Tears of the Moon (67 page)

Beneath it someone had printed ‘Died July 15, 1953’.

Lily closed the journal she had been reading for the past few days and rested her chin in her hands. The diary had told her much about the lives of people who were now a meaningful part of her life.

She felt utterly exhausted, yet at the same time exhilarated. So many thoughts, such emotion, an
overflowing of love, pride and awe for the people whose journey through life she now shared. These women of her past were part of her but some of the knowledge was overwhelming.

About two-thirds of the way through the journal had come the first startling clue that she had Aboriginal blood. Confirmation of her link with Niah, through Maya, the grandmother she never knew, was a shock. The link was something that she still had not come to terms with. It was put in a holding zone in her mind until she had finished the compelling story the diary told.

That her name was mentioned with such affection in the final entry swamped all thoughts as she sat quietly amid the furniture and memorabilia of another era, the time of John and Olivia Tyndall. She was struggling to hold back a tear when someone bustled in.

‘I’ve shut the museum for the day and brought you in a cuppa. Just couldn’t wait till I was home for a boost.’ It was Muriel, the elderly and effervescent archivist.

Lily quickly dabbed an eye and forced a smile as she took the cup. ‘You’re a darling, Muriel. You’ve no idea how much I need this.’

Muriel sat down in one of the exhibition chairs. ‘Finished the big read?’ she asked, taking a sip.

‘Yes. It’s almost a bit much, I’m afraid.’

With a slight murmur Muriel signalled that she wasn’t surprised.

‘A lot of people often discover more than they anticipate. Not all good news at that. How about
you? Something seemed a little sad, I rather think.’

Lily nodded.

‘Want to talk about it?’

‘Not now, Muriel, but thanks. I’ve just got to do a lot of thinking.’

Although bursting with curiosity, Muriel had a fine appreciation of the impact personal history could have on people when they delved into the past. She tactfully changed the subject. ‘I s’pose you’ll be rushing off back south now that you’ve finished the read. One thing, you’ve had lovely weather for it.’

Lily was grateful. ‘Every day has been a gem,’ and she chuckled at the double meaning of her response. ‘No, I think I’ll spend another couple of days here. One or two little things to clear up yet.’

Muriel rose and put Olivia’s journal on a bookshelf. ‘I’ll have a read of the diaries myself one day. Never got past the first couple of pages. There’s always too much work to do and not enough time to fully appreciate what we’ve got in here.’ She picked up the cups. ‘See you at the door in a couple of minutes, luv.’

Lily looked around the room then moved about lightly running her hands over pieces of furniture and imagining them as they once were in the house of Olivia and John. They had sat in these chairs, relaxed on this chaise, used this china, watched that clock. And finally, as she had ended each day since she came into the room, she stood in front of a large portrait of John Tyndall. His eyes smiled at her, though this time she imagined she saw more affection and a little amusement. ‘Well, great-grandfather,’
she said softly. ‘I guess you’re wondering how I’m going to deal with all of this?’ She gave him a rueful smile. ‘So am I.’

She picked up her bag and notebook but turned back to the portrait when she reached the door and spoke again. ‘I’ll start by having a strong drink at the Lugger Bar.’ She winked and quietly closed the door.

The next morning Lily telephoned the Aboriginal artist Rosie Wallangou, whom she’d met at her exhibition at the Cable Beach Club soon after arriving.

‘Rosie, it’s Lily Barton. We met at the exhibition. I’m from Sydney, remember?’

‘Of course. You came here searching for something. Any luck?’

‘Yes, quite a bit. “Tears of the Moon” now has a lot of meaning for me.’

There was silence at the other end of the line.

‘Rosie … ?’

‘Sorry. You took me aback a bit. Want to come round for a chat?’

‘I’d like that very much.’

Rosie gave directions which Lily scribbled in her notebook. ‘Might as well walk, Lily. Not far enough to warrant a taxi.’

