He can’t recall how, but he and Riley finished up in an aeroplane. He shies away from the memory of Perth. The hostel, the hospital, the taxi rides, the absent horizon, the never-ending noise are all an ugly blur.
Vivid still is the flight back, as he cradled a sleeping Riley close, pulled his akubra down over his eyes, and wept for three hours.
The Land Council organised her funeral, to his great relief. He stood tall and proud with a hand on Riley’s shoulder, unable to resist the temptation to gaze upon the know-nothing young chairman who had replaced her, as the bosses of the Kimberley praised Marj, and offered him their condolences.
‘Bugger.’
There is not enough tea left in the pannikin to even moisten his palate. He leans forward to stir up the coals, and slides the billy across to rewarm.
Wha’d’you say, Marj, am I doin’ the right thing?
She was a woman of firm opinions and decisive actions. A driver. He has always been a watcher with second, third and fourth thoughts. A reactor, not an initiator.
We had somethin’ good, didn’t we girl.
He turns towards the cemetery.
I don’t just mean the lovin’. Not many fellers I know would’ve given you the rein I did. An’ I was the only bugger on earth you’d bite your tongue for, lettin’ me keep me secrets all those years. Or pretend to.
An’ for what?
For so long now he has buried it all. Billy, Bessie, Sarah, Jinda; he has honoured their secrets. The unbearable, unresolved pain of Milly. The ache for all those he has lost. But he feels like he has failed each and every one of them.
To devote himself to Riley. That is what he has told himself.
Until Rosa gave him that fax.
Until that moment of panic in Andy’s driveway saw him abandon the cautious habits of a lifetime.
The sunwarmed headstone gives ever so slightly as he leans back against it.
You tryin’ to tell me somethin’?
He twists to rest a cheek against the smooth grey granite. Whispers.
‘I don’t care any more what it was Andy said to you that time. Robert’s our grandson. Our only one.’
He places the cracked boab nut that fell at his feet this morning at the foot of the headstone.
‘Bob’s given me his blessin’. Least that’s the way I’m takin’ it.’
25
The bush rolls past as an unfocused blur. Five minutes or fifty, Dancer doesn’t know.
He feels the feather-light stroke of a finger on his cheek.
He whirls, but Andy has both hands on the wheel, and eyes straight ahead.
‘You missed it.’
‘Missed what?’
‘The Bullfrog Hole turnoff. Just then. Didn’t want to disturb you – seemed like you were a million miles away.’
‘I was.’
‘Four hours in, that way. Another three from there to the Highlands homestead. It’s got to be the most out of the way spot in the Kimberley.
‘I used to try to talk Milly out of goin’ there at first, it was such a bloody trek. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer. An’ I could never say no to her anyway.’ He chuckles to himself. ‘It grew on me, though. There was magic in the air when we set up camp at Bullfrog Hole. Good magic for me an’ Milly. Ol’ Marj, though, she always got proper cranky when she found out we’d been down there. There was some weird vibe going on between her and Two Bob and Milly about it all that they never let me in on.’
‘She was Milly’s mum? This Marj.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What was she like? My mimi.’
‘Fierce. But in a good way, mostly. Took me a while to win her over. Or I should say, for Bob and Milly to win her over for me. Proper old style out here, you don’t talk to your mother-in-law … Then of course, when things went wrong, it was all my fault.’
Dancer almost wishes he hadn’t asked. Being lost in dreams of his mother seems like easier territory than this, but it is something that has always gnawed at him. ‘She never tried to make it up with you? To … to see me?’
‘She passed away within a year of your mother disappearin’. Down in Perth. Kidney failure. They were hard fucken years, for everyone.’
There are still a host of questions on the tip of Dancer’s tongue, but instead he finds himself saying, ‘How about some music for a bit?’
‘Sure. Pigrams again?’
‘Nah. Something fast and loud.’
‘I don’t do much in the way of fast and loud,’ says Andy. ‘See what you can find in the glovebox.’
