Page 148 of The Pearl Sister
‘So do you speak Yawuru too?’ I asked, thinking of Chrissie.
‘A little, but at Hermannsburg I learnt to speak German, Arrernte and English, and that was more than enough languages to fill one head.’
Half an hour later, we arrived at what looked to me like a large garden shed that was placed on concrete stilts over the red earth. Behind it was a small stable that my grandfather steered the pony and cart towards. There was a veranda at the front, shielded from the burning sun by a tin roof. It was dotted with bits of furniture which looked like they belonged inside, reminding me of Chrissie’s grandmother’s house. I hauled my rucksack up the steps and turned to admire the view.
‘Look at that,’ he said, placing a hand gently on my shoulder as the two of us stared at the landscape in front of us. The fast-sinking sun was seeping its last rays across an outcrop of rock, and beyond that snaked the line of a creek, glistening in the red sand. In the distance I could see the white huts of Hermannsburg, suffused with a deep orange glow behind them.
‘To the northwest of us is Haasts Bluff, near Papunya,’ he said, gesturing behind us. ‘And to the northeast are the MacDonnell Ranges – Heavitree Gap was always my favourite place to paint.’
‘That’s where the photograph of you and Namatjira was taken?’
‘Yes. You’ve done your homework,’ he said approvingly.
‘Phil did it for me. He recognised it.’
‘He would, we’ve been there together many times.’
‘The view’s amazing,’ I replied as my fingers started to tingle. I wanted to paint it immediately.
‘Let’s go inside.’
The hut smelt of turpentine and paint. The room we were in was small, with an old sofa placed in front of an open fireplace. I saw the rest of the space was taken up with a trestle table splodged with paint and littered with jars full of brushes. A number of canvases were propped against the walls.
‘Let’s go and see what we have for supper.’
I followed him into an adjoining room that contained an old and noisy fridge, a gas stove and a sink that didn’t have any taps.
‘I have some steak if you’re interested? I can prepare it with a few vegetables on the side.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘The plates and cutlery are in that cupboard. There’s a frying pan and a saucepan in there too.’
I rooted through the cupboard and set the required items on the little wooden table in the centre of the room. Meanwhile, he took some carrots, onions and potatoes from the fridge and began to peel and chop them deftly. I sat down and watched him, my brain trying to fathom out the genetic pathways that linked us. I would have to draw myself a family tree at some point.
‘Are you a cook, Celaeno?’ he asked me as he worked.
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘My sister, Star, did all that stuff.’
‘You live together?’
‘We used to, up until a couple of months ago.’
‘What happened? You fell out?’
‘No . . . it’s a long story.’
‘Well,’ he said as he lit the flame on the gas ring and tossed the vegetables into a pan, together with some unfamiliar herbs, ‘after dinner, you can tell me all about your life.’
We sat out on the veranda eating what tasted like the best steak ever, but maybe it was just because I was starving. I realised it was my first meal with a blood relative of mine, and I marvelled at how people could do this every day without even thinking how special it was.
Once we’d finished eating, my grandfather showed me the barrel of rainwater at the back of the hut. I used a pitcher to take some to the sink and washed up the plates while he brewed some coffee on the gas ring. He lit an oil lamp on the veranda and we leant back in the wooden chairs, sipping the coffee.
‘Just in case you doubt me, I want to show you this.’
It was another black and white photo, this time of two women standing on either side of a man. One of the women, although darker skinned than me, could have been my double. It was the eyes that clinched it – they had the same almond shape as mine.
‘See the likeness?’
