New Guinea Moon (24 page)

Julie tries to stay calm. ‘You didn't know about Helen?'

‘Not a bloody word.'

‘It's true. He gave her his surname; he's been paying her school fees all this time. And she — she looks like him.'

‘So you found her then?' Allan looks up sharply.

‘What about the mother?'

‘Helen told us she's married; she's got a new family. Helen wants to stay at the school, if she can. She's happy there, she's doing well.'

Allan passes a hand over his face. He says slowly, ‘There was that girl, the meri, when Mac first came up here
. . .
He said she ran off back home. Didn't think any more about it at the time.'

Ryan reaches eagerly for the photo, shaking his head. ‘The dirty dog!'

Wildly, Julie swings her fist into his face. There is a crunch of bone on bone. Ryan leaps backward, yelping, and clutches at his nose. Blood streams between his fingers. ‘Shit!'

Julie sees Simon turn away to hide a smile. ‘Sorry —' she says. ‘I didn't mean to —' Her hand stings, but she's determined not to show it.

Ryan stumbles toward the tiny bathroom. He emerges a moment later, trailing streamers of bloodied toilet paper, his hands pressed to his face. He stares accusingly at Julie, then at his father. ‘Did you see that?' he demands.

Allan is unmoved. ‘You had it coming.' He gathers up the papers and stuffs them back into the envelope. ‘Okay. I can see why you went rushing off. But you should have told us what was going on.'

‘I couldn't wait,' mumbles Julie. ‘I left a message with Teddie. I needed to see Helen — to tell her —'

Allan breaks in. ‘Your mother's here.'

‘
Here?
' Incredulous, Julie cranes past him.

‘In Hagen. She arrived this morning. Not keeping people informed of your movements runs in the family, apparently. She nearly went berserk when we couldn't track you down. That's why we're here. She's come to take you home.'

Julie sits down on the end of the bed. ‘Oh.'

Alan consults his heavy, complicated airman's watch. ‘We've got time to make it if we leave now. The clouds have cleared.'

‘You flew here?'

‘Of course,' says Ryan, muffled by wads of toilet paper.

Julie shoots Simon a quick, anxious glance. ‘I'd rather drive back with Simon tomorrow
. . .
'

Ryan snorts. ‘Yeah, I'll bet. You reckon we'd let you stay another night?'

Allan says briskly, ‘Driving back will take too long. Your mum wants to see you ASAP.'

Simon says, ‘I can't drive back today. I'm bushed, I need some sleep.'

‘So you didn't get any last night, then?' jeers Ryan. ‘Sleep, I mean —'

Allan rounds on him. ‘Do you want a smack from me as well? Go and wait for us outside.'

Ryan's mouth falls open. ‘But —'

‘Get out!' bellows Allan.

Silently Ryan pulls open the door and sulks outside.

‘We didn't,' says Julie. ‘Me and Simon, we didn't —'

Allan holds up a hand to stop her. ‘I don't want to know. Come on, love, get your things together.'

Julie picks up her shoulder bag, and shuffles her feet into her shoes. She looks helplessly at Simon. ‘The room's paid for. You can stay here tonight.'

He nods his head.

‘Thanks — for coming with me,' she says.

He smiles. ‘No worries.'

‘Wrap it up, love,' says Allan. ‘Time to say goodbye.'

Simon holds out his hand for her to shake, and it's not until that instant that Julie understands that this is really goodbye, that she may not see him again, that this could actually be the final moment. She doesn't want to shake his hand; she doesn't want to say goodbye that way. But she can't, she can't kiss him with Allan standing there.

She takes his hand and whispers, ‘Goodbye, Simon.'

He holds her hand without shaking it; he holds it in his. His eyes are dark and bright. ‘Goodbye, Julie.'

Allan clears his throat. ‘You've got one minute,' he growls, and bangs the door behind him.

Goroka airport in is the middle of town. Julie sits on a plastic chair. It feels strange to be on the passenger's side of the waiting room instead of bustling about behind the counter. She clasps her shoulder bag on her lap. Her fingernails dig into her arms, carving tiny moons into her flesh. Ryan has gone for a walk; he's pacing up and down under the covered walkway outside.

Allan comes back. He says, ‘We've got a slot in half an hour.'

Julie looks up at him blankly.

Allan sits down beside her. For a moment he says nothing, then he clears his throat and says gruffly, ‘I'll keep an eye on the little girl for you.'

Julie rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. She says, haltingly, ‘Simon suggested something about a trust — maybe you and Patrick Murphy and he could be in charge of it — and the head of Helen's school? Or Helen's mother? I don't know how that stuff works.'

She wishes she could take charge of all this herself. It occurs to her that, before she came to New Guinea, it would never have crossed her mind to
want
to take charge.

‘Don't worry about it,' says Allan. ‘I'll send you quarterly reports, how about that? We'll manage.' He drops his meaty hand onto her shoulder. ‘I promise.'

‘I just wish —' She gives up trying to pretend that she isn't crying. ‘I wish I could stay. I don't want to go back down south.'

‘Yeah, well,' says Allan grimly. ‘You and me both, kiddo.'

Julie gulps and wipes her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Barbara wants to go back to Australia, doesn't she?'

‘She is going,' says Allan. ‘And the kids. And probably the bloody dog while they're at it.'

Julie stares at him. ‘But — you're not?'

‘There's nothing back there for me.' He gazes out at the Goroka airstrip, with its backdrop of mountains and high, rolling cloud. He says, ‘My whole life is up here. If I go down south, I may as well shoot myself.'

