by Di Morrissey
‘There looks to be some caves up there,’ said Peter, shading his eyes.
‘It’s so hot and still in here, it’s like an oven,’ Marta exclaimed. ‘I want to jump in the water.’
‘Sounds like a great idea, but let’s wait till we’re ashore and we can check it out,’ said Colin.
Topov shaded his eyes and looked up at the cliffs. ‘Good view from top. How we get up there?’
‘You’re joking, mate,’ said Johnny.
They pulled in to a large flat rock in a scoop of water. A metal spike had been jammed into the rock as a mooring and they tied the boat up after scrambling ashore. The rocks were like scattered loose leaves of a large book that had been dropped from the sky, a story yet to be read by these travellers. The group stepped along them to the shallow end of the waterway where a trickle of a waterfall fell down the iron-red cliff face into a pool.
‘Let’s swim!’ cried Marta peeling off her shirt and shorts to reveal her red swimmers. Helen had also worn her swimsuit as had Colin, but the others swam in their shorts. Like children they frolicked under the gaze of their chaperone, Topov, who held the Bolex and refused to come in.
‘Take a shot of the wild natives,’ called Johnny, splashing the water. He was not a good swimmer, but the water was shallow so he paddled about contentedly.
‘Let’s swim out into the main channel, this water is too warm,’ said Colin, pulling Marta’s arm and they swam to find the narrow cool currents in the middle of the watercourse. Drago, however, decided to join Topov and take some photographs of this idyllic place. He stood on the rocks looking through the lens of the camera.
Suddenly he shouted. ‘There’s a crocodile!’
‘Oh my God!’ Marta started churning through the water.
Colin froze, so frightened he couldn’t move. He closed his eyes and waited for the crunch of jaws to grab him. Drago and Johnny, who had stayed close to shore, pulled Marta to safety and Peter quickly followed.
‘Colin, swim, hurry,’ screamed Marta.
Remembering that he had been told that sharks were attracted by thrashing in the water and thinking that the same might be true of crocodiles, Colin tried to creep through the water with as little noise as possible. Then he saw it. A brown shadow, about three feet long, that glided towards him, its horny snout nosing unconcernedly through the water. Colin stopped swimming as the reptile kept going on past him. He turned back to the stunned group on the rocks.
‘Look there’s another one! Up there on the ledge,’ shouted Johnny. ‘Blimey, the bastards are everywhere.’
‘But they’re not taking much notice of us,’ said Drago, taking photos of the reptiles that seemed to surround the party.
Colin got out of the water and looked to where Marta was pointing at one of the sunning crocodiles. ‘These crocs don’t look very big,’ he said. ‘You’d think that if they were dangerous, the bloke in the garage would have said something about them. Maybe they aren’t the man-eating variety.’
‘Well, I’m not going back in there,’ declared Marta.
Topov had clambered around the rocks and was heading back to the boat, when he called to Drago.
‘Look! Aborigine art!’ He was pointing up the cliff face where, in an open cave, they could see the ochre daubs of several figures and what looked to be the stick figure of a man with a crocodile head which had been painted onto the rocks.
‘How the hell did they get up there to do those paintings?’ asked Johnny.
‘I think they must have climbed down from the top,’ said Peter.
Drago took some still pictures and because he was able to see the paintings more clearly through the telephoto lens, he passed the camera around for them to all have a closer look. They were quiet, gazing up at this hidden gallery in the magnificent gorge.
‘This is more of what I hoped to see,’ whispered Marta to Colin.
He slipped his arm around her waist. ‘Me too.’ He spoke softly as if in a church.
Topov eyed them sternly but said nothing. Colin dropped his arm from Marta’s body.
Johnny whistled as he drove the Jeep. Colin was deep in thought, scribbling in his notebook.
‘Hope you can read your handwriting, even the good roads are pretty bad,’ said Johnny. ‘What’re you writing? Your diary?’
‘I’m supposed to be writing the script of our film, so I make as many notes as I can. I’ve no idea how it’s all going to come together.’
‘You really think we’re going to end up with a proper film? That people’ll want to see?’ said Johnny sarcastically.
