Australia: Outback Fantasies

Jacob Dawson, Jili’s husband, also part aboriginal, was a long-time leading hand on the station—one of the best. In Bryn’s opinion Daramba couldn’t do without either of them. And Jacob would make a far better overseer than the present one, Roy Forster, who relied far too heavily on Jacob and his diverse skills.

‘It all has to be decided, Jili,’ he said, with a heartfelt sigh. ‘Charles will inherit. I can’t speak for him. He can’t even speak for himself at the moment. He’s in deep shock.’

Jili looked away, unseeing. ‘Thought his dad was gunna live for ever,’ she grunted. ‘Seems he was as human as the rest of us. How have the rest of ’em reacted?’ She turned to stare into Bryn’s brilliant dark eyes. They were almost as black as her own, yet different because of their diamond glitter.

‘Some are in shock,’ he said. ‘Some are in surprisingly good cheer,’ he added dryly.

‘Well, wait on the will,’ Jili advised. ‘See if he try to put things to rights. There’s an accounting, ya know.’

Bryn didn’t answer. In any case, it was much too late now. His grandfather and his father were gone. He came to stand beside her, both of them looking out at the quicksilver mirage. They both knew it was the end of something. The end of an era, certainly. But the fight was still on.

Jili was watching him. She thought of Bryn Macallan as a prince, grave and beautiful; a prince who acknowledged all his subjects. A prince who was ready to come into his rightful inheritance. She laid a gentle, respectful hand on his shoulder. ‘I promise you it be right in the end, Bryn. But a warning you must heed. There’s a bad spell ahead. Mind Francey. That cousin of hers is just waitin’ to swoop like a hawk on a little fairy wren. Bad blood there.’

Wasn’t that his own fear?

He changed up a gear as he came on a great sweep of tall grasses that covered the flat, fiery red earth. Their tips were like golden feathers blowing in the wind. It put him in mind of the open savannahs of the tropical North. That was the effect of all the miraculous rain. The four-wheel drive cut its way through the towering grasses like a bulldozer, flattening them and creating a path before they sprang up again, full of sap and resilience. A lone emu ducked away on long grey legs. It had all but been hidden in its luxuriant camouflage as it fed on shoots and seeds. The beautiful ghost gums, regarded by most as the quintessential eucalypt but not a eucalypt at all, stood sentinel to the silky blue sky, glittering grasses at their feet. It was their opal-white boles that made them instantly recognisable.

A string of billabongs lay to his right. He caught the glorious flashy wings of parrots diving in and out of the Red River gums. Australia—the land of parrots! Such a brilliant range of colours: scarlet, turquoise, emerald, violet, an intense orange and a bright yellow. Francey, when six, had nearly drowned in one of those lagoons—the middle one, Koopali. It was the deepest and the longest, with permanent water even in drought. In that year the station had been blessed with good spring rains, so Koopali, which could in flood become a raging monster, had been running a bumper. On that day it had been Carina who had stood by, a terrified witness, unable to move to go to her cousin’s assistance, as though all strength had been drained out of her nine-year-old body.

It was a miracle Bryn had come upon them so quickly. Magic was as good an answer as any. A sobbing, inconsolable Carina had told them much later on that they had wandered away from the main group and, despite her warnings, Francey had insisted on getting too close to the deep lagoon. With its heavy load of waterlilies a child could get enmeshed in the root system of all the aquatic plants and be sucked under. Both girls could swim, but Francey at that time had been very vulnerable, being only a beginner and scarcely a year orphaned.

Could she really have disobeyed her older cousin’s warnings? Francey as a child had never been known to be naughty.

When it had been realised the two girls had wandered off, the party had split up in a panic. He had never seen people move so fast. Danger went hand in hand with the savage grandeur of the Outback. He had run and run, his heartbeats almost jammed with fear, heading for Koopali. Why had he done that? Because that was where one of the itinerant aboriginal women, frail and of a great age, had pointed with her message stick. He had acted immediately on her mysterious command. Yet how could she have known? She’d been almost blind.

‘Koopali,’ she had muttered, nodding and gesturing, marking the word with an emphatic down beat of her stick.

