Butterfly Song Page 18

  possession is nine-tenths of the law

  Sydney, 1992

  In property law we learn about the law of enclosures. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Property and ownership is all about enclosing land, putting a big fence around it. You have to make something of the land, put it and your possessions to some use. If you don’t fence it off, the land has not been put to use. If you don’t make money out of it, realise its commercial value, then land is just open space.

  What about that one-tenth, then? Does it matter who’s had it before? Or whether they looked after it? Is it of concern how that dispossession occurred? What if the person who currently possesses it doesn’t understand it, or doesn’t look after it?

  I have so many questions I want to ask, but I don’t. I’m too shy to speak in front of the whole class. I’m scared that the words will get stuck in my throat; that I’ll cough, wave my hands around like a myall woman possessed, and we can’t have that in the civilised world of the classroom, now, can we?

  The airconditioning in the law school is whacked. It is either too hot or too cold. My neck is itchy. There’s that feeling again. I feel like there’s a fence on my face, a border on my brain, an enclosure around my heart.

  I wait in line at the faculty office to hand in my assignment. I see Kirsty, my old neighbour in college – I haven’t seen her since last year. We hug and she tells me she’s finished six months ahead of schedule.

  ‘I’ve got a job as a judge’s associate,’ she says. ‘Where are you going to work?’

  ‘Don’t know yet.’ I toss the fringe of hair from my eyes. ‘I’m interested in working in Indigenous issues.’

  ‘Tarena, are you going to be a bleeding heart all your life?’ She laughs. ‘Just joking. I’m really pleased for you. If there’s anything you ever need, give me a call.’ She writes down her phone number.

  My feet shift. I don’t know what to say, except, ‘Good luck with it all.’

  She leaves, and I just have time to hand my assignment in before the office closes for lunch.

  use the law as a spear

  Sydney, 1992

  When I get to the students centre, Norman is on the computer. He waves and then points at Jessie. She is sitting on the floor amid a pile of strewn pages that appear to have been ripped from her lecture pad.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I say.

  ‘I’m not doing the exam.’

  ‘Why not? It’s your last year.’

  ‘I failed property law last year. I’m not going to fail two years in a row. It’s useless. How can we learn about the law that dispossessed and controlled us blackfellas? We must be stupid to think we can do this.’ She looks away so I can’t see her eyes. I am already thinking how alone I will be if she leaves the class.

  ‘You can do it. You just have to read the cases and apply the legal tests to the facts in the exam,’ I explain, not really certain that I’m qualified to offer such advice.

  ‘What about the legal concept of terra nullius? Shall I tell them that this blackfella has a problem with the concept of terra-fucking-nullius?’

  ‘Yes, that is exactly what we can do.’

  She looks at me.

  ‘Haven’t you heard about the case in the High Court?’ I say.

  Norman butts in. ‘Yeah, Eddie Koiki Mabo. He’s that Torres Strait Islander man who’s taken the Queensland government to court. The case started in 1982 and even though he passed on in January this year, Mabo’s case is arguing that the land was occupied before white people came here. It’s claiming that Indigenous people had possession of it.’

  Jessie gets up and walks over to Norman. He’s holding up an article about the case in the paper. She reads the headline. She says, ‘It won’t happen.’

  ‘But the High Court’s due to hand down their judgement this year,’ I say, reaching down to pick up her notes and place them back in her folder. Jessie sits and reads the article. I make her a cup of tea.

  ‘It says here that this case is challenging terra nullius,’ she reports. ‘The legal principles of native title and prior occupation have been put to the High Court. The judgement’s due next month.’

  ‘Yes, the case argues that in annexing the land at the time of white settlement, the English brought their common-law principles,’ says Norman. ‘Native title existed in Australia prior to English occupation, and may still exist for land that the English didn’t fully claim.’

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ says Jessie. ‘This is getting really technical, but very interesting. Let me get a pen, Norman.’

  ‘I’ve gotta go to work.’ I leave them deep in conversation.

