New Guinea Moon Read Online Free Page A

and stands back to let her inside. ‘I cleared out a room for you. It’s a bit on the small side,’ he says apologetically. ‘Just through here.’
    The front door opens directly into the living room, with a kitchen alcove tucked into the rear, near the back door. A shabby lounge suite, a scratched coffee table, a stereo cabinet with a record player and a large radio, and a dining table with three wobbly chairs crowd the living room. A large, startling, carved wooden shield hangs on one wall. Julie looks around carefully, but she can’t see a television set.
    Tony leads her to a tiny bedroom at the back of the unit, just large enough for a single bed, a bedside table, a chair and a small built-in wardrobe. The door of the wardrobe hangs crookedly, as if someone has punched it. ‘Had to scrounge around to find the furniture,’ he says. ‘Sorry it doesn’t match.’
    â€˜I don’t care if it matches.’ Julie sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, which sags alarmingly. Tufts of chenille have been plucked from the orange bedspread, leaving bald patches. The floor is covered with greenish linoleum, peeling up at the corners. She says bravely, ‘It’s lovely. Really — comfortable.’
    A Holly Hobbie poster has been taped to the wall beside the bed. Tony sees Julie’s eyes rest on it.
    â€˜I guess I was expecting — more of a little girl, you know.’ He shuffles awkwardly in the doorway. ‘I didn’t think. I can take it down.’
    â€˜No, don’t do that. You can leave it there. I don’t mind Holly Hobbie . . . ’ Her voice trails away. To avoid looking at Tony, she leans over to peer through the window behind the bed at the large untidy square of backyard. A cascade of intensely magenta bougainvillea pours over the fence, swarms over the water tank and twines through the metal cage around the window. Beyond the backyard, a valley slants away, then rises again, the far slope dotted with fibro houses, dense trees, rectangular garden plots and huts woven from cane and thatched with grass. ‘Oh, wow! Do people really live there? In those grass huts?’
    Tony leans down to see what she’s staring at. ‘Yep. Just like National Geographic . Well, I’ll leave you to it. Bathroom’s next door. S’pose you’d like to — unpack. Settle in. Just sing out if there’s anything you need.’ He backs out of the room.
    â€˜Um, I might need a towel.’
    Tony shakes his head. ‘Knew I’d bloody forget something. Barb Crabtree wanted to come over but I said I could manage.’
    â€˜Barb Crabtree?’
    â€˜Curry’s missus. Curry Crabtree — Allan — you met him just now. The boss. We’re going round there for dinner tonight. They’ve got a couple of kids your age, home from school for the holidays. We thought you could hang out together . . . when I’m at work, you know. They’ll be company for you.’
    â€˜Okay,’ says Julie, without enthusiasm. If only Simon Murphy had shown some interest; she could have spent the holidays sipping long drinks on the plantation verandah . . . Hanging out with a couple of unknown kids doesn’t hold the same appeal.
    While Tony rummages in a cupboard for a towel, Julie slumps on the bed, suddenly too tired to move. The red poinsettias, the purple of the bougainvillea, the dark glossy green of the banana trees and the garden plots spin and tumble in her head like bright shards inside a kaleidoscope. An idea struggles to form itself — something about the shabby unit with the bars on the windows, and the exuberant wildness outside; something about the sealed bubble of the little plane as it passed above the seething clouds and the impenetrable mountains; something about a tiny frontier town, surrounded by terrain so fierce that roads can’t push through. Something about safe places, and fragile walls, and the