Lily walked through the town looking at the buildings, the streets and the foreshore with new eyes. Everywhere she could see the lively past. Beyond the clean streets, modern shops and strolling tourists, Lily visualised the Broome of her great-grandfather’s day. Remnants remained, some lovingly restored and
recreated. Some things were frozen now in rust-coated time—the horse-drawn train carriage, the decompression cylinder, the cracked iron railing around graves. Others were freshly painted—Sun Pictures, Sheba Lane, the old sheds now housing pearl shops. And everywhere, the painted Asian signs, the multicultural faces in the streets, the smells, the colours, were as they’d always been.

Following Rosie’s instructions she found herself climbing along the foreshore to the point that rose above the bay. A big old house faced the emerald waters, its surrounding verandah looking shady and cool. She felt a surge of recognition as she went towards the house, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the massive poinciana tree in the garden. She remembered the poignant notation in the diary of Olivia scattering James’ burial soil there. Lily knew this was the home of Olivia and Tyndall. She paused as she reached the front gate, almost afraid to walk to the verandah. As she hesitated, Rosie came to the front steps and hailed her cheerfully. ‘Hi Lily. You’re at the right place.’

Right place, thought Lily as she walked up the path almost in a trance. Right place? She stopped at the top of the stairs and looked at Rosie, who was now standing by a cane chair on the verandah. For a moment neither said a word, both looking each other in the eye.

It was Rosie who broke the silence. ‘Yep, I can see it now. You’re one of us all right. Felt it a bit that night at the exhibition when we talked about the painting but figured I was just imagining things. Just
goes to show, we should always listen to the spirit. How did you find out?’

‘From my great-grandmother’s diaries in the Historical Society. I’ve been reading them for days.’ Lily paused and took off her straw hat. ‘It’s a bit difficult to take in. Hardly slept at all last night.’

‘Then you’d better sit down,’ urged Rosie with a laugh. ‘I’ve just brewed the coffee, so your timing is perfect.’ She poured some and passed a mug to Lily. ‘So you think the “Tears of the Moon” means something, eh. Like what?’

Lily told the whole story as briefly as she could, concentrating on the relationship with Maya and Niah and then showing Rosie the pendant which she had in her shoulder bag. Rosie handled the pendant with reverence, then gave it back. ‘It’s proper. So, you’re one of Minnie’s mob, eh?’

Lily took a breath. ‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’

‘That makes you and me relatives, same mob.’ She looked keenly at Lily.

‘Yes, I guess it does,’ acknowledged Lily in a whisper. Rosie settled back in her chair and just looked at Lily, who went on, ‘You’ll have to bear with me. It’s hard … ’ she faltered, searching for the right words.

Rosie’s solemn face fractured into a big smile. ‘It’s a real blast, Lily. Really it is, when you think about it. You don’t have to make any big decisions right away. Geez, people like you are popping up all over the place these days. Come and have a look around the house. You probably have a mind full of images of what it’s like from Olivia’s diary.’

Lily felt a huge weight lift from her shoulders as Rosie grabbed her by the hand. They were still holding hands when they went into the living room where a beautiful oval, framed photograph of Olivia was hanging.

‘There she is,’ said Rosie with admiration. ‘Magnificent isn’t she. So strong, so beautiful. There’s nothing like it in the shots down at the museum. It was taken by a touring Japanese photographer just before the war.’ Olivia gazed out from the picture with a bemused expression as though about to break into laughter. Her thick hair was pulled neatly back from her face in a complicated loop, a soft chiffon print dress was draped across her torso and around her neck hung the strand of magnificent pearls.

‘You must have become very close to her somehow,’ said Lily, acknowledging the warmth with which Rosie talked about Olivia. ‘I only ever met her once, in Perth when I was very little. Mum had come back from America after her divorce. I remember walking with Olivia in the garden. And I remember the pendant. She must have given it to Georgie then.’

‘Probably,’ said Rosie brightly. ‘Yes, she was wonderful to me. Although I was very little, too. I was brought up by my grandmother, who worked for Olivia and John in their last years. Olivia helped keep me in school and then set up a trust fund to send me to art school. “Tears of the Moon” was one of the first paintings I did at the art school. The teachers loved it and that helped make me proud of my heritage and I knew I had to paint it. “Tears” is still special to me, but I told you that the other night.’

‘How did you get the house? Did you buy it?’

