THE SONG MASTER Read online

  They meandered through the old exhibition halls, the intricate and imaginative displays of fruit and vegetables piled high in the cavernous buildings that had seen generations come and go, when the men and women on the land epitomised the battlers against the odds of nature and the vagaries of the markets. With post-war prosperity the woolgrowers and graziers had been considered the elite, envied by trapped city suburbanites. Then with further immigration came Alessi coffeemakers and sushi, and Australia’s multicultural cities celebrated while its country folk battled rising interest rates, increasing debt, vacillating markets and a disinterested bureaucracy.

  Susan turned to Andrew. ‘I’m glad this is all here. Unchanged. I hope it goes on. Just like this. I can’t pickle or crochet, but I’m glad other women do it. I love home-made things.’

  Andrew glanced at her, trying to imagine Susan in an apron chopping up pickle ingredients. The picture didn’t gel. Nor did the vision of her knitting by the fire. ‘You surprise me. I didn’t think this would be your scene. I thought you’d be seaweed, Thai food and gelatos. My mother makes our own sausages, bakes bread. You have to when you’re isolated. And your mother?’

  ‘She’s more seaweed and bocconcini. She writes crime novels. Thrillers, she calls them. Dad’s an academic, so he finds them a bit of a challenge, but really he gets mad because he never figures out “whodunnit”.’

  ‘Is that why you went into the law?’

  Susan laughed. ‘I’ve never thought of that. No. My mother’s heroines run around the back alleys of Zagreb, following men in trench coats with secrets. I like the detail stuff. The nitty gritty of unravelling, then building a case based on precedents, facts and deductions.’

  ‘Umm. It doesn’t sound as exciting. I think your mum has the better deal.’

  There were animals, demonstrations of products ranging from vegetable peelers to tractors, an art show, fashions, new developments in artificial insemination, equipment and inventions for man, beast and farm.

  ‘See anything you fancy?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘I love it all,’ she said with shining eyes. ‘It’s just as I remember when I was a little girl. I’m so glad. It even smells the same – a mix of rotting bananas, sawdust and manure.’

  ‘Showbags aren’t so good any more. Come on, let’s try the shooting gallery.’

  They threw weighted bags at mechanical cruising ducks who refused to budge or buckle. Susan flipped coins into a wishing well but couldn’t land on any prize. Andrew winked and handed her his hat and paid for an air rifle. He fired at wooden birds on a wire flapping past a painted sky. He missed and looked at the sights of the gun, then closed an eye and judged the angle and fired, hitting two in a row. With a feigned smile the boy running the stand handed over a stuffed gingham cloth hen. Susan was delighted. ‘I love it! I’ve always wanted to keep chooks.’

  ‘Then, let’s get you some Easter eggs to go with that hen.’

  ‘Solid ones, please. Filled with pink and white marshmallow.’

  He shook his head as she headed towards a confectionery stand where a lady in a pink cap was spinning sugar into clouds of fairy floss on long sticks.

  ‘Now it’s time for business.’ He moved her towards the machinery displays. ‘Got to keep up with the latest,’ he explained, after spending what seemed an inordinate amount of time looking at pumps and tractors. ‘There’s no machinery showroom for thousands of kilometres where I come from.’ He looked at her from the cab of a tractor. ‘I hope you’re not bored.’

  ‘No. Just starving,’ said Susan clutching her stomach with both hands and grinning.

  ‘Right,’ said Andrew leaping from the machine. ‘To the members’ dining room and lunch.’

  ‘You’ve won me.’

  He took her hand and smiled. ‘Easiest conquest I’ve ever made. Just on the promise of a lunch.’

  She slapped his hand in mock reprimand. ‘Depends on the quality of the lunch.’

  In the old-fashioned, formal dining room Andrew introduced her to several hefty cattlemen. Susan smiled to herself as she remembered the parade of dogs where owners really did seem to resemble their pedigree pooches. These cattlemen looked like their stock – solid muscles, heavy shoulders and jowls, ruddy complexions, unfathomable eyes, deep voices, large feet. Andrew gave her a quizzical look as the men exchanged Show talk – whose bull had won, which breeder had been placed where, who had Grand Champion of this and that, what had happened to certain characters and properties since the last Show.

