THE SONG MASTER

by Di Morrissey

  The baby was warmly dressed and had been bottle fed every four hours by the nursing staff. The cloth that had been wrapped around her was washed and folded over the end of the cot. Joyce lifted the cloth and shook it out, gazing at the owl figures she knew must represent an Aboriginal Dreaming story. But whose Dreaming?

  Alan Carmichael turned off the lights in his gallery, set the alarm and locks. The street was wet, pools of light shining on the pavements, wisps of sloping rain misting from streetlights. Passers-by hunched intently homeward, slop-ping through the late dusk. He shrugged his tweed jacket closer around his chest and ran his fingers through his dark hair that prematurely showed flashes of silver in the streetlight. He hesitated, then turned down Exhibition Street, hailing a taxi. ‘Preston. Chambers Street.’

  The driver gave him a second glance as they pulled up outside a rambling house with the flying yellow, black and red flag and a printed sign announcing, Aboriginal Child Care.

  Inside he felt immediately welcome. No formality here. A mug of tea, a chatty Koori receptionist, then a beaming welfare worker.

  ‘What can we do for you?’ Joyce’s gaze was frank. This elegant white man, forty something, kind of arty looking, wasn’t their usual visitor.

  ‘I wanted to make a few inquiries about the baby that was left in the art gallery.’

  ‘Look, if you’re thinking of adoption, forget it, love. It’s not a baby for white folk. She’s Koori. She’ll go to relatives.’

  He gave a smile. ‘I was contacted by a friend in the police department. An Aboriginal sergeant, he asked me to see if I could help.’

  ‘You a detective or something?’ Her manner cooled slightly.

  ‘No, not at all. I run an Aboriginal art gallery. He thought I might be able to identify the designs on the wrap that was around the baby.’

  Joyce’s suspicions faded. ‘Oh, that would be a big help. It’s got us stumped. No clue at all about the family. Poor mother, it must have been hard for her to give up such a sweet thing.’

  They walked past a communal dining room where black teenagers and old men were eating. In a community room, two boys played billiards and several girls watched TV. A wall between two rooms had been knocked down to make a sick bay where beds were lined in a neat row. A window looked out to a suburban backyard. An old iron cot stood by the window, a bundle wrapped in yellow in its centre. It looked no bigger than a family-sized serving of fish and chips. Wrapped, ready to go. Alan watched as Joyce’s finger pulled down the edge of the blanket. The baby didn’t stir, and Alan felt the sudden pull of the sight of a sweetly sleeping, vulnerable and dependent creature. Memories of the smell of milk and talcum powder, a head nuzzled into his neck, the dawning recognition of love in wide new eyes, came to him. He touched the soft dark hair of the baby’s head. ‘She’s a cutie.’

  ‘I’ll get the box with her stuff in it.’ Joyce fossicked through a plastic crate full of nappies, clothes and a bottle. At the bottom was the washed and folded hand-screened cloth. She handed it to him and he opened it out, studying the pictures and symbols.

  ‘I’ve seen them before. But I’d have to go through my reference material to identify them properly. Can I take this with me?’

  ‘I suppose so. Where do you think it comes from?’

  ‘I spend a lot of time with artists in the Kimberley and I’ve seen this owl figure there. There’s a white woman who works with the Aboriginal people. She’s coming to see me and I’d like to show it to her.’

  Alan re-folded the cloth and placed it in a plastic shopping bag the woman handed him. ‘I’m wondering if the mother could have come to Melbourne from the Kimberley,’ said Alan. ‘Or maybe she’d grown up in the city and knew about the owl story, but didn’t know who her people were.’

  ‘Or maybe she doesn’t know because she’s white and got no knowledge. Maybe it’s the baby’s father who’s Aboriginal. That could be true, too.’ The woman watched Alan’s reaction. ‘Listen, you take that wrap. But first you show me some ID, and write your phone number and address, and a note to say you’ve borrowed it and will return it within a week.’ She reached for a memo pad headed Aboriginal Child Care Agency and handed it to him with a pen. ‘I hope you can help. For the baby’s sake, I hope so.’

  The black woman and the white man glanced down at the dusky infant, unclaimed, unnamed . . . unaware that one day she would be responsible for the intertwining of many lives.

