Rain Music

by Di Morrissey

  *

  With renewed determination, Ned returned to his work the next day, but still inspiration refused to come. The peace and calm he enjoyed at the river house were not proving to be the solution to rekindling his creativity. He began to feel the nagging fear of failure. He found that he’d get just so far into writing a song and then he’d dry up. Nothing flowed; inspiration was always short lived. He tried re-establishing a firm routine of working, but he found the time dragging. He tried taking short breaks and then longer ones in an attempt to still his mind. In the past these restless moods had prompted Ned to move on, in the hope that new places and new people would give him ideas. But here he was in the perfect setting, with all the right circumstances: peace and quiet, no interruptions, nothing to do except write, and yet he couldn’t get his act together. If nothing came to him, what would he do? In his head he imagined he could hear his mother’s gentle voice saying, You’ll get there, Ned. You’ll do it. This is your dream. This is what you have always wanted to do. I have such faith in you.

  Such thoughts only made him feel worse. Sitting in the sun in the beautiful garden, he found himself beginning to panic. He stood and began to pace back and forth. He could no longer delude himself. He was nearly forty, he thought, and he’d only released one album, and although he’d played in many gigs to appreciative audiences, they had tended to be small ones. In short, although his career might be called a moderate success, that was all it was. He had not hit the big time and his chances of doing so now were running out. He began to pace faster. Maybe he had made the wrong decisions right from the start. He was a perfectionist and wanted to do things his way and not sell out to the big companies. But, if he thought about it, there were few artists who’d stuck to their guns and followed this route who had ever been successful. Perhaps being such an idealist was hindering him? He wanted his music to unite people, to move their spirit. He wanted his songs to honour the earth, to ask people to learn to love what they had around them. He knew people responded positively to him whenever he appeared, but he couldn’t live on applause from a few devoted fans. Should he now abandon his dream of creating music his way? But if not, then what?

  He shook his head and felt his stomach turn. He walked over and stood on one of the terraces. For the hundredth time, he was amazed by his bizarre surroundings. It was not just the unusual dwelling but the entire landscape in which he now found himself that gave him cause to reflect. He slowed his breathing, trying to relax himself. Was the remoteness and the climate part of the attraction for certain types of individuals, who were prepared to put up with all the vicissitudes, problems and loneliness just to live here? Perhaps this was why he had often heard the remark about the far north being full of interesting characters, a comment sometimes said in an amused tone, sometimes quite disparagingly. He knew his time here was short. The rainy season would be here soon. And while he had managed his finances so he could sustain himself through this break, his money wouldn’t last forever. He needed to accomplish something during this time to make it worthwhile. He would accomplish something.

  Defiantly he took up his guitar and headed towards a spot at the back of the garden where the branches of the poinciana trees hung low, shading him from the fierce northern sun like a green tent.

  He was deeply involved in his music when some instinct made him stop playing. He was used to being totally alone, and he was familiar with all the sounds around him, so when he heard an unusual noise, he was immediately on the alert.

  He got up and walked down the steps and into the main building. As he went into its central area, he was shocked to see a man lounging on a chair. The toilet flushed from out the back and another man strode into the room.

  ‘Hey! What’s up? Who the hell are you?’ Ned exclaimed.

  The men looked up, clearly surprised to see him.

  Where have these men come from? thought Ned. He always kept the gate locked, and besides, he would have heard a car approach. Ned felt distinctly uncomfortable. The men were scruffy, as though they’d been in the bush for some time, and two backpacks had been dumped in one corner.

  ‘Did your car break down?’ Ned asked. ‘Are you friends of Carlo’s?’

  ‘Yeah, Carlo, that’s right,’ said one of the men, who was wearing a faded blue shirt. ‘We’re a bit short on supplies so we thought we’d see if we could pick up some food. Didn’t think anyone was here.’

  The second man, who was sporting a mullet haircut, spoke quickly. ‘How about a drink?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Ned guardedly. The men had made themselves at home, yet Ned couldn’t help but feel they didn’t belong here. ‘I’m Ned.’

