The Songmaster (23 page)

Judy opened the small gate as two younger women helped the artist from the car. ‘Hey, Lucky. You come for dinner? We can have a party now.’ Judy took his arm and Max shook his hand.

‘How you doing, Lucky? Haven’t seen you for a couple of weeks, what you been up to?’

‘I been out in de long grass with a couple of girls,’ joked the old fellow.

‘I wouldn’t put it past the old bugger,’ chuckled Alan to Susan.

‘What rubbish you talk. You been laid up with that bad leg of yours. How is it?’ Judy supported his arm as his other pressed on a walking cane. ‘You’re doing real good, you come and
sit down and get some tucker.’ As he came through into the yard, all attention was on the legendary artist who appeared to be in his eighties. He was short, with a mischievous smile giving him the look of a Cheshire cat, and eyes sparkling like gems in a face creased from years of hard knocks and laughter. He wore a denim cowboy shirt and a red patterned scarf was knotted at his throat. Jeans hung from his skinny hips held up by a belt with a big silver buckle.

They settled him in a chair and everyone clustered around him, pulling in seats, squatting on the ground. Lucky waved his cane in a regal gesture of greeting. As soon as he spotted Susan he waved her forward. Alan introduced her. The old man beamed and spread his arms. ‘I be Lucky Dodds and I had tea with de Queen of England. I be Lucky, eh?’ Everyone joined in his triumphant laughter and Susan glanced at Alan who nodded. ‘He did.’

‘So, dis be your woman, eh, Alan?’ The crowd roared and Susan hid her face in her hands.

‘No, no, Lucky. We’re going to visit Ardjani’s mob. Bunch of whitefellas are going to sit down and learn about the old ways.’

The old man’s jovial expression softened and he gave Susan a long look. ‘Dat be a good thing. Very good thing.’ Then like the master performer he was, he grinned at the crowd, pointing his stick at Susan. ‘Why you no come to
Lucky? I show you de old ways. De best way. I be de best teacher for young girls, eh?’ He leered at the audience who roared appreciatively.

‘Lucky’s work is exhibited in many museums and galleries,’ said Alan. ‘He’s included in the significant collections around the world.’

‘Dat be right. Who dat fella from Broome got a big mob of my paintings, took dem back to England. You know de fella . . ?’

‘Oh, Lord . . . Lord . . .’ Alan fumbled to recall the name of Lord Alistair McAlpine, who had turned Broome into a tourist resort in the eighties . . . Lucky jumped in, ‘Dat’s him. Lord Jesus Christ! He got a big mob of my stuff. Big mob,’ he added delightedly, pleased at the burst of laughter from Susan and Alan.

Alan didn’t bother correcting him. ‘Lucky has travelled round the world many times with his work. Big government exhibitions, cultural exchanges and diplomatic functions.’

‘I be Australian ambassador,’ said Lucky. ‘Government bigwigs take me from my reserve and send me over dere to show dem foreigners what Australia all about. They take my paintings and want me to make a speech, but I dance for dem.’

Susan found the old man’s delight and pride somewhat poignant as she visualised him travelling from a shabby hut on a small reserve being trundled out at diplomatic receptions to be feted as a cultural icon, then shuffled back to his home. The foreigners wouldn’t know about
that side of his life. ‘Did you like travelling overseas, seeing all those different places?’ she asked.

‘Too many people. Too cold. Sometimes dey make Lucky go places he don’t want to go. Even make me go to Japaaan!’ Here he rolled his eyes, and clutched his head and began to shake causing huge mirth.

‘Tell her the story,’ said Alan, as Judy handed around more plates loaded with meat, potatoes and salad. Susan followed the local etiquette, forks for the salad, fingers for the meat. She smiled encouragingly at Lucky as others egged him on. This was obviously a favourite story.

