THE SONG MASTER

by Di Morrissey

  They turned into the roadhouse that marked the turn-off to the artists’ colony. This catered to the locals, passers-by and tourists. Petrol, food, videos, souvenirs, a pool table and a few pot plants. Their passenger thanked them for the lift. ‘I’ll walk over to my place from here.’ He didn’t expect the couple, he thought to be tourists, would also be heading into his community. Alan refuelled the car, bought two cold cans of soft drink and they drove back onto the highway and into Bungarra.

  Rows of seemingly die-cut houses, their similarity broken by variations of broken cars, kids’ toys, bikes and abandoned furniture. Occasional homes had straggling gardens. It had the air of a community that was meant to be temporary twenty years ago.

  A teenage girl nursing a baby at her bursting breast walked slowly towards them. ‘Susan, ask her are Judy and Max around,’ said Alan.

  Susan rolled down her window as they pulled alongside. The young mother gave a beatific smile and pointed behind her. ‘They’re at home. On the edge of the hill.’

  Alan pulled the car up outside a rambling house built on poles with a spacious area beneath. A barbecue was crackling in the front yard and a woman in a Hawaiian muu-muu and a crocheted wool beanie was waving her arms at a bald solid man in shorts and T-shirt in charge of sizzling chops, sausages and steaks. In the yard, women sat at wooden tables spread with paint pots, while underneath the house several men were gathered in small groups. As they walked in, Susan could see several other men squatting on the sparse grass beneath trees at the back of the house.

  Effusive introductions were made as Alan guided Susan from group to group. Judy linked her arm through Susan’s as Alan squatted by a silent old man who was concentrating on carefully re-creating row upon row of the bulbous rocks of the Bungle Bungles. ‘Jack isn’t being rude,’ she explained. ‘You can talk to him later. He doesn’t like being interrupted when he’s painting. Not like some of us. We love an excuse for a chat.’ She laughed. ‘You staying I hope. We’re cooking dinner soon. We like to eat before dark. So you an old friend of Alan’s or what?’ Her frank gaze was full of curiosity.

  ‘We just met at the airport, a coincidence as we’re both going to Marrenyikka with Beth Van Horton. Do you know her?’

  Judy shook her head. ‘Yeah, not well though. So you going to see Ardjani’s mob. What for? What do you do?’

  The questions were direct hits and Susan heard the wariness in her voice. She answered just as candidly. ‘There’s no agenda. It’s just a holiday with a difference. I met Beth and she asked if I wanted to join a group the Barradja were inviting here to experience their culture. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss.’

  ‘What’s Ardjani doing? Going into the tourist business?’ She relaxed and guided Susan to the group of women working in the front garden. They gossiped and laughed as they worked on the canvas before each of them. ‘Ladies, this is Susan. This is Rosie, Queenie, Ignatia, Jeannie.’ They beamed at Susan and moved up so she could perch on the edge of the bench. They were older women, plump in shapeless dresses, hair that was wispy and greying, wide smiles with missing teeth. The warmth in their faces and eyes and the good-natured voices were welcoming.

  ‘Sit, sit here, girl. You come say hello to the old ladies,’ said Queenie and the others cackled at her.

  Rosie waved her hand at Susan. ‘Hey, you Alan boy’s girlfriend?’

  ‘No, goodness no. I just met him today.’

  ‘Then you be his girlfriend for today, eh? Hey, Alan, you be a fast worker, eh?’ shouted Queenie and Alan gave a grin.

  ‘You girls stop gossiping and keep working,’ admonished Judy. ‘Hey, Max, make a pot of tea,’ she called.

  Susan watched the worn hands of the women artists deftly applying brush strokes and dots to their paintings as they continued to chatter. The men tended to work individually, sitting apart and concentrating. Occasionally one would call to the others to make a comment. One of the men finished a picture and he rose stiffly, stood back and looked at it, and then went over to Alan. Susan watched Alan study the finished work and she saw that the painter was surreptitiously studying him. Alan turned to the man and nodded. ‘It’s good, Charlie. You want to tell me this one?’

  Alan and Charlie sat on the ground with the wet canvas and in great and lengthy detail, the artist pointed to every line, curve and mark, explaining its meaning and significance. Alan made notes as he spoke. Max appeared from the house with a video camera and filmed the painting and its artist.

