Spirits of the Ghan

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dad.’ Her response had been flippant. ‘He’s my tutor for God’s sake.’

  ‘Oh well, well, well now,’ he’d said, his Irish lilt adding weight to the mockery of his remark, ‘that makes everything all right, doesn’t it? You need to read more novels, girl. Tutors? They’re the worst kind.’

  At which she’d just laughed.

  But something had happened on that trip, something that should have been trivial, summarily dismissed by them both, but hadn’t been. Jess would never forget that day.

  They’d visited her family at Hermannsburg. Aunty May had been warm and welcoming, as had the other members of the family, all pleasantly well-behaved. It was a Tuesday morning and ‘pay-cheques’ were over a week away, so they weren’t on the drink. Young Millie hadn’t been there because young Millie, now nineteen and her grandmother’s pride and joy, was in Darwin studying to be a teacher.

  ‘All your doing, Jess,’ Aunty May had said. ‘Millie wants to be like you, wants to learn and give back to her people. She’s smart that girl, real smart.’

  Jess had visited her family twice during her research trips to the Centre, the first time being again in the company of her father. Both occasions had been joyful affairs and she’d wondered why this particular visit had ended up feeling a little awkward. Perhaps it was Roger’s insistence upon photographs, although why that should bother her she wasn’t sure – he’d asked permission politely enough. Or perhaps she’d simply felt self-conscious about having arrived with a stranger and a white man at that. She’d never felt self-conscious arriving with her father, but then her father was family, which she supposed made things different. She couldn’t figure it out, but she’d felt a vague sense of relief when they’d left.

  Upon their return to town, Roger had driven out along the Ross Road to Emily Gap in the Heavitree Range of the East MacDonnells ten kilometres from Alice Springs. Anthwerrke, as Emily Gap was known to the Eastern Arunta, was a site of great spiritual importance, and he’d wanted to share with her the ancient rock paintings of the Caterpillar Dreaming.

  Jess had visited the site during a previous trip, but had been unable to view the paintings themselves as the creek that ran through the Gap had been flowing, rendering them inaccessible. She was glad now to be seeing the ancient works for the very first time in the company of Roger. The rock paintings of the Caterpillar Dreaming were of immense significance to the people born in the region of Alice Springs and it seemed right she should view them with an expert respectful of their true meaning.

  There was no-one else around, no vehicle in sight, no adventurous tourist wandering off the beaten track, and the silence was total as they crossed the sandy creek bed towards the towering rocks that formed the walls of the Gap.

  To Jess the mighty rock faces, fiery red in the afternoon light, seemed alive, sentinels ready to spring into action should the treasure they guarded come under threat. She was in awe of the life she felt in everything around her. The very land itself seemed to throb, pulse-like, a living, breathing entity. Little wonder Anthwerrke is a sacred site to the people of Mparntwe, she thought, here in this home of their ancestral beings the spiritual presence is palpable.

  Upon reaching the paintings, which sat side by side at the base of the massive rock face, they examined each closely, a series of stylised images painted in red ochre and white lime, large, bold and perfectly preserved over the millennia.

  ‘Amazing, aren’t they?’ Roger’s voice was hushed. ‘Quite, quite amazing.’

  She simply nodded.

  The paintings were sharply delineated horizontal lines that ran parallel to each other. Each line was drawn with precision and each painting differed slightly from its companions, here several dots added, here a line at odds with the symmetry. The impression was one of a series of tracks punctuated by landmarks as was no doubt the artist’s intention.

  ‘Yeperenye, Ntyarlke, Utnjerrengatye …’ Roger named the Caterpillars of the Dreamtime Story, the three ancestral beings who had formed Anthwerrke itself, and much of the topography surrounding Mparntwe. ‘The Caterpillar Dreaming trail started from here at this very site,’ he said as he gazed at the paintings. ‘You wonder just how old these are, don’t you?’ he mused as much to himself as to Jess. ‘You wonder exactly how many millennia.’

