The kimberley secret, p.2
The Kimberley Secret, page 2
For a while, Jack just sat there in silence, tears streaming down his ashen face. Then he reached across, closed his father’s eyes and began to pray. It was a little prayer his mother had taught him as a boy. Not a religious man, Jack hadn’t prayed in years, but somehow the simple, familiar words seemed to comfort him. When he leaned across to kiss his father’s forehead, he noticed the piece of paper he had handed to him earlier. Jack took the paper gently out of his father’s hand and looked at it. It was a receipt issued by a pawnbroker in Brisbane.
The Funeral: 11 March 2002
Despite pressing deadlines and numerous phone calls from his impatient editors in Sydney and the US, Jack stayed in Townsville to make funeral arrangements and finalise his father’s affairs.
Old men’s funerals are often lonely occasions. Jack realised that most of his father’s mates had either passed away, or were in nursing homes, too ill to travel. As Jack had no siblings and the extended Irish family was very small and certainly not close, there was no-one Jack had to notify. However, he did place a death notice in the paper, just in case. His estranged mother had left the remote homestead and her marriage a long time ago, and had passed away in Cairns after a short illness while Jack was still a young cadet, struggling to become a journalist.
Jack’s closest friend – Will Elliott – who would certainly have come to the funeral, was in hospital recovering from injuries he had sustained in a recent bushfire. Jack had lived with the Elliott family in Sydney during his cadet years and had shared many an adventure with Will and his dad during that time.
Because his father had been a religious man, Jack arranged a small service in a Catholic church near the crematorium.
Jack had bought a dark suit and black tie on the weekend, and was steeling himself for what he knew would be a difficult and emotional occasion, made doubly heart-wrenching because there would be no-one there to share it with him. The priest understood and had been very helpful. He promised to keep the service short.
The funeral was due to start at eleven. Ignoring the light rain and oppressive humidity, Jack stood in front of the church to wait for the hearse. He was determined to be one of the pallbearers to carry his father’s coffin into the church. Apart from two old men seated inside, who had arrived from a nursing home earlier with their walking frames and a carer, the church was empty.
I don’t know if I can do this, thought Jack, overwhelmed by the sadness of the moment as the hearse pulled up and the undertakers began to lift the modest coffin out of the back. Biting his lip and forcing back tears, Jack walked slowly over to the hearse.
As he was about to take his place next to the undertakers carrying the coffin, Jack heard a voice call out from behind: ‘We’ll do this together, mate.’
Jack spun around. ‘You? Here?’ he said, astonished. ‘How?’ He hadn’t seen Gurrul since Jack had left the family cattle station as a teenager.
The elderly Aboriginal nodded. ‘Saw the notice on the weekend. Just made it. Let’s take him inside.’
With that, Gurrul shouldered the coffin alongside Jack at the front. Jack glanced at the familiar face next to him. Furrowed like the parched outback earth, and with deep creases and wrinkles crisscrossing his forehead that looked as if they could hold three days’ rain, the face had changed a little, but the eyes were the same, radiating intelligence and kindness.
‘Thanks, mate,’ whispered Jack as they entered the church. ‘You were always there when I needed you most,’ he added, no longer feeling quite so sad and alone.
‘You reckon we can call this a wake?’ said Jack, raising his glass. ‘Just the two of us?’
‘Sure, mate,’ replied Gurrul. ‘We’ve just been to a funeral to send-off someone we both loved, and we’re in a pub having a beer. It’s a wake all right. Cheers.’
Over the next hour, Jack and Gurrul chatted about the past, and the direction their lives had taken since Jack had left home and gone to work for a paper in Brisbane.
‘You’ve done all right, mate,’ said Gurrul. ‘I’ve read some of your articles over the years. Love your Voices from the Front Line. Not bad for a kid from the bush.’
‘What about you?’
Gurrul put down his glass and looked at Jack. ‘A couple of years after you left, things got really bad.’