  ‘Do you do that with every painting?’ asked Susan, as Judy spread mugs, a jug of milk, tea bags, a jar of coffee and a big bowl of honey on a table near the fire.

  ‘My oath we do. We’ll get more of the story tomorrow after it’s been mounted. A copy of the tape will go down to Alan with the painting. Max will also take a photo and put that and notes onto the computer file upstairs.’

  Susan looked up at the rickety building that seemed the least likely place to house an art collection and a computer system. Judy saw her expression and chuckled. ‘Work done here can end up in top galleries overseas. We have to have its history curated and documented. Too many rip-offs happening. This mob is among the best in the country,’ she said proudly.

  ‘And Alan represents them?’

  ‘That’s right. He’s the most honest art dealer in Australia with the greatest understanding of it all. I don’t like them academic blokes and fancy art gallery people. Snobs for one thing and they want the credit instead of these fellas.’ She slapped old Charlie’s hand as he reached for the honey. ‘You drink him straight. You’ve had too much sweet stuff, your diabetes going to start playing up, then where we be, eh?’

  Charlie shrugged and grinned at Susan as he bit into a plain biscuit. ‘Watch this old bird, she a tough one.’

  ‘And you better be glad I am,’ retorted Judy as she began pouring tea into mugs.

  A utility truck and a Ford Fairlane pulled up at the gate, disgorging family and friends. Small children galloped to the old women and the young mothers and men joined the group around the fire. Soon the younger women were busy in the upstairs kitchen bringing salad, potatoes and plates of meat down. Alan chatted to the women as they packed up their half-finished work to make space for the evening meal.

  It was twilight and Max turned on the outside lights, and chairs were moved to the front yard where Judy was throwing onions and meat onto the barbecue plate. Alan quietly led Susan around the informal art studio. ‘Some of these pieces are very good. Rosie and Charlie are doing wonderful work. As is old Jack.’

  ‘It all seems so casual; hard to believe these might hang in posh galleries and collections. Do ordinary people buy them?’

  ‘Judy keeps some on hand. Some people who collect art know to come here, but I get first look. You can get a good painting for a couple of thousand. They like working in a group, it’s cool under the house, Max and Judy look after their supplies, give them lunch and dinner and the environment kicks them along. They’re also quite competitive which is good.’

  ‘Do they ever copy each others’ ideas?’

  ‘Don’t need to, every man and woman has their story, their country and their Dreaming. They might do variations on those, but each is very separate from the other.’

  ‘It’s so different from our style of painting. There’s no perspective, it’s kind of literal, this is what this is and this is that,’ said Susan, who had never seen art like this before. She knew the X-ray style and dot paintings but these were so stylistic and simple, yet they looked sophisticated and modern.

  ‘Since the people here were introduced to Western painting they’ve developed their own way of storytelling. They don’t try to paint in a Western way as old Albert Namatjira did, they have their way of interpreting what they want to say. It’s like learning a foreign language. You look at the pictures and they seem so naive, so one-dimensional, so childlike almost. Until you have the key, until the artist explains it to you, and then the picture starts to make sense.’
/>   ‘It’s wonderful. I’d love to own one,’ sighed Susan.

  ‘Often people pay a lot of money for art and have no idea what they’ve bought,’ said Alan quietly. ‘They just buy a name or what they believe to be fashionable to have in their homes. Even tourists buying cheaply turned-out mass-produced Aboriginal artefacts have no idea of the basic cultural sense behind them.’

  ‘I suppose you can appreciate something so much more when the artist explains it,’ said Susan.

  ‘I think so,’ said Alan.

  There was a commotion as another car pulled up and while Judy and Max handed out plates with steak and sausages to the men, Alan smiled and touched Susan’s arm. ‘This is a rare treat. The old man is here. Lucky Dodds, one of Australia’s greatest living painters. He’s a character, you’re fortunate to meet him. He’s getting on and doesn’t get out as much as he used to.’

  Judy opened the small gate as two younger women helped the artist from the car. ‘Hey, Lucky. You come for dinner? We can have a party now.’ Judy took his arm and Max shook his hand.

  ‘How you doing, Lucky? Haven’t seen you for a couple of weeks, what you been up to?’

  ‘I been out in de long grass with a couple of girls,’ joked the old fellow.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past the old bugger,’ chuckled Alan to Susan.

