THE SONG MASTER Page 7

  Alan shook his head. ‘Well, if you think I can help, I’ll come. I haven’t spent much time at Marrenyikka.’

  Beth walked to one of the paintings hanging in the little office. What had once been a hazy plan drifting in the back of her head was becoming clearer and firmer like the sureness of the hand that painted the canvas before her. She was silent as she felt herself drawn into the image. She had a sudden urge to feel the delicate abstract painting. To put her skin against the paint. To melt into its sensuous tones. To be a vague pale dot lost between the myriad daubs of paint would mean feeling safe, surrounded by bright beings flaunting their colours, flashing energy and radiating womanly strength. Oh, to be one of them. The vision of the swirling colours reaching out to her steadied, and she struggled to find her voice, asking, ‘What story is this?’

  Alan smiled as he looked at the many hues on the canvas. ‘It’s called Dancing Spirits At First Light. It’s the story of the baby spirits who live in the waters of the wunggud pond, waiting to choose their parents.’

  ‘I’d like to own this one,’ said Beth softly.

  The mansion on Mulholland Drive in the LA hills was floodlit, and a would-be actor acted as valet, parking the stream of expensive Hollywood cars as they arrived.

  It was a low-key party by Joseph Singer’s usual standards. But this was a different crowd to the movie people.

  Rowena surveyed the eddying mass of wealthy art patrons, charity social set, and the merely moneyed. Slowly she moved down the curved staircase to the foyer and main entertaining area beyond the columns, potted trees and massive art pieces.

  The last thing she felt like was being her father’s hostess. She was tired, drained of energy and restless.

  The evening dragged. The invitation had been for six to nine, cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, a chance to mingle with some prestigious artists, gallery and museum heavyweights to celebrate the donation by Joseph Singer to the Armand Hammer collection of a series of artefacts and paintings. The curator of the Singer private collection had been ‘culling’ and the accountants had found a tax advantage to the donation which made room for further acquisitions.

  It was past ten o’clock and Rowena slipped into her father’s library to escape, hoping that in the absence of the hostess, the guests might take the hint and leave.

  She was in the room, closing the door on the laughter and tinkle of music and glasses, before she realised a man was seated in a leather chair. He was elderly and rose stiffly to his feet.

  ‘Forgive me.’ He gave a slight bow. ‘Your father will be back in a moment, we were sharing a quiet brandy. I believe he is farewelling the other guests.’

  Rowena sank into a chair. ‘He’s not farewelling all of them, there’s still a mob out there.’

  He gave a slight smile at the phrase. ‘So you have been travelling, I understand.’

  His clipped German accent, courtly manners, thinning white hair and moustache set him apart from the rest of the party.

  ‘I’m Rowena Singer by the way.’

  ‘Gustav Lubdek. I met your father some years ago.’

  Rowena nodded. Count Gustav Lubdek. An industrialist who’d made a fortune post war, invested in films amongst other things. She recalled some reference about him being an art collector. ‘You are here on business for movies, art or . . ?’ She let her question hang in the air.

  The count shrugged. ‘I am retired. I confess I collect the occasional piece, but things of rarity are . . . rare.’ His eyes moved across to a shelf where several objects sat by a row of books. ‘I am wondering about that . . .’ He pointed to a skull, stained a deep burnished brown and intricately painted in a dull red pattern. ‘Unusual markings. A little macabre but . . . interesting.’

  Rowena paused, then seemed to make up her mind to speak about it. ‘Yes. It’s mine. I brought it back from my trip to outback Australia. It’s Aboriginal.’

  ‘Ah. I have heard a little of this Aboriginal culture. Is it of interest?’

  ‘Yes. I understand the rock art is highly significant. It’s very powerful imagery . . . and possibly the world’s oldest. Especially in the Kimberley . . . where they talk about ancient, secret paintings.’

  ‘Is this so? This interests me greatly.’ He took a sip of brandy. ‘Are you returning to this place?’

  ‘I’m thinking about it. Why?’

