THE SONG MASTER Read online

  ‘They’re doing pretty well thinking for themselves,’ said Andrew. ‘Land claims, demands for more money, royalties from mines and development, more bureaucracies, you name it. You urban people don’t appreciate what’s happening outside the cities. It’s getting way out of control. None of it’s doing us, them or the country any good.’

  Veronica arrived just in time to take the sting out of the discussion and detached the two legal men and led them inside. Andrew and Susan found themselves feeling a little awkward, alone under the old backyard loquat tree that had somehow survived inner-city living for a great many years.

  Andrew spoke first. ‘Listen, I just want to apologise. I wasn’t attacking you personally, or your profession. But it’s another world out in the west. The Aborigine problem is a hard one. I guarantee whatever views you have about these issues would change if you could spend time out there. Most white Australians haven’t got a clue what the real problems are. Especially the politicians and the media.’

  ‘Maybe I should.’ The words were out of Susan’s mouth before she realised she’d spoken them.

  Andrew gave her a puzzled look. ‘Should what?’

  ‘Spend time out there. Could I visit Yandoo some time?’

  A delighted grin spread over Andrew’s face, but he spoke with caution. ‘Of course. I hope you realise how remote it is, we’re deep in the Kimberley near the Territory border. But I don’t know what you expect to find.’

  ‘I don’t either. But it’s true, I do mouth off about standing up for underdog issues and causes – you know, single parents, gay rights, harassment and abuse cases, the rights of children and the elderly, Aborigines – and tonight I realised I’ve never known or observed anything close to what these people might experience.’ She gave a smile. ‘Perhaps I should.’

  He looked a little bewildered but returned her smile anyway as Alistair MacKenzie sought her out. ‘Susan, could we have a small professional chat?’

  ‘Oh dear, am I getting a lecture from my better and wiser?’ She grinned disarmingly and gave Andrew a wink as she followed the handsome QC into the sitting room. He put a liqueur glass and his coffee on a side table as she settled into the chintz armchair. ‘Can I get you something? I have a brandy.’

  Susan shook her head. ‘I might get a glass of wine later . . . or something stronger. Depends on what you have to say to me.’

  He allowed himself a small smile. ‘Relax. This is a social occasion. I spoke to Veronica who’s told me about your work.’

  ‘What did my good friend have to say?’ she asked.

  ‘That you are bright, thorough, ambitious, but wildly indiscriminating in your choice of men. She suggested I introduce you to my elder son.’

  Susan raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh thanks, Veronica,’ she said to the ceiling.

  ‘You are, I believe, just the sort of person in fact, who’d take on a case against odds of winning because of a personal belief or commitment.’

  ‘I’m not always that wild.’

  ‘Would you be interested in taking on a case that has come to my attention?’

  ‘What sort of case and why would you pass it on? Messy? Small potatoes? Too easy? Too hard?’

  ‘Hear me out, my learned friend. The defendant is a friend of a friend of mine, Beth Van Horton. I said I’d recommend a solicitor for him. He can pay for good representation. The man is urbane, intelligent, educated and a bit of a charmer.’

  ‘What’s he charged with?’

  ‘Break and enter with intent. But he’s a bit of a celebrity, I believe.’

  ‘Quite a charmer.’

  ‘There are several factors that make it an interesting case. I think you might find it stimulating and of value.’ He stretched his legs and crossed his ankles, revealing silk socks and Bally leather moccasins. ‘I have to confess I only thought of this scenario an hour or so ago. Since meeting you.’

  ‘It’s one of those nights.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She gave the older law man an open and honest look. ‘I’ve made some sort of decision tonight while standing under Veronica’s loquat tree. I’ve decided to take leave and go west. To the Kimberley.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  She snapped her fingers. ‘Bingo. Just like that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have anything to do with the handsome cattleman across the salad?’

  ‘Not really. I’m just using him. A pit stop shall we say. I have no idea why I have this sudden urge to go there.’ She couldn’t help a small grin. ‘So tell me more about my possible client.’

  ‘I don’t know him. But I trust my instincts and Beth’s judgement even though I haven’t known her very long.’

  There was something about the way this conservative man made reference to trusting his instincts that caught her attention. ‘Let’s back up a bit. Who is Beth, seeing she seems to be an important facilitator in the scenario?’

  ‘Beth’s story is a long and intriguing one. Professionally she is a white adviser to the Barradja people of the Kimberley. This stems from her work teaching cultural awareness and her involvement with these people.’

  ‘Who does she teach cultural awareness to?’ asked Susan.

  ‘The police, the mining industry, universities, and this was back in the mid to late eighties. She’s a consultant and adviser but she’s no bureaucrat. She’s a special woman, a white woman with an Aboriginal soul and spirit. That’s why they trust and respect her. She’s one of them.’

  ‘Where did you meet her?’

  He grinned. ‘At a dinner party. And from then my life changed. Beth has a mission and I’ve been swept up in it. Though it happened innocently enough.’

