Skins (10 page)

Jansen's bulk filled the doorway, his two men behind him. They scraped the dirt with their feet and roughly pushed the chairs away from the table. She knew he wouldn't have entered had Anderson been there. She ignored them.

‘Make us a tea, my lovely.'

The other two smiled sickly. From the corner of her eye she noticed Mooney slip outside.

‘Get it yourself … Anyway, what are you doing here? If Anderson sees you, he'll have you.'

Jansen moved his thick forearm across the table, sliding it back and forth.

‘Aye. He won't be back for a while and we got important things to discuss.'

Dorothea raised her eyebrows.

‘So … get us a cup of tea.'

She got up from the table and poured tea into three cups.

‘So what are you up to then?'

Jansen looked across the table at the other two men.

‘Perfect weather for sailing.'

‘There's no wind,' said Dorothea as she pushed a cup towards him.

‘Aye 'tis changing … it'll be from the east by morning.'

His face was raw and his lower lip black from bleeding blisters. He brought the tea up to his mouth but before he swallowed he cleared his throat and spat sideways onto the floor. Light shone through the gaps in the wall and striped their faces. They drained the contents of their cups. Black creased knuckles, yellowed and broken nails.

‘Are you leaving?' she asked.

He studied her and wiped the whiskers above his mouth with his hand. She thought there had probably been a time when he had been considered handsome, but the grog had reddened his skin and clouded his eyes.

‘You can't tell anyone. Not even that sister.'

‘What is it?' she asked. ‘Are you leaving us here?'

He leant back and folded his arms behind his head. Eyes narrowed.

‘Could take you, I suppose. What do you think lads?'

‘Anderson'll kill you if he finds out.'

‘He ain't going to, is he?'

She looked down at her hands that were holding the edge of the table. Her knuckles were white. She wanted to leave the island. They all wanted to. But she couldn't leave her sister. And besides, did she really trust Jansen to make it back to the Sound?

‘Who are you taking?'

‘You don't know anything.'

He reached over and wrapped his coarse fingers around her wrist. He grinned and his eyes were sparkling slits. She tried to pull away but he held more tightly. They laughed as she struggled some more. Finally he let go but not before he had pressed hard enough to leave red welts on her skin. She turned away from the table, rubbing her wrist.

She struggled to get the lid off the keg of flour. She left the storeroom for a knife and returned. It was musty and lit only by a gap between the walls and the eaves. Drums and two large chests were against the wall and on the floor was a pile of kangaroo, tammar and seal skins. Rope and twine of twisted grass and roo tendons lay coiled amongst them. She prised the keg open. It was the flour saved from the
Mountaineer
. How long would she be on the island if she didn't leave with Jansen? It seemed that supplies were low. They brewed ti-tree leaves instead of tea. Men were running out of tobacco. But the vegetable seedlings were sprouting in the garden.

She returned to the kitchen with her bowl of flour. By the fire she picked out the maggots. They sizzled as they hit the coals. She remembered being in the inn with her sister and Matthew. They had just returned from organising their passage on the
Mountaineer
and Captain Jansen had arranged to meet them. She didn't realise that Matthew had promised to introduce her. Jansen was clean-shaven then, except for a ginger moustache which he waxed at the ends, and his eyes were clear and the palest blue. He had looked into her eyes instead of letting them wander over her face and her neck and her chest.

So she had listened and smiled. There was nothing for her at the Sound. After they set sail she realised her mistake. He was no different from the others. In fact she would've been surprised if he had even bought her a gown. Thankfully he had left her alone on the island but she guessed it was because he hadn't wanted to draw attention to himself. He was such a fool, she thought. Why had he brought them here? He must have known what another boat was worth to a sealer.

