New Guinea Moon Page 13

  Julie scuffs at the gravel. ‘Everything just feels a bit — intense. Tony dying, and — and you and me — I think I need a bit of space, that’s all.’

  His face twists into a sulky frown. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  His denseness makes her want to scream. She can’t explain; why can’t he just understand? She knows she is being unfair. He probably thinks she’s being difficult. But she can’t help the way she feels. Guiltily she leans over and gives him a hurried kiss. ‘Sorry.’

  He lingers, waving, as the Spargos’ car bumps down the long hibiscus-tunnel of the Crabtrees’ driveway. Julie waves through the back window and turns around with a sigh. Andy is watching her through the rear-view mirror.

  ‘He was really lovely to me, after Tony died,’ falters Julie.

  ‘Ryan’s hard work, though,’ says Andy. ‘Even I can see that.’

  Hunched in the armchair with the busted seat in Andy and Teddie’s living room, Julie rings Caroline back to tell her that she’s staying with the Spargos now. The line is muddy and there’s a delay. Their voices overlap, then there’s a ragged silence; they can’t seem to find a rhythm. Her mother’s voice is distant, muffled.

  ‘Did you say you’ve moved? What for, darling?’

  It’s too hard to explain. Julie says helplessly, ‘I just needed to, that’s all.’

  ‘But I’m coming in a few days — this wretched visa —’

  Julie cuts in. ‘Can you put it off, Mum? I don’t want to come back yet.’

  ‘What? I missed that —’

  ‘I said I don’t want to come back yet.’ Julie jams her finger in her other ear. ‘Can’t I stay till the end of the holidays? Why can’t I fly back on the ticket I’ve already got?’

  ‘What was that? Where did you say you were staying?’

  ‘With Teddie and Andy Spargo, friends of Tony’s!’ Julie almost shouts, conscious of Teddie and Andy sitting a few feet away in the kitchen, trying to pretend they can’t hear every word she says.

  ‘Two men? I’m not sure that’s —’

  ‘Teddie’s a girl! They’re married!’

  ‘— sounds as if you don’t want to come home —’

  ‘No! I don’t! That’s what I said! You don’t have to come and pick me up, like I’m a — a dog or something . . .’

  ‘I can’t hear you, sweetie —’

  ‘That’s the pips!’ shouts Julie. ‘I have to hang up now!’ She bangs down the receiver and looks at Andy and Teddie. ‘Sorry,’ she says bleakly.

  Teddie drapes an arm around her. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘You don’t mind me being here, do you?’

  ‘We’ll tell you when we’re sick of you,’ says Andy with a grin, but Julie catches the quick look that flashes between him and Teddie. She stares at the rug. Of course they don’t want her around for longer than a couple of days. They’re practically newlyweds. They’re very kind, but she can’t ask them to put her up for another three or four weeks. In a small voice she says, ‘I can pay rent.’

  Teddie laughs and punches her shoulder. ‘Don’t be a dill. We don’t pay anything for this place anyway, it comes with the job.’

  The next day, New Year’s Day, they bring Tony’s body back to Hagen.

  They bury him at Keriga, surrounded by mountains, high in the clouds. Early on the morning of the funeral, Teddie and Andy drive her out to the plantation. The three of them help to make sandwiches in Dulcie’s kitchen. Simon introduces them, making sure they understand that this woman buttering bread at the table is not just some village meri.

  ‘This is my mother, Dulcie.’

  Teddie and Andy shake hands politely, but Julie notices that they don’t seem to be able to find much to talk to her about.

  Dulcie puts her arms around Julie. ‘You poor little girl,’ she says softly. ‘It’s sad to lose your papa. It’s a sad day for you. I’m glad he’s coming here to us. We look after him.’

  Julie nods, and whispers, ‘Thank you.’

  She blinks down at the tomato she’s supposed to be slicing. Despite Dulcie calling her a little girl, for the first time in her life, she feels more like an adult than a child; she is one step closer to her own death. One of her parents has died; one of the shields protecting her has fallen.