  On the bus to Bondi, I pass a row of heritage houses split through the middle. They stand like amputees, cut down in the prime of their dignity, sacrificed to make way for the obtrusive Syd Einfeld Drive, the Bondi Junction bypass. I keep thinking about what Jessie said. Maybe we are crazy to think we can learn and work within a legal system that has disregarded us.

  when you don’t wake from your dream

  Sydney, 1992

  When I close my eyes it’s all there. I can see it. Not a movie on the big screen, but close, like a tangible memory. It is within touching distance.

  I’m dreaming that feeling again, that falling feeling. That sensation you get when you’re falling in a dream. When you suddenly jolt awake, lifted by a racing heart. My psychology lecturer used to claim that if you didn’t wake up at such moments you would die. It’s a natural instinct, she said, to wake up. A fundamental element of the human condition: the will to live is what prevents you from remaining asleep.

  I’m not sure I believe her. Mind you, I’ve never really tried to prove her wrong. And I never reach the bottom of the fall. I never understand, either, how I get to that part of the dream where I begin to fall. It’s not like me to fall. I’ve always been so cautious. Did I trip, or was I pushed? It’s always the sensation of falling that haunts me.

  judgement day

  Sydney, 1992

  We are sitting in the Aboriginal Students Centre waiting to hear the judgement from the High Court. Charley gets off the telephone when Norman runs in throwing his arms about.

  ‘A majority of judges in the High Court ruled that native title existed prior to the English coming to Australia with their common law!’

  We stare at him. ‘Mabo won!’ he says excitedly.

  ‘It’s a shame Eddie Mabo died six months ago,’ I say. ‘All the fighting he did to get that case to the High Court.’

  ‘Yeah true, sista, but he started it, and persisted.’ Jessie smiles at me. ‘Who knows, I might have a chance to pass that exam after all.’

  There are cheers from all the students in the room. ‘Ma-bo! Ma-bo! Ma-bo!’ we chant.

  The next day I walk past the writing on the wall. Someone has etched an ‘M’ in front of the ‘abo’. It now reads ‘Mabo’.

  the blue kiss

  Cairns, 1992

  Sam has extended his stay in Cairns. He takes me for a drive. We drive for two hours, until we reach a small town. At the only crossroad there’s a pub, painted yellow, with big swinging doors. It hugs the corner of the street.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ Sam says.

  ‘I hate country pubs. The men look like they’ve sprouted from the floor.’

  He laughs. ‘Some of them probably have. You’re too much of a city-slicker.’

  It’s as if he can see the comfort I’ve milked from the facelessness of Sydney. I’m drawn to the pace, the people, the colours, the different worlds – that cosmopolitan atmosphere still excites me. The flow of the city makes me invisible, but here I am eyed and inspected like dirt under a fingernail.

  We walk in through the heavy, swaying doors. Two men sit at the bar; a dog lies at their feet. A group of four men are playing darts. They stop and turn their heads. Eight eyes follow us as we walk towards the bar.

  ‘G’day.’ Sam nods to them. The men resume their game and the green-feathered darts land in a yellow triangle on th
e board. Sam orders two beers. The barmaid places them on the bar.

  We sit at a table which has cardboard coasters depicting an Aboriginal man with a spear. The left foot of the man rests on his opposite knee.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say.

  ‘Cheers.’ Sam moves his coaster and puts his beer on the table. ‘Can you believe this place was once a thriving sugar town?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Like a lot of things, sugar is imported now, from countries where labour’s cheaper. The town’s still here, though.’

  ‘Well, yeah, what’s left of it,’ I joke.

  ‘Do you like swimming?’

  ‘Yes. I love the ocean. It’s a shame you can’t swim this time of year because of the stingers.’

  ‘Not the ocean. There’s some freshwater falls a little way out of town. Locals know where the best places are.’

