Whipbird

by Robert Drewe

  Tossing on her sweat-soaked stretcher, she considered her country’s heroes. Villains and unlucky explorers. Ex-convicts. Remittance-men land-stealers who pillaged and poisoned. Bank-robbing murderers. Bastard squatters retrospectively spin-doctored out of genocidal bastardry. Drunkards who governed. Depressive engineers who suicided with their imaginative projects on the verge of success. Soldiers in lost battles.

  Nearby yells and sobs brought her momentarily back to lucidity. One of the doctors’ nightmares? An animal barked. A baboon? A lion? Had any survived the fighting? There was a gunshot. Maybe it was the enemy – whoever the enemy was currently. Maybe a starving person hunting bush meat.

  Itchy all over, limbs and eyelids twitching with adrenaline, too overexhausted to sleep, she restlessly continued her discussion with Agostinho in her head.

  ‘You’d think we were some crazy tropical place, a Latin American jungle instead of an Anglo-Celtic desert. And guess what? We’re especially fond of eccentric searchers for non-existent inland seas.’

  She’d left out the Aborigines. She’d deliberately not mentioned the Europeans’ treatment of the Aborigines. Too difficult to explain to a foreigner? Too hard to understand herself? Best to keep dirty linen under the bed? Too much like the situations they encountered here?

  The lion or baboon or sick man coughed again.

  In her sweltering head, Australian history spun in a sandy blur. Its characters brought to mind a favourite old movie – Peter O’Toole’s T.E. Lawrence addressing Claude Rains’ Mr Dryden when accepting a certain desert mission: ‘Of course I’m the man for the job. What is the job, by the way?’

  Those old school history classes. Filling in stencilled maps of Australia, the explorers reduced to dotted lines in different-coloured pencils. Overdressed and poorly equipped losers, too dumbly superior to accept help when it was offered by the Aborigines they stumbled across.

  Well done. A good try anyway. A pity you didn’t get to where you intended. A pity you died of thirst and starvation and heavy English suiting. But that three-piece get-up and fob watch look nice on your statue in the park.

  The lion-baboon-man groaned again. Or in her fever she imagined it. She hoped it wasn’t malaria. Not vivax. She was dosed up to the gills but malaria was shifty, always a step ahead of the drugs. Half the camp had it. The four children who died yesterday.

  Hey, Agostinho? I like your nose. I’ve got a soft spot for big-nosed heroes. Pinocchio and Cyrano. Rushdie’s bloke in Midnight’s Children.

  Guess what? I’ve never experienced the sexual act with a man. I’ve never actually done the deed. And I’m fifty-two. Imagine that.

  13

  As Hugh droned on, it occurred to Thea that the only thing clearcut or colourful in Australian history was Irish dissension. The Eureka Stockade, the Ned Kelly gang, rebellious Fenians, boisterous trade unions, Labor Party splits. Irish against Irish wherever you looked. The stuff we’re celebrating today.

  Other descendants present this afternoon, however, were recollecting that the piece of history Hugh was on about, that Eureka business a few kilometres down the road, must have been important because – oh, yeah, I remember – it was on TV, and not just the ABC. Even the commercial stations had done it.

  Beards and belligerence. Pugnacious Irish goldminers (‘Come on, boyos, let’s show’em!’) versus the usual implacable British redcoats, led by snobbish officers with plummy accents. Count on the appearance of a moody sideburned hero with a mysterious past. Oh, and a feisty ex-convict girl warding off officers’ unwanted advances.

  Wasn’t it a democratic milestone about miners fighting harsh taxes under that blue Southern Cross flag with the white stars but minus the Union Jack? Confusing though. A charismatic revolutionary hero straight from Central Casting took centre stage, fought for their rights, stood up bravely, and lost an arm in the battle.

  Television relished that part. But TV didn’t show the myth going cockeyed, the rebel hero fleeing the hubbub of the combat and cowering in hiding. Time passed, time passed, and when he reappeared the Robin Hood glamour soon rubbed off and he morphed into the Sheriff of Nottingham or a one-armed King John. A wealthy pillar of the Establishment. A mine owner who imported Chinese labourers as strikebreakers. A conservative politician. On the other side.