‘I no want to go to JAPAAAN,’ began Lucky. ‘Dey shoot at Darwin and Broome. I know all bout dat Japaaan place. I know about de war. No good. I no go to Japaaan.’ He shook his head from side to side. ‘But dem government people dey say I gotta go. Dem people want Lucky to dance and tell stories and show the pictures.’

‘It was about ten years ago, a big cultural event,’ whispered Alan to Susan.

‘I say, no. Lucky not going to Japaaan.’ Each time he drew out the name in rolling mock fearful tones. ‘But dey say, it be okay. Australian army and navy will look after Lucky. Government men promise Lucky. So I say, okay. I go. But my mob, dey say, you mad, Lucky. Government not going to send de army and navy look after one blackfella up dere in
Japaaan. Ooh dear. I get on dat plane. And dey put me right in the back, up in him tail. And I cry, and I shake, and I shiver, all the way to Japaaan.’

‘He did too, wailed at the top of his voice the whole way. They reckon you could only see the whites of his eyes,’ Alan added.

‘When dey say dat plane going down into Japaaan, I get under de seat and I not going to get off. I wait till dat plane go back home to Australia. And dat lady she get mad at me ’cause I don’t get in de seat and put on de belt. She try to pull me out from under my seat, but I hang on. Tight.’

Here the crowd screamed. Lucky, grinning broadly, went on. ‘Den de captain fella come out and say, you look out de window, Lucky, de navy down there. Australian navy! And so I look and I see dem boats and I know dey is de Australian navy. See, dey tell Lucky dey look after him up dere in Japaaan and dey send de battleship and submarine!’ Some of the crowd clapped. Lucky looked at the audience and lowered his voice. ‘But when dat plane get down on de ground I get under my seat. Navy fellas too far away to help Lucky, I reckon. Den you know what happen?’ He looked around and everyone waited, knowing, but not daring to spoil his story. Susan stopped eating, riveted by the old man’s grand performance. ‘Everybody get off dat plane, ’cept Lucky, ’cause he not stupid. Den de captain fella come along again and say,
what’s up? And I tell him I wait for dem navy boys. And DEN . . .’ he paused for effect, ‘and den de captain say, Lucky, de army boys are out dere! Australian army boys. But I don’t believe him. So the captain goes to de door and he say something to dem down there by de plane and the next thing I hear trumpets. And dey start playing “Waltzing Matilda”! And I look out de window . . . and sure enough, dere be dat Australian army! Dey come to look after Lucky! Imagine that!’

Over the burst of applause, Alan explained, ‘It really was the army band. The Minister of Defence was on the plane as part of this whole cultural extravaganza. The captain clued them all in about what was going on.’

Lucky rose to his feet and began jigging on the spot.

‘And so Lucky run down dem plane steps and I dance, man, I do a dance right dere, because I know I be safe. Australian army and Australian navy boys. Dey look after me . . . me, Lucky Dodds! I must be pretty important fella, eh!’ The wonderment of it all hadn’t dimmed and he raised his cane and took a bow.

Susan joined in the applause. ‘What an actor!’

‘First time I heard that story it took several hours to tell,’ said Alan.

It was cooling down and Judy and Max began collecting plates as the pot of tea was handed around once more. The mothers began reaching for cardigans and picking up children.
Alan had a quiet word with some of the painters as Susan said goodbye to the women. They wanted to know why she wasn’t married, did she have babies, where was her family, her place? Susan answered, feeling inadequate. Everyone she’d talked to had a lengthy story about their family, their connections with each other, where their home places were.

Finally the visitors were tucked into cars, into the back of the utility, some of the men rode bicycles, and Lucky was put in the back seat of the Fairlane between two young women. He leaned over to speak to Susan at the car window. ‘You want t’come in here with Lucky? Plenty room on my lap,’ he chortled.

‘You’re wicked, Lucky. And it’s been an honour to meet you.’ She reached in and shook his hand.

‘You say hello to Ardjani. Tell him you’re my girlfriend and he’ll look after you real good. And you go to de art gallery and you look at Lucky’s paintings and you tell dem, you know me. You know Lucky Dodds.’