  They sat themselves down in the sand and remained gazing at the paintings, Roger marvelling at their antiquity, Jess in a state of sheer wonderment at the mystical presence she felt surrounding her. She had never experienced such a sensation before, and she had never in her life expected to. She could feel the softest touch on her skin, as tactile as anything human, yet no person was there. A spiritual being is welcoming me to this place, she told herself, enraptured by the thought.

  Several minutes must have passed as the two sat in silence, and by now Jess was unaware that Roger was no longer studying the paintings, Roger was studying her.

  Roger had been lost the moment he’d glanced at her. He’d been about to suggest it was time they were going, but he hadn’t said a word, he’d just stared at her instead, her expression, one of rapture, holding him spellbound. She’s transported, he thought, she’s in a state of euphoria.

  He knew he was intruding as he leaned in to kiss her. He knew he should break the spell and bring them both back to reality. But he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to share that euphoria.

  Jess was not shocked by the kiss, nor was her reverie shattered, but rather enhanced. As their lips met, she wondered whether Roger, too, had felt the spiritual presence, but if not, no matter. For this brief moment and in this sacred place they were sharing something intensely special.

  The kiss was lingering, sensual, but he did not gather her to him, he did not even place a hand upon her. There was no contact between them but the touch of their lips.

  They pulled back and Roger rose to his feet. He’d shocked himself. He’d never transgressed with a student before.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said as if the incident had not happened at all.

  Jess stood, also making no comment, but knowing that things between them would never be the same. Her feeling for Roger Macready was not a severe case of hero worship as she’d persuaded herself it was. She was in love with the man. Perhaps she always had been.

  Much as Roger might have wished to delude himself, he too recognised the change in the status quo. Jessica Manning was no longer a tempting distraction to be admired from a distance. He wanted her now, and not just physically: he wanted to make her his, to possess her totally. He was prepared to wait however. It would prove difficult he was sure, but he sensed very strongly that his feelings were reciprocated.

  It proved difficult for them both. Not a word was said about that day in the desert and they pretended to ignore the unspoken promise that hovered in the air. Jess took her lead from Roger. If he’d made the slightest overture she would have succumbed, but he didn’t. They both knew they were biding their time until she had finished her PhD. They both knew that the moment she was no longer a student they would become lovers. The future held no surprise for either, only exquisite anticipation.

  But a little over a year later, in early 1997 when Jess had received her doctorate, it turned out there was a surprise.

  ‘Marry me, Jess.’ Roger’s original intention had not been to propose, but the torturous, tantalising existence of the past year had convinced him he wanted nothing less than marriage to Jess. She was young, a whole fourteen years his junior – how else could he ensure she would remain his? And he’d decided to make his proposal before they slept together as a declaration of his serious intent.

  Jess had been amazed. A marriage proposal was the last thing she’d expected. It had taken her by such surprise that she’d actually laughed. ‘Don’t you think you should sample the goods first?’ she’d said, already knowing her answer was yes.

  They’d made love that same night in Roger’s attractive Double Bay flat overlooking the water, and the sex had bee
n every bit as exciting as each had anticipated. In fact it had been the best sex either had experienced, although in Jess’s case she’d had little by way of comparison. She’d had only one previous lover, Payu, a talented young musician she’d met through a band whose album was being recorded at her father’s studio. Payungka McPherson was Aboriginal-Scottish and they’d had a great deal in common, at least that’s what Payu had maintained. He’d been a nice young man and they’d had a good time, but she’d not been ‘in love’ as such. In truth she’d only embarked upon the affair because she’d thought at the age of twenty-two the loss of her virginity was well overdue. She’d been left feeling more than a little guilty six months later when Payu, very much in love, had wanted to marry her.

  Jess had found sex with Payu a highly pleasurable experience, but with Roger it was something else altogether. Being passionately in love was a powerful aphrodisiac. Roger Macready had been her hero and mentor for the past three years and now he was her lover. Both in and out of bed he was the most exciting man she’d ever known.