  He looked thoughtful and Susan kept quiet, waiting for him to elaborate. He began slowly. ‘She was asking me about my “illustrious” career and I suddenly found I was blurting out a truth I’d been aware of but hadn’t voiced till that moment.’

  ‘And that was . . .?’ Susan probed gently.

  ‘As I told her, I have been very successful, I’m sixty years old and I’m at the pinnacle of my career. Yet I have a feeling of frustration and sadness that I haven’t done anything that I can be truly proud of.’

  This simple, honest statement shocked Susan. She almost had to stifle the desire to look over her shoulder to check that no one had heard him.

  He continued without embarrassment, ‘I’ve won cases for big corporations, saved them money, made money myself, but I’m now asking, why?’

  ‘And what did Beth say?’

  He chuckled. ‘She said I’ll show you how you can do something and feel proud.’

  Susan raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘I’m going with Beth to meet the Barradja.’ He shifted in the chair and Susan realised this subject was closed.

  ‘So tell me more about my possible client.’

  ‘My friend Beth says he is being unjustly accused.’

  ‘She would say that.’

  ‘So, it’s a case with a challenge, a fight to right an unjust claim, and with possible media coverage. Grist to an up-and-coming career,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Sir, I’m shocked! I fight for a client to get justice. Personal gain or promotion is not a consideration,’ she said in mock horror and they both laughed.

  Veronica appeared in the doorway. ‘As always, a stimulating evening, my dear,’ said MacKenzie, rising slightly from his seat as their hostess settled in the sofa opposite the two deep chairs. ‘Illustrious and beautiful company, great food and wine and an ambience conducive to a memorable evening.’

  ‘Oh, Alistair, put a sock in it. Just say you’re having a good time,’ she laughed.

  ‘I am, dear Veronica. I am. I’m sorry my wife is away and couldn’t join us. But thank you for inviting me and giving me the chance to make the acquaintance of this new bright light of the legal firmament.’ He nodded at Susan.

  Susan turned to Veronica. ‘Mr MacKenzie has suggested I take on a certain case, if my senior partners
are agreeable.’

  Veronica looked pleased. While she invited guests to her house for their company, it was a bonus if a little networking took place.

  ‘Are you also aware your friend here is planning to travel into the heart of the Kimberley?’ remarked Alistair.

  Veronica stared at Susan. ‘This is news. What brought this on? Surely . . .’

  ‘Nothing to do with the man on the land. It’s a bit complicated, or confusing, even to me at this point. Let’s talk about it over lunch next week.’ She smiled and stood up. ‘It’s late, I have an early start. Veronica, thank you. An amazing night – as usual.’ She held out her hand as Alistair MacKenzie pushed himself out of the armchair. ‘Don’t get up. It’s been lovely talking to you. By the way, what’s the defendant’s name?’

  ‘Barwon. Nigel Barwon. I’ll arrange for Beth to contact you, and you take it from there. And good luck with your journey to the mystic Kimberley.’

  ‘What makes you think it’s that? Mystic?’

  ‘I’m envious. I’ve always wanted to get into the heart of the Kimberley. And a wise man once told me a journey that begins beneath a tree will flower in the sunrise – an auspicious time.’

  ‘You made that up,’ she accused him.

  He grinned. ‘Perhaps I did. But I hope whatever path you choose that good things come your way, young lady.’

  ‘Thank you, learned friend.’ Impulsively Susan kissed his cheek.

  ‘Good luck. I hope we see each other again.’

  ‘I’ll get you a cab.’ Veronica took her hand and led her from the room.

  ‘What a lovely man.’

  ‘He is. But I always have a sense he’s hiding something sad,’ remarked Veronica. ‘You do the rounds and say your farewell to Boris and I’ll phone for a cab.’

  Andrew Frazer was deep in conversation with Judge Mick Duffy as Susan came to bid them good night. Andrew handed her his card. ‘You’re welcome at Yandoo any time, as long as you want. But I’m in town for a while, perhaps you’d like lunch . . . or something?’

  ‘Thanks, Veronica has my number. I’m afraid I didn’t bring cards.’ She shook the judge’s hand. ‘Been an honour to meet you, Judge. I studied you at law school.’

  Mick Duffy clutched his head. The left-wing socialist who had become one of the bench’s most colourful characters looked embarrassed and pleased. ‘So, off to the Kimberley, eh? Half your luck.’

  ‘You’re welcome too, Judge,’ interjected Andrew. ‘Not often we get visitors dropping in at Yandoo. It would be an honour . . . so to speak.’ As they laughed, Andrew wondered what his conservative blue-ribbon National Party father would make of the ‘red judge’, named for his politics as well as his hair.

  ‘I’m leaving too. I’ll see you to the gate,’ said the judge taking Susan by the arm. She gave a brief wave to Andrew and, as they met Veronica at the door, gave her a hug. ‘Your cab’s on the way now.’

  ‘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.

  Dark 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 swallow
ed 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.’