‘Well, how many people would love to see a place like Katherine Gorge and never get out here?’ countered Colin. ‘So long as Drago backs up Topov I think we’ll get some sort of mileage out of the film. And we haven’t got to this Arnhem Land yet, either.’ He decided not to mention Peter’s doubts about Topov as in the bright light of day the Dutchman’s comments seemed the musings of a negative and dour man.
‘Yeah, matey, you might be right. I see a lot of opportunities out here. I think Topov does too,’ said Johnny.
‘For films?’
‘Ah, more than that. People are just beginning to scratch the surface of Australia.’
‘All the more reason then that a film about this unknown part of the country could be of interest,’ said Colin. ‘Maybe Topov is right about the interest and the Aborigines and whatever Arnhem Land has in it.’
‘Takes money to exploit a place,’ said Johnny. ‘More than what you and I have in our kick.’
‘Sometimes it also just takes a bit of luck too,’ added Colin.
Johnny glanced over at Colin and grinned. ‘You don’t sound like a bloke from the bank. But that’s what can happen to a fellow. A bit of luck can be the start of a whole new life. Or you can blow it in a night. That’s the gamble, ain’t it now?’
‘I’m not a gambler,’ said Colin.
‘Well, that’s where you and I are different. Like Topov and his gold nugget – he threw the lot on the bar to big-note himself.’
‘I wish I could be like that – easy come, easy go,’ said Colin. He wrote quickly in his notebook. ‘Maybe I have to learn to take a risk now and then.’
‘You’ve made a good start by coming along on this little jaunt.’ And Johnny burst into laughter.
6
THE ROAD STRETCHED AHEAD of them, flat and straight, like an arrow to the horizon as they got closer to Darwin.
In the far distance a small dust cloud rolled along towards them so Topov called a halt. They pulled over, got out to stretch their legs and light a small fire to boil the billy. They’d learned now not to make a huge blaze and hang the billy over it, but rather light a small fire and stand the billy to one side letting the breeze blow the flames against it so it could boil quickly.
They were sipping their tea in the sparse, token shade of a gum tree as the dust cloud now formed into the shape of three horses. The bushman in the lead was followed by another horse. They saw the slight figure of an Aboriginal child riding it, leading a third horse loaded with bags. As the riders came closer they could see that the man was rangy, long legged and sat comfortably in the saddle. He dismounted, tilted back his well-worn hat that looked like part of his body and smiled at the group.
‘Ah, smoko. Mind if I join you?’ He had the air of a man very much at home with himself and his surroundings. There was a chorus of welcome.
‘Not at all.’
‘Please.’
‘You’re very welcome.’
‘What is smoko? You have cigarettes?’ asked Topov who smoked on occasion, generally when other people provided the cigarette. He was also a keen cigar smoker when they were offered.
‘I roll me own, mate. You’re welcome to the makings.’ The visitor handed Topov a small leather pouch of tobacco and papers and nodded to the party. ‘I’m Len Buchanan. Where you people headed?’
‘Arnhem Land,’ said Topov quickly.
‘First we have to go into Dar
win,’ Helen corrected him.
‘We make film in Arnhem Land,’ said Topov.
‘A film? Like at the pictures? Go on.’ Len looked impressed. ‘That’s some undertaking.’
‘Mug of tea?’ asked Helen.
‘You bet. Thanks.’
‘And what about your little friend?’ asked Colin.
The child on the horse was still mounted, the hat shading the face, wearing an old blue shirt and shorts, but riding barefoot. Large brown eyes stared shyly at the group, but it was the little once-yellow caravan that attracted most attention.
‘C’mon, cobber, hop down. Get the waterbag, give them horses a drink as well as yourself.’
The child slid down and went to the packhorse for the canvas and leather waterbag. Everyone was curious about the child but no-one liked to ask.
‘Where are you going, Len?’ asked Marta.
‘We’re heading back to the station. Had to take a mob of cattle in to Katherine, then go north to see a man about some brumbies.’
‘Just the two of you?’ asked Colin.
‘We managed the cattle all right, they were a quiet mob. But I’ll need another hand if we go back to pick up the brumbies. They’re crazy buggers.’
‘What is brumby?’ asked Topov.
