Tears of the Moon - Di Morrissey [13]
‘Oh yes, the woman who runs it has family problems and the other volunteer lady is away. What sort of stuff do you want to know about?’ asked the helpful girl behind the desk.
Lily had her story down pat. When she threw in a reference to the intriguing history of the first traders to the coast and her fascination with the very early days, the tourism director snapped her fingers. ‘Hey. If you can get up the coast, you might find this place interesting. Your team’ll need a four-wheel drive, but it’s dry and a quiet time of year—you shouldn’t have any trouble.’ She fished around for a map.
‘Where’s that?’ asked Lily.
‘Cape Leveque. The old missions might answer some of your questions. All quiet now, but if you want to go backwards that’s the place you guys should start.’
Lily left with maps and a colourful collection of brochures for her ‘team’. She guessed the woman was used to dealing with journalists, documentary crews and travel writers who came with an entourage. Maybe she’d given the impression she was looking for something more than a family history. A cursory glance showed that Cape Leveque was a long drive and fairly remote.
She drove through town and parked in Napier Terrace. Again the strange sensation of déjà vu swept over her as she walked past the old pearling sheds, the long jetty where the tide had exposed the mudflats, stranding mangroves in the tidal channels.
She stood at Streeter’s Jetty which stretched out into the slate mud. In its heyday before the First World War, 400 luggers struggled to find space to berth by the jetty, along the foreshore and in the creeks that were flooded by the ten metre tides. Now with the disappearance of the luggers, the mangroves had spread over the mudflats, split by a narrow maze of channels. The area was deserted, the heat of the dry season morning warmed the old planks of the jetty.
Images of this jetty and the foreshore lined with luggers afloat at full tide or lying in the mud on the ebb tide were synonymous with Broome. Lily tried to imagine it in the old days with the men working on the luggers, repairing gear, the activity in the sorting sheds, the babble of languages, the shouted orders of the pearling masters, the rattle of shells being stacked in bags, the tinkle of bicycle bells.
She could almost smell the spicy Asian food, the sweetness of Indonesian tobacco, the marine tang of the pearl shells, the tar on boats. But all she could really smell was the saltiness of the air and dankness of the mangroves.
Lily walked back behind an old pearling master’s office which had been freshly painted and was being used once again as headquarters for a pearl export company. Looking further up the creek she saw a stretch of exposed sand bank that faced the tidal creek. A solid black lump of a figure was sitting on the sand, legs stretched out in front, hat pulled low, holding a fishing line.
Lily jumped down from the low sea wall and trudged along the sand to discover the figure was that of an elderly Aboriginal woman. She smiled and walked past her to the end of the little sand spit where a small yacht was moored in the shallow water. The channels ran between low and bushy mangroves in several directions. About two kilometres away was the open water of the bay. But in here, the narrow channels of the creeks which all looked alike, presented a maze that would be a nightmare to navigate. She turned back and stood beside the old woman as she pulled in her coarse line and inspected the bait.
‘No luck, eh?’ Lily commented.
The woman adjusted the chunk of meat and swung the line in a powerful whirl above her head and watched it plop into the channel.
‘Are there many fish out there?’ A plastic bag floated past.
‘Them’re fish there. Not so good fish now, but.’
‘What sort of fish?’
‘Catfish. Sometime mullet. Used t’be good fish. Too much rubbish now.’
‘You lived here a long time?’
‘All my family worked round here.’
‘What work did you do?’
‘Clean and wash everyt’ing.’ She flashed a gap-toothed grin. ‘Work for