Nanberry (22 page)

S
YDNEY
C
OVE
, J
ANUARY
1800

The kookaburras were calling. A splatter of pebbles against the shutters woke Andrew up. He opened them and peered down, in time to see Garudi vanish into the orchard.

He grinned. He never knew when Garudi might be able to come into the township. Sometimes it seemed his family spent long months in other places. But then there'd be the pebbles on the shutters before the colony was awake.

It had been two years since Nanberry had told him Garudi was his friend. They hadn't been friends, not really at first. But now they were. Garudi had shown him how to catch bandicoots in traps made from woven tussocks, and how to climb a tree and capture a bungu, which was the native name for an o'possum.

But fishing was best. Nanberry had shown them both how to spear fish the last time he had been back onshore. For some reason Garudi didn't have spears of his own, even if he was a black savage. Andrew wondered if Garudi's family thought he was too young.

Even the black savages had rules about what children could do, just like Mama and Papa Moore made rules. Mama and Papa made funny rules sometimes, like not jumping in mud puddles or throwing horse pies at the seagulls.

They gave reasons for other rules though, like not playing with the convict children in case he caught diseases or with the orphans who clustered by the taverns begging for pennies, in case a drunk man hurt him.

He and Garudi had to wait till Nanberry came back before they could use the spears again. Unless …

Andrew hesitated, then grinned.

He wriggled out of his nightdress and into his trousers then stared down at his boots. Mama told him over and over he must wear boots, but you couldn't feel the mud squish between your toes in boots. Why did he have to wear boots, when almost every other child in the whole of New South Wales went barefoot? His feet felt like they had to lug a ball and chain around. But Mama said the boots showed he was a gentleman's son, and not a convict brat.

Finally he picked up his boots in his hand. He would hide them under a bush and put them on before he came home. Mama would never know he hadn't been wearing them.

He listened at Mama's bedroom door, but all he could hear were Papa Moore's snores.

He tiptoed down the stairs.

Andrew knew he had another father too, a gentleman, the man who sent them money and presents on every ship, and a letter to him, signed ‘your loving father', which Mama would read to him, over and over till he knew it by heart.

Father sounded like a nice man. It was good to have two fathers. Mama said that many boys in the colony had no father to look after them at all.

He made his way over the smooth boards of the kitchen to Nanberry's room. In their old house Nanberry had slept in the
room next to his but in Papa Moore's house he had to sleep down here, like Cook. He listened. Cook and the other servants were asleep too.

He reached for two of the spears Nanberry kept on his wall. He would have liked to take the giant hunting spear, but Nanberry had never let him touch that, or Garudi either. He took the two lighter fishing spears instead. Even they were longer than Andrew, of the hardest wood he had ever felt, so hard it didn't bend, with barbs halfway up made of fish bone, and more barbs at the tip. He lifted them reverently down.

He tiptoed out into the kitchen. He knew he'd get into trouble for missing out on his morning lesson with Mr Flitch. But it was worth it. What would Garudi say when he saw the spears?

He looked around the kitchen. There was fresh bread in the sack from yesterday's baking, and cheese, cold mutton chops and cold corncobs in the fly-proof safe hanging outside in the cool under the eaves. He helped himself to bread and cheese, then stuck the corncobs in his pocket. Garudi loved corn …

The muddy path was cold under his feet as he ran between the houses. He could smell ripe peaches, stronger scented than the apples hanging on the trees. Houses gave way to huts, fields of corn tall now in midsummer, rows of cabbages. Then the fields were behind him. He ran down towards the cove that Nanberry had shown them, so long ago. It was their secret place now.

Garudi was sitting on the rock above the water, waiting for him. He wore what he usually did: nothing much, just a belt of twisted hair around his waist with a scrap of leather twisted between his legs and an armband of feathers and hair.

He grinned, his teeth very white in his dark face.

‘Andrew!'

It was one of the few words of English Garudi knew. Andrew knew that Nanberry wanted him to teach Garudi English. But
somehow words never seemed important when you were tracking wallabies or collecting mussels in the mud.

Garudi pointed at the spears, and did a little dance of joy. Andrew joined him, dancing too, holding the spears up above his head. It was as though they danced with the waves and the spray, like the fish swimming in the cool green water. There were many ways to talk to each other when you didn't have words, many ways to show that you were happy.

At last Andrew handed Garudi one of the spears. Garudi took it, solemn now. Andrew felt a thrill run through him. Mama would have pink kittens if she knew he was using a spear.

Andrew grinned. Mama said don't go down to the wharves — the sailors will kidnap you for a cabin boy. Don't go swimming if Nanberry isn't with you. But she had never told him not to go spearing fish with a native boy.

He tried to copy Garudi's stillness as he held the spear. That's what you had to do to spear a fish — stand quite still, so the fish didn't guess there was danger above.

The tiny waves swept in and out, pricked with foam. The water was clear enough to see down to the rocky bottom. But there were no fish.

Suddenly something swam into sight. A fish … but too small. Not worth spearing … too hard a target to hit too, he admitted. But big fish usually followed little fish …

And there they were, a shoal of big 'uns, their scales sparkling silver and blue. Garudi moved a second before he did. Both spears flew into the water.

Andrew held his breath.

The water swirled, too thick with foam to see what had happened. Andrew waded into the water, his eyes half expecting to see his floating spear …

But there were no spears to be seen. Just red speckled water, and then two fish, breathing in agony. Triumph filled him. He
felt like leaping, roaring from the water. Instead he laughed. Garudi laughed too. Laughing was another way to talk when you had no words. They both bent to the water again.

