Butterfly Song Read online

  A red station wagon stops. A young girl with braided hair is sitting behind the wheel. She presses on the centre of the steering wheel and the horn beeps.

  ‘My granddaughter. You must come and meet her.’

  I help him to the car door and he introduces me as the granddaughter of the man who saved his life.

  ‘Do you want a lift?’ his granddaughter asks.

  ‘No, I want to look around, thanks.’

  By the time I walk back to the motel, the sun is setting. Later I watch the moon glowing on the horizon, spreading its silver blanket across a tranquil sea. I think of Horatio’s story and a tune comes into my head.

  searching for pearl shell

  Torres Strait, 1941

  Kit edged off the side of the lugger. He blinked and then fixed the mask on his face. Far over the northern skyline, a hazy, dark-blue colour appeared.

  Five fathoms below was the reef. The moon was a melancholy spirit. It made the ocean eerie and Kit was weary of diving tonight. The captain said they had to dive late even though a strong wind was up.

  The owners of the pearling boats would be drinking their second bottle of rum at the hotel, talking about how much pearling shell they got. Maybe Harry’s Lugger had returned from Darnley Island with a hull full of bêche-de-mer. Kit’s plan was to earn enough money so he could give up diving, marry Francesca and play his guitar. Maybe they could travel on the mainland. When he got back to shore, he was going to ask the captain for his dues. When he got back, there were going to be some changes.

  The water was cool and Kit could feel the essence of the sea. Whoosh, deep breath, and a deep dive down into the dark fathoms. Below the surface there were rips in the current. A natural diver like Kit knew the traps and the patterns in the water. He knew to be careful. In the water’s depths were the spirits of men who had lost their lives to the bends after being pulled up too soon. There was the added fear of sharks.

  He reached the sea floor in no time. Grabbing shells, he placed them in the pouch at his side. One, two, three, and then back up to the surface for air.

  ‘It’s dangerous down there, Captain,’ he yelled to Captain Gertane. Already he was thinking about Francesca, sitting with her under the frangipani tree and singing her his songs.

  Captain Gertane picked up the pearl shells and then spat into the ocean. Going by the small number of shells they had collected, it was likely this area had been fished out already. He guessed it was the Islander-owned lugger, Badu Brother. Pearling was becoming far too competitive and the returns were diminishing.

  ‘Get back down there, you bastard.’ The captain slammed the pearl shells onto the floor of the boat.

  Kit moved away from the lugger. He looked around for Horatio, the other diver. The wind blew fierce. Wild wet water. Kit dived quickly. He could not see Horatio. He resurfaced, gasping for breath, hanging onto the side of the lugger.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said the captain, looking to the north, then to the man at the helm. The motor started.

  Kit looked up. ‘But we can’t leave. Horatio’s not back.’

  ‘Let’s go!’ repeated the captain.

  The lantern flickered as the boat started to move. Captain Gertane sucked on his tobacco pipe and blew out a cloud of smoke. Finding his pannikin, he took a swig.

  ‘How ya gonna explain it to the authorities?’ said the helmsman.

  ‘What? What can I do? Bloody black bastards are always absconding.’ Captain Gertane lowered his cap over his eyes.

  The boat picked up speed. Kit hung on as if to try to stop it. Then his hand slipped away and within minutes the lugger was out of sight.

  Kit trod water. The sea was murky. Horatio was nowhere to be seen. The wind tossed the ocean into a violent tremor. It sprayed up and created a whirlpool. He saw something move a short distance away and swam swiftly towards it. Pulling Horatio up to the surface, Kit held his friend’s head back. Horatio’s bluish-purple lips were the colour of the night sky. Kit squeezed Horatio’s chest, forcing air into his lungs. Horatio spluttered and began treading water; his breath was harsh and uneven but he was okay. They swam in the direction of the north star.

