The real surprise of the evening, though, was Marsh himself. Whatever the reason - his wife's old-world notion of hospitality, the kicking-in of the Bundy rum to which he liberally treated himself, maybe the mollifying presence of the Beautiful Girl - his anger slowly faded, his spirits rose and he began to open up. Indeed, in his own bearish manner, he was the life of the party, the monolith around which the natives were expected to dance.
He sat at the head of the table, glass in hand, elbow on the table, leaning forward and fixing various members of the party with his powerful blue stare, badgering us with questions, then cutting off our replies with his own opinions, most of which were carefully calculated to offend somebody in the room. He launched scathing attacks on lawyers to the pilots, pilots to the lawyers, and blackfellers to all and sundry, always making sure that the lawyers, pilots and black woman in the room heard every word.
At different times throughout the evening I heard him arguing land rights with Charles, debating the interconnectedness of market and drought cycles with his own lawyers, grumbling about the effects of heli-mustering on cattle condition with the pilots. He related a rambling story about some emu, a station pet, which apparently thought it was a cattle-dog. He was full of bullshit about min-min lights, prairie oysters, bush aphrodisiacs and pointed bones, the last with a malicious eye in my direction.
The one group who were apparently immune from criticism was Pommy migrants. Nance bustled around, making sure we were all fed and watered, but keeping a quiet eye upon her man. Once or twice, when he looked like he was about to stray beyond the bounds of propriety, she'd flash a warning signal, but more often she was encouraging, obviously familiar with the performance.
When Neville, one of the lawyers, showed signs of a cold, Nance said something to Marsh about his bush remedy. I smiled to myself. These guys always have a bush remedy. Minutes later I was watching Neville miserably contemplating a concoction made up of lemon concentrate, chilli pepper, Worcestershire sauce and 'the mystery ingredient'. There's always a mystery ingredient, too. From the look on the lawyer's face when he drained the glass, it might have been sump oil.
From scattered fragments of the conversation I learnt a little about Marsh's personal history, and, again, it wasn't what I'd imagined. As owner of the station, of course, he was the Enemy - blokes like him had been riding roughshod over my mob for centuries - but he wasn't to the Big House born. Far from being sensitive about his past, he seemed to revel in it. His old man had been a drover and a drunkard over Winton way, his mother, when she wasn't on the road or up to her elbows in babies, a cleaner in the local pub. Indeed, his background was not that different from my own. The main difference, of course, was in the colour of our respective mothers, but even there I found myself reflecting that the black and white trash often had more in common than either of us would want to admit.
I felt the similarity more strongly than ever when Marsh stuck an old Slim Dusty record on the stereo. Charles' upper lip curled; he looked more like a Nick Cave man. Fat chance, I thought. If Nick Cave had wandered into a gathering like this they'd have trussed him, stuffed him and eaten him for the main course. Nance was presumably responsible for the Celine Dion CDs on the bottom shelf. The company lawyers' concept of country looked like it didn't stray too far from shania Twain.
When 'Leave Him out There in the Long Yard' came on, Charles was discussing a recent High Court appeal with Greg and I saw him roll his eyes and mouth the word 'monotonous'. Marsh was busily swapping fishing stories with the pilots, but I saw from the light that flared in his eyes that he'd noticed the comment as well.
'Monotonous?' he boomed. 'Whadderye expect? He's singin about the bush!'
He took a noisy swig of rum, and then, when he had everybody's attention, repeated 'Monotonous!' in such a way as to leave you in no doubt that, limited though Slim's vocal and narrative range might have seemed, there were as many permutations and possibilities within its parameters as there were in the bush itself.
Marsh turned out to be something of an expert on the subject of old Slim. He glared at me suspiciously when I expressed my admiration, but when he saw that my interest was genuine, he took me through his collection. It was a treasure trove: over sixty albums, many of them seventy-eights, some of them signed. He'd met the Great Man - not just at some stage-door signature-fest, but out bush, on the road. The first time he was a bung-eyed kid in his father's droving camp when Slim dropped by in his famous home-made caravan.
