Despite the occasional raucous laugh, it was almost relaxing listening to the chatter and a damn sight better than being with Sid. What the hell was he thinking paying for that Pommie mate of his to come over? Five thou – where the hell were they going to find five thousand dollars in the research budget? They were pretty maxed out already, what with the cost of fuel and supplies and all that other stuff Sid insisted they needed. Shit and freaking hell, he’d even contracted Trussie to get whatever couldn’t be found here from Broome! What, did he really think they could hide that sort of claim in the Lavost Explorations contract, ‘cause the Museum would whinge and carp if they were ten dollars over the projection? It had to be pushing up towards fifteen thousand by now and just where was that money to come from? She’d cut her hire charges for him as much as she could. Ketches didn’t run on wishes, but Sid had sworn on everything he held dear that it’d all be sorted and he gave his personal guarantee that the costs would be covered. They’d skimmed pretty close to disaster before and somehow Sid had always managed to pull it together, so despite her reservations, she’d reluctantly agreed to this loopy plan, even if it meant leaving the rest of them up north at Wally’s.
The heavy drone of an approaching plane halted her reflections. She looked up into the bright blue sky. It had the lumbering appearance of a small passenger aircraft, the usual sort that hopped between Perth and the northern regional centres. She shuddered as it wobbled its way to the end of the runway. The locals called then chunder wagons with good reason. The planes bobbed and weaved in the thermals of the Kimberleys to an alarming degree. It was even worse before take off, since they had a tendency to warm up sitting on the tarmac between flights. When you boarded you had a pretty good idea of the fate of a roast chook. This one slowly banked until it had swung around to the northwest over Fraser River, approaching the landing strip from the scenic view of the mud flats of the bay. Great if you were sitting on the left – you’d get the unparalleled splendour of Derby for all of five seconds.
The plane dropped and the wheels hit the landing strip with a loud thudding screech, before it lurched back into the air. She winced in sympathy – must have been a new pilot. Three more bounces and the wheels stayed fixed to the tarmac and the aircraft slowed before swinging to the left as it taxied towards the terminal. After the usual lag the door opened and the aircraft steps were wheeled over. After a further pause out poured its cargo of passengers. Most staggered over towards the terminal, their faces wearing that look of grateful relief to be on the ground and eager anticipation for their coming adventure – that was all except one. The last passenger off tumbled down the short stairs, dropped his clutch of bags and promptly threw up, leaning over the stair rail. The splattering noise effects on the tarmac had the rest of the passengers shuffling faster towards the doorway. A few had assumed that painfully glazed expression that spoke of a too close acquaintance with memories of a rollercoaster after a heavy session on the ‘turps’. The chunderer gave a final heave before collapsing weakly onto the bottom-most stair. The disturbing echo attracted the attention of the airline hostess who peeked around the edge of the door in clear disapproval of her passenger’s lack of timing. You could tell what she was thinking, inconsiderate passengers how dare they! A few more paces and it would have been away from the open door of the aircraft and clearly none of her responsibility.
Lampie didn’t know what it was that drew her to that slumped figure. It certainly wasn’t his recent decoration of the tarmac – perhaps the obvious fact that all the others passengers were couples or established groups. Or maybe it was the expression of wan dismay of someone totally out of their landscape, a bit like a Mayan Indian walking through the streets of Sydney. “Ahh…g’day. Are you Wilks?”
At her question, the figure grabbed the rail of the stair and pulled itself up, tilting his head while the other hand shielded his squinting eyes. “Oh God, I thought the flight was bad but I didn’t realise we’d crashed. Is this heaven? Are you an angel?”
She shook her head and frowned. Who was this joker? He certainly wasn’t an Australian. The accent was too posh and east coast, though she thought it sounded a lot like Sid when he was putting on his lecturer voice. “No, it’s Derby!”
The passenger rubbed his pale face with both hands and shook his head slowly. “Oh thank God. If this was heaven I would have been very disappointed about the scenery.” Then another thought seemed to grip him and he shuddered and gave a wry laugh. “It’s not by chance the other place, Purgatory, or the Devil’s domain?”
