Long Gone the Corroboree

by Tony Parsons

  “What’s worrying you, Billy?” Steele asked after dinner that night. Billy hadn’t said much all through the meal.

  “Nuthin.”

  “Nothing,” Steele corrected. “If something’s worrying you, I want you to tell me, Billy.”

  Billy took a deep breath. “Don’t you like Debbie?”

  “I like her fine, Billy. Why do you ask?”

  “Debbie wants to be your girl and you’ve knocked her back. All the fellas at school reckon she’s a bit of all right.”

  Steele pondered this, and wondered how he could explain that he wasn’t looking for a relationship of any kind with a woman, let alone a seventeen-year-old girl still at high school.

  “Is it because I’m here?” Billy asked.

  “You being here has nothing to do with it. I didn’t come here to have a relationship with a woman and even if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be with a girl as young as Debbie Butler. I realise that teenage boys would consider Debbie a knockout, which she is, but as far as I’m concerned, she’s only a child. Girls get crushes on boys and boys get crushes on girls. I’m Debbie’s first crush. She thinks she’s in love with me but in a little while, she’ll realise that she isn’t. Eventually she’ll get keen on someone else. It’s all part of growing up, and sometimes it’s a painful experience, especially for girls. The bottom line is that quite apart from Debbie being too young for me, I didn’t come here to get involved in a relationship of any kind,” Steele said.

  “Did you ever have a girl-friend as pretty as Debbie?”

  “Yes, I had a girlfriend as pretty as Debbie. But she was older and much more sophisticated,” Steele said.

  “What’s sophisticated, Mr Clay?”

  “It can mean a lot of things, Billy. When it’s applied to women, it means that they’re accomplished in a lot of ways like education, manners and grooming. It can also apply to other things. You ought to try and learn a new word every day, Billy,” Steele said with a smile. “It could help you a lot with your song-writing. You might need a word and if you know what it means, it’s more likely to spring into your brain. You might think it’s painful now but you’ll thank me later. That’s unless you want to be a fellow like Dooley Davis,” Steele said shrewdly.

  “I don’t want to be anything like Dooley, Mr Clay,” Billy said with loathing in his voice.

  “About words and things. You get out of life what you put into it. If you want to go places and have a good life, and I’m sure you do, you’ll need to work really hard at your line of business. A lot of people still think that Aboriginal people are lazy good-for-nothings who booze and live on hand-outs. Maybe some are, too. But those characteristics aren’t exclusive to any one racial group. It’s just that some people single out Aborigines for special criticism. Historically, Murri people were pushed into the European world, and in most cases, all that mattered most to them was taken away. For a while, some indigenous people have been kind of lost. But there are others who’ve worked hard at school and have become lawyers, even judges. There’s others who’ve played football for Australia. You can do anything, get anywhere, if you work hard enough at it, no matter who you are or where you’ve come from. If you want to booze and stuff around, then you’ll never get anywhere. So, anything I tell you, and you might not always like what I tell you, is for your own good, Billy. And don’t think that writing is easy. I was given a good brain but I had to work damned hard to write my books. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t own this property. I’m living off what my books make me. But to get a decent amount of money, I need to produce another book. So, I don’t need the complication of a teenage girl,” Steele said.

  “You’ve got the complication of a teenage boy,” Billy said with surprising insight.

  “That’s a horse of a different colour,” Steele said with a laugh.

  “Are you going to have another girlfriend some day?”

  “I don’t like thinking too much about what might happen in the future. Right now, I have two things to focus on… you and my next book. And, to a lesser extent, learning more about music,” Steele said firmly.

  Billy reckoned it was a lucky day for him when Mr Clay came to Jerogeree. If he hadn’t come, he would now be confined in a government home or foster care, with no one to write him songs or help him with his music.

  For months Glenda and Debbie came to visit every few weeks, then after a while, Glenda came on her own. Steele told Billy that it appeared Debbie had got over her crush on him. Steele often noted Glenda’s eyes on him and he wondered if she was thinking about the night she’d stayed with him. She never referred to that night and instead, talked mostly about Billy. She was usually complimentary about Billy’s progress. The boy was so keen on music that Steele fast-forwarded his musical education and arranged for him to have piano and guitar lessons each Saturday, and he had them, too, so that he could better support Billy achieve his dream. Mostly Billy played the guitar by ear but he needed more than natural ability if he wanted to be a top-class performer.

  As the months rolled by, Steele and Billy settled into a routine full of music and words, and even after Lilly emerged from her coma and began rehab, Billy remained with Steele. On Sunday mornings, they would sit together and either practise songs or write them. While Steele did most of the writing, more and more, he would suggest a theme and ask Billy to develop it. This fired Billy’s imagination and gave him free rein to develop his musicality to such an extent that before long, he was writing his own songs and performing versions of the John Denver songs he liked so much.

  As Lilly worked on the physical injuries Dooley had inflicted, with Steele’s support, Billy worked on his dreams. Just before his sixteenth birthday, the boy had improved so much that Steele felt he was ready to enter a country and western competition in the junior section. He had Billy record ‘No More Corroboree’ in a small recording studio then submitted it to the judging panel. For a while they didn’t hear anything, but when they did, the news was startling. Billy had won the newcomer’s prize which meant that he would be singing at the annual Tamworth Music Festival.

