by Judy Nunn
‘It explains so much, Dave,’ she said with her customary zeal, ‘you’ve always been drawn to the central desert, always so at home there. It explains above all your bond with the land – you’d have to agree with that, surely.’
I’d certainly agree with that, Jess thought, watching the family in discussion and exchanging a smile with Matt. Telling a white man he was black hadn’t been that difficult after all.
She said as much to Matt the following morning when he dropped her off at the airport.
‘Things went pretty well really, didn’t they,’ she said, standing by while he lifted her case from the boot and raised its handle for her.
Bit of an understatement, Matt thought. ‘Bloody oath they did. Things went exceptionally well, I’d say.’
She grasped the case’s handle and gave one of those irrepressible grins that always won him. ‘See you in Alice,’ she said and walked off.
‘See you in Alice,’ he called after her.
‘He has a perfect ear,’ Toby said, ‘just listen to this.’
It was later that same day and they were seated in the studio, Toby at the synthesiser and Jess on the sofa, Ringo, tail wagging in eager anticipation, standing between them with his gaze fixed on Toby.
As Toby had predicted Jess had fallen in love with the scruffy mongrel he’d adopted from the pound. Medium sized and sturdily built with wiry terrier-hair, mothy-grey colouring and donkey-like ears, the dog was adorably ugly. But Ringo had skills Toby was eager to show off.
‘Sit,’ Toby commanded and the animal obediently plonked itself on its hefty backside and froze, bushy-browed eyes gazing up expectantly; Ringo loved this game.
Toby hit a note on the keyboard and the dog threw back its head and let out a brief howl. ‘See, what did I tell you? A perfect A,’ Toby boasted. Then he hit an E and then a G and both times the dog changed pitch, not altogether on the note but impressive nonetheless. ‘He can sing a whole C scale: you just listen to this.’
Toby proceeded to play the scale and the dog gave voice, howling along raucously, moving up with each new note, although rarely on key.
‘Well perhaps I exaggerate, not altogether perfect,’ Toby said as Jess applauded, ‘but three out of eight’s not bad – better than some singers I’ve known.’ He dropped his voice and whispered conspiratorially, ‘But you want to know the real secret?’
‘What’s that, Dad?’
‘The dog’s actually a drummer. Watch this.’
He hit the synthesiser’s percussion key and slid the volume up loud; as the drums belted out the dog went wild, chasing itself in circles and racing around the room in a frenzy of tail-wagging, ear-flapping excitement. Ringo was mad about the drums.
Jess roared with laughter at the sight. They both did: the dog’s joy was lunatic. Then as Toby lowered the volume Ringo’s antics became less and less frantic until finally when silence once more reigned he was thoroughly placid.
‘The louder it is the more he likes it,’ Toby said, ‘a true drummer.’
‘A true muso’s dog, Dad,’ Jess replied, still fighting to contain her laughter. ‘He’s picked it up from you.’
‘No he hasn’t, that’s just it,’ Toby insisted. ‘He was like this when I got him. Ringo’s a natural. Isn’t that the most wonderful thing?’
Toby and Jess were revelling in each other’s company. They’d agreed that over the past six months they’d both been so busy with their work they hadn’t realised how much they’d missed each other. At least that’s what they’d both said. He’d never tell her to her face but Toby always missed Jess.
They went to a gig of his early that evening, a jazz gig at The Union pub in Balmain.
‘Just a fun gig I do from time to time, Jess,’ he’d said, ‘playing guitar with Georgie and his band. I can easily get out of it, Georgie won’t mind, he’s got guitarists queuing up to play with him, but I thought you might like a touch of the old days.’
‘I can think of nothing I’d like more,’ she said.
She watched them, her father grooving with George Washingmachine and the others, everyone taking their lead from George. Paris jazz at its finest; she might have been listening to Stéphane Grappelli – George was a master on the violin. And her dad was holding his own every step of the way, the crowd showing its appreciation, the pub packed as it always was when George and his band were playing.