She shook her head perplexed by the question. Then she switched thinking to the more extreme end of sensible – this bloke was a friend of Sid’s wasn’t he? “Ahh no, not as such. It’s still Derby, the Kimberleys in Western Australia. You landed by plane.” These strange replies were becoming a habit. Not for the first time she silently asked herself if Sid knew any normal people.
As the trembling figure struggled upright she got her first decent view of him. He was just over six foot tall, topping her by a few inches and had the sort of build that spoke of frequent exercise – not the type that bulked out in the gym, more solid than lean. He had the pale completion of someone unused to the Australian sun, made even whiter by his recent bout. He looked maybe mid twenties with one of those longish English faces that came down to a pointed chin. It was presently covered in heavy brown stubble. If he grew a beard then he’d look a lot like those old portraits of George V her mother kept. Her potential new charge gave an all over shake like a wet dog and squaring his shoulders looked straight at her. The eyes where definitely bloodshot, but otherwise would be grey.
“Oh, Derby you say? Are you sure? It looks red, dusty and an endless morass, more like how I imaged the seventh circle of Hades, where they torment sinners and suicides. Is it always so hot here?”
How did you answer those questions? This was Sid’s mate no doubt about that – he was weird enough. Currently he was staring out over the edge of the airport, at the wide expanse of the mud flats beyond. It was still several hours to high tide and the entire bay was exposed, except for the narrow channel carved by the river flow. Lampie gave a brief frown. Yeah at this set of the tide, Derby really didn’t look its best.
“I left the beaches of the Sunshine Coast to come here?” That plaintive comment had all the overtones of mournful regret, and spoke of the deep hunger for sun, sand and surf, that afflicted so many Pommies.
“You’re Wilks, right? There are plenty of beaches up north – we’re camped on one!” That was said with a bit more force and accompanied by a heavy shake. She was getting tired of catering to flaky guys – first Sid, then Bluey chucked a turn, and Uncle Bill refused to set foot back on the dig site and now this Pommie refugee.
The bleary eyes focused on the hand grasping his shoulder and travelled up her arm until they hit her own eyes. A light of comprehension slowly sparked in now light grey eyes and a smile joined in, rearranging of his features. “Excuse me. Please accept my profound apologies for my rudeness. Like a good wine I don’t travel well. Nine hours in those flipping planes has left me a tad under the weather.”
He shot out his hand and she unconsciously took it. His grip felt firm but not overpowering, unlike some who used the hand shake as a test of strength and dominance. “I’m Wilks, Peter Wilks. I’m British.”
It was said so naturally, a greeting, a welcome and perhaps as an excuse for prior eccentricity. She kept hold of his hand. His skin was slightly rough with calluses on the fingers and palm, as if he’d been labouring. She thought Sid had said this Pommie was a history professor or such. Didn’t they wear bow ties and tweed jackets and spend all their time pouring over old documents and musty books? His attire really didn’t match Sid’s description. He wore a worn grey-blue, military style shirt tucked into faded jeans with heavy hiking boots. In fact in dress and stance, he didn’t look that dissimilar to most of the blokes who worked on the gas rigs to the north.
“You’re Sid’s archae
ologist? I thought you’d be older?” Oops, that kinda leaked out. She hadn’t meant to sound so surprised or to be that abrupt. It had been pretty difficult to judge who was on the other end of that phone call. The line had been so bad. Even if that hadn’t been the case, Sid had pulled the ‘paranoid, secretive everyone’s after my discovery’ routine so freakin’ thoroughly, she’d given up trying to talk some sense into him. Naturally she’d just assumed this ‘expert’ was older than the Ark and most likely one of Sid’s old lecturer’s or tutors from over east, not some bloke who, if he regained a bit of colour, could look really cute in a…hmmm.