The wounded fish were tiring now. The other fish had swum away in terror. The bloody water grew still. Andrew reached down, till his head was under the water too, and grabbed his spear as the dying fish twisted past. It took all his strength to stop the fish from wriggling off, taking the spear with it. But by the time he had lifted it from the water the fish was dead.

He pulled out the spear proudly, trying not to tear more of the flesh as the barbs came out. The fish was as long as his arm, with two rows of small sharp teeth. Its scales were already turning dull. Garudi's fish was smaller. Andrew wondered whether it was best to have caught the bigger fish, or have the skill to spear a smaller one.

It didn't matter.

His wet clothes turned the breeze from the sea cold. As there was no one to see him here, he took off his shirt and trousers, and laid them on a rock to dry; he was even more naked now than Garudi. He felt the sun on his skin as they crouched above the tiny fire Garudi made under the cliffs, piling on dried bark and shreds of driftwood, then touching the bark with a glowing coal held in a piece of bone till the first sparks flashed up into the air, followed by a flame.

The dry driftwood gave no smoke, so no one would see it from the town. The boys threaded their catch on green wattle branches, then propped the spits up on a rock to grill the fish above the fire. The scales smoked and blackened, easy to pull off to get to the white flesh below.

Later they lay on the sun-warmed rock, and watched a big ship come in — not another whaler, or a sealer. It flew the English flag, not an American one. Maybe it brought more convicts, Andrew thought idly. There might even be another
present from his father and a letter and new things to buy in the stores, like the gingerbread and barley sugar he once found there.

What would it be like to sail on one of those big ships? Nanberry said sailing was exciting. Mama said that it was horrid. You starved and the journey went on for month after month, the waves making you sick, with smells and vomit.

But Mama had been a convict (though that had been a mistake, of course, because Mama never did anything wrong). It might be different when you were a sailor (though Mama made sure Nanberry took lots of dried fruit and portable soup, every time he went to sea) or a respected passenger like his father had been.

One day, he thought, when I've learnt my letters properly, I'll write to Father and ask him what it was like to sail here, then sail back to England.

Sand seemed to have crept into all the crevices of his body, even though the cove was mostly rock. The waves seeped out, showing a gentle slope of stone, covered in jagged oyster shells. Andrew would have liked to spear another fish, to take to Mama or maybe just for fun. But for some reason Garudi never took more than one and Andrew couldn't give Mama a fish with a great gash in its middle without telling her how he'd got it.

He had forgotten the corn. He pulled the cobs from his pocket. The two boys gnawed on them, then threw the leftovers into the waves and watched the cobs bob back and forth, before finally drifting out into the harbour.

Would the chewed corncobs float out across the harbour to the sea eventually? wondered Andrew. All the way to England, maybe, the mysterious land where gentlemen lived; the place the convict hulks came from, bringing their starving, white-faced loads.

It was late afternoon when he headed back, leaving Garudi clambering along the cliffs towards the south. He hid the spears
under some rocks — someone would see them if he took them back now. He'd have to retrieve them tomorrow, before anyone was up. His face felt hot from too much wind and sun. His shirt was stiff with salt. His head ached a bit.

He should have worn his hat, but it was bad enough being burdened with shirt and trousers. Lucky Garudi, who could wear a twist of leather on a thong around his waist; who could spend the whole day spearing fish and wandering along the shore.

What does Garudi do at night? he wondered. There were lots of natives in Sydney Town these days, but mostly drunk like the white men, around the taverns. He wondered if Garudi's mama told him, ‘No playing with the convict brats. Don't go near the taverns!' too.

Garudi
did
have a mama, didn't he? Garudi looked too happy to be like the orphans who sat begging by the taverns, or picked coves' pockets, and curled up in doorways to sleep.

He could smell dinner when he opened the door. Beef and onions — Papa's favourite. He wondered if there'd be jam pudding too. But he'd eaten too much fish to feel hungry.

He peered into the parlour. Mama sat in the big soft chair one of Papa's ships had brought last year, reading a sheet of paper covered in tiny writing, then written crossways too, to save paper and ink.

He waited for Mama to scold him. But instead she just sat there, looking at the paper in her hand.

‘Mama? Is that from my father in England?'

She held the letter to her, not even asking where he'd been. What was wrong with her? ‘Yes, it's from your father. But it's to me, not you.'

‘Can I read it?'

‘I … I don't know.'

Andrew stared. Mama never sounded unsure.

‘Father is all right, isn't he?'

‘Yes,' she said absently. ‘He's well. He's moved to a new house.'

‘That's what he wrote to you about?'

‘Yes. No.' She seemed to look at him for the first time. ‘Andrew! Look at the state of you! Where have you been all day? You haven't been playing with the convict brats, have you?'

‘No, Mama,' he said truthfully.

‘Well. You go and wash now. It'll be dinner soon.'

Suddenly the smell of fatty meat made him feel sick. ‘I'm not hungry.'

‘Not hungry? After being out all day?' She laid her hand across his forehead. ‘You've got a fever,' she said with sudden worry. ‘Too much sun …' Her touch was gentle now. ‘You go get into bed. I'll bring some supper up. Some toast and treacle, how is that? Your papa brought some treacle today.'

Papa … Father … Mama, all close and worried. His head thudded. Too much sun. He nodded and headed out the back to the washtub.

The voices woke him. Or maybe it was the pain in his head, behind his eyes. The darkness swirled around him.

‘… another letter from his father.'

‘What does it say?'

‘He is getting married.' There was a strange note in her voice.