  As for Roger, all his erotic fantasies had come to fruition. The girl who’d captivated him the moment she’d first walked into his office, the girl he’d found so irresistible, was everything he’d imagined she might be, and more. She was uninhibited in bed, but above all it was the feel of her that drove him to untold heights. Her skin was like satin, exquisite to the touch. He’d never slept with an Aboriginal girl, and the outback phrase he’d heard bandied about by white cattle men came instantly to mind. ‘Black velvet, mate,’ he recalled one saying, ‘you won’t want another white woman after you’ve had a taste of black velvet.’ Offensive as most might find the remark Roger secretly couldn’t help but agree.

  They’d married only two months later in a low-key civil ceremony – Roger’s idea, but Jess hadn’t minded in the least.

  Toby, however, had had a few words to say on the subject. ‘Don’t you want a bit of fanfare?’ he’d queried disapprovingly. ‘A wedding should be a big day in a young woman’s life.’

  Jess had grinned and turned the moment into a joke, knowing the criticism was directed at Roger. ‘You reckon I should have a white wedding, do you, Dad?’

  But Toby hadn’t responded to the joke. ‘You know exactly what I mean,’ he’d said tartly.

  ‘You and Mum didn’t have any fanfare,’ she’d replied with an air of one-upmanship, ‘you married at the Registry Office and then went straight out on tour; you told me so yourself.’

  ‘Altogether different. Your mother and I couldn’t afford to do anything else,’ the inference clearly being that Roger could, ‘and as father of the bride I’m more than happy to foot the bill, you both know that,’ another dig at Roger.

  Jess hadn’t bothered arguing further. She was aware her father didn’t particularly like Roger and she sensed the feeling might be mutual. On the several occasions of their meeting Roger had always been pleasant to Toby, as indeed had Toby to him, but it was evident that the two didn’t really gel somehow. A pity, she thought. Both white men who’d chosen to marry black women, they could have shared a great deal.

  After gaining her doctorate Jess had accepted an appointment to the lecturing staff of the University of New South Wales. She could have applied to Sydney University, but Roger had suggested it might be better for their respective careers if they observed a little distance, and she’d agreed. Personally she would have preferred to apply for a job that took her to remote regions and allowed her to deal with Indigenous concerns, but as Roger had said there was time enough for that. They could perhaps look at hiring themselves out as a team a little further down the track, he’d suggested. The idea was so appealing to Jess that she’d been more than happy to bide her time and lead an academic existence for a year or so.

  Following their marriage, life became far more hectic than she’d expected. She hadn’t realised what a broad circle of friends Roger had. Not many were particularly close, they were colleagues for the most part, but the various cliques, academic and corporate and even political with whom he mingled were all highly social. There seemed to be a continuous round of conferences and dinners and fundraising functions of some kind or other.

  ‘Who would have guessed you’d turn out to be such a social butterfly?’ she’d complained one night as they dressed for yet another cocktail party. ‘I might not have married you if I’d known.’ The comment was made jokingly, but her criticism was genuine. This was the third function they’d attended in a week and she would far rather have stayed home.

  ‘Got to keep everyone on side, my love,’ he’d replied with a smile, ‘they’re the bread and butter after all.’ He’d kissed her, running his fingers over her shoulders and arms. ‘Besides, I like to show off my beautiful, intelligent, talented young wife,’ he’d said as he unzipped the dress he’d only just zipped up. They’d been late for the cocktail party that night.

  The first major sign of trouble came barely a month later at an event held in the Sydney Town Hall to welcome the American National Geographic team. A four-part series of television specials was to be filmed all around Australia, one in a number of such series the Americans were making on the flora and fauna of ancient regions of the world, and the project, huge as it was, had attracted attention from all quarters. The several hundred guests milling about the grand ballroom of the Town Hall was a veritable potpourri of the academic, artistic and commercial, with a number of politicians thrown in.