Julie stares out through the glass. From the corner of her eye, she can see Ryan, marching moodily up and down, his head lowered, kicking at pebbles. She wonders why he and Nadine and Barbara don't count as being part of Allan's
whole life
. Her heart feels hollowed out, as fragile as a blown eggshell.

Allan says abruptly, ‘Don't mention it to the kids, eh? We haven't told them yet.'

‘So — does that mean you and Barbara will be getting divorced?'

Allan lifts his shoulders and lets them drop. He sits with his hands clasped between his knees. His face looks grey and old and hopeless.

Julie picks up his hand. He looks down at her, startled, but she doesn't let go, and they sit there, staring out at the pale sky, waiting until it's time to fly.

24

It's almost dark. Julie leans her head against the car window and gazes up at the interlaced branches of hibiscus that weave a perforated canopy over the Crabtrees' driveway.

Allan stops the car.

‘Julie! Julie!'

Her mother is running to meet her, sweeping her into a hug. Julie stumbles against her, shocked. Caroline hardly ever hugs her
. . .
But Julie can't help clinging to her, to her familiar mum smell, and tears spring to her eyes.

‘Oh, darling,' says Caroline, holding her tightly. ‘This is such an awful thing to happen to you — to lose your father —'

Julie pulls herself away. She says, ‘It didn't happen to me. It happened to Tony.'

‘Well, yes, but —' Caroline frowns, then smiles uncertainly. She puts up a tentative hand and brushes back Julie's hair. ‘You look different. You've got a tan.'

‘Sorry,' Julie says. ‘I'm — really tired.'

Caroline drops her hand. ‘Of course. Of course you are.'

‘Hot bath for you, I think,' says Barbara briskly. ‘And then bed.' She puts her arm around Julie and leads her into the house. Behind them, Julie can hear Caroline's anxious, questioning voice, and the low, impatient growl of Allan's answers. A car door slams, more violently than necessary — that must be Ryan.

She bolts the bathroom door and slides into the warm bath, all the way down so that the water closes over her ears. All the voices, all the noises of the house — Roxy barking, Ryan stomping around in the kitchen on the hunt for food, calling to Koki, the thumping of the stereo, Nadine's shrill singing — it all merges into an indistinct hum, and she doesn't have to listen any more.

Caroline knocks, but doesn't wait for an answer before she pokes her head around the bedroom door. ‘I've brought you a Milo.'

‘Oh. Thanks.'

‘There's no proper milk, I'm afraid.'

‘That's okay, I'm used to it now. I like it.'

Caroline perches on the other bed while Julie sips, more from politeness than because she really wants the drink. The smell of the warm milk makes her feel slightly sick. After a pause, her mother says, ‘Would you like me to brush your hair?'

Julie can't help pulling a face. ‘You haven't done that since I was ten!'

‘Maybe I could read to you for a while?'

‘I haven't got a book
. . .
'

‘Okay.' Another pause. ‘Is there anything you'd like to talk about, darling?'

Julie sets down her mug on the bedside table and tries to smile. ‘Maybe later? I'm pretty tired. I think I'd just like to go to sleep now.'

‘All right.'

But Caroline lingers, sitting on the bed. She says, ‘This really is an extraordinary place, isn't it? The people are so poor, there's so much need. I had no idea
. . .
and it's so close by. I was really shocked. The conditions, the dirt, the disease
. . .
All those poor little children
. . .
'

Julie thinks of the kids
gumi
-ing down the river in rubber tyres, shrieking with delight. She thinks of Miss Elliot and Helen, and kind, capable Dulcie. She thinks of dependable Koki and strong Moses and canny, shrewd Joseph from the HAC terminal. She remembers the raskols, with machetes in their belts, and the burglar who casually strolled away. She thinks of the bustle of the market, and the deep peace of the bush. But she can't find the words to convey all this to Caroline. She says, ‘There's more to it than that, Mum. It's beautiful, too.'

‘Well, yes, I suppose so,' says Caroline. ‘But you shouldn't romanticise a place just because it has a beautiful landscape. You have to look beyond the physical beauty; you have to see past the picturesque. That's a typical colonial reaction
. . .
'

‘You only just got here! You don't know anything about it! You're not an expert on everything, you know —' A pause. ‘Sorry, Mum.'

‘You're tired,' says Caroline. ‘It's all right. We can talk in the morning.'

She leans across awkwardly to kiss Julie's cheek. Julie lies stiffly, her arms by her sides.

‘Good night, darling.'

‘Night.'

Caroline snaps off the light, and tiptoes out of the room. Julie lies on her back, gazing at the roof. She can hear the words coming out of her own mouth, when she speaks to her mother:
being difficult
. She doesn't want to be mean to her, but it's as if she can't help resisting. She doesn't want to be Caroline's daughter again, not yet, not here. Not in this place where she is Tony's daughter, even now that Tony has gone.

Nadine's poster of a horse's head looms over her, staring down with huge, liquid eyes. Murmuring voices float down the corridor from the living room; she strains to make out what they're saying, but she can't hear. The music has stopped.

There is a tap at the door. ‘It's me,' hisses Nadine.

‘Can I come in?'

‘It's your room.' Julie sits up.

Nadine bounds onto the bed. ‘Jeez, Ryan's really pissed off with you,' she announces cheerfully. ‘What happened to his nose? Did Simon Murphy punch him?'