  ‘Did you understand all that?’ he whispered as they moved away.

  ‘Not really. It’s another world for me.’

  ‘I’ve never been in a courtroom, so we’re even.’

  ‘You’d better hope you never will. Whereas I’d really like to see a property like yours.’

  ‘As I said, you have an open invitation to Yandoo. But surely you know people with properties closer to you. I’m on the other side of the country.’

  ‘I really do want to see the Kimberley. I’m quite curious about it for the first time in my life. I have a client now from over that way – and I met an interesting woman from there. Do you think I’m being told something?’

  ‘I don’t know about that. Who’s your client from the west, maybe I know them?’

  She paused before answering, wondering if she should reveal the identity of her new client. ‘He’s an Aboriginal man. Nigel Barwon. I can’t go into any details.’

  ‘An Aborigine,’ said Andrew with surprise. ‘I thought your firm was one of those posh old-family concerns. Not the legal-aid type of place.’

  ‘This man is paying his way with his own money.’ She was annoyed.

  Andrew heard the irritation in her voice. He recalled their heated exchange at the dinner. He had hoped Susan didn’t have the city-dwellers’ blinkered attitude that all Aborigines were wise storytellers unfairly pushed off their land.

  Susan now wished she had kept her mouth shut. She saw a mini race debate looming. There was still unfinished business from the dinner party. ‘Let’s not spoil the day.’

  He saw her tight expression and decided he didn’t want to get into an argument either.

  Apart from the hiccup of differing opinion, it was a gem of a day. They laughed on rides and cheered on the wood choppers as men in sweat-stained singlets balanced on a timber plank, hacked through a log in seconds, muscles straining, honed axes flashing, chips of wood flying. Susan found the judging of the horses fascinating, if finer points eluded her.

  At the main cattle auction, Andrew gave her a nudge as the stud bulls were led around the ring. ‘See that big Brahman . . . I’m going to bid for him and that Droughtmaster bull over there. So don’t scratch your ear and raise the bid.’

  Susan was amazed at the almost incomprehensible chant of the auctioneer and the speed of the bidding. Cagey old-timers, lazily slumped, appeared disinterested until partly raising a rolled program or touching their hat to make a last-minute bid. Susan felt her stomach twitch with tension. Andrew stood with arms folded and appeared calm. When he started bidding for the bull he wanted, excitement mingled with the tension and she gripped his elbow. When he won the bidding, she gave him an impulsive kiss on the cheek. Andrew looked pleased, although he said he’d gone a bit over his planned price. ‘They’ll improve the stock no end. Keep our artificial insemination program busy. We use the semen for our cows, too much hard work for one old bull,’ he grinned.

  ‘I’m sure he loves his work though,’ remarked Susan, but she couldn’t help thinking how technology aided mother nature these days, though so far it hadn’t done much for Veronica and Boris.

  At sunset they drove across the Glebe Island Bridge and Susan led him to Balmain – café society, cappuccino land, food of many countries, trendies, yuppies, eccentrics. Yet with the familiarity of a community.

  Andrew squeezed Susan’s hand. ‘Hey, this is neat. So what are we eating?’

  ‘Would Afghani food be a new sensation?’

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nbsp; ‘It would. Will I like it?’

  ‘Won’t promise anything other than you’ll love it,’ she said.

  And he did. The companionship was easy, and for Susan it was a nice feeling. He was a gentleman, there was no pressure. But there lingered a sense of unspoken attraction. It would wait. It had been a day of delights and a comfortable evening. She kissed him thanks on the cheek, almost brotherly, an old friend’s kiss, and knew she’d see him again.

  The abandoned baby case blew back into the media the following morning. Susan read the details in the newspaper over breakfast.

  A retired couple – birdwatchers – backpacks weighted with reference books, note and sketch pads, Thermos of tea and sandwiches, binoculars and camera, had walked into the Lawson State Park off the Hume Highway as the dawn chorus began. Feet sensibly shod, they had diverted from the walking track and made their way into a thicket of trees, hoping for a glimpse of a white-throated treecreeper.

