Butterfly Song Page 19

  Mrs Nash-Hill sits down.

  The magistrate reads through the list of points. ‘Ms Shaw, you allege that Doctor Nash took the brooch from Francesca Plata after she died in his care at the hospital.’

  ‘That is correct,’ I say.

  ‘Mr Fraser, what has your client to say in defence of this?’

  Mr Fraser stands. ‘Your worship, my client is most upset that her father has been called a thief. The brooch has been in her family for nearly forty years. Surely the statute of limitations applies?’

  Magistrate Griffiths checks her papers. ‘I do not think theft is being argued here. According to Ms Shaw, the issue is one of prior ownership, also that Mrs Nash-Hill’s title to the brooch is defective. The Shaw family say they did not know the whereabouts of the brooch until recently, and therefore now bring the action to stop its sale.’

  The magistrate’s eyes narrow and she turns to me. ‘Ms Shaw, what evidence do you have to present to the court to prove your claim?’

  ‘I call Mr Talford Plata as a witness.’

  Uncle Tally bows in front of the magistrate and takes a seat in the witness box. He stands and puts his hand on the Bible presented to him by the officer of the court.

  ‘Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?’

  ‘So help me, true God,’ says Uncle.

  ‘Please state your name, and your date and place of birth.’

  ‘My name is Talford Plata, I was born in Cairns in 1943.’

  ‘Who are your parents?’

  ‘My parents are Kit and Francesca Plata.’

  ‘Is this your birth certificate?’ I approach the witness box and show Uncle Tally his birth certificate.

  ‘Yes.’

  I then show him the article from the newspaper with the photograph of the butterfly. ‘Have you seen this butterfly brooch before?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answers, ‘but it wasn’t a brooch then. It was a carving that belonged to my mother. My father carved it for her out of pearl shell as a gift.’

  ‘When did you last see it?’

  ‘I saw it in 1954, just before my mother died. She never went anywhere without it. When she was going to the hospital she asked me to get it for her. I placed it in her hand as she was being rolled away. I remember she was holding it when the ambulance went.’

  ‘When did your mother die?’

  ‘My mother died in hospital about two days later.’

  ‘May I tender this document, please?’ I hand the death certificate to the court officer. He marks it with his pen and then gives it to Uncle Tally.

  ‘Please can you read the name of the attending doctor,’ I ask Uncle Tally.

  ‘Doctor Nash, Cairns Base Hospital,’ he reads.

  ‘Were you given any of your mother’s belongings after she passed away?’

  ‘Yes, a bible, some clothing, but the butterfly was missing.’

  ‘When did you see it again?’

  ‘In the paper. I recognised it straight away, but it was now a brooch. That’s when your mother and I came to you.’

  ‘In the article the brooch is said to belong to Doctor Nash, who passed away earlier this year. Do you think it’s possible that Doctor Nash could have taken the butterfly from your mother at the hospital?’

  ‘I object,’ Peter Fraser interjects. ‘The witness could not possibly know this.’

  ‘Ms Shaw, please curb your questioning,’ says the magistrate.

  Curb? What a strange word to use. She makes it sound like I’m walking in the middle of a dangerous highway.

  ‘Can you tell us if you knew Doctor Nash?’ I ask Uncle Tally.

  ‘No, I didn’t know him, but I think that he must have taken the –’

  ‘Just answer the questions, Mr Plata,’ says the magistrate.

  ‘Thank you, your worship. I don’t have any more questions.’

  Mr Fraser stands to cross-examine the witness. ‘Mr Plata, you say that Kit Plata, your father, gave the brooch to your mother Francesca. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I said. But I said it was a butterfly carving then, it wasn’t a brooch.’

  ‘Okay, I heard you say that. Can you please tell us when your parents got married?’

  ‘In 1941.’

  ‘When were you born, Mr Plata?’

  ‘In December 1943.’

  ‘Then you weren’t alive when the butterfly ornament was alleged to have been carved!’ Mr Fraser turns to the magistrate. ‘I object – hearsay, your worship. The witness does not know first-hand that Kit Plata carved the brooch as he was not alive.’