  Sam drives out past the canefields. The landscape ridges and the bushes grow thick. We walk into the rainforest until we reach a waterfall. We stand at the water’s edge. Shadowy angles cast across the pool. It’s like a jewel, the way the sunlight plays in the shadows and folds in the depths.

  Sam takes his T-shirt off and dives in. Already he is swimming out to the middle of the pool. ‘Come in,’ he calls.

  I want to swim into his eyes, to that place that seems far away but inviting. There is something about distance that keeps me enclosed. There is something about the landscape that is locked in my memory. It has taken me a long time to understand this.

  Sam swims back, wades to me and peels off my Lycra dress. He wraps an arm around my shoulder for the blue kiss.

  Later, as we lie on the grass, his hands play with my hair and his lips touch my eyes. We watch the sun set. The colours of the horizon merge orange to black in a mysterious dance. I wish I knew the secret of colours and the power they have over people.

  the telephone call

  Cairns, 1992

  I am dreaming I am sitting on a bus. I am dressed up in a suit, sitting in the back seat of the bus. After a while, I am the only one in the bus. The track is bumpy, full of ridges and muddy holes. It goes through a rainforest. The trees are so tall there is light only at the top. The bus keeps stopping and breaking down. There is no driver. Each time the bus stops, I get out to fiddle with the innards of the bus; it’s like a human body. I fix it and then get back on the bus. It starts, then stops again. I get out. I am alone on the rainforest track, trying to fix the broken-down bus. I never get to where I am going.

  In the morning the phone rings. It’s Jessie.

  ‘Hey, how did you get this number?’

  ‘Your housemate gave it to me. I got my results, sis, and guess what? I passed!’ Jessie is elated.

  ‘Fantastic,’ I say. ‘I knew you would.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I haven’t got mine yet.’

  ‘When will you know then?’

  ‘I asked my housemate to send the letter up here.’

  ‘You’ll be right,’ Jessie says. She tells me she has already taken a job at the Public Defender’s Office. She’s been busy working with the senior legal officer, going to the courts and assisting with matters. I tell her about my case and ask her for some advice. She tells me what she knows about court procedure.

  ‘Thanks, sis, I owe you now.’ I hang up. I’m smiling, but I worry about my own results.

  the night before

  Cairns, 1992

  My sensible suit is ready for court in the morning. It is hanging on the back of the wardrobe door. It’s eleven p.m. Mum comes into the bedroom.

  ‘I’m going to bed. You’ll be fine tomorrow.’ She kisses my head. ‘Get some sleep.’

  I pull back the covers and slip into the sheets. I put the light out and then on again. I don’t want to dream. I get out of bed and reach for a pen. I have to cover all the issues. My head is spinning. I prepare a map of my arguments.

  I go to the kitchen to pour myself a wine from the fridge. On the way I walk past my mother’s bedroom. She is fast asleep. I can hear her breathing in and out in the familiar rhythm.

  Wine in hand, I open the sliding door to the verandah and slump into a cane chair. A car pulls up. It’s Sam.

  ‘I thought you’d still be up.’ He walks up the steps and lights a cigarette. ‘Do you want a smoke?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘It’s hot.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you worried about the case?’

  ‘Yes. Mum and Uncle Tally are counting on me, and I’m not even sure what to say tomorrow in the courtroom.’

  ‘It’s stealing. Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘Well, it’s not that simple. You see, Doctor Nash is the one we think took the butterfly from my Nanna Francesca. It was probably taken from her when she was in hospital, just after she died. But we don’t have any witnesses to prove it, and there’s the other fact that Doctor Nash is dead.’

  ‘Possession of stolen goods then?’ he suggests.

  ‘Mrs Nash-Hill inherited the brooch and is now trying to sell it. We may be able to show that there was prior ownership, and that there’s a question about the right of Doctor Nash’s daughter to sell it.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about it.’ He begins to massage my back. ‘You need rest, come on.’

