Page 114 of The Pearl Sister
‘Now?’
‘Yeah, if it suits ya. He’s going Bush soon, so I’d suggest there’s no time like the present.’
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but I don’t have any transport to get back here.’
‘You can kip at my place tonight if necessary, and I’ll drop ya back in town whenever ya want,’ he replied.
‘Right. Er, then I need to get my stuff together.’
‘Sure,’ he nodded. ‘Take your time. I got some errands ta run in town anyway. How about I see you back here in half an hour?’
‘Okay, thanks.’
We parted in reception and I ran up the stairs to my room. To say my head was spinning didn’t even begin to describe it. As I packed my stuff into my rucksack, I felt as if I’d been trapped in a film that had gone on for hours – i.e. my life before this morning. And then, it had suddenly been fast-forwarded so that lots of things all happened at once. That was the way my life felt right now.
Australia, Chrissie, my grandfather . . .
I stood up and felt so woozy that I had to steady myself by leaning against the wall. I shook my head but that only made it worse, so I lay down instead, feeling like a wimp.
‘Too much excitement,’ I muttered, trying to breathe deeply to calm myself. Eventually, I stood up again, seeing I only had ten minutes left before I had to meet Phil downstairs.
Go with the flow, Cee,I thought as I brushed my teeth viciously and looked at my reflection in the mirror.Just go with the flow.
The receptionist told me there was nothing to pay, and I realised that Chrissie must have used the little money she earned to clear the bill. I felt terrible that I hadn’t thought about it and got there first. She was obviously proud, like me, and didn’t want to feel as though she was taking advantage.
The dusty, battered pickup truck I’d seen in the car park at Hermannsburg was outside the hotel.
‘Throw your pack in the back of the ute an’ climb aboard,’ Phil instructed me.
We set off, and I studied him slyly as he drove. From the tips of his huge dirt-spattered boots, to his brawny wellmuscled arms and the Akubra hat atop his head, he was the archetypal Australian bushman.
‘So, quite a moment for ya coming up, young lady,’ he commented.
‘Yeah. If this guy really is my grandfather . . . I just don’t understand how he could know it’s definitely me. I mean, he’s not seen a picture of me or anything, and I know it was my adoptive dad that named me.’
‘Well, I’ve known Francis half my life, and he’s not someone who’d normally react the way he did when I mentioned you ta him yesterday. Besides, you had that piccie of him, remember?’
‘Yeah, maybe he was the one who sent it and gave me the inheritance?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What’s he like? As a person, I mean?’
‘Francis?’ Phil chuckled. ‘He’s pretty hard to describe. Unique would be the word. He’s getting on now a’ course – he was born in the early thirties, I think, so he’s well inta his seventies, and his painting has slowed down a bit recently . . .’
‘He’s an artist?’
‘Yeah, and pretty well known round here. He lived at the mission as a child. And from the way the elders were teasing him last night, he followed Namatjira around like a pet dingo.’
‘I’m an artist too.’ I bit my lip as I felt the swell of tears again.
‘Well, there y’go. Talent runs in families, doesn’t it? Not sure what my old dad passed down ta me, apart from a hatred of towns and people . . . No offence to you, miss, but I’m far more comfortable with my chooks an’ dogs than I am with humans.’
‘So I’m definitely not related to Namatjira?’ I thought how disappointed Chrissie would be.
‘Doesn’t look like it, no, but Francis Abraham is still a decent rellie to have in ya closet.’
‘“Abraham”?’ I questioned.
