Spirits of the Ghan

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Yes,’ he smiled back, ‘we’ll put it down to a leap of faith.’ He took a swig of his beer. ‘So what do we do now?’

  Despite his reassurance Jess sensed an empty feeling remained and she had to admit she felt rather the same way.

  ‘I think we should return to the site,’ she said, and in the instant she said it she knew she was right. He needs to reconnect with the ancestors, she thought, he’s bound to experience some form of reaction at the site, something that will make him aware of its significance.

  Several moments passed before Matt replied. ‘I’d rather not, Jess, at least not until the rail corridor’s completed right through to Alice; then we’ll know for certain there can be no turning back.’ He wasn’t sure of the reason for his delay tactics. There would be no turning back now, not according to Fritz and not according to his own knowledge of procedure. Everything had gone according to plan and the route of the Ghan was locked in. But Matt didn’t want to return to the site. Something told him he mustn’t, that he was not ready yet, that he would not be ready until the corridor was completed.

  ‘And when will that be?’ Jess asked.

  ‘Early in the New Year,’ he replied, ‘when they do the rock blasting just north of town. We’ll visit the site after that. Okay by you?’

  ‘Sure,’ she replied. A long time to wait, she thought, but the decision had to be Matt’s. ‘Okay by me.’

  They sat silently, sipping their beers, comfortable in each other’s company as they always were, but the mood remained slightly lost: both felt rudderless, purposeless, wondering, ‘What next?’

  ‘What are you doing at Christmas?’ she asked. It was still only October and Christmas seemed so far away, but there didn’t appear much else to talk about.

  ‘I promised Lilian I’d spend it in Adelaide,’ he said. ‘She’s invited you too, by the way.’

  ‘How kind of her.’ The reply had been just as Jess had expected. ‘Do give her my thanks, but I’ve promised Dad I’ll go to Sydney.’

  ‘Yes I thought that’d be the case.’ Matt downed the remains of his beer. ‘My round,’ he said and left for the bar.

  Fritz proved right. Over the ensuing weeks the southern leg of the rail corridor from Tennant Creek to Alice Springs continued to progress ahead of schedule – and it wasn’t the only section of the Ghan to do so. On 10 December the longest bridge on the entire project, the Elizabeth River Bridge south of Darwin, was completed three months ahead of its due date, and on 13 December the final Thermit weld linking the two sections of the line between Katherine and Tennant Creek was ignited, the molten metal forging the two tracks into one.

  It was becoming evident to all concerned that the whole of the Northern Ghan from Alice to Darwin was destined for completion well ahead of schedule, a fact that delighted not only the government, the consortium and the contractors, but the Territorians themselves, who could now see their long-awaited dream approaching fulfilment.

  Jess’s Christmas break in Sydney ended on a raucous note. The first two days had been quiet enough. Christmas Eve was pleasant father–daughter time, the customary ferry trip to Manly and the night spent curled up on the sofa, Ringo between them, watching soppy, romantic films on television, the sort they both agreed that Rose had always loved. Christmas Day too was pleasurably quiet while also highly indulgent, Toby having booked a table for two at a very expensive restaurant overlooking the harbour.

  ‘Who wants to cook?’ he’d said and they’d lingered over a long lunch starting with Sydney rock oysters and seguing on to a number of small courses, ignoring the ‘Classic Christmas Fare’ favoured by most of the patrons. No doubt annoying the restaurateur and chef, both of whom had considered limiting the menu to a set lunch, but had thought better of it given the restaurant’s international reputation.

  Dawdling over their respective crêpes Suzette and crème caramel, swapping tastes, savouring every mouthful, while the majority of other diners waded through the traditional plum pudding and brandy sauce, albeit flambéed in haute cuisine style, Toby and Jess felt the day was theirs and theirs alone.

  Boxing Day, however, was a vastly different affair. Toby had accepted an offer to fill in for a regular member of The Hotdogs, a jazz band that was booked to play a gig at the Coogee Bay Hotel during the late afternoon and into the evening. He’d been only too happy to take up the offer, given the youthful attendance the pub’s gigs attracted.

