Rain Music (12 page)

Where are we going?

What do we care?

Who's there to dream?

Who's there to dare . . .

Suddenly Ned was overcome with melancholy. Or was it loneliness? Again, he wished he had a satellite phone or, even better, mobile reception out here so he could call Toni. A metallic sheen of moonlight glinted on the river. His mind whirled and unbidden thoughts of his mother and his father's dedication leaped into his brain. He felt his chest tighten.
Just put it out of your mind
, he told himself. He was saved from these thoughts by the sound of a distant car engine.
Who on earth would be driving in this unmarked territory?
he wondered. The noise came closer and he recognised the whine of a motor cautiously driving down the slope towards the compound. Ned went to the gate, curious to see who would come to visit him so late in the day. He saw a bulky four-wheel drive, even older than his, and as the vehicle drew nearer to the open gate he recognised the driver as Jack.

‘Howdy, son. You're trusting, opening the gate before you knew who it was,' Jack said as he opened the rear door of the vehicle and pulled out a cardboard box.

‘It's nice to have a visitor,' said Ned. ‘Come on in.'

‘I've been to the roadhouse and Frederick asked me to deliver this care package.'

As he followed Ned inside and placed the box on the billiard table in the bar, Ned knew that his visitor was familiar with the place. Jack pulled out a bottle of bourbon from his back pocket and handed it to Ned. ‘This is what I drink.'

Ned smiled. ‘Straight up or diluted?'

‘None of that soda pop crap. Theresa made you a cake. It's in the box.'

‘How thoughtful. Thank you so much for bringing it down. Grab a glass and we can sit outside.'

Jack settled at the table under the trees and unscrewed the cap off the bourbon. He poured a hefty slug into his glass as Ned opened a bottle of Carlo's wine.

‘Caught any decent fish?' Jack asked.

‘Not really. Is there much to catch?'

‘Son, there's sooty grunter, perch, archer fish, all good for a feed in that river. I've caught cherubin – they're
redclaw crayfish – and freshwater yabbies in there, too.
I sometimes set a line overnight. Throw the reel in a tin bucket and you'll hear it go off. Makes a hell of a racket,' Jack chuckled.

‘I'll give it a go. You know this area pretty well, then?'

Jack paused and sipped his drink as if debating whether to reply. ‘Yeah, I've spent some time here with Carlo, Lena and his folks. Mad for the tooth, Carlo and his parents. Eating all the time. Well, feasting. They don't do anything by halves, but they do it damn well.'

‘I've seen the cold room and the freezer, so I suspected that they like to keep a lot of food on hand when they're here. I eat fairly simply, myself.'

Jack nodded and they both sipped their drinks quietly.

‘Frederick said you're a music man.'

‘Well, that's how I try to make my living. Singing, writing my own songs, but at the moment I'm struggling with a project I've always wanted to do. Thought if I could be by myself for a while I would find something to write about, but I'm not sure how to put down all my ideas in a coherent form.'

‘Life set to music, huh? Not so much new there.'

‘It's quite difficult to be original,' agreed Ned.
‘I always worry I'm writing something that I've heard before, copying someone else's idea or melody.'

Jack threw back the last of his bourbon. ‘Well, ain't nothin' new there either, sonny. As far as I know all music is based on the ideas of others. How many people have ripped off the songs of the black folk slaving in the cotton fields or used their spirituals for the basis of their so-called original compositions? Where do you think jazz comes from? I reckon part of every melody has been heard or played before somewhere. You could say that all musicians stand on the shoulders of others.' He reached for the bourbon bottle.

Ned had to laugh. ‘You're probably right. I'm told song writing is the art of resurrection, adaptation and sheer chutzpah! But it's hard for me to find my own path, just the same. I scribble down notes and chords as soon as I hear them in my head, like I always do,
but I'm still not getting what I'm really after, and the hardest part is that I don't know what it is that I want. That remains elusive.'

‘Well, use your damned imagination,' drawled Jack. ‘And use your life experiences – not that all experiences are good ones, or ones you want to share with others. You ever been in love?' Jack asked abruptly.

