Dark Oasis

by Dulcie M. Stone

  So much for no chance of peeping toms.

  “How far down do you want it, love?”

  “All the way.”

  “That’s not a good idea.” The bald head shook. “You’ll get no light if it’s right down.”

  “I don’t want any light. I’m going to sleep.”

  “No air, neither.”

  “What about on an angle, like the dining room?”

  “These don’t run to that. Sorry.”

  “Then all the way down.”

  Releasing the straps, he let the blind fall with a resounding slap, shouldered his ladder and disappeared.

  Stampeding boots woke her. Someone was running along the ditch behind the bungalows.

  Else was screeching, “Get them down! Get them down!”

  Canvas blinds thumped against timber.

  Curly’s cry followed, “Give us a hand!”

  Hurriedly pulling on shorts and shirt, she ran outside. “What’s wrong?”

  “The dust storm!” Else yelled.

  Immediately overhead the white-hot sky was empty. The breathless air was clear. “There’s no storm.”

  “Not yet!” Curly, standing on a step ladder, released each buckled blind.

  Trailing him, Else secured them firmly against the building.

  “Help Else!” Curly screeched. “Fasten your blind!”

  Obeying, she awkwardly buckled the heavy leather straps.

  “Get inside!” Else and Curl raced back to the main building.

  Across the unmade road, the builders were shouting directions, stacking equipment into trucks, mounting bicycles, and quickly retreating. Behind them, stampeding in from the west, beyond the skeleton of the new building, was a broad bank of thick red-black clouds. In mere seconds, they were overhead, completely blotting out all light. The air was already thick with red dust. Day had become night. Without sound.

  She couldn’t move. Until a sudden blast of shrieking wind caught her off balance. Whipping sand scourging her face, she raced for her room and locked the door. Unnervingly, just as suddenly, there was again no sound. Heart pounding, she waited. What would happen next? She dared not re-open the door.

  Nothing happened. There was only eerie silence. She was at the door, about to leave, when the darkness impossibly intensified, and the howling wind struck again. The flimsy room rocked. Hands over ears, she cringed on the bed. The storm screamed, the building trembled and the room filled with dust. She pulled the cotton quilt over her head. Would the blind hold? Would the building hold?

  Close to an hour later, the wind eased and the deafening shriek finally ended. Aching from muscles tight with fear, she uncurled and cautiously removed the quilt. Red sand had taken over the room – bed cover, furniture, walls, ceiling, body, face, teeth. She was eating it.

  Again, she started for the door. But again, the wind struck. The building shook and shifted on its weakened foundations. Fighting for equilibrium, she reached the door. It was jammed.

  “I can’t open the door!” The wind drowned her voice.

  The timbers of the door splintered. The door was giving way!

  “Gail! Get out! Get out! The building’s going!” Curly’s scream barely carried above the roaring wind.

  “I can’t open the door!”

  “Stand back!” Breaking through, Curly dragged her down the steps. The wind was shrieking, the sky black. A barrage of debris fought them as, arms locked, they battled across the quadrangle to the kitchen.

  Else was waiting. “Thank God!” She slammed the kitchen door behind them.

  Crowding together at the kitchen window, they saw the line of bungalows shudder, and tilt. The far bungalow, suffering the brunt of the fury from the west, collapsed.

  “Are you all right?” Else turned from the destruction.

  “My things!” she shouted. “I left my things!”

  Hand to ear, Else shook her head. “I can’t hear you!”

  “I left my things!”

  “They’ll be okay!”

  They’d have to be. Going back was not an option. She followed Else and her husband into the adjacent dining room, where the two dozen other guests had taken shelter. The flickering shadows of a score of candles shaped macabre movies on the dusty walls. There was no electricity, no natural light and no air, only a thick cloud of red dust and the stench of sweat and stale food and burning candle wax. She gagged, but dared not leave.

  Talking was impossible. She could barely see even her immediate neighbour, and didn’t want to. Else brought the evening meal, thin slices of warm meat, limp lettuce, soggy tomatoes, melted ice cream and tepid peaches tasting of tin. Most welcome was the hot tea brewed from the kettle boiling on the wood stove.

  Talking still impossible, they ate in a silence filled only by the ferocious wind. Most of the guests, unwilling to cross the stricken quadrangle to change, were still wearing work clothes; overalls, uniforms or business suits. At her side was an elderly woman, grey-haired, brown-skinned and wrinkled as a walnut. The other two at the table for four were young and city pale and interested in nothing but each another, not even the storm.

  Two hours after the initial assault, they heard the sudden drumming of torrential rain on the iron roof. Brilliant flashes of lightning, preceded by terrifying rumbles of thunder, penetrated the drawn blinds. But the wind was finally still.

  “It’s over!” Shouting above the racket of the rain on the roof, Else eased her way through flickering candlelight to collect cups and saucers. “Thanks be to God!”

  The rain settled into a persistent rumble, the lightning and thunder ceased, and guests and hosts began to take stock.

  “What about the bungalows?” someone asked.

  “Except for Bea’s, they just about all stood up to it.” Else was impatient. “You can’t have everything.”