‘The drought?’
Gurrul nodded. ‘Tough times.’
‘Mum left and the bank took the farm,’ said Jack. ‘I know ...’
‘It broke your old man.’
‘I was living in Sydney by then, working for the Herald.’ Jack pointed to Gurrul’s empty glass. ‘Another?’ he asked, trying to change the painful subject.
‘He understood.’
‘Why I had to leave?’
‘Yes. And that made it even harder ...’
Jack ordered two more beers. ‘What about you? Where did you go?’ he asked.
‘Here and there. I went back to the mission and worked there until it was closed down. After that, I became a drifter. There was always work for someone like me.’ Gurrul looked pensively into his glass. ‘But it was never the same again ...’
Gurrul had grown up on the Coberg Mission, not far from the Rogan cattle station. He received all his schooling there while his parents and older siblings went walkabout. The nuns gave him a good, basic education and the brothers taught him how to work with his hands. That’s where he had met Jack’s father, who offered him a job when Gurrul turned fifteen.
‘And now? What are you doing now?’ asked Jack.
‘Look at me. I’ve become an old man. I went back to my roots.’
‘Roots? Where?’
‘The Kimberley; my country. Our mob came from up there.’
‘I didn’t know. You never spoke about it.’
‘I wanted to belong elsewhere. Your dad’s cattle station was my home for years.’
‘I understand. So, we both buried the past today, you think?’
‘We did. Do you want to know what I’m doing in the Kimberley?’
‘Sure.’
‘Don’t laugh.’
‘I won’t.’
‘I’m restoring paintings – ancient rock art. In the bush.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely, mate. It’s tradition. My tribe has done this forever. The Kimberley is full of stunning rock paintings, many of them thousands of years old. Some of them fifty thousand. Even more, some experts reckon.’
Jack looked at Gurrul, surprised.
‘We old folk are the custodians responsible for preserving the paintings for future generations and keeping them in good order. We are also telling the Dreamtime stories to the young ones, around the campfire. I’ve become a storyteller just like you, mate. That’s what I do now, as an elder. I move around a lot, of course. Going from one sacred site to the next, but I have a place in Wyndham. One of my nephews lives there. That’s where I saw the death notice. I hitched a ride in one of the cattlemen’s planes, and here I am.’
‘But that’s fabulous,’ said Jack, his curiosity aroused. ‘Bradshaw paintings, Wandjina art?’
It was Gurrul’s turn to look surprised. ‘You know about stuff like this?’
‘A little.’
‘Not bad for a war correspondent.’
Jack looked at the empty beer glasses on the table. It was time to ask the question that had been haunting him throughout the funeral.
‘Do you believe in destiny?’ said Jack.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I believe destiny has brought us together. Today, at the funeral.’
‘How come?’
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out the pawnbroker’s receipt his father had held in his hand when he died. ‘Because of this,’ he said and handed the receipt to Gurrul.
Gurrul looked at the receipt. ‘I don’t follow,’ he said.
‘You will in a moment. In fact, I believe you hold the key to all this.’
‘Please explain.’
‘Just before he died, Dad told me something that rocked me, but will come as no surprise to you ...’
‘Oh?’
‘Mum couldn’t have children. It was the tragedy of her life. So, you brought her one: me.’
For a while the two men sat in silence, engrossed in memories.
‘He told you,’ said Gurrul.
‘He did.’
‘What else did he tell you? About where you came from.’
‘Not much. He said you promised not to tell, and he promised not to ask.’
Gurrul nodded. ‘Some things are best left alone, mate.’
Jack shook his head. ‘I can’t do that; not now.’
‘Suppose not.’
‘So, what else can you tell me? You didn’t just find me under a rock in the outback?’
‘Of course not. I shouldn’t have come ...’
‘Yet here you are.’
‘You were born at the Coberg Mission,’ said Gurrul after a while, looking troubled.
