Skins (20 page)

He was on edge and he didn't know why. Through his mind ran confusing scenes of women and seals. They were one and then the other and sometimes they slid together skinless and unclothed, mixing and twisting so they became one. It was damp beneath his skins. In his dream Jem tossed him a thick coil of twine like the rope they would throw from the boat to the island. It would be something to hold on to.

January 1886

My life is like tumbleweed blown about in the wind. James Cooper, my third husband, was a good man. He had land next to our father at Big Grove. He was a limeburner too. But he wasn't a drinker. He kept his money and built this house on Stirling Terrace just above the harbour shore where they used to fly the Union Jack. It is two-storey and made of brick. I had a shop in the front room, downstairs. When my daughter died, it was James who took her to the surgeon's house. Although the poison was inside her, it came out in her skin. I never saw her small, sore body again.

Middle Island 1835, Dorothea Newell

She walked behind Mary and watched the way her skirt dragged in the dirt. Sea water dripped through the fabric onto the sand. Outside the hut Mary emptied the folds of her skirt of shellfish and left for the well. Dorothea entered, bare feet padding quietly across the hard surface. She took the pot off the table and hung it above the fire. When she turned around Manning was at the storeroom door. Their eyes met and he looked away.

‘What are you doing?' she asked.

He hesitated by the door.

Then he walked across to the other doorway and, looking back, said: ‘Left me clothes bag there.'

She stared after him, unnerved by the hate in his eyes. Hating her. She was still standing there when Mary came back.

‘What's wrong?' she asked.

‘I don't know,' replied Dorothea, shaking her head.

She turned to the table and cleared more plates away. They rinsed the limpets, getting rid of the furry seaweed that clung to edge of the yellow flesh, and placed the cone-shaped shells in the coals.

Later, when she went into the storeroom, she knew he had been there. And then she realised Jack's box had been moved. He had brought it to her that morning after he had loaded all his skins into the whaleboat, saying that she was to keep it. He was taking the skins to another hideout since other sealers had found this camp. Isaac and the three black women were to go with him. She thought he should take Mead instead but he said he didn't trust leaving Isaac at the camp. She had agreed then for she didn't want to be on her own with Isaac either. Anderson left midmorning without telling any of them where he was going or how long he would be. The box felt lighter but she couldn't be sure. She dared not open it. But she would speak to Manning.

That evening Anderson still wasn't back and the others were around the table. The empty shells lay in front of them like the discarded hats of miniature clowns. Dorothea didn't like it when Anderson went away but she trusted Mead. Anderson had given him one of his guns in case the sealers came back. She watched Manning. He knew because he avoided looking up. She had told Mary that she thought someone had gone through Anderson's things. She looked around the table. Jem used his knife to prise out the flesh from the last of the limpets. Yellow light from the lamp cast a shadow on one side of his face. He had changed in looks. His face seemed squarer and he grew thin tufts of reddish-brown hair from his face. He was looking more like their father and it wouldn't be long before his cheeks took on that purple hue.

She didn't want to confront Manning. There was something about him that made her uneasy. He was like a snake, thin and unpredictable. So instead she turned to them all.

‘One of you has been at Jack's box. When he finds out, there'll be trouble.'

Mead tilted his head and raised his thick eyebrows. Church too looked puzzled. Manning and Jem exchanged glances.

‘What are you on about?' asked Jem.

‘I said someone has been at his box. If there is anything missing ...'

There was silence except for the crackling of the wood. And then Mead turned to the two lads.

‘Jack'll kill the bastard.'

Manning swallowed and then grinned at Jem.

‘Don't know nothing, do we?'

Jem didn't return the grin but he shook his head.

Dorothea was standing on the sandhill when Anderson returned, skirts billowing out in front of her like the sail on the whaleboat. She liked watching him. He steered the boat through the swell and caught a wave so they surfed onto the sand. Isaac leapt out over the bow and held the boat steady before it could be sucked back with the backwash. He saw her and shouted for her to get the others.

Two grey kangaroos lay damp and bloody inside the boat. Their limbs were tied to an oar and they were lifted out and taken up to the camp. Both were a good size. From the other side of the boat her eyes met Dinah's briefly. She moved closer to see what the others were looking at in the boat. It was a small wild dog, snarling and spitting. Dinah grinned.

‘He like taraba. Bite.'

She showed the mark on her hand and then reached in and grabbed it by the scruff of the neck. It bared its teeth and the women chuckled gaily.

Anderson left the storeroom with the open box in his hands. His face made her feel as though her stomach had already received its blow. She clutched the top of the chair, thinking he was going to hit her with the box, but instead he threw it on the table. He leant close to her and she smelt old meat on his breath. She turned to face Mary who was on the other side of her. Their eyes met and Dorothea could see she was rigid with fear.

‘My money is gone.'