To this day he didn’t know why he had put such trust in her. But he had, arriving in time to launch himself into the dark green waters just as Francey’s small head had disappeared for probably the last time. That was when Carina had started screaming blue murder …

So there it was: he had saved Francey’s life, which meant to the aboriginal people that he owned part of her soul. Afterwards Carina had been so distraught no one had accused her of not looking after her little cousin properly. Carina, after all, had been only nine. But she could swim and swim well. She’d said fright had frozen her in place, making her incapable of jumping into the water after her cousin.

It had taken Bryn to do that.

‘Thank God for you, Bryn! I’ll never forget this. Never!’ A weeping Elizabeth Forsyth had looked deep into his eyes, cradling Francey’s small body in her arms as though Francey was the only child she had.

Carina had been standing nearby. He had already calmed Francey, who had clung to him like a little monkey, coughing up water, trying so hard to be brave. That was when the main party had arrived, alerted by his long, carrying co-ee, the traditional cry for help in the bush. All of them had huddled prayerfully around them. Catastrophe had been averted.

‘How did you know they were here, Bryn?’ Elizabeth had asked in wonder. ‘We all thought they’d gone back to the main camp.’ That was where a large tent had been erected.

‘The old woman spoke and I listened.’ It had been an odd thing to say, but no one had laughed.

Aborigines had an uncanny sense of danger. More so of approaching death. The old woman had even sent a strong wind at his back, though such a wind blew in no other place in the area. When everyone returned to the campsite to thank the old woman she’d been nowhere to be found. Even afterwards the aboriginal people who criss-crossed the station on walkabout claimed to know nothing of her or her whereabouts.

The wind blew her in. The wind blew her out.

‘Coulda been a ghost!’ Eddie Emu, one of the stockmen, had told them without a smile. ‘Ghosts take all forms, ya know!’

Magic and the everyday were interconnected with aboriginal people. One had to understand that. Eddie claimed to have seen the spirit of his dead wife many times in an owl. That was why the owl took its rest by day and never slept at night. Owls hovered while men slept. Owls gave off signals, messages.

All in all it had been an extraordinary day. Little trembling Francey had whispered something into his ear that day. Something that had always remained with him.

‘Carrie walked into the water. I did too.’

So what in God’s name had really happened? Simply a child’s terrible mistake? His mind had shut down on any other explanation. Carina had not been sufficiently aware of the danger and had later told fibs to exonerate herself from blame. It was a natural enough instinct.

Bryn came on them exactly where Jili had told him: Wungulla Lagoon, where the great corroborees had once been held. He seriously doubted whether a corroboree would be held to mark Sir Frank’s passing. Francis Forsyth had not been loved, nor respected in the purest sense. Feared, most certainly. It hadn’t taken the station people half a minute to become aware of Sir Frank’s dark streak. Everyone had obeyed him. No one had trusted him. Who could blame them? He himself had not trusted Francis Forsyth for many years now.

He parked the Jeep a short distance off, approaching on foot and dodging the great mushrooming mounds of spinifex, bright green instead of the usual burnt gold. Francey was in the middle of a group of women, five in all, all busy at their painting. They looked totally involved, perfectly in harmony with their desert home.

Francey might have nearly drowned in Koopali Lagoon at age six, but at twenty-three she was a bush warrior. She could swim like a fish. She was fearless in an uncompromising environment that could and did take lives. She could handle the swiftest and strongest horse on the station. She could ride bareback if she had to, and find her way in the wilderness. She could shoot and hunt if it became necessary. In fact she was a crack shot, with an excellent eye. She knew all about bush tucker—how to make good bread from very finely ground small grass seeds, where to find the wild limes and figs, the bush tomatoes and a whole supermarket of wild berries and native fruits. Francey knew how to survive. She had made friends with the aboriginal people from her earliest childhood. In turn they had taught her a great deal about their own culture, without compromising the secrets forbidden to white people. They had taught her to see their landscape with her own eyes. And now she had a highly recognisable painting style that was bringing in excellent reviews.

Over the past few years since she had left university as one of the top three graduates in law for her year—Francey had thought it necessary to know her way around big business and the administration of her own sizeable trust fund—she had begun to capture the fantasy of aboriginal mythology with her own acutely imaginative vision. Her paintings—Bryn loved them, and owned quite a few—were a deeply sensitive and sympathetic mix of both cultures. She’d already had one sellout showing, stressing to press and collectors alike the great debt she owed to her aboriginal mentors. As it happened all of them were women, who were now commanding quite a following thanks to their own talent and Francesca’s endeavours. Aboriginal art was extraordinarily powerful.