  They reached land as the wind began to ease. Standing upright in the shallows, Kit dislodged a pearl shell. On shore he opened it. The shell was a deep blue, almost purple. Its luminescent sheen appealed to him. It was perfect. Natural. It seemed to reflect something back at him, something he could not express. It was the same feeling he’d felt when he saw the butterfly, and then the day he met Francesca. It was a sign from the ocean.

  Kit held the shimmering shell to the sky. ‘Today is my last day of diving. I will no longer dive for men like Captain Gertane.’

  Horatio pushed himself up from the sand with his arms and coughed out water. ‘That’s what I said last time, but what work is there here for us? Can’t you see we have no choice?’

  But Kit was already moving. He spoke to the night and the thousands of lights shining above. ‘We must look beyond,’ he said. ‘The stars are eyes. The stars are eyes.’

  Next day, Kit’s hands worked over the shell. Edging with a thin knife and then with a small scalpel to pick around the hard edges, he sanded back the black to purple, and white, and blue, softening it with a light-pressured palm. Soon the shape of the two wings was unmistakable.

  Kit had seen the butterfly in the rainforest. He was walking on the track, cutting across the island. He was wandering, looking over the sea to the outer islands, wondering whether he could leave, or even dream of leaving. Then it flew into his vision, out from the sunlight. Its wings were purple, blue and white, like the colours of the inside of the shell.

  late arrival

  Thursday Island, 1941

  Francesca waited, and hoped that this would be the day he returned. Her stomach was tight and she felt as though something inside was scraping away, like a brush across steel.

  It was hard for her to concentrate on the washing. She bundled the white laundered shirts into the wicker basket. Her heart beat fast and her mouth was dry.

  Lena, her co-worker, tried again to make conversation with Francesca. ‘Did you hear that Mara moved to Cairns and married that white man? I think her belly was sticking out a bit.’

  ‘Mmm,’ replied Francesca. She remembered Mara as a thin girl.

  Starching up a collar, Francesca’s hands worked fast. She didn’t like to gossip. It wasn’t her business. Maybe Kit had had problems passing though the Strait. She hoped he’d made it into the safeness of the Coral Sea waters. She worried about tidal waves and cyclones. She had heard people talk about cyclones that destroyed whole islands and devastated ships at sea. But that couldn’t happen again. That was so long ago.

  ‘Late arrival,’ said Lena, looking out the window. ‘The lugger’s back.’

  The small vessel was positioning, but before it had roped up, Francesca had run down to the jetty. Kit was not there.

  ‘Where’s Kit?’ she asked Captain Gertane.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Jumped ship with another bloke, probably headed down to Cairns as we speak.’

  She could not believe the captain’s words. Why would Kit do that without letting her know?

  She went to Essa, who was tying up ropes at the jetty. ‘You must help me, I think Kit’s missing at sea!’

  ‘I guess he’s not strong enough to go dive. Not a proper Islander. You should think yourself lucky. A weak man like him cannot provide for you.’

  The rage inside her broke. She wished she could hit out at him. Only her tears held her back.

  She stood on the jetty and scanned the horizon. She could see only a straight line of light blue on dark blue. She smelled the salt, not of the ocean but her own tears. The frangipani woman looked through wet eyes, out to sea and beyond.

  the butterfly song

  Thursday Island, 1941

  Kit got a lift back on the Badu Brother. When he arrived on Thursday Island he was quick to meet up with Francesca.

 
‘I was worried about you! They said you jumped ship.’

  ‘No, it was Captain Gertane that left us. Horatio and I are lucky to be alive.’

  She touched his shoulder, unable for the moment to say a word.

  ‘I’ve quit,’ he told her.

  Startled, she looked up at him. ‘What will you do? There’s not much work on the island except for pearling.’

  ‘Some of the others are going to the mainland to cut sugarcane. I’ll go with them.’ Something glimmered in his hand. He held it out to her. ‘It’s made from the last shell I collected.’