  “Do you think you can sing in front of a lot of people, Billy?” Steele asked.

  “I reckon I can, Mr Clay,” Billy said calmly. “You heard me at the school concert.”

  “I think we should try and get you a couple of engagements so you’ll be used to singing to an older audience than your school mates,” Steele said.

  “They’re called gigs, Mr Steele,” Billy said with a grin.

  “Are they? Well, whatever they’re called, you need them. We don’t want you to freeze up when you see that audience. All the top country and music people will be there,” Steele said, more worried for Billy than Billy was for himself.

  Up until this time, Steele had resolutely refused to get a phone. Amazingly, he’d managed to retain his anonymity and he believed that not having a phone was a big factor in this state of affairs. But he recognised now that it was a distinct disadvantage not to have a phone. Not for himself because he didn’t need one, but principally, for the benefit of Billy’s career. And there was another reason they needed a phone. Lilly had finally been released from the rehabilitation centre, having been told it was unlikely she would ever walk again. She returned to her farm and one of Uncle Ted’s daughters moved in to look after her. Billy saw her most days but Lilly was in no state to care for her son and he continued to live with Steele. At night Billy would worry about her, so, for the first time ever, a phone was installed at Jerogeree.

  It was unthinkable that Billy should go on his own to Tamworth, though Steele realised the distinct possibility of being recognised if he accompanied him. But Billy was his responsibility, and he would have to take him to Tamworth, come what may.

  All in all, the trip didn’t go too badly. Hidden behind the protection of his beard and introducing himself as Stuart, his middle name, Steele managed to escape being recognised as Clayton Steele. The media was out in force yet none of them tumbled to the fact that the
bearded manager of teenage singing sensation, Billy Sanders, was the missing writer, Clayton Steele.

  It was one small slip that gave the game away and it was Billy who was responsible for the slip. But though he erred, it was done with the best possible intention. Billy had wanted to give Steele the credit for writing the song that put him on the map and he’d told the manager of the record company that the lyrics of his award-winning song were written by Clayton Steele. So, Steele’s name was credited on the recording and when the song went to air, several DJs mentioned Steele’s name. While they didn’t immediately associate his name with that of the missing author, one very sharp journalist certainly did, and that was enough to put the cat among the pigeons.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Although I never entirely gave up on the idea of locating Clayton Steele, the intensity of my search decreased proportionally as the months went by and nothing was heard of the writer. My career had taken a turn towards environmental stories and I’d made a number of trips to various parts of Australia before taking off on an extended trip to South America. I was especially interested in what was happening to the rainforests of the Amazon and decided that my inheritance would be well spent bringing these stories to light. My former editor had also said he’d look at a story or two from me, so off I’d gone.

  All thoughts of Clayton Steele and his whereabouts were temporarily erased by what I saw in South America. And that river! The Amazon was mind-blowing, flowing on and on forever. And then, there were the parrots and monkeys. So many varieties that I’ve forgotten most of their names. It was hard to believe what people were doing to the rainforests. Huge areas of forest were being levelled, both for timber and for growing crops. It was supposed to be progress, and in a sad kind of way, I suppose that’s true. But the lungs of the world were shrinking before my eyes and it was plain to see that unless something changed soon, one day there’d be no substantial rainforest at all.

  After more than a year abroad, I returned to Australia and visited Uluru, marvelling at the sacred heart of such a raw and ancient land. There were so many stories to tell in my own country, some of them echoing those I’d told in South America. While my career blossomed, there was still no man in my life, at least not one that made me feel like my insides were melting. I’d met some interesting men, but a few too many drank more than was good for them, and some drank excessively. In the end, none of them suited. I didn’t need that sort of a problem in my life, no matter how lonely I’d begun to feel. Of late, my solitary travels had reinforced the loss of my brother and parents. I yearned to have someone to share my adventures with and to start a family of my own, but thus far, I’d met no one who suited. While I worked, I kept in touch with Steele’s publishers and his sister. Camilla told me that her mother had received a couple of brief notes from Steele but that there’d been no forwarding address. It was a strange business. The man was alive and writing, but no one, not even his family, seemed to know where.

  So, I’d pushed Steele into a tiny corner of my mind while I occupied myself with other matters until something happened that catapulted Steele back into my full consciousness. The poor quality of the Saturday night television programmes had caused me to quit watching and to begin listening to radio. As a result, I’d become rather interested in the country and western phenomenon and was doing some freelance writing on some of its leading personalities. I’d been to the festival in Tamworth and although I’d sweltered, I’d come away with several good human-interest stories. A lot of the music and voices didn’t do anything for me but the industry was bona fide Australian and dedicated to recording in song and verse many aspects of genuine Australian life. After my travels overseas in a world flooded by ‘Americanism’, a little ‘Australianism’ was a refreshing change. On one particular Saturday night, I was only half listening to the country music marathon on the ABC while I read a novel. The presenter’s voice punctuated the steady hum of music and began to rave on about a teenage singing sensation who’d recorded a song called ‘No More Corroboree’ with lyrics by Clayton Steele.

