New Guinea Moon Page 2

  Andy swings the plane around, tilting it so they can see the whole of the airport spread below, and the small, hot, dusty city of Port Moresby, trapped between the ranges and the turquoise sea. Then he straightens out and heads for the mountains.

  This feels completely different from flying in a large aeroplane. That is like being sealed inside a steel canister, there is hardly any sensation of movement. But now Julie can feel the buffet of the wind, the roller-coaster of the air currents. For the first time she understands that the air is a separate element, like water — not just an empty space, not an absence, but a real force. They are gliding through the sky and the sky is holding them up; they are suspended in the air the way a fish is suspended in the ocean. She could reach out of the window and trail her fingers through the clouds. They are pillars of frozen sea-froth, towering on either side of the little droning Baron.

  Julie stares down, hypnotised by the swiftly moving landscape below the meringue-heaps of the clouds. Flying over Australia, she’d been bored by the endless flat monotony of the continent. But New Guinea’s mountains are violent, jagged, crumpled, chaotic. Unbroken jungle drapes across the ridges like lush fur. The clouds drift silently past, ink-stained with blue and grey and silver.

  The white noise of the engines fills Julie’s head. Suddenly she realises that she’s not scared any more. She can’t tear her eyes from the enchanted map that moves beneath them. Sometimes the tiny fleck of the plane’s shadow flickers below, leaping the side of a mountain slope or diving into the darkness of a steep valley, like the shadow of a tiny fish swimming between the sun and the sand.

  This is Tony’s job. No wonder he’d come here, for the chance to do this every day —

  Only an hour to go before she meets him.

  And then, without warning, they plunge into whiteout. The Baron bucks and judders in the heart of a cloud; rain drives against the windows in a roaring curtain. Andy shouts something over his shoulder. Simon’s lips move, but it’s impossible to hear what he’s saying.

  Julie clutches her hands together. Nothing to worry about; nothing to worry about. The plane shakes as if in a giant’s fist. It will stop soon. This can’t go on. The plane will shake itself to pieces. Julie’s stomach jolts into her throat, then plunges to the base of her spine. Oh, God, don’t let me be sick. The terror of vomiting grips her harder than the fear of dying.

  It can’t go on, but it does go on. It seems like hours before the Baron at last slides out of the clouds. The sudden descent makes Julie’s stomach drop. Simon touches her shoulder, points through the window. ‘That’s Mt Hagen!’ he calls.

  Julie twists her neck to stare down. ‘Is that it?’ she yells. ‘It’s tiny!’

  Simon shrugs. ‘Ten thousand people,’ he shouts. ‘More or less.’

  Julie stares down at the little buildings, the winding roads, laid out like a miniature village, with plasticine trees and model cars. And now the airport is below them, the grey slashes of the runways, arrow-straight across the chaos of green vegetation, and Andy is bringing them down, each drop in altitude echoed by a sickening plunge in Julie’s gut. The tops of the trees rise toward them until they are level with the windows. There is a rough bump, then another, a skidding of brakes, and a long slow jolting ride along the tarmac to the far end of the airstrip, where they slew to a halt outside a low white brick building with a large shed — a hangar? A cargo shed? A warehouse? — attached to it.

  Andy twists around to give her an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry about the landing,’ he calls over the dying whine of the engines. ‘Just wanted to put her down before the rain sets in.’

  Heavy raindrops are splattering the windshield.

  ‘That’s okay,’ says Julie. ‘Some people think it’s fun, being scared out of your skin. They’d pay a lot of money for a thrill like that.’ Her numb fingers fumble to unbuckle the seatbelt. Her insides are seesawing between terror and elation. Now the danger is over, adrenalin is racing through her veins and she feels drunk with the high of survival.

  Andy stares out of the window. ‘Uh-oh. Here’s trouble.’

  A short man is marching across the tarmac. He has a red face and a thatch of thick hair that must once have been fair but is now mostly faded grey. Even sealed inside the plane, even with the rain drumming harder and harder against the roof, Julie can hear him bellowing.

  ‘What the fucking hell do you think you’re doing, leaving it this late? What kind of a fucking idiot are you, Spargo?’

  Julie says, ‘Is that — that’s not Tony, is it?’