  Shirley Bisson stirred and glanced at the bed-side clock where green glowing numbers told her it was four minutes past 2 a.m.

  She kicked a leg out of the white damask sheets and wondered what had woken her. Then she heard it. Water running in the kitchen. Then turned off. Ice being clinked into a glass from the icemaker on the fridge door. She was alone in the apartment. Her mind raced. If someone had broken in … how did they get into her secured building, let alone her apartment? Did they think it was empty, or was the intruder so brazen he held no fear? She looked at the phone, knowing if she dialled it would be heard on the kitchen extension. Did she hear footsteps on the carpet? Should she just hide and let them ransack the place and leave?

  Screaming would be useless in the soundproofed luxury in which she lived. Her body was rigid and she felt incapable of moving, and then the shape of a man came through the bedroom door. His movements looked shadowy and sinister. As she held the sheet tightly over her bare breasts, the scream that rose in her throat was reduced to a strangled gasp as he spoke.

  ‘Hey, Shirley. Miss me?’

  ‘Get out of here. I told you never to come back. I’ll call the police. How dare you break in.’

  ‘What break-in . . .’ He spun a key ring on his little finger. ‘I still have my key. Why didn’t you change the locks?’

  ‘You gave me your word you’d never come back here again. It’s been long over.’

  He sat on the end of the bed and flashed her a wide grin. ‘Six months isn’t such a long time. Come on, tell me you’re pleased to see me. I’ve missed you.’

  She glared at the handsome young man, so sure of himself, knowing the effect of his sexuality and charm. ‘Barwon, it’s over. I can’t afford you any more. I’ve come to my senses. The whole thing was madness.’

  ‘You loved every minute of it, admit it. I see your bed’s still empty.’ He moved closer to her.

  In a swift move she scrambled to the other side of the bed and he gave a whistle at the flash of her nude body, ripe and soft and full. At fifty, she had reached that sensuous and luscious peak that can be attractive to a man of any age.

  He flung himself across the bed and pinned her down. She beat his back and head with her fists but with one hand he grabbed her wrists and began nuzzling his face into her neck as he held her. The familiar smell of his hair, the muskiness of his skin flooded her nostrils, reviving memories of passion she knew she couldn’t control.

  ‘Damn you, Barwon . . . don’t do this to me. It’s over. Please just go or . . .’

  ‘Or what . . .’ He began licking her ear and pressed his mouth on hers.

  Inside her head she was shrieking. ‘No!’ Anger and a sense of outrage that he could take control of her again so easily fought with the involuntary response of her tongue probing his teeth apart and the rush of dampness between her legs.

  Sensing her arousal, his hand pressed down on her mound of Venus, fingers parting the soft-haired flesh to enter warm wet territory they knew well. Her knees fell apart, her back began to arch and, as he lifted his face from hers, a soft moan escaped her.

  ‘You always want me, huh, babe . . .’ He began to strip off his shirt, trousers and shoes. ‘Just for old times’ sake, eh . . .’

  The movement, as his attention was diverted to his belt and zipper, gave her the moment of breathing space to gather herself.

  ‘NO! GET OUT!’

  In an instant, as he was pulling off his shoes, she leapt from the bed, rushing down the hall. Standing naked in the kitchen, she looked around wildly, unsure of what she
was doing there. He’d turned on a kitchen bench light and the sight of the glass of iced water, so cheekily fetched as if he still lived there, outraged her. Seeing the broad cutting knife she’d used earlier in the evening, she grabbed it. And stood there, aware of her nakedness, her vulnerability, her confusion over her feelings for this man she’d thought she loved.

  He padded into the kitchen, wearing just his socks.

  ‘Hey, Shirl, don’t be like that. Come on, you know no one makes you feel like I do. I bet you’ve missed it.’ His voice was gentle and wheedling, a voice that had once made her melt. He moved towards her with arms outstretched. ‘I’ve missed my sweet wild honey baby . . .’

  Memories of him dribbling dark honey over her breasts, belly and thighs and slowly licking it off came back to her and she shuddered with involuntary pleasure. She spoke through gritted teeth. ‘I swear I’ll cut your dick off, Barwon, if you take one more step. Get your clothes and get out. NOW.’