  See, a messy plot. Then the miners’ brave flag, displaying the stars of the Southern Cross on a sky-blue background (the original flag hand-sewn by the miners’ gutsy wives), was hijacked in turn by left-wing radicals, outlaw bikers and right-wing racists, rendering it untouchable by sensible citizens. A pity, because it was attractive, as flags go.

  Apparently their ancestor Conor Cleary had taken part. A handful of the family celebrators vaguely recalled a passed-down story about his heroism under fire, and had passed it on to their kids to illustrate some school project or other.

  In a Chinese whispers sort of way, they’d added on bits here and there to other fragments heard and misheard, and some of them even got old Conor mixed up with Peter Lalor, the miners’ leader whose arm was shot off. But it didn’t matter. There was definite kudos and marks to be gained in adding some family link to the Eureka guff they’d copied from Wikipedia.

  As if he’d read their thoughts, Hugh said now, ‘Of course you’ll need no reminding that Conor Cleary was a brave combatant at the Eureka battle. Our family can lay claim to a major participant in Australia’s road to democracy.’

  He paused to let that sink in. ‘Incidentally, you might be familiar with Sidney Nolan’s marvellous representation of the Eureka Stockade in the foyer of the Reserve Bank in Melbourne.’

  An expression between proud and overly modest flickered over his face. ‘When we created Whipbird I couldn’t help myself and I – or I should say, we, Christine was just as eager – bought a Nolan painting, Miner with Pan and Shovel, from his Eureka Stockade series. Considering the connection with our family, it seemed appropriate.’

  There goes a cool half-mill, Thea thought.

  ‘A wonderful memento, I must say,’ Hugh went on, and then considered that perhaps he shouldn’t overplay this clearly expensive purchase. Or mention art either. ‘Not artsy or pretentious at all,’ he hastened to add. ‘Just your basic enamel on pulpboard. But Sid captured the essence of this place perfectly.’

  ‘What’s with the Sid?’ Thea said under her breath. The painter had been dead for years. ‘When did you two become buddies?’

  ‘The gravelly bushiness of it. The high drama.’ Hugh’s hands repainted Miner with Pan and Shovel in the air. ‘It could have been painted right here by the creek. A funny thing, in the subject’s face I swear I can see our ancestor, old Conor.’

  ‘He wasn’t a miner,’ Thea muttered.

  ‘Exhausted, certainly, aching for a drink, but steadfastly doing his job. Hoping beyond hope that his labours would eventually be rewarded and he’d strike gold.’

  Thea couldn’t help herself. ‘He was a soldier!’ she called out.

  ‘He certainly was!’ Hugh boomed. ‘And what a soldier!’ A self-assured barrister again, his voice rose. ‘I’m talking metaphor here. Conor Cleary – my ancestor, your ancestor – was taking part in a major democratic endeavour. And his reward, his rich lode, was to be a participant in national history.’

  Now he had them. That was a handy segue into his pet subject. ‘Speaking of our connection to the Eureka Stockade, I have a prediction. I fully expect that in ten years, at our 170th anniversary, we’ll all be here at Whipbird toasting our ancestor with our prize-winning Conor’s Rebellion pinot noir.’

  He paused for the applause, which fell as the lightest pattering, like rain on suburban tiles rather than on a winery homestead’s heritage-style, galvanised-iron roof; a roof surmounted by a copper-and-brass weathervane of a leafy bunch of grapes, presently swinging south-west. The applause was a few moments in coming, especially from those mentally adding ten years to their ages, considering probability, and becoming pensive. A Casey or Hanrahan baby screamed, baw
led for several minutes and was eventually calmed on the breast.

  ‘We’re pinning our hopes on those young vines you see behind you.’

  Obediently, people turned to look. From their expressions they found it hard to imagine anything prize-winning, or even liquid, coming from those parallel flat rows of dry, close-planted twigs, like skeletons or scarecrows. The rows of twigs stretched abjectly off towards the creek and its fringing gum trees and scrub. Magpies pecked around their dusty roots.

  ‘In five years we should have significant fruit from this vineyard. In ten years, from where we’re standing, we’ll look down on a patch-work quilt of pinot noir plantings and our Eureka Selection wine will be approaching its prime.’ He went on, ‘There’s a good reason for this. Thank God for global warming.’

