Spirits of the Ghan

by Judy Nunn

  He recognised his own words were being thrown back at him. And out of context what’s more, which under normal circumstances he would have found really irritating. But he refused to take umbrage, giving a light laugh instead.

  ‘Come along now, my love, you’re over-reacting.’ He took her in his arms. ‘I’m just offering you a little lesson, Jess, that’s all,’ he said. ‘As if I would ever change you.’ And he kissed her.

  But that’s exactly what you’re doing, she thought, or that’s what you’re attempting to do. Then she felt the straps of her dress eased over her shoulders, silk fabric sliding across her skin to the ground, hands caressing her body, and moments later she was responding with an immediacy that matched his.

  Their lovemaking was as fulfilling as always and the next day the incident appeared forgotten to Roger. But it wasn’t to Jess. The night of the National Geographic party had opened her eyes to a pattern that would slowly unfold during the months that followed, a pattern over which it seemed she had no control.

  ‘Jess was a student of mine,’ she would hear him say. ‘I’m extremely proud of her achievements.’ And on another occasion, ‘Jess has a wonderful brain. She was by far and away my brightest student.’

  It was impossible to confront him on the subject. A stalemate was reached whenever she tried. ‘Of course I boast about you, my darling, I’m extraordinarily proud of you. Why shouldn’t I boast?’

  ‘Because it sounds condescending, that’s why. You’re patronising me.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he was dismissive every time, ‘I’m championing you.’ And when she pushed him further he would laugh. ‘You’re becoming paranoid, Jess; now stop being silly and come to bed.’

  Sex was always the great leveller to Roger. On the odd occasion when he found her ‘paranoia’ irritating and couldn’t resist snapping back, sex wiped the slate clean and the next day was a fresh new start. At least it was for Roger. Things weren’t quite the same for Jess. Their sexual congress continued to excite her, she could not alter the dictates of her body, but there was never a fresh start the next day.

  More and more she felt demeaned when she heard him boast of her accomplishments to others, and he continued to do so openly even knowing she wished that he wouldn’t. He’s not proud of me at all, she would think, he’s proud of his achievement. Insecurity started to creep in. Roger seemed to be taking credit for her success as if she was something of his personal making. Could he be right? Was she nothing without him?

  But whenever she attempted to voice her misgivings, the words always came out the wrong way. Or perhaps they sounded wrong because of the way he twisted them back on her, she really couldn’t tell.

  ‘For God’s sake, woman, what’s the matter with you?’ he’d rant in frustration, ‘I am your greatest champion. I laud you to the skies! You should be proud of the pride I take in you.’

  The terrible realisation slowly dawned on Jess that, apart from the sex they shared, she was really no more to Roger Macready than a symbol of his success. As they embarked upon the second year of their marriage she was plagued by the notion and then other thoughts piled on top, jumbling her mind into a sea of insecurity. Roger didn’t love her at all, he never had. She’d been a case study to him all along. She remembered the day they’d visited Aunty May at Hermannsburg, the pictures he’d taken of the fresh-faced young Aboriginal student with her uneducated outback family. Had those photos accompanied the papers he’d presented to the Anthropological Society? Was she like a butterfly to an entomologist, a specimen pinned on a card and filed away for study?

  Jess knew she was driving herself mad, but she couldn’t stop. Her marriage was a sham in every conceivable way. And then, as their hectic social life continued and she was whirled about from cocktail party to dinner to conference with pride, she recognised the most insidious aspect of all. She was Roger’s personal badge of honour, the symbol he wore on his sleeve that gave him credibility. The charismatic, non-conformist professor, remaining true to form, had outrageously married a young black woman.

  For the first time in her life Jess’s confidence was shattered. And for the first time in her life, she felt as her mother must have felt: a nothing, a no-one, a black woman in a white man’s world.

  She left her marriage and she left Sydney. Had she stayed any longer, Roger Macready would have destroyed her.