  He too came to a decision to be frank with his friend’s daughter. ‘I would be interested in acquiring some of this art. Perhaps we could discuss this further another time?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. I have some contacts out there with the Aboriginal people. If I can help . . . what did you have in mind? You should go there to see the rock art. It’s painted in sacred caves. There are modern painters there, however, whose art you can buy.’

  The door opened and her father and another man came in. The count rose and gave Rowena an intense look and spoke in a low voice. ‘Do come and visit me if you are ever in Munich.’

  ‘Gustav, don’t tell me my daughter has an invitation to see your collection that you keep so secret?’ Joseph Singer had heard the remark.

  ‘Secret collection? What’s this? Sounds intriguing.’ The third man, mellowed by champagne, was loud but Gustav Lubdek ignored him, turning to Rowena. ‘A pleasure, dear lady. Good evening.’

  He farewelled the two men and had slipped from the room before any more was said.

  Rowena had forgotten about the incident until later, when her father had asked about her conversation with the old count, commenting that he was a bit eccentric, supposedly owning one of the world’s great collections that no one he knew had ever seen. ‘It’s for his eyes only, they say. Vaults in a dungeon only he goes in and looks at.’

  ‘An investment? Or gossip. If no one’s seen it, who knows what he has? Maybe nothing.’

  ‘Such a cynical child I have. One hears things, Rowena. He collects, of this I have no doubt.’

  Susan Massey, satchel in hand, dropped the knocker on the door of the semi-detached Redfern house.

  He was dressed in jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and she saw immediately that Nigel Barwon was a man who would appeal to women. Slim build, dark curly hair and deep olive skin. But as they shook hands she saw his dark eyes were troubled.

  ‘Thanks for coming. I have coffee ready. Or would you prefer tea?’

  ‘Coffee would be great.’ She saw the cups set out with Danish rolls on a table near where a didgeridoo stood posed against the wall.

  As he pressed the plunger in the coffee, she settled herself at the table and put her small tape recorder beside her notepad.

  ‘Do you play that didgeridoo?’

  He gave a disarming grin. ‘Afraid not. The crew at the TV station where I used to work gave it to me as a farewell present when I told them I was thinking of going to the Kimberley to find my family. I guess they figured all we blackfellas can play one.’

  ‘Okay then. Let’s get down to business. As I’ll be representing you, trust and honesty are tantamount between us.’

  He lifted a hand. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Then tell me what happened that night. Do you mind if I tape our conversation? It’s for my reference only.’

  Nigel Barwon put his cup down and ran a hand through his hair. A sudden comparison with Andrew Frazer flew into her head. She pushed the thought away as he began to speak.

  ‘I met Shirley Bisson a few years ago. She was warm and vulnerable and I liked her a lot. Shirley invited me to lunch and, well, the friendship grew from there.’

  ‘You became lovers?’

  ‘Yes. Sure she’s older, she was almost fifty then, but she’s also mature and sensuous and caring. So after a few months she asked me to move in with her. It was great. She spoiled me, she bought me presents and stuff. I never asked for them but it pleased her. She has a bit of money from her divorces. Deep down I think she felt she had to do those things to keep me around. But actually I wouldn’t have cared if she had no money.
For the first time in my life I felt loved and looked after and I guess there was a bit of the mothering thing going on.’

  ‘Isn’t Beth something of a mother influence in your life?’

  ‘Beth is more of a mentor. She challenges me, tries to make me be better than I am. She’s a good friend.’

  ‘So back to Shirley. What did you do for her?’

  ‘The sex was great. She was relaxed and there weren’t any hang-ups and I know I satisfied her. She’s a sexy lady. And she liked to be seen about the place with an okay-looking younger guy on her arm.’

  ‘So she took you out in public, introduced you to her friends? What was their reaction?’

  ‘Some asked if I had any mates,’ he laughed. ‘But I was accepted, probably because I’d been on television, I knew how to handle myself socially and my colour seemed to give them a bit of a thrill.’

  ‘So when did the relationship go sour?’ asked Susan.

