My Girragundji Read online

  1st published in 1998

  Copyright © Meme McDonald and Boori Pryor, 1998

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander St

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone:(61 2) 8425 0100

  Fax:(61 2) 9906 2218

  Email:[email protected]

  Web:www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia www.librariesaustralia.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 9781864488180

  eISBN 9781743430354

  Cover and text photographs by Meme McDonald Frog illustration by Shane Nagle and Lillian Fourmile Frog & snake courtesy of the Royal Melbourne Zoo Designed and typeset by Ruth Grüner

  Meme McDonald gratefully acknowledges the support of the Australia Council Community Cultural Development Fund in granting her a Fellowship.

  for Girragundji Joe

  and the seven Pryor sisters:

  Sue, Cilia, Chrissy, Kimmy Chubby, Chicky, Toni

  with thanks to Grace Cockatoo

  M.M. & B.P.

  CONTENTS

  BEGIN READING

  HOW MY GIRRAGUNDJI WAS WRITTEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The Hairyman grabbed one of my sisters, you know. I’ve got seven of them. How unlucky is that? Seven sisters! He could have grabbed half a dozen of them for all I care. They sleep in the next room.

  ‘You can’t come in here. It’s the girls’ room!’

  So what? We’ve got our own room. My brother Nicky sleeps across that side, and Paul and Rocco sleep head to toe in the bed on the wall.

  One end of my bed is next to the louvre windows. I never sleep with my head up there. Too scared a hand will come through and grab me in my sleep.

  I’m the oldest of us boys. The rest of them wouldn’t be any good if the Hairyman had me. They’d be jammin’ up, falling over each other trying to get out the door.

  Anyway, one night the Hairyman – that’s what us mob call those spirits – he grabbed my big sister by the throat. We were all chasing through the house. My big sister, Sue, thought she was gonna scare the rest of us, so she hid in the darkest room and kept real quiet. None of us could find her. Then all of a sudden we heard her screaming her lungs out. We raced in to see what had happened. She was still screaming, with her hands rubbing at her neck. Nearly turned white she had, white as a migaloo, a whitefulla.

  She was crying and cursing and saying it must have been one of us boys muckin’ around. But she knew it wasn’t any of us. She felt those hands around her neck and they were hairy, wrinkly, yucky, old hands, like Quinkin hands – that’s what the old people call those spirits.

  With her screaming and us running, that Hairyman took off, but we knew he’d be back.

  I’m way too old to wet the bed, but there’s no way I’m getting up to go to the gulmra, the dunny. Not down the hall, through the kitchen and all the way out the back. Not with that Hairyman in the house. It’s dark out there.

  I can’t call out to my dad neither. I tried that one night but the voice got stuck in my neck like a fish bone. So, I lie in bed and hold my knees together tight for as long as I can. Sometimes I can’t.

  I’m real shame, too. This migaloo jalbu, Sharyn, smiled at me in maths today. One of those smiles that sticks to you like ripe mango. I tried to smile back. The best I could do was a sort of little chonky-apple smile, ’cause I know the truth. I’m still a bed-wetter.

  I can’t go to sleep. The music’s turned up and the arguments have started. There’s something funny about the night that makes grown-ups go stupid and call each other names. Maybe it’s their way of scaring off the Hairyman. Maybe it’s just the grog in them.

  My mum reckons our people are the strongest in the world, but that drink there takes your strength away, she says. I can see it in some of those fullas’ eyes. Like they’ve sprung a leak and the sea’s come rushing in to fill them up. They’re drowning inside with all that drink. When they start yelling, it’s like they’re calling out from the bottom of the dark sea.

  I’m trying to make that sleep wash over me, carry me away in its arms. I’m trying not to think about the Hairyman. I’m telling myself he won’t be coming round while all the noise keeps up. Mozzies are nagging at me.

  The night is that long I think the sun has given up on us. But it hasn’t. The day has a quiet about it like it’s been called off. I stroll about when the rest of them are still sleeping, checking for dropped coins.