All Dancer can come up with is Bruce Springsteen. ‘Thunder Road’ begins to swell as the guitar joins the insistent piano. He realises it’s a road song, urging him to wind down the window and feel the wind in his hair. He does, and Andy follows suit. Dancer turns it to full so he can listen over the rush of road noise.
They eat up the miles, with Andy banging out drum lines on the steering wheel and every now and then belting out the lyrics. There is something weirdly perfect about the way the wailing, growling saxophone winds down as Andy works down through the gears, then Springsteen’s incoherent groans of pain that bring ‘Jungleland’ to a close just as the truck comes to a halt at the Highlands turnoff.
‘The Boss! It’s a while since I’ve listened to that. Good eh?’ says Andy.
‘Not bad.’
‘That Clarence Clemons.’
‘Who’s he?’ asks Dancer.
‘The sax player. Big black dude about six feet ten. I used to dream about playin’ sax. Didn’t really fit the bill for a Kimberley cowboy, though. I got stuck with the bass.’
‘Ever try playing it?’
‘Couldn’t lay me hands on one. They cost a mint.’
The truck’s engine idles down, and comes to a halt. After the rush of truck noise, wind noise, music noise, they are enveloped by an almost silence; just the rustle of the wind rattling the stand of cotton trees, and the single cry of a curlew. Without a word to each other, they simultaneously open their doors and climb down.
‘Boxwood, then Highlands,’ says Andy. ‘The road to the end of the world. If we keep goin’ we’ll get there just about dark, or we can make camp here and head in first thing. Your call, mate.’
‘What’s going to happen when we get there?’ Dancer asks.
‘Two Bob’ll be waitin’ for us. After that, I’m buggered if I know.’
Dancer stretches the truck stiffness out of his limbs. He turns a full circle. The junction sits in the middle of a plain that seems vast, but on every side the ranges loom in the mid distance. The new moon is halfway toward the western horizon.
‘Let’s keep going.’
Dancer can sense Andy’s unease; can see it in the set of his face, and the occasional short, sharp drumming of his fingers.
‘This is the first time you’ve been back in hey?’ Dancer asks.
‘Yep.’
‘And my first time ever.’
‘The Boxwood turnoff’s not far now. Other side of that hill up ahead.’
‘That’s where you first met him hey, Two Bob?’
‘Yeah. That first year at Boxwood … I dunno, it’s hard to explain. I mean, we got on well together. But it was more than that, much more. He never made any fuss about it, never said anythin’, but he saw that I was a young feller out of his depth, an’ he just made it his business to look out for me an’ ease me path. An’ he turned me into a good stockman, if I say so meself. He was like a father to me, even before he became my lambara.’ He sees Dancer’s puzzled look. ‘That’s Bunuba for father-in-law.’
Andy slows to peer up the Boxwood track. ‘It’s only a couple of miles in. Just behind that spur.’ He smiles at a memory. ‘Should’ve seen the dust I used to make on this corner. On me weekends off I used to come harin’ down that track an’ hang a leftie, headin’ for Highlands fast as I could go without rattlin’ me old ute to bits.’
Dancer smiles too, seeing his dad light up.
‘Oh Dance
r, what might’ve been. They’d just got the place back. Two Bob pulled out of Boxwood an’ went home as the manager. Ol’ Marj was just buzzin’ – she was too busy an’ too happy to keep givin’ me a hard time! When Milly got pregnant, you know what the dream was? Our dream.’
‘Tell me.’
‘To bring you back here, to Highlands. Milly wasn’t interested in livin’ anywhere else. We figured that when Two Bob was ready to retire I might have enough experience, an’ enough cred with the mob here, to be able to take over as manager. Ol’ Two Bob used to say “one step at a time, Andy, one step at a time.” But I thought we were goin’ to spend our lives out here. Imagine that, saltwater boy!’
‘Whoo … That might take a bit of processing.’
