Chapter 9

“OK. Now tell us about your date with Olwen,” Patrick said.

“I don’t think ‘date’ is appropriate. But ... As you know, I met Olwen on Friday morning. She came to the Museum. I asked her what she was interested in seeing, but she wasn’t very forthcoming. I’m not sure that it was me ... or all me ... nor the Museum. It seemed to me that she was tired. Not so much physical fatigue, as emotional. She had vested a lot in this visit, and the time you arranged with Mitchell and her visit to the legislature were a heavy load.”

“You might be right. She was quite wound up when I spoke to her.”

“Yes, you mentioned that on the phone. Anyway, we’ve got a big exhibit on spiders, but I decided that wouldn’t be her metier. However, our other big show – opened only two weeks ago – is of the work of the Scott sisters...”

“Butterflies!” burst Rachel.

“Yes, for the most part. But moths and botanical items, too. But what the education folks did was get some animators to work on projections of a number of the 600 watercolours, bringing the sisters’ art to life. [From the 1850s, sisters Helena and Harriet Scott collected, studied and drew the butterflies and botany of New South Wales in precise detail. Together they produced an archive of more than 600 intricate and beautiful paintings and drawings. These formed the plates for their father A.W. Scott’s publication Australian Lepidoptera and Their Transformations (Vol I, 1864 and Vol II, 1890-1898).] I think it’s quite beautiful.”

“And dear,” Patrick added. “I saw a set go for over $15,000 last year.”

“Yes. All eight parts. Anyway, I took Olwen to see that gallery and she was quite taken. I got one of the staff to give her a five-minute run-down on how they had lived on Ash Island near Newcastle from the 1840s to the 1860s and how the sketches, the preliminary drawings and the final plates were purchased by the Museum. I found it interesting, but Olwen seemed quite taken with the teaching function of the display.”

“She may well have thought of a natural history museum as full of glass cases with dusty exhibits.”

“And she would have been right a half-century ago. I was a graduate student here when entomology put in its first ant farm.”

“And Olwen?”

“I took her to see the Homo Florensis display. That’s our prize reconstruction. It was a joint Australian–Indonesian archaeological team that unearthed the remains of a small human from a cave in Flores, Indonesia, in 2003. This cast was rearticulated by Australian Museum staff. It’s most impressive. And it’s nearly 100,000 years old.”

“Wasn’t Flores where your unwelcome lac beetles came from?”

“Most likely. You weren’t born yet then, but it’s when I met Evans and Willy.”

“Did you tell Olwen that?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I took her off to lunch and asked her whether there was anything else she’d like to see. But I’d arranged that Nadine came by and lunched with us and I left them alone when I went to the loo.”

“You’re a sneaky bastard!”

“Careful! Those are your grandparents you’re maligning.”

“I don’t get it,” Rachel remarked.

“You know Nadine, dad’s assistant?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she’s gay.”

“Ooh. I never noticed.”

“She doesn’t carry a sign.”

“Idiot!”

“Stop it, children! Anyway, I think just talking for five minutes with Nadine gave Olwen some – uh – insight she hadn’t earlier.”

“You sound just like Patrick!”

“Perhaps he’s like me. Apples and trees, you know. Speaking of which, may I have another slice of the tart?”

“You can’t talk about my wife like that!”

“Anyway, after lunch, Olwen thanked me and said it had been a tiring week and that she was going back to her hotel.”

“So that was it?”

“Not quite. Later, Nadine told me that she was having Olwen over for dinner.”

Rachel looked shocked. “Will Olwen be OK?”

“Probably more OK that your abandoning her at the ARQ.”

“Good point, dad.”

“And Olwen certainly didn’t seem disarranged or upset or whatever when I picked her up yesterday and dropped her at the terminal.”

“I suppose one or more of us will hear from her in the near future.”

“Yes. I’d think so. Or I might hear from Evans or Willy.”

“Right.”

“Anyway, tomorrow’s a work day, so I’d best wend my way downtown.”

“You’ll be in touch?”

“Of course. Rachel, this was wonderful. Thanks ever so much.”

When Gordy was gone, Rachel put the (sparse) leftovers in the fridge while Patrick moved the plates and cutlery into the kitchen. The wash-up didn’t take long.

“What do you think?” Rachel asked.

“I think Nadine and her friend – whose name I can’t recall – did us and the Evanses a great favour.”

“I don’t remember her name, either. But she’s at Macquarie and Sandra knew her at your dad’s party.”

“Right. Anyway, Olwen will have realized that there are gays around far less aggressive than those she saw at the ARQ. So moving here, if everything works out, won’t be nerve-wracking.”

“I want to write a bit before bed.”

“I’ll read a bit more Zane Grey.”

But he didn’t. Patrick’s cell phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Patrick, this is Tom. From Sturt.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, but there’s a problem cooking near you.”

“To wit?”

“About a half-dozen young Wonnarua decided they were tired of waiting for the claim of 2013 to be determined. So they occupied the Baiame cave. One of them just phoned me that some group from the OEH [Office of Environment and Heritage] said they would be ‘removed’ tomorrow, if they were still there.”

“I’m not with the Ministry any more.”

“You’re still nungungi. That claim was recognized in January 2015 and it was duly registered in order to have a Federal Court deliberate over the claim and to make a determination. It’s over two years!”

“You’re right. You phone the group. I’ll leave here early in the morning. I’ll be there before ten.”

“Great!”

[Baiame Cave is of significance for its association with the main figure depicted in the cave, Baiame, who is understood by Aboriginal people across NSW to be the creator, the ‘Father of All’, the most important ancestor and law-maker.]

“What was that?”

“Tom, from up in Sturt. There’s a problem at the cave, inland from Newcastle. I’ll set the alarm for six and be gone all day. I guess I’ve still some value.”

“Do you have any status?”

“I’ll certainly have status with the Wonnarua. And if it’s OEH, they have no jurisdiction, as the issue is in Federal Court. I can always dazzle them with legal nonsense.”

“Suit and tie?”

“Of course. Remember Catch-22. ‘Bullshit baffles brains’.”

Rachel laughed. “You’ll win. They’ve no chance.”

Suit coat, tie and case were on the passenger seat as I drove north on M1/A1 in the early light. What traffic there was, was heading into Sydney. It took just over two hours to get to Milbrodale, where I turned onto Old Bulga Road. I really didn’t know what to expect. I hadn’t had a visitor while I slept, so I assumed the Serpent knew that I could take care of myself. I pulled onto the verge, put on my tie and coat, and drove on.

There were three utes near the weather-beaten shelter and several men standing nearby. I pulled in and got out. [In the 1990s the National Parks & Wildlife Service constructed a stairway in wood and packed earth, approximately 25 metres in height, from Welshs Road to the cave plus a viewing platform in mesh steel and several bench seats, as well as signage for interpretation.]