  ‘Hi, Ned,’ said the man with the blue shirt. Somehow he didn’t sound friendly.

  ‘So, what are you guys up to? Hunting? Fossicking?’ Ned asked, pouring some water into a couple of glasses and handing them to the men. The men drank the water and then started looking around the room.

  The man in the blue shirt didn’t say anything, but grabbed the remains of Jack’s bourbon and a bottle of rum and packed them into his backpack.

  ‘Hey, you can’t take that,’ Ned said sharply.

  ‘Who says?’ asked the man in the blue shirt. ‘Carlo always gives us supplies.’

  The other man picked up a whisky bottle and a couple of bottles of Carlo’s homemade grappa. ‘Got any beer?’

  Before Ned could reply, the man with the blue shirt spoke pointedly to his mate. ‘You nuts? We can’t carry a stack of tinnies. This’ll do.’ He turned to Ned. ‘What food you got?’

  ‘Not a lot.’ Ned was not going to tell them about his recent big shop in Cooktown. ‘Look, all I can give you is some basic supplies. How did you say you knew Carlo?’ He almost felt he should offer them a lift, just to get rid of them, until it occurred to him that they might simply drive off with his car.

  ‘Old mates. We go way back,’ answered the man in the blue shirt, looking around again. ‘Where’s the food you’ve got?’

  Ned pointed to the kitchen. ‘There’s some bread and ham and cheese in the fridge. You could get better food at the roadhouse, though.’

  The men didn’t answer him, but walked through to the kitchen, where one of them started to pull food from the fridge. Ned watched on helplessly.

  ‘Carlo always lets us take food too,’ the man with the mullet said over his shoulder.

  As Ned watched the two men pack the food in their backpacks, he began to sweat. Could these men really know Carlo? Why did I mention Carlo’s name? he thought, mentally kicking himself. They seemed very sure of themselves, but they made Ned feel very uneasy. He wished that he had met Carlo before moving in so that he could have found out more about any friends who were likely to drop in and help themselves. Ned controlled his impulse to ask more questions as he didn’t want the men hanging around.

  ‘How come you’re here, mate?’ one of the men asked abruptly.

  ‘I’m housesitting until the wet season starts,’ said Ned, thinking that it was none of their business. ‘I’m not sure what that has to do with you.’

  ‘Just trying to be friendly,’ replied the man in the blue shirt, who sounded anything but. ‘We’d better get going. We’ve got a way to go before it gets dark.’

  ‘Thanks for the supplies, mate,’ sneered the man with the mullet.

  The two men hurried down the terrace towards the river and, as Ned watched, he saw them get into a couple of camouflaged green double kayaks and stow their backpacks. Then they picked up their paddles and pushed off, gliding down the river in the fading evening light.

  Ned returned inside and poured himself a drink. He realised unhappily that although this place might be sealed off from anyone coming down the track through the bush, the river was an open frontier. For the first time since being here, he felt vulnerable. While those men had said they were Carlo’s friends, Ned was sure now that they weren’t and Ned’
s gut was telling him something wasn’t right at all. Maybe he should report the matter to the police, but it was getting too dark to drive to the roadhouse. He was sure to get lost on the poorly marked track. Anyway, by the time he had a chance to speak to the police, the men would be long gone. Whatever he decided, there was nothing he could do until morning.

  *

  But the next morning, after a surprisingly good night’s sleep, he began to feel optimistic again. The dark clouds that had been looming over his mood yesterday had begun to dissipate, and he decided that by now the men would be well away and there was no point driving all the way to the roadhouse to report the incident to the police. Although he really didn’t believe a word of what they had said, without Carlo, it couldn’t be proven that they were not his friends. They’d been rough and rude but there were a lot of colourful characters in these parts. He comforted himself with the thought that he would be unlikely to ever see them again.

  So with renewed determination, he took up his guitar again to work on a tune that was just starting to make itself known in his head. An hour or so later, he heard the approach of a car. He wandered down to the gate but didn’t open it until he recognised the driver as Frederick.

