Butterfly Song Read online

  ‘No,’ she whispered as she watched the turning water. It was a small word. Even smaller as it passed through dry lips. ‘No, don’t wash Kit away.’

  But he was here now. She looked towards his face and begged him to stroke her hair. ‘I am so afraid. I am so weary. Why have you left me?’

  ‘You’ll be all right. I am by your side.’ His voice was like singing.

  ‘Where are you?’ Her tears tasted like the sea.

  ‘I am by your side,’ he repeated.

  She reached out but felt nothing. ‘I cannot touch you.’ Her eyes shone in the moonlight. The pupils were enlarged. ‘I’m scared to be alone,’ Francesca whispered softly.

  ‘I am in your heart.’ His voice was comforting.

  He sang. Her eyes were heavy from three sleepless days. She rested her head on the pillow. His song drew her towards the island. She flew on pearly wings. Looking down, she saw colourful flowers – frangipanis, poincianas, hibiscuses. She was floating above the scent, with the sun warm in her heart.

  Later that night, a song in her head interrupted Francesca’s dreaming state, forcing its way down towards her chest to beat like a heart. In the morning she woke feeling strangely rested. The pearl butterfly was in her hand. She’d held it so tight as she dreamt that it had dug into her skin. There was a red imprint on her palm. It ran across the lifeline.

  plaster of paris

  Thursday Island, 1992

  Uncle Tally comes back from the bar with two beers. ‘What’s your mum doing?’ he asks.

  ‘She’s lying down having a rest.’

  ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘She’s just tired. It’s bringing up a lot of memories for her. She was talking earlier about the day Grandad Kit died.’

  ‘She was just a small child,’ Uncle Tally says. ‘It’s a strong memory.’

  ‘Do you remember much about that day?’ I ask.

  ‘I remember when we took him to the hospital, they put plaster on his leg and hitched it up to the ceiling. I guess they wanted to keep the pressure off it.’ Uncle Tally raises his stubby cooler and takes a sip of beer. ‘I remember the smell of plaster of Paris. It was so fast. One day he was fine and the next sick, and then dying.’

  Uncle keeps talking. ‘And now, Tarena,’ he shakes his head slowly, ‘do you know, to this day, I can’t even stand the smell of talcum powder?’

  ‘It wouldn’t happen today.’ I think of those big long needles you are supposed to have every ten years. When I broke my arm I had one. It hurt, though I did not cry.

  My head is swaying. I have had too much to drink. Uncle keeps on with his yarn.

  ‘I really missed him,’ he says. ‘I was only six, but I remember him clearly. He used to double me on the old bike. In the cane season he used to burn cane late into the afternoon.

  ‘We had a big frangipani tree in the backyard in Gordonvale. The house was next to the railway line. We had chickens. And in the garden there were roses – red, pink and some were yellow. If I picked the flowers, Dad would chase me down the street with his belt. But there was a place under the house that only kids could get to. I used to crawl there and wait.

  ‘Dad used to dive for pearl shells. He had a little bag he used to show me. And he made things, carved things from pearl shells. He made Mum that butterfly. She used to wear it as a pendant around her neck. There was a big verandah that went around the house where he kept his tools.’

  ‘I’m leaving early in the morning for Cairns,’ I say. ‘To start work on trying to stop the butterfly being sold. It won’t be easy because it all happened so long ago.’ I scratch the top of my head and attempt to smile.

  ‘If there’s anything I can help you with, let me know.’ He takes a sip of his beer.

  Outside, a thunderstorm has crept up from the sea, splashing purple, blue, white and orange lights beyond the invisible horizon and into the abyss. I am scared to go back to the motel alone. It feels eerie.

  ‘Another drink?’ says Uncle.

  ‘Why not?’

  stars and spirits

  Thursday Island, 1992

  My last night on the island is hot. The ceiling fan pushes hot air around the room. Mum is sewing the hem of my skirt by hand and fixing buttons on my shirt. It reminds me of when I was a kid and she made me my first Holy Communion dress. She stayed up late at night embroidering flowers on the white bodice.

  I stand at the window and watch the clouds sweep across the face of the moon, making the night brighter. The leaves of a palm tree move with the breeze, sliding around the edges of the window frame like sad fingers.

  I remember lying in bed at night as a kid, sweating with fear, the covers up to my nose. Outside, the white and yellow flowers would be swaying. My eyes would be itchy. So too my neck, legs, arms, behind my ears. My heavy, metal heart would be in my throat. Shadows would crawl up the wall like a creeping ghoul. I could hear every sound. Sleepless, I would lie with my eyes open until the rooster from the house across the road began to crow. But now I don’t fear the night, or the moon or the stars.

  When Mum finishes sewing she reads a magazine. She finishes one magazine, then bends forward to get another.

  The drinks have given me confidence to confront her. ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, honey.’

  ‘I don’t know if I want to be a lawyer. I don’t know if law is the right job for me.’ I wish now I had told her over the telephone – there’d be thousands of miles of telephone cable between us and I wouldn’t have to see her startled face or her flaming eyes. I wouldn’t have to watch her display of wild body movements.