‘Yes,' said Ned. ‘I'm not sure I have anything new or enlightening to share on that score. What about you?' He looked at Jack, thinking that he might have been rather handsome in his youth.

Jack shrugged. ‘I've been lucky and known a few good women in my life. And a few I wish I'd never met, but they probably felt the same way about me.'

‘I don't want to write just about love. I think what I'm after is to look at a bigger picture, something more meaningful. The stories that make the world go round.' As Ned felt his way through an explanation, for a moment it seemed as if a foggy veil was lifting from his mind and he could glimpse what he was after, but then just as quickly he was in murky darkness again.

‘There, you said it, sonny. Stories. That's what the world is interested in hearing. History is not just about great deeds but about the small tragedies and triumphs of ordinary people. Think about that,' said Jack, and poured himself another slug of bourbon. ‘The stories of ordinary people,' he repeated.

Ned watched him for a moment. Who was this older, seemingly well-educated American, living as a recluse way out here, whose brusqueness belied his rough charm and who took photos of wild animals with professional aplomb? ‘So, Jack, I take it that you are either American or Canadian. You're a long way from home.'

‘Yeah, I'm a Yank, but I don't know what home means. The place where you were born, grew up in? The place where you made a home with the wife and kids? The place where you live to work? Or all of the above?' he asked with a quizzical smile. ‘Or just the place where you hang your hat?' Jack paused and looked out at the river. ‘I've seen too many homes destroyed, and so often for the wrong reasons. And wherever home might be, I've learned you can never go back and find it after you've left.'

Ned thought for a moment about how sad and bitter Jack's statement was. ‘I don't think that's always true. For me, I know I can go back to my family home where my mother lives, and even when things change, somehow it's still always the same. Even the things that belonged to my late father are still about. It's not where I want to live, but I guess it's nice to know that the place I called home when I was young is waiting there for me.'

Jack sat up, his hazel eyes flashed. ‘Well, I tell you something, Ned, you are damned lucky! I've seen so many homes, whole towns sometimes, destroyed by war. The people who lived in them can never find their way back. Home and family. Gone.' As Jack spoke, Ned could sense the anger and pain emanating from the American. Ned started to say something soothing, but Jack interrupted.

‘I don't need counselling, Ned,' said Jack in a scathing voice. ‘On the contrary, I'm the one who's done more than my share of trying to salvage the lives of kids, men of your age, and hell, even men as old as me. But you know what makes me really angry? Things never change. The politicians, the military, they never learn and they never, ever take the blame for their mistakes. They just go out and do it all over again.'

He jumped to his feet and ran his fingers through his hair, then flexed his shoulders and stared at the river. ‘I so believed in my country. Do you know that I
wanted
to go to Vietnam? I volunteered as soon as I could. I believed in stopping the communists getting a hold of that country. I swallowed the stories that the brass and the politicians told us, but I was pretty disillusioned by what I saw there. Then after Vietnam, the US got involved in wars in El Salvador, Iran Contra, Panama, the Gulf, Afghanistan, Iraq . . . the list goes on and on, and it's the men, the ordinary men, who pay for it. It's their lives that get destroyed, as well as the lives of the poor bastards that get in the way of the US military machine. Well, I decided that I wanted out.' He stopped suddenly and took a deep breath, collecting himself. He poured himself another drink. ‘Last one and then I'll go.'

‘Stay as long as you want,' said Ned quietly.

Jack took a sip, savouring the liquid before swallowing. He sat back down into his chair and his voice became calmer and more reflective. ‘You know, being a music man, you might be interested in this story. Years ago, when I first joined the service, I met an old black guy who told me about the time he came to Australia during the Second World War, sometime about '43 or '44. Went into Cairns with the US forces and said the town went crazy for the Yanks, because along with nylons, chocolates and cigarettes they had records. All the latest swing bands and boogie woogie music, even some Hawaiian music. The girls were wild about it. Of course he also told me that the black American servicemen were segregated from the white, had their own black clubs and brothels and such. But this guy said when the US Service shows came to Cairns to entertain the troops they used to be able to go to those, although they had to sit separately. Anyway, one time he got to see John Wayne, and performing alongside him and the other US headliners was some local Australian talent. The main gal among these locals was called Georgia Lee, and this guy told me that she sang the blues sweeter than any blues singer he'd heard before. When I heard that story, I kinda decided I wanted to come to Australia.'

