Spirits of the Ghan

by Judy Nunn

‘Hardly,’ he said, relieved that they were now on the safe ground of small talk. He found her confidence most disconcerting. ‘But some important corporates I’m currently working with are keen enthusiasts so …’ His shrug said it all.

  ‘Of course. The bread and butter …’

  ‘Exactly.’

  They smiled and for one brief moment something passed between them, something that might have been fondness until Jess remembered how deeply thankful she was to no longer be a part of Roger’s shallow, shallow world.

  ‘Let’s go back to the pub, shall we?’ she suggested.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, aware there was nothing more to be said.

  They stood and once again he offered his arm, but this time she didn’t take it, pretending not to notice. Her previous response, she now realised, had been simply automatic, nothing more than habit.

  She’s changed, he thought, matching her pace as they strode across the road, she’s certainly changed. But Roger failed to recognise that this was the Jess he’d first met, the Jess who had existed before he’d set about casting her in the mould that suited him.

  The band members were having their meal break, seated at a table downing hamburgers, and Toby’s eyes had been focused on the stone-arched gateway awaiting Jess’s return. The moment the two of them appeared he felt like rejoicing. Thank Christ for that, he thought. The walk by the sea hasn’t rekindled the flame. In fact, I’d say it’s bloody well doused it once and for all, and a damn fine thing too.

  ‘Hello, Roger,’ he said, rising and offering his hand as the pair approached, ‘long time, no see.’

  ‘Hello, Toby. Yes, a long time indeed.’ Roger’s smile as they shook was polite. ‘I’ve been enjoying the music.’

  Liar, Toby thought happily. ‘Yeah, they’re a damn fine band all right.’ Then to Jess, ‘Do you want to join us for a hamburger, love?’

  ‘No thanks, Dad. I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Right you are then, I’ll see you after the gig.’ With a nod to Roger, Toby returned to his seat, his hamburger and his muso mates, who had remained huddled in deep conversation.

  Roger felt obliged to make the offer, although he was sure she’d refuse.

  ‘Would you like to join us at our table?’ he asked, gesturing to the far end of the beer garden where several smartly dressed middle-aged men were gathered.

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ She glanced at the table nearby where Jason was openly staring at them, willing her to come back to him. ‘I’ll stick with the young gang that’s adopted me.’

  They parted company and Jess returned to the seat that Jase had been zealously guarding. His welcome was effusive. The ‘old mate’ was obviously no competition at all.

  The evening progressed much as it had started out, with constant rounds of vodka mixes interspersed with dancing.

  Roger could barely take his eyes off Jess. He wondered how she could possibly enjoy the company of those young people. But watching her as she watched the band and watching her as she moved around the dance floor the way she did, he realised it was the music itself that was turning her on.

  An hour later he decided to leave. Bugger his corporate colleagues and their love of trad jazz. He couldn’t stand the music and he couldn’t stand watching Jess, remembering the silken touch of her and the way she was in bed. But for appearance’s sake he’d have to make his farewells. He couldn’t just slink off into the night. It would be tantamount to admitting defeat.

  He waited until she was seated back at her table regaining her breath between dances.

  ‘I really enjoyed catching up with you again, Jess,’ he said as if to an old friend, ‘You look after yourself now.’

  ‘You too, Roger.’ She tried to feel sorry for him, she could tell he was lonely, but she was having trouble dredging up sympathy. ‘And give my best to any of the old gang you think might remember me.’

  ‘Oh they all remember you, Jess, you can bet on that,’ he said with a smile that actually appeared genuine. ‘You’re difficult to forget.’ Then he walked away.

  She didn’t watch him go. Someone was already claiming the next dance.

  The band’s performance was finally coming to an end and Jason was demanding she dance the last bracket with him.

  They stayed on the dance floor until the music ceased and then returned to the table to finish off the round of vodka mixes that sat there.

  Jess glanced over to where the band members were bumping out their gear so the night’s DJ could set up. The beer garden was destined to rock on for quite some time. Realising Toby would be another ten minutes or so, she sipped her drink slowly; the vodka mixes were not as innocuous as they tasted and she was feeling the effects.

