THE SONG MASTER

by Di Morrissey

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of the schedule – that’s whitefella thinking, right?’ Alistair grinned at Beth, who nodded approvingly. ‘I have old rugby knees. Makes hiking difficult, anyway.’

  ‘Back on board,’ Beth ordered. ‘Let’s move on. Next stop is for lunch at Avenue Station while we wait for Rosalie’s plane to come in.’

  Down the front of the Oka, the young solicitor and the QC chatted easily. Any reserve of age that might have existed between the two lawyers dissolved like morning mist as they shared the magic of their first hours in the Kimberley. Susan recounted details of the Barwon case. Veronica, who’d moved to the back of the bus to talk to the judge, had Mick reminiscing. She chuckled at his rolling routine of anecdotes and suddenly opened her bag.

  ‘Do you mind if I tape some of this?’ she asked.

  The judge shrugged. ‘What the heck for? Who’d be interested in the ramblings of a dotty old codger like me?’

  ‘Modesty doesn’t suit you, Mick. You’re a famous judge, you tell a fabulous story, and you’ve had a fascinating life. And dotty is not a word I’d use to describe you or what you’ve done,’ she admonished.

  ‘I’ve done some pretty wild and stupid things in my time. And had a few wins along the way, I suppose,’ he conceded.

  Veronica fiddled with her tape recorder, plugging in the small microphone she held between them. ‘Okay, so what was Western Australia like when you first came here as a young bloke?’

  Mick began talking, the natural raconteur, comfortable with an audience, pleased with the attention.

  Beth shifted in her seat and smiled to herself.

  Alistair MacKenzie stared out the wide front windscreen ahead. Susan looked at the QC’s profile. Despite the pudginess around his jaw and the furrows running beside his mouth, he was still a handsome man. She had seen him in action in court. When he was summing up to the jury, he attracted an audience of youthful acolytes, keen to see the master in action. She knew he could be arrogant, intimidating, coolly erudite, reducing powerful men to stammering incoherency. Yet now a sadness shadowed his face, and clouded his eyes.

  ‘So, my learned friend, tell me why you decided to come on this trip?’ Susan smiled at him.

  He was silent, before running his tongue over his lips. He spoke in a soft voice. ‘You get to a point in your life – for I was as enthusiastic as you, my dear – when you ask yourself why.’

  She waited, then repeated, ‘Why?’

  ‘Why am I doing what I’m doing? Am I happy?’

  He waited for her prompt. ‘And the answers . . .?’

  ‘Are not pleasant to contemplate. As a child I believed I wanted to be a scientist. Peering down a microscope at bugs and molecules, finding answers to disease, and what we’re all made of. My parents did not see much of a future for an anonymous cog in a white coat in a laboratory. I was bright and I was designated to fulfil their dreams. And so I did what was expected of me to continue the family tradition, and I won a scholarship to study law. And here I am.’ He gave her a rueful smile.

  ‘But surely you feel proud of what you have achieved?’ persisted Susan, wondering at her audacity. This man was a god in her world.

  ‘My emerging dissatisfaction with life has come from assessing what I’ve achieved. My conclusion is, I’ve made a lot of money for already wealthy corporations, individuals and myself. And it occurs to me, as I look at myself in the mirror each morning, that this is not enough. I have begun to worry I will not be admitted through those pearly gates until I have given something back. I’m not sure how, but when Beth suggested I meet these law men under the stars in the Kimberley, I hoped I might be able to learn something from them. I don’t see it as white arrogance meeting black spirituality. But I would like to consider myself humble enough to hope that I can discover a sense of serenity, whatever you want to call it, that will sustain me in my old age. Dispirited is not a state I enjoy.’

  Susan was surprised at the QC’s revelation. She opened a packet of sweets and passed them round as Billy announced, ‘Another hour and we’ll be approaching the turn-off to Avenue Station. We’ll pull over when we spot some shade and see if we can raise them on the radio.’

  The women sat with their bare feet dipping in a cool creek that danced over round smooth stones. The men wandered behind trees, chatting, while Beth passed around shortbread biscuits and cool bottles of soft drinks out of the portable ice-filled cooler packed in the van. When he had made contact on the radio phone with Frank Ward at The Avenue, Billy signalled Beth over. ‘The plane isn’t in yet. It’s due in about two hours. Frank says to drive in and park down by the airstrip.’

