‘Yeah. She’s with Mia.’ Walter continued to stand in the doorway, his head down, avoiding eye contact in the traditional way.
Flynn had learned over time that just standing often meant the person wanted to say more. He turned back to the sink so he wasn’t looking straight at Walter and he waited. The two hardest lessons he’d learned since arriving on Kirra had been waiting and listening.
‘Mia did good with Jimmy.’
Flynn washed the coffee-mugs. ‘She did. She knows her stuff.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Any of your mob going fishing today?’ Flynn flicked the teatowel off the silver rail.
‘No.’ Walter moved his foot in circles against the lino.
The brevity of answers was another thing he’d got used to. ‘I thought I’d go. I fancy some barramundi for dinner.’
Walter shook his head. ‘No fishing today, Flynn. We got a ceremony.’
Surprise rushed through him. Usually he knew about the ceremonies and often he was invited to be part of them. ‘OK, well, I guess I’ll have to chance the fishing on my own, then.’
‘The ceremony is for Mia so you have to come, and bring her with you.’ Walter turned and left, walking outside to wait for Ruby and Jimmy.
Flynn’s chest tightened as the reality of Walter’s request hit him. He had no choice—he had to go to the ceremony. He couldn’t refuse Walter’s request. As an elder on Kirra, Walter had made Flynn a ‘brother’, teaching him many of the Kirri ways. It was a relationship that was very special to him and one that helped with his work on the island.
Images of his quiet day fishing, his day of relaxation and regrouping, burst like a balloon.
Mia.
Instead of fishing, he would have to spend the day with Mia at the ceremony. Mia, who was wound so tight she threatened to implode at any moment. And without work to talk about, there’d be those long, anguished silences.
It was going to be a really long day.
* * *
Mia silently chanted some important details in her head while she walked alongside Flynn, his long strides sending tiny whirls of dust up into the air. The sun was rising high in the sky, promising even more heat later in the day, and already she could feel the familiar trickle of perspiration down her back.
She ached to write up her daily report and a note to herself about the bread, but Flynn had unexpectedly but firmly insisted she lock up the clinic and come with him straight away.
She supposed she could have asked him to wait five minutes but the inquisitive and bemused look he’d given her earlier that morning when she’d pulled out her notebook had made her hesitate. She didn’t want to have to justify why she kept notes on almost everything. Unless someone had lived with a parent who had slowly and insidiously lost their memory, they just didn’t understand.
Lists had become part of her life. Initially they had been there to help her mother. Now they were her lifelines, her attempt to stave off the inevitable.
Working with Flynn had been very different from what she’d expected. They’d managed a co-operative approach, which had been a pleasant surprise. And he’d taken the time to help her decipher the ultrasound. He was a natural teacher and she planned to drain his brain while he was on the island to her advantage. The faster she learned and the more she knew meant her position at Kirra was secure.
And thinking of Flynn in terms of a teacher was a lot less disturbing to her equilibrium than thinking of him as a man. She glanced up at him from under her straw hat. He radiated such boundless energy despite his apparently laid-back approach to life. Bright board shorts had replaced yesterday’s pleated shorts, and today he wore a pink and black shirt with a local design reminiscent of the palm leaf. He looked like he belonged on a beach or riding a wave.
An image of salt water running in rivulets over a broad chest slammed into her, sucking the air from her lungs and causing her to stumble.
A large hand firmly closed around her elbow, sending ribbons of sensation spiralling through her.
His eyes flickered with amber lights as he looked down at her. ‘You have to keep an eye out for rocks and potholes. The roads here aren’t in the best condition.’
‘Thanks.’ She smiled, trying to act relaxed and calm despite the fact she’d never felt so unnerved around a man in her life. Her body seemed to go into a ‘hyper-awareness zone’ whenever they were together. It completely drained her of energy.
Yesterday, as they’d dealt with Jimmy’s accident, she’d lurched between clear-cut professional admiration and straight-up, bone-melting desire. The combination made her head spin. ‘So, are we doing a home visit?’
‘No.’ He dropped his hand from her arm and pointed to a gathering of people. ‘We’re going to a ceremony.’
‘Cool.’ She stopped walking as a thought struck her. ‘Is it culturally sensitive for us to go?’
He smiled, dimples carving into his cheeks. ‘It’s very OK for us to go. You’re the guest of honour.’
She stared at him, her mind emptying of everything as his smile shone above her, driving out the darkness that cloaked her soul. Then his words echoed in her head, forcing her to speak. ‘Me?’ She struggled to think past the black hole that was her stalled and uncooperative brain. ‘But why me?’
‘For helping Jimmy.’
Amazement flooded her that the community would do something like this. She’d never had such an acknowledgment in her working life. ‘But I only did my job.’
‘And the locals want to say thank you.’ He stood waiting for her to move, a patient smile on his face as if he dealt with stunned women every day of the week. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you to people.’
Men and women were sitting around, some on upturned milk crates, some on chairs, and a few on the ground. At their feet yellow and red ochre and white chalk was being mixed with water on large, flat rocks. A couple of old mirrors were passing around the circle so they could see their faces to paint them.
‘Hey, Mia, we dance for you.’ Walter waved to her, his eyes ringed with red ochre, edged with chalk.
She waved back before turning to Flynn. ‘What can you tell me about the face painting? The designs look pretty intricate.’
He tilted back his hat. ‘It’s really body painting. Today they’ll decorate their faces and arms but in a full ceremony they’d paint all their bodies. It’s been practised for thousands of years and the design is passed down from generation to generation, from father to son.’
She watched fascinated as the dancers prepared themselves. ‘The dots on their faces and the fine crossed lines on their arms—I saw that design on their carving and on your shirt yesterday.’
Flynn nodded. ‘That’s right—it’s called cross-hatching. Their traditional body art and the decoration on their traditional carving form the basis of today’s screen-printing and artwork. It’s all connected with their creation story.’ He spoke warmly, his enthusiasm for the topic obvious. ‘Their dreaming dance is handed down from their fathers too and it can be naturally occurring things like a crocodile, shark or wind, but some have a sailing boat.’
She glanced at him in surprise. ‘A sailing boat?’
He spread his hands out in front of him. ‘Probably from the first time the Europeans sailed past.’
She loved learning about these sorts of things. ‘What about mothers? Is anything passed on from the mothers?’
He grinned. ‘Your feminist side will be thrilled to know that