  Dozens of people come out from town to attend the funeral. They stand under the sky, while Graham prays. Julie looks out over the sea of bowed heads, and she wishes fiercely that Caroline could see this. She wants to show her mother that Tony wasn’t a loser or a weirdo, that he belonged here, that he was loved and honoured, that he had a place in the world. Gibbo’s lank hair is scraped back in a ponytail; Allan and Ryan and Andy are wearing suits. When she sees that, she starts to cry.

  Robyn hugs her. ‘We’re so, so sorry, honey,’ she murmurs. ‘He was just an adorable man.’

  So many people hug Julie that day, her ribs feel bruised.

  After the service, Julie finds herself alone in a corner of the wide verandah. She isn’t exactly trying to hide from Ryan, but she doesn’t think she can face his smothering sympathy. And she definitely doesn’t want anyone to try to kiss her, not today. The mountains seem much nearer here, a blue haze rising over them like smoke. Simon comes up, carrying a cup of tea. ‘I thought you might need this.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Julie takes a grateful sip, and almost chokes.

  ‘I should have warned you, there’s a slug of brandy in it. Dad’s idea.’

  ‘I think I just need to get used to it . . .’ Julie sips again, and the brandy travels like a trail of fire down her throat, and curls in a warm pool in her stomach.

  Out on the lawn below the verandah, guests mill about, dispersing, waving solemn goodbyes. They are going back to their cars, back to town, back to their lives. Julie swallows. She is the only one with nothing to go back to.

  Simon leans his arms on the railing and stares down at them. ‘So, I guess you’ll be leaving soon.’

  ‘My mother will be here in a couple of days.’ Julie sets down her cup. ‘I wish I didn’t have to go. I wish I could stay until the end of the holidays, like we planned.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘I can’t keep staying with the Spargos. I mean, they’ve been great, but they don’t want me hanging around forever. And I don’t want to stay with the Crabtrees. But Curry won’t let me go back to Tony’s flat on my own . . .’

  There is a silence. Julie thinks, Ask me to stay with you; ask me to stay here. It seems so much the obvious thing for Simon to say that she is almost embarrassed for him.

  But instead he says slowly, ‘You know, you probably can’t stay on now. You don’t have a valid visa any more, now that Tony’s gone.’

  This news startles her. It hasn’t occurred to her that her continued presence here might actually be illegal. ‘But — they wouldn’t kick me out, would they?’

  Simon shrugs. ‘They’re pretty strict on visas.’ He says it apologetically, as if he’s a member of the government himself.

  ‘But no one’s going to know, are they? Are they?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know how they police it.’

  ‘Why would they care?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Simon gives her an apologetic smile. He says abruptly, ‘Come and see my pigeons.’

  Julie sets down her cup and saucer on the railing and follows him. Her feet are like lead. Why hasn’t he invited her to stay, even knowing that she might be — what was the word? — deported at any moment? His silence bruises her. She trails after him through the shabby, rambling house, out through the kitchen. They pass a lovingly tended vegetable garden and some sheds. Julie stumbles on, hardly noticing where she’s walking. Above her head, the clouds roll over themselves, folding like egg whites into the blue batter of the sky. Pigeons. Who keeps pigeons? Old men on rooftops. Lonely old men . . .

  ‘Here they are.’ Simon halts beside an aviary of tin and chicken wire.

  Julie peers inside. Several goose-sized birds the blue-
grey-purple colour of the hazy mountains are strutting about. Each one carries a crest on top of its head, a fan of lacy feathers, each feather tipped with a blue-and-white eye, like a peacock’s tail.

  She forgets that she’s upset with Simon. ‘They’re beautiful . . . But they’re not pigeons!’

  ‘Yes, they are. Big ones. They’re Victoria Crowned Pigeons.’ Simon coos softly to the birds and they turn toward him. Carefully he eases open the aviary door and tosses in a handful of seeds. ‘They’re kind of rare. I’ve been breeding them.’ He closes the door. ‘It’s not easy. They’re very faithful; they mate for life. And they’re very intelligent.’

  ‘Because they mate for life?’

  ‘I’d say that was an intelligent thing to do. Make a good choice and stick to it.’

  Julie sneaks a look at him, but he’s not looking at her; his eyes are fixed steadily on the birds.

  ‘They’re lovely,’ she says. ‘I can see why you like them. But they’re so big.’

  ‘Related to the dodo, actually. The dodo was a kind of pigeon. The dodo was much bigger than these, though. More meat on the bones.’