  A silly smile creased his face as he held out his arms in a helpless gesture. ‘After what we had. You said I’d always mean something to you . . .’

  ‘You mean trouble, Barwon. You bled me dry, you slept with young girls . . . you used me.’

  ‘And you loved it. You liked having a handsome black stud on your arm to show to your girlfriends . . . someone who not only looked good . . . who was good . . . the best in the sack you’ve ever had or will have, Lady Muck.’

  ‘I bought you and I bought you off for $10,000 worth of credit card bills. There’s no more. I’ll live without sex forever rather than be used by you again.’

  ‘Rash words. But you might have to go without it, sweetheart, those tits are starting to sag.’ He reached out to grab her breast and she swiped at him with the knife, leaving a cut down one arm that started to ooze blood onto the kitchen floor.

  ‘What the fuck!’ He stared in shock at his arm and then lashed out, making a grab for the knife. ‘Don’t be stupid, Shirley!’

  ‘Don’t you call me stupid!’ Sobbing, she began waving the knife in wild sweeps, hurt, humiliation, loneliness engulfing her.

  She had missed him, she knew she’d never have sex like that with the men who moved in her social sphere. A crazy affair with an Aborigine had caused the shock value she’d intended. And then had come her growing attachment to him. But eventually, knowing she could never hold him, that he was restless and possibly bored with her, she had sent him into a spending frenzy through Versace and Armani to entice him to stay.

  When her spending power had run out and signs of her whimpering dependence had begun to irritate him, she’d come to her senses and they’d called it quits. He had moved out his clothes, the jewellery, the knick-knacks – his electronic diary, mobile phone and CD player – and he had given most of it away to the friends who’d offered him a bed and no hassles in Redfern.

  For a middle-aged white woman, divorced, lonely and bored, it was painful. She felt like a voodoo doll someone had stuck pins into to deflate her self-esteem. Pins labelled vulnerable, rejected, annoyed, ashamed. Flattened by self-loathing, she had sought help.

  She had struggled through healing sessions, therapy workshops, body work and seminars that had exposed her soul and emptied the cupboard of personal experience until, lost and frightened, she’d turned back to the Catholic Church of her youth. That was brief solace until she’d realised she’d lived through too much to find salvation in platitudes and condescending sermons.

  So she’d walked into the office of the most expensive psychiatrist in ‘the street of doctors’ and gazing at the beauty of Sydney Harbour from ten floors above Macquarie Street, she’d poured out her feelings about her mother, her three husbands, her ungrateful family and her lovers. Then she’d paid the account and left.

  Shopping in Double Bay, lunches with girlfriends and a trip overseas helped most of all. Now, six months later, she was just starting to feel good about herself – and he walks back in as if nothing had happened.

  The pent-up anger overwhelmed her as she wildly swung the knife, wanting to hurt him, to pay him back.

  Bewildered, afraid and yet concerned for her at this display of madness, he tried to grab her, but the knife dug at his shoulder and he leapt back, clutching the top of his arm, and staggered towards the bedroom, grabbing at his trousers and underpants.

  She dropped the bloodied knife and now stood limply, her hands hanging by her sides as silently the near-naked man struggled to pull on his pants with one hand, the other almost useless from the pain in his shoulder. ‘I forgive you for this, Shirley. I didn’t know I’d hurt you that much.’ He stumbled slightly as he pulled the door open.

  As it swung shut behind him, Shirley dropped the knife on the bench and walked back into the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and began to cry. The hurt gradually turned to anger, and then bitterness. Taking a breath, she lifted the white telephone. ‘Police? Can you send someone round. I’ve just been attacked by an Aborigine . . .’

  He was picked up by two uniformed officers a short time later sitting on a bench by a deserted cab rank, faint from loss of blood and in a state of shock.

  Susan brushed her burnished brown hair into a shiny bob that reached her shoulders and framed her wide face and high cheekbones. She added chunky rose-gold jewellery, slung a cream cashmere sweater over her shirt and picked up a bottle of Hunter Valley Scarborough Pinot Noir.

