New Guinea Moon Read Online Free

look at each other.
    â€˜Jesus, you’re as bad as each other, you two,’ says Mr Crabtree. ‘You’ve got a chip off the old block here, Mac.’
    â€˜Lay off, Curry,’ drawls Andy, lounging against the counter. ‘They don’t need a cast of thousands gawking at them.’
    Julie throws him a grateful glance, and he winks at her swiftly.
    Mr Crabtree squeezes her shoulder. ‘Ah, go on, take her home. Dinner at our place tonight. Don’t forget, or Barb’ll tear me a new one.’
    Tony picks up the vinyl suitcase and the brown overnight bag. ‘Travelling light. That’s the way.’ He smiles shyly, and for the first time Julie notices the scar across his bald pink scalp, deep enough to lay her finger in.
    â€˜Go and clean yourself up, love,’ says Mr Crabtree. ‘Come and see us when you’re feeling human. You must be buggered.’
    Julie follows Tony out to the car park, where he throws her bags into a small white car. She climbs into the front seat and looks for a seatbelt, but there isn’t one. She is finally here. Perhaps she has jet lag, but she feels as if she’s walking through a dream.
    Tony slips into the driver’s seat.
    â€˜You’d be too young to have your licence?’
    â€˜I’ve got my learner’s. Mum’s given me a few lessons. She says every woman should know how to drive, how to cook, how to type and how to break a man’s hand.’
    Tony grimaces. ‘Yeah, that sounds like Caroline.’
    The airport is about ten minutes out of town. During the drive, Tony clears his throat, but he seems too nervous to speak, until he finally asks, ‘How was your flight?’
    â€˜Good — fine, thanks.’ Impulsively Julie adds, ‘It’s amazing, being in one of those little planes.’
    â€˜Yeah. Yeah, it’s pretty good. New Guinea has the best flying in the world.’
    Julie stares out of the car window. The downpour has passed, and the world is drenched in a vivid, rain-washed light. The luxuriant vegetation is a richer green than she has ever seen, the heavy clouds lined with silver and lead, the road a glistening black. They drive past a man, walking barefoot, his hands clasped behind him, a woolly cap on his head. A group of women carry string bags slung from their foreheads, resting heavy on their backs. Julie turns to stare, and one woman beams a wide smile. Julie gasps; her teeth seem to be stained with blood.
    â€˜That’s just betel nut,’ Tony says. ‘They’re all hooked on the stuff. Turns your teeth red. They spit it out all over the place. Watch where you walk, betel spit’s everywhere.’
    â€˜What does it taste like?’
    â€˜I wouldn’t know. I’ve never tried it. It’s native stuff.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    Julie turns her attention back to the window. They pass bushes laden with scarlet flowers, banana trees with fronds like ragged banners, a building painted bright, careless blue called Ah Wong Trading Co. Raindrops glitter on glossy leaves. Soon they begin to pass houses built for the tropics — fibro boxes with louvred windows, some mounted on stilts, some squatting close to the ground. Most of the windows are enclosed in cages of bars.
    Tony turns the car into a muddy driveway. ‘This is us.’
    It’s a semi-detached fibro unit, shabby and damp-stained, the paint peeling from the low porch at the front door. An angel’s trumpet bush, weighed down with white lilies, spreads across the front window, and a hibiscus tree, splashed with pink crepe flowers, leans drunkenly beside the door. Poinsettias in scarlet and green, the colours of Christmas, line the gravel drive.
    â€˜It’s pretty basic,’ says Tony.
    â€˜The garden is gorgeous. It’s lush .’ She steps out of the car and sinks into ankle-deep grass.
    â€˜Yeah, everything grows pretty fast up here.’
    He unlocks the front door