She rose to her feet the moment the Jeep came into view. She was walking towards him, as graceful as a gazelle. She had the Forsyth height—tall for a woman—and willow-slender beautiful limbs. Her face was protected by an attractive wide-brimmed hat made of woven grasses, probably fashioned for her by one of the women. Her long shiny river of hair, that when loose fell into deep lustrous waves, was caught back into a thick rope that trailed down her back. A single silky skein lay across her throat like a ribbon. She wore the simplest of gear: a pale blue cotton shirt streaked with paint, beige shorts, dusty trainers on her feet.

‘Bryn!’ she called.

Her voice, one of her great attractions, was like some lovely musical instrument.

‘Hi there, Francey!’

Just the sight of her set up a curious ache deep inside him. He knew what it meant. Of course he did. But how did he turn things around? They stood facing each other. Their eyes met. Instant communication. And they both knew it—however hard she tried to disguise it. She lifted her face to him and kissed his cheek.

The cool satin touch of her flesh! He could see the flush of blood beneath her smooth golden skin before the familiar dissembling began. Both of them seemed to be stuck in roles imposed on them from childhood. That would change now.

‘It has to be something serious to bring you here, Bryn.’ She held her tapering long-fingered hands in front of her in an instinctive gesture of defensiveness. ‘It’s Grandfather, isn’t it?’ She turned her head abruptly, as if responding to a signal. The women were still sitting in their painting circle, but they had all left off work. Now they lifted their hands high in unison, palms facing upwards to the sky.

Now we have moved to an end.

Bryn recognised and wasn’t greatly surprised by the ceremonial gesture. These people were extraordinary. ‘Yes, Francey, it is,’ he confirmed gravely. ‘Your grandfather died of a massive heart attack yesterday afternoon. I came as quickly as I could. I’m very sorry for your pain. I know you can only be thinking of what might have been.’

‘I wasn’t there, Bryn.’ Her voice splintered in her throat. ‘I knew the moment I saw you what you were going to tell me.’

‘I’m sorry, Francey,’ he repeated. ‘You’re getting so close to these people you’re acquiring their powers. How do they know? It’s not guesswork. They know.’

‘Uncanny, isn’t it?’ She flung another glance over her shoulder. The women had resumed their painting. ‘But then they’re the oldest living culture on earth. They’ve lived right here on this spot for over forty thousand years. They can scent death.’

He nodded. He had seen it happen many times. His eyes remained locked on her. She had lost colour at his news, but she was pushing away the tears. She wore no make-up that he could see, beyond lipgloss to protect her mouth. Her skin was flawless, poreless—like a baby’s. Her large almond-shaped eyes, heavily and blackly lashed, dazzled like silver coins in the sunlight.

‘He didn’t want to see me?’ It came out on a wave of sadness and deep regret.

Bryn found himself, as ever, protective. He hastened to explain. ‘It wasn’t a case of his wanting to see anyone, Francey.’ He knew the hurt and pain of exclusion she had carried for most of her life. ‘It happened at a board meeting, not at the house. None of us had the slightest idea he was feeling unwell. One moment he was shouting Charles down—a bit of an argument had started up, nothing really, but you know how he detests … detested … any other view but his own—and that was it. It was very quick. I doubt he felt more than a moment’s pain. We didn’t contact you right away because I wanted to tell you in person. I have to bring you home. He’s being given a State funeral.’

‘I suppose he would be!’ A deep sigh escaped her. ‘What great wealth and politics can do! As for home …’ Sudden tears made her eyes shimmer like foil. ‘That word should mean everything. It’s meaningless to me. I don’t have a home. I never had a home since I lost my parents.’ She cast him a despairing look. ‘I spent my childhood trying to find a way through grief. I had to focus on what my father once said to me when I was little and a wasp stung me. “Be brave, Francey, darling. Be brave.”’

‘You are brave, Francey,’ Bryn said, knowing that for all the Forsyth wealth she had had a difficult life.

Her beautiful eyes glistened with blinked-back tears. ‘Well, I try. Some of the worst things happen to us in childhood. Sadly I haven’t left mine entirely behind. Carina used to tell me all the time I should be grateful.’

‘Well, that’s Carina!’ he said, unable to keep the harsh edge from his voice.