'You take all these,' he said, waving a hand out over the collection, 'add em up and whadderye got? Ya got a story. Our story,' he said with added emphasis, though I had my doubts as to whether or not he was including me in the 'our'.
Fair enough, I thought to myself as I was lying in bed that night, but the description inevitably reminded me of Lincoln Flinders. He was another story man, but that didn't stop some bastard killing him.
Nothing I'd learnt about Marsh in the last few hours had swayed me from the suspicion that he might well have been that bastard.
Indeed, what I'd learnt about him probably increased the likelihood of his being the killer. I knew him and his ilk: they tended to take the law into their own hands, strike first. It was a brutal, semi-civilised world out there, and Marsh was born and bred into it. They treated the blackfellers worse than they treated their dogs, and I'd already seen how he treated dogs.
I lay there, listening to the sounds of the night: distant generator humming, cicadas whirring away in the poincianas, the occasional night-bird calling: boobooks, nightjars. Something that sounded like a sea-gull, though God help it if it was.
What was wrong with my scenario? I was drifting off to sleep when it struck me: it wasn't the violence - he'd be more than capable of it if anybody got in his way, and from the glimpse I'd had of the letter from Lance Massie, Lincoln had clearly done that. My problem was the subterfuge: the knife in the night, the attempt to pass the death off as a ritual killing. That was what didn't seem in keeping with what I'd seen of the man. If it was, then he was an even more cunning bastard than I could ever have imagined. It was still possible, of course; but it didn't feel right.
The meeting the next morning proved to be something of an anti-climax. We gathered together in the station office, everybody embarrassed by our intimacy of the night before except Marsh, who seemed impervious to such feelings.
The whole thing was carried out with much greater restraint than would normally have been the case. Charles presented Marsh with a court order to remove his stock from the North Quarter, Marsh responded in kind: he had a letter, drafted by his lawyers, which demanded compensation for damaged fencing, gates and roads, and an offer to withdraw the claim in return for a formal lease of the same section of land. Charles replied, as everyone present had known that he would, by saying that such a request would have to go to the traditional owners, but that, until then, the court order would need to be obeyed. Marsh didn't look too happy, but nor did he look surprised.
Twenty minutes after the meeting finished, our back-up plane arrived and we headed for Bluebush.
When I got back to town I tracked down McGillivray, found him in his office, told him that Marsh was back home, and that if he wanted to look into Marsh's connection with Moonlight, he could do worse than begin with Lance Massie.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes then looked up at me resignedly. 'Lemme get this straight. You not only want me to investigate Earl Marsh, prominent land owner and growing cheese in the Territory Cattlemen's Association. You want me to include in that investigation the local manager of the Department of Regional Development?'
'That's about it,' I said, not without some sympathy.
He sighed, leaned forward, head on palms, ran his fat fingers through what was left of his hair and muttered something he'd been muttering a lot lately.
'Emily, Emily, Emily…'
The Captain of the World
I left McGillivray to his despair and raced down to the W
hite Dog, just in time to begin my shift. I came home at sundown, washed-out and exhausted. Between mad sorcerers, crashing planes and blustering cattlemen, it had been a hell of a week.
And it wasn't over yet. I'd only been in the shower for twenty minutes when I was disturbed by a mighty thump on the front door and a roaring rendition of my name.
Jack was back in town.
I stepped out of the shower, threw a towel around my hair and a robe around my body, opened the door.
'Hi, Jack.'
'Hijack! That's about what a bloke's gotta do to see his own family these days. I've been standing here for ten minutes.'
'Sorry, Dad. You wouldn't believe the week I've had. Come in.'
He began to gather up the pile of rubbish he'd left by the door: as well as the usual monstrous swag, he had an overnight bag, a tin of rock samples, a carton of beer and a box full of fresh food.
'Never did master the art of travelling light, did you, Jack?'
'Figured it was my turn to make dinner,' he explained with a devilish grin, putting the food on the kitchen table. 'Look after my little girl.'
'Mmmm. I could handle that. What's on the menu?'