  I learned about the hearsay rule in evidence classes, something about only being able to provide testimony in relation to what you actually saw or heard yourself, and not what somebody else saw or heard.

  Uncle Tally disputes Mr Fraser’s claim. ‘But I know because that’s what my mother told me, and my father too.’

  ‘Yes, but you did not see it being carved, did you, Mr Plata?’ says Mr Fraser.

  ‘No, I didn’t but –’

  ‘No further questions,’ Mr Fraser interrupts. ‘You may step down.’

  I call my mother as the next witness. ‘Lilian Mary Shaw, please take the stand,’ says the court officer.

  Mum moves slowly forward, taking her time to look over at Mr Albermay and Mrs Nash-Hill. I ask her the usual questions, where she was born and when. I bring out the photograph of Francesca from Aunty Sugar’s album. ‘Is this your mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you please tell the court what she is wearing around her neck.’

  ‘She’s wearing a necklace with the butterfly carving hanging from it. I remember her wearing it. She wore it on special occasions – when she went to church for Christmas, or on the anniversary of my father’s death. She had it with her the day she went into hospital, but when she died it wasn’t with her things.’

  I hand the photo to the magistrate. ‘Your worship, this photograph would have been taken some time in the fifties. You can tell by the paper it’s printed on.’

  Magistrate Griffiths looks at it and compares it with the photos Mr Fraser has given her. Mr Fraser asks to look at it.

  ‘Your worship, I contest the validity of this photograph. We have no idea who the photographer was. No one can vouch for when and where it was taken, or in fact who this person is.’

  The magistrate looks at my mother. ‘Mrs Shaw, who is the woman in this photograph?’

  ‘Is this a trick question?’ My mother is exasperated. ‘It’s Francesca Plata, my mother.’

  ‘Mr Fraser, I think we can allow this photograph as evidence. Now, do you wish to question the witness?’

  ‘Mrs Shaw, you say that you became aware that the butterfly was missing very soon after your mother died, is that right?’ Mr Fraser is pacing the floor in front of the bench.

  ‘Yes, we were given some of her possessions, but the butterfly wasn’t with them.’

  ‘I see. So at that time, why didn’t you tell someone? You know, make a complaint to someone in authority? A policeman, a doctor, a nurse, the priest at the church?’

  My mother’s eyes are filling up. ‘Mr Fraser, I was only eight years old. Tally was only eleven. We were really lost after our parents died.’ She stops and takes a look at me. I smile and nod for her to continue. ‘In those days, we didn’t talk, we were scared to speak out, especially to white people.’

  ‘Could you not speak? What about the woman who took custody of you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask. I was only a child.’

  ‘So can you confirm to this court that no claim was made, and that nearly forty years have passed and now you seek to rely on prior ownership of an item that we are not even sure is the one you allege to have been made by your father?’

  My mother has had enough. ‘I know it was made by my father. My mother told me it was. I can only believe what she told me. My father died when I was four.’


  ‘No further questions, your worship,’ says Mr Fraser.

  ‘You may step down now,’ says the magistrate.

  Mum gets down from the witness box. Her eyes are wet. She does not cry; she will not cry – at least, not on the outside.

  The magistrate looks at her watch, then at me. ‘Ms Shaw, have you any evidence to show that the butterfly carving was made by your grandfather, Kit Plata?’

  ‘Yes, your worship.’ I nod to the back of the room. ‘I call Sam Silva to give testimony.’

  Sam enters the witness box. He is holding his guitar and makes room for it on the floor beside him.

  ‘What’s this?’ says the magistrate.

  ‘It will become clearer as I go along,’ I say.

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘What is your name, and where and when were you born?’

  ‘My name is Samuel Silva. I was born on Thursday Island in 1966.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of a man called Kit Plata?’

  ‘Yes, the old people tell us he wrote a song about a butterfly. The old people remember him. They sometimes play the song and I learned how to play it from listening to them.’

  ‘Can you please play us that song?’

  ‘Your worship! This is unconventional. I must insist –’

  Mr Fraser’s protest is cut short. The magistrate holds up her hand. ‘Be quiet.’ She straightens her sleeves. ‘Go ahead, Mr Silva.’