Francesca was vaguely shocked. Bryn never criticised Carina. Not to date. ‘I don’t think she was trying to upset me, Bryn,’ she pointed out loyally. ‘She meant me to buck up. But enough of that.’ She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘I don’t often feel sorry for myself. But Grandfather’s death has come as a shock. He lived like he truly believed he was going to go on for ever. Well into his nineties at any rate. I’m very grateful you’ve come, Bryn.’

He shook his uncovered dark head, sunlight striking bronze highlights. ‘No need for gratitude, Francey. I wanted to come.’

She gave a broken laugh that ended on a sob. ‘You and your family grew much closer to me than my own. Isn’t that incredible? I’m so grateful you were there for me.’

He heard the affection and sincerity in her voice. His mother and grandmother always had been strongly but subtly protective of Francesca, careful not to show their resentments of the Forsyths. Now an opportunity had opened up and he had to take it.

‘We’ve never spoken about this, Francey, and you probably don’t want to hear it from me now, but Carina isn’t quite the friend you think she is.’

She didn’t look at all shocked by his comment. She looked ineffably sad.

‘Why is that, Bryn?’ she asked in a pained voice. ‘I’ve never done anything—never would do anything—to hurt Carina. I’ve been extremely careful to stay in the background. I don’t compete in any way. She is the Forsyth heiress, not me. And I don’t want to be. I try to live my own life. Whenever we have to attend functions together I never draw attention to myself. I always dress down.’

‘You should stop that,’ he said, more bluntly than he’d intended.

Now she did look shocked. ‘You think so?’ She sounded hurt.

‘I do,’ he told her more gently. ‘No one could fail to see how beautiful you are, Francey, even in that bush shirt and shorts. You shouldn’t be driven into playing down your looks or your own unique style.’

She blushed at the beautiful. Better maybe that he hadn’t said it.

‘It seemed to make good sense to me,’ she confessed, rather bleakly.

‘Yes, I know.’ He studied her downbent face. ‘You had your reasons. But I don’t believe it would make a difference anyway.’ He decided to turn up the heat one more degree. Jili’s warnings were still resounding in his ears. ‘Carina believes you stole her mother’s love from her. That’s at the heart of it all.’

Her luminous gaze swept his face. ‘But that’s a terrible burden to lay on me. I was a child. Five years of age. I was a victim. I never wanted my parents to die. It was the great tragedy of my life. Losing my grandfather here and now, painful and sudden as it is, in no way compares. The worst thing that can happen to you only happens once. I’m sorry for the way that sounds, but I can’t be hypocritical about it. Grandfather never loved me. He never wanted my love. He never showed me any real affection. The only time I got treated as a granddaughter was when we were all on show. Just a piece of play-acting, a side-show. I was his granddaughter by chance. I’m not blonde and blue-eyed like the Forsyths. I’m my mother’s child. And I lost her. Still Carina can resent me?’

Hate you, more like it. ‘I’m afraid so. Carina’s resentments are not of your making, Francey, so don’t look so upset. It’s her nature. She’s inherited the Forsyth dark side.’

‘But surely that must be a cause of grief to her?’ she said, her voice full of pity for her cousin.

‘I don’t think she sees it like that,’ he responded tersely, alarmed that Francesca’s innate sense of compassion should work against her. ‘One has to have an insight into one’s own behaviour. I don’t think Carina has that. I’m glad this is out in the open, Francey, because we both know there will be tough times ahead. It’s best to prepare for them.’

‘She must be terribly upset.’ She fixed her eyes on him. ‘Carrie idolised Grandfather.’

‘She’s coping,’ he said.

‘That’s good. Carrie is very strong. And she has you. She loves you,’ Francesca added softly, as though offering the best possible reason for Carina to be strong.

Why did people think Carina Forsyth was the fixed star in Bryn’s firmament? Francesca thought it the most. ‘She only thinks she loves me, Francey.’ His retort was crisp. He didn’t say love wasn’t in Carina’s heart or soul. Carina wanted what she couldn’t have. It was a psychological problem.

‘It’s not as simple as that, Bryn,’ Francesca contradicted him gently. ‘You’re very close. She told me you were lovers.’ Her voice was low, but her light-sparked eyes were steady.

‘Okay.’ He shrugged, his voice perfectly calm. ‘So we were. Things happen. But that was a few years back.’

