Butterfly Song Read online

  But why don’t you go and find another love?

  I don’t know. I’m too scared.

  Are you a myth?

  I am real when I am inside you.

  I hear the birds singing as I lie awake in bed. It is hot today. The fan spins over my head. I couldn’t sleep last night. There was too much on my mind. I ring my mother.

  ‘I’ll be there in a few days,’ she tells me. My mother wants to spend some time with Uncle Ron. ‘Have you started putting together the case?’

  ‘I’ll go into town and check out the jewellery shop,’ I tell her. ‘I want to go to the library and the courthouse. I want to check out around town.’

  I do want to go to the jewellery shop, the library and the courthouse, but I also want to see the musician again. I want to drive out to the beaches, and walk in the rainforests. I want to get university out of my skin.

  albermay’s jewellery shop

  Cairns, 1992

  The newspaper clipping my mother gave me includes the address of the jewellery shop and advises that the brooch can be viewed on the premises. From across the street, I read the large gold sign above the door: ALBERMAY ANTIQUE JEWELLERY – CIRCA 1880.

  I walk over and stand out the front. My feet shuffle. I hide behind the thick lenses of my sunglasses. The automatic door opens. I feel cold, airconditioned air push out. There is a long glass cabinet in the centre of the shop. The lights are so bright they’re almost purple. It feels eerie.

  The voice inside me says, Go in, but I can’t. It’s the same feeling I had on the first day of school, and again when I started university. There are butterflies in my stomach. My throat is dry. My head is a jigsaw of words. Just like the times I waited outside the exam hall. And when I stood looking up at the tall Sydney building where that law firm was, somewhere on the twenty-fifth floor. I was too scared to stay for the interview. I am too scared now. They won’t believe me. I have nothing to prove my case.

  How do I make this claim, after all these years have passed by? Would it be against the statute of limitations? The law says that you can’t bring an action after a certain period has passed, and sets the time at six years, I think, for this type of case. Yet I do remember my lecturer saying that there are circumstances when you can get around the statute. Like when there’s been fraud, or some other type of deception.

  I walk away, squeezing my hands. I’m going to have to get proof to show the Albermays that the brooch belonged to my grandmother.

  the shark

  Cairns, 1992

  It is cool in the foyer of the hotel where Sam and I have arranged to meet. A crowd has gathered around the tours desk. The tour operator is a tall man with a red jacket and tie. He looks out of place next to the thongs, sunglasses, sarongs and floral apparel the people around him are wearing.

  I overhear one man in the line relate the story of the honeymoon couple. ‘The shark took the divers’ bodies. Nothing remained.’

  ‘It’s just out off the reef where we went diving.’

  ‘That was a very long time ago, sir. There have been no shark attacks in this area for seven years.’ The tour operator is handing out tickets.

  Sam arrives. ‘You look good,’ he tells me. I’m not sure if I should peck him on the cheek, hug him with full arms, or give the Sydney air kiss. He puts his arm on my shoulder, pointing me towards the door.

  ‘Thanks, you look good too,’ I say.

  He sports a bright turquoise shirt over white shorts. He leads me out onto the street.

  Sam is a man of many angles. He looks good from all of them – from far away, from the side, and even better close up. His hands are large. Calloused fingers, he says, from playing the guitar. I want to make a joke but stop myself. I don’t know him that well yet.

  a concert to remember

  Cairns, 1992

  The hall is a converted shed. There is a gallery downstairs, and studios out the back for artists to work in. We walk past some metal sculpture of birds. Sam’s guitar case hits the edge of a bird’s legs. ‘Must be a relation of yours,’ he says, referring to the bird’s thin legs.

  He greets a group of people at the door.

  ‘G’day, bro.’ The woman pushes her earphones to the top of her head. They sit there like Mickey Mouse ears. She leans forward and kisses Sam on the cheek. She looks at me without smiling.