  ‘What? You can’t give up.’ She pulls her chair back and the magazine falls to the linoleum floor. With her hands she strokes her forehead. Two lines have formed between her eyebrows. ‘If you have a problem, why can’t you tell me about it?’

  ‘It’s not a secret. I’m not sure I’m going to pass.’

  ‘You don’t know that. You haven’t even got your results.’

  ‘Even if I pass, what sort of job can I get? Who would give me a job?’

  ‘Have you tried to get one?’

  ‘I had one or two interviews, but I didn’t show up.’

  ‘Didn’t show up? You’re smart. You can get a good job.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a lawyer.’

  ‘But you’re going to work on this case for us. Getting the butterfly back. That will help you.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s different. It’s not a real case.’

  ‘It’s a start. You’ve got to take the opportunity.’ My mother pleads with me. ‘I had to leave school in grade eight. We never had the opportunities you kids have today. I worked with school kids but I wanted to be a teacher. Then I got married and had my own kids, and it was too hard to study with a family in those days.’

  ‘You did okay.’

  ‘I suppose I did. But you can do better. I only had a mother until I was eight, you know, and she worked hard to give me all she could.’

  I am silent. Waiting to hear things she has never said.

  I follow her out into the courtyard, where she lights a cigarette. We look up at the stars.

  ‘The stars are the eyes of the spirits,’ she says. ‘They watch over us. That carved butterfly is very important to this family and we must have it back.’

  I laugh uneasily. She unnerves me when she talks like that. ‘Do you believe in spirits?’

  ‘I believe the ancestors look after us. They try to help us out, tell us things. Like that guitar falling off the wall. It was a sign from my dad.’

  ‘What do you think he was trying to tell us?’

  ‘To get the butterfly back. It’s something very special to us. Mum had it all the time. She treasured it. She used to wear it on certain occasions, like Dad’s birthday. It kept her strong after he passed away.’

  ‘Why didn’t it keep him strong enough to live?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe there’s something in that too. Your grandfather was supposed to
be a pearl diver, but he gave it up to sing and play the guitar.’

  ‘But he worked in the sugarcane fields. How come he didn’t sing?’

  ‘It was the 1940s,’ she says. ‘Dreams of singing couldn’t be realised by a black man in those days. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if my parents hadn’t moved to Cairns. If they had stayed on here at Thursday Island.’

  I am silent again, not sure if she wants me to answer. I sway in the light of the moon. The stars are eyes. The darkness has ears.

  ‘You know, one day something can happen and it can change your whole life. Perhaps it’s destiny, or fate. Call it what you will, but you can end up with a totally different life for yourself, and even your children. Then it’s hard to turn back that course. It’s already begun.’ Her eyes are gazing at the heavens. ‘Well, I guess they’re up there looking down now. There’s no turning back.’

  That night in bed I think about stars. I can see them clearly out here, but in the city they’re hidden. How could I forget about the stars? They’re always up there looking down on me. I dream of a galaxy where the stars cling and hang to comfort the living. There I am with my needle and silver diread, sewing the stars on the night-sky blanket. I am stitching neatly as I go, my eyebrows knitted in concentration. And I make two constellations: the frangipani woman and the guitar man.

  the musician

  Thursday Island, 1992

  In the morning I pack my bag for Cairns. On the jetty, I face the group of people who have come to see me off.

  ‘That wongai fruit, did you eat it?’ asks Uncle Ron.

  ‘I had a little taste at the feast,’ I say.

  ‘Well, now you’ll be coming back. That’s what the people who come back always say. They come back for that taste.’ He hugs me as I board the ferry.

  ‘See you in Cairns next week,’ my mother calls.

  I watch as they grow smaller, my mother’s figure among them. She is staying on for another few days. I am going to Cairns to start the case and do some research in the library.

  I stand there alone with the sound of the sea filling my ears. I remember the sound a shell makes when you put it to your ear. The sound of the waves. It creates lightness of the heart.

  I have a feeling I am being watched. I look up to see a man smiling at me. It’s the guy who was playing the guitar at the tombstone opening.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, ‘I saw you at the tombstone opening.’

  ‘Were you there too?’

  We both stare back at the island.

  ‘Yes. It was a good night.’

  He takes the bag from his shoulder and places it on the floor. ‘I’m Sam. Was it your first time on the island?’

  I nod. ‘And my first tombstone opening. We grew up in Cairns and then we moved to Canberra.’ Standing next to me, he makes me feel small. He’s at least a head taller than me. His shoulders are straight and wide.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

  ‘Tarena.’ I try to return his confident tone, but I sound wishy-washy, like a schoolgirl.

  When the ferry lands on Horn Island we are bussed to the airport. The luggage is unloaded onto a small truck. I notice a guitar case with coloured stickers covering it.

  ‘Is that your guitar?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, I’m doing a gig in Cairns, and then I’m joining up with some other guys and we’re going to record an album in Broome.’

  ‘That’s cool,’ says the schoolgirl. Shut up, I say to myself.

  We board the plane together. Sam is so tall he has to bend his head under the entrance door.

  ‘Hi, Sam,’ says the flight attendant. After take-off she hands him a beer.

