The Songmaster (15 page)

It was Esme who had first given the young nun awareness and knowledge of the deep spirituality and powerful culture of the indigenous people. As she was exposed to Esme’s scientific background and the Aboriginal creation stories she had translated, Beth began to question the rigidity of her Catholic faith. It had come at the same time as her conflicts with the religious system and her personal questioning of the path she had chosen in life. So it was no surprise to Esme that, after a lengthy battle with the parish priest and nuns of her order, Beth had left the Church.

Beth now stayed with Esme, making her home base in the modest cottage in Kununurra, ‘the gateway to the Kimberley’. She felt an obligation to watch out for the old lady who had no family. For Beth, time spent with her wise friend was like dipping into a well of energy, knowledge and power.

This visit was no different from the others, but Beth could see the frailty beginning to weaken
the small frame. Esme’s collarbone and shoulder blades jutted through the fine lawn blouse. Her hands trembled more often and she paused in her steps to catch her breath, which Beth had never seen her do before. But she had marched to the front gate as Beth’s taxi arrived. Esme wore the shredding straw boater that she clamped over her knot of thin white hair. Her riding boots, wrinkled with age, shone from energetic polishing.

‘So, you’ve come. And I’m still here,’ she rasped, her face wreathed in smiles. Few people saw this unabridged joy in her stern features.

‘You’ll always be here, Esme. You’re going to haunt this place in your next life, I know it.’

‘I’m coming back as a willy wagtail. Watch out. I’ll be on your fence, checking up on you, wherever you go.’ They embraced and Beth felt the lightness of the woman she’d always thought was made of steel.

They went into the house where scones and tea waited. ‘Figured you’d be here round this time. Wash yourself and tell me what you’re up to.’ She fussed with the mismatched china as Beth washed her hands at the sink in the simple kitchen where a small laminex table spread with a plastic cloth was set for morning tea.

‘The battle goes on. Still helping the Barradja,’ answered Beth. ‘Ardjani and I have done a few lectures for the university and got a bit of cash in the kick. But this time I think we’re getting something practical worked out
that will move their land claim along a bit. I’m on my way to meet with the old men.’

Esme poured the tea and, scarcely pausing for breath, brought Beth up to date with the news of not only town identities but the movers and shakers through the Territory and the north-west. Beth had stopped being surprised at the influential network Esme maintained with prolific letter writing, reading, attending local meetings, and generally keeping her ear to the ground. She was not in retreat in her latter years, and was fearless in her views and actions for, as she told Beth, she had little to lose at this stage of her life.

‘There’s a new thorn poking into the thin fabric of local politics. If you ask me, given a chance this woman will get out of control,’ Esme announced.

Beth bit into a scone. ‘Hmmm?’

‘Shareen Beckridge. Used to be from Campbelltown in Sydney. Married Bobby Beckridge who ran the caravan park here. When he dropped off the perch, she sold the place, ran a video store and steak house for a bit. The restaurant got closed down.’

‘No good?’

‘Chuck house it was called. Served rotten meat, including roo and emu, once too often. She’s not known for spending a dollar if it can go into her pocket instead.’

Beth wondered where the conversation was going. It wasn’t like Esme to gossip. She had no
time for trivia or idle chit chat. She’d always told Beth that unless she saw it, heard it or was told it from the person involved, she would not give lip service to hearsay.

‘But now she’s got a new career,’ said Esme.

Beth looked up with a knowing smile. She knew it was time for the punchline. ‘Doing what?’

‘Running as an Independent for one of the State seats. Maybe here, against Bingo Robertson.’

‘Politics? Bingo is everyone’s favourite bloke. She wouldn’t have much of a hope. Why is she doing this?’

‘She says she has been inspired by Pauline Hanson, you know that MP in Canberra who’s got the whole country talking about Aborigines and Asians. I’ve heard Shareen talk at council meetings. She’s a bitter and angry woman and lays not only our town’s woes, but the entire country’s problems, at the feet of the Aborigines.’

‘What!’ Beth burst out laughing. ‘What rubbish. How’s she reached that conclusion?’

