Best Australian Yarn: River Fish by Sharleigh Crittenden

‘The air-conditionin’ don’t work, just so youse know.’ Our bus driver makes the announcement as we pack ourselves into the grubby 22-seater. The Toyota is supposed to be white, but the thin layer of grey dust has given it a tan, so my freckle-sprayed arms look bleached-stained standing right next to it. The driver finishes loading our bags into the back then climbs up the steps and shoves himself into the driver seat, with his beer gut pressing into the steering wheel. His legs are short, and his seat is set forward a fair way so he can reach the gas pedal. As we pull away from the kerb, a couple of the kids crack the windows. It’s a long drive. Rebecca our caseworker, originally from the Kimberley, picked me up on the way through to Narromine where the bus was waiting for us. My sister was in the car already. She’s living with foster carers in Rylstone, an elderly white couple, who seem decent. I still can’t believe I got dumped at Langley’s after getting off the plane. The whole drive there, Bec said nothing about it. When we pulled up in Bathurst, I assumed it was to stretch our legs. It’s a long, winding drive over the mountains from Kingsford-Smith and there aren’t that many places to stop. You get a bit dizzy from all the twisting and snaking around, like the cars in those tellie ads driving along dramatic and picturesque roads, showcasing the car’s power-steering and superior handling. Most of my childhood in that cream fibro cottage was spent in front of the tellie. Before the cops came and handed us those big black garbage bags for us to stuff our things into and we never looked back. Before that, as I lay in the top bunk waiting for sleep to take me somewhere better, fragments of ads would whirl around in my mind like mini re-enactments. When Bec flicked the indicator on and swerved off the highway, I thought nothing of it. That was, until we turned down a gravel driveway and she killed the engine in front of a big brick house. When I saw the signage out the front the reality smacked me in the face like a backhand. Langley’s House Youth Refuge. It looked harmless enough from the outside. It had an English vibe: a little turning circle out the front with delicate brown gravel that crunched under my feet when I stepped onto it from the car and walked to the door, and rose bushes tethered to bamboo stakes. It must have been someone’s house once, before it was converted to a keeping place for the homeless or otherwise ‘unplaceable’ kids. Code for unwanted. Three weeks later she’s taking us to some camp in the bush. Her way of making good, I guess. She hasn’t said anything, but I’m sure she’s heard that one of the boys I live with tried to neck himself in the tree outside my room a week ago. With the windows down, there is dust whirling around us, and the flies are having a field day in this heat. By the time we arrive in Wilcannia, most of the kids on the bus are friendly. My sister and I made friends with George, and his cousins Nakita and Warwick. We’re all from different parts of what they call “the Central West” – Dubbo, Parkes, Wellington, Bathurst, and Mudgee. It’s all Wiradjuri Country. Our mob are the People of the Three Rivers. It’s late when we get there, and I can only just make out the welcome sign: Wilcannia, Central Darling Shire. Watching over the sign is a river fish, maybe a Murray cod or a perch, and a Red-Tailed Black Cockatoo. We’re shepherded into some cabins, boys separate from girls, to unravel our sleeping bags in the dark and crash out for the night. I wake early as usual, and I’m surprised to find my sister is up already and sucking on a ciggie, standing on the concrete veranda just outside the door. Growing up she always woke later than me. She thinks smoking makes her look tough. ‘Want a drag?’ I shake my head. ‘Let’s take a look around, see if we can rustle up some breakfast.’ We walk, side by side, to the main building where Bec is waiting for us. She’s clutching a glass of reconstituted orange juice, looking better than she did yesterday. The bus trip didn’t do her any favours. She got motion sickness. Even sitting up the very front, we had to pull over twice so she could throw up. I held her hair out of the way and my sister stroked her back. ‘I bagged us a table’, she says waving us towards her. When we’re seated, I look around, getting my bearings, and I spot George and Nikita. They’re sitting with some of the local kids. A few of them are looking at us, but when they notice me, they quickly look away. One of the Aunties comes up to us. ‘Don’t mind ‘em,’ she says. ‘They ain’t seen that many black fullas with fair skin. We’ll sort ‘em out.’ She touches me on the shoulder and smiles before she walks off. After breakfast, we’re called outside to sit under the big black box. The flies are wuzzing around and it’s much cooler out of the sun. That’s when we get the talk. About how we might be different shades, but we’re all Aboriginal. No matter how much milk you stir into it, coffee is still coffee. The Aunties tell us that claiming our Aboriginality is an act of resistance, a refusal to disappear. Once they’re done talking to us, we’re free to find our own entertainment. One of the Wilcannia girls, Rosie, saunters over. She introduces herself and invites us down to the river. ‘Some of us mob are gonna go catch some river fish and cook ‘em up with some Johnny cakes,’ she says. A group of us head to the town weir, where the water level is just right for trapping the river fish using the rocks. We hop along the rocks on the edge of the river. I sit down on one of the bigger ones and rest my legs in the water. A few of the local kids lower themselves in where the water froths white as it rushes over lines of red rocks and tumbles into the troughs before picking up more momentum downstream. They’re belly down with their heads just above the waterline, watching for fish. I’ve never seen this way of catching fish before. I’ve only ever caught yabbies. They keep quiet and patient and it takes a bit of time, but they catch two Murrays. Then, finally, a golden perch, with its tell-tale curved forehead and honey-coloured belly. Its broad body is crowned with jagged spines. When the sun is low on the western horizon, we gather around the campfire listening to the Elder’s yarning. They tell us about The Dreaming, the importance of the river, and how it was created. How the river is the source of all life ¬– from the insects to the fish and the birds, even the ancient red river gums – and how it runs in the blood of the Barkandji. Before she died, my Nan told me about her dad, my great-grandfather, a Wiradjuri man and known by the cattle farmers as Black George. She talked to me about how he lived off the river for long periods, camping along it, as he travelled across Country to different cattle stations for mustering jobs. I try to picture him now. The last day is a real stinker. We spend most of our time down by the river. My sister, Nakita and I are sitting watching the boys in the water. George and Warwick have been swimming and trying to catch fish with their bare hands. I like George, he’s loud and funny, but Warwick’s quiet shyness makes him seem sweet and mysterious. His skin is a creamy-brown and looks like instant coffee after the milk’s been stirred in. The boys eventually call it quits and appear on the riverbank a few feet from us. They’re inspecting a rope swing that’s tied to one of the big red river gums. It’s got to be ancient. Under the tree’s ample shade, they whip their shirts off. I see them shoot a glance in our direction. They want to see if we’re looking, so they can laugh and accuse us of checking out their bodies. I try hard to look as if I’m not noticing. The rope, hanging from one of the tree’s mammoth limbs, is as thick as their wrists. I watch George give it a few tentative tugs to check it’s stable. Warwick is smiling in anticipation. His arms are crossed casually against his chest, and I can see one of his dark nipples peeping out over his hand. His sister catches my eye and I look away real quick, but I can feel the colour creeping into my cheeks. George takes a few backwards strides, sussing out how far he needs to swing out before he can let go, clearing the bank and land safely in the milky water. I’ve never seen a riverbank so steep in my life. It’s easily eight feet from the top to the water level. I’m still sizing it up when the air fills with a great whooping sound as George, clenching the rope, lobs himself off the edge of the bank and plunges like a pin into the river below. It all looks so perfect here on the river. It’s hard to believe that in a few years, a million dead fish will float on surface of this same spot.