  It was Mr Irvingstone who had tripped on what he thought was a log while gazing at the treetops.

  Under the grey blanket, covered in branches, was the naked body of a young woman. A mere slip of a girl. She’d been strangled. A gag was tied across her mouth. Mrs Irvingstone had begun to cry. Mr Irvingstone went behind a tree and threw up.

  The body was identified as that of Lisa Vorland. It was quickly revealed she had recently given birth and tests linked her with the abandoned baby found in the Victorian Art Gallery.

  Susan put down her toast. ‘Poor bloody girl. Some people just cop it,’ she thought.

  She couldn’t get the story out of her head. Such a young girl. What had driven her to give up her baby? No matter what the circumstances, that would never be an easy decision. They’d probably never know why. The tragedy kept running through her mind, haunting her.

  Susan spent the morning in the Family Court where this time she was representing a mother who wanted full custody of her two children. She returned to the office, grateful she’d won this case as neatly as her last.

  Back at her desk, she rang Beth Van Horton. They discussed Barwon’s case. ‘So what did you make of him?’ asked Beth.

  Susan considered her answer. ‘Well, between you and me, he is a charming fellow. I can see how Shirley found him attractive. There is fault on both sides, it’s nothing more than a domestic really. An unfortunate misunderstanding. It’s a shame it got this far.’

  ‘She’s brought humiliation on both of them.’

  ‘We’ll try to keep it all as low key as possible. But of course, we can’t control the media. They’re going to get stuck into a handsome former celebrity who’s ripped off a rich woman,’ said Susan.

  ‘Not to mention the black and white issue,’ added Beth. ‘It’s got all the ingredients of a bad soap opera. The sooner he gets to the Kimberley, the better. I’m heading there when I leave here. And I hope he’ll be following me soon.’

  ‘How long are you staying in the Kimberley?’ asked Susan.

  ‘I never make plans. I go and then decide. Time and attitude are different once you’re in the Kimberley.’ She gave a small laugh. ‘It’s another world. Being with the Barradja is another world. It’s something everyone should experience.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Susan was intrigued.

  ‘It’s not just the enjoyment of being with these people, it’s how it alters you. It’s changed my life over the years. I look at the world, the people in it, and who I am, quite differently now. And for the better, I might add.’

  ‘I wish I could experience that.’ The words fell out of her mouth before she’d thought about it.

  ‘Why don’t you? It’s very simple. Just come.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ laughed Susan. ‘You know how you get to turning points in your life? Maybe I’m facing one now.’

  ‘It would be a valuable experience for you, a learning experience if you’re prepared to open yourself to whatever happens.’ Beth’s voice was soft and down the phone line Susan could sense that there was a subtext in Beth’s words, but wasn’t sure what it was.

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘You’re the one with the deadlines, pressures and career. You decide what’s important in your life,’ said Beth. ‘You tell me if you want to come, and I’ll fix things.’

  ‘Thanks, Beth.’

  Over dinner she told Andrew about her idea to go to the Kimberley with Beth. He was pleased and he started telling her places she should see. ‘Bungle Bungles, Broome, any of the Kimberley coast, Yandoo . . .’

  ‘Wait. I’m not making this a sightseeing holiday. Though I’m still keen to visit your place. I’ve never been to an outback property.’

  ‘Then what is the reason?’

  Susan sipped her wine. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. I guess I’ll let Beth be my guide. You know how sometimes you feel you just want to do something.’

  ‘I try to avoid those times. They’re dangerous. I like to plan and be in control.’

  ‘I’m beginning to believe it’s better to leap in the deep end. You can’t be responsible and do the right thing every day of your life.’

  ‘I guess. I never think about it. I’m working at daybreak most days. Till past dark.’

  ‘I can say the same thing. I’ve never taken off, been irresponsible . . . maybe that’s not the word. I’ve never just been free with no plans. I’ve studied and worked since I started school.’