  ‘Hey, this is my friend Tarena, she’s here on holidays. She lives in Sydney but was born here. Sandra works here at the centre.’

  I sit down in front of the stage on a foldaway chair. People arrive and soon the hall is full. Sandra introduces Sam. He picks up his guitar and starts playing. His fingers move down the six strings. He plays a song I have heard many times on the radio.

  ‘Eso, you mob. Thanks for coming to this concert. I want to sing a song I was taught by members of the Castaway Cruisers from TI.’

  He plays the first few chords. The song has a familiar tune. Not sad, but with a melancholy edge. It is the lyrics that make my skin tingle.

  Spread your wings

  Cover all the ocean

  Butterfly, it’s time to try

  Touch the sun

  Set your dreams in motion

  Butterfly, it’s time to fly

  And I’ll be there with you

  Yes, I’ll be there with you

  I’ll always be there with you

  My butterfly.

  Did Sam say the Castaway Cruisers? Uncle Ron told me about that group. Grandad Kit was a member of it. I haven’t told Sam anything about the brooch or the newspaper clipping. I can hardly wait until he finishes singing. He sings another four songs and then stops. Everyone claps.

  I feel so impatient I forget to tell him that I loved his performance. ‘What was that song about the butterfly?’

  ‘It’s a song written back in the 1940s, around war time. There used to be an island band called the Castaway Cruisers. They played nearly every month. I learned this song from one of the old fellas in the band. He’s passed on now.’

  ‘My grandfather Kit was in the Castaway Cruisers,’ I say.

  ‘Kit Plata was your grandfather?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s amazing. The other men tell me he was a great musician.’

  ‘I remember that tune. My mother used to hum it to me. She never sang the words, just hummed the tune.’

  ‘When did your grandfather die?’

  ‘It was a long time ago, in the 1950s. My mother was very little. She was too young to remember the words.’

  And now Sam has given them back to us. Life moves in mysterious ways. I hug Sam. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.

  ‘What for?’ he says.

  ‘I’ll tell you over dinner,’ I say. ‘It’s my shout.’

  In the restaurant, Sam sits opposite me eating his meal, surf’n’turf with chips. He peels the orange shell from a prawn the size of a small banana. I tell him the whole story, starting with the guitar falling off the wall. I think he might laugh, but he nods and listens attentively.

  ‘Did your mother remember the pearl shell from when she was a child?’

  ‘Yes, she remembers it was something Francesca wore on special occasions.’

  ‘What about him carving it? Did anyone see him do that?’

  ‘Well, I met a man on the island who said he’d dived with Kit, and was there the day he found the shell. An old guy, Horatio Hondu.’

  ‘Oh yeah, everybody knows him, a living legend.’

  ‘I’ve just had an idea,’ I say. ‘I need your help to get an affidavit from him.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s just a statement sworn and signed by him that I can admit into evidence at the court,’ I explain.

  ‘How can you prove that you own a pearl shell that was found on the ocean floor?’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s the point. The point is my family’s got a better claim than the Nashes, and the jeweller. Mr Hondu can show that it was in Kit’s possession and that he put some skill
and labour into making it his own thing.’

  ‘Okay. I can give you his granddaughter’s number and you can phone in the morning.’

  the affidavit

  Cairns, 1992

  I ring Horatio’s granddaughter’s house on Thursday Island. When I finally speak to Horatio he says he’d be happy to help. He tells me the story again and I take notes. The phone call costs me a bomb, but what the heck.

  ‘Is there a fax machine somewhere nearby?’ I ask Horatio. ‘I’ll need you to check what I’ve written, and then get you to sign it.’

  ‘Hold on, I’ll get Deidre.’ He leaves me waiting on the line for five minutes. Deidre says she’ll help me. I can send the fax to the radio station where she works. She will make sure that Uncle Horatio agrees with all the points in the testimony before signing it.

  I go back to the library. How to write an affidavit? Just as the library is about to close, I finish my first ever affidavit.

