Authors: Di Morrissey
Lily let down her long, thick dark hair, brushed it, touched up her lipstick and headed for the Lugger Bar. Another blast from the past, she thought with a grin.
But there was no Long Bar and not a Gin Sling in sight here. It was RSL decor, practical and familiar to every drinker in Australia. However it was quiet, with few customers, and she felt no qualms at being the only woman in the room. She ordered a glass of wine and wandered around looking at the large framed photographs on the walls. This was old Broome—luggers lined up alongside the long jetty, lying on their side in the low tide mud; Japanese divers in balloon-like suits, metal helmet held under an arm; Asian labourers sitting beside great mounds of mother-of-pearl, shelling and sorting.
Lily had an overwhelming longing to be a part of that romantic era. How she wished the Ansett flight had whisked her to the Broome of the early 1900s. Even though she’d seen nothing of the place, Lily felt a tug at her emotions simply by being here and hoped she wasn’t going to be disappointed by finding the past had been erased and that her private quest would reach a dead end.
A sun-shrivelled, grey-headed, nuggetty little man in a faded T-shirt commemorating a decade past ‘Fun Run’, swung around on his bar stool and addressed her. ‘Them were the days, girlie. This was a wild town in the twenties.’
Lily smiled slightly at being called ‘girlie’. Political correctness obviously didn’t have much currency in Broome. ‘I bet you’re a local,’ she said sweetly.
‘Yeah, I guess I sorta qualify now.’ His face fractured into a hundred wrinkles as he smiled at her.
‘Have you been here a long time?’ Lily walked to the bar past the empty mock Tudor-style tables and joined the old man.
‘Too long. Everyone comes to Broome for a season or two, they say, then never leave. I always planned to move on after I’d made enough moolah. Never did. Ended up retiring to a home in Perth a few years back. Couldn’t hack it. Rather live in a shack here. So, you on holidays?’
‘In a way. I’m doing a bit of research, looking back at the old days, the old families.’
‘Go on!’ he said with genuine surprise. ‘What for?’
Lily sipped her wine while she thought of an answer. ‘I might write something. Or uncover a family tree.’
‘More likely find a skeleton or two in the closet round these parts,’ winked the old-timer. ‘So where’re you going to start?’
‘I’m not sure. Where would you suggest?’
‘You’d be best going to the hysterical society. It’s just down the road. Never been there meself.’
Lily laughed. ‘Is it a big historical society?’
‘It’s in the old Customs House. Only a small joint, but they might have stuff you’re after. There ain’t anywhere else,’ said the man finishing his drink and looking expectantly at Lily.
She took the hint and ordered a round. ‘I’m Lily Barton.’
They shook hands.
‘Clancy. Well, me real name is Howard. But I like poetry, hence the moniker.’
‘You read poetry?’
‘Sometimes,’ he shrugged, then added with obvious enthusiasm, ‘The stuff I make up is better.’
Lily spoke quickly to divert an offer to quote his original works. ‘So tell me, are there any old-timers around I could talk to, divers or some of the old families?’
‘What’s wrong with me?’ grinned Clancy. ‘Listen, there are some old-time families around, most of them are gettin’ on and they keep to themselves. They’re a mixed bunch. Mrs Fong might yarn to you, her old man was a diver. She used ta clean houses for the rich white ladies when she was young. The Fongs are pretty successful business folk now. The working pearl people here are fairly new. I mean it depends a lot on what you’re lookin’ for.’
Lily fished in her shoulder bag for the old photograph of the man in white and showed it to Clancy. The barman and the other drinkers gathered around. ‘He’s part of my past but I don’t know anything about him.’
They studied the picture.
‘Well it’s not the Prime Minister,’ said Clancy with a grin. ‘Dunno who it could be. Before my time.’
The others nodded agreement and Lily put the photograph back in her bag.
The conversation rambled on with the other barflies joining in, entertaining Lily with some highly improbable stories of the past which she enjoyed immensely. Hunger and tiredness eventually forced her to bid them goodnight.
‘My day has been three hours longer than yours, thanks to time zones,’ she explained to stop yet another round of drinks being ordered. ‘You’ve all been great company. I’m sure we’ll have a chance to chat again.’