  Andrew shook his head, a trifle bemused. This girl intrigued him. ‘They call it “smelling the breeze,” the desire to go over the range – The King Leopold Ranges.’

  ‘It’s not just the physical journey, Andrew. It’s the inner one as well. I don’t understand any of it, but I just have a feeling that time spent over there with these people will be, I don’t know, special.’

  Andrew stared at the tablecloth before answering. ‘These people. What makes you think they’re special?’

  Susan bristled. ‘I don’t know. That’s why I think I should go. What about you? I bet you just talk business, give orders and be the boss.’

  ‘Someone has to be the boss. That’s my role. And Dad’s, too. Maybe when you’re there you’ll understand better how tough you sometimes have to be when running a big property. You can’t afford to be soft-hearted.’ He gave her a quick smile, trying to defuse his last words. ‘I mean, we don’t give our cattle names. If an animal is injured, we can’t take it home and nurse it back to health, it’s too far, you can’t hold up men, all those sorts of things.’

  ‘So you shoot it?’

  He nodded and Susan blurted, ‘What about the black population on Yandoo? What happens if an Aboriginal stockman falls off his horse and breaks his leg?’

  Andrew didn’t take offence. He laughed. ‘We wouldn’t shoot him, for God’s sake. We’d call in the Flying Doctor.’

  Nonetheless, Susan could see the pragmatic attitude that ruled Andrew’s thinking.

  Sensing her feeling, Andrew touched her hand. ‘Susan, don’t think I regard Aborigines as second-class citizens. They’re crucial and important men on a station. Great horsemen and good with cattle. They’ve been very important to opening up the west. From way back. And you know, when I was growing up, my closest friendship was with an Aborigine.’ He stopped, looking reflective.

  This remark startled Susan. ‘Ah, now you can say some of my best friends are Aborigines, right?’ she said with sarcasm leavened with a smile.

  He looked at Susan, unsure whether to take it as a joke or a social comment, and decided to let it pass. ‘It’s something I don’t talk about much.’ He topped up their wine. ‘I was four, my brother had just been born and with all the excitement I wasn’t being watched as closely as normal and I toddled off for a walk, and before anyone noticed I was way down by the blacks’ camp close to the creek. I started exploring, and climbing over some pandanus roots, I tripped and fell in the creek and was out of my depth. I couldn’t swim, but I had the wits to hang onto a branch and yell at the top of my lungs.’


  ‘Who rescued you?’

  ‘This black kid. He was only six at the time. A bit of a loner who kept wandering away from the women at the camp.’

  ‘Like you.’

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, he jumped in the creek – he was at home in water like a little platypus – and he swam me piggyback to the bank.’

  ‘He must have been a bit of hero.’

  Andrew smiled. ‘Do you know, we never told anyone. I guess we knew I’d get into trouble and be kept under stricter surveillance. So we started playing games, my clothes dried and I wandered home for lunch. The grown-ups were really fussed when they realised I’d gone missing, but I started to make a habit of it and I always turned up, so as I got older, it became accepted. Within a year I was spending most of the day with Hunter. He taught me to fish, catch lizards, throw a spear, all kinds of stuff. We were like brothers. Hunter and I shared everything until puberty, when he got initiated and I wasn’t allowed to share in that. The old men took him off and when he came back with his body cuts, and he’d been circumcised, he said he couldn’t talk about it. And he’d changed. He seemed older, different. And he couldn’t spend time playing with me the way he used to, he had responsibilities and things to learn.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course. I was always helping with musters and around the stockyards. Hunter and I were still educated together through School of the Air. We’d sit under the pepper tree outside the house with the two-way radio on a table. Julian, my brother, and Hunter and I did our homework together for ages like that.’

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Susan.

  ‘Then the day came when I was twelve and I was sent to boarding school. I came home for Christmas holidays and Hunter was gone. He’d been sent to a mission school, so we lost touch.’

  ‘So you’ve never seen him since?’ When Andrew shook his head, Susan reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘That’s sad.’

  ‘Anyway, I can still throw a boomerang.’ He laughed. ‘Maybe that’s something you’ll learn while you’re out west. You going to drive over?’ he asked suddenly.