  Affidavit of Horatio Hondu

  I Horatio Hondu of 10 Douglas Street, Thursday Island,

  retired pearl diver, say on oath that:

  1 I was a pearl diver and worked in the Torres Strait from 1930 to 1942.

  2 Around 1941 I worked with Kit Plata.

  3 In July 1941 we were working on a pearl lugger called The Searcher, owned by Captain Gertane. We were diving for shells in the shallow waters of a reef. The captain abandoned us and later said we were no longer under his employ.

  4 We swam to the mainland. Once we were on the shore, Kit showed me a pearl shell he had collected in the shallows. It was most unusual and unlike any I had ever seen.

  5 We travelled back to Thursday Island on the Badu Brother. Kit carved the shell into the shape of a butterfly. He gave it to his girlfriend, known to me as Francesca Plata.

  Sworn at Thursday Island

  Before a Justice of the Peace

  At the post office we fax the affidavit to Thursday Island. ‘The local pharmacist is a JP,’ says Sam. ‘He can witness legal documents. I told Uncle Horrie to get him to witness it. Then I told him to post it to Uncle Tally’s house.’

  ‘I really appreciate your help.’ I tap my pen on the table. ‘Now we’ve got to get some evidence that shows the doctor might have had access to the pearl shell.’

  ‘Have you got the death certificate?’ Sam asks.

  ‘I haven’t got around to it yet.’

  ‘There’s a birth, deaths and marriages office in town,’ he tells me.

  ‘You’re right, I should have got to it sooner. The certificate will tell us where she died and what was wrong with her.’

  Sam is smiling at me. ‘I’m good at detective work, you know. When I was a kid people used to call me the black Starsky – you know, from Starsky and Hutch.’

  ‘Then what about getting some information on the Nashes, Starsky?’ I slap him playfully on the back.

  ‘A good doctor’s family like that should have a lot of stuff written about them in the society pages of the local paper.’

  ‘Or I could always ask my Aunty Sugar on a good day,’ I say.

  ‘Try the papers first,’ Sam advises.

  looking for proof

  Cairns, 1992

  I walk past the old markets where my mother, Uncle Tally and my grandmother once lived. It is now a trendy craft market, and the shed, my mother has already told me, has long been pulled down. The big hotel on the corner towers over the nearby park, where a group of Murris are playing cards in the shade of trees.

  Someone calls out, ‘Sista, want a game of cooncan?’ I wave and shake my head in the direction of the voice.

  Through the automatic doors, I walk into an airconditioned office. ‘Can you tell me where I go to research the old Cairns newspapers?’ I ask.

  ‘Can’t you read English?’ says the woman behind the library counter. She indicates a sign saying ‘Newspapers’, with an arrow pointing to a side room. I feel like telling her I’ve read so many textbooks in the last five years that if I put all the words together, I’d have enough to circumnavigate the country twice.

  I fill in my request, and in half an hour I have half a dozen rolls of microfiche. It takes me another thirty minutes to work out how to operate the machine, but then I finally get it to go. My quest begins. I search the old newspapers on the microfiche. The years merge together. I’m not sure what I’m after. The papers don’t have many photographs, just lines of small writing and narrow columns.

  The next day I go back to the library. The librarian behind the counter ignores me when I walk up. I try to catch her eye. She looks away.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m after Protection Board Records from the period 1939 to 1945.’

  ‘You need a letter signed by the eldest person in your family. Anyway, most of that stuff has gone to the library in Brisbane. What are you looking for?’

  ‘Information on my grandparents.’

  ‘Write the names here and bring the letter with you when you come back tomorrow. It will take six months for you to get the file, if you’re allowed access to it, that is.’

  ‘Six months,’ I repeat. ‘I don’t have that time. I need it urgently.’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t help you,’ she says.

  I walk back to the car, the sun hot on my face. It stings my eyes to water as I recall the librarian’s question: What are you looking for? Yes, what am I looking for exactly? The tracks of someone else’s pen. Not mine, not my mother’s – and certainly not my grandparents’.

