AT 29 (111 page)

Jimmy had a vivid recollection. “I remember him. He didn't say much that morning.”

“No, later after I returned from rehab. He was waiting for me at the Surf Shop.”

“By then he probably realized who you were. Looking for a reward?”

“Oh no, never. Not him. When we got to be mates, he let me call him Illa. He doesn't like whites much.”

“You became friends?”

“More than that. He knew who I was long before I became famous. Knows about my family heritage, my father, my grandfather, everything. He told me and showed me places where we lived. I know everything I ever wanted to know and more.”

“How does he know?”

“His forefathers and mine share a kind of legacy. It's too much to explain. I want to show it to you. That's why I asked you to come.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Yes, but there are things I don't understand. He has a different view of life.”

Jimmy sensed something. “What's the mystery, Nigel?”

“You, mate. Illa wants to talk to you, too.”

He napped for an hour then called Sister Marie. She showed her delight by insisting that he come to dinner with a stern admonition that any answer, other than yes, would not be tolerated. He approached this visit to Saint Malachy's Orphanage with dread. Franco was right to have misgivings. Thoughts of Les flooded his mind the very second the plane landed in Melbourne. His counselor worried that it was too soon. Les was no longer an excuse to drink, but being back in the city where she captured his heart re-awakened yearnings that his fragile self-discipline might not be able to withstand. The hotel bar was too accessible.

Still, Jimmy needed to close the book. Not closure. He shared Franco's skepticism. Turning the page, he decided. Maybe that's a better way to look at it. The good sister had kept in touch, indirectly through Miles McCabe, but in his corner during the months of his rehabilitation. She prayed for his recovery, prayed for his will to resist temptation. McCabe told him, conveyed her best wishes and suggested that he stop by before returning to America with Nigel.

She greeted him warmly and led him by the arm through the main hall to the back patio overlooking the athletic field. A table was set for dinner, two places reserved for them. Jimmy noticed that nearly all paralysis from her stroke was hidden. Those meeting her for the first time might never suspect. She still used a cane, but her posture was straight and confident. She walked purposefully with greater assurance, the cane merely a prop. Her voice was also strong. Words were spoken slowly, but she no longer stammered. In many ways, the nun he met this day was no different than the one who had built Saint Malachy's. Her one word answer to his compliments, prayer.

The conversation was light. No, she no longer handled the day-to-day affairs of the orphanage. Sister Monica took care of that, but the annual gala remained in Sister Marie's hands, much to everyone's pleasure.

“There is much love for our boys. Saint Malachy's finances are sound.”

She pressed him for details about his rehab. Jimmy expected this. It was part of the recovery process and he took her questions in stride. Franco came up often as Jimmy described the ordeal and his counselor's important role.

“You say he went through it himself? That must give him special insight.”

“He was a successful psychiatrist before his world fell apart.”

“He's in a position to help others. God's will.”

“If you say so, Sister.”

She regarded him with disappointment. “You don't believe in God's will?”

“On the fence.” Coffee came. Jimmy remembered something, “I know you enjoy a glass of port. Please don't deny yourself on my account.”

“Ah yes, you could only know that from Nigel.” She smiled. “Later perhaps. It helps me sleep.” She sipped coffee from a china cup. “Mr. McCabe tells me you have written new songs for Nigel and some others, but what about you? Will you sing again?”

“I'll work with Nigel. I don't think I'll tour again”

“You won't sing? No, no, you must.”

“We'll see. Nothing comes to mind at the moment.”

She let it go and waved her hand in the direction of the athletic fields. “Sunset. It's quiet and beautiful.”

Jimmy nodded, looking in the same direction. “Australia at its best.”

“The last time we met, I made a hasty conclusion that was wrong.”

“Nigel's accident?”

“Why didn't you tell me you saved his life?”

“I just happened to be there. It worked out.”

“You went to Reina.”

“Spur of the moment. I had some time between flights in Sydney.”

“God's will.”

It ended early. She walked him to the entrance, gripping his arm, not in need but as a bond; friends, one old and experienced, the other younger, still trying to understand.

