Spirits of the Ghan

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Sydney Uni,’ she replied. ‘I was born in Sydney, grew up there.’

  ‘And what was your major? Anthropology, I presume?’

  ‘Yep. Then after a PhD in English I focused on Indigenous languages, particularly those of the central desert. I had a bit of a head start there because I’d grown up speaking Arunta with Mum.’

  ‘That’s really impressive,’ he said admiringly. ‘I bet your parents were proud.’

  ‘Dad was. Mum never got to see me graduate, she never even saw me go to uni. She died when I was sixteen.’ Jess’s manner was business-like; she was just stating the facts.

  ‘Oh, what a pity, how sad.’ He was neither confronted by the disclosure nor compelled to offer sympathy, she noted, but his reaction could not have been more genuine. ‘How very, very sad,’ he said.

  ‘Yes it was,’ she admitted, ‘it was terribly sad. Mum died under tragic circumstances. She was a beautiful woman, but a lost soul in many ways, not knowing who she was, a black woman in a white world. That’s why Dad was so keen for me to embrace both cultures.’

  ‘A wise man obviously.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jess gave a light laugh, ‘he’s not at all bad for an Irish muso.’ She felt self-conscious that she’d shared such intimacies with a virtual stranger, but Matt’s sincerity had demanded an honest response. ‘My round,’ she said and polishing off the last of her beer she rose and crossed to the bar.

  She was back five minutes later.

  ‘So what about you, Matt?’ she said, determined to change the subject. ‘What’s your story?’ And placing the beers on the table she sat expectantly.

  ‘Not much of a story at all,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘Adelaide boy, following in father’s footsteps, dad a surveyor, that sort of thing …’ He was about to fob her off in his customary manner when he felt the strangest compulsion. I must tell her about my dream, he thought, and even as he wondered why he would consider such a thing, a voice started urging him on. Tell her, the voice said, tell her, tell her, over and over, insistent, demanding, and he found himself unable to resist. ‘There is something I’d like to share with you actually. I don’t know why, but …’ He halted, unsure how to begin.

  ‘Go on, Matt,’ she said encouragingly. It was Jess who was now intrigued. This bewildering man who fluctuated from remote to caring, but who appeared at all times supremely confident, seemed suddenly unsure of himself.

  ‘I had a dream last night,’ Matt heard himself say, ‘as a matter of fact I’ve had a similar dream for the past two nights and I believe it has something to do with my grandfather …’

  Why am I telling her this, he wondered, why? But he’d started now and he couldn’t stop. The normally detached Matt Witherton, who made a habit of revealing nothing of himself to others, now could not stop talking. He told her about the dreams he’d had, recounting them to her in their every horrific detail. He told her about the grandfather he’d never known who had died working on the Burma Railway.

  ‘His name was Charlie,’ he said, ‘he was around twenty-seven years old when he died and he never knew he had a son. He didn’t even know his wife was pregnant when he went to war. My father was born after Charlie was taken prisoner.’

  Why am I pouring out the whole family history? he thought. But still he couldn’t stop. He told her of his desperate search for Charlie in the dream that had become a nightmare, and he told her of his conclusion that there must be some connection between his grandfather working on the Burma Railway and him working on the Ghan.

  ‘I suppose there’s some parallel that can be drawn between the two,’ he said, fumbling desperately to make sense of it all, ‘but why my subconscious mind would choose to make the connection now and with such force, I really don’t know.’

  Then the words stopped tumbling out and he came to a halt. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said after a moment or so. ‘I can’t imagine why on earth I told you all that. I just felt some insane need to –’ He broke off, convinced he must appear quite ridiculous. ‘Something seemed to demand I share my dream with you and …’ He shook his head confused. ‘I’m sorry, really sorry. I don’t know what got in to me. I don’t know what’s going on.’