  ‘I think I’ve seen those feathers.’

  Simon nods. ‘They look good in headdresses. That’s one reason why they’re getting rarer.’ He falls silent; Julie has never heard him talk so much, except when he was explaining the coffee business. Even on the night when they’d had that long phone call, she’d ended up doing most of the talking.

  She tangles her fingers in the wire and stares at the birds. ‘Can they fly?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, they can fly.’

  ‘They can’t fly inside there.’

  ‘No.’ He gives her a sad smile. ‘That’s the price for keeping them safe.’

  ‘But they don’t understand that.’

  ‘I said they were intelligent. But maybe not that intelligent.’

  Julie watches as the birds peck and murmur. She still doesn’t understand why Simon won’t invite her to stay at Keriga. She is intelligent, but not that intelligent.

  She stands beside Simon, so close that their fingers, interlaced in the wire, are almost touching; so close that she can feel the heat coming off his body, and smell his aftershave. And even though she’s decided that she doesn’t want to be kissed on this day, she thinks, if Simon turns his head — if he moves his mouth toward her — she just might be able to make an exception.

  Simon steps back. The wire of the cage shakes as he removes his hands.

  ‘We’d better get back. They’ll be looking for you.’

  Julie hears herself say, ‘When you say they, do you mean Ryan?’

  He has a guarded expression on his face. ‘I didn’t say anything about Ryan.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. Never mind.’

  ‘I was thinking of Andy Spargo. They’re driving you back, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

  She follows him back to the house, careful to stay behind him, so that he can’t see the furious red that flushes in her cheeks.

  17

  It’s time to clear out the unit. Everyone has an opinion.

  ‘Think you’re up to it?’ Allan says heavily.

  ‘I can take care of it,’ says Barbara. ‘Leave it to me.’

  ‘Do you want me to come and help?’ offers Teddie. ‘Or just keep you company?’

  ‘Graham and I can help you out, honey,’ says Robyn. ‘We’re praying for you.’

  ‘I could have a crack at it,’ says Gibbo. ‘Get you started. Better to be a diamond with a flaw, than a pebble without.’

  But Julie tells them all, ‘I’d rather do it alone.’

  ‘If that’s the way you want it,’ says Allan. ‘It’s up to you. It’s all yours, you know. You’re his next of kin, his only child. There’s life insurance, too. That’ll come to you.’

  Julie nods, silenced by the lump in her throat. Money, life insurance, inheritance. It all seems meaningless and unreal. But Tony’s possessions, in his home, the bits and pieces of his everyday life, his clothes and plates and records — they are real. She owes it to him to take care of his things. In a strange way, this will be the last time she gets to spend with the man who was her father. She doesn’t want anyone else there, getting in the way, filling up the space with chat. She wants to finish the job before Caroline arrives. She is relieved when Ryan doesn’t even offer to help.

  ‘Well, if you’re absolutely sure,’ says Barbara over the phone. ‘Don’t bother about cleaning the place. When you’re finished, I’ll send Koki around to take care of all that.’

  ‘There’s no need —’

  But Barbara has already hung up.

  When Julie lets herself inside the unit, it’s exactly as she left it, almost two weeks ago. The dishes from her last meal are unwashed and crusty in the sink; a coffee cup with a deep brown ring still sits on the bench. Fruit has rotted in the bowl. The musty smell and the rich, sour odour of decay wash over her. For a second, she is tempted to ring Barbara and hand over the responsibility to her, but then she straightens herself up. Everything in this flat belongs to her, Allan said. It’s up to her to decide what to do with it; it’s her job, her last duty to her father.

  She flings all the doors wide and yanks open the window louvres in every room, pulls back the curtains and lets the sun flood in. Clouds of dust motes dance in the disturbed air. Then she gathers up all the food that’s gone off, from the fruit bowl and the fridge, and dumps it all on the compost heap at the bottom of the garden.

  The next job, because it’s the easiest, is to go to her room and pack her own suitcase. There isn’t much there, because she’d taken most of her things to Teddie and Andy’s in her overnight bag that first night when Tony went missing. There are a couple of books, some clothes she wasn’t wearing anyway — a spare pair of jeans, the thick jumper Caroline had insisted on — and a few stray toiletries in the bathroom, her shampoo and conditioner. It doesn’t take long to shove everything into her suitcase.