‘Yes. It got sold up when Olivia died, just like the house in Perth. I guess your Mum put it on the market. Several people owned it before I bought it … thanks to the art punters in New York.’

They reached the verandah that overlooked the bay. ‘Great view, isn’t it? said Rosie.

‘Wonderful. It must have been a sight in the old days when the luggers were putting to sea under sail.’ They stood in silence, taking in the view, then Lily turned to the attractive woman beside her in smart cotton slacks and a T-shirt emblazoned with the Aboriginal flag and the word MABO. ‘You’re living in two worlds, Rosie. How do you cope?’

‘It’s easy. I’ve always lived in two worlds, but I know why you’re asking. You want to know if you can live in two worlds like me. Well that’s something only you can answer. It depends on the spirit in you, I guess. You see Lily, it’s one thing to acknowledge you’ve got Aboriginal blood. It’s another thing altogether for you to really know in your soul if you are one of us.’ There was the noise of someone in the kitchen and Rosie called out, ‘Out here, Gran. Come on out and meet a special visitor.’

Lily turned and gasped in surprise when the old woman came through the door. Gran was Biddy, the wizened old woman she had found fishing on the sand spit the day she arrived in Broome.

‘Catch enough for dinner again, Gran?’

‘Yeah. Done orright.’ She eyed Lily thoroughly. ‘G’day.’

‘Hello, Biddy,’ said Lily softly.

The old lady peered at her, then broke into a gap-toothed grin. ‘We talked down on the spit. You brung in me line.’

‘That’s right,’ explained Lily to Rosie, ‘I was wandering around when I first got in and we chatted for a bit.’

‘Grandma Biddy is a bit of a fixture down there when the tide allows. Doing well for her age, pushing eighty.’ Rosie turned to Biddy, took her hand and brought her closer to Lily. ‘Gran, this is Lily. She’s the great-granddaughter of both John and Olivia. Maya’s granddaughter.’

There was a sparkle in the old woman’s eyes that delighted Lily. ‘Ah, you’re one of our mob then. I f’ git your mumma’s name. She went south, never came back.’

‘Georgiana,’ prompted Lily.

‘Yeah, that right. Georgie we called ’er. Yeah, Georgie. Wild one she was.’ Biddy plopped into a canvas director’s chair and began unlacing her well-worn sandshoes.

‘Grandma is Mollie’s granddaughter or Minnie’s great-granddaughter. Gran worked with Olivia right up to the time she left town to live in Perth after the war. Show Gran the pendant.’

Lily again took the pendant from her bag and gave it to Biddy.

The old woman examined it carefully, but said nothing, giving Lily only a slight nod of acknowledgement as she handed it back. Lily was putting it in her bag when Biddy asked, ‘Yer got kids?’

‘Yes. Only one. Samantha.’

‘Well, bring ’er up ’ere t’meet family. Proper t’ing t’do that.’

Lily was speechless. That simple statement by Biddy, the invoking of family ties and responsibilities hit Lily like a blow to the body. Her mind whirled. How would Samantha react to all of this? She could barely cope with the reality herself. Biddy, that old black woman, was family—at least in Aboriginal culture she was family. The enormity of it all made her feel faint.

Rosie came to the rescue. ‘Now, Gran, Lily hasn’t had time to think about this family business. She only just found out in the last couple of days. Her mother never told her about us.’

Biddy hauled herself out of the chair. ‘Betta put them fish in the fridge. Yer comin’ for a feed t’night?’

‘Thanks, Biddy, I’d like that,’ said Lily, then exchanged a grin with Rosie.

That night, after dinner, Lily lay on the bed staring at the slowly revolving fan. Like the fan going round and round, her mind replayed the events of the day. The meeting with Rosie and Gran, the dinner, then the long talk with Rosie on the verandah about Aboriginal concepts of family and the complexity of kinship relations as they watched the moon swing over the bay. She also replayed the agonising emotional confusion that had been compounded by the meeting with Biddy. The old lady’s words echoed in her mind.
You’re one of our mob then.
She found herself pondering on Rosie’s comment about the difference between having Aboriginal blood and being
Aboriginal. Did she really belong to Biddy’s mob? Was she really one of the family in spirit? Lily didn’t know the answers.