‘Shareen is no intellectual but she’s clever like a rat. And devious.’

‘What’s her plan?’

‘She has two fellows up here backing her. A councillor and a maverick Labor MP. Probably got some Liberal or National Party right-wingers encouraging her as well. She’s been getting a lot of write-ups in the papers and she’s
been on television, so I hear.’ Esme didn’t believe in viewing the world in a box. ‘She says enough to sound reasonable so the radical nonsense slides past under a sliver of sense.’

Things like . . .?’

‘Too much money being wasted on Aboriginal administration services, the money isn’t going where it’s needed.’

‘I agree with that.’

‘The trouble is, she’s started harping on about special treatment and handouts being given to Aborigines that the rest of the country doesn’t get, and about how so many of them aren’t “real” anyway. And how what they do get they waste, trash, and then simply ask the government agencies for more.’

‘At the expense of the hard-done-by, hardworking whitefellas.’ Beth rolled her eyes.

‘So she says. She makes wild accusations, generalisations that are factually incorrect and offers simplistic, improbable solutions. The scary thing is that up here no one corrects her and people are starting to listen.’

‘It’s a load of bigoted crap. No one outside this town is going to take her seriously.’

‘She’s been on national radio and there’s talk of some TV current affairs show coming up here.’

Beth had let her tea go cold. ‘That’s a worry. Tell me more about the politicians that are backing her.’

‘I talked to them after a few meetings. Seems
to me the plan is to try to stop all the land claims, so vested interests like real estate developers and mining people can get in and go after dollars without the inconvenience of Aboriginal heritage or rights getting in the way,’ said Esme with thinly disguised disgust.

‘That would make things easier for them. Sounds to me like there could be even bigger fish behind the local political boys. Do you know if there is any hint of mining strikes out there? And why are real estate developers interested in a small town like this?’

‘They’re looking at the Kimberley. Tourist and resort development. Some of the world’s most spectacular scenery – the Bungle Bungles, gorges, rivers. Great potential for big overseas-style ranches and resorts. And everybody hopes there’s more iron ore as well as gold, diamonds, you name it, to be dug up. But while there are questions of Aboriginal ownership of the land, developers can’t just go in and let rip.’

‘Our Barradja situation is all of that in microcosm. All they’re asking for is the right to live on a portion of their own land. Their land claim doesn’t encroach on any pastoral leases, yet the authorities are acting as if they want the moon.’

‘It’s a contentious issue all right. White people came here and took up land they considered vacant. Now having to give bits back is an anathema. We’re dealing with guilt, greed and in some cases with good, hardworking people
who just feel threatened that their own backyard will be taken away from them,’ said Esme. ‘The trouble is most don’t understand how the current laws are interpreted and go off ill-informed.’

‘People like this Shareen woman don’t help reconciliation,’ sighed Beth. ‘The ignorance makes me so angry. I bet she knows nothing about true Aboriginal culture or the motives of people like the Barradja.’

‘Why don’t you take her along with you and these other white city folk to that gathering you’re talking about?’ suggested Esme.

‘Ha!’ said Beth waving a hand dismissively. But as Esme carried the teapot back to the hot-water jug to top up their tea, Beth began thinking.

Esme glanced across the room at Beth fiddling with a teaspoon, lost in thought, and knew she’d dropped a pebble in the pond of Beth’s active mind.

On the other side of the continent, Susan was also thinking of Beth. She and Veronica had walked from Veronica’s Paddington terrace to sit on the end of a wharf in Rushcutters Bay. Taking in the moored yachts and cruisers and minimal activity on board, they noted that few were occupied. It was the cocktail hour and genial laughter drifted from the yacht club.

‘Beth asked me why you won’t come out to the Kimberley with us.’ said Susan. ‘I don’t
understand why you’re hesitating. Give me three good reasons.’

‘Isn’t one enough?’

‘What is it?’

‘The IVF program. I have to give myself hormone shots every morning until my eggs are ready to harvest. And the hormones have to be kept chilled. And my period is erratic, and it has to be done on the right day, so it’s all very tricky.’

