Skins (15 page)

She moved away from the smoke into the damp dark recesses of the room. The walls huddled around and thin pieces of stringy-bark hung drably from timber posts. She ran her hand over the table's rough surface and heard the rustling of a small creature in the eaves. Leaves and sticks scratched the roof as the wind pushed them back and forth. Looking around she noticed the half-empty barrel of black-strap stowed in the corner.

The top was firmly fastened. She found a knife and levered it off. She dipped her cup and covered the bottom. Just for a taste. She leant against the wall and stretched her legs out in front of her. Nestled in the dark corner behind the table, she was hidden from anyone entering. The fire burnt weakly and produced purple clouds that hung in the middle of the room. They tumbled about, turning this way and that and drifting up towards the roof. Dusty spiders' webs hung like clotted pieces of silver from beams and were bunched into corners. Her backside was cold and numb but then after a while she wasn't sure where the ground ended and her body began. Feet came in and out of the hut. Some stayed for a while, resting under the table. A pair of boots grinned where the soles were falling away. They were battered and scuffed. And there were feet that were black with soil and sores. She knew at the time whose they were but now she couldn't remember. Someone giggled and she smiled too. Then she opened her eyes. The black women were above her.

She could hardly see them for the fire had gone out. But she held up the cup that had been refilled more times than she could remember and muttered for them to sit down. Dinah took it from her. She dipped the cup into the keg and settled beside Dorothea. The others sat down and they passed the cup around. Dorothea nodded enthusiastically. Shy smiles flashed white like the bone around Dinah's neck. Dinah and Sal spoke to each other in their own language. Mooney handed her the cup. She drank some more. Dorothea said something. Dinah answered in English and although Dorothea wasn't sure what she said, it didn't matter. They all grinned. Time swelled and contracted. She basked in the warmth of their eyes and the grog wound its way round her body.

A woman's wail broke into her soft-edged thoughts and sharpened their focus. She was surprised they were still there. Not that she could see them for it was dark, but she sensed them. She couldn't stop her hands from shaking. She was cold and everything felt strange. She couldn't move. Whatever it was that they were doing, it resonated through her body. The sounds and the rhythm of their music combined to become a thread of sorrow that wound around them and wove them together.

She cried for their helplessness. But their broken voices continued their story and then, without warning, they stopped and she heard footsteps and men's voices. Dread loomed large like a bad spirit. She had to get up. But it was too late. Anderson was standing over them. He drew one of them up and threw her over the table. The women stayed silent. Dorothea was pulled by her hair and held against the wall. The hand around her neck was rough and tight. She saw over his shoulder in the flickering light the shadows of the women on the wall as they got up from the floor and slipped into the darkness. She also saw her brother keep his face to the fire as he fed it with more wood.

The firelight caught one eye and it was hard and cruel. The other was in shadow. Her consciousness retreated to a dark corner and it was as though she was peeking through a crack in the door at something that didn't involve her. There was no fear only vague curiosity as to what would happen next. Her arms were limp by her side. She heard him but it was a voice from a distance, then his hand left her neck and she was flung across the room. She almost fell but he was behind her again and he pulled her into the other room where she fell into a pile of skins. She lay still. But there was no movement behind her. She inhaled the deep musky scent of the fur and moved her face against its softness. So soft like silk, turning her head to look into the semi-darkness, but he had gone. She didn't move but then the fight had left her anyway.

Sometime later but she wasn't sure how much later a triangle of yellow light passed across the wall. Anderson held the lamp out in front of him and black animals prowled the room. She was lying on her side. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him move across the room and set the lamp down and then the animals were still. She curled herself into a tighter curve. He was standing at her feet.

‘Think I prefer you anyway.'

She closed her eyes.

‘Or maybe I'll have you both.' He chuckled to himself.

‘No!'

Her head swung around and she looked up at him, wide-eyed. He started to unbutton his trousers but then he stopped. He knelt down and pulled her legs so that she was lying on her back.

‘Take off your gown.'

No one had ever asked her to take off her clothes. She wrapped her arms over her breasts and stared up into his face. It wasn't that she was scared, it was just that it was unnatural. The whites around his eyes weren't as white as she'd thought. More like yellow with a lot of spidery red lines. And his eyes, they bulged a bit and were big and round. And they were so dark that she couldn't make out the coloured bit from the black circle in the middle. They were sort of expressionless like he hated her. Just before his fist connected with her jaw she knew he was going to hit her. The side of her face burnt and her ear rang. Salty liquid seeped onto her tongue.

He wavered through the watery film in her eyes. Slowly she sat up and looked down at her feet which were bare. She edged back to the wall behind her and slid up it. He watched as though he expected her to come at him like some old klapmatch. She leant sideways against it, facing away from him, slowly reaching for her buttons. Edging her shoulder, rounded and white, from the top of the gown, the fabric peeling away like the skin from a seal, and she stood huddled and cold against the prickly timber. He came closer and pulled her wrist so that she stood facing him and he stepped back, eyes narrowed and breathing louder. She watched the insects flying into the lamp. He came towards her again and placed a hand on her breast. She looked down as it covered the rounded mound of her skin. His touch was hot and almost gentle but the rest of it wasn't. Crushed by his weight, the wet salt of his sweat and the rank odour of his breath, she lay without moving beneath him. When he rolled off, the cold air seared her raw skin.