  ‘What rubbish you talk. You been laid up with that bad leg of yours. How is it?’ Judy supported his arm as his other pressed on a walking cane. ‘You’re doing real good, you come and sit down and get some tucker.’ As he came through into the yard, all attention was on the legendary artist who appeared to be in his eighties. He was short, with a mischievous smile giving him the look of a Cheshire cat, and eyes sparkling like gems in a face creased from years of hard knocks and laughter. He wore a denim cowboy shirt and a red patterned scarf was knotted at his throat. Jeans hung from his skinny hips held up by a belt with a big silver buckle.

  They settled him in a chair and everyone clustered around him, pulling in seats, squatting on the ground. Lucky waved his cane in a regal gesture of greeting. As soon as he spotted Susan he waved her forward. Alan introduced her. The old man beamed and spread his arms. ‘I be Lucky Dodds and I had tea with de Queen of England. I be Lucky, eh?’ Everyone joined in his triumphant laughter and Susan glanced at Alan who nodded. ‘He did.’

  ‘So, dis be your woman, eh, Alan?’ The crowd roared and Susan hid her face in her hands.

  ‘No, no, Lucky. We’re going to visit Ardjani’s mob. Bunch of whitefellas are going to sit down and learn about the old ways.’

  The old man’s jovial expression softened and he gave Susan a long look. ‘Dat be a good thing. Very good thing.’ Then like the master performer he was, he grinned at the crowd, pointing his stick at Susan. ‘Why you no come to Lucky? I show you de old ways. De best way. I be de best teacher for young girls, eh?’ He leered at the audience who roared appreciatively.

  ‘Lucky’s work is exhibited in many museums and galleries,’ said Alan. ‘He’s included in the significant collections around the world.’

  ‘Dat be right. Who dat fella from Broome got a big mob of my paintings, took dem back to England. You know de fella . . ?’

  ‘Oh, Lord . . . Lord . . .’ Alan fumbled to recall the name of Lord Alistair McAlpine, who had turned Broome into a tourist resort in the eighties . . . Lucky jumped in, ‘Dat’s him. Lord Jesus Christ! He got a big mob of my stuff. Big mob,’ he added delightedly, pleased at the burst of laughter from Susan and Alan.

  Alan didn’t bother correcting him. ‘Lucky has travelled round the world many times with his work. Big government exhibitions, cultural exchanges and diplomatic functions.’

  ‘I be Australian ambassador,’ said Lucky. ‘Government bigwigs take me from my reserve and send me over dere to show dem foreigners what Australia all about. They take my paintings and want me to make a speech, but I dance for dem.’

  Susan found the old man’s delight and pride somewhat poignant as she visualised him travelling from a shabby hut on a small reserve being trundled out at diplomatic receptions to be feted as a cultural icon, then shuffled back to his home. The foreigners wouldn’t know about that side of his life. ‘Did you like travelling overseas, seeing all those different places?’ she asked.

  ‘Too many people. Too cold. Sometimes dey make Lucky go places he don’t want to go. Even make me go to Japaaan!’ Here he rolled his eyes, and clutched his head and began to shake causing huge mirth.

  ‘Tell her the story,’ said Alan, as Judy handed around more plates loaded with meat, potatoes and salad. Susan followed the local etiquette, forks for the salad, fingers for the meat. She smiled encouragingly at Lucky as others egged him on. This was obviously a favourite story.

  ‘I no want to go to JAPAAAN,’ began Lucky. ‘Dey shoot at Darwin and Broome. I know all bout dat Japaaan place. I know about de war. No good. I no go to Japaaan.’ He shook his head from side to side. ‘But dem government people dey say I gotta go. Dem people want Lucky to dance and tell stories and show the pictures.’

  ‘It was about ten years ago, a big cultural event,’ whispered Alan to Susan.

  ‘I say, no. Lucky not going to Japaaan.’ Each time he drew out the name in rolling mock fearful tones. ‘But dey say, it be okay. Australian army and navy will look after Lucky. Government men promise Lucky. So I say, okay. I go. But my mob, dey say, you mad, Lucky. Government not going to send de army and navy look after one blackfella up dere in Japaaan. Ooh dear. I get on dat plane. And dey put me right in the back, up in him tail. And I cry, and I shake, and I shiver, all the way to Japaaan.’