‘I've never heard of Georgia Lee,' said Ned.

‘Well, you missed out on a great voice. Interesting background. Her real name was Dulcie Rama Pitt and her mother was part Aboriginal and her father was from Jamaica. The whole family sang, but she was the best. Later she made her mark in England and sang with Nat King Cole, but came back to Cairns. Like my friend told me, she sang the blues better than anyone else I ever knew. She sang jazz and used to perform on television a bit, too. She made an album, the first by an Indigenous artist. It was reissued a few years back –
Georgia Lee Sings the Blues Down Under
,
so now anyone can hear her remarkable voice
.
It still breaks my heart when I hear her sing “Oh My Beloved Father”. So, she's kinda the reason I'm here.' He leaned back with a satisfied smile.

‘That's a pretty interesting story,' said Ned, wondering if Jack really did come to Australia because of Georgia Lee or whether he was just telling a tall tale. ‘I'll check her out sometime.'

Jack rose to his feet. ‘Well, I'll be off.'

Ned handed him the remains of the bottle of bourbon. ‘Thanks for coming by, Jack.'

Jack waved the bottle away. ‘Put it in the bar, in case I decide to inflict myself on you again.'

‘You do that, Jack. I'd like it.' Ned reached out and shook the older man's hand. ‘Take care driving.'

‘I'm an old jungle fighter. I can
see in the dark and I know my way around here like the back of my hand.'

Ned waited till he heard the engine of Jack's car fade in the distance before returning to the chairs at the edge of the river, as the moon was slowly rising in the night sky. Absently he picked up his guitar and let his fingers strum, sliding across the strings without thinking. Jack had set a thousand thoughts and images swirling in his head. Stories. Everyone had a story. But how to link those stories? That was the hard part of the equation.

*

A few days later, he decided that nearly three weeks was enough time off the phone grid and he wanted to make a return visit to Cooktown. He only made a brief stop at the roadhouse for a quick cup of coffee with Frederick and Theresa before heading on to Cooktown. Driving into the small township, Ned suddenly felt like he'd arrived in the big smoke. The little place seemed to be bustling, but there was probably no more activity than when he'd first arrived. That seemed an age ago, now. When he parked his four-wheel drive, he pulled out his mobile phone. It beeped with messages and, as he scrolled through them, he saw that quite a few were from Bella. She was irate that he wasn't coming to their father's dedication. Reading on, he realised with alarm that she was actually in Queensland and trying to catch up with him. He tapped out a message to her:
Sorry I've been out of contact, Bell. I'm staying in the bush for a bit, composing. It's going well and I'm really into it so it's not a good time to meet. Let's catch up next time I'm back in Victoria. Sorry I can't make it to the dedication.
The text mightn't stop Bella, but he hoped it would put her off just a bit. Next, he thought it was time he actually called his mother.

Her phone went through to voicemail, so Ned just left a message. ‘It's me, I'm back where I've got mobile reception. I'll try calling again later. Hope you're okay, love you.'

Then he rang Toni, who answered the phone after the second ring.

‘Hey, stranger!' She sounded pleased to hear from him. ‘Back in town?'

‘Just arrived.' Suddenly Ned couldn't wait to see her. ‘Can I see you? Are you free tonight?'

Toni laughed. ‘Lucky for you I finish work in a few hours. What about my place, and you can fill me in over dinner about what you've been doing? I'll text you my address. But first, in a word, how're you finding life out there in the wilds?'

‘Amazing. The place is unreal. Even my neighbour's unreal. You should come out and see it. All of it.'