‘She says not.’ It wasn’t like Bryn to lie. Francesca had long since made the judgment that Bryn had no time for lies.

He couldn’t suppress the sudden flare of anger. It showed in his brilliant dark eyes. ‘And of course you believe her?’

Her lovely face flamed. ‘You’re saying it’s not the truth?’ Momentarily she came out from behind her habitual screen.

For answer he flashed a smile that lit up his stunning, lean-featured face. It was a face that could in repose look somewhat severe—even at times as hard and formidable as Francis Forsyth himself. ‘Francey, I’m a free man. I like it that way.’

‘You might not always feel the same, and Carina will be waiting for you.’ She pulled her sunglasses out of her pocket and hid behind the dark lenses. ‘Do you want to say hello to the group?’

‘Of course. I wouldn’t think of bypassing them.’

He moved alongside her as they made their way back to the artists at work. Their only protection from the brassy glare of the sun was a magnificent overhanging desert oak. In cities nature was controlled. In the Outback it manifested its tremendous intensity and power.

‘I see Nellie is here today,’ he commented. Nellie Napirri, a tribal woman of indeterminate age—anywhere between seventy and ninety—generally focused on the flora and fauna of the riverine desert. The great Monet himself might have been interested in seeing her huge canvases of waterlilies, Bryn thought. As well as using traditional earth pigments, the familiar ochres, she used vibrant acrylics to express her Dreaming.

‘I thought we might have seen the last of her,’ Francesca confided. ‘Nellie is a real nomad. But she came back. She’d been on a very long walkabout that took her up into the Territory. Imagine walking all that way. And at her age! Goodness knows how old she is. She’s been around for as long as anyone can remember. It’s unbelievable.’

Bryn’s mind was swept back to the day when Francesca had almost drowned, but for miraculous intervention. He vividly remembered the old woman—the way she had vanished from the face of the earth but had in all probability gone walkabout. For him that day had amounted to a religious experience. He could still see Carina’s small straight back, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. She had been facing Koopali, fixed to the ground. He would never forget the way she had started screaming …

The little group of painters, gracious and well-mannered, came to their feet, exchanging handshakes with Bryn. Four pairs of eyes fixed themselves on him.

‘Big fella bin gone,’ Nellie announced in a deep quiet voice. Her curly head was snow-white, her eyes remarkably clear and sharp for so old a woman. It was obvious she had been appointed spokeswoman.

Bryn inclined his dark head in salute. ‘Yesterday, Nellie. A massive heart attack. I’m here to take Francesca back with me.’

Nellie reached out and touched his arm. ‘Better here,’ she said, frowning darkly, as though seriously concerned for Francesca’s welfare. She searched Bryn’s face so carefully she might have been seeing him for the first time. Or was she trying to see into his soul? ‘Your job look after her, byamee. ’

‘Don’t worry, Nellie, I will,’ he answered gravely. He knew byamee was a term of respect—a name given to someone of high degree. He only hoped he would be worthy of that honour. He recalled with a sharp pang of grief that the tribal people had called his grandfather byamee. He had never in all the long years heard it applied to Sir Frank.

A look of relief settled on Nellie’s wise old face. ‘You remember now. I bin telling ya. Not over.’ All of a sudden her breath began to labour.

Francesca reacted at once. ‘Nellie, dear, you mustn’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.’ She drew the tiny bent frame beneath her arm. ‘Now, why don’t we show Bryn what we’ve been doing?’ she suggested bracingly. ‘You know how much he loves and appreciates indigenous art.’

It sprang to Bryn’s mind how Carina had once passed off her young cousin’s desire to promote the work of indigenous artists as ‘trying to exorcise the fact she’s an heiress by working among the aborigines.’

Carina wasn’t only callous, she could be remarkably blind—especially when it came to perceiving what was good. She was no judge of Francesca’s work. Francesca Forsyth was a multi-gifted young woman. His mind ran back to the many times he and Francey had got into discussions, not only about Titan, but about the various projects handled—or mishandled might be a better word—by the Forsyth Foundation. Francey had a seriously good brain. When he was in a position to do so, he would endeavour to get her elected to the board, no matter her youth. Hell, he was still considered very young himself, though youth wasn’t the issue it once was. It was more about ability. And Francey was ready for it. She had inherited her father Lionel’s formidable head for business. His grandmother had confirmed that with an ironic smile.