  ‘My round,’ one of the young backpackers, a British student named Col, announced as he rose from the table. Col, just turned nineteen, was taking a gap year from his studies before returning home to embark upon his university course.

  ‘Not for me, thanks, Col,’ Jess said, ‘I’ll be going soon. I was only here for the live music.’

  ‘Right you are then.’ Col set off to fight his way through to the bar.

  Jason was delighted. How opportune. Things were looking extremely promising. He and Jess could leave the gang there and go back to the house, where they’d have the whole place to themselves.

  ‘I’m with you there, Jess,’ he said in hearty agreement. ‘DJs aren’t my bag either – it’s not the same thing at all. Give me a live band any time.’

  ‘Particularly a live jazz band,’ she said. ‘They were terrific, the Hotdogs, weren’t they?’

  ‘Bloody fantastic, I’m just crazy about jazz.’ He polished off his vodka mix and homed in without further ado. ‘No point staying really, is there? Let’s go back to my place for a nightcap,’ he said. ‘I’m in Bondi right near the beach.’ He always managed to sound as if he owned the place although he actually shared the lease on the rundown house in Bondi with plenty of others, his enterprising landlord only too aware of the money to be made from the quick turnover in backpacker trade. ‘We could play some jazz,’ he said, dazzling her with one of his killer grins. ‘I’ve got a great CD collection.’ He didn’t have a great CD collection at all, and certainly no jazz, but they both knew he wasn’t really talking about music.

  ‘No thanks, Jase. I’ve got a date for tonight.’ She smiled amiably, polished off her drink and stood. ‘See you, guys,’ she said to the table in general.

  ‘See you, Jess,’ the others called as she walked off.

  The abruptness of her departure took Jason by surprise. He watched her cross to the band then surprise turned to amazement as he saw her embrace the old bloke who’d been on rhythm guitar. No way! The bloke looked so retro he might have just stepped out of the sixties. He’s the oldest member of the whole bloody band, Jason thought, old enough to be everyone else’s father, for Christ’s sake!

  He stared after the two of them as they walked off together, arm in arm, chatting animatedly, eyes for no-one but each other. Oh well, he thought with the slightest shudder of revulsion, no accounting for taste.

  Jess awoke the following morning feeling decidedly seedy: she hadn’t realised the vodka mixes would have such a kick.

  ‘You’re not used to hangovers, I see,’ Toby said when over coffee in the kitchen she admitted to being a little the worse for wear.

  ‘Not this sort. We don’t seem to drink anything but beer in Alice.’

  ‘A big greasy breakfast, that’s what you need. We’ll have another cup of coffee then we’ll go for a walk.’

  An hour or so later he took her to a cafe in Darling Street that did all-day breakfasts. By now it was time more for brunch really and Toby was very much a brunch man himself. He couldn’t be bothered preparing meals, and going out for a feed at eleven took care of breakfast and lunch simultaneously, leaving more studio time.

  ‘This is my favourite caff,’ he said as they sat at an outdoor table watching the passers-by, ‘all-day brekkie with none of the fanc
y yoghurt and muesli stuff that’s the rage these days. They do the real thing here.’

  After a pile of bacon, eggs, mushrooms and hash browns Jess had to admit that she felt distinctly better.

  It was a beautiful midsummer’s day, hot but not stiflingly so, and they walked along Balmain’s main road, ducking here and there into side streets, all the while discovering new restaurants, bars and cafés, exploring the odd secondhand book shop and antique store.

  The exploration was as novel to Toby as it was to Jess. He knew well the Balmain pubs that employed live bands and where the musos hung out, just as he knew every such pub throughout the whole of Sydney, his nightlife and weekends were extremely active socially. During the day, however, he tended to stick to the caff and his studio.

  It was lunchtime when they returned home and Jess disappeared to her room to gather her things preparatory to leaving. Upon her reappearance she steadfastly refused to allow her father to drive her to the airport, and when Toby tried to insist, she informed him that she’d already rung a taxi on her mobile.

