The Songmaster (44 page)

‘Take Rowena’s friends upstairs, Max. Judy and I will go and see if he’s up to it,’ said Alan.

Rowena was into the front seat of Judy’s old car before the other two had even opened their doors.

The old man was lying on a couch outside his small fibro house. His face was covered in grey stubble, his clothes had the creased comfort of several days of wearing. He sat up as they got out of the car, reaching for the stick beside him to ease himself to his feet. His eyes brightened and he managed a cheerful smile as he saw Judy get out of the driver’s seat. ‘I be glad to have visitors. You come to see Lucky, who you got dere?’ His smile faded as he saw Rowena step around the old car.

‘Hi, Lucky. I’m Rowena. We met before, remember?’

‘Course Lucky know you. Why you here?
Lucky not signing no papers.’ He looked worried and turned to Alan. Judy quickly went to the old man, soothing him and holding his arm, furious at Rowena for upsetting him when he seemed so frail.

‘Rowena has brought some people who’ve flown over from Europe in their aeroplane to see you. They want to meet the famous Lucky Dodds.’

He didn’t trust or like Rowena, but his frown relaxed. After all, a sale was a sale.

‘Dey gonna buy paintings? Lucky pictures?’ He turned to Alan.

‘I’m going to be there, so we can make a sale, just as normal, Lucky,’ he said.

The old man relaxed. ‘If Alan say it okay and dey pay proper price, okay den.’

‘Of course they’ll pay the proper price,’ interjected Rowena with a smile, ‘but they want to meet you first.’

‘Now listen, Lucky, how’re you feeling? You don’t look good,’ Judy stepped in. ‘You don’t have to come over to the house.’

‘No, no. I come. You got cake? Dese people come a long way. Dey gonna meet Lucky Dodds. I meet de Queen of England, you know dat? Judy, you get me a good shirt.’

With shaking hands he reknotted the red polka dot scarf around his throat. ‘Find me cowboy hat please, girl.’

By the time morning tea with Lucky was over, a hundred and forty thousand dollars had changed hands for a series of rolled canvases.

Hunter packed the pictures carefully in the safari vehicle. There was extra room as the photographers had chosen to stay at the homestead. They had politely expressed no interest in buying high-priced indigenous art.

The following morning, the Chieftain took off with Rowena waving from the edge of the airstrip, Frank and Rosalie Ward waving from beside their vehicles. Hunter lounged against the drums of aviation fuel.

‘A successful trip all round, I’d say,’ said Frank with satisfaction as Rowena rejoined them.

‘They’re happy. They got some very collectible pieces, thanks to Alan Carmichael allowing several major works to be sold. You guys have done a superb job. They thought The Avenue very gracious and comfortable.’

‘Let’s hope it opens the door for more international people to come here,’ said Frank.

‘And you, Rowena?’ asked Rosalie.

‘Hey, I fulfilled a deal I’d made to bring these people here, and now I can get on with my documentary. We’re heading back to Marrenyikka.’

‘Rowena, do stay for lunch, we’re expecting several guests. Personal acquaintances. In fact the Yandoo plane should be flying in soon,’ added Rosalie.

‘Why sure. Thanks, it’s nice to have a bit of social life out here.’

Frank turned to Hunter. ‘This strip’s busier today than Kingsford Smith Airport!’

Hunter heard a light aircraft come in as he sat on the verandah steps of The Avenue homestead smoking a cigarette, watching Rowena with some amusement. She was in a shady section of the front garden, swaying and making jerky dance movements, like an undisciplined puppet, to the abstract music coming through her earphones from the small tape recorder she held in one hand. Having finished this ritual with arms akimbo, head flung back, and an abandoned cry, she sat down and crossed her legs in her lap, yoga fashion. Her fingers became closed buds which she rested upright on each knee, and she closed her eyes. Occasionally she hummed, a deep throaty sound that drifted across the lawn.