  ‘Lunch?’ mouthed Beth. Billy shook his head and gave a wry grin, raising the microphone to his mouth. ‘We have passengers on board who are ready for lunch, do you have any objection to us lighting a small fire?’

  The pastoralist’s voice crackled tersely back to Billy. ‘Keep it small and water it down when you leave. I trust you are aware of bush etiquette. This is private property, not a campsite.’

  ‘Message understood, thanks for your hospitality,’ said Billy politely.

  ‘Hos-bloody-pitality!’ growled the judge beside him. ‘People in the bush have changed since my day. We’d have had the barbie going and half a steer cooking. People on these isolated stations used to love company. How many bloody picnickers would wander through their bloody station?’

  ‘Too many bloody picknickers, unfortunately,’ countered Beth. ‘It’s not like the old days. People think they can go anywhere, use the properties, and leave their mess all over the place.’

  Billy climbed on board and called to everyone, ‘Let’s get going, it’ll be mid-afternoon by the time we arrive, make lunch, and the plane gets in. We can move out straight after that. How does corned beef and salad sandwiches sound?’

  ‘Bloody humdinger,’ said Mick. ‘Any mustard pickles?’

  ‘Home-made by my missus,’ replied Billy. ‘Good to have a fellow connoisseur of fine food on board.’

  They saw why the station was named The Avenue. The first settlers had planted rows of massive gum trees on either side of the three-kilometre track leading to the homestead. Now stately and creased in old age, their branches provided a curtain of shade along the road that welcomed visitors to Rosalie and Frank Ward’s grand house. But Billy turned the Oka off inside the first gate to park beneath three young trees at the edge of the dirt airstrip. A truck was pulled up to a shed close by, but it appeared deserted.

  ‘Where are all the cattle, the stockmen galloping, the stuff you see in the movies?’ asked Veronica, as they stepped from the Oka into dazzling midday sun. All around was quiet.

  Billy opened one side of the trailer, sliding out a metal chiller on runners. From this he took milk and butter. ‘Last of the fresh milk, be on the Long Life stuff after this. Gather some wood for the fire,’ he asked.

  They boiled the billy and had tea and sandwiches sitting under the shade of the trees. Billy offered cushions from the Oka, but the men squatted on the ground and the three women sat along a log. ‘You look like crows on a fence,’ commented Mick.

  ‘He’s a charmer,’ said Beth.

  ‘He gives good interviews,’ grinned Veronica.

  Beth sipped her mug of tea and put it back on the ground between her feet. ‘You reckon you could get a story out of this trip, Veronica?’ she asked slowly.

  The way Beth asked, Veronica didn’t answer instantly. Her professional assessment of a story’s potential had been finely honed over many years and while she had no doubts that here were the ingredients for a radio documentary, she liked to be in charge. She’d recognised straight away that Beth was a forceful woman who would want to take control of any situation. ‘I would say so. But I’d have to do it my way,’ she said, attacking the problem in her forthright way. ‘I haven’t yet decided what kind of story it could be. Personal odyssey, unusual travel, group dynamics in extraordinary situation, Aboriginal politics, art and beliefs, land issu
es, black and white law.’

  ‘I’d tick all of those boxes,’ said Alistair.

  ‘Be a hell of a good story,’ said the judge. ‘Any objections, Beth?’

  Beth was cagey. ‘Yes and no. Yes, there are sensitive subjects and possibly events that might be shared with us, which aren’t usually meant for outsiders. Nor do we want to present this as tourism.’ She sipped her tea again and Veronica thought, ha, here it comes, the proviso. ‘But what?’ she prompted.

  ‘The elders would have to give permission and we’d like some input into your stories.’

  ‘You can’t dictate how a journalist presents a story. Remember I work for the ABC. Tenuous as its hold on the national psyche might be, it still stands for independence, integrity, and no ties to vested interests.’

  ‘But if you had the opportunity to present a story that could be instrumental in helping highlight another viewpoint, and help a nation come to some sort of harmony, wouldn’t that be a valid reason for doing the story?’

  ‘It would, provided I made all the decisions.’