‘You’re kidding. The place was full of old Pallottine brothers and nuns.’
‘True, but there was a young woman staying with them at the time. A pretty lass in her early twenties. Remember Brother Francis?’
‘Of course; how could I forget?’
‘Well, he and Sister Elizabeth seemed to know her well. She was pregnant when she arrived and stayed at the mission until her baby was born. She left after that.’
‘And she left the baby behind?’
Gurrul nodded.
‘And you gave it to—’
‘I did. With the blessing of Brother Francis and Sister Elizabeth. They knew your mum and dad would give the child love and a good home. They were right.’
‘That’s it?’
Gurrul shrugged.
‘Who was the young woman?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘What about the father?’
Gurrul pulled his tobacco pouch out of his pocket and began to roll a cigarette with yellow-stained fingers. ‘A couple of years after you were born, Brother Francis told me something ...’
‘What?’
‘He said something terrible had happened concerning the father of the baby; your father.’
‘Did he say what it was?’
‘I remember he was very upset. He had the paper right in front of him and was pointing to the headlines.’
‘What was it about?’
‘A court case. A sensational murder trial – in Perth.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘I wish I was.’
‘And it concerned the baby’s – my – father?’
‘Apparently so.’
‘Do you remember a name?’
Inhaling deeply, Gurrul shrugged. ‘Not a name, but I remember the case was all about a famous pearl.’
‘A pearl?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you remember what paper he was reading?’
‘The Courier Mail from Brisbane; what else?’
‘My old paper. Can you be more specific about the year?’
‘I reckon it was around 1970. Yes, I think it was 1970. We just had a big bushfire. That’s why I was at the mission; helping to fight it. Yes, January, or early February 1970.’
‘Incredible. What about the young woman? My mother?’
‘Can’t tell you much, I’m afraid. All I know is she left as soon as the baby was born and returned to Europe.’
Jack pointed to the pawnbroker receipt on the bar in front of him. ‘Dad told me I had something around my neck when I arrived. Something beautiful and precious he called it. Can you remember what it was?’
‘Yes. A little gold cross with precious stones. Apparently, it belonged to your mother.’
‘Which Dad took to the pawnshop in 1972 when times got tough?’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
Jack stabbed his finger at the receipt. ‘Here, look at this. Two thousand bucks for a piece of jewellery? Quite a tidy sum at the time, wouldn’t you say? You could have bought a Holden station wagon with that.’
‘True.’
‘Dad was trying to tell me something just before he died. Something important about this.’
‘Looks that way.’
Jack ordered another round of beers. ‘A sensational court case in Perth in 1970, and a precious little gold cross left in a pawnshop in Brisbane in 1972 is all we have to go by?’ he mused.
‘That’s about it. I’d leave it alone if I were you, mate,’ said Gurrul, putting an arm around Jack. ‘Not much, is it?’
‘Perhaps not, but it’s a start.’
The Pawnbroker: 12 March 2002
Jack felt strangely relieved after the funeral. It was as if a dark cloud had been lifted from his soul. The day he had dreaded for so long was over. He had buried his father and closed a painful chapter in his life. However, finding out that he had been adopted shortly after birth under rather mysterious circumstances, had been quite a shock. Jack believed that fate had thrown some important clues his way, pointing him in a certain direction. It was now up to him to follow the breadcrumbs of destiny to find out the truth about who he really was, and where he had come from.
Gurrul had flown back to Wyndham early the next morning, and Jack caught a plane to Brisbane to follow his first lead: the pawnbroker.
Jack showed the taxi driver the address on the receipt.
‘Is this it?’ he asked as the taxi pulled up in front of a small sandwich bar in a working-class suburb on the outskirts of Brisbane.
‘That’s it. Number twelve; right there.’
Jack paid the fare, got out of the taxi and walked inside the shop, unable to suppress a feeling of disappointment. Hardly surprising after all these years, he thought. Looks like a dead end. Bugger!