  ‘It’ll be here in five minutes,’ she said.

  ‘But I took the whole day off.’

  ‘I know you did and you shouldn’t have,’ she said firmly, then gave him a grateful hug. ‘Thanks for our morning together, Dad, I loved it, but I can’t let you waste an entire afternoon just to take me to the airport. I felt terribly guilty when you did that last time.’

  ‘Too late,’ he announced with an air of triumph, ‘I’ve already cancelled a recording session.’

  ‘Then you can use the afternoon to get on with your mixing, can’t you?’ she replied. The laborious job of sound-mixing, which Toby loved, consumed most of his studio time, as Jess well knew.

  He was about to protest further when the toot of a car horn sounded outside.

  ‘Taxi’s here,’ she said, bringing the argument to a close.

  Out in the street they put her case in the boot and hugged each other.

  ‘It’s your turn next time,’ Jess said. ‘Why don’t you take a few days’ holiday and come to Alice? You work so hard you deserve a break and you know you love the desert.’

  Toby gave the matter barely a second’s thought. ‘How about Easter?’ he suggested. ‘No-one records stuff over the Easter weekend.’

  ‘Easter it is,’ she said.

  They hugged once again and she climbed into the car’s rear seat, waving as the taxi pulled away from the curb.

  ‘Is it the domestic or international terminal you wish?’ the driver asked, although he’d already presumed from the cabin luggage she’d stowed in the boot that she was travelling domestic.

  ‘Domestic thanks. Qantas.’ Jess leant back in the seat and closed her eyes. The beneficial effects of the big breakfast brunch and the walk around Balmain were starting to wear off and the ramifications of last night threatened to resurface.

  ‘It is a very fine day for travel,’ the driver said. ‘What is your destination, may I ask? Do you fly interstate?’ He was a swarthy-skinned man of around forty-five whom, by appearance and from the colourful lilt of his voice, she took to be Pakistani.

  ‘Yes, the Northern Territory,’ she replied, keeping her eyes closed in the hope he’d register she didn’t want to chat, ‘Alice Springs.’

  ‘Ah, the very heart of the country, the Red Centre as it is called …’ his clear enunciation and emphasis lent added romance to the term ‘I have never been there myself, but they say the area is very beautiful. Is the earth truly as red as the pictures depict?’

  Heaving a sigh, Jess opened her eyes; the man clearly had not taken the hint and he was so polite she couldn’t bring herself to be rude. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the earth is very red.’

  ‘Ah,’ he nodded, pleased to hear it, ‘and you live there in Alice Springs or you go there to visit?’

  She looked into the rear-vision mirror at the intelligent brown eyes so alive with interest, and painted on a smile. ‘I live there,’ she said.

  The man returned the smile, delighted they were now engaged in conversation; Tahir always loved to chat to his passengers.

  ‘I believe it would be very, very hot there now at this time of year,’ he said.

  But Jess’s smile had disappeared. She’d seen the sign that dangled from the mirror. A rectangular object no more than six or seven centimetres wide, it appeared to be some sort of good-luck charm, a silver symbol dangling on a silver chain. The pattern was quite clear, but the meaning obscure, a series of swirls and loops that she took to be some form of ancient calligraphy. In a more roughly hewn form they might appear like a bird, or even a caterpillar, impossible to distinguish, but of one thing she was sure. The sign was the same as that on the rock at the sacred site.

  Tahir waited for a response from the attractive young woman whom he guessed to be of Aboriginal blood, but none was forthcoming. He would like to have asked if her people came from Alice Springs, he would be most interested to know, but that might perhaps be a little intrusive, he decided, particularly as she seemed distracted. He was about to comment upon the Sydney weather instead, but –

  ‘What is that sign?’ she asked. ‘What does it mean?’

  Ah, so the symbol is the source of her distraction, Tahir thought. The fact pleased him greatly. A number of his passengers had made enquiries and he was always happy to tell them of the symbol’s meaning and the reason he displayed it in his taxi.