She hugged him. “You have not asked of Leslie.”

“If there was something to say you would have told me.”

“Thank you for saving my son.” Jimmy stepped back, a question on his face. “In my heart, Jim, God sent him to me. From the moment he came I have always loved him like a son. I love you as well. Be strong. Sing again.”

My name is Jim. I'm an alcoholic
.
Hello, Jim
.

The AA meeting was well attended. Those who recognized the Grammy winner from America were careful not to show it. He told his story then sat down to listen to the others. The craving passed.

He decided to walk back to the hotel. It was after ten p.m. by the time he traversed Fitzroy Gardens. He lingered at Cook's Cottage for few minutes, thinking of the millions from McCabe. He came to a decision about the money.

He dreaded the next day. He had no desire to revisit the magnificent landscapes of the Great Ocean Road. Les was a memory. No need to dredge up something that could not be changed. New York was his home. What could an Aborigine from a foreign land want to say to him?

They met in the lobby. Nigel already had the car idling out front. He rushed forward and grabbed Jimmy's suitcase. “Brilliant. Let's be off.”

The drive to Apollo Bay passed slowly. Jimmy stared straight ahead, unwilling to let the vistas encroach upon his wish to see the day run its course. His curiosity was not piqued. This was a favor to Whitehurst, certain to be the last time Jimmy would travel this road for a long time to come.

The main thoroughfare of Apollo Bay was all too familiar. The storefronts, some with signs in the windows heralding the summer season, bustled with shoppers. The medical clinic, hotel and restaurant where he'd eaten lunch nearly one year earlier, none of it held any interest. Even the road overlooking the bay where Nigel suddenly turned right, failed to break the impatient wish to get on with it, get the day over so he could return to Melbourne and board a plane for the States.

A boy entered the crosswalk with a large beach ball in his hands. Nigel slowed to let him pass. Jimmy glanced at the storefront where the boy must have purchased his prize, a souvenir outlet with a display of sand chairs, beach umbrellas, brightly colored plastic pails and other sand toys all spilling onto the sidewalk, inviting patrons to come inside to buy. Apollo Bay was a vacation town, one of the many along the shores of Bass Straight and the Southern Ocean, exactly what the State of Victoria intended when the Great Ocean Road was carved out of the bush. Across the street stood the one-time chapel where Melba played her husband's music on the organ. It was larger now, a church with a parking lot perched at the top of Main Street, facing the sloping terrain that led to the Bay.

Further, after the car cleared a rise and the bay could no longer be seen, the road flattened into a straight line that continued for a kilometer before becoming dirt. Whitehurst slowed when the tires left the pavement and began kicking up dust. Up ahead, a ramshackle abode came into view. Just beyond stood an equally dilapidated barn, reddish with vertical slats curling away from the frame. In the distance, a dozen cabins, newer with fresher paint, stood scattered in a large field where trees had not grown for many years. Like so many farmer's fields in the United States, Jimmy thought to himself, suddenly disordered with structures jutting up from the landscape, looking out of place.

Nigel came to a stop in front of the broken down cottage. He shut off the motor and climbed out. Reina slid out the same side while Jimmy opened his door, pleased for the chance to stretch his legs. As he looked around he wondered what Nigel wanted him to see. Both buildings needed repair. The cottage must not have been occupied for years. The porch roof sagged and the paint on the clapboards was cracked and dull. It occurred to Jimmy that the barn wasn't always there although he did not know why. It was newer, but not so new that the casual observer would think the cottage exceeded its age by more than seventy years. Different, that's all. A structure didn't always occupy that spot. The distant cabins filled him with the same feeling. Planted fields rimmed by gum trees, that's what should be there.

“Let's walk.” Nigel led the way toward the cabins while Reina stayed behind leaning on the Range Rover. They walked for fifty meters before Nigel, all serious, spoke in a solemn tone.