  Francesca could see two wings of purple, blue and white, almost silver. ‘It’s a butterfly, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, a butterfly for a new life. The canecutters will take me to Cairns, and then I’ll have enough money for your ticket. I promise I’ll look after you.’ Kit gave Francesca his carved gift.

  On the back she could see the outline of a guitar – an etching of a round body and a few lines for strings. ‘That’s so beautiful. Have you written a song for me too?’ She clasped her hands together. ‘Sing it for me.’

  Francesca watched him playing, his fingers moving up and down the slender neck of wood. His grip was soft across the strings. He sang the words he had written for her.

  When the world is too unkind

  Look inside you, you will find

  The island place you call your home

  Reach for dreams, make them your own.

  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.

  If you promise to be my girl

  Take these wings made from a shell of pearl

  And when we’re apart

  My love will stay in your heart.

  I give you this butterfly

  Made from a shell of pearl

  Forever together

  You’re my frangipani girl.

  ‘Play it again, Kit.’ She was learning the words with every rendition. Her heart was singing.

  beyond the shadow

  Sydney, 1989

  We study criminal law in second year. Some of the cases seem like the winding plots of thriller movies. Some are B-grade. And there is of course always the courtroom scene where the accused stands in the dock, innocent until proven guilty. The lawyer for the accused must be a skilled advocate, and the Crown prosecutor is their opponent. Each puts forward their case. Each in turn cross-examines the witnesses.

  The accused must be proven guilty beyond the shadow of a reasonable doubt. Mens rea means criminal intent. Without it, murder might not be murder; it might be manslaughter. Murder trials are held before a judge and a jury of peers. The jury must be satisfied beyond reasonable doubt that the accused is guilty.

  ‘The number of Aboriginal people in our gaols is disproportionate to the general population figures,’ says our lecturer. ‘A Royal Commission is looking at the high number of Aboriginal deaths in custody.’

  We read an article from a law text that tells of the over-representation of Aboriginal people in gaols. I look around the room. I’m the only black person in this class. What does that say about our legal system? Am I on the right side of the law? Perhaps I’m guilty of thinking I can get through this law degree? I may have to plead temporary insanity. Perhaps I was provoked – it was merely an act of self-defence. I have the right to remain silent, however, and the right to be considered innocent until proven guilty. I stand beyond the shadow.

  madonna’s mirror

  Sydney, 1989

  I don’t think table one has been served their main course. I mill around the kitchen to check. Serge looks flustered. He pulls at the dockets pegged above the range.

  ‘Table one’s up!’ He swears in Italian. I don’t understand a word he’s saying, but it sounds like he’s really stressed.

  The woman at table fifteen doesn’t look happy. Her husband must have said something to upset her, or did the spaghetti arrabiata she ordered have too much chilli? I’m not sure chilli on its own can make a person cry. Not the small red bird’s-eye chillies that were in the antipasto, anyhow.

  Greasy pancetta. Bright red sun-dried tomatoes. I don’t think Serge thinks I’m moving fast enough. ‘Out, out,’ he yells as he throws the towel over his thick shoulder.

  I remember when I got this job. I’d just moved out of college into a three-bedroom terrace house in Paddington, sharing with two other students. The rent was eighty dollars a week. One boy was studying accounting but having a good time about it. He was out every night. His bed was mostly unslept in. When he did sleep in it, he was not often alone. The other tenant, a girl, was studying architecture. She had a big desk in the middle of her room and a single bed in the corner. I didn’t mind the house, although it was old and the toilet was still out the back. It was two bus rides from the university but close to restaurants. I walked the main street looking for waitressing jobs. I got mostly knockbacks until I walked into this place.

  ‘Where do you come from?’ Serge asked me.

  ‘I’m from Cairns,’ I told him.

  ‘But your dark skin, which country are you from?’

  ‘My grandparents are from the Torres Strait. You know, so I’m Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander. I also have –’

  ‘Oh, Mama mia, you can’t be.’ He said he’d been to the Northern Territory, where all the real Aborigines lived. ‘Oh, the piccaninnies there, they have snot hanging like candle wax from their noses. And the flies!’