Wilks, Peter Wilks her new charge, gave a bit of a short laugh, rubbed a hand over his bristle and tweaked an eyebrow. “I am sorry if I don’t quite look the part, you know khaki shorts and tropical helmet like the Elizabeth Peters style of chap who digs up Egyptian tombs. Well, I try to think of myself as more a ‘Daniel Jackson’ type. You know like in Stargate, though I’m not so good on the hieroglyphics, if you get my drift. I’ve got the obligatory archaeologist’s hat.”
With that Peter Wilks gave his head wear an affectionate tweak. It was indeed a hat to notice, festooned with badges and feathers. Hat was too weak a description – it looked like a Frisbee that had made a detour through someone’s exotic aviary and collected a few of the more colourful inhabitants as passengers. Peacock was one, maybe a galah or two with a hefty dash of crow, rooster and budgie. She tried very hard not to stare at it in awed amazement. Well so long as he kept that on, no one would miss him, not for miles! Dragging her gaze back to his now amused face she restarted the introductions. “Aww, umm, I’m Lampie. Sid sent me to collect you.”
It was then that Lampie realised she was still shaking his hand. Abruptly she dropped hers away and then regretted the action. Oh freck, she’d torn it now! From her past meetings with Poms, that sudden rejection could be interpreted as rudeness. Lampie reckoned she knew all about the Brits and their peculiar concepts of manners. Some of them could get awfully stuffy about any perceived insult to their status. She tried to remember if Sid said this bloke had any official titles, like Hon. or doctor or such. No, damn Sid. Once more he had given her too little information to go on. On this expedition, that was becoming a very annoying habit! Lampie did her best to look welcoming, though privately she thought it may have appeared more nervous and pensive.
She needn’t have been so concerned. Peter Wilks continued to smile pleasantly. Great she hadn’t stuffed it. Then he slowly turned in a half circle, peering at the scenery to the north-west and waved his now free hand in an all encompassing sweep. “So this is… Derby?”
“Ahh yes it is.” Lampie could have hit herself over the head for that one. What an inane reply! They’d covered the location identification at the start of this introduction, extensively even. What was going on? She wasn’t usually this awkward or tongued tied. It wasn’t as if this bloke was a blind date or something. After all, by rights it should be Peter Wilks who was the one ashamed. Hadn’t he been puking his guts out a few minutes earlier?
She tried to pull this straying conversation back on track, but the Pommie must have been feeling better. He pre-empted her with his own question. “Tell me, ahh umm, Lampie? Is there anything interesting to see in Derby?”
Now this was a really great opportunity to show their new expert that he was dealing with a crackerjack team, brimming with experience and local knowledge, as well as rescuing this conversation from its current precipitous slide into disaster. For Lampie a number of reasonably good answers immediately sprang into her mind, but the only damned one that made it past her lips was the lamest ever. “We’ve got a prison boab!”
Damn, damn, damn. Now she sounded like a real hick! Was that the best she could come up with? Why not just grin vacantly while drooling with a straw hanging out of her mouth? This Pom had been to London and probably Paris, and according to the little Sid had let slip, been all over the Mediterranean on important excavations! What the freakin’ hell was she thinking, offering to show him a large tree with a hole in it! Oh what would grand-mère Heloise say to that? She knew what her mother would have said, no doubt in those superior sneering tones she used so well. ‘Genié, how could you?!’
Peter Wilks paused, blinked a few times and then slowly nodded his head, still smiling. “Really? That would be excellent. Could we perhaps get a glass of water on the way?”
He’d said yes – she was freckin’ saved, and he said it so freckin’ graciously. Lampie grabbed a couple of his bags and lugged them over to the ute she’d borrowed, before she let slip another stupid comment. Having dumped them in the back she then settled Peter Wilks in the passenger seat. He gave another gracious nod as she passed him a bottle of chilled water from the small esky. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and placed the cool bottle on his forehead. “Lampie, what is the program for the day?”
She gave that request a bit of careful thought, giving him the once over. He looked, well kinda all right, if a bit wan and pale. She mentally crossed off any strenuous activities like sports fishing or bull riding before answering. “Pete, we’ll have a quick tour through the town first. Then I have to pick up a few more supplies before we head off and join Sid.”
