The Songmaster (26 page)

‘How are we going to do that?’

Billy stuck his head in the door and pointed to the long silver aerial on the bonnet. ‘Radio phone. Only communication that works out there.’

Billy swung into the seat and ran through his control check like a pilot. They drove into the hint of dawn light and, as they left the sleeping town of Kununurra behind, a silence fell over the small group.

Forty minutes later they were rolling down the smooth bitumen, past irrigated fields – a legacy of the Ord River Project. ‘It’s taken forty years but the Ord is finally paying its way,’ commented Mick. ‘You wouldn’t have been born when it started in 1958, Susan.’

‘The idea started earlier than that, Mick,’ interrupted Beth. ‘Kimberley Durack started experimenting back in the late thirties. It was a simple idea, throw enough water at the rich clay soil and you could grow anything.’

‘Except they picked the wrong crops, didn’t they?’ asked Veronica.

‘They started with cotton but, by the early 1970s, some caterpillar and the end of government subsidies had killed it off.’

Alistair picked up the story from Beth. ‘They tried rice next. What the magpie geese didn’t eat, economic factors finished.’

‘You know what saved the Ord River Project?’ Mick was emphatic. ‘Cutting out government handouts and making farms pay their own way. Should be more of it in other sectors.’

‘They grow rockmelons, cashews, peanuts, chickpeas, grain, sorghum, bananas today, and there’s a lot of feed being grown to fatten up cattle for export to Asia.’ Beth sighed. ‘There’ve been so many big changes in the cattle industry. Now it’s road trains instead of those long cattle drives on the stock route.’

After watching the first hues of lavender and lemon dribble across the deep violet sky, Beth turned to the group again. ‘This is the night raking up the dawn. Like pulling a curtain, the night rakes away the darkness to reveal the piccaninny light. This is a special time for the Barradja. I will try to explain how they feel.’ She smiled. ‘This is my official cultural interpreting.’ Her voice took on a strong resonance. ‘When the morning star pales beneath the veil of dawning, the Barradja people say that inside them they feel the wudu, the knowledge and the vision, like the first flickering of a fire. Each day is a new beginning, a gift from the Daughter Sun whose Mother Earth reflects her beauty and life in nature’s growth.’

As the first light glowed, Beth told them the story of the snake that bites the sun and causes her to sink down the sky into the embrace of her mother.

Her gentle interpretion of the dawn floated in the confines of the cabin as the Oka skittered across the stony and scrubby landscape.

Billy drove into the brightness of morning, steelrimmed aviator glasses secured to his nose, his attention on the road, alert for kangaroos, emus or giant goannas that might dash from the scrub. The great Ord River farms gave way to Crown land that bordered million-hectare cattle stations, the heavy-duty tyres of the Oka rolling over land created millions of years ago.

‘There are stories out there that we will never know,’ said Beth softly. ‘But certain eyes with knowledge can see into the past and the future and tell us things, if we listen. The Songmaster for one.’

‘Who is the Songmaster?’ asked Veronica. ‘Will we meet him?’

Beth shrugged. ‘If he wishes. This is where we adopt Aboriginal thinking. Maybe we will, maybe we won’t. Whatever happens, that’s the way it is.’ She gave a broad smile. ‘It’s an attitude whitefellas find frustrating. The concept of planning, schedules, organisation, even time, doesn’t exist for the Barradja. They don’t even have a word for time.’

‘How can one live without an awareness of time?’ asked Susan.

‘For the Barradja, time is eternal. A space all around, not a sense of forward or backward.’

‘So how do they keep tabs on where they’re supposed to be?’ asked Veronica.

‘They break what we call time into cycles. Each person can be in ordinary time, social time, Dreaming time, or spiritual time – which means you live and will keep living. You have to learn to time your life by the rhythms of the earth.’

‘Right.’ Veronica took off her watch, grinning. ‘I’m going onto local time, where there is no time. Might as well get into the swing of it.’

The others in the bus followed suit, though Alistair hesitated, looking at his expensive gold watch.

‘You still on Mosman time?’ grinned the judge.

They passed around Billy’s map and tried to imagine what they’d find at the end of this journey – Marrenyikka was not marked on the map. Several hours later, Beth’s announcement of a break for a proper breakfast was greeted with enthusiasm. Billy turned onto a dirt road. The signpost read, El Questro.

‘It’s a camping area the owners have developed in addition to the main homestead, which is very glamorous, very expensive. A dream
come to fruition for a young English couple. The jetsetters fly in and stay at the homestead. We’re going to the more down-market travellers’ camping area but it’s still charming,’ explained Beth.

Several log cabin-style buildings housing a restaurant with a verandah and bar, a shop and community facilities were set in lawns and shady trees. Billy parked in the small parking lot and everyone got out, stretching stiff legs and backs. There was a barbecue area where tourists were cooking bacon and chops. From the restaurant came the smell of coffee and toast. The group settled themselves on the verandah, most ordering the bacon, chops and eggs with tomato.

‘This isn’t how I imagined our first meal in the wilderness,’ declared Alistair looking appreciatively at his eggs benedict.

Later they examined the permanent camping sites – family-sized tents, secured in small gardens like play houses, where a man was seated in a canvas director’s chair reading a book.

‘You look like you’re settling in for a long stay,’ said the judge. ‘I’m Mick, from Sydney.’

‘Frank, Melbourne. Bloody wonderful, isn’t it? Spectacular scenery, Emma Gorge is up there. Two kilometres, bit of a hike but worth it. Beautiful swimming hole. My kids are up there already, the wife has gone horse riding, but this suits me. We came for two days and we’ve been here a week.’

‘I’d love to get up that gorge,’ said Alistair wistfully.