‘Get out,' he said.

She fumbled for her gown and dressed in front of him, and as she left she glanced over her shoulder at his naked body. She clutched the side of the doorway as she passed into the other room, unsteady on her feet. Orange eyes winked in the hearth. She felt her way around the table and chairs to where she knew there was a pail of water. The only sound was that of her feet shuffling across the floor. Perhaps they were the only ones left. Perhaps the others were dead, or maybe they had left in Anderson's boat. Thunder rattled the rafters and she jumped. But she knew that was fanciful too. She could see plates and fish heads on the table. The wet dirt stuck to her feet. It had been raining. She had forgotten where she had left her boots. But it didn't really matter for they weren't much use any more. The bucket should be there but it wasn't. She bent over and felt with her hands along the edge of the fireplace but she couldn't find it. She was so thirsty; she would die if she didn't have some water.

Outside the air was crisp and clouds rushed across the moon. It was lighter too. And the leaves glistened. The wet ground deadened the sound of her footsteps, but still as she followed the track she heard the thump, thump of the tammar as they warned one another and rustled through the undergrowth. Carefully she parted the wet branches that crossed her path and continued until she came to the well. Her feet were numb, caked with sticky mud, and the sleeves of her gown were soaked. She wasn't cold even though the water was warmer than her hands. She drank from them, sitting on the side of the well with the pail between her legs, listening to the joyous song of the frogs.

There was a sound to her right, not a normal night sound. She dared not swallow. Her pulse pumped as though her heart would jump right out of her chest. Straining her eyes to form shapes in the blackness. Something radiated warmth and smelt of charcoal. And then the clouds thinned over the moon and its light caught the bone around her neck which rose and fell on her chest as she breathed.

‘It's you,' Dorothea murmured.

Dinah didn't answer but moved closer. Dorothea was relieved it wasn't Isaac or any of the others, but then she was uneasy. Dinah held out her hand as though she wanted to give her something. Dorothea looked at it for a moment and then held out her own and felt Dinah place in it something smooth and hard. It was a bone strung from plant fibre, like the one Dinah wore. Dorothea turned it over and looked up but Dinah had gone. Even though it sat neatly in the cradle of her palm, she felt repulsed by it. But when she touched it with her thumb she was comforted by its smooth luminous surface.

She carried water back to the hut and washed by the coals that still gave off some warmth. Then she went into the storeroom and lay on the pile of skins in the corner.

A bird warbled as though dawn was close but it didn't feel as though she had slept. But she must have. Her head ached and she heard Anderson moving around in the other room. His footsteps went into the kitchen and when she stood in the doorway he was shovelling ash from the hearth and replacing it with a mess of firewood. He bent over, bare to the waist, blowing clouds of ash as he coaxed the spark into a flame. He sensed her behind him and he moved quickly to face her.

‘Don't stand behind me.'

Dorothea came across the room to the fire. His eyes followed her. She stared into the fireplace. He reached over and turned her face towards him. Lightly he touched the bruise on her cheek and when she looked into his face she was surprised by what she saw. And then he left the room. And she was uncertain whether she had really seen what looked like regret.

She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed them, watching the flames as they leapt into life. Light steps padded across the floor. She knew without looking that it was her sister. Mary clasped her shawl tightly and shook with cold.

‘Here, come closer.' Dorothea grasped her arm and led her to the fire. ‘How come you're wet?'

‘Rain blew into the tent,' she shivered.

Dorothea rubbed her back. Anderson walked in with an armful of firewood and they stepped back as he set it down. Soon the fire was bursting with heat and they seared their hands in front of it.

‘Jack,' she started. Their eyes met and then she continued. ‘We'd be more comfortable here than in that leaking tent.'

He nodded. Dorothea turned back to the fire and smiled to herself.

‘There ain't nothing to worry about,' she said quietly to Mary.

January 1886

Children used to come to the side door of this house to buy sweets and boiled lollies. They were happy sounds. Now there is silence. Sometimes I hear the steps of people passing along the lane to the houses at the back. There is George walking below. Stoking the fire and settling into the chair that was mine. It is beside the fireplace facing the front window. From there you can see the new jetty and the entrance to the Sound. I used to watch the steamers belch black smoke as they rumbled into the harbour past Possession Point, so different from the fine lines of the sailing ships.

If he were to turn the chair so that he was looking straight ahead, he would face Big Grove across the harbour. That was where our father died. Burning lime. He and Jem bought land there after they sold the house on the hill. They would bring lime and timber across the water to the landing stage, which lay on the shore to the right of this house. I used to watch them steady the flat-bottomed boat that lay deep in the water. Once they had unloaded onto the dray and taken their money, they would walk across to the inn.

Middle Island 1835, Dorothea Newell

Through the doorway the grey light brightened. Isaac leant against the wooden frame and drew on his pipe. Smoke leaked from his nose and out the corners of his mouth.