  Sam takes my hand and leads me back to bed.

  the court hearing

  Cairns, 1992

  The courtroom is number two. Not my lucky number. I like odd numbers, but there’s a drug-related case being heard in room one. It’s been going for two weeks. Two cops sitting out the front look up as I walk by. I don’t make eye contact. I just keep walking to the next courtroom.

  I walk through the wooden doors. The floor is smooth beneath my new shoes. I walk carefully, not wanting to slip. No one is here yet to represent the other side. I sit in the chair at the front table and take out my folder of papers.

  Five minutes later, Mum and Uncle Tally come in and take the seats next to me.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ she asks. Uncle Tally looks on.

  I nod and I read the documents over and over, trying to stop my hands from shaking. I should just tell them now. I should just tell them I can’t do this. I should tell them I’m a failure. The courtroom is silent.

  Sam arrives. His eyes are raised as he tiptoes in. He gives me a takeaway coffee in a styrofoam cup from the cafe across the road.

  ‘It’s just instant,’ he says. He looks at the paper on top of the pile in front of me. Across it are the words ‘Lily Shaw and Talford Plata versus Irene Nash and Albermay Antique Jewellers’, and underneath that ‘Applicant versus Respondents’. ‘This is the first time I’ve been in a courtroom,’ Sam says, ‘and hey, a blackfella’s not the defendant.’ He smiles.

  The name of the law firm representing the defendants is at the bottom of the page. ‘Peter Fraser is acting for them, ay?’ he says.

  I nod and take a sip of coffee. ‘His office is opposite the picture theatre.’

  The doors open again. Three people enter. A man of about fifty in a suit is in front. He is holding a folder. I assume this is Peter Fraser. The other man is wearing white pants and a brown sports jacket. There is a woman wearing thick-rimmed glasses. ‘Mr Albermay and Mrs Nash, sit here, please,’ says the first man.

  I pretend to be reading but have already noticed that the woman’s makeup is sweating. It has that look of being ready to slide off her face.

  The door at the side of the bench opens and a man in grey asks us to stand for ‘her worship Magistrate Griffiths’. The magistrate enters and sits at the front of the courtroom. The court reporter sits below her. Peter Fraser is sitting at the table to my right. His papers are spread out in front of him. Mr Albermay is next to him, and Irene Nash sits on the other side of Mr Albermay.

  ‘Are you representing the applicant in this matter?’ Magistrate Griffiths asks me.

  ‘Yes, I’m a law student. I just finished my final year. I seek sp
ecial leave to represent this case.’

  Peter Fraser is on his feet. ‘Your worship, I think this is a rather grave matter. The allegations raised are quite serious. I don’t think it is appropriate that a law student present this case.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fraser, please sit down. What have you to say in response to Mr Fraser’s comments, Ms Shaw?’

  ‘Your worship, I note that the court rules allow the magistrate to permit non-lawyer representatives in circumstances where the applicant consents. I ask you to let me to speak to the court as the legal representative of the applicants, my mother and my uncle. As the applicants are my family, I have their consent and instruction. I also note that I have completed a full course of law but have not yet done the practical-admissions course.’

  The magistrate looks at my mother and Uncle Tally. They both nod their heads. ‘I grant you leave to appear before me, Ms Shaw. What is it that you seek?’

  ‘My mother and my uncle, er, that is, my clients, would like to stop the auction of a brooch by Mrs Nash-Hill at Albermay Antique Jewellers. Further, they seek a declaration on the ownership of the brooch, which they have reason to believe belonged to their deceased mother, Francesca Plata, and now to them by virtue of their being her next of kin. It was created by their father, for their mother.’

  I watch the magistrate flicking through the papers I have prepared. She looks up. ‘I understand that Doctor Nash died in August this year and that the brooch forms part of his personal estate, which has been inherited by his only daughter, Mrs Irene Jane Nash.

  Mrs Nash-Hill rises to her feet. ‘That’s right. The brooch has been in our family for nearly forty years.’

  The magistrate frowns. ‘Please sit down, Mrs Nash-Hill, and only speak when I address you.’