  ‘Should be fun, Jess,’ he promised. ‘Buddy Boyce and the Hotdogs are a really hot trad jazz band – hell, Buddy’s one of the best clarinettists in the country, and the Coogee Bay Beer Garden always draws a great crowd. A young crowd,’ he added meaningfully, ‘and the kids all love to dance. You’ll be able to throw yourself around the dance floor for a change.’

  ‘I’ll be more than happy to sit and listen to the band, Dad,’ Jess replied.

  ‘Rubbish,’ he insisted, ‘you have to dance, girl – it’s only right and proper you should. Time you mingled with those your own age instead of spending every waking hour with your poor, tired old da.’

  Jess gave a snort of laughter, knowing he was sending himself up. Poor, tired old da indeed, she thought. Despite the grey in his ponytail Toby remained, although a little dated, ageless in spirit. She felt distinctly the older of the two these days. And kids? He seemed to forget she was a divorcee and thirty-one; she hardly needed to groove the night away with twenty-year-olds.

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said in order to humour him.

  ‘Want to dance?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Jess had barely been off the dance floor for the past hour. Not that it was really a dance floor at all, more just a space near the band at the end of the vast pot-plant-strewn, palm-surrounded beer garden, where early arrivals had garnered tables and others were crammed about the perimeter, drinking and talking and intermittently dancing. The Boxing Day Jazz Concert at the Coogee Bay Hotel was the hot gig everyone had known it would be.

  From up on the rostrum with the eight-piece band, Toby watched his daughter, happy to see that she was enjoying herself just as he’d planned she should.

  They’d arrived half an hour earlier than the band’s scheduled four o’clock start; the heat of the afternoon had been alleviated by the breeze that swept in off the ocean. The Coogee Bay Hotel, which stood in pride of place overlooking the sea, was grandly evocative, an architectural reminder of a bygone age when it had served as a nineteenth-century beachside resort. These days it served many purposes, not the least being a venue for music events that attracted the young, which was precisely why Toby had accepted the gig.

  Upon his suggestion she’d sat at a table near the dance area, and sipped at a beer while he and the boys set up. He’d known she wouldn’t be on her own for long; you didn’t get a table to yourself at a gig like this. Sure enough barely twenty minutes later half a dozen young things, four boys, two girls, had bagsed the table with her, introductions had been made and Jess had become part of the gang. That was the way things worked.

  Toby may not have been surprised at the way things had panned out, but Jess certainly was. She’d lost touch with the camaraderie that attended youthful gatherings such as this. She’d felt a little intruded on when the gang had settled at the table, pleasant though they’d been in introducing themselves, and as the concert had got under way and the beer garden had started to fill she’d downed the last of her beer, thinking she should leave and join those standing around the periphery. But as she’d made to go her new friends wouldn’t have a bar of it.

  ‘No, no love, stay,’ Jason had insisted, ‘you’ve scored us a prime spot, we owe you one. Next round’s on me.’ Jason was in his early twenties, a personable young man who wore a bright red bandana around his skull in true pirate fashion. The obvious leader of the group, most of whom she was later to discover were backpackers, he was colourful and good-looking, but it was the Irish accent that won her – something reminiscent of a young Toby Manning, Jess supposed.

&n
bsp; The ‘next round’ that Jason, or Jase as his mates called him, brought back to the table was a repeat of the previous round, and the apparent tipple of everyone’s choice. They were drinking directly from their bottles and Jess accepted hers graciously guessing it to be some sort of vodka and orange mix that was currently the trend. It was nice enough, so she shouted another round of the same when it came to her turn, making a conscious decision to abandon beer for the rest of the evening. It was obviously easier to just go with the flow.

  Jase and his mates being two girls short, Jess saw quite a bit of action on the dance floor; and as the evening wore on, not only was she asked by those at her table, but by others in the beer garden whose attention had been drawn to the attractive Aboriginal girl who really knew how to move.

