THE SONG MASTER Read online

  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.’

  ‘Did it change him?’

  ‘It certainly did. Initially for the better. The commercial station had offered him a lot of money. He was constantly in the women’s magazines, everybody’s darling, women falling all over him. And . . . that’s when he met Shirley.’

  ‘Shirley Bisson? The plaintiff?’

  ‘His publicist arranged for him to host a charity fashion show Shirley was organising. And she invited him to her home for lunch the next weekend to say thank you . . .’

  Susan looked up from her notes. ‘And so it began . . .?’

  Beth nodded. ‘After eighteen months with Barwon, the relationship had kind of run its course. And Barwon had this bee in his bonnet about going back to the west and trying to find his mother’s family. Being taken from his mother has left an enormous gap in his life, it’s something that he’s never been able to understand. He needs to know where his family is, where he comes from. His Dreaming as they call it. Anyway he was going back to the west when he was offered an acting part in a TV series in Melbourne. He decided he’d better make the career move and do that. So now that’s over, he’s come to Sydney to get his things and this happens. I’ve told him once he has this out of the way, it would be a prudent move to come with me up to the Kimberley for a time. That’s if he doesn’t go to jail. So . . . what do you think?’

  ‘I’ll be discussing it with one of the senior partners. But consider me on board.’ Susan held out her hand. ‘Where do I find my new client?’

  ‘He’s sharing a house with friends at Redfern. He was charged the night of the alleged break-in and has been listed to appear in Waverley Court before the magistrate next Wednesday.’

  ‘You’re not leaving town are you?’

  ‘I’m not going back to the west, at least until this is over. However, as he doesn’t have the hearing until next week, I’m going to Melbourne on business. I’ve also been asked to see if I can help identify the Aboriginal design on the cloth that was wrapped around that baby found in the Victorian Art Gallery.’

  Susan shook her head wondering at the extraordinary life this woman must lead.

  Beth Van Horton hugged her jacket close as the wind cutting along Flinders Lane sliced into her. Spending most of her time in the Kimberley and the north had weakened her resistance to cold weather. And the Melbourne papers were going on about an Indian summer. She turned into the West Australian Aboriginal Art Gallery owned by Alan Carmichael.

  He was talking to a
n expensively dressed couple and he excused himself to greet her warmly. ‘Been some time, Beth. How are you?’

  ‘Hanging in there. Say, your mob has been productive.’ She looked at the stack of canvases propped against a wall. Then eyed the brilliant contemporary work on exhibition in the ground-floor gallery space. ‘Whose work is this? Powerful stuff.’

  ‘Yes. This is new work from Digger Manjarrie. He’s coming on nicely. His work grows in strength as he gets older. He’s having a break from painting at the moment. Then he’s going to experiment with new stories and colours. I just give him the materials and let him get on with it.’ Alan checked the pair contemplating the canvases on the wall and Beth put a finger to her nose. ‘I’ll browse.’

  He turned to the designer-clad Toorak couple seeking the latest status symbol – Aboriginal art.

  Beth moved away, but listened to Alan try to explain the spiritual sense and artistic meaning of the art to people who were only interested in dollars and what cachet it bought.

  Beth had great respect for Alan, who she felt was sensitive to Aboriginal culture and who was prepared to spend a lot of time out in the Kimberley with the artists. He was a rarity in the art world – a knowledgeable dealer who respected the work of these painters and gently encouraged and made subtle suggestions of areas to explore without giving them directions. Beth knew some of the painters were doing a lot of ‘rubbish paintings’ as a result of so-called art experts going up to their communities and throwing money at them and telling them what to paint.

  Alan gestured at the paintings on the walls around them. One large canvas glowed with the layers of brilliant blendings of brush strokes and intricately placed paint daubs and twirls that exploded in the vibrant awakening of a woman’s spirit and celebration of her country’s Dreaming. He tried to explain this one to the Toorak couple.

  ‘I suppose Western art would equate these paintings with Impressionism. This contemporary work is different to traditional iconography.’

  ‘And is the artist a native artist, a bush artist?’ asked the woman, peering through her Paloma Picasso glasses.

  ‘Yes, Daisy Moorroo was raised in tribal law and she inherited three Dreamings, Fire, River and Wild Hibiscus.’ Alan moved closer to the huge painting. ‘Like abstract Western art, you have to get your eye in. It’s like those magic-eye pictures, you look into them and suddenly see what the real picture inside is. Sometimes you have to be told the story and then you can appreciate the deep spiritual meaning that is in these paintings, rather than the superficial appearance.’

  The husband looked at his watch. ‘So what’s the investment value? Short term?’

  Alan’s polite expression hardened. ‘Probably not good. Long term you might make a profit. If you’re looking for an investment rather than the aesthetic, I suggest you head back out into Collins Street and look at the Hockney exhibition. Or there’s a Lindsay auction coming up at the Sofitel Hotel.’

  The couple glanced at each other. These names sounded more familiar. ‘Perhaps we’ll think about it,’ began the husband.

  Alan turned them around and opened the glass door. ‘You do that. My art is more, speculative, shall we say. Thank you for coming in.’

  Beth laughed aloud as the ex-customers got into a large BMW outside the gallery. ‘Well, you managed to do yourself out of a large sum of money very swiftly.’

  ‘I’d rather not sell to people like that. I get enough people and museums that appreciate the quality of what I have. There aren’t enough dis-criminating eyes about. Some galleries buy stuff because it’s Aboriginal without any understanding of how or why they work. It’s causing a lot of dissension in some of the communities. You might have one person whose work is of museum or high-value standard but because they all paint and decorate as part of their culture, the others don’t understand why they can’t just knock off a picture and get money for a new truck, too. I tell you, Beth, there are some unscrupulous operators crawling into this business and it’s the Aboriginal artists who are getting ripped off, spoilt and misled. Not to mention the art-buying public.’