  ‘Thanks, Linda.’

  ‘Would you like anything?’ she asks me.

  ‘I’ll have a white wine, thanks.’

  ‘So how are you related to Aunty Janine?’

  ‘She’s my grandfather’s sister.’ We explain to each other our family trees, or what I know of mine.

  ‘You’ve been away for a long time.’

  ‘Yeah. What about you?’

  ‘I’m a close friend of Uncle Ron’s son. We went to school together.’ Sam tells me he lives in Cairns but comes here a few times a year. He works at the Department of Education but wants to be a musician. He’s taken leave without pay to try and get it together.

  I tell him I’m studying law.

  ‘What’s it like at law school?’

  ‘It’s okay. I had my final exam last month.’

  ‘So you’re a lawyer?’

  ‘Well, not yet. I don’t know if I passed. I haven’t lined up a job yet, and then I have to do the practical training course. I don’t know really what I want to do – that is, if I haven’t failed my exam.’

  ‘You’ll be right.’ He rubs his hands.

  ‘I hope so.’ I soothe the skin on the back of my legs.

  ‘I’m spending a few days in Cairns. Would you like to come along to my gig?’ Sam asks.

  I say yes, forgetting that I have a lot of work to do, a lot of thinking and planning for how I’m going to stop the sale of the butterfly.

  monkey face

  Sydney, 1990

  For an arts–law degree you do a combination of arts subjects with the law. In first year you start with three, then you go down to two in second year, and finish with two more in the third year. I am studying psychology as one of my arts subjects. It is a slow afternoon at university. We are talking in class about the psychoanalyst Abraham Maslow. My lecturer waves the paper in front of his face like a fan.

  ‘Abraham Maslow was the father of Self. His theories expound the basic tenet of the human condition, the desire for self-actualisation.’

  I take notes quickly to keep up with his voice. He draws a breath and I realise I have written ‘tenant’ instead of ‘tenet’. I correct it.

  ‘Maslow did an experiment with baby monkeys,’ the lecturer is saying. ‘He took them away from their mothers and left them in a room with manikins. The baby monkeys would cling to these motionless mothers, made out of steel and plastic, for comfort.

  ‘This clinical experiment showed that the monkeys wanted to bond with a mother figure, anything for comfort.’ The lecturer moves from the lectern to the blackboard and writes a word in capitalised letters with a stub of chalk that is like the butt of a menthol cigarette.

  ‘Conditioning. What does this show about the human condition?’

  ‘It’s so cruel,’ says a woman at the front of the class. ‘It shows how cruel humans can be to animals in the name of science.’ I can see she has pictures of cats on her folder.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that about experiments like this. But they’re done in order to find out more about humans, so that we can know more about ourselves. What the experiments show is that there’s a basic animal instinct for a mother’s love and nurturing.’

  In the textbook there are little black-and-white monkey faces. Their eyes are wet and their lips are full and pouting. The babies cling to the fake mothers. The fuzzy monkey faces stare up into the camera and out at me from the page. What about the mothers? I cannot help wondering what the mother monkeys must have been feeling. Has anyone done a study on them? In my mind, this is a significant part of the overall experiment. I have reread the chapter, and for all my circling of words with my blue pen, it does not say anything about that at all.

  lucky country

  Sydney, 1990

  In a musty hall I read the exam questions. I should be getting used to this by now. This is my final arts subject and next year will be straight law.

  Is Australia the Lucky Country? The question is a reference to the book by Professor Donald Horne. I am not sure how to answer it. You can’t touch your pens, it’s just reading time, choosing time, taking time to think. Are we a lucky nation? That book was written in 1964. It’s not the 1960s any more. I wasn’t born until 1969, and the sixties are definitely over.

  ‘Start,’ says the elderly woman with the pink and blue
poncho. She knits with brown wool as another woman draws a clock with hands on the whiteboard. The girl next to me has already started. Her pen is moving fast, making a clicking sound on the thin wood of the desk. My hand moves slowly. There is a lot of crossing out on my page, but I keep the pen moving.

  When I get out of the exam room, I do not remember if I answered yes or no. The words on my pages were just a series of references to other people’s thinking. How do I know what I think? Do I feel lucky? Were my parents and grandparents feeling lucky? I can’t begin to try to explain how I feel. It’s like trying to describe my life starting from the pasting of cottonwool balls in my second-grade book. Like trying to grasp something that is there but untouchable.

  the frangipani house

  Cairns, 1992

  My mother left Canberra after Shane finished high school. I was already at university when she and my father split up. She moved back to the place she felt so at home in.

  Her house is small and surrounded by frangipani trees. I am a bit scared to stay here by myself. I am reminded of the made-up story my mother told me about the frangipani woman who was afraid to leave her island. I imagine her sad, tired and crying.

  Why are you crying?

  I am crying because he has not come back.

  Who are you waiting for?

  My lover.

  Are you evil?

  I am not evil, as they would have you believe.

  You are scary, they say.

  Don’t be frightened. I was once beautiful and young, with soft black hair and a tender face. I would dance under the frangipani tree waiting for my lover. I felt love, but now I have lost the ability to feel.