The Songmaster (59 page)

Veronica finished taping a conversation with Ardjani and they rejoined the group as Jennifer came over.

‘Ardjani, I’ve been speaking with Jimmy. He says he’s talked to an old woman in Derby.’

‘Has your husband found out anything?’ asked Veronica.

‘The old Barradja women have,’ she smiled.

‘I knew they would! What’ve they found out?’ exclaimed Beth.

‘One of the old women knows the story of the Aboriginal woman whose white miner husband was killed and whose boy was taken from her. She knows because a nun from that convent told her years ago in Derby. She said when the mother came back and found he was gone, she made so much fuss, wailing and going around town, that the nuns promised to see if they could get him back. But they never did, and she died a few years later, a pathetic case.’

There was not a sound as Jennifer continued. ‘Barwon’s poor mother had also been stolen when she was a child, and she had grown up with the nuns who had put her to work in the convent.’

‘She might have been Barwon’s mother but that doesn’t prove she’s Barradja,’ said Mick. ‘And you’ll have to prove that, if you want to adopt the baby.’

‘The old woman said Barwon’s father’s name was Tom O’Brien . . .’ Jennifer paused
and looked at her mother ‘. . . and . . . Barwon’s mother was called Ruby Djoobalong.’

Lilian reached out for a chair and sat down, her eyes clouding over and her shoulders slumped. ‘That Djoobalong . . . that my name. That Ruby, she my sister. She my sister stolen with my sisters and brothers before I born.’

‘This is starting to look like proof, Mick,’ said Alistair quietly.

Jennifer moved to stand behind her mother. ‘Jimmy has found the old nun at the convent in Derby, and he’s told her about Barwon and the baby. She said Barwon had been called Djoobalong O’Brien by his parents. She’s willing to sign a paper if it helps to bring his baby home to his people.’

‘This is very good news,’ said Beth. ‘Lilian, your sister will be reunited with her family through her baby granddaughter. The welfare in Melbourne will check it out, and then we can bring her home to her aunties.’

Lilian looked up at her daughter. ‘Jennifer, you be her first skin mother, you look after my sister’s granddaughter.’

Jennifer gave a calm smile. ‘We’ll all look after Barwon’s daughter.’

The poignancy of the situation touched them all and Susan decided to bring up the question that still remained unanswered. ‘Ardjani, why do you think Barwon did this thing?’

‘We don’t condone suicide. But our people
suffer when they are confined and taken away from their family.’

‘Barwon didn’t know who his family was,’ said Susan sadly.

‘He died in his own country,’ said Ardjani, in a simple answer to Susan’s question. ‘I believe this. The Songmaster tell him.’

He looked around and held out his arms, palms up. ‘My friends. Good friends.’ They settled themselves in their chairs around the campfire. Ardjani pointed at the ground. ‘No, this time we sit on the earth.’

They sat and Ardjani talked of his appreciation of their friendship and support. ‘We need to discuss matters when all our mob here, but we think this Bush University a good thing. For us to teach our ways and give our gift and for white people to share.’

There was general assent. ‘We’ve all decided to come back in twelve months, Ardjani. If you will have us. For a big reunion,’ said Susan.

‘Good. First Bush University, eh? You people learn more Barradja ways, eh?’ And when they agreed, he grew more serious. ‘We Aboriginal people been waiting a long time, two hundred years, for things to change in this country. We are very patient people. We listen and we wait. We touch this ground and we listen to what it tells us. Now you whitefellas touch the ground and listen to what is inside you.’

They sat in silence, the stillness washing over them. Ardjani stood and contemplated the
group for a moment. ‘Tomorrow some of the mob come back. We going to get stuck into Bush University.’

Striking camp the next morning was like a military drill with Billy in command. Tents were folded with far more ease than when they had been erected, and suddenly the ground was bare save for the deep ash and charred wood of their campfires.

