The Songmaster (45 page)

‘How do you do.’ Shareen gave Andrew a firm handshake and briefly shook hands with Hunter and Rowena. The two women exchanged candid looks, sizing each other up. Rowena towered over the other, who didn’t seem at all intimidated. It struck Andrew she had the assertive confidence of a pugnacious small dog. Shareen was wearing white sandals, a knee-length skirt revealing thin, straight, shapeless legs, and a black-and-white polka dot loose blouse that didn’t disguise a full-breasted round body. As if to add height, she had her black hair teased into a beehive and she wore large sunflower earrings. Her voice was deep with a thick nasal accent that comedians loved to imitate when speaking ‘Orstralian’.

‘So, Mr Frazer, you’re on Yandoo? Nice place I hear. How are things over there?’

‘Can always do with some rain,’ said Andrew easily, as they all went towards the house.

While they sipped pre-lunch drinks, a dusty Land Rover came to a halt in the driveway, spraying gravel against the steps.

Giles Jackson and his wife Norma were introduced as neighbours on Boulder Downs
Station. They shook hands with everyone, Giles taking the lead with a brusque greeting and a single, powerful shake of his hand to each. He didn’t look Hunter in the eye and moved on as his wife, Norma, murmured barely audible greetings and gave tentative handshakes. It was immediately apparent that Giles Jackson wore the boots in this family.

Lunch was a simple affair by Rosalie’s standards. A buffet of salad, cold beef and chicken and home-baked bread. Rowena noticed Shareen casting sideways glances at Hunter as he chatted to Andrew, Giles Jackson and Frank Ward. At one point, Shareen caught Giles Jackson’s eye and a message passed between them that Rowena couldn’t translate. She addressed Shareen. ‘Tell me, what will be the platform for your campaign?’

Shareen waited a beat or two. ‘I haven’t finally decided yet.’

Rowena raised an eyebrow. ‘No strong passions? No definitive stand on a particular issue? Why are you out here? Is this a social visit, or fact finding?’

‘My, you’re a curious person.’ Shareen was unruffled. ‘As a matter of fact, I am gathering information, talking to people, listening to what the real Australians have to say. At the grassroots level.’

‘The real Australians? Who are they? And what are they telling you?’

Frank Ward spoke soothingly, ‘I think that
Shareen is entitled to keep her views private. She’s here as our guest.’

‘She a politician, for God’s sake. Surely this country isn’t any different to the US? Politicians get on a soap box at the drop of a hat.’

Hunter spoke up with a pleasant smile. ‘She isn’t a politician yet.’

Giles Jackson looked directly at him for the first time. ‘If we have our way she will be. She has a lot of support in country towns. And here in the bush we’re keen to see some sense talked down there in Canberra. Keep Australia for the Aussies and stop selling off the farm and . . . giving away rights.’

Hunter shrugged. The pastoralist’s aggressiveness and obvious stand against land rights issues made it clear an argument would only ensue. He turned his attention to Shareen again. ‘Maybe we’ll hear what your views are closer to election time.’

For the first time, Shareen looked annoyed. ‘I’m not afraid to say what I think. I stand for old-fashioned values, morals and ethics. Family first. Maintaining the standards we grew up with, as Giles says, keeping Australia for Australians. I particularly support the farmers. And if they’re struggling, we should look to support them in other initiatives.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Len Steele. ‘Like tourism. But we’re not going to be successful in that unless all these native title claims are wiped out. Excuse me for speaking frankly, Hunter.’

‘Extinguish native title and send the foreigners home, eh?’ Rowena grinned. ‘Does that include us Yanks? And if the country is just for Australians, does that mean all the white folk have to go too?’ She winked at Hunter.

Shareen didn’t crack a smile. ‘I’m not saying we have to send people away, just don’t let any more in. I’m not the only one who thinks we’re getting overrun with . . . foreigners.’

‘I don’t see the place overrun.’ Rowena shaded her eyes and pretended to peer into the distance. ‘Not even with Aborigines.’

‘I don’t think this is the time or place for such a discussion.’ Rosalie passed around the platter of chicken.

‘Yeah, we’ll get to that later,’ said Giles Jackson and his wife nudged him to be quiet.

‘So what are you doing in Australia?’ Shareen asked Rowena. The others kept eating, letting the two women battle it out.