  Sam picks up his guitar. He sings.

  When he finishes my mother and the court officer clap. The magistrate calls for silence.

  Mr Fraser stands with his hands on his hips. ‘Thank you for the performance, Mr Silva, but your worship, I fail to see how this proves anything.’

  ‘Ms Shaw, can you make clear your point,’ says the magistrate.

  I am on my feet in a flash. ‘The point is, your worship, the gift of the butterfly was noted in the song that my grandfather, Kit Plata, wrote. That song is still sung by people in the Torres Strait today. It has remained with my family in spirit.’

  Now Mrs Nash-Hill is on her feet. ‘But the brooch has been in my family for almost forty years. We’ve looked after it. This isn’t right – it can’t be.’

  ‘Please, Mrs Nash-Hill, sit down. I will hear your testimony from the witness box, after a three-minute break.’

  Magistrate Griffiths leaves the courtroom. Mrs Nash-Hill, Mr Albermay and Peter Fraser head out of the room too.

  ‘You were both great witnesses,’ I say to Uncle Tally and Mum.

  Mum hugs me. ‘You did good too. Too deadly. Coffee break,’ she says, steering Uncle Tally out the door. Sam and I are left in the room with the court officer.

  cynthia nash-hill’s testimony

  Cairns, 1992

  By the time everyone returns, I have written two pages of notes. It is Mr Fraser’s turn to call his witnesses. The court officer calls Mrs Nash-Hill and she is sworn in.

  ‘What is your name?’ Mr Fraser asks.

  ‘Cynthia Jane Nash-Hill.’

  ‘Please state where and when were you born.’

  ‘I was born in Cairns in 1955.’

  ‘What can you tell us about the brooch in question?’

  ‘It was my late father’s, Doctor Hilton Nash. He collected it in the 1950s, so we were told.’

  ‘Has it always been in your family’s care and custody?’

  ‘Yes, it has. My father was a collector of handcrafted jewellery, especially primitive craft forms like the brooch.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Nash-Hill.’

  I stand for the cross-examination. ‘Mrs Nash-Hill, the auction brochure says that the brooch is a handcrafted pearling relic, probably made in the 1940s. Did your father make the brooch himself?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘How did he acquire it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says.

  ‘Did he pay for it and do you hold the receipt?’

  ‘I don’t know. Possibly he may have paid for it. I’m not sure if there was ever a written receipt.’

  ‘Would you say that’s not likely?’

  ‘I don’t know, it was a thing he collected.’

  ‘When you say collected, do you mean he picked it up off the ground?’

  She looks over to Mr Fraser. His fingers go to his mouth. He pouts.

  ‘No,’ Mrs Nash-Hill continues, ‘he collected it. He had an interest in that kind of thing.’

  ‘Did he purchase it?’

  ‘I have no idea. It’s something he had before –’

  I interrupt. ‘But you don’t hold a receipt for the brooch?’

  ‘No, but I do hold several evaluation certificates from jewellers stating its current worth.’

  ‘But no receipt, no proof of your father’s purchase of the brooch?’

  Mr Fraser is interrupting now. ‘But she’s not disputing ownership of it, your worship; she has possession of it now, since her father has passed away.’

  Suddenly I feel that it is inappropriate to ask the remaining questions on my list. Mrs Nash-Hill is a recent orphan, I remember. There must be a lot of pain for her in talking about this brooch.

  ‘Mrs Nash-Hill, I offer my condolences to you and your family for the loss of your father.’

  She nods.

  ‘You say that the brooch was your father’s. It must be special to you and your family. Why then are you selling it?’

  Peter Fraser is on his feet again. ‘I object.’

  ‘You don’t have to answer, Mrs Nash-Hill,’ says the magistrate.

  ‘I want to answer it. The brooch is not so special to my family. My father spent more time at the hospital, and then with those relics, than he did with his family. Between work and his collection, there was no time for us.’ She wipes her eyes. ‘The brooch is being sold as part of the Nash collection. Its value has appreciated through my father having looked after it. He looked after it and kept it in good condition.’