Veronica found Lilian by the water tank and gave her a hug goodbye. ‘I’ll be back next year.’

Lilian gave her a broad smile. ‘Course you will. You got t’bring back your baby for smokin’ ceremony. We do naming ceremony with that baby you got in you.’

Veronica felt a rush of hope and affection and couldn’t speak. She hugged the old woman again. ‘I’ll bring my Boris next time. You’ll like him.’

‘Good, good.’

Jennifer sought out Mick and she handed him a delicately carved emu egg. ‘This is for you as the senior law man. It has precious markings on it.’

Mick cradled the delicate egg, and gave a wry grin. ‘I appreciate this gesture, Jennifer. But I have to let you in on a secret. I’m not the senior law man. Since I retired as a judge, I’ve become a mere barrister. Alistair is a Queen’s
Counsel. So in chambers, I have to stand back and let him get in the lift first.’

He chuckled, but Jennifer nodded sagely and closed his hand over the egg. ‘You have it. You are a special law man,’ she said, understanding that protocol must be observed.

Later she found Alistair, and handed him a second egg. ‘Keep it safe, it will bring you back to Bush University.’

‘Oh, I’m definitely coming back. I feel I have a real purpose in life now. Got the bit between my teeth, as they say. I’m going to go out on this case, Jennifer. Helping get Bush University happening will perhaps be my professional monument.’

Mick went to Ardjani and sat beside him at the river. ‘It’s been bloody special being here, you know.’

Ardjani didn’t answer but gazed at him, not asking any questions, just waiting. Mick thought how to frame the words. ‘Ardjani, I’m an old bloke, though I’ve still got a bit of engine power left in me. But I know my time is coming. We have a writer bloke I admire, Morris West . . . he wrote, when he was in his eighties, about making it to the high ridge and looking back over claimed ground with all its varied features, while ahead lies a dark valley.’

Ardjani understood. ‘We old men know our time is coming – my knees no good, I can’t climb trees good, soon I’ll have to make my last ceremonies with the old women.’

‘I haven’t done much to prepare for this momentous journey, I’m afraid.’ Mick paused then went on, ‘But when my time comes, I want to come back here. I don’t want to be stuffed in a box in a row in some cemetery on land I don’t know or like. I want my bones sent back here, to your people. Will they look after me?’

Ardjani didn’t rush to answer. He quietly digested the request and when he spoke, it was with respect and reassurance. ‘I will tell our people. You are one of us now, you can share Barradja land. We will do special ceremony for you, Judge Mick.’ A twinkle came into his eyes. ‘Maybe not Ardjani sing your ceremony, maybe Ardjani go to the ancestor spirits before you. We meet there, that’s for sure. But you going to come to Bush University many times before then.’

Mick pushed out his hand and shook Ardjani’s long, loose fingers. Words weren’t necessary.

One by one they all managed to make their private farewells. Beth was last. Sitting on the bank of the river, in the place of the women’s business, she rested her palms flat against the earth, and closed her eyes, speaking aloud. ‘I have done all I can. Now let the future begin.’

Beth made her own parting with the Barradja elders, who were preparing lunch. She then walked back to the campsite and lit a fire of fresh leaves to smoke their now deserted camping
ground. ‘This has been a special time, we leave behind goodwill and the hope we will be welcomed back again.’

They all watched the simple farewell smoking ceremony and it was Veronica who asked, ‘Aren’t they going to come over and say goodbye?’

‘Haven’t you all made your private goodbyes?’ And when no one answered, Beth continued, ‘It’s another Barradja custom for you to learn. They don’t have goodbyes. They assume you will come back. One day you will come back, there’s no need to say goodbye. That is our custom, not theirs. By observing their custom and feeling it’s not necessary to come over to do white man’s goodbye ritual, they’re paying us a big compliment.’

Satisfied with this explanation, everyone began gathering up their hand luggage. Susan and Andrew were driving back to Andrew’s plane at the Wards’. She couldn’t stop the tears as she embraced the others boarding Billy’s van.