She poured some water from the pail into the flour. With the bowl nestled between her thighs, she plunged her hands into the mixture, squeezing it between her fingers. She widened her hands and took in the whole mass, punching and rolling and working it into a stiff dough. She glanced over her shoulder. Jansen was watching. She clenched her teeth and took the dough out of the bowl. She laid it on the cloth that was the reverse side of a kangaroo skin. She shaped the dough into a loaf of about four inches by eight inches then brushed it with dry flour. Then she dug out a hole in the fireplace and placed the loaf in it, covering the top with hot ashes.

The smell of bread baking filled the air. It wafted through the camp and brought the men through the door like flies to rotting meat. She wiped her hands on her skirts and pushed back the strands of hair that were stuck to her face. Matthew entered, followed by Church. She hadn't seen Church since the fight. It hadn't really been a fight, more like a performance by one of Jansen's crew who had it in for Church. One afternoon she and her sister had come through the trees to find Church on his back in the dirt. The man was standing over him. Men were jeering and joking. The man had a knife that was long and curved and it flashed when he twirled it with both hands above his head. He pointed it towards Church, the body in black. The man's face was expressionless except for his eyes. They were bright with excitement. The tip caught the fabric of the stock and he hooked it slowly and it tore. Everyone watched Church's eyes roll around in their sockets. She was unable to move. She had almost wanted to clap as though she'd just witnessed the act of a street performer. Afterwards she knew she hadn't wanted him hurt, but when Mead stopped the man from going any further, she had felt almost as disappointed as the rest of them. The cut on Church's face was still raw. He would be left with a scar. Church took a seat at the end of the table. She wondered if he knew of Jansen's plans. Matthew sat against the wall. He looked around nervously as though he was expecting something to happen.

Church laid a stack of paperbark on the table and placed a limpet shell beside it. He filled the shell with thick, bright red liquid from a small flask. He also took from his pocket the quill of a big gull. Dorothea stood over him.

‘What's that?' she asked.

‘Seal's blood, I'm going to write in seal's blood,' he said.

Dorothea looked at Matthew. He shrugged his shoulders. Jansen heard and laughed unpleasantly.

‘What are you writing? Help?'

The others sniggered.

Dorothea picked up a sheet of paperbark. It was soft and spongy and cream coloured. On the other side were pink fibres. Gently she prised the creamy layers apart into single sheets that were clean and firm.

‘What are you going to write?'

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘Something, perhaps, about where we are.'

January 1886

George and I were married only ten years ago. Does that surprise you? I was fifty-nine years old before I was married in a church. It was the Wesleyan Church behind my house in Duke Street. I wore a gown of white merino with a white satin bonnet and fall. George also bought me a China crepe shawl which hangs behind the door.

Middle Island 1835, James Manning

Manning pretended to look away when Dorothea spoke to Jem. But he watched her from the corner of his eye and then more openly as she turned and followed her sister into the hut. She walked with a straight back, her hair swaying across her shoulders. He swallowed loudly and turned his attention to Jem who was bent over a piece of skin. He frowned and decided that Jem was useless. He took the piece of skin from his hands.

‘Here, like this.'

He poked the leather strip through the hole using the tip of his knife. He handed it back to Jem who took it, but when he looked down, hair fell into his eyes. Irritated, Jem pushed the curls off his face. But they continued to fall into his eyes. So with the knife he hacked off his fringe and brushed the hair from his knees.

Manning glimpsed someone hovering behind a wattle tree at the edge of the clearing. He remained out of sight until Manning decided he must have gone. But then he saw his head around one side looking behind the camp. It was that rat, Owens. The bastard was up to something. Then he noticed the young boy coming down through the trees from the granite. He passed Owens and continued towards the beach. Owens was visible now. He seemed to be waiting. Shifting his balance from one leg to another. He looked towards the hut and saw Manning. Manning turned away. When he looked up again, Owens had gone.

‘Jem …'

Jem's mouth was twisted and he frowned as he concentrated.

‘What?'

‘I've got to see what that bastard's up to.'

‘Who?'

‘That bleedin' rat.'

Manning sprang up. When Jem looked up he had disappeared between the trees.