‘Yeah, that’d be great. Can always find us around the bar here most evenings,’ said Clancy warmly.
The men watched appreciatively as the slim figure disappeared across the darkened lawns.
‘Good lookin’ bird. What do you ’spose she’s after?’ pondered Clancy aloud.
‘Hard to say,’ replied the barman. ‘She’s booked in for a couple of weeks, though.’
The next morning, Lily ate breakfast on her little patio hung with brilliant bougainvillea. A note apologised that there were no croissants, so muffins were substituted and the
Australian
newspaper wouldn’t arrive until the late morning flight. An array of brochures of ‘Things To Do in Broome and the Kimberleys’ had been provided instead. She fiddled with the bedside radio to find a news bulletin but gave up and drank her tea before it got cold.
Later, dressed in jeans and a shirt, Lily asked at the front desk for directions to the Historical Society, but the girl looked blank.
‘It’s in the old Customs House, I think,’ said Lily.
‘Oh, that’s in the Seaview Shopping Centre, two blocks down the road,’ she pointed.
Lily stepped into warm air and a caressing breeze. She stopped and caught her breath as she gazed across the road at the expanse of Roebuck Bay. The
water lapped at the edge of stubby mangroves where a few rusty rocks jutted from the extraordinary turquoise sea. She stood, transfixed, wondering how long it would take to get used to this amazing colour. Milky patches gave the water a solid appearance and in contrast the clearness of the blue sky appeared translucent.
She walked on and found herself stopping and staring once again as she looked at a remnant of the past. This time she couldn’t immediately understand what had so grabbed her attention. It was merely a closed small store that faced the sea. Its rusting tin was the blood red of the rocks, its walls were thin and full of holes and through gaps and windows could be seen piles of rotting oyster baskets, nets and ropes. She walked around the small lonely building and took a photo, unsure of why the place intrigued her so.
The little white wooden building that now housed the Historical Society bore a neat little plaque which gave details of its past life as the Customs House. Diving gear, pumps from luggers and pioneer household items were scattered in the small front garden. Along the small verandah were glass-topped display cases, locked, but trustingly left to public view.
Lily went to the front door with its large sign,
AIR-CONDITIONED, ENTER
, then she saw a smaller handwritten note,
CLOSED, RE-OPEN IN A COUPLE OF DAYS.
Lily was faintly bemused, wondering how long the sign had been there and how she could get access to the museum despite the sign. She walked back to
the Continental and rang the car rental place they had recommended.
In a short time a cheerful woman arrived in a small light four-wheel drive. They drove back to the tin shed that served as an office, the woman telling Lily her life story and how her marriage had improved immeasurably since moving from the east coast to Broome. Lily pondered on the possible influence of geography on marriage.
Soon after a waving of her credit card, Lily found herself driving out on a dusty road, cruising past small bungalows shrouded in tropical plants. She stopped at the Tourist Information Centre. Inside, she asked about other sources of information on the old days, pointing out that the Historical Society was closed.
‘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 the white ladies. My greatgranny, granny and mummy all for same family. Too old t’work no more.’
Her hands were gnarled like a man’s, veins and bumps stood out along her thin legs, but her body was heavy and a cotton hat hid what remained of her wispy grey hair.
‘My name’s Lily.’ She sat down on the sand beside her.
‘Me is Biddy. I got me little house down back of the creek there.’ She nodded over her shoulder. ‘Dat’s some of me mob over there.’ Another tilt of the head was aimed towards half a dozen men sitting in the shade by one of the old sheds, a pile of empty beer bottles and the glint of silver bellies of wine casks testament to weeks of drinking.
‘Lazy buggers, some of ‘em,’ she continued, ‘Men worked hard in the old days but. Plenty work round then.’
‘Tell me about the old days, Biddy. What was it like?’
Biddy tested the line draped over her finger then settled back and started to reminisce—colourful stories punctuated by frequent cackles. She talked about
the big bungalows, the fancy furniture. ‘Some of ‘em even got pearl and gold made into chairs and what not.’ She described the ornate embroidered dresses, the men’s uniforms, the parties.
‘That washin’ was somethin’. Them Masters change their whites many times a day’