  I am fifteen minutes late picking my mother up from the airport. She is waiting inside the terminal with her bags at her feet, doing puzzles in her magazines.

  ‘There’s no way I can get to search any government records in time before the sale of the butterfly,’ I say to Mum as we walk to the car. ‘I’ll have to make do with what’s in the library.’

  ‘In the library?’ She looks at me sideways. ‘What are you after?’

  ‘Some photographic or written proof. By the way, did anyone take a photo of your mother on a day she might have worn the pearl shell?’

  ‘Now, let me see. Not many people owned cameras back then, you had to go to a studio. But hang on, Aunty Sugar might know something. She used to spend a lot of time with Kit and Francesca.’

  At home, Mum goes into the kitchen and lifts the receiver from the phone on the wall. I can hear her dialling and then talking. She comes back out with two fresh drinks.

  ‘Aunty Sugar says we can go over on the weekend.’

  ‘I thought Aunty Sugar’s memory was going,’ I say.

  ‘Going, yes, but it’s not all gone yet.’

  My mother’s optimism never ceases to amaze me.

  the house at jones street

  Sydney, 1990

  When we were kids, the colours of things were much brighter. The house we grew up in was orange and made of wood. Warm, colourful. I remember the long verandah that hugged the edges of our home. I remember walking on the front fence, pretending to be a ballerina. Underneath the frangipani tree was the centre of my world.

  We kids used to ride our bikes down the street and back again. My sister used to sing using the handle of a skipping rope as a microphone. She and I would make mud pies and feed them to our little brother. My brother only ate them once.

  Sometimes, when I’m sleeping in my Sydney bed, I am back at that house. I can still feel the familiar excitement of youth. I was always happy. I used to laze around dreaming. Now I dream about lazing around.

  ballerina princess

  Cairns, 1972

  I was only playing. I was trying to balance like a ballerina in my next-door neighbour’s ballet shoes. She did not know I had them. I was walking across the rounded loops of metal on the front fence, like a princess. Step one, point.

  A boy got off his dragster bike.

  Step two, toes out.

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘I’m a princess.’

  ‘You’re not a princess.’

  Step three, bend.

 
; ‘I am too a princess.’ I pushed back my beautiful long blond plaits.

  ‘That’s just a stocking on your head. You’re just a stupid blackie, Jacky Jacky.’ The boy hurled a smooth white pebble. It missed, but his words hadn’t.

  Step four – that was when I slipped. I landed under the frangipani tree.

  My mum is holding me in a headlock at the hospital. For a small woman she is strong, and she weights me down while the nurse and the doctor bandage my arm in plaster.

  ‘There, that should do.’

  I can smell talcum powder and antiseptic. ‘Mum, it hurts.’

  ‘You’ll be right, Tarena.’

  Mum clasps her white handbag under her arm. The strap has broken and I can feel her hands shaking.

  ‘Mum! There was a woman in the tree.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Tarena. You’ve broken your arm. Just take it easy.’

  ‘But there really was. She told me everything would be okay. That you were on your way.’

  ‘Shoosh up, child. I was only at the shop. Do I have to watch you every single second?’ My mother looks at the doctor. He is filling in a form and shaking the blue pen to get more ink at the tip.

  ‘Mum. The woman was really nice and she hummed me a song.’

  The doctor looks at the skin on my arms. It’s scaly, like a drying lizard. ‘You know she’s got eczema, quite bad?’

  ‘Yes, she’s had it since she was born,’ my mother informs him. ‘Doctor, can I take her home now?’

  ‘We’ve put her arm in plaster – just a splinter fracture. She’s hit her head and may have concussion. We’d like to hold her overnight.’

  ‘But Doctor, she’d be better off at home. I must insist that she go home. I want to take my daughter home.’ I listen to her voice rise as she argues. Her hands are flying up in front of her face.