Her passenger gave a brief wave of acceptance as she buckled the seat belt. Lampie forbore to mention how they would be travelling. That news was best left till later, after Peter Wilks had some time to recover.
It only took about ten minutes to get to the boab site, and by then Lampie could see that her new companion had returned to what she assumed was his natural colour. At least his eyes were open again – that had to be a good sign. The Pom was looking around at the scenery with interest. Things looked even better on the recovery front as Peter Wilks swung himself easily out of the ute and, without the least sign of unsteadiness, walked over to the fence. Once there the Englishman dropped his arms onto the sun bleached timber fence and bent over in a very characteristic pose. If Lampie hadn’t known differently, with his hat pulled down over his face, he almost matched the casual stance of a local, except for the feathers that is. They’d stand out anywhere. She slipped out of the ute and followed him over to the rail. Their new expert waved his hand towards to the tree. “Ahh Lampie, could you tell me something about this place, please?”
Lampie gave a nod and smiled, then walked over towards the small tourist sign. That apparently was not what he wanted because several paces off he waved her back. She twitched a shrug and spun around striding quickly back to the fence. For a moment she thought he was going to be ill, but he was just rubbing his face with a free hand to keep away the flies.
“Sorry Lampie I don’t need the official line from the tourist board. You know this area. What can you tell me about it?”
Well that stopped her. Lampie made an effort to readjust her answer and think about it before replying. What kind of info was he after? Who was to know? He was after all a Pom, though he said he didn’t want the touristy guff. What did that leave? Well she had a very good idea how much was commonly edited from the Kimberleys blurb, but did he really want to hear about all that? Maybe. Lampie began a cautious start. “Well this is a boab tree and as you can see it’s pretty large. The constables used to store prisoners here on their way into Derby from their patrols.”
“Ahh, very interesting and it is as you said very large, over twelve metres around at a guess. Now, ahh Lampie, those prisoners, would they have been colonials or aboriginals?”
Her eyes widened slightly at his follow up question. Was this Pom serious? All the tourists she’d ever seen steered well away from that kind of contentious question. Did he really want an answer? Lampie paused and took another look at his face. They reckoned the eyes were the windows to the soul. If so his still had that overwhelming shade of bloodshot, though there was something else, a spark, perhaps even genuine curiosity. She took a deep breath and stood straighter, trying to project a more certain demeanour. She had as much right to speak for the past as any of the Wand
ijani elders. “Most of the prisoners were aboriginal, from the surrounding tribes.”
She’d said it, straight fact and he just nodded his head and asked another strange question. “I see. Were there many rebellions or opposition to European settlement?”
What was this guy on? Most tourists didn’t get around to anything like this. They just looked at the scenery and apart from ahhing at the rock art, ignored the facts of recent koori history. Feeling bolder, Lampie gave him a truthful answer. “There was one famous event. A Bunuba man, Jandamarra, fought the troopers, killed a few and launched attacks against the settlers during the 1890’s. It took years before they got him.”
The Pom once more nodded slowly at her answer and pushed himself up from the fence. “Is there anywhere we can get a good cup of coffee?”
After that strange interlude at the prison boab Lampie gave him the rest of the tour – the Myall bore and cattle trough, the old Gaol, the Spirit of the Wandjina Art Studio, the small botanical garden, culminating in a cruise down to the long jetty that stood high above the mud flats until the tide came in. During it all he maintained a polite curiosity and always asked thoughtful questions, very similar to the ones at the tree. When was the town settled? Who came here and why? What industries thrived and which failed? When was that? What happened to the, ahh aborigines? For all those requests, as politely phrased as they were, Lampie had to keep on her toes. She had the impression that Peter Wilks was toting up a balance sheet of history and was keeping very careful track. Maybe it was his way of getting a handle on the Kimberleys. Her estimation of Sid’s judgement went up a few notches. This Pommie appeared to be bloody thorough.
Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery) Page 9
