Rain Music (11 page)

‘Write a hit song or two,' added Frederick between mouthfuls of steak. Ned grinned and glanced around his amazing new digs. In a place like this, maybe he just would.

*

They were up by sunrise breakfasting on tea and toast and fresh mangos that Frederick had picked from the garden.

‘I can't thank you enough for getting me set up,' said Ned.

‘You'll be right. By the way, about that story I was telling you last night,' Frederick said, looking a bit sheepish. ‘If you hear anything, it'll be Mad Jack over the other side of the gully. Sometimes his music drifts over here because he plays it at four thousand decibels. He lives a few kilometres away, but you know how sound carries if the wind is in the right direction, so you get to share his taste in music whether you want to or not.'

‘Who's Mad Jack?' asked Ned. ‘I had the impression I was totally isolated out here.'

‘Ah, Jackson Worth. He's a harmless old bloke. Vietnam vet. Well into his seventies by now, I reckon.'

‘And he lives out here by himself? Does he have any family?' Ned wondered aloud.

‘Nah, not that I know of. Anyway, he's on his own here. Don't worry about him, he doesn't like to socialise. Now I'll be off. I'll call in to see how you're going when I get the chance. Otherwise, if you get bored or lonely, or run out of food, come up to the roadhouse. Just follow that mud map I did for you.' Frederick held out his hand and Ned shook it.

‘Yeah, I hope I can follow it. Anyway, I'll be fine for a couple of weeks.'

‘Good luck with your music writing then. Take care.'

*

After a few days, Ned began to wish he had some reception on his mobile, as he thought he'd like to call Toni. He was so enjoying Carlo's place he wanted to describe it to her. But at the same time he loved the solitude and peace and the incredible setting and, as the days passed, he quickly developed a good working routine, something he had not always managed to do in the past.

He rose early and took a walk around the property, letting the chickens out of their coop and picking a mango for breakfast. Then, while the day was still cool, he'd water the garden. After breakfast he'd quickly clean up before settling to work, either with his guitar or at the keyboard, sounding out notes, transcribing chords in his head before writing it all down. He constantly wrote and rewrote the ideas that came to him, following each one, hoping that a coherent theme would emerge. By mid-morning, if he was discouraged by his lack of progress, he would plunge into the river, then sit in the sun with a coffee before returning to work for the rest of the day.

When the sunset faded into a warm night, he sometimes had another swim and sat quietly with a beer out on
one of the terraces to watch the changing light and listen to the birds as they settled in for the night along the river bank.
In one of the bookcases was a well-thumbed bird book and, having found a pair of binoculars, Ned enjoyed identifying these birds, not just by their features, but also by their call. He began to keep a mental list of those he'd spotted.

Ned had never been much of a cook, rarely attempting anything very ambitious. But without a nearby shop, he began to use his imagination. The hens gave him fresh eggs, and he found some flour and successfully made a pizza base, adding fresh herbs from the little garden as well as a sauce he found amongst the tinned food in the kitchen. Feeling adventurous, he tried making a damper which he baked in the wood-fired oven, but it turned out to be heavy and chewy and was pretty inedible even smothered with treacle. However, the attempt left him yearning for fresh bread. He decided that he would have to use the mud map Frederick had sketched on a piece of paper to find his way to the roadhouse and buy some.

He made a wrong turn, ending up down at the edge of the old goldmine's lovely lake, so he thought that since he'd found the place he'd take the opportunity to have a look around. He noticed a spot under a small group of trees where it looked as though someone had been picnicking. Besides the remains of a fire there were a couple of rusty tins and a tattered hammock tied between two palms with rotting rope. Obviously the place had not been frequented for a long time. Then he spotted some empty shotgun cartridges and the skeletal remains of an animal. He turned away. Ned hated guns. His father had been a duck hunter and had tried to teach him the intricacies of patience, dogs and shooting. But while Ned liked the dogs well enough, he also liked ducks. He thought ducklings were cute and he abhorred the idea of shooting their parents. The sight of the bloodied ducks made him sick. He knew his father had been disappointed in him.