  Music and conversation drifted out into the street from the open door of the Paddington terrace as she paid the taxi. Shadowy shapes drifted behind filmy curtains. It looked and sounded inviting. She admired, as she always did, the wrought-iron ‘lace’ trim on the exterior of the building and framing the upper balcony. Like the many other houses in the street, its tiny front garden was awash with flowers and shaded by a large tree that was cleverly spotlit.

  As she walked up the garden path, she heard the wrought-iron gate scrape open, and hurried footsteps.

  ‘Hold on, I’m right behind you,’ a cheerful male voice called.

  Before she could turn to see who it was, she was enveloped in a hug from Veronica. ‘So, you two arrived together. Very good. Andrew, this is Susan Massey.’

  In the hallway with its leadlight inset above an arch, he loomed as a strapping, cheerful man in his early thirties. There was no mistaking the outdoor aura about him; hot sun, gum-scented breezes and a man you thought of as able to survive wild bulls and long droughts. He shook her hand. ‘Andrew Frazer.’

  Susan and Andrew followed Veronica and, as they approached the kitchen, she beckoned them to enter. ‘Darling, two new arrivals.’

  Veronica’s husband, Boris, a cuddly Yugoslav bear, put down the spatula he was wielding over a skillet. ‘Susan, lovely to see you.’ He kissed her cheek through his full beard. He shook hands with Andrew who’d put his bottle next to Susan’s on the bench. ‘Bravo, a good pinot and a classic white – mmm, Margaret River, you’re loyal to your State, eh, Andrew? As Susan is also. How about sharing a drop of New Zealand Cloudy Bay with me to remain on neutral territory?’ He poured the crisp dry white wine and they clinked glasses.

  After a few minutes of general small talk, Veronica touched Andrew’s arm. ‘Can I borrow you for a moment, there’re two gentlemen I’d like you to meet. Come and join us when you’re ready, Susan.’

  ‘Have you been slaving in the kitchen all afternoon, Boris? It smells wonderful,’ remarked Susan.

  Boris tasted the sauce. ‘Ah, not all. I am being Veronica’s slave this week. Dig this hole, move that rock, plant that there.’

  ‘Ah, gardening again,’ said Susan. She marvelled at the relationship between these two. It seemed an ideal marriage. Her friend Veronica was a broadcaster whose morning radio program had graduated from ‘women’s subjects’ at station management’s request, to thoughtful and provocative general interest issues by her persistence and talent. Veronica was forty, formerly a print journalist, who had suffered a brief stint in TV. Hating the superficiality and insufferable attitude of m
ale middle management, she had quit before they started counting her wrinkles.

  She’d stayed home and gardened for a year, devoting herself to her Boris in a last-ditch hope they might conceive a child, at the same time writing a column for the Australian newspaper. This became so popular that the radio job on the ABC had been offered.

  In five years she had become a star of the airwaves. And, while she didn’t pocket a million dollars like the schlock jocks who rated high but talked lowest common denominator, Veronica had a substantial, devoted and intelligent audience.

  She had interviewed Susan for a program segment on the law and, despite the ten-year age gap, the two had struck a mutual chord of humour and admiration and had become friends.

  Veronica worked crazy hours and came home to magnificent meals. But no one could accuse Boris of being a wuss. Robust and solid, ham fists looking more suited to swinging an axe than an art brush, his physicality disguised a soft and gentle nature. He was an artist who hibernated for long stretches in the garage that backed onto the rear lane and had been converted into his studio. When he did his disappearing act, as Veronica called it, he would emerge weeks later with unfathomable but critically acclaimed gouaches, large sprawling canvases or intricate abstracts.

  The one thing lacking in their lives was a child. Susan knew Veronica was working on a radio piece about parenting, mothering, postnatal depression and child abandonment, inspired by the recent case of the baby found in the Victorian Art Gallery. It seemed so unfair to Susan that out there was a young mother who chose to give up her child while Veronica and Boris were trying so hard to conceive. She wondered what Veronica’s audience would think if they knew their independent, strong and outspoken host held a fragile and vulnerable core.

  ‘So how are things with you?’ asked Boris.

  ‘Professionally good. Socially mediocre. Overall, I have no right to complain.’