‘I’m just here making a film.’

‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, Rowena, are you related to Joseph Singer, the famous Hollywood producer?’ Rosalie hoped this might sidetrack the discussion.

‘You might say so. He’s my father. I’m making a series of special films, documenting and preserving Barradja culture.’ She waited for Shareen’s reaction.

‘I can think of better films to make. The so-called culture is nearly dead and who’d be interested? Excuse me, Mr Hunter, but I’m sure
you’d agree, not being a traditional person yourself.’

‘Can’t say I do agree, Shareen.’ He used her first name with studied casualness. ‘I’m a pretty traditional person. Just because I can manage a knife and fork doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned my heritage.’

‘I didn’t mean that exactly,’ began Shareen, but Len Steele jumped in.

‘You all for land rights and native title too, eh, Hunter? You should learn a bit about our side of things, seeing as you’re in the tourism game too.’

‘Yeah, Hunter, it’s funny how your lot can certainly jump on a bandwagon if there’s a dollar in it,’ said Jackson with a cold smile. Frank and Rosalie Ward exchanged unhappy looks.

‘The whole land rights and development issue is a sensitive area,’ Andrew spoke up. ‘We have to find a fair and just way through all this.’

‘That’s exactly right,’ said Shareen. ‘I think we should try keeping the lawyers out of it and we might get somewhere.’

‘Why not sit down and talk to everyone concerned? And that means the Barradja too,’ suggested Andrew. ‘It’d be a start.’

‘Yes, how many local Aborigines have you talked to about the future?’ asked Hunter.

‘Why would we bother? That’s not going to get us anywhere,’ snapped back Jackson.

Hunter turned away. He could see he’d never get into any sensible discussion with the
likes of Giles Jackson, but Andrew was quick to take up his point. ‘My dad was always one for sitting down and having a yarn over a cup of tea. He reckons he gets more results sitting under a tree having a chat, than anything formal meetings can achieve.’

‘It’s all about communication,’ joined in Rowena and turned to Shareen. ‘Why don’t you go talk to them, Shareen? To the local Aborigines. Hunter and I are on our way back to Marrenyikka. So is Andrew, I believe.’

‘Yeah, I could drive you over, and bring you back here in a couple of days when I’m flying out. I’m interested to talk to these people. I was told to go with an open mind, so what the heck,’ offered Andrew.

‘The heck is, young fella, that we believe these people are hatching some scheme to make trouble.’ Andrew could see Jackson’s anger building.

‘And you guys aren’t?’ countered Rowena. ‘What about the mining people on your place and what about bringing in your pet political candidate?’ Giles Jackson glared at her. He hated being contradicted by a woman. And this bird was a typical pushy Yank. But before he could answer Rosalie stepped in.

‘I think face-to-face talking is a very good suggestion, Shareen,’ she said to everyone’s surprise. ‘Then no one can accuse you of being biased.’

The group looked expectantly at the would-be politician. This was an interesting turn of events.

Shareen was flustered. ‘This was just a social trip, I didn’t bring my adviser with me,’ she said. Then, realising this sounded a cop-out, she rose to the challenge. ‘Right then, I’ll see these people. Where do I stay? I mean what are the conditions like?’

‘You’ll see what living conditions are really like, first-hand,’ said Hunter. ‘Then you’ll be better informed.’

‘No, thanks very much, I’ve seen enough on TV current affairs shows. If Andrew is going, I’ll go along with him.’

‘I’m told it’s comfortable enough. And very interesting, culturally,’ said Andrew, now wondering why he’d invited Shareen so impulsively. He’d only agreed to meet with the Wards, Steeles and the Jacksons as a courtesy because he was using the Wards’ airstrip. His parents knew the Wards but he’d had no contact with any of these people before. All he wanted was to see Susan. He had no interest in Shareen’s political motives for self-aggrandisement.

‘We’ll fix you up with some gear. Tent and so on,’ offered Frank Ward.

Jackson decided this was a good idea. It was working out better than he’d expected. Shareen would come back and get mileage out of this in the media. And perhaps they’d find out more what Ardjani and the lawyers were up to.

‘Maybe you can take back an Aboriginal painting for your office,’ said Rowena.