The screen door opened and Rosalie came out. ‘Lunch is nearly ready. Goodness, what is Rowena doing?’

‘Meditating. She does some funny things. Got some funny ideas too. She’s a strange person.’

‘Have you known her long?’ Rosalie was curious. This was the first time she’d entertained an Aborigine in her home and Hunter’s relaxed, pleasant manner and ease in a white social setting had impressed her. His fine features and
physique made him a striking individual. Several times during the last few days Rosalie had caught herself thinking Hunter wasn’t like an Aborigine at all. Just an attractive young man.

Hunter stood up. ‘No. This is just a business arrangement. She found me in Darwin through the Tourist Bureau. My business is still pretty new. I’m just a gun for hire.’ He grinned. ‘So to speak. I keep a rifle out of sight, but I can still throw a spear if I have to. Impresses the tourists.’

‘But you grew up in the city, you said?’

‘Yes. I was fostered from the mission to a family in Perth.’

‘What happened to your family? Don’t you miss them?’

‘Yeah. They got moved off the station same as me, the priest told me. So I couldn’t go back. Haven’t talked about them much for years, till Rowena started asking me about them. You know how you talk on a long drive. Said she’d lost her family too though in a different sort of way. Her mother killed herself when Rowena was young. Her father is a survivor of the Holocaust. She thinks that’s why he’s spent his whole life driven to make money, to make sure he was never vulnerable again. She reckons she’s only got to know him in the past few years.’

‘And the white people who raised you?’

‘They’re nice people, they put me in a good school. I worked in Perth in various jobs, but I always wanted to come back north. Figured
there’d be more opportunities for a black bloke to strike out on his own.’

‘You have a good business in Darwin?’

‘I do all right. I have bigger plans, though. There’s so much interest in the “real” Australia. Visitors want a different sort of cultural tourist experience. Four-star hotels are the same everywhere.’ He looked down the driveway to where Frank Ward’s Range Rover was approaching. ‘Maybe I should talk to your husband about my plans, maybe we could combine what I do and your scene here.’

‘Yes, maybe we should have a chat some time. Leave me your phone number.’ Rosalie was beginning to think Hunter might be an asset in their small tourism venture. A handsome, acceptable Aborigine who could sit at the dinner table and converse about all manner of subjects as well as having traditional bush skills. There were definite possibilities here.

Rowena rejoined the world, stretched and called to Rosalie, ‘Mind if I have a swim?’

‘Go ahead. Someone has just arrived. Lunch in about an hour.’

Rowena disappeared as the Range Rover stopped. Frank Ward and his passenger got out and came to the front steps. Rosalie stepped forward and held out her hand, smiling at the tall young man.

‘This is my wife, Rosalie. Andrew Frazer, he and his family run Yandoo.’

‘I’ve heard of your place. Your family has
been there a long time, I gather.’ Rosalie shook his hand, then looked over her shoulder as Andrew raised an eyebrow.

Rosalie was about to introduce Hunter but she paused when she saw the expression on his face. Hunter and Andrew were staring at each other. Andrew looked confused, there was something about the man facing him.

Initial expressions of shock and pain were replaced as a strained smile broke out on Hunter’s face. ‘Well, well. Andrew Frazer. It’s me. Hunter Watson.’ He stepped forward as Andrew’s jaw dropped.

‘Hunter? My God!’ They pumped hands and slapped each other on the back as Rosalie and Frank looked at each other in surprise.

‘How . . . What are you doing here?’ Andrew was having trouble reconciling the well-dressed Aborigine, obviously at home in the white homestead, with the barefoot bush kid who’d shared his childhood days.

For Hunter, his former playmate had turned out exactly as he’d expected . . . the well-to-do pastoralist’s senior son ready to inherit the station. But there was great warmth in both their greetings.

‘I take it you two know each other?’ Frank gave a querying look.