  She made her exit the coward’s way, without confrontation, just a letter. By that time she was so deeply in Roger’s clutches she didn’t dare do anything else. The lawyer will be in touch, she informed him. She wished for a divorce and would agree to whichever path was the most expedient. Their marriage had lasted just eighteen months.

  Jess had put that time behind her now. Sometimes when it threatened to revisit she would tell herself she was grateful to Roger for awakening her to the nightmare of her mother’s existence. Rose, despite the depth of her husband’s love and compassion, had always considered herself inferior, a second-class person. Perhaps, Jess thought, I should even thank Roger for making me aware of a plight so common among our people.

  Upon returning home from the Todd Tavern and her pleasant evening with Matt Witherton, Jess made herself a light meal and watched television for a while. She wasn’t sure exactly what it was she watched, perhaps because the programme was boring or perhaps because Roger remained inexplicably on her mind.

  Later when she took herself off to bed she switched her thoughts to something else. Experience had taught her that dwelling upon the past in any form was an open invitation to a sleepless night.

  Instead she thought about Matt. She wondered if Charlie would visit him tonight. And, only minutes later, as she felt herself drifting off to a blissful sleep, she wondered what exactly it was that Charlie was trying to tell his grandson.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In his little single room at the Heavitree Gap Hotel, Matt did dream that night. But he didn’t dream about Charlie. And the landscape this time was not that of the Burmese jungle, but rather the central Australian desert. Once again the view was detached and from on high. He was gliding, looking down at the familiar terrain of dry flood plains and rocky outcrops and parched, red earth, and every now and then he found himself zooming in for a closer inspection, like an eagle in search of its prey. The images were as vivid as those of his previous dreams and as before they remained with him long after waking, but this time he did not question them. He supposed that as far as dreams went they were normal enough. Why he should be soaring about in the sky like an eagle was beyond him, but at least he’d been dreaming of something familiar. At least he was not about to be haunted throughout the day by the skeletal faces of dying men.

  He gave the matter no further thought, dismissing the images from his mind as he took himself into town for a pleasant breakfast at an outdoor café in the mall and a read of the Sunday newspaper. Then he drove back to camp.

  That night he was visited by a similar dream, and then again the next night, and on both occasions he dismissed them from his mind throughout the following day. He had no doubt that Jess would say his grandfather was trying to tell him something, but he refused to ponder any possible hidden meaning. It was annoying enough that his normally peaceful sleep was being disrupted without wasting further time worrying about why. He put the dreams aside and concentrated on his work, and after the three consecutive nights of their recurrence they disappeared altogether.

  Late the following Saturday afternoon a bunch of young apprentice workers returned to camp from Aileron a little the worse for wear. They were happy and harmless, but an arvo’s drinking at the tavern had left the half dozen or so in the mood for a bit of diversion, so when young Batty careered out of his donga screaming ‘Snake! Snake!’ at the top of his lungs, it was destined to arouse interest.

  Batty was the youngest of the bunch, only nineteen, and an apprentice diesel mechanic. His nickname could have been perceived by some as cruel for he did indeed have ears like a fruit bat, but as any outba
ck worker knew if you didn’t have a nickname it was quite possible you weren’t popular, so once this had been explained to Batty he’d happily relinquished ‘George’ and embraced his new identity.

  Snakes were objects of terror to Batty, growing up as he had in the suburbs of Adelaide, so having, upon arriving back from the pub with his mates, practically trodden on one curled up asleep in a cosy corner of his donga he’d been horrified. ‘Snake! Snake!’ he’d yelled.

  The others quickly followed Batty back to his donga, which was at the far end of the row twenty metres or so from the scrub, and gathered at the open doorway to peer in at the snake. It was a brown, around a metre and a half long and, having been disturbed from its slumber, it now sat coiled with its head raised high. The fact that the one avenue of escape open to it was suddenly barred only agitated the creature further and it started to hiss and wave its head from side to side.

  ‘How the hell did it get in there?’ Batty demanded with a touch of hysteria. ‘I closed the door when I left.’

  ‘You couldn’t have, mate,’ one of the men said.

  ‘I did, I did, I know I did, and it was closed when I got back, what’s more!’