  I once saw a fly in a plate of pasta. I watched Serge fish the black body out of the napoletana sauce with his ringed fingers before serving it to a customer. I’ve had this job for ten months now. I know the tables. I know the drill. But I can never know Serge’s moods.

  I don’t think the men on table nine need anything more to drink. I open another bottle of chianti, their fourth. I pour the wine. I stop pouring when the glass is half filled.

  ‘Keep going,’ they say. I fill the glass to a centimetre from the top, careful not to reach the rim, as that would be bad luck, according to my mother.

  ‘We’ve just been debating where you come from,’ says the guy with the striped tie.

  ‘I said Sri Lanka,’ says the second man.

  ‘No, I said Bali.’

  ‘I was born in north Queensland,’ I explain. People are always thinking I come from other lands. Someplace exotic like India, Brazil, Zimbabwe.

  ‘Yes, but we mean what country do you come from?’

  ‘Will somebody take this garlic bread?’ Serge bellows in the kitchen.

  A woman and two men on table twelve stop me as I serve the tortellini.

  ‘You must be new?’ says the woman, who has red lips and matching blouse. ‘You look exotic, those almond eyes.’

  ‘Are you married?’ asks one of the men.

  ‘No, I’m Torres Strait Islander and Aboriginal,’ I say.

  They laugh. ‘No, he meant are you married? He wanted to ask you out.’

  ‘Oh, I thought he said, Are you Maori?’

  The statue of the old man in the courtyard winks and the walls of the restaurant are like a mausoleum. There are marble faces and marble hearts at each of the tables. There is no joy serving the spiritless.

  My apron is tight around my waist. I catch my breath. The crowd at table six are complaining about the wait. Corinne has put out cutlery for their meal but the spoons and forks are too close to the knives for the plates to fit in between. Details, details. I don’t think details are on the menu, but I can see if there are any in the storage room, hidden below the boxes of carrots and rocket and the cans of tomatoes. I don’t think I’ve seen anything strange there. No gropes behind the thick stainless-steel door. We’re a waitress down a
t the moment. Tough. I have to work more shifts and shut my mouth. I’m a waitress to the whingeing. Here in this precocious town. My legs are moving. I’m an automaton.

  Now the man at table two is annoyed. ‘I don’t think the lasagne’s cooked. Take it back. Take it back.’

  I take it back. In the kitchen, Serge screams. The pan flies out the window and skids in the dirt in the courtyard, spilling veal saltimbocca over the ferns. The fronds are singed from the white wine and tomato sauce. I don’t think they will be able to photosynthesise.

  There’s no time to feed these starving masses the elixir of life; to promote their souls above this menu of languid linguine, penne patronising, spaced-out spaghetti, agnostic agnolotti, limp lasagne, veal very veracious, farfalle fucked and gnocchi knocked up.

  I go to take another order. The woman is playing with her fork, pressing down the prongs, so it sits up and falls. ‘Where do you come from?’ she asks.

  I wish I had twenty dollars for every time I’ve been asked that question. I would be rich and out of this restaurant. ‘Australia,’ I say.

  ‘No, I mean where were you born?’ The woman places her fork at the side of the white bowl.

  ‘I was born in Cairns, in north Queensland.’

  ‘Where are your parents from?’

  ‘I’m of mixed blood. Aboriginal, Malay, Torres Strait Islander.’

  It’s not what she wanted to hear. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Off the northern tip of Australia, off Cape York Peninsula. Do you know where that is? It’s between there and Papua New Guinea. Can I take your order?’

  ‘Oh? So you’re Aboriginal, like Coonardoo.’ She stresses the first syllable. She is looking at me, checking out my jeans, my belt and even my hair clip.

  ‘That book was written by some old white woman,’ I say. ‘It’s dated and gives a limited view of Aboriginal women.’