The wall shimmered in front of her and in it was her brother's face. She knew that Manning had taken the money, Manning and her brother. But she couldn't say it. Then he slapped her with the back of his hand and shouted something she couldn't hear because her ear was ringing. He hit Mary on the side of the head so that she fell against her shoulder.

‘Manning took your money,' Dorothea said in a flat voice, not looking at Mary, not looking at anyone.

Mead and Isaac stayed at their end of the table. Anderson drew his gun and fired it into the ceiling. Church scrambled underneath the table.

Anderson was yelling, ‘I'll blow his brains out.'

Afterwards Dorothea thought he would have too if Manning had been there. They must have heard his shouting for they stayed away. But Anderson waited until they thought they were safe. When they returned that morning he pointed his gun at both of them. At first Manning claimed to know nothing. She knew this because Mary heard from Matthew what had happened. Isaac was there too. When Anderson gestured for Manning and Jem to stand before him, he asked Isaac: ‘Shall I shoot them?' Isaac had grinned. Manning muttered that he could have his money and Jem's head shook. Anderson made the boys turn around and walk to the edge of the clearing. They thought he would shoot them in the back. But he didn't.

Now they were gone. And Mary blamed her. How could she do that to their brother? She watched from the sandhill as they set off in the whaleboat. The sea was sullen and flat: their bodies stick-like against it. Maybe he would shoot them later. But even though he frightened her, she sensed Anderson wouldn't do that. Matthew said she should be happy that Anderson had got his money back. But perhaps, he said, it was Manning's all along. Anderson had offered to give him fifteen pounds for working the boat but Manning said he wanted all of it. So apparently he didn't get any.

Anderson would take them to the mainland where they would be left to walk to the Sound. Dorothea didn't know how far it was but she remembered how long it took to sail. It could be the last time she saw him. She was suddenly reminded of how she had felt leaving their grandmother in Surrey. Jem was standing behind Manning. She offered her brother the seal-skin coat she had made but he turned away.

Matthew placed his arm across Mary's shoulders as they stood by the shoreline. Thin misty rain moistened their faces. The whaleboat glided further away from Goose Island. There was no wind and the oars like the legs of a spindly insect crawled across the glassy surface until it was a small dark speck in the distance. And then they were gone. Dorothea remained where she was as Mary and Matthew turned back to the camp. They passed below her. Mary glanced up, eyes dark and hard. After they had gone Dorothea stood looking out over the beach and the sea, confused. There was nothing else she could have done. She was disturbed by the way her sister had looked at her. It was as though they were strangers and she couldn't understand how it could have happened.

Low cloud covered the purple hills of Mount Arid and brought the horizon closer. So close it only just stretched to the other side of Goose Island. Everything else was hidden behind a misty curtain. The white sand was her floor, the grey sky her ceiling, the striped granite her bed, and the leathery brown seaweed washed up by the storms was her garden. And the sea rippled and pulsed like the living thing that it was, constant and unchanging. Tendrils of hair clung to her cheeks and she looked down at the moisture dripping off the ends. She wiped her face with her hands and realised they were stiff with cold.

She pushed open the door of the hut. They stopped talking and looked up. She kept her head high and warmed herself by the fire. Matthew continued.

‘He said they were taking them to the bay on this side.'

‘How far do you think it is to the Sound?' asked Mary.

‘About four hundred miles,' replied Church.

Mary shook her head and glanced at Dorothea.

Dorothea shrugged.

‘It's what they wanted.'

‘It ain't. Not Jem, he didn't want to go,' said Mary, her eyes glistening. ‘They took nothing with them. They won't survive.'

She blinked tears onto her cheeks. Matthew rubbed her arm. Dorothea hated him for what had so recently been forgotten. She knew Matthew held her responsible for coming between him and his wife. But how quickly he could pretend it had nothing to do with him. Instead he had been angry with Dorothea for questioning him and for sheltering Mary when she should have stayed by his side. She glimpsed in those close-set eyes his satisfaction at the way things had turned out. She turned her back then to face the fire, feeling the heat sear her eyes, causing them to water. They'd be wet and cold on the ocean, spray flicking up from the bow. Faces sticky with salt and watching. But every time she tried to see her brother's face, she saw Anderson standing above them. She tried to imagine them reaching the shore, hauling up on some sheltered bay, making tracks across the bush, arriving at the Sound, her father greeting them, glad to have his eldest son home, but still all she could see was Anderson. His proud angled face turned slightly away.

January 1886

I was alone a long time before George found me. After James died I became the strange old woman that sits in a chair by the window, watching the seasons reflected in the water. The road between my house and the harbour became busier. Mail steamers called every week and there were many more people. You wouldn't know our little King George Sound. They call it Albany town now. One day George came to my door, bringing wood to sell. He offered to collect my rent from the houses and the shop at the back. My legs were stiff. And I couldn't cross the harbour any more to Big Grove where James's other property was. George is a big man and he hates the natives but he is often in trouble for selling them grog.