The Songmaster (58 page)

For a time she watched the stirring bird life and early grazing kangaroos, then spotted some of the station’s poorly conditioned cattle. ‘Don’t look much, do they?’ she observed sadly.

She was silent again for a few minutes, then looked at Susan intensely. ‘You know, one of the last things we did was have a fight. He was furious that I thought we might be able to get ahead by capitalising on that wonderful heritage stuff that was on our property, by working with the Aborigines. Now one of them has killed him.’

Susan expected her to break down again, but she briefly dabbed her eyes and concentrated on the landscape, outwardly looking in control, but immensely sad.

Andrew pulled up at the mining exploration site where the men were around the table, sleepily nursing hangovers and mugs of tea. They rose unsteadily to their feet, mumbling condolences as Norma hung back behind Andrew and Susan. Then, seeing the blanket-covered shape on the ground near the parked vehicles, Norma gave a gasp and turned away.

‘Why don’t you wait in the truck, Norma? The plane should be in any minute.’ Susan led
her back to the vehicle they’d borrowed from Esme to come here.

‘Any trouble?’ Andrew inclined his head towards the tin shed.

‘Na. He was quiet. Er, we made a bit of a racket though. Got stuck into the piss, I’m afraid,’ said Kev Perkins, gingerly.

‘You’ve let him out for a pee, though?’

‘Cops said to keep him under lock and key.’

‘Let’s at least take the poor bugger a cup of tea.’ Andrew went to the table and filled a mug.

Susan joined him as they watched Perkins undo the padlock and slide the bolt back. ‘Your friends are here,’ he announced gruffly and stood to one side as Andrew stepped inside the dim interior.

‘Barwon, cuppa brew, mate. How’d . . .
oh shit!’
Andrew recoiled, dropping the mug, staggering backwards through the door in horror.

‘What the fuck . . ?’ Perkins stepped into the doorway as Andrew’s stricken face turned to Susan.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked urgently.

‘Fucking hell . . .’ Perkins slammed the door shut, leaning against it, his face ashen. Andrew reached for Susan, as Perkins yelled to the men who leapt from the table, knocking over chairs in their rush to the shed. ‘Bugger’s hung himself.’

‘Andrew, no . . . oh, no!’ Susan clutched at him.

‘He’s hanged himself, Susan. Oh God, I never thought for a moment . . .’

Susan felt a heaving in her stomach, a retching in her throat, and she rushed to lean on a nearby tree, vomiting in a spasm of agony, guilt and rage.

Norma stepped out of the truck looking confused and, as shouts from the men brought home to her what had happened, she threw a swift look back at her husband. She lowered her head and leaned against the back of the vehicle and wept . . . for Giles, for herself, and this final act that did nothing to assuage her pain.

Andrew couldn’t control his anger. ‘Listen, you bastards. He was a good man, he was pushed by Jackson, and you were supposed to be looking after him. Why didn’t you check on him?’ Andrew’s voice rose to a shout. ‘You utter bastards.’

The men glanced at each other, remembering the insults they’d hurled at the hapless Barwon and regretting they hadn’t been more careful about moving all the gear that had been stored in the shed. ‘Christ, we weren’t to know he’d do a stupid thing like this,’ retaliated Perkins defensively.

Grimly holding hands, Susan and Andrew watched the Cessna take off with Norma, the body of Giles Jackson and the unexpected corpse of Barwon. The police had brought their own tragic news, the third in a series of events that seemed weirdly linked – the death of
Rowena had been radioed to the plane by the Kununurra police who were sending officers to land at the Wards’ and drive over to Marrenyikka.

On the drive back to Marrenyikka, Andrew and Susan tried to find answers to questions that could never be answered. What had finally driven Barwon to take his life would forever be a mystery to them.

Andrew took her hand. ‘Why don’t you come back to Yandoo with me? Just for a few days, to get over all this. Time for a change.’ He couldn’t keep the note of hope out of his voice.

‘I don’t know, Andrew. I do have a new way of looking at things, though, that’s for sure.’

Andrew was silent a moment or two. ‘You mean because of the Barradja?’

‘Yes. And this. Haven’t you learned something? Hasn’t it changed your views or ideas just a little?’

‘Not about everything . . . but it’s given me a wider understanding, that’s for sure. But, Susan, these are real Aborigines; the city ones, the drunks in the towns, they’re different.’

‘But, Andrew, that’s just the point! I believe that all Aboriginal people are “real”. They’ve all got somewhere deep inside them, that core of kinship that links them to a culture that has survived through Aboriginal families no matter where they are. Like Ardjani said, the drunks,
the rebellious young people, the Aborigines accused of selling out, they’ve just lost their bond, their connection with their people and their country. If they could find it, they would have something to hold on to, so that they could go forward, and become part of white society if that’s what they want.’

‘Okay, get off the soap box. What’s most impressed me is what Beth yabbers on about – that Aborigines like the Barradja have something to offer us. But how do I convince my parents that Aboriginal culture could teach them things they could apply to their own lives?’

‘Send them to Bush University!’

‘How would I convince them to go? They’d say, what for? Why do we need to spend time with a bunch of Aborigines in the bush? To learn how to throw a boomerang? Forget it.’

‘Do you think being with Aborigines has had any effect on Shareen?’

‘She has an ambition of her own. I wouldn’t pin my hopes on her altering her campaign to support reconciliation and giving the Aborigines back their land. Not with the right-wing wackos she has behind her.’

‘But you agree, this has been valuable? Rewarding?’

‘Yeah . . . I got to be with you.’ He squeezed her hand but before she could speak, added, ‘And yes, I can appreciate that we have to share our country. But, Susan, there has to be fairness. My family has earned the right to stay on our
land. I can see Aborigines have a right to land too. But we have to find a way to share it fairly.’