  Andy gives a shout of laughter. ‘Nah, that’s not Tony. That’s the boss — Mr Crabtree to you. Well, here goes.’ He grimaces ruefully at Julie, and clambers out into the rain. ‘G’day, Curry!’ he yells cheerfully. ‘Got here as quick as I could. Julie was running a bit late —’

  Mr Crabtree speaks over the top of him. ‘I don’t give a rat’s arse how late she was bloody running! Do you know the rule? Well, do you? Do you?’

  ‘No see, no go,’ says Andy. ‘But —’

  ‘Look at this bloody rain!’ roars Mr Crabtree. ‘You could see through this, could you? What are you, bloody Superman?’

  Andy stands meekly, head bowed, the rain trickling from his hair, while Mr Crabtree yells at him, the veins standing out like ropes on the side of his neck.

  Simon is watching this scene through the window, his face impassive. Suddenly Julie remembers that she’d arranged for Simon to hitchhike on this flight; how is she going to explain that to this ranting madman?

  Simon gives her a sideways look. ‘Curry Crabtree — that’s not your father?’

  ‘No, no.’ Thank God, she almost adds. ‘That’s my father’s boss. I’ll explain everything to him . . . I’m sure he’ll understand.’ Even to her own ears, she sounds unconvincing.

  She looks out through the veils of rain. No one else is hurrying across the tarmac. But Tony must be here, waiting inside. In just a couple of minutes, she’ll be meeting him.

  She hitches her shoulder bag over her head, hastily reties her ponytail and wipes her shiny face on her sleeve. She knows she smells of sweat; she wishes she could brush her teeth, but there’s nothing she can do about any of that. ‘Wish me luck,’ she says. Then she scrambles forward and climbs out of the plane.

  3

  She can’t give herself time to think about it. She walks up to where Andy and Mr Crabtree are standing in the rain, and clears her throat. Andy sees her, but Mr Crabtree doesn’t. It’s not until Andy nods pointedly in her direction that Mr Crabtree wheels around. His eyebrows are beetled and his face is pink with rage.

  ‘Yes? What?’

  Julie thrusts out her hand. ‘I’m Julie, Julie McGinty. My — Tony — I think he works for you?’

  Mr Crabtree stares her slowly up and down. ‘So you’re Mac’s little girl, are you?’ He frowns. ‘Not so little.’

  ‘The thing is —’ Julie swallows. Cool rain is trickling down the back of her neck. ‘I asked this guy — he missed his flight, and it was my kind of fault, so I asked if there was room for him to come with us . . .’

  ‘Eh? What?’ Mr Crabtree spins around. Simon stands waiting beside the plane, one bag in each hand, calm and neat and respectable. Mr Crabtree stares sharply back at Julie. ‘He’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘Well — I guess so. His name’s Simon Murphy. I’m sure he can pay . . .’ Julie falters, suddenly less certain of this than she had been.

  ‘Murphy? Patrick Murphy’s kid?’ Mr Crabtree shouts toward the plane. ‘Hey! You’re Patrick Murphy’s son, are you?’

  Simon walks toward them, ignoring the rain. ‘Yes, I am,’ he says. ‘And of course I’ll pay for my ticket. I can pay for it now.’

  He reaches into his pocket, but Mr Crabtree glares. ‘To hell with that,’ he says abruptly. ‘This one’s on the house.’

  Simon gazes directly back at him. ‘Thanks, but that’s not necessary. I can afford it. And Murphys don’t take charity.’

  Mr Crabtr
ee’s face turns purple. ‘Who said anything about bloody charity? Not me! Too proud to accept a gift, are you?’

  Simon’s face is expressionless. He opens his wallet and pulls out some notes. ‘Will this be enough?’

  Julie watches anxiously as the two men stare at each other for a moment. The rain spatters on the notes in Simon’s hand. Simon’s face is tense but calm; Mr Crabtree scowls fiercely.

  At last Mr Crabtree snatches a single note from Simon’s hand. ‘That’ll cover it.’

  Simon gives a stiff nod. ‘Okay. Thanks,’ he says. ‘Someone’ll be waiting for me at Talair. I’d better go.’ He turns on his heel and marches off through the rain, a bag in each hand.

  Julie swallows. She knows she is not the kind of girl that boys like; she knows that he is probably too old for her, anyway. It’s too much to expect that he might have left her his phone number, or asked for hers. But all the same, she thinks he could at least have said goodbye.