  ‘Must have swung open, I suppose,’ another commented, ‘and somebody closed it for you.’

  ‘Or else the snake’s been living there all along without you knowing,’ came a further laconic comment.

  Batty blanched at the mere thought.

  ‘Who gives a shit how the thing got in there?’ a fourth man countered. ‘How the hell are you going to get it out?’

  The group remained gathered at the door studying the snake, discussing what action should be taken and soon others joined them, beers in hand. Some of the seasoned workers sensed a bit of fun could be had at the expense of the young apprentices, all of whom were city boys.

  ‘We need a snake wrangler,’ Baldy said, ‘anyone up for it? Come on, boys, I dare you.’ Big Baldy just loved a good stir. ‘Twenty bucks to whoever can get the fucking thing out of there.’ He wouldn’t go near it himself – a bloody king brown? No way, you’d have to be mad.

  One of the apprentices, ‘Fish’ Whiting, bolstered by a few too many beers and keen to achieve hero status in his mates’ eyes, was sorely tempted.

  ‘Is it poisonous?’ he asked, looking into the donga where the snake, now in a state of extreme agitation, was hissing louder than ever and threshing its head wildly from side to side. The sight was daunting certainly, but Christ he’d be a hero if he could pull it off. Perhaps he could throw a tarp over the thing and drag it out. Fish was giving the matter serious consideration.

  Baldy threw back his massive domed head and laughed out loud. ‘Course it’s venomous, you stupid bastard, every snake around here is.’ He raised his can of beer encouragingly. ‘But don’t let that put you off, son, if we get you to the hospital in time for the anti-venom to kick in you’ll live.’

  Young Fish wisely decided hero status wasn’t worth the price.

  A voice said from behind them: ‘Only one way to get rid of that fella.’ It was Donny. ‘You got to sing him out blackfella way, isn’t that right, Laurence?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, mate.’

  Donny and young Laurence had drifted over to watch the proceedings, Laurence, upon Donny’s instructions, bringing with him a good-sized stick. They’d shared a muttered conversation and Donny had devised a plan.

  ‘I’ll sing him out for you if you like.’ He addressed the group in general, but his eyes came to rest upon Baldy for it was Baldy who’d made the offer. ‘Twenty bucks, right?’

  Baldy looked him up and down suspiciously: was the prick having him on? But Donny appeared deadly serious as did the other blackfella and you just never knew with these blokes. Baldy, deciding in the name of amusement to give it a go, took his wallet from his hip pocket and held it up to show the offer was genuine. Then he gave the nod to proceed. Clearly no money was to change hands until the mission was accomplished.

  Donny immediately took charge, displaying an authority that was impressive. ‘Got to clear the place,’ he ordered, arms wide, ushering the men to one side, ‘get back, right back now, snake can’t see me with you fellas in the way.’

  Laurence, too, waved his arms urging the men aside and they obediently backed clear, chattering among themselves about whether or not they should lay bets: the Aboriginal blokes appeared to know what they were doing.

  ‘Quiet now,’ Donny ordered, ‘bit of shush; snake can’t hear me sing with you fellas natterin’.’

  There was instant silence and the men watched as Donny and Laurence seated themselves side by side on the step of the donga opposite Batty’s and Donny started very softly to sing his song. It was a chant more than a song really, nasal, monotone and strangely compelling.

  All eyes remained focused on the open door, waiting for the snake to appear. The men had been ushered well to one side and Donny and Laurence were the only two who could actually see inside the donga, but not a man moved, each mesmerised by the haunting sound of Donny’s snake song and the image of the open door.

  The song went on for several minutes, but there was no sign of the snake and the men were starting to grow restless.

  ‘This is fucking stupid,’ Baldy muttered, with the distinct feeling they’d been taken for a ride.

  ‘Yeh, he’s not doing much,’ Donny agreed in all seriousness, eyes still trained upon the snake. ‘Maybe this fella snake don’t know my song.’ He turned to Laurence. ‘Maybe this fella snake don’t know Arunta – what do you reckon?’ Laurence gave a nod that said ‘it’s possible’. ‘You give ’im a try, mate,’ Donny suggested and Laurence started a song of his own, which was presumably Anmatyerre, but which sounded very similar to Donny’s.