‘Bush University might be a start. Reducing the ignorance, learning from each other.’ She sighed. ‘Why did Barwon give up? He could have contributed a lot to Bush University.’

‘Like you said, people have to know their place in the world. Security is a vital ingredient to happiness. Personal security and self-esteem, security of tenure and ownership, security of peace of mind. They’re all important,’ agreed Andrew adding, ‘Maybe Hunter will be one of the new generation to make a difference.’

‘He’ll help, that’s for sure,’ said Susan. ‘But it will still take generations. The future lies with the children like Ardjani’s young boys, Luke and Josh. Beth told me she spoke to the head of Camfield Grammar . . . in Perth . . . the principal has agreed to take the boys as boarders and the school has suggested setting up a cultural exchange program with the Barradja. Ardjani will give lectures to the teachers and students. The Barradja have invited groups of boys from the school to visit Marrenyikka in the dry season holiday break. And now Beth is working on a school for the girls as well.’

‘Hey, that’s fantastic news.’ Andrew reached over and brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. ‘Being with you is kind of remarkable. My life was so pedestrian before I met you.’

She smiled at him, and reached for his hand.

It was a sombre group that greeted Susan and Andrew. In the afternoon Frank and Rosalie Ward drove Detective Constable Thomas Blandford and Flight Nurse Sally Barnes from Kununurra over to Marrenyikka after they’d flown into The Avenue. They were met by Ardjani and Jennifer and, after leaving the two officials with the elders, the Wards joined the group for tea and damper.

‘Bloody incredible. Three deaths at one time. Very bad scene,’ commented Frank.

‘Let’s not pass any judgements, dear. The law will look after that,’ said Rosalie, sensing Frank was ready to wade through the pros and cons of the circumstances.

‘Well, poor Norma Jackson is going to find it hard going. Most likely have to sell up. Never manage the place on her own and we all know it’s not much of a cattle run these days.’

‘She was very upset about that possibility. I was surprised at how strong her attachment was to Boulder Downs,’ said Susan. ‘It’s not as though it had been in her or Giles’ family.’

‘You wouldn’t consider buying it?’ Alistair asked in a neutral voice.

‘Christ, no. Can’t afford it, don’t need it.’

Shareen excused herself. ‘I’m getting a ride
back in the police plane. Do you mind if I come back to The Avenue with you?’

‘Suit yourself.’ And as Shareen headed to the Barradja camp, Frank added, ‘I hope she knows we’ll be travelling with Rowena.’

Beth twirled her tea mug. ‘Frank, Rosalie, we’ve been discussing an idea with the Barradja, and we’d like to run it past you both. With the assistance of Mick, Alistair and Alan, we’ve made a few phone calls this morning and we have decided we would like to help Ardjani and the Barradja buy Boulder Downs.’

‘What! And settle all their people on the place?’ exclaimed Frank. ‘Where’s the money coming from? I thought they were going ahead with some land claim.’

‘Wait, dear, let’s hear their plan,’ said Rosalie quietly.

Beth outlined the idea of Bush University, that it was a cultural plan to bring selected groups to see the sacred rock art sites under the guidance of the Barradja custodians. ‘When we feel Norma’s ready, we’ll offer her a fair price. And we have also discussed asking her if she would stay on so she could run the homestead as accommodation for the people who would come to Bush University. We’d also have camping here at Marrenyikka, like this.’

‘I must say you’re very well set up here,’ commented Rosalie, looking around at Billy’s organised camp.

‘It’s nowhere near the sort of standard of
The Avenue, but this would attract a different sort of clientele.’ Beth added, ‘And there’s no reason some cooperative learning experience can’t be worked out between your guests and Bush University.’

‘I’d have to think about this. It could solve a lot of problems. But where would the Barradja get the money? It doesn’t sound like it would be funded by the Aboriginal Land Councils or ATSIC.’

‘You’re right. And Ardjani doesn’t want the Barradja to receive public funding. Alistair came up with the idea of a Barradja Foundation, raising money from philanthropic, corporate and cultural heavyweights. Alan has been on the phone with his contacts and has had a very enthusiastic response from a museum in Melbourne. Naturally the plan has to be run past boards and committees.’

‘You haven’t wasted any time,’ said Rosalie.

‘We were tossing the idea around before . . . this tragedy,’ said Beth.

Seeing Ardjani approaching with the constable, Frank stood. ‘I’ll need to know more. I’d like to talk to the elders about it. You know where to reach us.’ He and Rosalie shook hands with the group.

Constable Blandford accepted a mug of tea and asked general questions, making notes as they talked. Satisfied, he put down his pen. ‘Unfortunate incident. Snake must have startled her. I know what this country is like. Rock
climbing can be dangerous. It can be as dangerous around here as climbing Ayers Rock . . . Uluru, I mean.’

‘You’re not going out to where she was found?’ asked Mick.

‘Seems pretty cut and dried. If it was a suicide, different matter.’ He finished his tea. ‘We want to leave before the light goes. Seems we have a passenger keen to get back to civilisation.’ He grinned. ‘Didn’t expect to see Shareen Beckridge out here. Well, not for more than a drop-in visit. How’d you find her?’

‘Typical,’ said Beth. ‘Hopefully she’s got a different slant on Aborigines after being here.’

‘I’ll watch the TV with interest. Right, we’re ready when you are, Mr and Mrs Ward.’

Without a formal announcement, it was understood the group would be disbanding. While everyone had regrets the visit had come to a premature close, there was enthusiasm and a buzz of energy as they discussed the future plans for Bush University.

‘It could be a kind of legacy for Barwon,’ Susan suggested. ‘It should represent a new era and an end to the injuries suffered by the Stolen Generations. Bush University could take an active part in making sure anything like this blot on our past never happens again.’