‘Celaeno. I know, it’s a weird name.’
‘That’s beaut!’ It was Chrissie’s turn to look amazed.
‘Is it?’
‘Yeah, course it is! You’re named after one of the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades – the gumanyba. They’re like goddesses in our culture.’
I was speechless. No one had ever – ever – known where my name came from.
‘You really don’t know a lot about your ancestors, do you?’ she said.
‘Nope. Nothing.’ Then feeling rude as well as stupid, I added, ‘But I’d really like to learn more.’
‘My grandma is the real expert on all that stuff. Reckon she’d be stoked to tell you her Dreamtime stories – stuff that’s been passed down through the generations. Give me a call whenever and I’ll take you to meet her.’
‘Yeah, that would be great.’ I glanced out at the beach and saw the rain was now a memory, replaced by a golden-purple sun sinking fast towards the horizon. My attention was caught by a man and a camel strolling along the beach in front of the bar.
Chrissie turned to look at them too. ‘Hey, that’s my mate Ollie – he works for the camel tour company,’ she said, waving enthusiastically at the man.
Ollie came up to the café to say hello, leaving his camel waiting on the beach, its face sleepy and docile. Ollie was darker skinned than us, his long face handsome, and he had to stoop to embrace Chrissie. I sat there awkwardly as they began chatting, realising that they weren’t speaking English to each other, but a language I’d never heard before.
‘Ollie, this is CeCe – it’s her first time in Broome.’
‘G’day,’ he said and shook my hand with his calloused one. ‘Ever been on a camel?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘D’ya fancy having a go now? I was taking Gobbie out for a stroll to teach him some manners – he’s new and wild, so we haven’t tied him to the others yet. But I’m sure you sheilas can keep him in check.’ He winked at us.
‘Really?’ I said nervously.
‘Sure, any mate of Chrissie’s and all that,’ he said warmly.
We followed Ollie to Gobbie the camel, who turned his head away like a spoilt toddler as Ollie ordered him to kneel. After the umpteenth time, Gobbie finally agreed.
‘You ever done this before?’ I whispered to Chrissie as we both clambered onto his back. The scent coming off him was overpowering; in essence, he stank.
‘Yeah,’ she whispered, her breath tickling my ear. ‘Get ready for a bumpy ride.’
With a lurch, Gobbie suddenly stood up, and I felt one of Chrissie’s hands close around my waist to steady me as we were propelled upwards into the sky. The sun was beginning to dip towards the ocean, and the camel’s body cast a long shadow on the golden sand, his legs spindly, like something from a Dali painting.
‘You okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m good,’ I replied.
The ride was certainly not smooth, as Gobbie seemed to be doing his very best to run away. As we jolted over the sand, the two of us screamed as Gobbie began to canter and I realised just how fast camels could move.
‘Come back, ya drongo!’ Ollie shouted, running to keep pace, but Gobbie took no notice. Eventually, Ollie managed to slow the camel down, and Chrissie rested her chin on my shoulder, panting in relief.
‘Strewth! That was quite a ride!’ she said as we then walked more sedately along the beach. The setting sun had set the sky alight with pinks, purples and deep reds which were perfectly reflected in the ocean below. I felt as if I was gliding through a painting, the clouds like pools of oils on a palette.
Gobbie carried us back to the Sunset Bar, where he tipped us off inelegantly onto the sand. We waved goodbye to Ollie, and then went up the veranda steps.
‘Reckon we could use something cold after all that excitement,’ Chrissie said as she flopped into a chair. ‘What d’ya want to drink?’
I asked for an orange juice and so did she, then we sat together at the bar, recovering.
‘So how you gonna find your family?’ she asked. ‘Got any clues?’
‘A couple,’ I said, fiddling with my straw, ‘and I don’t really know what to do with them. Apart from the name of a woman who led me here, I’ve got a black and white photograph of two men – one old and one much younger – but I’ve no idea who they are, or what they’ve got to do with me.’
‘Have you shown it to anyone here yet? Maybe someone would recognise them,’ Chrissie suggested.
‘No. I’m going to the museum tomorrow. I thought I might get some answers from there.’
‘D’ya mind if I take a look? If they’re from round these parts, I might know ’em.’
‘Why not? The photo is back in my room at the hotel.’
‘No worries. I’ll give you a lift, then we can take a look together.’
We walked outside to the street, where dusk had brought with it the sounds of thousands of insects buzzing through the air, only to be snatched up by bats swooping to catch their prey. A shadow crossed the empty road, and at first I thought it was a cat, but when it froze and stared at me, I saw it had big wide eyes and a pink pointed snout.
‘That’s a possum, Cee,’ Chrissie commented. ‘They’re like vermin here. My grandma used to put them in her pot and cook ’em for supper.’
‘Oh,’ I said as I followed her through the car park to a battered, rusting moped.
‘You okay on the back of the bike?’ she asked.
‘After that camel ride, it sounds like heaven,’ I joked.
‘Jump aboard then.’ She handed me an old helmet, and I put it on before looping my hands around her middle. After a wobbly start, we set off. There was a welcome breeze on my face – a respite from what was another incredibly humid evening, with not a breath of wind to stir the heavy air.
We came to a halt in front of the hotel and as Chrissie parked the moped, I ran inside to fetch the photograph. When I returned to reception, Chrissie was chatting with the woman behind the counter.
‘I’ve got it,’ I said, waving it at her. We settled in the tiny residents’ lounge off reception, sitting together on the sticky leatherette sofa. Chrissie bent her head to study it.
‘It’s a really bad picture, ’cos the sun’s directly behind them and it’s in black and white,’ I said.
‘You mean you can’t tell what colour the people in it are?’ Chrissie queried. ‘I’d say the older man is black and the boy is lighter skinned.’ She held the photograph under the light of a lamp. ‘I’d reckon it was taken in the 1940s or 50s. There’s some writing on the side of the pickup truck behind them. Can you see?’ She passed the photo back to me.
‘Yeah, looks like it says “JIRA”.’
‘Holy dooley!’ Chrissie pointed at the taller figure standing in front of the car. ‘I think I know who that man is.’
There was a pause as she gaped at me with excitement and I stared back at her blankly.
‘Who?’
‘Albert Namatjira, the artist – he’s just about the most famous Aboriginal man in Australia. He was born in and worked out of a mission in Hermannsburg, a couple of hours outside Alice Springs. Y’don’t think he was related to you, do you?’