  ‘You’re having us on,’ Baldy growled, ‘this is a load of fucking bullshit.’

  Donny gave a shrug and nudged Laurence, who stopped singing. The songs were certainly bullshit, but they hadn’t been having the men on altogether. Donny had decided that if he and Laurence could get everyone out of sight and keep them quiet, thus clearing an avenue of escape for the snake, it might come out of its own volition. The songs had just been a bit of a joke. If it had worked it would have been downright funny.

  ‘Righto,’ he said, rising to his feet and taking the stick from Laurence, ‘we’ll do it the other way,’ and to the amazement of everyone except Laurence he disappeared into the donga.

  ‘Shit,’ Baldy said, and there were audible gasps from the others.

  Seconds later, Donny reappeared, holding the snake by its tail, high and at arm’s length, while keeping its head clear from his body with the stick. Without traction the animal was unable to strike, but could only squirm helplessly, seeking a target.

  ‘What do you want me to do with him, eh?’ he asked as he stepped down from the donga and thrust the writhing creature towards the others, who recoiled to a man. ‘Oops, maybe I’ll drop him, he’s pretty heavy this fella.’ A gasp went up as he pretended to lose his grip on the snake.

  ‘Get rid of it, you mad bastard,’ Baldy said.

  ‘Okay,’ Donny said with an amiable grin, ‘I’ll take him back where he lives, but I reckon that’s worth more than a twenty, Baldy. How about fifty, what do you say?’

  He waved the snake about, but by now Baldy knew there was no cause for alarm, that Donny had the situation under total control. He respected the bloke for it, just as he respected the joke. They’d been played for mugs, but the entertainment had been worthwhile and Donny deserved fifty. Baldy was a fair man. ‘Fifty it is,’ he said, taking a note from his wallet.

  ‘Collect our money, will you, mate?’ Donny called over his shoulder to Laurence as he set off for the scrub, the snake still writhing powerlessly. ‘They were good snake songs we sung.’ He gave a little skip as he went and started singing the same tuneless chant, the others bursting into a spontaneous round of applause.

  Laurence relished the moment as he collected the fifty-dollar note from Bald
y.

  Donny achieved cult hero status that day, word spreading quickly around the camp. Some who’d known him as a drunk back in Alice were surprised, but Laurence wasn’t. Donny had been a hero to Laurence right from the start.

  Donny had taken young Laurence under his wing. He could see the problem: the kid was over-sensitive and needed toughening up, sure, but most important of all the kid needed to develop a sense of humour. Laurence took life too seriously, that was his trouble. And so Donny had stepped in. Donny was a funny man.

  The relationship that had quickly developed between the two had been of great benefit to them both, but most particularly to Donny. He hadn’t been drunk for nearly a month. He never went into Aileron with the gang, he didn’t dare risk a session on the grog, but he had a couple of beers at the end of the work day and it never bothered him, he wasn’t tempted to wipe himself out. He wasn’t sure what was keeping him on the straight and narrow the most. Was it the job? This was a good job; he liked this job. Or was it the fact that he didn’t want to lose face in Laurence’s eyes, knowing how the kid idolised him? Didn’t matter either way: life was pretty good at the moment. And now on top of everything else, he was a bloody hero.

  The rail corridor continued its relentless progression towards Alice, and barely a fortnight after the snake episode Matt was visited by another dream, a different dream altogether this time. This time he was neither in the Burmese jungle, nor was he in the Australian desert. This time he appeared to be on a train, a steam train, he could hear the clicketty-clack of its wheels on the track and the belching of steam from its funnel. And the train was travelling through countryside that could only be somewhere in Europe. He was passing by coppices and hedgerows, a white-washed farmhouse sitting prettily in a lush green meadow, then through the heart of a village, the train slowing down a little now, rows of quaint houses, a church with a steeple, people lining the streets, waving.