Looking on with daughterly pride, Jess recalled Roger’s demeaning remark all those years ago: ‘He’s not exactly a musician, darling. Your father’s a sound engineer. It’s not quite the same thing.’ How wrong, she thought, how wrong and how very ill informed of Roger. Toby Manning had always been a fine musician, which was precisely why he was one of the best sound engineers in the country. Music flowed through his veins. That’s what he used to say about Mum, Jess thought fondly. ‘Your mother’s the true musician in the family, Jess,’ he’d say, ‘music flows through her veins and that’s a fact.’
The evening brought back many a childhood memory for Jess of the pub gigs she’d go to with Rose, and the jam sessions in the studio at the end of a recording day when she and her mother would sit up the back watching Toby groove with the musos.
‘You were right, Dad,’ she said several hours later as they wended their way home through the night-lit, Sunday-busy streets of Balmain, where people were leaving restaurants and pubs and bars, ‘that was definitely a touch of the old days.’
‘Thought it might be.’ Toby grinned, pleased. ‘So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?’ He’d taken Monday off, she wasn’t flying out until Tuesday afternoon and they’d have the whole day to themselves. ‘Your choice.’
‘Ferry to Manly?’ she asked, and he laughed. Another touch of the old days; he’d known she’d say that.
The Manly Ferry had been a regular outing for Toby and Rose and little Jess, and now as father and daughter stood by the starboard railings watching the sails of the Sydney Opera House glide by they shared a poignant moment, each knowing the other was thinking of her, each hearing her voice.
‘Just look at that, love,’ Jess could hear Rose say. ‘If you concentrate on the sails and the sky you’d swear it’s a ship going past and that we’re just standing still.’ Rose had always found the Opera House a source of great wonder.
The voice in Toby’s mind was the voice that lived with him constantly. Rose was singing as they passed the Opera House and, as always, she was singing just for him. The music that had flowed through Rose remained forever in Toby’s blood. He was never without her. And now with Jess beside him, Rose’s voice was stronger than ever.
When they alighted from the ferry they walked away from the harbour through The Corso, the pedestrian mall that led to the ocean side of the peninsular, where they bought fish and chips, all part of a bygone routine. They didn’t even discuss other options.
The weather was pleasant, the day clear, an early spring nip in the air and a breeze with a bite coming off the water, but they were in sweaters, they were prepared.
They sat on the beach eating their fish and chips and looking out over the ocean and Toby waited for her to tell him about whatever it was he’d sensed on the phone. He could sense it still – he had from the moment she’d arrived – she needed to talk, but in her own time. Well now seems as good a time as any, he thought, and he waited.
They finished their fish and chips. He found a bin for the refuse and returned to sit once again beside her, but still no word as she continued to stare out to sea.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ he asked. ‘Shall we find a cosy caff? It’s a bit breezy don’t you think?’
‘No thanks, Dad. I’d rather stay here if you don’t mind.’
‘Course I don’t mind. Right you are then, no coffee, didn’t want any anyway.’ He left it barely a minute before taking matters into his own hands. ‘Come on, Jess, what is it? Spit it out, there’s a good girl.’
And she did. She’d been on the verge of doing so anyway and now there was n
o holding her back. She told him absolutely everything: about Matt and his dreams; about the site and the rail corridor; and she even told him about the redirection of the route, swearing him to secrecy as she did so.
‘You’re the only one outside the inner circle who knows, Dad,’ she said, refusing to feel guilty – she’d sworn no oath to Matt and she would trust Toby with her life.
‘Not a word,’ he promised, ‘cross my heart.’
Then she made her true confession. She was distracted, she said. ‘It all started out as a favour to a friend,’ she admitted. ‘Matt’s dreams were distressing him and I was a sounding board, someone he could talk to. Then I started coming up with answers. They were answers that admittedly he didn’t believe for the most part and probably still doesn’t, particularly with regard to the ancestors, but I’m consumed by the desire to find out more. It’s become an obsession,’ she said. ‘I know that the site is sacred; I can feel it. And I know we were meant to save it from desecration. But what happened there? Why are Matt’s ancestors guarding the place?’