‘Sorry about that, Alistair,’ said Billy. ‘No time, I’m afraid. Have to keep moving, I don’t want to try getting into Marrenyikka in the dark. There’s no real road and Beth has pretty flimsy instructions. And we have to pick up Alan yet.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of the schedule – that’s whitefella thinking, right?’ Alistair grinned at Beth, who nodded approvingly. ‘I have old rugby knees. Makes hiking difficult, anyway.’

‘Back on board,’ Beth ordered. ‘Let’s move on. Next stop is for lunch at Avenue Station while we wait for Rosalie’s plane to come in.’

Down the front of the Oka, the young solicitor and the QC chatted easily. Any reserve of age that might have existed between the two lawyers dissolved like morning mist as they shared the magic of their first hours in the Kimberley. Susan recounted details of the Barwon case. Veronica, who’d moved to the back of the bus to talk to the judge, had Mick reminiscing. She chuckled at his rolling routine of anecdotes and suddenly opened her bag.

‘Do you mind if I tape some of this?’ she asked.

The judge shrugged. ‘What the heck for? Who’d be interested in the ramblings of a dotty old codger like me?’

‘Modesty doesn’t suit you, Mick. You’re a famous judge, you tell a fabulous story, and you’ve had a fascinating life. And dotty is not a word I’d use to describe you or what you’ve done,’ she admonished.

‘I’ve done some pretty wild and stupid things in my time. And had a few wins along the way, I suppose,’ he conceded.

Veronica fiddled with her tape recorder, plugging in the small microphone she held between them. ‘Okay, so what was Western Australia like when you first came here as a young bloke?’

Mick began talking, the natural raconteur, comfortable with an audience, pleased with the attention.

Beth shifted in her seat and smiled to herself.

Alistair MacKenzie stared out the wide front windscreen ahead. Susan looked at the QC’s profile. Despite the pudginess around his jaw and the furrows running beside his mouth, he was still a handsome man. She had seen him in action in court. When he was summing up to the jury, he attracted an audience of youthful acolytes, keen to see the master in action. She knew he could be arrogant, intimidating, coolly erudite, reducing powerful men to stammering incoherency. Yet now a sadness shadowed his face, and clouded his eyes.

‘So, my learned friend, tell me why you
decided to come on this trip?’ Susan smiled at him.

He was silent, before running his tongue over his lips. He spoke in a soft voice. ‘You get to a point in your life – for I was as enthusiastic as you, my dear – when you ask yourself why.’

She waited, then repeated, ‘Why?’

‘Why am I doing what I’m doing? Am I happy?’

He waited for her prompt. ‘And the answers . . .?’

‘Are not pleasant to contemplate. As a child I believed I wanted to be a scientist. Peering down a microscope at bugs and molecules, finding answers to disease, and what we’re all made of. My parents did not see much of a future for an anonymous cog in a white coat in a laboratory. I was bright and I was designated to fulfil their dreams. And so I did what was expected of me to continue the family tradition, and I won a scholarship to study law. And here I am.’ He gave her a rueful smile.

‘But surely you feel proud of what you have achieved?’ persisted Susan, wondering at her audacity. This man was a god in her world.

‘My emerging dissatisfaction with life has come from assessing what I’ve achieved. My conclusion is, I’ve made a lot of money for already wealthy corporations, individuals and myself. And it occurs to me, as I look at myself in the mirror each morning, that this is not enough. I have begun to worry I will not be
admitted through those pearly gates until I have given something back. I’m not sure how, but when Beth suggested I meet these law men under the stars in the Kimberley, I hoped I might be able to learn something from them. I don’t see it as white arrogance meeting black spirituality. But I would like to consider myself humble enough to hope that I can discover a sense of serenity, whatever you want to call it, that will sustain me in my old age. Dispirited is not a state I enjoy.’

Susan was surprised at the QC’s revelation. She opened a packet of sweets and passed them round as Billy announced, ‘Another hour and we’ll be approaching the turn-off to Avenue Station. We’ll pull over when we spot some shade and see if we can raise them on the radio.’

The women sat with their bare feet dipping in a cool creek that danced over round smooth stones. The men wandered behind trees, chatting, while Beth passed around shortbread biscuits and cool bottles of soft drinks out of the portable ice-filled cooler packed in the van. When he had made contact on the radio phone with Frank Ward at The Avenue, Billy signalled Beth over. ‘The plane isn’t in yet. It’s due in about two hours. Frank says to drive in and park down by the airstrip.’

‘Lunch?’ mouthed Beth. Billy shook his head and gave a wry grin, raising the microphone to
his mouth. ‘We have passengers on board who are ready for lunch, do you have any objection to us lighting a small fire?’

The pastoralist’s voice crackled tersely back to Billy. ‘Keep it small and water it down when you leave. I trust you are aware of bush etiquette. This is private property, not a campsite.’

‘Message understood, thanks for your hospitality,’ said Billy politely.

‘Hos-bloody-pitality!’ growled the judge beside him. ‘People in the bush have changed since my day. We’d have had the barbie going and half a steer cooking. People on these isolated stations used to love company. How many bloody picnickers would wander through their bloody station?’

‘Too many bloody picknickers, unfortunately,’ countered Beth. ‘It’s not like the old days. People think they can go anywhere, use the properties, and leave their mess all over the place.’

Billy climbed on board and called to everyone, ‘Let’s get going, it’ll be mid-afternoon by the time we arrive, make lunch, and the plane gets in. We can move out straight after that. How does corned beef and salad sandwiches sound?’

‘Bloody humdinger,’ said Mick. ‘Any mustard pickles?’

‘Home-made by my missus,’ replied Billy. ‘Good to have a fellow connoisseur of fine food on board.’