  She could see he was lost, perplexed. Even in the very short time of their acquaintance it had become clear to Jess that this was not a man accustomed to experiencing confusion, and in the face of his obvious discomfort she couldn’t help feeling sympathetic. She was relieved – when he’d started to speak so personally, she’d wondered for one brief moment whether he might be coming on to her. She was quite sure now that he was not. She was quite sure now that she knew exactly what was going on.

  ‘Do you believe in an afterlife, Matt?’ she asked abruptly.

  ‘A what?’ He was taken aback by the non sequitur.

  ‘The spirit world,’ she said, ‘do you believe in the spirit world?’

  ‘No.’ Where the hell is this going? he wondered.

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ She gave a brisk nod, which only mystified him further. ‘I do,’ she said, ‘I believe implicitly in the spirit world, which means that I find all of this quite simple. Your grandfather is making contact with you.’ She ignored the dumbfounded stare that greeted her remark. ‘I don’t know what Charlie’s trying to tell you, but he’s out to make contact – of that I’m quite sure. He’s sending those images so you’ll know who he is.’

  Matt made no reply, remaining agog at the mere thought of such a possibility, so she continued. ‘It wasn’t just something demanding you share your dream with me, Matt, it was your grandfather.’ She smiled. His expression of sheer disbelief amused her. ‘Charlie knows you’re a non-believer and he wants me to convince you he’s around so that you’ll listen to what he has to tell you. Am I making any sense at all?’

  ‘Ah … I’m not really sure.’ He gave a noncommittal shrug, not wishing to offend, but finding the whole idea utterly fanciful.

  Jess laughed, aware she’d made no inroads. ‘Who knows, perhaps Charlie’s even channelling himself through me,’ she said jokingly. ‘I must say I’ve never thought of myself as a spiritual medium, but anything’s possible.’

  Matt decided not to tell her of the weird sensation he’d experienced when they’d first shaken hands and the connection he’d felt upon their meeting, God only knew what she’d come up with if he did.

  Jess’s smile faded as she made one last serious attempt to convince him. ‘You really should give this some thought, Matt. We blackfellas believe the link with our ancestors is strong, very strong and that when they visit us it’s usually for a reason, perhaps to ask something of us, or perhaps to give us a warning. If your grandfather is trying to communicate with you, and I’m quite sure he is, you must make yourself accessible, you mustn’t put up walls.’

  She leant back, beer in hand. ‘End of lecture,’ she announced, lightening the moment, ‘but don’t be alarmed if the dreams re-occur; just go with the flow and see what happens.’

  He picked up his own glass. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said. They acknowledged a brief salute and took a swig of their beers. ‘Thanks, Jess,’ he added, ‘and I really mean that.’ It was doubtful she would ever convert him, but he was grateful for the attempt. And he felt strangely unburdened by the recounting of his dream. They had shared something. That much he could not deny. ‘You’ve been a great help. I’m not sure exactly how,’ he admitted, ‘but you have.’

  ‘Good, I’m very glad to hear it.’ Then she added glibly, ‘I was a bit worried at first, I thought you might be coming on to me.’ The words slipped out with ease, but she was aware that she meant them as a gentle warning.

  ‘Good God no,’ his response was so immediate that he hoped he hadn’t offended. ‘Not that you’re not extremely attractive,’ he added with a grin, and she certainly was, ‘but a relationship is the last thing I’m after.’ He’d recognised from the outset that Jess Manning was not the sort to be briefly bedded, and one-night stands interspersed with the odd casual fling was the
only sex Matt was interested in. He hadn’t had a serious relationship for close on a decade, not since Angie’s death. He doubted he ever would. Even after all these years the memory of Angie and the love they’d shared remained so strongly with him that he couldn’t encompass the thought of commitment to another woman.

  ‘The last thing I’m after too,’ Jess said agreeably. ‘Once bitten twice shy as far as I’m concerned. Here’s to friendship,’ and they clinked glasses.