  ‘It didn’t. I started to get restless and talked of going back to the west. Shirley didn’t understand or want to know anything about that. She’d cry and say I’d never come back if I went to the Kimberley. The more upset she got every time I mentioned it, the more she ended up pushing me away even though she was trying to hold me. I started to feel like I was suffocating. So I finally told her I was going.’

  ‘And after all this time, why did you go back to her apartment?’

  ‘I still had the key to her apartment. Anyway, one night I had a few drinks and I wanted to see her.’

  ‘Break in? Why didn’t you phone her?’

  ‘I figured she wouldn’t want to see me. She probably wouldn’t want to start up anything that wasn’t going to continue. But I figured, a night or two . . . just for old times’ sake. I was feeling horny, I wanted to hold her, all of that stuff. I know it was selfish.’

  ‘But you broke in and scared the wits out of her and there was a fight. That’s a bit more than being selfish,’ goaded Susan.

  ‘I didn’t break in. I had a key. So she didn’t know I was coming. She didn’t want the key back, she always said the door would be open for me, any time. I guess she changed her mind when I really did leave.’

  ‘We’ll go through the events of that night. You let yourself in, it was nearly midnight and she was in bed . . .’ said Susan. Barwon picked up the story exactly as Beth had related it to her. His voice was cool, the reporter’s objective calmness taught to him at the ABC. Until he reached the end.

  ‘I couldn’t believe she called the cops,’ he said, anger flaring in his voice.

  ‘It’s an interesting scenario. You could be laying charges against her,’ said Susan.

  ‘Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to do that. I just want to forget the whole thing. And you know what, I bet she does too. I think she just over-reacted. But now the police are involved it has to go through all the court stuff.’

  ‘Never underestimate a woman scorned, Nigel. But don’t worry, I think we’ll be all right.’ Susan turned off the tape.

  His face cleared and he gave her a smile. ‘Call me Barwon. Nigel isn’t my real name. The nuns gave it to me. I prefer Barwon.’ Susan was struck again by his handsome features and far from being a womaniser, he seemed vulnerable and mixed-up. She could see how Shirley Bisson must have been besotted with him. ‘What is your real first name then?’ she asked.

  ‘Dunno, I can’t remember,’ he said, almost in a whisper, his manner changing as he looked down and clasped his hands between his knees. It was the gesture of a bewildered little boy and, for a moment, Susan had a sense of the immense sadness that lay behind the man’s facade. After a moment he recovered, and their eyes met. She saw that his were moist. He was close to tears.

  ‘I’d like to have a real name, one that truly belonged to me.’

  ‘Yes, it’s certainly a reasonable request,’ said Susan.

  He took a deep breath. ‘That’s why I’ve got to go back to the Kimberley. That’s where I’ll get a name.’

  Susan said nothing, did nothing, listening to his deep breathing that was close to a sob. Then quietly she began to pack up her notes and tape recorder.

  ‘Yes,’ he said vacantly, as if she wasn’t there. ‘That’s what I’ve got to do. Go home.’

  Susan decided to become better organised. Folders stacked in piles, notes and messages clipped together. A notebook at the ready so she wouldn’t lose important thoughts and notations on scraps of paper. Reference books in reach to one side. But within a week the stiff and regimented piles had all jumped into bed together, rumpling and intercoursing amongst each other under stray sheets and streamers of fax paper. Susan ignored the rebellion on her desk and worked on, happily surrounded by organised chaos.

  She read through the police facts detailing events after Shirley Bisson had made her emotional phone call to the police.

  Barwon had been taken to St Vincent’s Hospital and remained under police guard while his wound was cleaned and bandaged. At Rose Bay Police Station, his wallet and jacket were temporarily taken from him while he was officially cautioned and interviewed on the ERISP electronic recording system. His version of the evening’s events was recorded on three audio tapes and a video tape. Barwon was given a copy of the audio tape with his personal effects and Susan later viewed the video tape at the station. Barwon had signed across the other sealed audio tapes which were locked away at the police station to be presented at court. He had been formally charged with break and enter with intent to commit an indictable offence, and given a copy of the charge sheet and the police facts sheet from the computer. He was finger-printed and had washed the dark ink from his fingers with Solvol soap.