  There were a few grunts of surprise, and some of the crowd began to mutter. He raised a placatory hand.

  ‘I say that not to be provocative. Just stating a fact. We can thank global warming for changing Kungadgee’s weather. Some might find it unpalatable that climate change can be a change for the better. But facts are facts.’

  He let that sink in. ‘I’m grateful to global warming for taking the cold edge off this region’s weather. Because of the chill, pinot noir grapes wouldn’t ripen anywhere near Ballarat a generation ago. Now the adjusted climate, combined with our altitude and red volcanic soil, has made Whipbird uniquely suited to growing pinot noir grapes.’

  There were a few grumbles of surprise and dissent. ‘Adjusted climate!’ someone scoffed. Hugh thought he recognised Thea’s voice.

  ‘I go so far as to say that one day Conor’s Rebellion will match the pinots of Burgundy in France,’ he said. ‘I foresee a deep crimson-purple wine, with the foresty-savoury density that’s the hallmark of the region, underpinning a long, black-cherry-filled palate.’

  He went on, ‘Our aim is to create wines that reflect both the rich heritage of our family and the vigorous history of this area, a pinot that is fragant and harmonious. The rest is in the hands of the vintage gods.’

  A strange slurping murmur came from the side of the audience. An obsequious lapdog sound. Perhaps it was Declan Opie or maybe Aaron L’Estrange who had deliberately turned his back on the speaker and was shamelessly, noisily, nuzzling his face into his partner’s puffy upper chest.

  The bloody young show pony in the black shirt. Ignoring him, Hugh sailed on. ‘If you’re wondering about our vineyard’s name, we wanted to honour the Gosse’s Mottled Whipbird. The whipbird used to be prevalent in this area before the forest was cleared by miners and farmers. The explorer and early 19th-century naturalist Eugene Franz Gosse wrote about being captivated by the explosive whip-crack mating call of the male birds at dusk and dawn.’

  Now he held the microphone close to his lips, paused, cleared his throat, and then made a strange sound that was at first drawn-out and then sharply concluded: ‘Tooooo-whit!

  ‘This would then be answered by the eager but eerie mating cry of the female: choo-wi, wi-wi, choo-choo.’

  Then, to the amused surprise of the crowd, he closed his eyes, raised his head, and repeated the bird calls.

  14

  Hugh’s whipbird calls had regained their attention. The crowd laughed and jolly souls copied the sounds.

  ‘Yes, well done,’ he continued, a little defensively, smoothing down Prince Charles. ‘Although recordings of these bird calls exist, the Gosse’s Mottled Whipbird, not to be confused with the Eastern Whipbird, is, sadly, now extinct. So Christine and I thought we’d commemorate this enigmatic and mysterious creature with our wines.’

  Now he produced an index card from his pocket and ran his eyes over it. ‘Moving right along, you’ll agree there’s nothing like family legends. And one that always amazed us as kids was about Conor having fourteen children, and the fact that our great-great-nanna, Emily, was not only the youngest of the fourteen, but weighed 14 pounds when she was born. And that after giving birth to her, her mother Bridget, unfortunate lady, never walked again.’

  A few women gasped, exchanged meaningful glances, and gave little shrieks of disbelief. Hugh slowly shook his head. ‘We all marvelled at the parallel neatness of those gargantuan figures – fourteen and 14! That huge birth weight! All those kids!’

  ‘Poor devil!’ an Opie woman exclaimed.

  ‘I’ve been doing some research into the family,’ Hugh went on. ‘And I’m sorry to question the legend.’

  He smiled – in control of his material now – and as his voice rose dramatically he indicated the solemn wonder of large numbers by holding up the fingers of both hands, then closing one hand and displaying the other open palm for several seconds.

  ‘But I have news for you. Nanna Emily actually tipped the scales at 15 pounds, or 6.8 kilograms in today’s metric weight!’

  A fresh chorus of theatrical groans came from the mothers in the audience.

  ‘And, guess what, she was actually the fifteenth child of old Conor, the eighth and last child of Bridget, Conor’s second wife. As you know, Mary, mother of Conor’s first seven children, had died of TB aged thirty-four. After Nanna Emily’s elephantine delivery, plucky Bridget was rendered almost horizontal for the fifteen years until her death.’