  ‘Then it’s you making value judgements and exercising influence and control,’ said the judge.

  ‘What nation are you referring to, Beth? The Aboriginal nation or Australia?’ asked Susan.

  ‘Aren’t we all supposed to be one people?’ asked Billy, topping up his tea from the blackened billy can.

  The sound of a Range Rover driving towards them halted the jousting. Billy threw the dregs of the tea on the fire ash making it hiss, and began packing up as Beth stood to greet the newcomer.

  A man, dressed in shorts, blue shirt, scuffed work boots and an expensive but battered hat, came towards them. ‘I’m Frank Ward. The plane is coming and they’ve got your fellow with them.’ He looked around at their makeshift lunch site. ‘Having a picnic, eh. Glad to see you know what to do.’ He nodded at Billy, who was shovelling dirt over the fire with a small spade.

  ‘Billy is a professional bushman. And we’ve just made ourselves lunch, we’ve had a hard drive since five o’clock,’ said Beth with some tartness to her words.

  ‘Thanks for letting us pull in,’ said Billy diplomatically.

  ‘Where you blokes off to? You’re a bit off the sightseeing route, aren’t you?’

  Beth ignored the question and did the introductions. ‘This is Alistair MacKenzie, QC, and Judge Mick Duffy.’ She gave a satisfied grin at the surprise that leapt into the man’s eyes. ‘And Veronica Hoffman from the ABC, and Susan Massey, a solicitor from Sydney. We’re grateful to your wife for giving our friend a lift up in the plane.’

  Frank Ward was openly curious. ‘If you’d mentioned who was with you, Beth, you could have come to the house.’

  ‘A shady tree suits us just fine,’ she said, biting her tongue.

  ‘There’s the plane,’ said Susan, who was starting to feel uncomfortable, and everyone turned to look into the sky.

  Rosalie Ward was first to step down after the twin-engine Cessna came to a stop. Dressed in a sleeveless green linen dress with a straw hat and sunglasses, she lifted her face for a short kiss on the cheek from her husband. The pilot pulled Alan’s bag out of the hold and handed it to him.

  ‘How are you all?’ asked Rosalie, adding with a little laugh, ‘this almost feels like a regional terminal with so many people.’

  ‘We’re just fine. This has worked very well. Appreciate you doing this, Rosalie,’ said Beth.

  ‘Indeed yes. I’ve already expressed my thanks on the way up,’ said Alan, joining the group and nodding to everyone. ‘Hope I haven’t held you up.’

  ‘Seeing we have the plane and our pilot Gordon here, it was no trouble at all.’ Rosalie gave Alan a brilliant smile.

  ‘He’s a full-time pilot?’ asked Mick. ‘Why don’t you learn to fly it yourself?’

  ‘Horses for courses,’ cut in Frank, making clear such an idea was beyond Rosalie’s interests. ‘She might have grown up on a farm, but when we moved to Melbourne she learned pretty quick that her time was better spent designing our house. And my background was selling cars, not fiddling around with planes.’

  Rosalie’s smile stayed in place and she shook a finger at him. ‘I’ve taught you a thing or two about the land, Frank, one day I might surprise you.’

  ‘We’d better be hitting the road. Thanks again, Rosalie, Frank.’ Beth shook hands.

  The rest of the group muttered their thanks and got back into the Oka. Alan shook hands with Rosalie and Frank, and Beth walked with the Wards to the Range Rover. Frank Ward was in a sombre mood. ‘Beth, I don’t mean to be nosey, but do you know what you’re doing taking people like that out to an Aboriginal reserve? I’m sure your intentions are good but it seems a little misguided if you want my honest opinion. It could be taken by the locals as stirring up a bit of trouble.’

  ‘In what way, Frank?’

  He started the motor and gave her a cynical look. ‘A judge, a QC, a solicitor and a reporter? Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

  ‘I invited them to meet Ardjani and the Barradja people. It’s a cultural exercise, Frank.’

  ‘I reckon the neighbours are going to see it as shit stirring.’

  ‘Frank!’ admonished Rosalie.

  He looked at his wife. ‘How else are the leaseholders round here going to take it? You don’t normally get white lawyers out here on a holiday.’

