The Songmaster (8 page)

‘Thanks, Veronica.’

‘I’ll see she gets it. Can’t have young sheilas hanging round the street late at night,’ offered the judge. He thanked Veronica, bid her good night and steered Susan outside.

The judge was short and stocky, and from what she’d heard he was a bit of a male chauvinist. But, as he clasped his hands behind his back and gazed up at the faint stars trying to shine in the murky city sky, she was glad he was there.

‘Bet you can see the stars better out in the Kimberley,’ he mused.

‘Why don’t you go back to Western Australia? I’m going, I just decided.’

‘Hmmm. Could, I suppose. Don’t have many obligations these days. Bit of a change from when I was sitting. And working my way up.’

‘You must be very proud of what you’ve achieved.’

‘I know my views aren’t everyone’s cup of tea. And I don’t have the grace and charm of Alistair MacKenzie, but I battled on for what I thought was right. Strange thing is, though, at this point in my life I’m asking why I even bothered.’

‘You can’t mean that!’

‘I do. I fought for the working man, the unions and a political movement I thought would change this country for the better. Now the divide between the classes is bigger than ever. I believed that this land would be owned and run by those who lived in it and loved it. Instead it’s run by powerbrokers out for themselves. It’s difficult to come near to the end of one’s lifetime and wonder if the dreams and hopes were worth the effort. A sense of futility is a frustrating state in which to dwell.’

Susan was struck and moved by the old man’s words. ‘So find a new dream. Come to the Kimberley.’ It strengthened her resolve to go on this impulsive trip and not reach her sixties always wishing she’d followed a dream.

The taxi slid slowly into the street looking for house numbers.

The judge flagged the cab and opened the rear door for her. ‘I might do that, girl. Take care.’ He slammed the door and gave her a thumbs-up before walking to his parked car.

D
ark doors, gold lettering and a brass doorknob heavily pushed revealed the offices of Angel and Hart, Solicitors. No first impression of quietly carpeted space, gilt-framed art or subdued lighting. Nor steel and neon, glass and cubism. But conservative comfort. Traditional and solid.

Facing the door, like the lion at the citadel, sat Miss Eileen Thompson. Clipped grey hair, powdered thin straight nose, firm lipstick, cat’s eyes glasses. A Hermes scarf rested on a suit of flecked timidity in a style that had shifted only marginally from the fifties to the nineties. Miss Thompson’s proudest possession was a diamond bumblebee lapel pin, a gift from the senior partners to mark her first twenty years of service with the firm.

She’d seen them arrive – the deprived, the
tragic, the vindictive – to face their first test, her scrutiny and interrogation. Sons and daughters of long-dead clients, and their sons and daughters, had passed through the heavy doors. There was little human emotion she hadn’t witnessed in the private offices set aside for lawyer-client story letting. Now in her late sixties, she remained an unacknowledged shadow. With pencil poised and notebook open, she had recorded the sagas that were to be resolved through due legal process. Her opinions and solutions she kept tightly buttoned, but she held them just the same.

Miss Thompson had a rule of thumb – first impressions said it all. The entry through the door, where some hesitated while others surged to her desk. The eye contact, the tone of voice, the invisible vibration that ricocheted in the quiet reception room would be condemned or sympathetically judged by Eileen Thompson in seconds. She was seldom wrong.

The woman who opened the door and met Miss Thompson’s inscrutable eyes moved firmly and quietly to the desk, returning a frank unwavering look. The smile was friendly but not supplicant, the manner assertive but not aggressive. There was strength of purpose and decisive movement that told Miss Thompson this woman would not easily be swayed from whatever course she’d chosen. She removed her
glasses and returned a professional smile. ‘You have an appointment?’

‘Indeed. I am Bethany Van Horton. I believe I’m meeting Miss Massey.’

‘Of course. If you’ll step into the meeting room, I’ll take some notes and then call Miss Susan.’

‘Notes? I’d prefer to get straight down to tintacks. There’s a man suffering while we fiddle with bits of paper.’ Her demeanour was still pleasant, but she was saying ‘red-tape nonsense’ with her eyes.

Eileen Thompson was as gently firm. ‘That is the policy of Angel and Hart, I’m afraid. Before you divulge personal information it’s best we follow a few tried and true guidelines.’

‘I don’t know that I’m going to divulge anything personal. I’m not a prospective client. Just an intermediary.’

Miss Thompson’s hand stilled on the paperwork and her voice was equally pleasant, but her message was radiating, ‘Then don’t waste my time.’ She graciously capitulated. ‘Very well, I’ll call Miss Massey.’ She edited out an offer of tea or coffee.

At her desk, Susan swiftly swallowed the last of her mineral water and grabbed her notepad. Bethany Van Horton’s telephone call two days earlier had intrigued her.

‘Alistair MacKenzie suggested I call you. I
believe he mentioned an incident involving a friend of mine and that he was looking for representation.’

‘I met Alistair at a social occasion, it was nothing formal. And I have to point out I don’t often represent this sort of case.’

‘Aboriginal clients, you mean?’

‘That would be discrimination. The charge, I believe, is break and enter with intent. Who will be covering his fees?’

The terseness in Bethany Van Horton’s voice had crackled down the line. ‘He has financial assets. Perhaps MacKenzie misjudged you. If you’re not willing . . .’

‘Miss Van Horton, I am perfectly willing, indeed keen, to discuss your friend’s case. I just wanted to make it clear this won’t be an easy one, for many reasons. But if you’d like to come into my office and talk about it . . .’

They’d made the appointment. Susan had researched the newspapers on the Internet but nothing of the incident had been reported so far.