  ‘It is an Arabic word,’ he explained, ‘it says “salaam”, which in English means “peace”. I am a Muslim and I carry it as a symbol of my faith and the faith of my people.’ He had her undivided attention now. He could see she was waiting for him to go on. So he did. Tahir liked to spread the word of peace in these difficult times.

  ‘I am from Lahore,’ he said. ‘My wife and I have lived in Australia for ten years, and our two children were born right here in Sydney. We have always led a peaceful existence in this country. There was no trouble in our lives until the bombing of America.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘That terrible day when the world went mad. Since September last year the lives of all Australian Muslims have changed. For over twelve months now we have been seen as a threat and we continue to be regarded as such. These days when my wife walks down the street she feels hatred from those she passes. Asmi senses hatred even towards our children, and she cannot understand why. Often I too in this taxi feel hatred, which I know to be born of suspicion and fear, but this is not right. The men who perpetrated the Twin Towers bombing are not men of our faith. The Quran teaches that those who breach the peace are corrupt and sinful. In Islam the pursuit of peace is seen as a Godly act.’

  Tahir concluded his speech, which was in fact the longer version, the one he directed only to those whose attention he knew he had captured. Much as he loved to pass on the message of peace, he had no wish to irritate, for there were no tips to be had from irritated passengers. But he had known from the outset that the young woman whose eyes had remained so fiercely focused upon his in the rear-vision mirror had been captive to his story.

  ‘This is why I carry my symbol,’ he said, caressing the silver charm dangling from its chain. ‘These ancient Islamic characters spell one simple word that sends a message to people of all races. “Salaam”, it says: “Peace”.’

  ‘I see,’ Jess replied after a moment’s pause. How fortuitous I insisted on catching a taxi to the airport, she thought. Another piece of the mystery is slowly unravelling.

  When they arrived at the terminal she paid in cash, Tahir instantly jumping from the driver’s seat to lift her case from the boot before she’d even alighted.

  ‘What is your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Tahir,’ he said, ‘I am called Tahir.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me your story, Tahir.’

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ he replied, smiling happily and offering a courteous bow; she had tipped him most handsomely. ‘As-salamu alaykum,’ he said, ‘peace be upon you.’

  1880

 
Mustafa and Abdullah are brothers from the ancient city of Ghazni in Afghanistan. They are cameleers who were brought out to Australia, along with many others, by the wealthy pastoralist and business entrepreneur Sir Thomas Elder. At thirty-three Mustafa is the older by five years and holds himself responsible at all times for his younger brother. He is the leader of the two, as his name dictates he should be, at least so he maintains, for ‘Mustafa’ means ‘chosen of Mohammad’ and ‘Abdullah’ means ‘servant of God’. Mustafa has always pretended to take these translations literally.

  ‘Our parents chose our names with great care,’ he told Abdullah on many an occasion throughout their childhood, ‘for I am not only the older, I am the superior in every way.’

  They are both aware he is making a joke about their names, but there is nonetheless some truth in what he says, for as time passes and they grow to manhood Mustafa proves an intelligent man with an astute eye for business while his brother, devoid of all ambition, is a dreamer who would happily flow wherever the tide of life takes him.

  As if to prove his superiority Mustafa has also acquired an excellent command of the English language. This is due to the three years he served as a cameleer with the British Army in India. He is proud of these years and still wears his service medal pinned at all times to his turban. The medal was a personal gift from the regiment’s commanding officer, but Mustafa has always declared it to be an official award from Queen Victoria herself. This is the only lie he has ever told, and he has told it so many times he now believes it to be the truth, as does his brother, who implicitly believes everything Mustafa tells him. There is no reason why Abdullah would do otherwise. Throughout their lives Mustafa has always been the dominant one. Mustafa is very bossy.

  Abdullah does not in the least mind Mustafa’s bossiness. To the contrary, he enjoys having his decisions made for him and is quite happy for his older brother to take control of his life. Abdullah is not lazy, he is willing to work physically hard, but he has no desire to assert command himself, for at heart he is a romantic. Besides, he knows Mustafa is only being protective, that despite their differences they love each other deeply, as brothers should.