‘Grew up together. Lost touch when I was sent to boarding school.’ Andrew turned to Hunter, his face grim, faintly embarrassed. ‘I never knew what happened to you. And no one
would tell me much. Just said you’d been sent away to a good mission school.’

‘Yeah. Well, I got a good education anyway.’ There was a touch of bitterness in Hunter’s voice. ‘What hurt most was losing my family.’

‘Why didn’t you ever come back?’

As Hunter paused before answering, Rosalie touched Andrew on the arm. ‘Would you two like a beer on the verandah? Sounds like you have a bit of catching up to do.’

‘Good idea. Er, I have a few things to do before the others arrive. See you round.’ Frank excused himself and went to his office.

As the midday sun burned across the garden, the two childhood friends struggled to find adult common ground. Hunter unburdened the pain he’d concealed beneath a cheerful front for so many years. ‘The priest told me my parents had been moved on, I wasn’t wanted back there and I had to look to my own future. Make something of myself.’

‘Christ, mate. Of course you were wanted. I missed you terribly. Every time I went home for holidays, it was never the same. Listen, I don’t think my parents had anything to do with this. You know how the church and government people worked in those days.’

‘Yeah, I do. No I never blamed your old man. But it was too painful. I was just a kid. Anyway, the last few years I’ve been working in
the Territory and the west, and now I’ve set up my own business in Darwin.’

‘Good on you. I was always knew you were special, different.’

Hunter gazed at Andrew and said evenly, ‘No, I’m not. I’m not any different to other Aborigines. It all depends what breaks you get. Inside, I still feel the same as I did running barefoot round Yandoo.’

Andrew reached out and rested his hand on Hunter’s arm. ‘Hunter, you must come back. It’s not true that your family left . . . they’re still there. Except . . . I’m sorry, Hunter . . . your dad died a few years ago. But your mother and sister, the rest of the mob. They’re still there. And Yandoo’s just the same as it always was.’

Hunter couldn’t speak for a moment, and was saved by Rosalie quietly setting down two tall glasses of beer and the bottle. When he did manage to speak, his voice was hoarse. ‘That priest told me . . . he took me into his office and told me . . . he said never go back in life . . . the bastard . . .’ His voice trailed away.

When he regained his composure, he asked about his family left at Yandoo. Andrew knew only bare details, but did the best he could, finishing . . . ‘Come to Yandoo as soon as you can. In the meantime, we’ll call and get your mother to the phone.’

He handed a beer to Hunter and took several sips from his own glass. Finally Hunter asked, ‘So, tell me about your life. Married?’

‘Nope. But I’ve met a girl I’m interested in, although I don’t know if she could or would hack the country life. I’m here to meet up with her. What about you?’

‘Fancy free. There’re a lot of opportunities ferrying sheilas round the bush, playing macho tour guide.’ Andrew laughed and Hunter added more seriously. ‘There is a girl at Darwin hospital I kinda like. Part Worora. I might look her up again.’

The men topped up their beers and slowly began to grope their way back to their childhood memories and, by the time the Steeles and Jacksons had arrived, they were deep in discussion.

Rowena, informed of the reunion by Rosalie, now appeared with her wet hair neatly combed and wearing a belted khaki military-style cotton dress.

‘Hi, Andrew. I’m Rowena Singer. I hired Hunter in Darwin, so I feel fortunate that I was the cause of this get-together. Quite something, eh? That you two knew each other. So what’s the story?’

Andrew found himself taking a step back from Rowena who had moved in close to him, never breaking her intense eye contact. ‘Well, yes. It’s great. Quite a coincidence.’

To his relief, new arrivals appeared, and the threesome moved off the verandah. Len and
Dawn Steele were introducing a short, dark-haired woman to the Wards. The Steeles nodded at Hunter, shook hands with Andrew and Rowena, and Len indicated the woman beside them. ‘Shareen Beckridge. She’s running for office in the next State election and she’s interested in finding out what’s going on out here.’