‘He'll have to toughen up, Josie. My son can't be a sissy,' he'd once heard his father tell his mother after one particularly bad trip where Ned had refused to even hold a gun and Alex's frustration had boiled over. His father's harsh words had hurt Ned deeply. Ned had wanted nothing more than to please his father, whom he adored. Josie had protested that Ned was just a boy and that maybe duck hunting wasn't for him. But Alex had replied that real men liked hunting and Ned had better get used to it. He hadn't, though. Ned never did like hunting.

Ned got back in his car, discomforted by the idea that someone with a gun had camped at the little lake, even if it was some time ago, and continued on to the roadhouse, where he was welcomed with a hug from Theresa and some cheerful teasing from Frederick.

‘We had a bet about how long you'd last – two weeks is pretty good! Good on you for surviving this long,' said Frederick. ‘Haven't got the sat phone back yet, I'm afraid.'

‘Ah well,' said Ned. ‘I'm enjoying the quiet anyway.'

‘Are you heading straight back?' asked Theresa. ‘What do you need?'

‘I need bread. I thought I'd get a dozen loaves and put them in the freezer. I wouldn't mind some meat and a few frozen vegetables, too. The garden's good, but a bit limited.'

Ned spent the morning at the roadhouse, chatting to a couple of tourists
from Denmark as well as talking with Frederick and Theresa over lunch. He tried calling and texting Toni but the phone reception from the roadhouse was terrible and he couldn't get through. He spied a payphone in the corner of the main room of the roadhouse and tried calling Toni from there. Disappointingly, her phone rang out and went to voicemail, so he left a message saying he had been thinking about her and he'd call her again when he was back in town.

Driving back to Carlo's place laden with supplies and some DVDs which the friendly roadhouse couple had lent him, Ned felt more secure about finding his way and so didn't pay all that much attention to where he was going. By now it was mid-afternoon, the time when both the bush and its creatures had retreated for a sleep. Suddenly, he saw that there was a log lying across the track and he slowed to a stop. He switched off the engine and got out, thinking that the log had not been there on his drive to the roadhouse, but a quick glance made him realise that the log had been there for some time. He was on the wrong track. He would have to turn around and retrace his way. Before getting back into the four-wheel drive, his curiosity got the better of him and he stepped over the log and wandered along the track for a short distance until he came across what looked to be a hidden glade. The little spot was surrounded by a thicket of trees, and the grass beneath looked well trodden, as though animals sheltered there.
Perhaps it's their secret meeting place
, Ned thought whimsically. But as he crossed into the centre of the clearing, he had a premonition that something was not right. He paused and listened, his ears now accustomed to the small sounds of tiny creatures and the wafting chatter of rustling leaves and sighing grasses.

But when he heard the snap of a broken twig, Ned had the sense that there was a big animal out there too. He froze, shrinking back against a tree, swiftly looking around for a way to disappear and get back to his car.

Suddenly, in the shadowy edges across the clearing, he saw the figure of a man with what appeared to be a rifle slung across his back. He was hunched over, looking intently at something on the ground. Ned could see that the man was wearing faded camouflage pants and a khaki T-shirt. An old cap hid his face, but Ned saw that he had a straggly grey ponytail. From Ned's position, the man looked armed and possibly dangerous.

As the man shuffled through the undergrowth, Ned couldn't see what he was doing, but it occurred to him that this could be the neighbour Frederick had mentioned: Mad Jack. He'd said Jack was harmless, but Ned felt nervous. As he watched, the man crouched down, but as he was in the shadows of the trees, Ned still couldn't make out what was happening. Then, unexpectedly, the man leapt to his feet and with a hearty roar, shouted, ‘Gotcha!'

Out of the undergrowth came a loud rustling noise and a goanna, almost half a metre in length, thrashed its way through the grass with its head held high and wearing a fierce expression. It dashed across the clearing towards Ned. Ned quickly moved out of its way and the large lizard clawed up the nearest tree, chased by the man who Ned could now see was carrying a large camera. Relief washed over him, and he called out, ‘Hi there! Hope I didn't disturb you!'

The man stopped, looked at Ned and then shrugged. ‘You're lucky you didn't come a second earlier or you would've ruined my photo. That was a Storr's monitor and I've been stalking him for quite a while to get a good shot. They don't like posing. You lost?' he said, speaking with an American accent.