  From up on the rostrum, Toby watched his daughter in the throng of writhing youth. Her grace was mesmeric: she moved like she walked, relishing the rhythm of her body. And she’s so at one with the music, he thought, just like her mother. Look at her, Rosie, just look at her, he thought. No wonder they all want to dance with our girl, Doesn’t she make you feel proud, Rosie love?

  But even as Toby delighted in his daughter’s enjoyment, he remained wary, keeping an eagle eye out for those who might overstep the mark. They were young men after all and young men always wanted something more than the dance.

  Toby was aware that any concern on his part was quite unnecessary and that Jess was more than capable of looking after herself, but hell, he couldn’t help it, could he? Worry was what a father did, wasn’t it?

  Jess was indeed fending off the odd grope, but with minimal difficulty, finding the advances boyishly gauche for the most part. She’d quickly registered those who viewed dancing as either a form of foreplay or an opportunity for a chat-up and when they returned for a second bout she feigned fatigue and said no. But she was enjoying herself immensely. She hadn’t danced for years. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed dancing – it was even fun with those a decade her junior.

  ‘Hello, Jess.’

  The voice, raised above the sound of the band, was one she recognised instantly and, looking up from where she sat, she saw the face she’d been forcing from her mind for the past several years. The moment their eyes met she could tell that he was laying claim to her. Why? she wondered. We’re divorced.

  ‘Hello, Roger,’ she said.

  ‘Would you care to dance? There’s really not much point trying to talk above the noise, is there?’ It was clear he would have vastly preferred to talk.

  ‘Good jazz is not “noise”,’ she said pleasantly but pointedly, ‘and that’s Dad on rhythm guitar.’

  ‘Oops, so it is.’ He gave a wry grimace. He hadn’t noticed Toby. He hadn’t paid any attention at all to the band, his eyes had been solely upon her. ‘I sincerely beg your pardon, Jess, really I do.’

  ‘No apology necessary. I’m a bit danced out anyway.’ She steeled herself. This moment was destined to have occurred some time or other – she might as well confront it now. ‘Would you prefer to go for a walk?’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  She excused herself from the table saying she was off for a walk, leaving Jason distinctly disappointed. He liked older birds and this one was sexy as all get out.

  ‘Shall I save your seat?’ he enquired, wistfully hopeful.

  ‘Yes, that’d be great, thanks, Jase.’

  Jase gave a broad grin and plonked his jacket on her chair. He watched as the two walked off. Looks like they’re just mates, he thought thankfully, and the bloke’s far too old for her anyway.

  At the beer garden’s grand, stone-arched exit that led out onto Arden Street, Jess turned back and caught her father’s eye. She presumed he was keeping an eye on her as she’d known he had been throughout the concert, a fact that greatly amused her, and of course she was right. She pointed to the street and gave a wave intimating she wouldn’t be gone long.

  Toby returned a nod. The band was due to take a meal break soon and he’d presumed he and Jess might have a hamburger together, but it was clear now they wouldn’t.

  Toby was worried. He hadn’t noticed Roger in the crowd. Good grief, what was the man doing here? Roger Macready would detest trad jazz. He gazed after the two of them as they walked beneath the stone arch, Roger offering his arm in that proprietorial way of his, Jess automatically accepting it. The bastard’s no doubt hoping a romantic stroll by the sea might rekindle the flame, Toby thought. He desperately hoped that it wouldn’t.

  They crossed the broad boulevard of Arden Street, with its stately Norfolk Island pines, Jess thinking distractedly how ubiquitous the trees were. It seemed the main ocean-front street of every major seaside suburb in every state in the country was lined with Norfolk Island pines.

  ‘You always know where the sea is, don’t you?’ she said.

  The non sequitur received a raised eyebrow from Roger.

  ‘The pines,’ she said with a wave of her hand.

  ‘Yes indeed.’ He smiled agreeably to put her at ease, her small talk was clear evidence she was nervous. ‘When in doubt head for the far-distant pine trees and you’re bound to hit the coast.’

  They walked through Goldstein Reserve and sat on the broad arc of steps that dominated the seafront, leading down to the beach in an impressive series of terraces. The sunlight was prettily fading to dusk and the water relatively calm although several diehard surfers still bobbed about on their boards, waiting for those last waves before dark.

  ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’ Jess said as she looked out over the sweep of Coogee Bay. ‘I’ve missed the ocean, I must say.’

  Roger’s hesitation was minimal and Jess, focused upon the view, wouldn’t have noticed it, but he was actually caught out. He hadn’t expected she would be the one to lead the conversation and in such a direct manner. He’d anticipated a little more small talk. She doesn’t appear nervous after all, he thought.

  ‘So how are you enjoying Alice Springs and the Ghan?’ he asked.

  ‘I love it.’ She turned from the view to face him. ‘I love Alice and the Ghan and the Territory and the people, I love everything about my life up there.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He nodded approvingly as if she was a student who’d answered a tricky question correctly. ‘And the flat? You’re happy with the flat? Nice and central Undoolya Road, a short walk into town, most convenient I would think,’

  How quickly he’d managed to take control, she thought, the manipulative Roger of old. The ease with which she’d opened the conversation had surprised herself as much as him, but she was now supposed to display gratitude, she realised, to admit that she was beholden to him, which of course she was.

  ‘Yes, I’m very happy with the flat,’ she said. ‘I love the flat just as I love everything else in Alice. And I’m grateful of course,’ she added a little tightly. ‘It was very generous of you, Roger.’

  ‘It was the very least I could do for you, Jess. Good God, what else was I capable of doing under the circumstances? I can’t tell you how worried I was when you just disappeared, leaving instructions I was to communicate only through your lawyer. Of course I had to make sure you were well looked after, my darling, that was my duty above all else …’

  Jess watched him, detached, studying each step and each nuance that appeared somehow rehearsed. First the expansive benefactor, then the victim, a perfect mix of distress and accusation, and finally the paternalist she’d so often seen, treating her as if she were a child incapable of looking after herself. She felt as if she was watching a performance.

  She was. Roger’s current performance was not dissimilar to the one he’d offered up to his colleagues when she’d left him.

  ‘I’ve looked after her, of course,’ he’d said, ‘set her up in a nice little flat in Alice Springs, lined her up a job as negotiator with the Central Lands Council …’ Through his contacts he’d had no trouble finding out where she’d gone and the job she’d accepted. ‘I’m devastated our marriage didn’t work o
ut,’ he’d lamented, ‘and I’ll always love Jess, but things are probably better for her this way. She has family at Hermannsburg and she’ll be near her people. The truth is she’s rather naive and a little lost in the city,’ he’d confided, adding with his superior knowledge of all matters Indigenous, ‘as of course is so sadly often the case.’

  Roger had most certainly been devastated when Jess had left him. Her desertion was so unexpected that he’d been in a state of shock and disbelief. How could she have done such a thing? He was everything to her – lover, husband, mentor – and without him she was nothing. At first he’d persuaded himself it was just a rebellious gesture and that any day she’d come back, begging the forgiveness that of course he would grant her. But she hadn’t come back, and he’d been forced to face the fact that she never would. The lies he’d concocted in order to cover his humiliation had very quickly become the truth to Roger. Unfortunately for him, those of his academic colleagues who’d known and worked with Jess didn’t believe one word he said, which only served to make his humiliation all the more profound. These days he tried to avoid anyone who’d known his wife, although it was difficult, she’d made a strong impression upon many.

  ‘Anyway, Jess, I’m delighted to hear you’re happy.’ Aware that his speech wasn’t making its intended impact, Roger brought it to a halt. He paused for a moment, somewhat at a loss. ‘I think of you often,’ he said in all honesty, ‘and I wish you well.’

  ‘As I do you, Roger,’ she replied, which was not in the least honest. She’d been trying so hard to forget him that she hadn’t wished him well at all. And then the realisation hit Jess that for some time now she’d given him no thought whatsoever. I’ve been free of him without even knowing it, she thought and wondered why. When had this happened?

  Time to change the subject, she decided. ‘So what are you doing at a trad jazz concert?’ she asked. ‘Jazz of any kind was never your scene, or has your taste changed?’