  Upon arrival, Roger and Jess accepted a glass of wine each and started to mingle. Within only minutes Roger was introduced by a colleague to several of the National Geographic team, including Professor Neil Hemsley, the American scientist who was to host the series. Hemsley, a highly qualified and much respected naturalist, had become a familiar face to television viewers worldwide via the documentaries he’d co-produced and hosted over recent years.

  Roger in turn introduced Jess.

  ‘And this is my wife, Jess Macready,’ he said to the company in general, ‘Doctor Macready, actually,’ he added.

  Jess always felt self-conscious when he referred to her as ‘Doctor’, which he often did, particularly in academic circles. She never used the title herself. ‘People think you’re a GP and start telling you their medical problems,’ she’d say, ‘it’s too confusing. I’m not a real doctor at all.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ he’d insist, ‘don’t be so self-deprecating: you worked hard for your doctorate, you deserve it and I’m very, very proud of you.’

  Professor Hemsley shook Jess’s hand. He was a pleasantly innocuous-looking man. Middle-aged and on the beefy side, he could have seemed commonplace had it not been for the fiercely intelligent glint in his eyes.

  ‘So what’s your background, Dr Macready?’ he asked with a curiosity that was disarmingly genuine. ‘Where exactly are you from?’

  Jess was accustomed to people asking about her antecedents, they so often did, some directly, some indirectly. She preferred the direct approach and, as always, was more than happy to supply the answer.

  ‘My mother was Western Arunta from the central desert of Australia …’ she replied, gaining immediate interest from the American and a nod of approval from Roger, then she added ‘… and my Dad’s Irish.’ Hemsley’s attention remained focused upon her, so she continued. ‘He’s a muso actually –’ She was going to explain that the two had met in Sydney, but she didn’t get any further.

  ‘He’s not exactly a musician, darling,’ Roger interrupted, correcting her good-humouredly, ‘your father’s a sound engineer. It’s not quite the same thing.’

  ‘He’s a sound engineer who just happens to be one of the best in the country,’ she responded, trying not to sound brittle.

  ‘Indeed he is,’ Roger agreed, and he turned back to the group of Americans. ‘Toby operates a very successful recording studio in Balmain,’ he said with a smile, ‘and his work is highly recognised in the rock industry.’ It should have sounded like a compliment to her father but it didn’
t. Roger’s tone was that of a parent indulging a child.

  Jess hadn’t pursued the matter, but she’d fumed throughout the evening. And later that night when they arrived home she confronted him.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ she demanded.

  ‘Do what?’ His response was the personification of innocence.

  ‘Why did you put Dad down the way you did?’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ He still appeared mystified.

  ‘When we met Hemsley,’ she reminded him and this time her voice really was brittle, ‘you said Dad wasn’t a muso.’

  ‘Oh that.’ He shrugged off the matter as if it was of no consequence.

  ‘Yes that,’ she said emphatically.

  ‘Do you know what you sounded like, my love?’ He shook his head and she was astonished by the fact that he actually appeared amused. ‘Couldn’t you hear yourself? “My dad’s Irish, he’s a muso” – do you know how that sounds?’

  She was confounded. ‘So? What’s wrong with the way it sounds? You’ve heard it before. I’ve said it often enough.’

  ‘Not to people like Hemsley, Jess, not in academic circles – it’s a ridiculously juvenile turn of phrase. You’ve moved on from there, my darling, truly you have.’

  That same tone, Jess thought, patronising and somehow indulgent, as if I’m a child. And what the hell does he mean? I’ve moved on from where? I’ve moved on from where, to where? She was bewildered. Roger had always loved her lack of pretension. He’d been fascinated by the fact that despite years of academic study she’d remained essentially unchanged: he’d told her so. ‘Intellectuals tend to lose their ability to respond instinctively,’ he’d said, ‘or rather they tend to distrust intuition in their need to over-analyse anything and everything they encounter. But not you, Jess, you’ve always remained true to yourself, true to who you really are. It’s extremely refreshing.’ He’d said that. He’d actually said that! She remembered every word.

  ‘What about remaining true to myself, Roger.’ It was an accusation not a query. ‘What about remaining who I really am.’