The questions being rhetorical and unanswerable anyway, Toby just sat in silence, letting her get things off her chest.
‘I play it as low-key as I can with Matt,’ she said. ‘As far as he’s concerned I’m just an Aboriginal woman who believes in the spirit world, but I’ve become so personally involved! I’m obsessed with finding out the truth.’ She smiled ruefully and gave a helpless shrug. ‘Which is silly really, isn’t it? Unless the ancestors pay me a personal visit and fill me in, I’ll never know, so what’s the point in agonising?’
‘No point at all, I’d say. But it’s a bloody fascinating story, I’ll give you that much.’
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ She hugged him gratefully. ‘Thanks for listening, Dad.’
‘My pleasure. Any time.’ Toby couldn’t have been happier. He had indeed found the story fascinating – who wouldn’t? But there was something else he had read in his daughter’s confession. Jess loved this man she called a good friend. She didn’t know it yet, but hopefully she would in time. And even if nothing were to come of the relationship, Toby was still happy. It seemed the damage Roger Macready had wrought upon his daughter, damage which Toby had worried might be irreparable, was now a thing of the past. Jess was no longer closing men out of her life.
He insisted upon driving her to the airport the following day. ‘I’m not cancelling any work, I promise you,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a night recording session and that’s it.’ He was lying – he had cancelled an afternoon session.
They talked about Christmas on the way. They’d agreed she should come home to Sydney for the break. They’d missed each other altogether far too much. They must not leave it so long between visits.
‘I’ll arrange another gig and we’ll do another ferry trip,’ Toby promised.
Then as they pulled up at the quick drop-off area outside the terminal and she piled from the car, cabin luggage in hand, Toby made the casual suggestion.
‘Why don’t you bring your friend Matt with you?’ he said. ‘I’d like to meet him. He sounds like an interesting bloke.’
‘Oh no, Dad,’ Jess replied, oblivious to any ulterior motive in the invitation, ‘Matt’ll be on a promise to his parents at Christmas.’
‘Right you are.’ What a pity, Toby thought.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘It’s about to happen.’ Matt rang her the week after she’d returned from her brief Sydney trip. ‘Fritz told me the contractors are nearing the redirected section of the route. They’ll soon start pegging out the final construction path. Now we just sit tight and keep our fingers crossed.’
‘When will we know?’
‘If nothing happens within the next week we should be safe. I’ll give you a call. In the meantime we play the waiting game.’
Matt sounded his customary unruffled self, but in truth he was feeling tense. No longer plagued by recurring dreams and sleepless nights, no longer visited by inexplicable blackouts and headaches, the force that had been driving him seemed itself to have become no more than a dream. He was beginning to question why he’d undertaken the drastic action he had. If it was discovered that, without any form of authority, he’d secretly altered the course of the Ghan, his credibility and indeed his very career could be ruined.
Two days later his worst fears were realised.
‘Hey, Boss!’ It was Gav, leaping from the four-wheel drive after bringing it to a screeching halt in a cloud of red dust.
Matt was several kilometres to the south of his team, having left the others working while he conducted an advance recce, as was his habit. He’d been watching the vehicle tear across the desert at top speed, wondering why the bloke was in such a hurry.
‘What’s up, Gav?’ he asked as the burly worker arrived at his side.
‘Some smartarse bastard from the city’s arrived. I reckon he’s out to cause trouble.’
‘Oh?’ Despite an instinctive stab of alarm, Matt told himself there was probably no real cause for concern. Gav had no idea about the route deviation, and in his eyes every ‘smartarse bastard from the city’ was out to cause trouble. The official reason for the visit might well be something mundane, another time-wasting bureaucratic exercise. ‘What sort of trouble?’ he asked.
‘I dunno.’ Gav shrugged. ‘He was talking to Pottsy when I left, but it’s you he wants to see. Pottsy tried to radio you but you weren’t in your car.’
