The Silent Country (33 page)

V
ERONICA WAS SEEING THE
land through new eyes. After seeing how interested she’d been in the old homestead, Jamie McIntosh offered to take her to the station cemetery. As they drove he told her some of the stories his mother had told him.

‘As a kid I loved the Dreaming Stories, the legends of my mother’s country, which her grandmother told her. But it wasn’t till I came here and saw the country for myself that they made sense.’ He pointed to the landscape. ‘Those red rocks, the gullies that run wild in the wet, those trees, the birds and lizards and little marsupials that I know are out there, well, what’s left of them, make me feel connected to this country because I know their stories and my mother was born here. I tell the stories to my son too.’

‘Have you brought him out here?’

‘Oh, yes. My mother insisted we do his smoking ceremony before he turned one. He’s nearly seven years old so its significance is starting to mean more to him now. The ceremony is a rite that cleanses the child, makes him strong and healthy and connects him to his belonging place. Billy often asks when he’s coming back to his country for a visit.’

‘And his mother?’

A shadow passed over Jamie’s face. ‘Janine – my wife – died suddenly.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry. That must be hard for you. How do you manage?’ Veronica didn’t want to probe but she couldn’t help feeling curious.

‘Family. Billy’s got more aunties, uncles, doting grandparents, cousins and friends than you can poke a stick at,’ he said with a smile.

‘And he lives with you? Who looks after him when you come away like this?’ asked Veronica.

‘I have a house that is a bit elastic. It stretches to accommodate whoever is around. And my parents live just a few houses away. They moved to Darwin when Janine was killed in a car crash. Billy was just a toddler. He was in the car too. Came through unscathed.’

‘I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.’

‘Yes. It was.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘My family have been wonderful. I don’t think Dad saw his retirement being in Darwin but he loves his grandson, too.’

‘Your mother sounds pretty special,’ said Veronica.

‘She is. She’s had an amazing life when you consider she was born in a blacks’ camp out here.’

‘Strange how life can twist and take unexpected turns,’ said Veronica, thinking of Jamie’s wife. ‘Fate, I suppose.’

‘And luck and perseverance and sheer hard work, like mother becoming a teacher in Melbourne.’

‘You said she is very active politically, as well?’

‘That came later. She was nominated for an award
and a magazine journalist wrote a feature on her and she talked about being born out here and that prompted Mum to make the journey back to Brolga Springs. She found it in a terrible state of decay.’

‘That must have upset her. How old were you then?’

‘I was about five, but I have some memories of Mum’s journey because she was so moved, I guess. I hadn’t seen my mother cry before. She came home to Melbourne and started the long painful process of tracing whatever relatives she could find.’

‘How did she go – finding them?’

He gave a slow smile. ‘I’ll let her tell you that story.’

He drove through a stand of eucalypts and stopped. Ahead was a small clearing, several headstones in its centre. Rusting iron stakes and a wall of trees separated this space from the rest of its surroundings. It was a small country, silent in its aloneness. Jamie turned off the engine of the four-wheel drive and they sat quietly for a moment.

He turned to her. ‘Do you want to go and see it?’

‘Yes, will it be okay?’

Jamie smiled. ‘I don’t see anyone around to object.’

As he helped her down from the vehicle the heat slammed down on her and she almost staggered.

He took her elbow. ‘Put your hat on.’

Veronica put on her hat and sunglasses. ‘There’s not a breath of air here.’ She glanced up at the motionless leaves, hanging limply.

The dried leaves and small twigs crunched under their feet.

‘The silence, it’s eerie,’ she said softly.

‘We’re far from anything. In the old days you would’ve heard the echoes from the station, cattle and the people at the camp. But I would prefer to be buried here rather than in a crowded cemetery near a busy highway in a city.’

‘But this place – it feels so lonely, so neglected. Who
would ever come here?’ asked Veronica as they walked towards the biggest grave, marked by an elaborate marble headstone and small iron picket fence.