They’d said their goodbyes to Hunter who was driving back to Kununurra with plans to visit Yandoo as soon as he could. ‘Tell my mother I am coming,’ he said to Andrew as they clasped hands.

Veronica was last to hug Susan. ‘See you back in the big smoke. It’s been an incredible time, Susan. It could change my life. I hope Boris understands what’s happened to me.’

‘Oh, I think he will.’

‘And you?’

‘Who knows?’ She gave her familiar shrug and grin and, with shoulders back and chin up, climbed into the vehicle beside Andrew for the ride back to The Avenue where the Cessna waited to fly them out.

They pulled out behind Hunter, and Susan hung from the window waving at the Oka as it, too, began to leave the camp.

After two days at Yandoo with hot showers, crisp sheets and relaxing glasses of wine at dinner, Susan still couldn’t shake off the sensations and memories of her time at Marrenyikka. The images kept flashing at her . . . the mist rising over the glassy early morning river studded with fat pink lilies . . . the brooding but benign red rocks . . . the dancing eyes and infectious laughter of the youngsters playing round the camp . . . the slow broad smiles of Lilian, Rusty and Digger . . . the sounds of the dawn chorus as the birds called to each other. And her friends . . . Jennifer’s gentle wise voice . . . times of hilarity hunting with the women . . . Mick’s delicious damper and laconic dry wit . . . Billy and his beloved Oka . . . the kids waggling a goanna at Shareen . . . the pungent smell of campfires . . . trees in blossom. And the magical moments . . . of tasting sugarbag . . . the corroboree dancing . . . the magnificence of the Wandjina and the guyon guyon paintings . . . the sense of spirituality . . .

The Frazers were pleased to see Susan return with Andrew, if a little curious about the turn in their relationship, but good manners kept them from making any comment.

Ian listened to Andrew’s news that they could have additional wealth on their property in the form of Aboriginal cultural sites. But he dismissed such a notion. ‘We’re pastoralists, son, pure and simple. We run cattle as my grandparents did here. And we’re going to stay here come hell or high water. Or any Native Title land claim.’

Susan was surprised at her calmness, the brusqueness of her previous encounter with Andrew’s father tempered by a new tolerance. ‘Ian, all that the Barradja are asking is recognition of their cultural claim to the land, not necessarily taking it over and throwing the pastoralists out.’ She recalled Ardjani’s words, and tried to listen rather than debate with the older pastoralist. And she was surprised by the softening of his argument. In the face of her milder comments, he was recognising her opinions on the subject and he, too, listened. While he hadn’t conceded, she could see he would consider her views.

The reunion with Hunter was also an important factor in the Frazers’ acknowledgment of the dislocation and pain foisted on the children of mixed-blood parentage. ‘You know, at the time, when old Father Monaghan told us it was best for the lad to go away to school
because he was obviously very bright, we thought we were doing the right thing.’

Ellen, who had sat in silence as Andrew told the story of his boyhood friend, made no attempt to hide the dampness of her eyes. ‘We did what we thought was right for the people here. Listening to what you’ve both had to say, maybe we didn’t know as much as we should have, but who was there to tell us? I’m not sure the Yandoo mob know that much about their original culture these days, either.’

‘We’re hoping Bush University will help change all that,’ said Susan kindly.

‘It sounds a fine enough idea. But what about other Aboriginal groups who haven’t got people like your lot helping them? This land rights thing could drag through the courts for decades. Governments can’t please everyone,’ Ian argued.

‘Talking and listening together, Dad, it’s the only way to go. New times, things have to change,’ replied Andrew. ‘But don’t worry, we can work it out. If anything, I’m more convinced than ever that following in your footsteps is the right way. But there has to be more awareness of what our land means to all of us. Them and us. Sharing, I suppose, is the only way of looking at it.’