  “What about mine?” The walnut woman was anxious. “Will I have a roof over my head tonight?”

  “It was pretty well done for, Bea. Flat as a tack. We’ll fix you a bed in here with us.”

  “Tough luck, Bea. You won’t have much left, I reckon.”

  “Not much to worry about,” Bea was quickly philosophical. “Most of my things are back home. Long as I got a bed to sleep in.”

  “What about the damage!” Curly wailed.

  “Give it a rest, Curl! We got the insurance.”

  “It’s a hell of a lot of work ahead, Else.”

  “We done it before. We’ll do it again.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Curly was near tears. “This ain’t no way to live.”

  “You got any better ideas?”

  Most of the guests, apparently content to hang around the crowded dining room, were sipping hot tea and eating biscuits and exchanging stories of other storms. Some were even laughing.

  Catching Else’s attention, she asked, “Do you think it’ll be all right if I go back to my room now?”

  “What about the electricity, dear?” Bea warned. “You should wait till it’s on again.”

  “How long?” Even though she’d slept all afternoon and it was not yet eight o’clock, she was exhausted.

  “You should wait, love,” Else, on her way back to the kitchen, advised. “There’s still no electricity. Better wait with us. Safer, too.”

  “You’ll be all right, dear.” Bea leaned across the dust-streaked table to pat her hand. “Try not to worry. Else will look after you.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Why don’t you try another cup of tea?” Bea persisted. “It does help, you know.”

  “I don’t want one.”

  From the kitchen came the clinking of china and the ring of cutlery; Curly and Else were doing the dishes. By candlelight. Hygiene was not a consideration. Eyes on the back door, she started from her chair.

  The young woman opposite intervened. “I wouldn’t leave if I were you.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “If you wait, they’ll have it cleaned up for you.”

&
nbsp; “I can do it myself.”

  “Why not let Else and Curly make their own arrangements, dear?”

  Bea gently placed a restraining hand on her arm. “They’re used to it.”

  She wrenched her arm free. “I said I can manage!”

  “I’m sorry,” Bea’s face crumpled. “I didn’t mean.”

  “That’s not necessary.” The young man was outraged. “Bea’s only trying to help.”

  “They’ll be forever!” she cried.

  General chatter ceased, disapproving faces turned on her.

  “I’m sorry,” she wept. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so tired. I’ve never …”

  “It’s all right, dear,” Bea flashed a compassionate smile. “We do understand.”

  The young couple resumed their conversation. The guests shrugged and returned to their hot tea and biscuits. The renewed thunder of heavy rain on the roof muffled the sounds from the kitchen.

  Bea poured tea and ate another biscuit. “Why don’t you try to relax? It’ll be quite a wait yet.”

  If only she wasn’t here.

  “They call in the day staff.” Bea brushed crumbs from her lap.

  “They’ll be out there cleaning up already.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “It still takes time, dear.”

  “You could have told me.”

  The old woman left for the kitchen.

  The guests pulled tables together, fetched cards and table games and settled in for a long wait. The couple held hands and whispered. She leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and closed her eyes.

  Yet another hour passed before the overhead lights came on. The sudden stark glare, welcome but unheralded, was disconcerting and intrusive. After a moment’s pause, the groups resumed their activities. She again feigned sleep.

  At ten-thirty Else eventually reported, “The rooms are cleaned up.”

  The young couple immediately vanished. Some of the people playing cards and table games were preparing to leave, a few were dealing new hands.

  “Time’s up!” Else thundered. “We still havta fix the dining room!”

  “Come on, Else. Just another …”

  “It’s been a bloody long night. Give us a chance.”

  The players began collecting their cards.

  Else had to be worn out.

  Attempting to help, she offered, “I can walk Bea across to her room.”

  “What room would that be?” Else snapped.

  “I thought …”

  “That’s your trouble, Miss.” Else was very cross. “You don’t think.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t. Too full of yerself to even hear poor Bea’s troubles. Bea’s bungalow’s been destroyed.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  At dawn a rooster crowed. For a single heart-beat, she was back in Melbourne, in the comfort of her own bed. But then the sweat-soaked bed sheets, the film of dust on her teeth, the sun burning through the pane-less window and the remnants of the storm-torn canvas blind plummeted her into Belleville.

  She turned into the sodden pillow, cried, and slept until 8 a.m. when the unearthly clamour of the hand-held breakfast bell woke her. Recollection of the single bathroom and the score of guests warned her not to even try for a bath. After sponging in the murky water of the rose-patterned water-jug, she dressed in fresh slacks, shirt and thin sandals and started across the wind-wrecked quadrangle. Purple blossoms, bruised and crushed and mashed to a mangled carpet, slid under her unsure feet. Overhead, the bare branches of the denuded tree reached skywards.

  At the end of the row of bungalows the remnants of Bea’s bungalow was a flattened waste of splintered timber. The old lady and Else should not have been cross with her. She’d been tired and sick and lonely and terrified. They should have known that. Not that it mattered. She’d soon be far away.