  ‘You better keep your coterie of artists protected then. But how you do that, short of staying with them, I can’t imagine. That way they won’t be seduced by flash dealers waving bucks.’

  In his quiet, understated way, Alan was philosophical. ‘No point in bringing out bits of paper for them to sign or bad-mouthing the sleazy operators. If the artists are offered bucks and they’re being pestered by the family and the rest of their mob for a handout, they’ll knock off a couple of bad pictures and take the cash. It’s a slow process of showing my artists how to approach their art differently. But you’re right, I can’t keep tabs on them long distance. I have to go back regularly, so I’m going up to the Kimberley to meet with the artists at Bungarra next month.’

  ‘You staying long?’

  ‘Who knows? At least a couple of weeks. You know how it is. You can’t rush them. There has to be much sitting around the campfire, lots of talking, then they meet amongst themselves, lots of sitting quietly, and then more consultation.’

  Beth grinned at the art dealer. ‘And you love it. You have the patience to do things their way – that’s why they trust you and you get results. So tell me more about this work.’

  Alan pointed at the nearest painting. ‘You can see how he takes us through his country in each picture, appreciating every level of what it means to him.’

  ‘I hope people who buy these understand their rich meaning,’ said Beth. ‘It’s what the elders dislike so much, not the fact that their art is being put on tea towels and T-shirts, or copied by commercial white enterprises, but that the soul and spirit of their culture isn’t understood.’

  ‘They’ve been resigned to that fact for years. It was never meant to be presented to outsiders. Kimberley art is such a diverse and unpredictable style. I’m sure you know painting in the Kimberley is relatively new, like from the 1970s.’

  Beth picked up the catalogue and checked the prices. ‘I’d never have thought years ago that Aboriginal art would fetch these prices.’

  ‘So many artists have been ripped off since the seventies. I take my commission, I pay for materials and keep them supplied with everything they need. And often that means new glasses and boots when they come down here to stay with me. I invest their money and show them their bank books and stuff, but mostly they’re not interested. I send them money when they need a large sum.’

  ‘It still smacks of white paternalism,’ sighed Beth. ‘But, hey, I know what you’re going to say,’ she lifted a hand, ‘give them money and it’ll go on everyone else in a flash.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s good I’m down here. They live on their pension and government payouts that go to the community, but if they need extra money they come to me.’

  Beth knew other dealers didn’t look after their artists like Alan. He was unique in the field and regarded by other dealers as a bit strange. Most dealers were cutthroat dollar hunters and figured Alan must be independently wealthy by the way he stuck to his principles at the cost of a sale. As world interest in Aboriginal art was growing, it was attracting avaricious fly-by-nighters.

  Beth turned back to the canvases on the walls. ‘You’ve obviously invested a lot in Digger, and not just money. It’s paying off, this is highly significant work. Congratulations.’

  They walked into the cluttered office behind the gallery space. ‘Iced water? Tea? Instant coffee? That’s it, unless you want to go down the road to Bertoluccis for a cappuccino.’

  Beth sank into one of the two spare chairs opposite the low coffee table spread with Aboriginal art books. Many in German. It was here that European collectors and curators came to discuss buying, selling and exhibiting. ‘Now, I want to know about the baby. What have you found out about the wrap?’

  Alan didn’t answer immediately. He pulled the wrap from his desk drawer and laid it on the table.

  ‘The Dhumby,’ said Beth softly.

  ‘It�
�s Barradja. Who could have copied this owl image from Kimberley rock art?’

  Beth frowned. ‘If that baby is Barradja it belongs with its own people. I’d better talk this over with the woman you met at the welfare agency. I’m on my way to the Kimberley to see Ardjani. Perhaps he can help find this baby’s family.’

  She suddenly leaned over the low table. ‘Alan, if you’re going to be in the Kimberley, why don’t you meet us in Marrenyikka in a couple of weeks? Come and stay in the dry season camp with Ardjani. I’m working on a plan that was seeded by Ardjani to bring a group of people – gadia, white people – to the Kimberley to learn about Aboriginal culture.’

  ‘So they’ve resorted to whitey’s help. I thought they’d gone down that track before and it hadn’t worked. How come things are different now?’ Alan looked sceptical.

  ‘I had a meeting with the elders a month ago. I’m bringing together something of a mixed bunch of people. The old men said I’m murranburra and so they trust me to find the right people to help them. I think you should be one of them.’

  ‘How and where are you finding these people? What’s murranburra?’

  She grinned. ‘Law woman, high degree. That’s me. They’ve given me the knowledge. They say they’re trusting that my magic will help them gather these people. When I started I didn’t have anyone specific in mind, I was waiting for them to come to me. And they are, it’s wunggud operating.’

  ‘Your faith in wunggud energy hasn’t let you down, eh?’ smiled Alan, who understood the nature of wunggud which the Barradja people believed to be the energy and form of the pattern of life.

  ‘So, do I count you in?’ asked Beth.

  He shook his head. ‘Are you sure? You know me, I like to go alone and go feral once I hit the Gibb River Road. But I’m surprised you’d consider taking a bunch of city whitefellas out there. The Barradja will hate it, even if they invited them. Though they’ll be too polite to show it.’

  ‘Normally I’d agree with you.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘The elders think it’s time. Time to share some of their knowledge with the white people. Ardjani says it’s time we do things number two way – the Barradja way.’