“I bought this place a month ago. Well, the cottage and barn and the few hectares surrounding them. Out there.” He pointed to the cabins. “Another hundred hectares used to be a farm. I'll buy that, too. A local family owns the cabins. They rent them to vacationers. I've made an offer, a fair price, but they know I'm Whitehurst of
Yarra
fame. In the end, I'll be forced to pay a premium and I'll do it. Then I'll tear them all down and restore the farm to the way it used to be.”

Jimmy nodded. So, it was a farm after all.

They walked on. Some one hundred meters from the doorstep of the first cabin, Nigel veered left into tall grass. Two large stones rose up in front of them. They were side-by-side, suggesting placement by human hands, but otherwise unmarked. Nigel came to a halt and stooped down.

“These are graves.” He looked up at Jimmy. “Hard to tell as you can see. I doubted it myself, at first, but now I know who rests here, the original settlers of this land, the surrogate parents of my grandfather.” Jimmy thrust his hands into his pockets, looking from Nigel to the two stones. “They farmed these fields and raised him.

“My grandfather was half black. I didn't believe that, either. Look at me. No one would ever know. His mother was a member of the Gadubanud Aborigines who lived in this part of Victoria. Some still do although the tribal culture isn't as strong as it once was. His father, my great-grandfather, was a convict shipped here from London during the nineteenth century.”

“So, you found your answers.”

“Yes. Like most of my fellow Australians, I descend from Britain.”

“What do you mean, a convict?”

The convict thing isn't so prevalent, I mean only a fraction of today's population can trace their origins to the System.”

“The System?”

“Transport. The English used New South Wales, that's what the original colony was called, as a dumping ground for criminals. They emptied out the prisons of London, threw the convicts onto rotting hulks in the middle of the Thames then transferred them to ships and sent them here. Harrowing yearlong voyages for those poor people, chained like dogs in the bowels of creaking wooden vessels, men and women, side-by side, living in their own stench. What the Brits did to their own citizens from 1788 to 1868 came to be called The System.”

“Your great-grandfather was one of them?”

“Sometime around 1826. There's a story about his life that came out many years later. Assuming he's truly my ancestor, and we're still confirming it, then, yes, he was one of those convicts.”

Jimmy remembered Nigel's intent to murder Stick. “Did he kill someone back in London?”

“No, he would have been hanged for that. From what I've uncovered, most of those wretched souls were simply destitute. English society didn't have any safety nets for the poor, sick or mentally ill. They either starved or fended for themselves by becoming pickpockets, prostitutes, con artists and the like. It seems my great-grandfather got drunk and stole some bread.”

Jimmy pondered this for a moment, kicking at pebbles in the grass. It was an awful price to pay. “And, these people buried here, surrogate parents? What does that mean?”

“My great grandfather's name was Jonathan. He escaped from his captors and for many years lived with the Aborigines. He fathered a child, his son, with one of the Gadubanud women. As the story goes, the woman died and he brought the baby out of the bush so he could be raised among whites. He came here to this farm and left the baby with the couple buried here. The man and woman beneath these two rocks raised my grandfather. That rundown cottage over there was their home.”

“It sounds like a movie script.”

Whitehurst stood and nodded at Jimmy's assessment. “A year ago I would have latched onto anything. Now, I'm off the drugs and I have Reina. I even laid my curiosity to rest. Then Illa walked into my life. The story he told me fits together and I have something in writing to back it up. I'll show it to you later. Reina and I are checking newspapers and government records to fill-in some blanks. So far, it all checks out.” He turned back toward the cottage. “There's more. Come, it's in the barn.”

As they shuffled along the dirt path Nigel opened another topic. “What do you know about sea chests?”

“You mean a seaman's trunk?”

“The same.”

“Nothing. Why?”

“A hundred years ago they were sturdy pieces, constructed of camphor wood and leather with brass framing and studs. The handles were leather or sometimes cast iron or steel. They were heavy, waterproof, fitted to near perfection so moisture and mildew couldn't penetrate the things inside. You could leave one of those chests outside for years and the items inside would stay protected. Of course, for a nineteenth century seaman that was essential. When you put to sea in a wooden ship for a year or more, you and everything you possessed had to withstand the elements. In those days things were made to last.”