  ‘Hi, Frederick, what are you doing here?’ asked Ned, pleased to see the congenial roadhouse owner.

  ‘Thought I’d get away for a bit and take a drive out here to see how you’re going,’ Frederick said as he parked the car, lifted a box out of the passenger side and got out. ‘Brought you a few goodies from Theresa.’

  After Ned had made them both a coffee, the two of them wandered out to the terrace overlooking the river.

  ‘Looks so peaceful and sluggish, that river,’ said Frederick. ‘Hard to believe that shortly, when the wet arrives, it will be a raging torrent covering most of the garden and will come up close to the house. Still, you’ve got a bit of time before that happens. What have you been up to, getting on with your music all right?’

  ‘Not as well as I’d like – it’s hard graft – but this is a nice place to work. Peaceful and quiet, except for yesterday,’ replied Ned, and then told him about yesterday’s encounter with the two men. When he had finished the story, Frederick clapped him on the shoulder in a comforting fashion.

  ‘You’re right, those men sound a bit rough, but you have to remember that we get quite a few odd bods in this neck of the woods. Take Jack, for example.’

  ‘Jack doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable like these men did,’ replied Ned.

  ‘Good to hear that. Jack’s not everyone’s cuppa, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s all right. And mind, he’s a good friend of Carlo’s, too. Maybe these guys were just two more of Carlo’s odd collection of mates. I wouldn’t be too concerned, but then I wasn’t here yesterday,’ said Frederick.

  ‘Well, I was, and I don’t think those men knew Carlo at all. Both were nasty bits of work. I did think of reporting them to the police, but it was too late to drive to your place.’

  ‘It’s a pity that you don’t have a sat phone. Those phones can mean life or death out here.’ Frederick scratched his chin. ‘Ned, do you want me to ring the police for you back at the roadhouse? I can’t guarantee that they’d drive all this way out here to speak to you, though.’

  Ned hesitated but then shook his head. ‘Thanks, but no, Frederick, you’re probably right about those blokes. I don’t want to put the police to any trouble. This is a hell of an out-of-the-way place. I reckon the men will be long gone by now, so it’d be a wild goose chase. They were shady, but they didn’t actually do anything besides nick some alcohol and a bit of food.’ He shrugged. ‘But if those men were really Carlo’s friends, I have to question his taste!’

  Frederick laughed and chatted a bit longer. Then he drained his coffee cup and bid Ned farewell. Watching Frederick drive off down the track, Ned felt the stillness and solitude of his bush setting settle around him once more. Glancing about, he thought he felt eyes on him. Get a hold of yourself, he thought. There’s nothing there. But even so that night he didn’t sleep well and he began to look forward to heading back to Cooktown even more.

  6

  The morning after her trip to the Daintree, Roberta drove Bella the hour and a half back to Port Douglas to collect her car. As they drove down the coast through the green cane fields, Bella was struck again by the beauty of the region. The hills in the distance were not as clear as they had been a few days ago, but the sky was still gloriously blue and the sea the gorgeous turquoise colour that one associates with the tropics.

  They passed a car loaded with holiday gear and suitcases and Bella smiled to see a small boy and girl laughing excitedly in the backseat. Suddenly a memory flashed into her mind from when Ned had been about ten and she must’ve been seven or eight. They’d been on a family holiday in the mountains of Victoria and Alex had taken them out hiking to a lookout. Alex had kept up a brisk pace and Ned had complained loudly about being hot and tired. Alex had replied that the exercise was good for him. When they reached the lookout, Alex had quickly taken a photo of them looking at the view, and then they began the hike back to the car. Ned’s whingeing increased in volume till he was silenced by a rebuke from Alex, who was marching ahead of them both. Bella trotted in his wake trying to catch up to him, but Ned lagged further and further behind. About ten minutes later, Ned came sprinting up to Alex, tears in his eyes.