Beth Van Horton scanned the young woman who burst into the meeting room. She looked too young, too energetic and too intense. This was a young woman with dedication, earnest-ness and idealism jumping from every pore. Someone anxious to make her mark, who knew more than people expected, qualified beyond
her apparently youthful age, and not prepared to listen with much humility.

Susan felt the wave of judgement and faint hostility the moment she entered the room. Mentally she smoothed her hackles, took a deep breath and deliberately slowed down. Bethany Van Horton was a challenge. This case wouldn’t be easy with a defensive, protective patron like her in the wings.

They shook hands and sat down. Susan moved immediately to the basics. ‘Miss? Mrs? Van Horton, can I ask what your relationship is with the, er, defendant?’

‘It’s Ms. But I hate the term. I’m not married, never was, except to the Church – briefly. Call me Beth. I’m a friend of Nigel Barwon.’

She was being conciliatory and Susan relaxed a little. However, Bethany’s line about the Church intrigued her. ‘Married to the Church . . . does that mean what I think?’

‘Yes. But that’s another story,’ she remarked briskly. ‘Let’s talk about Barwon.’

‘Very well. I feel I have to ask this question. I hope you don’t think it impertinent, but what is your involvement with Mr Barwon?’

Beth was relieved at this sudden sensitivity in the young lawyer. She gave a half smile. ‘He’s not my lover. I also knew Shirley Bisson. But all that is for you to discover. I am involved in the Aboriginal community and it distresses me to see them misrepresented. These people are very special to me.’

‘May I ask why?’

Beth Van Horton imperceptibly squared her shoulders, her chin lifted and she flicked strands of grey-streaked blonde hair behind an ear. Her powerful personality gave Susan the sense of being fragile and slightly unfocused. Not a familiar sensation.

Beth’s clear blue eyes pinned those of Susan. ‘I have been working with the Barradja people in the Kimberley in the capacity of adviser, friend, teacher and community liaison officer with the WA Government and the Land Councils for the past twenty years. But I come to Sydney and Melbourne quite frequently.’

‘And Canberra too, I imagine,’ said Susan with a smile.

Beth waved her hand in a dismissive flick. ‘Gave up lobbying ages ago. It’s too hard to do anything with politicians. Better to work on organisations and individuals with some influence and come up with solutions and suggestions that help solve problems, then get the issues onto the main stage, if we can. They can’t possibly know in Canberra what’s really going on in the Kimberley. The politicians fly in and out of a community and never get a true picture.’

‘So what’s your role?’ asked Susan quietly, trying to get her back on track to the immediate issue.

‘Personal, professional or in this particular case?’

Why is she making it hard for me? thought
Susan. Why can’t she just answer my questions? It was like a test. If this woman was any indication, difficult times lay ahead – if she took the case. ‘Tell me what you think I should know then,’ she said, not disguising her annoyance.

Beth seemed to realise she might have sidetracked. ‘Barwon was born in a little outpost in the Kimberley to mixed blood parents. When he was five years old, his father took a construction job on the Ord River irrigation project and his Aboriginal mother stayed behind with the nuns at the convent, where she worked in the laundry. The nuns had persuaded her to put Nigel in their school where he proved to be a bright little kid.’

‘Isn’t that an unusual name for an Aboriginal child?’ asked Susan.

‘In those days, the nuns never liked children to come to school with Aboriginal names. Anyway, several months later, his father was killed and his mother travelled to the construction company to ask that his body be sent back to their town for burial. She’d left Nigel in the care of the nuns while she was away. All he can remember is those nuns telling him that his father had died and his mother had run away. Typical . . . I was a nun, you see.’ She smiled at Susan’s expression.

‘Are you still in the Church?’

‘No way. It was not an amicable parting. Ask in the north about the jezebel witch of St Francis’s.’ She gave a throaty chuckle. ‘But
that’s my story, perhaps I’ll tell you one day. Anyway, as soon as his mother was gone, the nuns turned Barwon over to a Brother who was looking for Aboriginal boys to study to be of service to God, and become missionaries. By fourteen, he had been sexually molested by one of these so-called men of God, and he grew up an angry, bitter and confused young man. Eventually he fled, getting odd jobs on properties, and three years later he’d found me, feeling somewhat the same about the Church, disillusioned, though for different reasons. I was teaching at a remote learning centre in Derby where he’d enrolled to finish his schooling. We forged a bond. I am his friend.’

‘I understand how such experiences would bring you together.’ Susan studied the strongboned, lanky-framed woman and figured that beneath the tough exterior she was soft-hearted.

‘Barwon turned his back on everyone for awhile. He was understandably bitter. He wanted to get far away and start afresh. So he came to Sydney. On the train crossing the Nullarbor Plain he got to know a Koori woman who worked in welfare in Redfern and Kings Cross. She helped him find a place to live, introduced him to the Koori community and he started working at the Wayside Chapel as a volunteer.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Went round the streets picking up drunks, addicts, kids in trouble and he would find them a bed and a feed. As I’m sure you know, the
Wayside Chapel was started by the Reverend Ted Noffs and Barwon saw Ted’s work as the kind of role that churches should play. Practical, generous and simple. Different to the ritual, the pressure and the elitism of the Catholic Church.’

‘I’m trying to imagine this man on a charge of break and enter,’ interjected Susan.

‘Well, he changed course. A television producer filmed a segment for some current affairs show on the work of the Wayside Chapel and interviewed him. The rest, as they say in showbiz, is history.’

‘He went into television?’

Beth nodded. ‘He got a traineeship at the ABC. He started to become a damned good reporter and as a result was picked up by one of the commercial networks. He had the looks, the education and the charisma, plus the fact he was Aboriginal made him a highly promotable package.’