  In the dining room, the workers in their overalls were already in place, their bacon and eggs, toast and tea nearly finished. The business suits, despite the sickening smells of fatty bacon, greasy eggs and burnt toast, were on their way in. More probably, having been banished to this outpost, they’d convinced themselves these were acceptable, unless custom had deadened their senses. Passing thoughts only, quickly dismissed. She wasn’t going to be here long enough to dwell on them.

  Else and a young waitress were serving. There was no sign of Curly. Nor of Bea. Nor of the young couple. She took her place, alone, at the table.

  The waitress placed eggs and bacon in front of her. “Tea with milk?”

  The mess of food looked as repulsive as it smelled. She pushed the plate back to the waitress.

  “Something wrong?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll just have toast.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Can you manage not to burn it?”

  “What!”

  “I don’t like burnt toast.”

  “You get it as it comes.”

  Not worth answering; if it arrived burnt, it would follow the same path as the plate of eggs and bacon.

  “What about the tea? With or without?”

  “No milk. Thank you.” She forced a stiff smile, not returned.

  The offended back stalked kitchen-wards. Already she was making another enemy. And the suits and the overalls were exchanging knowing looks. Tonight. She’d be out of here tonight.

  Reappearing, the maid thumped a plate of thick pale toast and a cup of clouded black tea on the table. The tea slopped into the saucer. “It’s not burnt.”

  “Would it be possible to have a little hot water?” They had to be deliberately goading her. Because there was no way she could drink the ink black tea.

  “It’s really not strong, you know.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d still like …”

  “It’s the water. Makes it look strong. You know? We’re short on rain water.”

  The water. Of course. The brown mud she’d bathed in. “It’s not rain water!”

  “I told you. We’re short.”

  Stomach heaving, she shoved the cup aside.

  From the next table, a worker’s voice objected, “No need for that, young lady.”

  The waitress blushed. “It’s okay, Miss. It’s boiled water. It’s safe.” She bit into the toast.

  The maid hovered a moment before moving on.

  The young man arrived without his partner. “How are you this morning? Feeling better?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” she flushed. “About last night …”

  “It’s okay.” His smile was friendly. “We were all shaken up, I guess.”

  “Have you been here long?”

  “It’s our honeymoon. A couple of weeks. We’re …” He was interrupted by the arrival of his breakfast. “Thanks, Bett. Any chance of a tray for Jeanie? She’s not so well this morning.”

  “I’ll tell Else.”

  She poured a glass of rain-water from the lace-covered jug. “How long are you staying?”

  “We’re booked out on tonight’s train. That’s if Jeanie’s well enough to travel.”

  “She won’t get better here, that’s for sure.”

  The laden fork halfway to his mouth, he paused. “You haven’t been here long enough to know that.”

  “You like it here!”

  “Sure.” He lowered the fork. “You haven’t even been out the door yet. We’ll be sorry to leave.”

  “Do you really think you’ll have to cancel your ticket?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But you said.”

  “Oh that! Not really. We have to get back. Even if Jeanie’s not too fit. Why?”

  “I have to get back too. It’s urgent. I can’t fly. It’s doctor’s orders.” The lie was becoming easier. “I’m after a cancellation.”

  “Count us out.” He shook his head. “We’ll be on that train no matter what. Why don’t you just make the best of it? Give yourself more time?”

  “I told you. It’s
urgent. My sister …”

  From the adjacent passageway, the telephone rang.

  “Can someone answer that?” Else yelled from the kitchen.

  “Make the best of what?” She asked the bridegroom. “After last night?” “Yes, well.”

  From the passageway someone called, “Is there a Gail Mitchell in the house?”

  “That’s me!”

  “Gail Mitchell? Telephone for you.”

  Expecting to hear Barbara ask about the storm, she accepted the crackling receiver. “Barb? I’m all right. You could have waited until tonight.”

  “Is that Gail Mitchell?” The woman’s voice was the voice of a stranger.

  “Who is this?”

  “Is that you, Gail? The line’s bad. Can you hear me?”

  “I’m Gail Mitchell. Are you sure it’s me you want?”

  “Barbara contacted us. We arranged your accommodation. I’m Amy, Gus Campbell’s wife.”

  Gus Campbell, who’d found accommodation when no one else could.

  “I have to apologise, Gail. I couldn’t get through to you last night. The storm.”

  “It was terrible!”

  “I know. It came right through here too. You must have been very frightened. We were worried. The phones were down. And we daren’t risk the roads. How are you now?”

  “I’m trying to get on tonight’s train.”

  “I understood you’d booked in there for a month. What’s wrong?”

  Outright criticism would not be wise.

  “Gail?” The voice was anxious. “What’s wrong?”

  The Campbell name had got her here. It might get her out of here. “I’m a bit shaken up. It was so awful. I’ve never seen anything like it. And the noise!”

  “It was on the radio. A mini cyclone, apparently. It ran right down the main street. At least you’re on the outskirts there.”

  “It didn’t feel like it,” she protested. “All the bungalows will need repairs. All the foundations are shaky. One bungalow’s totally demolished. My blind’s in ruins. If there’s another storm, there’ll be no shelter. I’d be better off back home.”

  “How can I help, dear?”

  “I have to get on tonight’s train. I really have to!”