‘Wild horses,’ said Colin.
‘Are they any good? I mean can anyone just go and round them up?’ asked Helen curiously.
Len retrieved the tobacco pouch and pulled out a plug of tobacco before answering. ‘You’re a Pommy, eh? Know something about horses?’ he asked non-commitally.
‘We have horses at home. I ride,’ said Helen shortly.
‘She rides to the hounds chasing poor bloody foxes, right Helen?’ said Johnny with a grin.
Helen shot him a sharp glance, refusing to rise to Johnny’s bait. ‘Horses for courses,’ she said with a thin smile.
‘Nothing wrong with getting rid of a few bloody foxes, mate,’ said Len. ‘Damn pests.’ He grinned at Helen. ‘And it was you English people that brought ’em into the country down south. And bleeding rabbits.’
Topov had made a rough sort of cigarette and he lit up, the straggling shreds of tobacco flaring from the end of it. ‘Wild horses, you go chase wild horses? Be exciting thing, I think.’
‘Can be,’ said Len, expertly rolling a smooth cigarette, licking the paper and sealing it single handed. ‘But I wouldn’t think of filming it, if I were you sport. You’d never keep up. You have to be a really good horseman for that sort of thing.’
‘Where did the cattle come from?’ Johnny asked Len.
‘Out the back of our station. Well, the joint where I work,’ said Len.
‘What station is that?’ asked Colin.
‘Brolga Springs. Beautiful place. Wish it was mine. I muster for ’em. Do a bit of this and that in between my real job.’
‘What is your real job?’ asked Marta, quite fascinated by the visitor.
‘I shoot buffalo and crocs. Sell the hides in Darwin. Some of ’em end up in Paris. Handbags and shoes,’ he grinned.
‘Really! I love crocodile shoes,’ sighed Marta.
‘You seem to like dangerous work,’ said Helen.
‘Life in the Territory, love. You do what you have to so’s to make a quid, right?’
‘That’s why we’re here,’ said Peter dourly.
‘What action you got in your film?’ Len asked.
Drago glanced at Topov who was examining the soggy remains of his cigarette. ‘Not a lot. Marta throwing herself down sandhills, cars bogged. Some nice scenery.’
‘Scenery? You want scenery, you’ve come to the right place all right. Be sure to go to Arnhem Land, it’s magic. Unbelievable in the wet. Like an inland sea. But she’s a ripper anytime. Bird life, the fish, the escarpment, the Abo stuff.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s brilliant bloody country. But it’s good cattle country here. Very pretty river, nice lagoons.’ He turned to where the child was squatting in the dust, holding the horses’ reins. ‘Bird? Waterhole, pretty good one, isn’t it? Good swimming hole.’
The child’s face lit up with a big smile. ‘Yeah, good waterhole, good fishing one.’
‘It’s a great little place, nice and flat, few paperbarks for shade, good swimming hole. Comes off the big river.’
‘Any crocodiles?’ asked Johnny.
‘Nah. Blacks have a good camp there. They get well looked after by the missus at Brolga Springs.’
‘Maybe a good place to film?’ asked Drago.
‘Depends what you’re after. For someone like me it’s a good station, nice people and for the station blacks, a decent life. Good tucker, good rations, kids have a little school.’ He wagged his finger at the child. ‘You should be in school.’
‘No way, boss. No like school. Horses more better.’
‘So who is our little visitor here?’ asked Marta. ‘Come and say hello.’ She held out her arms, but the child was suddenly shy.
‘This is my little horsebreaker. Doris, get over here. Quick, quick. Say proper hello.’
Scuffing feet, head down, avoiding eye contact, the child shuffled over and stood next to Len, who straightened up from where he’d been crouched.
‘Take your hat off. This is Doris.’
‘It’s a girl. I thought it was a boy,’ exclaimed Marta.
A mass of thick curls sprang free from under Doris’s hat and the full view of her thickly lashed large dark eyes and her smiling cupid’s bow mouth gave no doubt that the slim, elfin-like child was a girl.
‘Doris hangs around me like a bad smell,’ said Len fondly. ‘But she’s a natural with horses so I take her with me on occasion when I can’t get another offsider.’