Shareen glared at her with disdain. ‘I don’t have your American sense of humour, I suppose.’

‘So long as you have one, honey. It’s the only way to get through life.’ Rowena stood and helped Rosalie collect the plates. Hunter watched Rowena go indoors. The woman was confusing. He’d never met anyone who suffered so much depression as Rowena, but she’d certainly been gutsy and opened up with both barrels at Shareen. He suddenly thought of Beth, Rowena and Shareen together and gave a small shudder.

Hunter and Rowena made themselves scarce as they packed the vehicle with their gear, along with what the Wards provided for Shareen, and waited for Andrew to finish his meeting with the pastoralists.

‘I wonder if we’re cramping their style, being here? Walk up and down in front of the windows, Hunter. Remind them there are black people out here, on their territory,’ she goaded.

‘You’re becoming a bit of a rebel. I feel like the ham in the sandwich here,’ he confessed. ‘What’s the big hassle? What are they all on about?’

‘From what I overheard Beth and Ardjani discussing, it’s about the Aborigines wanting rights to use their land and sacred sites. Both sides have a valid interest, I gather. But apparently Giles Jackson doesn’t see things quite as equably as Len Steele and Frank.’

‘I get the feeling we’re heading for some sort of a showdown.’

‘It will be if Shareen holds forth out there. Though I have the sneaking suspicion she’s a bit of a puppet. She sounds like a typical politician, manipulated by the people who are backing her. She’s just not passionate enough in her own beliefs. Interesting times, eh, Hunter. Aren’t you glad I brought you along on this little jaunt?’

‘Yes. I have to say, of all the trips I’ve done this has been the closest to home, so to speak. Finding Andrew has been a surprise, a nice one.’

Rowena looked pensive. ‘Hunter, I have a special reason for coming here apart from bringing in those tourists to buy art, and apart from making the documentary. I have a problem and I’m hoping I can find the solution out here. With Ardjani.’

‘You think he can help you?’

‘Yep. Got it in one.’

It was a flippant remark, but Hunter looked at this gaunt woman with the dark hollows beneath her eyes, which were filled with a fierce energy, and in them he saw her deep-seated fear.

Two hours later the group reappeared. Andrew came over to where Hunter and Rowena were relaxing in the garden. ‘We’re ready to hit the road.’

‘How did it go?’ asked Hunter.

Andrew shrugged. ‘There needs to be a lot
more talk. Shareen is coming with me, we’ll follow you.’

Farewells and thanks to the Wards were brief. The two four-wheel drives headed down the avenue of trees, the pastoralists and their wives watching them leave.

Hunter looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘Hundred to one they’ll open a bottle of grog and rip into us.’

‘Who cares? Not my problem.’ Rowena yawned and pulled out an inflatable pillow, wedged it against the window and prepared to sleep. Hunter kept quiet. One of her moods had descended. He glanced behind at Andrew in the vehicle he’d borrowed from Frank Ward. He didn’t envy him Shareen’s company. Hunter smiled to himself. His mother was still at Yandoo. He sank into a reverie of childhood memories, then briefly he felt a sadness thinking of Barwon, still searching. He decided to play down his own joy.

Hunter gave a blast on the horn to announce their arrival. Two campfires burned, the generator lights threw the movement of figures into shadow puppet relief. A boy rolled in the dust with a puppy, everybody moved about with a purpose while an elderly man and woman, two newcomers, sat by the fire talking with Beth, Alan, Ardjani and Rusty.

Beth rose, clapped her hands for attention.
‘Hey, Hunter’s back. Who have you brought to visit?’

‘Shareen Beckridge and Andrew Frazer. I’ll let Rowena do the talking.’ He took a step back, looking for Barwon.

‘Andrew Frazer! Where’s Susan? Luke, go and get Susan. Quick.’

Clutching the puppy the boy ran off towards the river.

Beth turned her attention to Shareen. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’ve just placed the name. You’re getting into the political arena, I believe. What brings you out here? Whatever, I’m sure the Barradja will be pleased to welcome you. I’ll introduce you to Ardjani in a minute. But first, we also have visitors. In fact,’ Beth stopped, ‘this is the woman who told me about you, Shareen. Let me introduce Esme Jordan, eminent anthropologist among other attributes, and Professor Michael de Witt, leading art archaeologist.’