'Irish stew.'
'Sounds good.' I settled back on the couch as he poured himself a beer and began bustling about the kitchen. 'Maybe you could put a little less whisky and a few more vegies in it than you used to.'
'Don't worry,' he said in his usual self-assured manner. 'I know how to move with the times.' He reached into the box and I glimpsed a little white Gladbag out of the corner of my eye.
I sat up. 'Cocaine?' I asked.
'Tofu,' he grinned.
'You're going to put tofu in an Irish stew?'
'Had this hippy come and work for me last year. He put it in everything. Got quite partial to it. Good for the figure,' he added, ruefully patting his stomach.
'I think I'd rather stick to the peas and potatoes; I'd even prefer parsnip to tofu.'
He looked a little offended. 'But I thought you'd like it - all those hairy-legged women you been hanging round with in Melbourne.'
'They weren't that hairy, Jack, and they weren't all women. But don't worry, I'm sure it'll be delicious.'
'What about this then?' He pulled a brand-new blender out of the box. 'Banana smoothies for breakfast?'
'God, that hippy really taught you a thing or two.'
An hour later we were weighing into the stew. 'You haven't lost your touch,' I assured him. 'Tofu notwithstanding. So how long are you in town for?'
'Not long. Heading out for Green Swamp first thing in the morning.'
'Sounds exciting.' Green Swamp was a leprous roadhouse a hundred and eighty k's out west: its distinguishing features were the largest collection of beer coasters in the southern hemisphere, a wall full of fading photographs in which tits, bums and billiard cues were heavily represented and Barney Kipper, who for twenty years had maintained the region's phone lines from his own stool in the bar. 'What's on out there?'
'Funeral, actually.' 'Oh. Sorry. Maybe not so exciting.'
'Well, kind of a wake, truth be known.'
'Oh yeah? Piss-up, you mean. Re-insert the exciting. Who's the lucky man?'
'You ever meet old Snowy Truscott?'
'Not that I can recall.'
'Drilled a few holes for me out the Burnt Shirt. Come from over Winton way, but he'd been workin round here for years. Nice bloke. Died a few weeks ago, but we're only getting together now. I'm heading out with some of the fellers in the morning. Play kicks off at eleven.'
'Play?'
'Cricket. Green Swamp versus the World. I'm captain of the World.'
'You're having a game of cricket for his funeral?'
'Wake.'
'Still seems a strange way to say goodbye to someone.'
'Why? Very fond of his cricket, Snowy was. Figured we might make it an ongoing thing: the Snowy Truscott Memorial Cup. Went the way he would've wanted to, old Snow.'
'Killed by a bouncer?'
'Rolled his truck.'
'Way to go…'
But Jack wasn't altogether present himself; while we were eating I sensed that he had something else on his mind. 'Emily,' he began when we were sitting out on the back porch with a cup of tea. 'There's something I want to talk to you about.'
'Had the feeling there might be.'
He studied me for a moment, locked onto me with those blue magnets.
'Tom McGillivray's told me about your little escapades.' Ah.
'It's one of the reasons I come in,' he continued. 'Told him I'd kick his arse from here to Sunday if he so much as let you into the same desert as Blakie again. Or Marsh, for that matter. They're as bad as each other, those two.'
'Not exactly up to Tom, Jack. I'm a big girl now.'
'You watch it, Emmy. Specially Blakie. Marsh I haven't had much to do with, but I've seen Blakie in action. Seen him rip a feller apart for lookin at him the wrong way. For lookin like somebody who looked at him the wrong way. You're playing with fire there, girl. Black fire. Watch it.'
'Usually do, Jack.'
He frowned, but let the ambiguity hang in the air.
'I miss Lincoln as much as anyone, Em,' he continued, 'and there's nothing I'd rather see than his killer brought to justice. But not if it's going to cost me my daughter.'
'I haven't taken too many risks so far, Jack.'
'Crashing planes and chasing Blakie around the bush on your own isn't taking risks?'