  The rain poured down in the night. The water’ll be coming up under our house. You’ve got to watch out for snakes this time of year.

  Chicky, my littlest sister, starts to tease. ‘Sharyn’s got the hots for you, na na nanaa na!’ She races back to the girls’ room.

  I know the others have put her up to it, I can hear their stupid giggling.

  ‘Sharyn?!’ I spit the name out like I’ve just swallowed a blowfly. ‘You lot are sick.’

  I go back to my room and dream about kissing. They reckon you just touch lips then poke your tongue out. Yuck! No wonder you have to do it with your eyes closed.

  Another day comes up and I dawdle down our steamy street to school. I don’t reckon you need to rush, but. It’s not like school’s gonna run away on you. I wish! I can feel a cloud of adults’ anger following me like a bad smell. They should keep their yelling to themselves. It’s not my fault their heads hurt. I don’t reckon Sharyn will smile at me today.

  My street is pretty good. I know all the kids. Further on, I still know all the kids, but sometimes they don’t want to know me.

  Eh, look out! She’s there again. That migaloo jalbu, Sharyn. Hanging off her front fence. She’s watching me go past. She’s giving me that smile, that mango-mouth one. Maybe migaloos can’t see those clouds that follow you on bad days.

  I look across at her in class. I try to smile back. I go all fizzy inside, like I’ve eaten a bucketful of sherbet. Then the bell rings and all her mates come round squealing ‘Shaz’ this and ‘Shazza’ that. You’d reckon she’d never seen me before, or something. They rush out into the yard like a pile of scrap papers caught up in the wind. Doesn’t matter, but, ’cause I know she’s still smiling for me on the inside.

  Anyway, I’ve got to keep my mind on what’s happening. There’s not always trouble. Not every day. But you’ve got to watch yourself. It can get rough out there. Words come yelling at you that hurt. And if you let your fists fly in anger you only hurt more. My dad taught me that. ‘Never fight when you’re angry. You’ll always lose.’

  I wait for that puffed-up, freckle-faced, migaloo bully boy, Stacey Straun, to start. He comes up behind me on the verandah and bangs me with his school bag. ‘Yuck!’ he says. ‘Now I’ll have to get my mum to scrub it clean.’

  I’m not angry, honest. I just want to bust him up real bad. I get ready to knuckle up, shaping up to the big, fat pig.

  Dad says: ‘Don’t worry about being skinny, just stay on your toes.’

  Now, I’m dancing all over the place like Michael Jackson.

  Then I hear my dad again. �
��Forget about being fancy. Forget about Michael effin’ What’s-his-face. Mohammed Ali, there’s your man. Never take your eye off the enemy.’

  Then I start praying, ‘Please, God, whoever you are. I’m sorry I don’t go to church, or say prayers every night neither, but could you please let me bust up Stacey Straun’s fat face? Just this once? Bust him open like a rotten tomato? Pretty please?’

  ‘Where did you come from?’ I’m breathing again. I’m gonna live. ‘Where you come from, little fulla?’

  Maybe them old people did hear me. Maybe the rain pouring down and the water coming up under our house scared this little one.

  ‘Big snakes out there, yibulla. You gotta watch out for them big fulla snakes. They can gobble you right up. You stay in here with me, you little darlin’. We can look after each other.’

  Her moist little feet stick to my skin. They tickle. Slowly, I reach out my hand to stroke her. She’s so close. She peers into my eyes like she’s looking down a telescope, right into my heart. Funniest thing is, I can see right through her eyes and into her heart, too. No one’s ever looked at me like that. I feel safe.

  I know those old people sent her to protect my spirit. They do that sort of thing. She came to me just when I needed her. She stays with me all through the dark nights. I don’t have to worry about squishing her in the bed ’cause she knows which way I’m gonna roll even before I do.