Jamie didn’t answer as she bent over to read the inscription on the bronze plaque:

Here lies Anthony Augustine Johns, 1885–1956
Master of Brolga Springs.
Beloved husband to Annabel. A friend to all.
‘The Best Boss in the Territory.’
Behind shadows standeth God.

Jamie touched her arm and pointed to a smaller, modest white marble plaque beside it, saying. ‘Her ashes were sent up here from Melbourne. Mum said Annabel always wanted to return to Brolga Springs.’

Veronica read aloud;

Annabel Johns, 1890–1964
Mistress of Brolga Springs.
Beloved wife of Anthony Johns.
At peace at last.

‘She had no children. Your mother must have been like a daughter.’

He nodded. ‘Mum’ll tell you the full story. But Mrs Johns sounds like a great woman, I wish I’d known her.’ He glanced at Veronica. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I rang Mum yesterday and told her that you were here and what you were doing. She said she’d be happy to talk to you. She remembers that group coming through, especially the woman who gave her a silver bracelet.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Veronica, feeling rather elated that Colin’s story was coming together.

He gave her a quizzical look. ‘Mum still has it.’

‘Really! That’s wonderful to have a tangible link between then and now.’

Veronica walked around the tiny cemetery. ‘Who else is buried here?’

‘A couple of men who were killed in accidents over the years, old Paddy the cook who worked on the station forever and didn’t have any family that anyone knew about and two of the old black stockmen.’

‘They didn’t have any links with their people? No traditional ceremony when they died or anything?’

‘Mum told me they considered Brolga Springs to be their home, so this is where they wanted to be buried. They’d lost their family links.’

‘Colin told me that your mother was good with horses when she was a little girl,’ Veronica said as they completed the circuit of the cemetery.

Jamie nodded enthusiastically. ‘She’s amazing, just has a natural gift with them. Wherever she’s lived she’s managed to keep a horse. She keeps some outside Darwin and spends most weekends working them and riding. She taught Billy to ride,’ he added proudly.

‘What a woman of contrasts. I look forward to meeting her,’ said Veronica, thinking Doris was really a story on her own.

The secrets and stories of those long gone but who rested here, seemed to linger in the whisper of the leaves and the gentle sway of shadows. Who was left to celebrate their lives, to mourn and miss those buried in this lonely place? The solitude of the setting, and the reverence and respect shown by Jamie to them made her pause.

‘I’m glad your mother knows something about this place, the people buried here and what it must have been like when Brolga Springs Homestead was the centre of a bustling cattle station. Now it seems so sad. Let’s go, please.’

Jamie nodded and she turned to him as he held the car door for her. ‘I just feel that I’m intruding,’ she said softly.

He smiled. ‘I understand why you feel that way. There are some places I’d hate to see tramped over by tourists.’

‘Thank you for showing me.’

Driving back to the new homestead they talked about their careers and first jobs.

‘How do you find working for
Our Country
?’ he asked. ‘It’s one of the better shows on TV.’

‘I agree. And my boss is lovely. Internal politics, egos, and now a new direction for the show keep life interesting.’

He heard the uncertainty in her voice. ‘But?’

Veronica had to laugh and relaxed. ‘They want to change the format and have a front person, not a presenter but a hands-on person who does the stories . . . Which is why Eddie is tailing me. I’m the one. I hate it.’

‘Ah, I understand. Must be a bit restricting.’

‘The good thing is I’m the producer so I can still call the shots. Say,’ she smiled at him, ‘you’re good talent, how about you talk a bit on camera?’

‘Only if I have to, I like my privacy too.’

‘Were you a shy boy at school? What interested you in this job?’

Jamie made Veronica laugh as he recounted how uncomfortable he was when he started university and studied economics. ‘I quickly discovered that I’m an outdoors person and that I’d never be happy in a desk job. My parents were both understanding and Mum suggested that I do an environmental science course. Dad helped me get a position in the public service in Canberra but breaking down statistics and talking to engineers about problems with river degradation, water flows and salinity drove me crazy. But once I got out and started actually looking at the land, talking to long-time farmers and indigenous custodians I saw a different picture.’