  I dropped the novel and sat up straight. Clayton Steele? Could it possibly be the missing writer, or just a strange coincidence? I listened to the lilting tones of a voice quite different from any other I’d heard singing country music. When it concluded, the presenter gave another run-down on the boy vocalist, “You heard it first on this programme, ‘No More Corroboree’ sung by Billy Sanders with lyrics by Clayton Steele.”

  So, I hadn’t been mistaken. Could this really be the same Clayton Steele? And if so, how had he become mixed up with country music? The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that it had to be the Clayton Steele. The chance of there being two Clayton Steeles was very low and why wouldn’t the best-selling writer be able to write lyrics? After all, the man was supposed to be incredibly talented.

  The next morning I rang Camilla Steele and told her what I’d heard. It was news to her but she felt as I did, that it would be altogether too much of a coincidence for there to be more than one writer named Clayton Steele. Agreeing that this man was probably her missing brother, I told her that I’d make some enquiries on Monday morning and let her know what I discovered.

  Monday morning couldn’t come quickly enough. Being trained as a journalist, making enquiries presented no problems. If it took a dozen phone calls to check out a fact, so be it. It took me only three to ascertain the company that had recorded ‘No More Corroboree’. That it had been recorded in Tamworth was easy to discover, but when I enquired how I could get in touch with Billy Sanders or Clayton Steele, I ran up against a brick wall. All anyone knew or would tell me, which amounted to the same thing, was that Billy hailed from Queensland. This wasn’t as much as I’d hoped for but it was a start. And if Billy Sanders was in some way associated with Clayton Steele, it seemed a fair bet that the latter was living in Queensland, too. Queensland was a large state, but it was a lot smaller than Australia, which was a hell of a lot smaller than the world, the prospect I’d first faced when I began my search for Steele.

  It wouldn’t have been two hours after I’d spoken to the people at the recording studio that I received a call from Steele’s erstwhile publisher, Brenda McEwan. “I thought you’d be interested to know that we’ve received a manuscript from Clayton Steele,” Brenda said warmly.

  “You have? Do you know where it was mailed from?” I asked eagerly.

  “It was mailed from Steele’s agent in Sydney. I’ve contacted her and she has no idea where Steele is living,” Brenda said.

  “Good heavens,” I gasped. It seemed that Steele was still obsessed with maintaining his anonymity. “I suppose you haven’t had a chance to look at the manuscript?”

  “No, we haven’t, but it’s sent quite a flutter through the camp.”

  I told her about hearing Billy Sanders singing ‘No More Corroboree’ and that its lyrics were by Clayton Steele. It was Brenda’s turn to be stunned.

  “Do you think it’s our Clayton Steele?” she asked.

  “It’s possible that there’s another Clayton Steele but it seems unlikely.”

  “You should be able to run Clay down now that you have that information.”

  “I’ve already tried. Nobody knows anything, and if they do, they’re not saying. All I can ascertain is that Billy Sanders hails from Queensland. So, it’s a fair bet that Steele lives there, too. I’ll do a bit more digging and if I can narrow things down a little more, I’ll take a trip, Brenda.”

  “Let me know when you leave, Gillian. In the meantime, I’ll have a look at this manuscript. With all the mystery about Clay’s disappearance and present whereabouts, a new book by him will probably rocket away,” she said.

  “I agree. Great ingredients for a bestseller, Brenda.”

  I thought it was very good of Brenda to contact me. I hadn’t spoken to her for some months and when I’d last made contact, I’d told her that I’d virtually given up on searching for Steele because I’d run into a brick wall and
there seemed no way I could get through it.

  Brenda rang me again about a fortnight later to say they’d read Steele’s manuscript and had made an immediate decision to resign him and publish.

  “What’s it like?”

  “Different. Different from anything Clay has written previously. Different and breathtakingly beautiful, Gillian.”

  “What’s its theme, Brenda?” I held my breath, hoping that the manuscript’s content might provide a clue to its author’s whereabouts.

  “It’s about the passing of a tribe of Aborigines and what was done to them… in novel form. The title is the same as the song you heard, ‘No More Corroboree’,” Brenda said.

  “Then that answers the question of whether it was our Clayton Steele who wrote the lyrics for that song.”

  “Beyond any doubt,” Brenda agreed. “It also suggests that Clay has been back in Australia for some time. This is a big book and it would’ve taken some time to research and write.”

  “I’ll let Camilla know,” I told her. “I should contact Shelley Carruthers too, though I don’t really want to. The last time I spoke with her, she was a bit short with me.”

  “I’d say her passion may have cooled a bit where Clayton Steele is concerned.”

  “I agree. And it’s not like she’d be wanting for admirers.”

  While Camilla was very interested in this latest bit of news about her brother, Shelley didn’t appear to be.

  “Clay walked out on me and he’s never once bothered to contact me,” Shelley said, and I thought she said it with some bitterness. The manner of Steele’s break-up with her evidently still rankled.