  ‘Since you’re making such a damn fuss about the rain,’ says Andy, ‘any chance we could get out of it?’

  ‘You watch yourself, smart-arse,’ growls Mr Crabtree, but he turns and stalks toward the terminal. Andy winks at Julie, and follows.

  Two local men dressed in grubby T-shirts and ragged shorts are strolling barefoot across from the cargo shed. Julie knows that she looks like a drowned rat; it’s almost a relief to know that she couldn’t possibly look any worse. She crosses the tarmac and enters a cramped waiting area crowded with people: Andy, Mr Crabtree, a young woman with long flowing red hair, and half a dozen white men in pilot’s uniforms. All the pilots turn to stare at Julie.

  ‘What the hell are you doing over there?’ bellows Mr Crabtree, and Julie braces herself. Is he about to start yelling at her now? But now Mr Crabtree is all affability. He drops his meaty hand on her shoulder and propels her across the floor. ‘Julie McGinty! Come and meet your dad!’

  A stocky, middle-aged man with a balding head peers out from around a doorframe.

  ‘Jesus, Mac, get your arse out here! She won’t bite.’

  A wave of good-natured laughter runs around the waiting area. Tony is prised from his hiding place and pushed toward Julie.

  ‘There you go,’ roars Mr Crabtree triumphantly. ‘Give her a kiss, for Christ’s sake. It’s not every day you meet your long-lost bloody daughter!’

  Tony leans forward and gives her a rapid, clumsy peck on the cheek. The men cheer and laugh. Awkwardly father and daughter shake hands, hardly able to look at each other.

  ‘Jesus, you’re as bad as each other, you two,’ says Mr Crabtree. ‘You’ve got a chip off the old block here, Mac.’

  ‘Lay off, Curry,’ drawls Andy, lounging against the counter. ‘They don’t need a cast of thousands gawking at them.’

  Julie throws him a grateful glance, and he winks at her swiftly.

  Mr Crabtree squeezes her shoulder. ‘Ah, go on, take her home. Dinner at our place tonight. Don’t forget, or Barb’ll tear me a new one.’

  Tony picks up the vinyl suitcase and the brown overnight bag. ‘Travelling light. That’s the way.’ He smiles shyly, and for the first time Julie notices the scar across his bald pink scalp, deep enough to lay her finger in.

  ‘Go and clean yourself up, love,’ says Mr Crabtree. ‘Come and see us when you’re feeling human. You must be buggered.’

  Julie follows Tony out to the car park, where he throws her bags into a small white car. She climbs into the front seat and looks for a seatbelt, but there isn’t one. She is finally here. Perhaps she has jet lag, but she feels as if she’s walking through a dream.

  Tony slips into the driver’s seat.

  ‘You’d be too young to have your licence?’

  ‘I’ve got my learner’s. Mum’s given me a few lessons. She says every woman should know how to drive, how to cook, how to type and how to break a man’s hand.’

  Tony grimaces. ‘Yeah, that sounds like Caroline.’

  The airport is about ten minutes out of town. During the drive, Tony clears his throat, but he seems too nervous to speak, until he finally asks, ‘How was your flight?’

  ‘Good — fine, thanks.’ Impulsively Julie adds, ‘It’s amazing, being in one of those little planes.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, it’s pretty good. New Guinea has the best flying in the world.’

  Julie stares out of the car window. The downpour has passed, and the world is drenched in a vivid, rain-washed light. The luxuriant vegetation is a richer green than she has ever seen, the heavy clouds lined with silver and lead, the road a glistening black. They drive past a man, walking barefoot, his hands clasped behind him, a woolly cap on his head. A group of women carry string bags slung from their foreheads, resting heavy on their backs. Julie turns to stare, and one woman beams a wide smile. Julie gasps; her teeth seem to be stained with blood.

  ‘That’s just betel nut,’ Tony says. ‘They’re all hooked on the stuff. Turns your teeth red. They spit it out all over the place. Watch where you walk, betel spit’s everywhere.’

  ‘What does it taste like?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never tried it. It’s native stuff.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Julie turns her attention back to the window. They pass bushes laden with scarlet flowers, banana trees with fronds like ragged banners, a building painted bright, careless blue called Ah Wong Trading Co. Raindrops glitter on glossy leaves. Soon they begin to pass houses built for the tropics — fibro boxes with louvred windows, some mounted on stilts, some squatting close to the ground. Most of the windows are enclosed in cages of bars.