  ‘I’ve lost my jumper!’ he cried. ‘I can’t find it!’ Alex had groaned, very loudly. Ned had worn his favourite football jumper on the hike. Ned loved his footy jumper so much that he rarely took it off. Everyone knew how attached Ned was to it and it was a family joke. Alex wheeled around.

  ‘Why on earth did you take it off?’

  ‘I was hot,’ Ned said. ‘So I tied it around my waist and it must have fallen off.’

  ‘How could you be so thoughtless, Ned?’ Alex asked, clearly frustrated. ‘Stop crying and let’s start looking for it.’ He strode back down the path. They searched for a while but saw no sign of it. Alex became quieter and quieter and he began looking at his watch.

  ‘Kids, I’m going to have to take you back. It’s getting dark and it’s not safe for us out here,’ he said. Ned protested loudly, saying that they couldn’t just leave his favourite jumper behind, but Alex insisted. Without another word, he bundled them into the car and drove quickly to their accommodation, Bella and Ned both in tears. As soon as Alex had delivered the children to Josie, he drove back to the park, armed with a torch. It took him more than an hour to find the jumper. When Alex returned with the jumper, he seemed like a hero to Bella. Ned was happy too, but the jumper story had come up several times over the years, always to demonstrate how irresponsible Ned could be. Thinking about it now, years later, Bella realised that although Ned was quite young when the incident occurred, the event seemed in many ways to be typical of the fractious relationship between Alex and Ned.

  ‘Can I ask you what you plan to do next?’ asked Roberta, rousing Bella from her reverie. ‘Are you staying here for a bit or are you going to try to find your brother right away?’

  ‘I’ll stay overnight in Port and have a bit of a look around. I plan to try to contact a couple of musicians who backed my brother’s show in Cairns. I’m hoping they might have a better lead on where Ned’s gone. They live on the Atherton Tablelands. Who knows, Ned might be up there.’

  ‘Atherton is a great area. It’s a good place to stop and look around,’ replied Roberta.

  ‘The whole of Far North Queensland is amazing,’ said Bella with a laugh. ‘I can understand why my brother is roaming around up here. It’s an intriguing and beautiful place.’

  ‘I’ve got time for a cup of coffee, if you like, before I have to get back. I think everyone will be fine for a couple of hours without me,’ said Roberta.

  She parked the car near the pier and the two walked into a nearby café.

  ‘I loved your camp,
’ said Bella as a hot latte was placed in front of her. ‘But I really missed good coffee.’

  The two women sat there quietly, enjoying their coffee and flakey almond croissants as they watched several tour boats taking their passengers out to explore the nearby Barrier Reef.

  ‘By the sound of things, you and your brother must have been close for you to go to all this trouble looking for him,’ said Roberta when she had finished her last mouthful of croissant.

  Bella was thoughtful. ‘We were very close when we were younger, but not so close lately. We used to get on really well. Ned used to tease me, but it was never in a nasty way. We used to goof around a lot together; tripping each other up, spilling water, stupid things like that.’

  ‘Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,’ said Roberta with a smile.

  ‘Ned had an annoying way of looking at things sometimes. Once when I fell over, he didn’t help me up right away, but asked me what the ants were like close up,’ Bella smiled, rolling her eyes. ‘Mum always says, “Ned’s just Ned,” and accepts him as he is, which is good, but I think she lets him get away with too much. Certainly things she’d pull me up on.’ Bella stopped, suddenly shocked at this outpouring. ‘But when we were kids and I was scared or upset, Ned would sing to me, or make up a song to make me smile. He was gentle, though he could get protective if he thought I was being teased or bullied by someone at school.’

  ‘That’s what big brothers are for,’ said Roberta. ‘Was he always into music?’

  Bella nodded. ‘Yes, but especially after he started high school. He was a more than competent cricketer but preferred spending time in the music room. I guess Mum and Dad should have figured out early on that music would be Ned’s first love. Of course, for professionals like my parents – well, Dad especially, he was a doctor – music wasn’t considered a proper career.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I can understand that. Making music your career can be very difficult. It’s not a safe option.’