‘But not impossible. Beth told me there will be refrigeration in the van she’s hired. You could bring your shots and you fly back in time to go to the clinic. I think two weeks away from your normal routine might be good. Turn your mind to other things rather than getting pregnant.’

‘Or not getting pregnant,’ sighed Veronica. Susan was touched by the sadness in her voice. She knew this was Veronica’s last chance. The doctors had said so. Boris had said so, mainly because he couldn’t stand to see the pain Veronica suffered as each month she failed to conceive.

‘I might have to console myself with being aunty to your kids,’ she said to Susan with a rueful smile.

‘That’s a long way off for me, I reckon. At least you’ve found the bloke.’

‘A lot of women aren’t bothering to do things in that order any more,’ said Veronica. ‘I meet a lot of young women in the clinic who are being artificially inseminated because they want
a baby but can’t find the right man to be the father. Marriage isn’t even much of a consideration.’ They sat in silence for a moment. ‘What’s happened to us all?’ she remarked, knowing there wasn’t an easy answer.

‘Anyway, I’m looking forward to this Kimberley trip.’ Susan realised she was starting to get excited about it now.

‘You going to see Andrew out on his property?’

‘I’m going for a few days before the group meets up. I’ll go from Yandoo on to Kununurra. So you could meet me in Kununurra.’

‘It’s not my usual idea of a break.’ Veronica made an effort to be light.

‘Mine either!’ Susan studied her friend. ‘I’d like to share this experience with you.’ In a sudden flash, a thought hit Susan, which she couldn’t understand. ‘Maybe I’m going because I have to take you with me. Does that make sense?’

Veronica laughed. ‘No.’

‘Think about it.’

‘All right. I’ll have to talk to Boris.’

Beth stopped the dusty car in the town of Marrenjowan – a strip of cracked bitumen lined with a few shops, a general store that served as post office, petrol station and message centre, and community rooms that included the Land Council office. Beth stocked up on tea, sugar,
oranges and soft drinks at the store and a carton of cigarettes. Beth occasionally smoked, more often rolling her own. She always bought a gift of filter tips for the men.

A hundred kilometres further on she came to the outskirts of Marrenyikka Reserve, Ardjani’s dry season winter camp. It was marked by rusting fuel drums, rolls of unused fencing wire – dumped, they’d been told, by the authorities for unspecified use – and a broken sofa.

At the sight of the car, children and dogs began running amid a chorus of shouts and barking. As the children, some in shorts, some in track pants, all in bare feet, reached her, she stopped and got out to exchange hugs and then, as many kids as could fit piled into the car to wave from every window. The child next to Beth – there were four crammed in the front seat – pushed across her body to squeal out the driver’s window to a friend.

By the time she had cruised to the main house – a big prefabricated construction of many rooms – smiling women were also coming to welcome her. Two men, both elders of the community, seated in collapsible chairs in the shade of some trees, lifted hands in languid greeting as the overflowing car emptied. There was a bed that served as an outdoor couch on a covered patio, more chairs and mats spread around the remains of a fire. There were four houses here, temporary box-like structures that said government issue. But
most families had rejected the internal dining areas, preferring instead to eat around the communal campfire. A table was nearby, covered with cooking pans, sauce bottles, plates and cutlery, creating an instant kitchen. Fifty metres away, near the expanse of the waterhole in the river, was a shed that housed the generator that supplied their power for lights and refrigerators.

Twenty members of the community were staying here before setting off for the Boab Festival in Derby. Part of the year, some of the women had periodic jobs in Marrenjowan and the men drove in every few weeks for ‘business’. When the summer wet came, they all moved to the government housing in town.

In her role as teacher and adviser, Beth trod the intricate steps between moves by the West Australian Government, the Federal Government, the combined Land Councils of the area and the Barradja elders and their advisers from Aboriginal Legal Services. She kept in touch with community problems because the people were always anxious to know if the money was coming in, for despite their wish to be independent and to have their own land and control their future, they had grown up with the white man’s handout system. At least here, traditional culture survived despite the incursion of white society – TV, videos, canned food, soft drinks and too much sugar, too much starch.