‘Rightio.’ Matt crossed to his Land Rover some distance away. ‘Thanks, Gav,’ he called back.
The two men climbed into their respective vehicles and took off together, travelling the several kilometres back to their current work site.
But when they arrived the official from the city was nowhere to be seen. The AdRail vehicle he’d driven from Alice Springs was there – one of the shiny Toyota Land-Cruisers kept in mint condition for visiting dignitaries or inspectors from down south – but no sign of the official himself. No sign of Pottsy either.
‘What’s happening, boys?’ Matt continued to play it cool as he questioned Baz and Mitch, although he was starting to feel uneasy. ‘Who’s this bloke that’s arrived?’
‘Introduced himself as Lewis Bisley.’ Mitch exchanged a glance with Baz. ‘He’s an engineer up from Adelaide.’
Matt knew the name, on paper anyway; he hadn’t met the man in the flesh. Alarm bells were starting to sound. ‘And where is he now?’
‘Pottsy took him about ten Ks back down the line.’ Mitch once again was the spokesman. ‘Said he was going to show him a watercourse.’
A further exchange of glances between Mitch and Baz did not go unnoticed by Gav standing nearby. But Gav had noticed many such glances over recent weeks. He’d even heard the odd mutter between the two young assistants some time back. ‘Withers knows what he’s doing,’ he’d heard Baz say, ‘don’t know why he’s doing it, mind you.’
Then agreement from Mitch: ‘I don’t know either,’ he’d said, ‘I just hope it doesn’t come back to bite him.’ When the two had noticed him watching from the sidelines, they’d instantly shut up, but Gav wasn’t stupid. Something’s going on, he’d thought, something that could get the Boss into trouble.
About ten Ks back down the line. The words echoed ominously in Matt’s brain. The route deviation was ten kilometres back down the line. And he’d told Pottsy they could use the adjacent watercourse as a possible reason for the change should questions be raised. Questions obviously had been raised. I’m in trouble, he thought.
‘Right,’ he said briskly, ‘I’d better get on down there and meet the bloke, hadn’t I? Radio ahead to Pottsy,’ he instructed the boys, ‘and tell him I’m on my way.’
He climbed into the Land Rover and drove off, his mind racing. It was Lewis Bisley’s name and signature that appeared on the final design drawings that were based upon his own mathematical data and route measurements. The drawings were then provided to the contractors for use in their pegging and layout and rail construct
ion. It was from this quarter that he’d anticipated possible trouble, not Bisley. He’d presumed Bisley was just a bureaucrat ticking boxes, but obviously he wasn’t. The man was out for answers.
As he drove, Matt was so deeply in thought that he was unaware of the four-wheel drive following closely behind.
Gav had jumped into his vehicle and taken off after Withers. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but if the Boss was in trouble he’d be there to help. As a member of the team, Gav was eager to play his part.
Matt passed the site to his left, the hillocks clearly visible, and it was only a minute or so later that he saw the two men up ahead waiting for him. Pottsy was lounging against his dusty four-wheel drive, rust-coloured hair and vehicle melding in with the surrounding desert, while the engineer, a well-built, rather stylish man in his early forties with a folder in his hand, was standing somewhat to attention, wearing a suit and looking distinctly out of place.
‘Lewis Bisley I take it,’ Matt said as he alighted from the Land Rover. ‘G’day.’ He strode forward, offering his hand.
‘Mr Witherton.’ They shook.
‘G’day, Gav.’ Pottsy was peering over Matt’s shoulder and Matt turned, surprised to see Gav, who’d climbed from his vehicle and was standing respectfully several paces away.
‘This is a member of my team,’ he said to Bisley, ‘my machine operator, Gavin Johnstone.’
The introduction invited a handshake, but Bisley made no offer, giving a curt nod instead, and Gav stood his ground, glaring at the slick city bastard. What sort of dumb cunt wears a suit in the desert, he thought. A suit and a fucking tie, for Christ’s sake.