The man behind the counter remembered the pawnshop, which had closed its doors many years ago. But when Jack turned to leave, the man told him that the old pawnbroker still owned the premises and lived in the cottage next door.
‘If he doesn’t answer the doorbell, he’s probably in the backyard with his birds,’ said the man. ‘There’s a side gate. You’ll have to speak loudly as he’s almost deaf. His name is Ross McGregor; funny chap.’
Jack thanked the man, went next door and pressed the doorbell. There was no answer. Then he walked around the house, unlatched the side gate and followed the gravel path into the backyard. As he rounded the corner, Jack stopped. The large backyard was like a tropical paradise. Shaded by tall palm trees and Queensland pittosporum, the mature, carefully laid out garden was a riot of colour. Beds of yellow, white and pink hibiscus and other colourful natives framed the walkway leading past a pond into what looked like a small rainforest. Along the fence at the back, Jack could make out a tall aviary surrounded by tree ferns. Inside the shaded, mysterious aviary, exotic birds were screeching for attention. A man sat in a wicker chair in front of the aviary, his face covered by a straw hat. He appeared to be asleep.
‘Mr McGregor?’ said Jack.
The man in the chair didn’t move.
‘Mr McGregor,’ repeated Jack, raising his voice.
The man in the chair began to stir. He pushed back his hat and looked at Jack. ‘Who are you?’ he said gruffly.
Jack reached into his pocket and took out the receipt. ‘Jack Rogan. I’ve come about this,’ he said, handing the receipt to the man.
Shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun, the man peered at the receipt. ‘You took your time,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Pull up a chair and tell me.’
McGregor listened attentively as Jack told him what he knew about the little gold cross with the precious stones. He began with his father’s funeral the day before, how he had obtained the receipt, and why he was following up the matter.
At first McGregor didn’t say anything after Jack had finished. Then he handed the receipt back to him. ‘That’s quite a story, young man,’ he said. ‘I suppose you would like to know what happened to the cross?’
Jack nodded.
‘As a matter of fact, I do remember it well. It was a rare piece; very special. A collector’s item.’
‘In what way?’
‘If you come into the aviary and help me feed the birds, I’ll tell you.’
‘You’re on.’
McGregor handed Jack a large steel tray divided into various compartments filled with all kinds of seeds and nuts, and opened a narrow screen door.
‘Come; hurry!’ he said.
Jack followed him into the aviary and McGregor quickly shut the screen door behind him as the screeching inside became louder and more urgent.
‘These are my special friends. Magnificent, aren’t they?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Jack, as a flash of bright colour landed on the edge of his tray, followed by another landing on his shoulder.
‘Cheeky lorikeets; always have to be first. Don’t worry about them.’
McGregor pointed to a low branch above a small pond. ‘There, look at him. A palm cockatoo from Cape York; very rare.’
Jack looked at the large bird with its enormous bill, striking red face and the many-feathered upright crest. It looked like a print out of a John Gould portfolio.
‘Amazing!’
‘He’s almost as rare as that little cross you are so interested in.’
‘Why was it so rare?’
‘Well, it wasn’t often that a genuine Fabergé piece came into my shop. But that was exactly what it was. An original Fabergé, handcrafted by Alexander Fabergé in Paris in 1933. Among other things, it had a date stamp. But there was more ...’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It had a unique design. This was no ordinary cross. This was a custom-made, Russian Orthodox cross with three horizontal crossbeams,’ said McGregor, warming to his subject. ‘The bottom one, the footrest, was slanted upwards.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘Yes, because the side to Christ’s right is often depicted higher as it points to the penitent thief Saint Dismas, who was crucified on Jesus’ right. But the other thief, Gestas on Jesus’ left, was impenitent. That’s why the footrest points downward, to Hades. Obviously, the Fabergé client wanted to have this incorporated into the design.’