  He’d then been granted conditional bail by the station sergeant and had to enter this agreement by signing his copy of the bail documents. The conditions were that he appear at the Waverley Local Court in two weeks’ time, and that he not approach, contact, harass or otherwise interfere with Mrs Bisson, and that he not go within two hundred metres of her home.

  His effects were returned to him, Barwon had walked into the pre-dawn light, heading towards the city, until a cruising taxi had taken him back to Redfern.

  Susan stretched to relieve the muscles that had tensed from the prolonged concentration at the desk. She was returning the papers to a folder when the phone rang.

  ‘Susan? How are you? This is Andrew.’

  ‘Andrew?’ She was blank for a moment. She didn’t remember putting in a call to any Andrew. Then it hit her. ‘Andrew? Andrew Frazer?’

  ‘How many Andrews do you know?’ He chuckled, unconcerned at her lapse. ‘We met at Veronica’s last Saturday night.’

  ‘Of course. Please excuse me, my head’s in the middle of a case. I certainly remember. Where are you?’

  ‘Sounds uncomfortable. Having your head in a case.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction but Susan simply rolled her eyes and said nothing. ‘I’m still in Sydney. It’s Show time. That’s why I’m calling. I was wondering if you would like to come to the Royal Easter Show with me tomorrow. I’m hoping to buy two stud bulls. How long since you went to the Show?’

  Susan rubbed her eyes. ‘I can’t remember. It’s that long ago.’

  ‘Too long then. This is the last year before it moves to Homebush. Can’t help feeling it won’t be the same if it’s not at the old showground. Come on, this is our last chance. It’ll be fun. Don’t tell me you work on weekends too.’ He almost sounded desperate for her to join him and in a way the idea appealed to her. The Show had not been part of her social agenda since schooldays.

  ‘Will there be fairy floss, dolls on sticks, ferris-wheel rides and can we watch the wood-chop competition?’

  ‘You’re a demanding woman,’ replied Andrew with pretend agony in his voice. ‘Yes, I promise you all of that, plus you can watch me buy a prize bull or two.’

  ‘How could a girl refuse an offer like that?’ said Susan, smiling to herself.

  He collected her at her door and grinned as he swept his Akubra h
at from his head. ‘Hey, you didn’t have to dress the part. Looks great though.’

  ‘I always wear casual clothes when I can,’ she said as she slung her sweater over her safari-style shirt. She wore R.M. Williams boots and an A-line moleskin skirt. ‘They’re comfortable. And I didn’t want to look like a city slicker.’ She was going to add no one would take him for one, either. He was all country boy in his wool tie with a small insignia on it, lightweight wool jacket, moleskin pants and highly polished riding boots. But she didn’t know whether such a remark might hurt his feelings. ‘You look pretty smart yourself. So how’s your week been?’

  He helped her into the rented sedan and put his hat carefully upside down on the back seat so the brim didn’t go out of shape, then ran his fingers through his thick wavy hair. ‘Pretty good. Getting better though. So, what do you want to do first?’

  ‘I don’t want to miss your starring performance at the bull ring.’

  ‘The auction is after lunch. And the bulls are starring, not me.’ He gave her a playful dig in the ribs.

  It was the usual mixture of rural showcase, trade fair and fun park. Sydneysiders loved their ‘Show’ at Easter time. It was an almost ritualistic tribute to the people and the land beyond the urban boundaries that the great mass of city people seldom saw and barely understood, but contributed so much to their prosperity, culture and identity. For the people from the bush and country it was a ritual too, a time to parade with pride their achievements, past and contemporary, and to share with one another the sense of being special that comes from participation in such great tribal gatherings.

  So bushie, townie and city slicker alike revelled before the high altar of rural worship, the huge and spectacular regional displays of produce, arranged in an artistic interpretation of distinctly country themes.