  My sisters know I’ve got her in my room. When Mum calls out for one of the older girls to wake us boys up, I wait for them. I hear them creeping up to the door, giggling. They’ve got a wet washer to chuck at me. So what? I leap up and run at them, something green in my hand. They scream back down the hallway, and still I’m chasing.

  Chicky leaps straight out the window. She howls like a wild cat when she lands in the rose bush. I laugh.

  Mum yells, ‘What’s the matter?’

  I’m all innocent. ‘Didn’t do nothing,’ I say. I open up my hands. ‘I was only gammin’. Look, it’s a leaf. Those girls are scaredy cats. I wouldn’t chase them with my precious girragundji.’

  l get a clip over the ear, but it’s worth the pain just to hear my sisters squeal like that. They might be smarter at maths and pi-r-squared and playing cards, but I can still scare the living daylights out of them, even the big ones, even Sue and Cilia.

  The bullies don’t seem so big now my girragundji’s with me. On school mornings, I don’t have to fake a bellyache no more. My mum hardly ever fell for that one anyway, but. Getting busted up at school doesn’t hurt that much, now I know she’s there, my girragundji. Getting busted up at home doesn’t hurt that much neither.

  Before I head off to school, I make sure she’s right for the day. Louvres open so she can hop across to the hibiscus tree, and out and about. A little bowl of water in case she wants a drink and a cool-down. I get Mum to promise not to shift anything. I tell my girragundji I’ll be back as soon as I can with some treats.

  I feed her moths. Not the really big ones, though, or she can’t get them down. But big enough for a good feed.

  I know she waits for me on the windowsill. I even think she might hear the sound of my feet on the front steps. Bare feet on bare wood, then padding down the hallway, alive like a frog. Not dead feet dragging like that other sound that gets you in the neck. Shhhkkk … creak … shhhkkk … creak … No, she knows my feet on the lino. I never have to call her. Don’t know what I would call her anyway.

  You can tell a lot from eyes. When I look in my gundji’s eyes, she speaks to me. She has the sweetest voice. I stroke her, gently as a cool breeze, then sit her up on the window ledge. I can hear my cousins kicking the footy. She knows I’ll be back.

  My cousin Kevin is staying at our place. He’s real tough. He reckons only kids are scared of Quinkins. I agree. All the other scaredy cats are sleeping quieter, just ’cause their big cus is on the couch.

  He’s good at footy, too. He teaches me a lot. He reckons, when you play footy, it doesn’t matter if you’re one of them or one of us, it’s how high you can jump or how long you can kick.

  I can kick a long way when I’m fired up. They reckon I’ll play in the big league one day. I could. Plenty do. I’d play with boots on then. Deadly, eh? Then she’d smile at me, Sharyn, no matter who’s about. No shame then. I smiled at her the other day. One of those big mango-mouth smiles. Even called her Shaz.

  When I get angry, I think of my gundji. I watch how she pushes down with her legs and leaps so high. I take that anger and I push him down into my legs. I run with that anger. I run so hard I beat the lot of them. I kick further than anyone, even with no boots on. I climb higher into the air. No one can catch me now. Not even with their curses. And I laugh and call to my girragundji to take me higher.

  Back home, I crash. Lungs burning. Legs like jelly. Starving. Mum’s cutting back the hibiscus. I plead with her to leave a branch just a frog’s jump from the louvres.

  Why are mums so mean? I reckon they can read your mind even with your eyes closed, and still they suit themselves. They know you want something so bad you’ll do the dishes for a week, still they hold out on you. But sometimes, just when you give up on them, they come good. ‘All right, my boy,’ she says, and I know I’m gonna love her for the rest of my life.

  I’ve got a big mob of mozzies for Gundji in my lunch-box. Got them on the way home, down the creek.

  Mum goes right off when we squash them on the walls, ’specially when they’re full of blood. She reckons the girls never do it in their room, but I don’t reckon that’s true. They’re sneaky, that lot. I’ve seen the muck on the washer where they’ve cleaned up before they get caught. Thump! Blood red splotches on the lime green.