They start to wind through a series of creek crossings offering glimpses of water, pandanus palms and paperbarks, and low hills of pale yellow-green spinifex with seed stalks dancing amongst the red-brown rocks. Dancer drinks it all in, suddenly feeling like he is seeing the country through new eyes.
The road levels out again. Andy points down a sidetrack. ‘There’s a mill down there’s got the best view. I’ll take you in an’ show you sometime.’
But Dancer has his mind on other things. ‘So tell me again, what happened when Two Bob came to see you that morning, after the funeral.’
‘He didn’t come to see me; he was lookin’ for you. But you weren’t there, remember.’
‘Dad!’
‘It was completely fucken weird, to tell you the truth. I wasn’t really listenin’. I wanted to get out and track you down. He started rabbitin’ on about how the station was fucked an’ he needed me to come out and take a look an’ give him a hand.
‘You’ve got to understand, Dancer. I haven’t spoken to him since the day I left Highlands – when you were just a babe in arms. Everyone’s had a big night at the wake. You’ve gone missin’. An’ he’s tryin’ to talk cattle to me!’
Dancer nods slowly. He hadn’t really thought about it like this before. This whole trip is just as weird for his father.
‘I didn’t exactly push him out of the way,’ Andy continues. ‘But I told him I had things to do. Truth is, if you hadn’t got yourself in the shit, it probably would have ended there.’
Andy tugs the cord to give a couple of short, sharp blasts of the air horn into the emptiness. Dancer spots a couple of old mickey bulls in the long grass turn their heads in alarm. They snort, wheel, and gallop off.
They both sit in silence for a few moments.
‘This day was always comin’, Dancer. We’re goin’ back to your mother’s country. It might be hard, but it should be good. That’s the feelin’ I’ve got in my guts. And neither of us wants to be in ol’ Broome town just at the moment.’
‘True.’
‘Mind you, my gut has led me astray before. Once or twice.’
‘Very reassuring, Dad.’
‘Should see the Highlands lights soon. If they’re turned on.’
26
Fifteen years now that he buried Marj. Fifteen years it’s been him and Riley.
Riley is forever talking or singing to himself in quiet monotone while he draws; intricate pencil designs and sketches on whatever paper he can lay hands on. The TV is on from the minute he wakes until Two Bob turns it off after he has fallen asleep.
In the life the two of them lead there is no reason that Saturdays and Sundays should be different; there is no logic to it beyond habit, but every weekend they go bush, and Riley comes to life. Two Bob husbands his pension money carefully, using everything he puts aside to keep his old Hilux registered and running and fuelled up for these excursions. He might shoot a bush turkey, Riley might catch a few fish. But mostly Two Bob sits by a small fire, sipping his tea and worrying about the state of the cattle, whilst Riley walks the country. A couple of times a year they take a longer trip and set up camp at Bullfrog Hole for a few days. The routine is the same. He sits. Riley walks all day. But they never go into the valley.
Years ago they fell into the pattern of talking Bunuba when they are out on country. It is not the lingua franca at Highlands. Two Bob has hardly used the language since he left the valley, except for his brief trips back in. Riley has not heard it spoken other than by Sarah in his first few years, but it seems rooted in his psyche.
And at night, by the fire, they sing. Songs for the Highlands country that Two Bob has picked up over the years. Story songs. Wangga songs. Bunuba songs learnt from Parli and Bessie, dredged up from his memories.
He has thought this will be the pattern of his life for the time he has left, or until the Hilux dies, for he doubts he will be able to afford another.
He wishes Bob could have heard his nephew sing.
Whenever there is singing to be done, Riley is summoned. He always happily obliges. It’s his only real connection with the rest of the community.
Two Bob has to admit he’s not much more connected himself any more. He got involved when the housing plan was done, digging his heels in to get his new house in the right place; on the Riders’ side, but separated out a bit, with an outlook to the boab tree and the country to the south.
That’s us two. A pair of rogue bullocks, cut out from the mob.