  All over the paddock women were grimacing and shaking their heads. Some of the more chardonnay-affected females were rocking slightly. The audio system screeched once more and Hugh had to raise his voice almost to a shout.

  ‘So, this was Christine’s idea.’ And where was she? ‘She thought it important for all you descendants of Mary to hug those relatives of poor Bridget, my great-great-grandmother, who was left with all those kids to raise from her sickbed!’

  The crowd murmured confusedly at Hugh’s directive, the men frowning at the idea of any cousin-hugging. Who could remember whose great-great-grandmother was whose?

  A few Brunswick-green and maroon females self-consciously embraced as Hugh cleared his throat and was about to continue. But Thea suddenly stepped forward and took the microphone from him. That his sister’s Tigers T-shirt swam on her bony frame by no means diminished her bearing or self-confidence.

  ‘Sorry, Hugh,’ she said, not the least apologetically and with her usual firm diction. ‘A couple of things. Firstly, might I say I was surprised to learn that God favours pinot noir over shiraz or cabernet sauvignon.’

  This got a couple of polite laughs. ‘Secondly, on the subject of wives, the woman we should really be remembering is Conor’s wife number three, Eloise, whom he married after Bridget’s death. He was seventy-five by then and she was a 54-year-old spinster, to use that ugly word.’ She smiled crisply. ‘A word I expect some dreadful people might apply to me.’

  Well, yes, exactly. But she was being a good sport, wasn’t she? An uncomfortable titter came from the crowd as she resumed.

  ‘When she recalled the early deaths of her fertile predecessors, and with a house bursting with other women’s children and grandchildren, Eloise probably counted herself lucky she was beyond child-bearing. She’s not strictly an ancestor of ours, but I think marrying a widower with twelve living children deserves more than mere respect.’

  Defiantly, awkwardly, the Cleary family T-shirt ballooning around her, Thea punched the air. ‘This heroine deserved a medal!’

  Several descendants clapped dutifully: Dr Thea had spoken. Hugh might be more or less the family head but Doctor Thea, as they always thought of her, with her definite views and wiry grey hair and bony frame, and always on some brave and risky overseas mission with Médecins Sans Frontières, was the family success story.

  That she was confident and adventurous and helped save the lives of starving Africans or wounded Ukrainians, while commendable and awe-inspiring, was also vaguely unsettling. Those ordinary female suburbanites liked to remind themselves that – wait a minute – Dr Thea was fifty-something, had never married, and had no children or fashion sense. She might be commendably leaner than they were too, but once you were in your 50s thin def
initely meant stringy and mannish rather than slender. Sort out the hips and the face always suffers. Especially if you disdained make-up and upper-lip depilatory measures.

  As far as they were concerned, having kids and a husband here today, or at least a presentable boyfriend in tow, surely evened things up, and compensated for not being a Doctor Without Borders and not fighting AIDS or Ebola or nursing machete-hacked Tutsis.

  And it looked as if she’d barely begun her spiel, while Hugh’s frown and tense shuffling indicated he still had plenty more to say. The more tipsy and impatient guests began to sigh and fidget.

  ‘But, thirdly,’ Thea continued, ‘it’s a rare occasion to have your whole family spread out before you, so I can’t pass up this opportunity. Now your stomachs are full of delicious iron-rich steak, I’ve something important to report on the major inheritance this family received from Conor Cleary.’

  That sparked some interest. The murmuring stopped. Inheritance? Was money involved?

  ‘I’ve recently learned I have haemochromatosis, a genetic condition where the body absorbs and retains too much iron. I’m being treated, and I’m dealing with it well. I mention it today because we’re all blood relations and you’re likely to have inherited the same genes.’

  What was this? Mouths dropped open. There were gasps and murmurs and an uncomfortable scuffing of feet. Thea had their attention now.

  ‘It used to be known as the Irish disease, most common in people of Celtic origin. Like red hair – and I can see some cute little Irish carrot tops running around here today – it’s a recessive gene. A useful one back in the Potato Famine of Conor’s day, but quite superfluous nowadays when we’re all so well fed. With the large numbers of Irish-descended people in this country, it’s become known as the Australian disease. If both your parents were of Celtic stock, and both carry the gene, then you’ll have full-blown haemochromatosis.’