  They had one more beer after that and then parted company, Jess saying three was her limit. They’d exchanged phone numbers and he was enjoying her company so much he would have liked to have asked her to join him for dinner, or at least arrange to meet up again, but he didn’t, sensing for the first time that there was something vulnerable beneath this young woman’s confident exterior. ‘Once bitten twice shy,’ she’d said, and he hadn’t pursued the topic – it was none of his business.

  She refused his offer of a lift home, she liked walking over the footbridge, and they said their good nights outside the Tavern.

  ‘Let me know if Charlie pays another visit,’ she said in such a casual manner that he really couldn’t tell whether or not she was joking. ‘I’m quite sure he will and I’m dying to find out what he’s so keen to impart.’

  They were both aware that a genuine friendship had been established and in Jess’s case it came as a great relief. Friendships with white men she was happy to embrace, relationships with white men she was not. She did not want a relationship of any kind, not now while her wounds were still healing, but most particularly she did not want a relationship with a white man. Never again, she thought, her mind on Roger as she walked across the footbridge.

  Professor Roger Macready had been Jess’s mentor during her PhD days. He’d also been her hero, but then he’d been the hero of every student fortunate enough to experience the one-on-one tutorials he conducted in his private office at Sydney University. A charismatic man who flaunted convention, he was the antithesis of the crusty academics whose lectures they were accustomed to sitting through day after day. Even his appearance set him apart from the norm; wiry, athletic, brown hair flecking attractively and prematurely grey, a beard that was neatly clipped as a rule, but on occasions wild and unkempt, signalling he’d just returned from a field trip to some remote region.

  Roger Macready had come to the fore as a young anthropologist in the early eighties when he was contracted to supervise a series of Aboriginal site surveys in Western Australia. The Burrup Peninsula was being opened up for mining and the offer of employment had come, strangely enough, from the WA Museum. The Museum Board was the vested authority for Aboriginal sites under the Aboriginal Heritage Act 1972, and therefore responsible for employing the necessary experts to survey the project area. Given the times, it was hardly surprising that the Anthropology department was undergoing a boom at the University of Western Australia, but as yet there had been no fully qualified anthropologists in the state, so the museum had hired a number of undergraduate and Honours students and a job offer had been put out to the eastern states for an expert to lead the team. Roger’s application had been accepted and, aged twenty-seven, he’d found himself at the vanguard of career opportunities previously not available to the average anthropologist, whose path was destined to follow more conventional academic lines. The controversial mix of petroleum drilling rights, mining leases and Aboriginal heritage sites was opening up a whole new world for those anthropologists prepared to ‘go bush’.

  It wasn’t long before Roger Macready’s services were called upon throughout the country in areas where mining and other outback development projects were proposed, and the experience gained from his field trips readily served the further pursuit of his academic studies. Roger had the best of both worlds. He was an acknowledged authority in the practical field of Aboriginal site surveys and an academically respected anthropologist specialising in Indigenous culture, most particularly ancient artworks, which he’d embraced with a passion. From the petroglyphs of the Burrup Peninsula, where all Aboriginal art was in the form of rock carvings, to the ochre and kaolin paintings of the central desert people, Roger, now Professor Macready, was a recognised expert.

  By the time Jess had come into Roger’s life he’d carved out a very tidy niche for himself. At thirty-seven he enjoyed the freedom of field trips that took him away from the world of academia while basking also in the respect accorded him upon his return to Sydney University. Most particularly he enjoyed sharing the passion of his work with the eager young students who attended his private tutorials. Roger loved firing up his students. The enflaming of youthful minds kept him young himself and lent vibrancy to his life.