It was a shock when Rosa came to see him wanting to talk station business. In his mind she is still the young girl who was the closest thing Milly had to a best friend. As far as he can tell she seems to be doing a good job of breathing some new life into the place since she got in as chair of the council. Marj would be proud of her.
Shocked, and he had to admit, flattered, but he’d offered her no encouragement. ‘I’m an old pensioner, Rosa.’ He can’t blame her for that funny look she gave him when he did a backflip and told her that he and Andy were going to see what they can do.
The sliver of moon is brighter now, as it dips towards the horizon. The sun is not much higher. A few more minutes and the light will start to fade.
They’ll prob’ly make camp back on the road somewhere an’ show up in the mornin’.
He puts his hands on his knees and pushes, levering himself stiffly to his feet, and for a moment is overwhelmed. It is not vertigo. There are too many loose ends in this scheme he has concocted on the run. In fact, he is not really sure what the plan is. Too late now.
He pulls the camp oven off the coals, makes sure the fire is safe, and turns towards home.
Bloody hell, is that a truck comin’?
Part Three
27
Lying on an old foam mattress in the back of the ute, Dancer has slipped into a semi trance of blue sky and wispy cloud jolting in erratic patterns. The hand gently shaking his arm comes as a shock.
He works himself up into a sitting position. Back braced against the rolled-up swags tied to the front frame of the tray as padding, he grips the side panel to keep a semblance of balance as the ute bounce-glides along the track.
Riley points. A steep bluff has appeared to their left. In profile it rises sharply to its peak, then slopes gently backward to merge into the low range that has been sitting to their north for some time. The skyline of the undulating range is stubbled with small white gums and the odd boab tree, distant yet clear.
Riley extends the rest of his fingers. The pointing finger becomes a gentle hand with which he seems to caress the line of the hills. He draws his hand back in a fluid motion until it hovers over the bluff. He begins to sing.
After a few bars he lets his hand drop and uses it to silently tap the song’s rhythm. The view is lost as the ute dips into a small gully, but Riley’s eyes stay fixed on the point where he knows the bluff to be. His song does not waver. Its pure clarity subsumes the engine noise of the ute, which seems to fade to a distant thrum.
Dancer takes care not to stare, but directs his gaze towards the range in such a way that Riley’s profile is in his peripheral vision. Sitting cross-legged, Riley rides the movement of the ute like a surfer his board. His face is both calm and intense. Only his lips seem to m
ove. The song finishes on a long, guttural note that sounds strangely jarring in Riley’s high voice. A broad smile breaks over his face, but he reins it in to a tight, shy grin as he turns to Dancer.
‘Marnunbarrigu.’
Once again, he strokes the profile of the range, from Marnunbarrigu Bluff, westwards to the point where it dips to the horizon.
28
Riley says no more. He settles into his cross-legged slouch, riding the ute’s undulations.
Dancer cranes his neck to peer between a gap in the rolled swags. Two Bob and Andy are deep in conversation, with Two Bob pointing something out with one hand, as the other gently guides the juddering steering wheel.
On the first day Dancer sat in the cab between the two of them. His big frame got in the way whenever Two Bob had to shift down to second gear. All three of them implicitly recognised that he was also in the way of the flow of conversation between the two cattlemen. That night when they got home Two Bob lined the back of the ute with the foam mattresses. In the morning he put the old esky in the middle of the front bench seat, and without a word, the configuration changed. No insult intended, none taken.
He settles back and braces against the swags, heels dug into the foam mattress, but he still has to reach out a hand to steady himself. He looks out again to Marnunbarrigu, overwhelmed by its grandeur. Straightening his gaze, he watches the station track unfold behind them as he recalls flashes of the last three days.
‘Blachan killer stew!’
‘Your recipe, Andy.’
‘That’s not a recipe, lambara. I just shook a dollop of Bella’s mix into your stew one time.’
‘Good though.’
‘Yeah, it’s good. You an’ me always thought so anyway. Everyone else was a bit doubtful.’
The Valley Page 11