  ‘He did too, wailed at the top of his voice the whole way. They reckon you could only see the whites of his eyes,’ Alan added.

  ‘When dey say dat plane going down into Japaaan, I get under de seat and I not going to get off. I wait till dat plane go back home to Australia. And dat lady she get mad at me ’cause I don’t get in de seat and put on de belt. She try to pull me out from under my seat, but I hang on. Tight.’

  Here the crowd screamed. Lucky, grinning broadly, went on. ‘Den de captain fella come out and say, you look out de window, Lucky, de navy down there. Australian navy! And so I look and I see dem boats and I know dey is de Australian navy. See, dey tell Lucky dey look after him up dere in Japaaan and dey send de battleship and submarine!’ Some of the crowd clapped. Lucky looked at the audience and lowered his voice. ‘But when dat plane get down on de ground I get under my seat. Navy fellas too far away to help Lucky, I reckon. Den you know what happen?’ He looked around and everyone waited, knowing, but not daring to spoil his story. Susan stopped eating, riveted by the old man’s grand performance. ‘Everybody get off dat plane, ’cept Lucky, ’cause he not stupid. Den de captain fella come along again and say, what’s up? And I tell him I wait for dem navy boys. And DEN . . .’ he paused for effect, ‘and den de captain say, Lucky, de army boys are out dere! Australian army boys. But I don’t believe him. So the captain goes to de door and he say something to dem down there by de plane and the next thing I hear trumpets. And dey start playing “Waltzing Matilda”! And I look out de window . . . and sure enough, dere be dat Australian army! Dey come to look after Lucky! Imagine that!’

  Over the burst of applause, Alan explained, ‘It really was the army band. The Minister of Defence was on the plane as part of this whole cultural extravaganza. The captain clued them all in about what was going on.’

  Lucky rose to his feet and began jigging on the spot.

  ‘And so Lucky run down dem plane steps and I dance, man, I do a dance right dere, because I know I be safe. Australian army and Australian navy boys. Dey look after me . . . me, Lucky Dodds! I must be pretty important fella, eh!’ The wonderment of it all hadn’t dimmed and he raised his cane and took a bow.

  Susan joined in the applause. ‘What an actor!’

  ‘First time I heard that story it took several hours to tell,’ said Alan.

  It was cooling down and Judy and Max be
gan collecting plates as the pot of tea was handed around once more. The mothers began reaching for cardigans and picking up children. Alan had a quiet word with some of the painters as Susan said goodbye to the women. They wanted to know why she wasn’t married, did she have babies, where was her family, her place? Susan answered, feeling inadequate. Everyone she’d talked to had a lengthy story about their family, their connections with each other, where their home places were.

  Finally the visitors were tucked into cars, into the back of the utility, some of the men rode bicycles, and Lucky was put in the back seat of the Fairlane between two young women. He leaned over to speak to Susan at the car window. ‘You want t’come in here with Lucky? Plenty room on my lap,’ he chortled.

  ‘You’re wicked, Lucky. And it’s been an honour to meet you.’ She reached in and shook his hand.

  ‘You say hello to Ardjani. Tell him you’re my girlfriend and he’ll look after you real good. And you go to de art gallery and you look at Lucky’s paintings and you tell dem, you know me. You know Lucky Dodds.’

  ‘I will, Lucky. Take care and good luck.’

  The girls waved goodbye to Susan as the old man’s last words floated over the gurgling engine. ‘I don’t need good luck. I am Lucky. Lucky Dodds.’

  ‘He’s a character, isn’t he,’ remarked Alan. ‘He doesn’t paint much any more, but when he has a good day, he’ll knock off something. And it’s breathtaking.’

  They helped Judy and Max carry plates up the steps into the house. ‘His nieces brought round a painting last week. You’d better look at it, Alan,’ said Judy.

  The inside of the house was a clutter of art supplies, framed and unframed paintings, a collection of carvings and artefacts, files, the computer corner and an area where Max helped with the framing. Judy turned around a painting that was facing the wall. Alan studied the white circles in the black and brown dunes and tracks. ‘Blue lily waterhole. He’s done it before, somewhat better. Did you see him work on this, or sign it?’ Alan looked at the scrawled ‘Lucky’ in one corner. ‘His signature for sure.’