‘I will, Lucky. Take care and good luck.’

The girls waved goodbye to Susan as the old man’s last words floated over the gurgling engine. ‘I don’t need good luck. I am Lucky. Lucky Dodds.’

‘He’s a character, isn’t he,’ remarked Alan. ‘He doesn’t paint much any more, but when he has a good day, he’ll knock off something. And it’s breathtaking.’

They helped Judy and Max carry plates up the steps into the house. ‘His nieces brought round a painting last week. You’d better look at it, Alan,’ said Judy.

The inside of the house was a clutter of art supplies, framed and unframed paintings, a collection of carvings and artefacts, files, the computer corner and an area where Max helped with the framing. Judy turned around a painting that was facing the wall. Alan studied the white circles in the black and brown dunes and tracks. ‘Blue lily waterhole. He’s done it before, somewhat better. Did you see him work on this, or sign it?’ Alan looked at the scrawled ‘Lucky’ in one corner. ‘His signature for sure.’

‘No. That mob over there are keeping him there. He wants to work here with the others. They say it’s too much trouble, so they come and get stuff for him to work on there. It’s only a few minutes’ drive. But they keep saying he’s not up to it. I have my doubts about what’s going on,’ said Judy.

‘I reckon he does the outline and the others are doing the painting and getting him to sign it,’ said Alan. ‘His hands aren’t this steady any more. The work is too firm and sure. Young hands did this, I think.’ He straightened up. ‘I can’t take the risk, Judy. Unless we can document it, we can’t sell it as an authentic Lucky Dodds painting. Tell those women if he is working, Max must go over and watch him and film him. Otherwise they won’t get the proper money.’

‘They’ll siphon it off to people like that bastard who was here the other day,’ sniffed Judy. She turned to Susan. ‘There’s a dealer always hanging round, buys for private collections as well as several galleries who don’t check credentials too closely. Sends a lot to Japaaan as well.’

‘But don’t you look after them exclusively?’ asked Susan.

Alan shrugged. ‘They understand that, but this guy has been buying stuff from them – for peanuts – for twenty years. They think he’s a friend and they don’t like to say no to a friend. Sometimes they give him stuff unsigned, other times they get relatives to do the work, they sign it, and don’t think they’ve done anything wrong by me because they didn’t paint it. Exclusive and copyright are hard concepts to interpret.’

Max took several beers out of the fridge and handed them around as he turned on the computer and showed Susan how each artist had an illustrated biography with photographs of them working on each painting, which was catalogued with the story as told by the artist.

‘I had no idea it was so sophisticated,’ she exclaimed.

‘Aboriginal art is highly sought after by the international art market. I don’t think local institutions realise just how highly regarded it’s becoming,’ said Alan. ‘I have to deal with art bureaucrats here who are so up themselves. They’re protective of their petty power positions
and they don’t always recognise the scope and quality of what these people are doing.’

‘That must be frustrating.’

Alan grinned at Susan. ‘I’ve stopped beating my head against a wall. The international heavies either walk in my door in Flinders Lane or I take it straight to Chicago, Paris or New York. But it is a shame some of our most significant work is leaving the country.’

Max yawned and turned off the computer. ‘Business is business. Let’s do the dishes.’

Susan ate one of Max’s special breakfasts of eggs, bacon, tomatoes and toast fried on the barbecue in the fat from last night’s meat. She sat in the garden savouring the smell of the fire and the strong coffee brewing for Alan. He’d risen early and walked the few hundred metres to the house where Lucky had stayed with relatives. He planned to have a quiet chat with the old man about his work to ensure it was done under some sort of protective supervision.

He returned and headed for the coffee pot. ‘It’s not espresso, but it smells good.’

‘Fruitful meeting, or was the old man exhausted this morning?’ asked Judy.

‘He’s still sparking along. I think he’s better than those women let on. We had a chat, so, we’ll see.’ He turned to Susan. ‘Ready to hit the road?’