‘I think I'm your neighbour. I'm staying at Carlo's place. Are you Jack? Frederick from the roadhouse mentioned you. My name is Ned Chisholm.' He held out his hand.

‘Ah, yes, I was warned that you'd be staying around here, but I won't worry you. I like to keep to myself,' he said. But having made the point, he walked over and shook Ned's hand.

‘I was driving back from the roadhouse and I took a wrong turn. Sorry, am I on your property?'

Jack nodded. ‘Yeah, easy enough to do. Roads aren't clearly marked, are they?'

Ned studied Jack's weather-beaten face. It was covered in grey stubble, and his wide mouth with its strong teeth and his piercing hazel eyes radiated a forceful personality. This was a man who was very sure of himself, and Ned felt he was being swiftly appraised.

‘No, they're not.' Ned gave a small smile. ‘You're a photographer, then? That's a very professional-looking camera. I'll try not to frighten any of your other subjects.'

‘I worked as a photographer long before I came here. I didn't use the gear for years, but I brought it out again after I moved here,' he replied. ‘That goanna's been after birds' eggs. There was a nest in that shrub over there.' Jack pointed to the other side of the clearing. ‘The eggs hatched quite recently, so I managed to get a few good shots of the chicks. Dangerous life for young birds around here because the little buggers can get taken by a snake or a bird of prey or that bloody monster.' Jack nodded his head towards the goanna, which was still clinging motionless to the tree trunk. He then slung his Leica camera over his shoulder and that was when Ned realised that what had seemed to be a rifle across Jack's back was in reality a tripod for the camera.

‘Y'know your way back to Carlo's from here?' asked Jack as he strode across the clearing.

Ned quickened his step to keep up. ‘Maybe you could point me in the right direction.'

Jack didn't ease his pace or answer. But Ned didn't feel uncomfortable or offended by his actions. Indeed, the man quite intrigued him. Jack was a bit scruffy, but his clothes appeared clean. He wore aviator sunglasses on a cord around his neck and after he had adjusted the soft khaki cap on his head, he pushed them onto his nose. He stopped walking and pointed to Ned's four-wheel drive. ‘Back her up about two hundred metres and take the left-hand track. There's a tree with a big bird's nest fern just before the fork, so you can't miss it. Follow that track and it'll take you around the goldmining lake and you can link up with Carlo's track from there.'

‘Yes. I know the way from the lake. Do you ever camp down there?' he asked Jack.

‘Nope. An old fellow did for a time, but this is all private property around here and we don't encourage strays,' he said in a gruff but not unfriendly tone. He touched the brim of his cap. ‘Well, g'bye.'

‘Thanks, Jack. Call in whenever you feel like it. I'm there most of the time – for the time being, anyway.'

‘As I told you, I don't socialise much.'

‘Me neither,' said Ned. ‘But if you want a beer by the river with a steak and no chit-chat, just turn up.' As he opened the door of his four-wheel drive, Jack gave him a nod, then turned and trudged back through the bush without a second glance.

*

Ned arrived back at what he liked to call the river house and unpacked his supplies. He checked that the chickens had water and collected four eggs, smiling as the birds hurried to him, muttering and clucking, looking for scraps. They followed him as he picked some greens and a tomato for his salad from the screened vegetable bed, so he tossed the birds some bruised leaves and an overripe tomato to squabble over. He was beginning to find them a companionable group.

He had a swim, and then, sitting beneath the poinciana trees as they gently rained bright red petals around him, he idly strummed his guitar and thought about his encounter with his reclusive neighbour.

Over the next week, Ned wrote with renewed enthusiasm, although he still had no firm plot line on which to hang his ideas. Images, stories, anecdotes, a phrase heard or read, past and recent, were all triggers for his songs. Music danced and sang in whispers or glorious crescendo while sweet voices brought his lyrics to life in his head. One evening, after another day writing, he stopped making notes and leaned back, rubbing his eyes.
But where's the story? Where's the story?
he thought to himself. He walked down towards the river in the late languid evening air, a phrase still echoing in his head . . .