  I used to get a hiding for that, but my patch is always clean now. Gundji plucks them out of the air with her long tongue while I’m sleeping. Tzzztz! just like that. She sits on my forehead. Tzzztz!

  Little beads of water have collected in the pores of her soft, green skin. I stroke them away. I lay a trail of mozzies down on the windowsill in front of her. She waits. She never grabs. I lie back with my head next to her, at the louvre end, and lift my shirt up. I wait. Her throat beats with breath. My breath stands still. Her tongue darts out and lassoes three mozzies in one hit. Then, plop, down onto my chest. The first touch of her feet shocks my skin. But the kind of shock that makes you tingle and suck your breath in with the thrill. Our hearts beat together. She gobbles up the mozzies.

  I never used to lie with my head up this end. Now my girragundji’s with me, I sleep with my head up the louvre end all the time.

  It’s the middle of the night and I’m busting. Gundji’s there. I get up. It’s not so dark. I walk out into the night. She’s on my shoulder. I’m walking down the hall, through the kitchen, out the back and into the gulmra, the dunny, all the way in the dark, with her right there.

  What a relief.

  She looks across at me. Right into my eyes. ‘Aren’t you finished yet?’

  I give it a shake, then hold her in my hands as I take off back to bed. I lay there with my heart racing. I did it. He didn’t get me. Thank you, Gundji. I stroke her to sleep.

  Hell, what’s that? Someone’s screaming. All the hairs on my body stand up. I lie low. Someone’s running at me. A huge big fulla yelling and thrashing the air. He’s jumped into my bed.

  ‘Eh, look out, you big sook! Watch out for Gundji, you idiot.’

  It’s cousin Kevin. ‘Stuff your frog, the … Hairyman … he … was breathin’ down m’ neck!’

  Even big Kev is scared. I know I’m stretching it now, but I tell him, ‘Lay down here then. Gundji’ll keep us safe.’

  That was me speaking, speaking like a grown-up. Not cousin Kevin. It was me! My darling girragundji grabs a mozzie right on cue. ‘Tzzztz!’ I shock myself to sleep.

  With her watching over me, I have beautiful dreams. I dream of being out in the boat down the Bohle with my dad. That’s our special place where the river meets the sea. It’s their place really, m
y Aunty Joyce and Uncle Arthur’s place. But they reckon it’s our place, and Dad doesn’t argue with that ’cause he reckons that’s right. They’re white and we’re black and I don’t know whose place the Bohle is, it just is, and they’ll always be our aunty and uncle.

  I dream I’m crocodile-sliding down the soft, sandy bank and into the cool water.I dream of curling up with a belly full of mud crab and wirrell beside our camp fire. I dream those dreams you never want the dawn to chase away.

  Dad’s down packing the ute. The sun isn’t even up yet. I love it when you get a head start on the day. We’re going down the Bohle, to our special place where the river meets the sea. I hope the car starts. I feel different today. like a bird about to take its first flight. This trip, I know something important is gonna happen. I can’t wait, but I’m all nervous.

  All us kids pile in the back. Gundji watches from the window ledge. She knows it’s a special day, too. She said it’s like she’s coming with me, even though she’s not. She said our spirits are always together. That made me want to cry. She just kept saying it over and over, and said I must never forget. ‘Our spirits will always be together, no matter what.’

  I know each bump of the road as we get close to Uncle Arthur and Aunty Joyce’s. They’ve got a boat, and us kids take turns. When it’s my turn to stay back, I play in the mangroves. Course you’ve got to watch out in there. You got to know where to go and where not to go. You got to listen when those old fullas tell you about the crocodile. It’s no joke, neither. You don’t listen, you die. Quick as that they get you.

  When I know I’m in a safe place, I muck about in the mangroves like the day’ll never end.

  There’s everything in there. You move, the whole place goes dead quiet. Not even a breath. You stop still, everything else moves. Things growing and crawling and burrowing and climbing, buzzing and squelching and farting. That mangrove smell is the sweetest. like the breath of the most secret place on earth.