  But he hadn’t been prepared for Jess. She’d taken him by surprise. He’d looked forward to tutoring his first Aboriginal student, certainly. The irony of teaching a young Indigenous woman the history and culture of her own people was not lost on him and he’d anticipated the exercise would prove both interesting and stimulating. But he hadn’t taken into account the young woman herself. She was far more than an educated city version of the Aboriginal people he’d come to know during his outback travels. She was quite simply mesmeric. At least, she was to him. Everything about Jessica Manning, her personality, her complete lack of pretension, her intelligence, and not least of all her looks had captivated him right from the start. That grace, so assured, so unconsciously sensual – he’d found her irresistible. Well, not exactly irresistible for he had resisted, of course he had, he always did. He’d been confronted by any number of highly attractive students over the years, many of whom had made it obvious they would like to push the boundaries of the student–tutor relationship, but never once had he faltered. It was a tantalisingly enjoyable, albeit frustrating, element of his job to be in the presence of desirable young women yet maintain distance at all times. Jessica Manning, however, was pushing the boundaries to their limit. He’d found it extremely difficult to disassociate himself from the physical effect she had upon him.

  Twenty-three-year-old Jess had felt much the same way, although she hadn’t analysed her reaction with the same objectivity, probably due to her lack of experience. She’d presumed she was suffering a severe case of hero worship like every other student who took private tutorials with Professor Macready.

  ‘Christ alive, there should be more around like Roger,’ Ben, a fellow Anthrop student, had said when she’d told him she’d signed up for one-on-one sessions. ‘It’d make study a damn sight easier and a hell of a lot more fun.’

  The female students were equally vociferous in their praise, but offered an additional comment. ‘You’ll adore Roger,’ Vivian had said, ‘he’s drop-dead gorgeous.’ Professor Macready was always ‘Roger’ to his students.

  Jess had accepted the fact that she was just another of the loyal followers worshipping in Roger Macready’s wake and she’d given herself up to the cerebral love affair he appeared to have with all his students. In any event his tutorials were certainly assisting her with her PhD study.

  Then came the field trip to Alice Springs. It was late in the year during the Christmas holidays of 1995. Roger was to conduct some surveys of Aboriginal heritage sites that could be affected by the proposed extension of the Ghan railway line from Alice Springs to Darwin. Government money was funding the exercise, just as it was funding everything else that related to the Ghan project: the land surveys, the mapping of the route, the negotiations with Indigenous landowners, the whole process had been going on for years and in all likelihood would go on for many more before the enterprise would be given the green light. By now the exercise appeared futile to many, but not to Roger, whose purposes were being excellently served. Here was yet another perfect opportunity to conduct research. He would visit sites and take photographs and collate material for the next paper he proposed to present to the Australian Anthropological Society.

  ‘Would you like to accompany me on a field trip?’ he’d asked casually toward the end of an afternoon t
utorial. ‘I depart for your neck of the woods in a month or so – I’ll be heading for Alice Springs.’ He knew Jess was Western Arunta and that her mother had come from Hermannsburg; there had been avid discussion about her ancestry. ‘I’ll be camping out rough for a good month or so, but you might like to tag along for the first few days when I’m based in Alice. Could be interesting to visit some sites together,’ he’d added, ‘and perhaps we might call in on your family. I’d very much like to meet them.’

  The prospect had thrilled Jess immeasurably. Other students had accompanied Roger on field trips from time to time and they’d always come back raving about the experience. Jess herself had made several research trips to central Australia and another could only serve her well at this stage of her studies; she was hoping to complete her PhD by the end of the following year.

  ‘When do we leave?’ she’d asked eagerly.

  Although she was to pay her own expenses, Roger had been only too happy to make all the arrangements. He’d booked the flights and car hire and accommodation in advance, everything strictly above board, a very respectable motel even ensuring their rooms were well apart, a factor he took into account whenever accompanied by a student in order to avoid any possible innuendo. He had no intention of taking advantage, it was more than his job and his reputation were worth, but Roger was very much looking forward to Jess’s company.

  Toby had happily provided the funds for his daughter’s excursion, although he hadn’t been able to resist a passing remark.

  ‘Off with the Prof for a long weekend,’ he’d said with raised eyebrow, ‘sounds a bit suss to me.’