  ‘Your father stole it from my dying mother,’ puts in my mother.

  ‘Sit down, Mrs Shaw, or I will have to ask you to leave.’

  My mother quietens.

  ‘Do you have any further questions or witnesses, Ms Shaw?’

  ‘No, your worship.’ I glare at my mother. She sighs, a gesture of remorse. I can only hope for a miracle.

  Magistrate Griffiths waits until you could hear a pin drop in the courtroom.

  ‘I have heard the testimony of Talford Plata. He says that he was told that his father carved the butterfly. Mr Plata testified that a pearl-shell butterfly was in his mother’s possession when she was taken to hospital. At some point after this, the butterfly that was said to belong to Francesca Plata was lost. We have evidence that Doctor Nash was the doctor who signed Francesca Plata’s death certificate. Doctor Nash had a butterfly brooch in his possession at the time he got married.

  ‘We have a photograph of Francesca Plata wearing a butterfly on her necklace. Mrs Lilian Shaw has testified that the butterfly was always in the possession of Francesca Plata and that it was not handed over as part of her belongings when she died. Is it possible that Francesca Plata’s pearl-shell butterfly is the one now put up for sale by Mrs Nash-Hill at the auction house of Mr Albermay? Is it possible that this is the same item, having come into the possession of Doctor Nash?’ The magistrate turns to look at Mrs Nash-Hill’s lawyer. ‘What have you to say about this, Mr Fraser?’

  ‘Even if it can be shown that the brooch is the same item which was once possessed by Francesca Plata, and I’m not saying it is, there’s the issue of tenure of holding. The brooch has been in the possession of the Nash family for some forty years.’ Mr Fraser clears his throat to emphasise the number of years. ‘Until now, no claim has ever been made by the Plata family; there are no police records of any claim for loss of property, and neither do the hospital records reflect any discord on the part of the family. I submit, your worship, that the brooch was abandoned. And possession is nine-tenths of the law.’

  I stand, hearing my ch
air scrape across the floor as I move forward. ‘But your worship, we have the written affidavit of Horatio Hondu to show that the pearl shell for the brooch was found by my grandfather in 1942. He carved the shell into a butterfly that same year to give to Francesca. It was in my grandmother’s possession until her death. That’s twelve years of prior possession by my family, and the song, the story of the brooch, has never left my family’s possession.’

  My words hang in the silence that follows. The magistrate appears to be looking at the ceiling. ‘Where is the brooch today?’

  ‘It’s at Albermay’s, your worship,’ says Mr Fraser.

  ‘Please bring it to me. I wish to examine it physically. I am not happy viewing only these photographs you have provided, Mr Fraser.’

  ‘But it’s an expensive heirloom.’ Mr Fraser leans forward as his hands slip on the desk.

  ‘We shall adjourn for thirty minutes. In that time I expect you to produce the brooch, Mr Fraser.’

  My mother and Uncle Tally go outside for a cigarette. I head outdoors too. I watch the people on the street go about their business. Inside the courtroom, it feels like time has stopped. It feels like I’ve been in there for days and days.

  I sit on the bench opposite the park. My head is full of butterfly images. I don’t remember seeing any butterflies in Sydney.

  I remember as a child watching a bright blue butterfly come out of a leather pouch affixed to the branch of a tree. Two sets of wings, a thin body, and two antennae, like hands held up to the air. The brilliance of that butterfly was awesome. I watched it flicker its wings over a frangipani flower, feigning flight, though it was not yet ready to leave the tree.

  When Mr Fraser, Mr Albermay and Mrs Nash-Hill return to the courtroom, Mr Albermay is holding a large box. The magistrate re-enters the room from the panelled door at the side of the bench. The court officer collects the brooch and approaches the magistrate.

  The magistrate holds the delicate brooch in her fingers. She is turning it over and examining it. ‘Now, which one of you saw the brooch last and wants to examine it?’ She looks at my mother and Uncle Tally, who look at each other.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Someone has to examine it.’

  Just then an old man enters the room. He stops, then moves forward. Stops. My mother turns around. Her face lightens, as if the colour is being drained from it.