‘Well, I never,’ said Helen studying the little girl. ‘She’s what, five, six years old?’
‘Nearly eight. Just a slip of a thing.’
‘You should be in school,’ said Helen firmly. ‘How will she get on in the world if she can’t read and write?’
‘The missus does her best with them,’ said Len, ‘But Doris will never leave the station anyway. She’s already picked out to marry one of the old men.’
‘What? That’s disgusting!’ exclaimed Marta.
‘Ah, it’ll be a few years before she’s allowed to go off with him. That’s how it is. Tribal custom, it’s the way it is for them,’ added Len.
Topov looked at Helen. ‘We go this place. See people, see landscape.’
‘Topov we have to get to Darwin!’ said Helen.
‘Where is this station? Can we camp there?’ asked Drago who was enchanted by the little girl. ‘She’d be great to shoot.’
At this the girl and Len reacted in shock.
Drago laughed. ‘Shoot. It’s an expression for taking pictures. We shoot film.’ He looked at the girl whose eyes were wide. ‘No gun, no bang, bang.’
The girl broke into giggles and Len chuckled. ‘Had me going there for a minute.’
Topov stood up. ‘We make little girl big star.’
‘What about me?’ laughed Marta.
‘If you want to head for Brolga Springs,’ Len pointed west, ‘there’s a track that goes out there, slower going than this road.’ He eyed the caravan. ‘That thing looks like it might make it.’
‘It’s been good, better than the Dodge,’ said Peter.
Doris tugged at Len’s arm, pointing at the caravan and whispered in his ear.
‘She’s never seen a yellow house on wheels before,’ he said. ‘Can she have a look?’
‘I’ll take her over,’ said Marta and held out her hand. The little girl followed, curiosity overcoming her shyness. ‘But we can’t go in. It’s not really my place. But we can look at the outside.’
‘Can we just show up at this station place unannounced and camp there for the night?’ asked Colin.
‘Bush hospitality, sport. She’ll be right. You all look pretty self-sufficient.’
There was a silence as everyone glanced at each other. Finally Johnny spoke up.
‘We’re a bit skint, matey. Our money got held up, which is why we’re heading for Darwin so we can replenish supplies. You said the fishing was good, maybe we could catch some fish?’
Len waved an arm. ‘Hey, that’s not a problem. We’ll send some of the hunters out. I’ll take me gun, we’ll get some bush tucker in no time flat. And there’s always damper and stew in the oven at the Big House. Missus is on her own as the boss is away, so I think she’ll enjoy meeting you all.’
Len drew a mud map in the dust describing how to get to Brolga Springs and estimating they’d be there by late afternoon if they left now.
Topov stared at the marks scratched by the stick in the red dirt. ‘This map no good.’
‘It’s all right, Topov, we can figure it out,’ said Peter. ‘We go back the way we came for a few miles and then we turn left off the track at the burnt tree stump by the little dry gully.’
Topov just stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language.
‘Listen, why don’t you take Doris with you? She can direct you. She’d love to ride in a car,’ suggested Len.
‘What about the horses?’ asked Helen. ‘Can I help? I could ride one of them for a bit.’
‘You look a bit keen.’ Len eyed her trousers and solid shoes. ‘Give it a go if you want. Get a hat and tell me if the going’s too tough.’
He spoke to Doris who immediately jumped up and ran to the little caravan.
‘Jeez, you can’t go in that fella, matey,’ said Len.
Topov pulled the little caravan door open. ‘She go in house on wheels.’ He smiled and lifted the wide-eyed girl into the caravan.
Doris sat on one of the tiny beds and gazed around. ‘No touch all this. No touch door,’ Topov admonished.
She nodded her head.
‘Will she be all right in there?’ asked Helen.
‘You won’t be going very fast, so she’ll be okay,’ said Len. ‘Get her out when you get to the turn off and need directions. See ya back at Brolga, Doris. Okay?’
In the warm glow of the afternoon light they rolled towards the homestead buildings that were surrounded by trees, a windmill and stockyards. Waiting by the gate were Len and Helen, both still mounted. Doris, now sitting beside Marta in the front of the Land Rover, leaned over and waved, shouting excitedly.
