window. I see a blue kingfisher swoop down to perch on a section of our newly built fence. It tilts its head, seeming to look at me, then flaps off towards the art centre, disappearing out of sight.

*

Dad is on the phone for his weekly Wednesday update.

“How are things in Yirrkala?”

“Fine. Are you coming up soon?”

There's a momentary pause, then he says, “Not sure. There's been a bit of a hiccup.”

I can guess his excuse. He's used it a lot lately. “Something to do with the Blue Mud Bay case?”

“Actually, no. You know how I told you we're trialling a tourism thing down here?”

It rings a few vague bells. “Uh huh.”

“Well, it's kind of stalled. I applied for grants and we got a few, so technically we're good to go. But now the old man isn't sure he wants to do it. He thinks with all this Intervention stuff, no-one will want to come. Anyway, I really need to be here, to try and sort it out. So I might shop in Gapuwiyak this month. It's a bit closer.”

I know he can tell I'm disappointed, because he hurries on. “I heard there was a meeting in Rika Park on the weekend?”

I grunt, non-committal. I want him to ask about me, not the stupid Intervention.

He doesn't get the hint. “Did you go?”

“Mum dragged me down there.”

“Good on her. How was it?”

“Rripipi said Nona's gone to her promised.”

My words surprise both of us. I hadn't intended to bring this up. But it's too late to back out now, so I say, “Don't you think that's crazy? He's heaps older.”

“Who is he?”

“Some guy who plays for Baywarra. He's got to be at least twenty-five.”

“What family?”

“Does it matter? She's my age. Fifteen.”

“It's different. You know that.” Dad sounds uncomfortable.

“So it would be okay if I shacked up with Nick?”

“It definitely would not.”

I'm trying to pick an argument, but I don't know why. Dad and I never fight. He's my confidant, a calm presence on the other end of the phone. He hasn't been here for the curfew arguments, or the pocket-money wars, or Mum's ongoing “I wish you'd go out with someone other than Nick” crusade. He doesn't know how to handle this. Mum's always said he's bad at dealing with conflict. Politics and community stuff is fine, but when it comes to personal issues, he avoids talking about them.

He says, “Look, I think fifteen is too young – for Nona, for you, for anybody. But it does happen and there are cultural considerations … and even culture aside, I really don't feel comfortable judging … I mean, I lost my virginity at fifteen …”

I seize on this. “Who said anything about virginity?”

“I'm just assuming … okay, this is awkward … Do we need to have a talk about sex, Rosie? Is this something you're thinking about?”

“No.”

It comes out sharp and embarrassed. I'm usually so open with Dad, but this is one topic we can't discuss. It's just too weird. There's a silence, then he says, “Do you want to put me on to your mum?”

I panic. “What for?”

I hear Dad's smile through the phone. “So I can ask her about the Intervention meeting, seeing as you're so full of information.”

I want to ask him about sex and confusion and culture and Nona, but I don't.

I carry the cordless phone into the hallway, and call out, “Mum …?”

She's at the kitchen sink, washing up. “Yeah?”

“Dad wants to talk to you.”

“Oh. Right. Okay.”

I can tell she's surprised. We both are. She dries her soapy hands on a tea towel and takes the phone.

I watch as she answers, “Hi, Pete … Yeah, it was quite a good turnout … Galarrwuy spoke, and they burned the Intervention papers … Oh, you know, the usual faces …”

She starts reeling off a list of long, complicated Yolŋu names, some of them familiar, some not.

I loiter in the kitchen as Mum flops onto the lounge and continues to fill Dad in.

I've never heard them talk like this: casually, without fighting.

I wait to see if they talk about Nick or Nona or me.

They don't. It's all community and politics.

For the first time since Graham left, I see Mum smile.

*

I try not to think about it, but it's driving me crazy.

In Art, I whisper to Selena, “Hey … have you and Benny …?”

“What?”

“You know.”

She feigns confusion. “What?” Her eyes twinkle with amusement. She's making this hard for me and loving every moment.

We're interrupted by Ms Naylor. “Hello, everyone. Quieten down.”

Selena leans in towards me and smirks. “Are you talking about
sex
?” She says it in a scandalised tone, like she can't believe I'd bring it up.

Ms Naylor raises her voice. “A bit of quiet please, guys. Okay. I want to tell you about your next assignment.”

Bodies sag into moans. Heads sink onto the art tables in mock despair.

“Come on. It's not that bad. I think it will be fun.”

Charlie Mack calls out, “You have a warped sense of fun, Miss.”

Titters as Ms Naylor continues. “For your end-of-year assignments, you'll each be creating a triptych.”

There are a lot of blank expressions.

She says, “Does everyone know what a triptych is? Yes? No?”

I feel her eagle eyes scanning the class. I slouch lower in my chair, but she's onto me. “Rosie. Can you help us out?”

“It's a painting with three panels.”

“You got it.”

Selena mutters, “Suck.”

I catch Anya watching us from the other side of the room. She sits with Anita White now. Anita's in one of those groups that don't really get invited to parties. Selena made sure of that in Year 9. Anita didn't invite her to a sleepover, so Selena spread a rumour about her being a stuck-up slut. She even wrote her number on the wall of the boys' toilets with the words “For a good time”.

Ms Naylor is still talking. “So who can guess what the theme of the triptych is?”

A few voices ring out in a groaned chorus. “Identity.”

It isn't a hard guess. We've been doing variations on the same theme all year. Self-portraits, collages, sculpture, all asking the same questions: Who are you? How do you portray that? What makes a person who they are?

Ms Naylor opens her supplies cupboard. “You can use any medium you like – oils, watercolours, pastels, acrylics, charcoal …”

Selena pretends to think it over. “Hmm … what medium do you think says ‘me'?”

I shoot her an amused look. “Um … fluoro highlighters?”

“'Cause they're bright?”

“I was going to say artificial.”

“Bitch.”

But we're both grinning.

“We're going to start our planning today,” Ms Naylor says. “So feel free to sketch ideas, or cut and paste from magazines, or look through books for inspiration …”

Selena has her
Girlfriend
magazine out in a shot. She scans the contents page. “Top ten Aussie bachelors of 2007. Sounds like inspiration to me.”

“I thought you were taken.”

“No harm in window shopping.”

She turns to the relevant page as I sketch three rectangular panels in my book.

Selena gives me a coy smile. “So you were saying … have Benny and I …?”