  Beth was relaxed. ‘That’s all it is, Frank. Tell anyone you talk to on the air tonight, that’s all it is – a cultural holiday. Their backyards are safe.’

  Rosalie waved at Beth. ‘Goodbye, good luck. I thought Alan was very interesting. We’ll have to buy some art from him.’

  ‘We have better things to do with our money,’ said Frank, driving into the avenue of shady trees.

  Beth stretched out in her seat and clutched her head. ‘I feel a migraine coming on.’

  ‘Could the pastoralists here make trouble, Beth?’ asked Alistair.

  ‘There is a lot of fear amongst the pastoralists about the tenure of their land, of what might happen with the unsettled state of affairs concerning Aboriginal land rights. Many feel their future is threatened.’

  Alistair spoke, the voice of reason. ‘Do you not think we might be pre-judging these people? Take the Wards. If they’ve sunk their life savings into that place, they’d naturally feel concerned at any implied suggestion their rights or leases may be under threat.’

  ‘Fair comment, Alistair. And not all the pastoralists are like the Wards. Some are bad, some terrific,’ added Beth, ‘but take my word for it, the far right is alive and well, even way out here. Unfortunately, some of these properties are on traditional Barradja land. To them, my bringing you mob up here will spell trouble.’

  ‘You never mentioned this trip could be possibly misconstrued,’ said Alistair.

  ‘Oh good, a stoush.’ Mick rubbed his hands together.

  ‘I’d like to see them take on this group,’ declared Susan looking round. ‘I’d say we have the makings of a pretty good war cabinet.’

  Beth laughed. ‘What a group you are, the feisty lady lawyer, the wise judge, the advocate, the journalist and the art dealer. Who’d tangle with us?’

  ‘And you?’ asked Susan.

  ‘Me? I’m the ex-nun, remember. I’m the one who had difficulty with obedience and humility.’

  They settled into their seats, occasionally passing fruit or sweets, as the late afternoon light changed the contours of the landscape. ‘See, Daughter Sun hangs in the fork of a tree, the signal to hunters and children to return to camp before darkness,’ said Beth.

  She turned to the two women. ‘You can see why the Barradja people say the earth is female. The rocks, those small hills, all the country around us, is voluptuous. Like thighs and round hips and swelling bellies. Look at those boab trees . . .’

  ‘I’d like to take a photo,’ interrupted Veronica.

  Billy was glad to stretch his legs and brought the bus to a smooth stop close by a cluster of young boabs
, the strange bottle-shaped trees that grew from a bulbous base, spreading stubby arms sparsely fringed with leaves. One large distended tree grew alone, a short distance away.

  Susan stood beside this plump beauty for Veronica to take a photo. ‘Are they full of water?’ she asked Beth.

  ‘They lose their leaves in the dry and store moisture in their spongy bark. They live for several thousand years, and can be as big around the base as sixteen metres. The base is often hollow, softly lined, like a womb. These trees are female in all the stages of development. This group are adolescents – that one, she’s mature, in the full cycle of her womanhood.’

  ‘Didn’t the cops in the old days lock Aborigines up in the bases of big boabs when they had nowhere to put them?’ asked Mick, recalling a vague image of such an event in a book of early photographs of Aborigines by Baldwin Spencer.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Beth. ‘Some people say they were just chained to the outside, but if they were put inside the tree then they inflicted a punishment more harsh than they knew. To imprison a warrior in the female womb brought shame on him. When released many died, not from the deprivation of their liberty, but from the loss of dignity.’

  Alistair said, ‘That’s an interesting angle on the black deaths in custody issue, Mick.’ Beside him, the judge stooped to pick up the fat brown nuts.

  ‘The boab nuts, that’s what people carve pictures on,’ declared Billy. ‘I bought one in Alice Springs a few years back.’

  ‘They’re a popular way of making money from tourists,’ said Alan. ‘The standard of art on them varies enormously, but they make an attractive souvenir. There’s a stockman who works on El Questro who does wonders with a penknife, really fine work. The ones carved with traditional designs are the most popular.’

  Susan and Veronica joined Mick, collecting some of the hard, fuzzy-skinned brown nuts.

  Beth and Billy conferred over the map, Billy worrying about the falling light and the notion they would be following landmarks as casual as ‘funny shaped trees, and a broken fence line’.