‘It seems strange to talk about water when it’s so dry out here,’ said Veronica, looking around at the raw red rocks, the ochre earth and the plume of orange dust churning behind them.

‘You should be here in the wet season. Tremendous time. Wonderful storms, torrential rain, the rivers flood and the birdlife is spectacular. Only trouble is you can’t drive anywhere.’

‘So what happens to all the water that floods over the land, heads down the rivers?’ asked Veronica. ‘Is it going to waste?’

‘No way. That’s how Mother Nature designed it,’ said Jamie emphatically. ‘The wetlands need it, the ocean needs it. People don’t seem to like wetlands. They like the word but a wetland is a swamp and they don’t like swamps, so they cut them open, dry them out, expose the soil to the air and then any water that touches it turns into acid or evaporates. I feel quite passionate about it. Water is this country’s most precious commodity. Anyone who touches a river, who tries to control any aspect of it, should first understand what a river does. You’ll understand better if you visit Kakadu and see the billabongs and wetlands.’

‘I’m intending to go there,’ said Veronica firmly, although, as yet, she had no idea how it would fit in with her story. She turned to him. ‘Say, I could do a great documentary on water in the outback, with your help!’ Veronica realised that Jamie was not only charismatic, he was knowledgeable and passionate and would look great on television.

‘But it’s not the story you came to do,’ he reminded her. ‘Another time perhaps.’

When they parted company at the TV station back in Darwin, Jamie handed her a bit of paper.

‘Here’s my phone number and Mum’s and her address.
There’s a bit of a party at her place on Saturday for lunch. It’s Mum and Dad’s fortieth wedding anniversary. We’d love you both to come.’ He looked at Eddie who was unloading his camera gear. ‘Hope you don’t mind, but we’d prefer you not to film anything. It’s just a family social occasion, okay? Mum is happy to be interviewed on camera later. But please come anyway.’

‘Fine by me, mate. Anyway, sorry, I can’t make it. I have plans for Saturday,’ said Eddie.

‘Do you want me to pick you up then, Veronica?’ asked Jamie.

‘No, please don’t trouble yourself. I’ll grab a taxi. I’m looking forward to meeting your mother.’

‘Just casual,’ said Jamie and left them with a wave.

‘He knows what he’s talking about. I suggest you take him along if you plan to go to Kakadu,’ said Eddie.

‘Of course. He’s our entrée into off-limit communities and his local knowledge is invaluable.’

‘You going to try and get him on camera?’

‘When it’s appropriate,’ said Veronica.

Eddie gave a wry smile. ‘Be careful, he can charm birds out of trees. Don’t be swayed because he’s good looking and sensitive. He has an agenda too. So keep your journalist smarts sharpened.’

‘Thanks for the advice, Eddie. If you might recall, I’ve never let personal emotions interfere with a story,’ she said tartly.

‘You can say that again,’ said Eddie.

The taxi driver was chatty and cheerful. ‘Yep, I was here during Cyclone Tracy. Now there’s a story that’s never been fully told,’ he said confidentially. He pointed to the new buildings along the waterfront. ‘Look at those complexes and high rises, I don’t know how they’ll stand up to
a cyclone. Won’t catch me living in a glass tower, thanks. So you a friend of Doris McIntosh’s, love?’

‘You know her?’ asked Veronica in surprise, as she’d only given him the address, no name.

‘Yeah, she’s a very smart lady. And nice too. A very good ad for her people. They need more like her.’

‘Her people? So she’s more Aboriginal than white? Is that how she’s seen?’ asked Veronica.

‘Well, of course, she’s light skinned, half-caste they used to call them, though that’s not a PC word now. She’s a nice, respectable lady, her husband is a great bloke too, but she’s strong and she speaks out. And good on her, I say.’ He chuckled. ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of Doris’s opinion. She calls a spade a bloody shovel.’