  Julie stands in the centre of her room. She gazes at the Holly Hobbie poster, the girl in the bonnet, her face turned away: the picture that Tony had so carefully fastened to the wall to make the room pretty and cosy for her, when he was expecting, somehow, a younger daughter. A sob closes around Julie’s throat like a tightening hand. She peels the poster down and carefully creases it and lays it in the bottom of her suitcase, buried beneath everything else, flat and safe.

  Sorting out Tony’s clothes isn’t too painful. Because she’s known Tony for such a short time, there are few memories attached to the things he’s worn. He has hardly any casual clothes — a couple of loud shirts, a pair of slacks, baggy shorts. Barbara had suggested putting those aside, along with the sheets and towels and kitchen equipment, for Robyn and Graham to distribute through the mission. The underwear drawer she sweeps into a garbage bag, for the incinerator. No one wants to wear a dead man’s Y-fronts. A picture flashes unbidden into her mind, of Tony’s red jocks beneath a laplap and arse-gras, and a snort of laughter bursts out of her.

  And then all that’s left is his pilot’s uniform — the crisp white shirts that he ironed himself every Sunday night, the dark shorts, the cap with the HAC badge that she’s never seen one of Allan’s pilots actually wear. All this goes in a box, for Gibbo and Andy, if they’ll fit. Tony’s epaulettes and his wings, retrieved by Allan from the body, Julie has already set aside to keep.

  He has hardly any books. Julie finds Jonathan Livingston Seagull — flying, of course — and a copy of Chariots of the Gods. There are spy stories and books about aeroplanes and war, and a collection of Pidgin phrase-books. Well hidden in a box under the bed are some copies of Playboy, which Julie leafs through curiously at first, then drops, feeling slightly sick. Quite likely Ryan might appreciate those, but they go into the incinerator bag. The spy novels she puts aside for Simon.

  She tucks the Pidgin phrasebooks and dictionaries into her suitcase, as well as one of the flying instruction manuals.

  On top
of the wardrobe, thickly coated with dust, she finds a model battleship. She lifts it gently down with both hands. It must have taken months to build. Every gun turret, every miniature railing, every lifeboat has been meticulously constructed, carved from balsa and glued painstakingly into position. He must have laboured over it night after night, in a pool of light at the kitchen table, while the flying ants bumbled into the globe. The ship is carefully painted, with only the slightest wobble of a stripe or a stray brush-hair to show that he did the job by hand. It’s light in her hands, floating in the air as it would on water, perfectly balanced, sweet and true. It’s magnificent, labour and craftsmanship to be proud of. But when it was finished, he shoved it on top of the wardrobe, as if he was ashamed, ashamed, perhaps, of the lonely nights that produced it.

  Julie doesn’t know what to do with the battleship. She can’t bear to think of destroying it. She lays it on the table, where it must have sat during all the hours and months when Tony was working on it, and leaves it there.

  She lifts down the giant carved shield from the wall. It’s hung there so long, the paint is a different colour behind it. She wishes she could take it home with her, but it’s far too big to smuggle into her hand luggage. Then there’s the fistful of spears, fanned out on another wall, and a penis gourd. Tony had put that in a cupboard before she arrived. She’s definitely not taking that back to Australia.

  She picks up a wooden lamp base, carved into two faces, with shells set into it to make blind eyes. The two faces look rather like forbidding Easter Island heads, frowning grimly. On one side of the base, a flaw in the wood makes it look as if a dribble of snot is escaping from his nose. It’s as ugly as hell, but somehow Julie feels perversely affectionate toward it. Surely this guy will fit in her suitcase.

  As she weighs it in her hands, something wobbles on its underside. She turns it over and works with her fingertips, and a section of the base comes loose, revealing a hollow space inside. Julie reaches in, her heart thumping, and draws out a tightly wadded roll of banknotes, secured with a rubber band. The bundle of colourful Australian notes falls apart in her hands, orange for twenties, the new yellow fifties, like autumn leaves. She is holding about five hundred dollars in her lap; it’s more cash than she’s ever seen in her entire life. And it’s hers.