'Well, there was those…'
He put his big hand on mine. 'You're all I've got, darlin. I'm not telling you how to live your life -1 know you better than that. I'm just asking you to…think of me, I suppose. Be careful.'
I looked out over the yard, thought about my mother. His grief when she died. 'Righto, Jack,' I nodded. 'I'll be careful.'
He was up early the next morning, humming away to himself in the kitchen while I was still in bed. By the time I surfaced his swag was rolled up and stashed near the couch, along with his numerous boxes and bags. He'd made us a big breakfast - porridge, toast and banana smoothies - but we didn't have time to make much of an impression on it before we were interrupted by a horn from outside.
Jack took a look out through the curtains, then checked his watch.
'Bugger me, they're here early.'
'Who is?'
'Couple of my blokes, plus a few others who wanted to come along and say goodbye to Snowy. Sorry, darlin, I better get going.'
He gathered up his gear in one almighty load and headed for the door as cautiously as a docking oil tanker.
'You right there, Dad?' I asked from the breakfast table.
'Righter than summer rain!' came the cheery reply from somewhere inside the pile. 'It's all a matter of balance, girlie. Balance! You could move a fuckin mountain if you had it properly balanced.'
He opened the door and edged his way out. Seconds later there came a terrible crash and a burst of unadulterated outback invective that would have had a socio-linguist scrambling for the microphone.
'What was that about balance?' I hollered.
I went outside. Jack was sitting amidst the wreckage, rubbing his pate and glaring at Hazel's wind-chime. One of the blokes from the car was coming over to give him a hand as well. As he drew closer, I saw that it was Bernie Sweet, the miner who'd sold Jack the maps.
Jack rose to his feet, slowly and awkwardly.
'Emily! Why the fuck have you got a lump o' fuckin' - Jack paused, then took a closer look - 'what have you got a fuckin lump of hangin off your front door, anyway?'
'Actually, I was going to ask you about that. What do you reckon it is?'
He took it down, pulled a lens out of his shirt pocket and raised it to his eye. 'Brown stuff's… hmmm, yep, one of the peridotites. Olivine, probably. Pretty lively, but… darker'n what you normally get round here.' He licked it. 'More sugary, too.'
'It's sweet?'
'Grainy.'
'And the beautiful blue?'
/> He turned it over, raised his eyebrows as a spectrum of colour rippled across its cleavage planes. 'Not quite sure. What do you reckon, Bernie?'
He passed it over to Sweet, who gave it a cursory glance, frowned and gave it back. 'Not quite sure myself.'
'If I had to make a stab at it,' said Jack, 'I'd say labradorite.'
'Thought it might have been,' I said. 'Seen anything like it before?'
He thought for a while. 'Round here? Can't say I have. Found some years ago, over near Winton.'
'Worth anything?'
'Find yourself a bigger bit and you might be able to knock up a pretty necklace. But no, not really. Gets in the way of the gold. You still haven't told me what it's doin danglin in your doorway.'
'It's a wind-chime, Jack.'
He rattled the stones, put a hand to his ear, listened in mock rapture as they clunked together.
'Scuse my ignorance, Emmy, but I'd a thought a wind-chime was meant to, aah… chime?
'It's a present from Hazel.'
Sweet grinned at Jack and asked, 'Who's Hazel?'
'Friend of mine from Moonlight Downs.' I turned to Jack, who was loading himself up again. 'And its chime is more for the eye than for the ear.'
Jack didn't look convinced. I don't know that I was myself. Five minutes later they were heading out for Green Swamp.
The Sandhill Gong Woz Her
I came home that afternoon to find the neighbours standing in little clusters out on the footpath, talking at each other in an animatedly un-Territorian manner and gesticulating at their apartments. There were about twenty of them, most of them blokes, none of them happy.
I got out of the car, wondering whether this was a party I should be crashing.
Two of those at the back of the crowd turned around and gave me the evil eye: Ernie Ratzavic - Ratsarse to his friends - and his drinking buddy, the globular Slim Timms, who dressed like an extra in a Clint Eastwood movie but was in fact manager of the town laundromat.
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