  Tony turns the car into a muddy driveway. ‘This is us.’

  It’s a semi-detached fibro unit, shabby and damp-stained, the paint peeling from the low porch at the front door. An angel’s trumpet bush, weighed down with white lilies, spreads across the front window, and a hibiscus tree, splashed with pink crepe flowers, leans drunkenly beside the door. Poinsettias in scarlet and green, the colours of Christmas, line the gravel drive.

  ‘It’s pretty basic,’ says Tony.

  ‘The garden is gorgeous. It’s lush.’ She steps out of the car and sinks into ankle-deep grass.

  ‘Yeah, everything grows pretty fast up here.’

  He unlocks the front door and stands back to let her inside. ‘I cleared out a room for you. It’s a bit on the small side,’ he says apologetically. ‘Just through here.’

  The front door opens directly into the living room, with a kitchen alcove tucked into the rear, near the back door. A shabby lounge suite, a scratched coffee table, a stereo cabinet with a record player and a large radio, and a dining table with three wobbly chairs crowd the living room. A large, startling, carved wooden shield hangs on one wall. Julie looks around carefully, but she can’t see a television set.

  Tony leads her to a tiny bedroom at the back of the unit, just large enough for a single bed, a bedside table, a chair and a small built-in wardrobe. The door of the wardrobe hangs crookedly, as if someone has punched it. ‘Had to scrounge around to find the furniture,’ he says. ‘Sorry it doesn’t match.’

  ‘I don’t care if it matches.’ Julie sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, which sags alarmingly. Tufts of chenille have been plucked from the orange bedspread, leaving bald patches. The floor is covered with greenish linoleum, peeling up at the corners. She says bravely, ‘It’s lovely. Really — comfortable.’

  A Holly Hobbie poster has been taped to the wall beside the bed. Tony sees Julie’s eyes rest on it.

  ‘I guess I was expecting — more of a little girl, you know.’ He shuffles awkwardly in the doorway. ‘I didn’t think. I can take it down.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. You can leave it there. I don’t mind Holly Hobbie . . .’ Her voice trails away. To avoid looking at Tony, she leans over to peer through the window behind the bed at the large untidy square of backyard. A cascade of intensely magenta bougainvillea pours over the fence, swarms over the water tank and twines through the metal cage around the win
dow. Beyond the backyard, a valley slants away, then rises again, the far slope dotted with fibro houses, dense trees, rectangular garden plots and huts woven from cane and thatched with grass. ‘Oh, wow! Do people really live there? In those grass huts?’

  Tony leans down to see what she’s staring at. ‘Yep. Just like National Geographic. Well, I’ll leave you to it. Bathroom’s next door. S’pose you’d like to — unpack. Settle in. Just sing out if there’s anything you need.’ He backs out of the room.

  ‘Um, I might need a towel.’

  Tony shakes his head. ‘Knew I’d bloody forget something. Barb Crabtree wanted to come over but I said I could manage.’

  ‘Barb Crabtree?’

  ‘Curry’s missus. Curry Crabtree — Allan — you met him just now. The boss. We’re going round there for dinner tonight. They’ve got a couple of kids your age, home from school for the holidays. We thought you could hang out together . . . when I’m at work, you know. They’ll be company for you.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Julie, without enthusiasm. If only Simon Murphy had shown some interest; she could have spent the holidays sipping long drinks on the plantation verandah . . . Hanging out with a couple of unknown kids doesn’t hold the same appeal.

  While Tony rummages in a cupboard for a towel, Julie slumps on the bed, suddenly too tired to move. The red poinsettias, the purple of the bougainvillea, the dark glossy green of the banana trees and the garden plots spin and tumble in her head like bright shards inside a kaleidoscope. An idea struggles to form itself — something about the shabby unit with the bars on the windows, and the exuberant wildness outside; something about the sealed bubble of the little plane as it passed above the seething clouds and the impenetrable mountains; something about a tiny frontier town, surrounded by terrain so fierce that roads can’t push through. Something about safe places, and fragile walls, and the wildness and the danger, the unknown, on the other side of the glass.

  But she’s too tired to puzzle it out now. She’d promised to ring her mum, to tell her she’s arrived safely. But first she picks up the threadbare towel that Tony’s found for her and goes to take a shower.