Diamond Dove

Diamond Dove Page 19

by Adrian Hyland

  'Got bogged, Johnny.'

  'Mmmm, I see,' he replied, nodding sagely. He considered our predicament for a moment, then added, 'Mmmm… I bin get bog, that same place, just this morning.'

  Jojo and I glanced at each other.

  'Can I borrow your tractor?'

  'No worries, mate.'

  The school, when we were eventually towed into it, consisted of a large, silver classroom, a teacher's van, a gaudy plastic playground, an orchard and a few acres of red dirt with goal posts at either end.

  A solid, bearded bloke with a florid face and a navy windcheater was standing on the veranda of the van. In his arms was a Black Forest cake slightly smaller than one of the tractor's tyres.

  'G'day, Con,' said Jojo.

  'Jojo.' He looked out to where Johnny Friday was rolling the tackle back up into the winch. 'Where would we be without Johnny and his tractor?'

  'Probably hoeing into that cake. Morning tea, I hope?'

  'Kids have been baking all day.' He placed the cake on a table, came down and shook my hand. 'Con Christou.'

  'Emily Tempest.'

  He frowned slightly. 'Tempest?'

  'It's okay - I don't bite.'

  'From Moonlight Downs?'

  'Among other places. You know Moonlight?'

  'Made a few trips out there. Heard your name on the bush telegraph. That old Kuminjayi had been badgering the Department for a new school, and I was slotted to be the first teacher.' I frowned, felt as though a shadow had just passed over the day. 'Tragic, the way it all turned out.'

  'It's not over yet,' I replied.

  Con introduced himself to the Sandhill boys, teamed them up with their Kupulyu counterparts, grabbed a football and thumped it out onto the oval. 'Okay fellers, go and sort out your pecking order,' he yelled. 'Cake time in ten minutes.'

  The boys went haring off in pursuit, with Rollo bringing up the rear.

  We walked up onto the veranda of the van. 'Come inside,' said Con. 'You'll want to freshen up. Siena! Macey!' He indicated the cake. 'Nobody's to touch this until we get back, okay?' Two stringy girls nodded compliantly, and we followed the teacher inside.

  'Bathroom's over there,' he said.

  Jojo washed his hands, then muttered, 'Better go out and keep an eye on that cake.'

  As he swung the door open, Con looked out onto the veranda. A look of horror shot across his face.

  'Aaagh!!!' he bellowed. 'You little bastards!'

  I followed his gaze

  There was a riot going on around the wretched cake. The Sandhill Gang were in the thick of it, of course, shovelling great handfuls into their mouths, chucking cherries into the air and catching them with their teeth, but the Kupulyu mob weren't far behind.

  A couple of boys were smacking each other with creamy fists, and Siena and Macey were hungrily licking their fingers. Toddlers were being thrust aside, although one determined little boy was making ferocious sorties up at the cake from under the table. Even Rollo looked like he'd scored.

  The Kupulyu teacher pushed past Jojo, burst through the crowd, picked up the plate, stared at the shattered remnants in dismay.

  'Have the fucking lot then!' he roared, and sent it spinning out through the air.

  The kids stood there, gawping and gaping, wide-eyed, as the plate whizzed over them. Crumbs and globs drifted down and landed on their heads. There was a stunned silence until the plate landed with a piercing twang on the other side of the yard.

  A little girl in a long blue dress was standing in the yard. Her enormous eyes retraced the path of the missile. Her jaw hung down.

  'That cake,' she said at last. 'It flew!'

  Into the silence burst a tiny, half-choked splutter. Jojo. Then he began to laugh, a rollicking burst of pure delight that pealed across the yard like a set of bells.

  The Kupulyu teacher glared for a moment but the contagion caught, and in seconds the schoolyard was full of kids and adults rolling around in the mud clutching their sides and slapping each other's backs.

  They were still giggling about it when Jojo and I left for Bluebush later that afternoon. The kids ran along beside us, whistling and hooting, slapping the sides of the vehicle, swinging off the gate.

  'That cake!' they called after us. 'It flew!'

  At the Hawk's Well

  Kupulyu disappeared in the rear-view mirror and we hit the main drag. Headed north, up into the fading embers of the day. Cool air drifted in the open window. I settled back, put my legs up on the seat, nestled my head against the blanket, content to be quiet. My eyes were half closed, but from time to time I found them drifting across to the man at the wheel.

  Tiny drops of rainwater clung to the corners of his brow, to the whiskers on his jaw. The habitual smile hung about the corners of his mouth, the outward expression of what I'd come to think of as his natural state of mind: amused, surprised, at ease with the revolutions of the world.

  His fist - hard, scarred, dappled in black mud - moved down to the gearstick, and I found myself imagining it slipping over onto my thigh.

  The shadows lengthened. The termite mounds on the passing plains looked like an invading army; kamikazi birds swooped among our wheels.

  Coming up to the Hawk's Well Waterhole, Jojo stretched his shoulders, twisted his neck, ruefully rubbed a knee.

  'Any permanent damage?' I asked him.

  'Don't think so, but jeez, they can move, those kids.' We'd spent the last hour at Kupulyu playing barefoot football, but only one of us had had the sense to retire before getting hurt.

  'I'd help with the driving, but I imagine your department's got rules against that sort of thing. Want a break for a while?'

  'Just what I was about to suggest. How about Hawk's Well?'

  'Sure.'

  'Been there before?'

  'Heaps. I love Hawk's Well. Dad and I used to stop there for a cup of tea whenever we were down this way.'

  'I could boil a billy now, if you like.'

  'Yeah, all right.'

  When we reached the turn-off he pulled over and edged the vehicle down the overgrown track that led to the waterhole. Tussocks of ribbon grass brushed along the undercarriage of the vehicle.

  'Mmmm,' he shivered, flexing his back and wriggling his shoulders. 'Tickles.'

  He parked on a shallow rise overlooking the water. Took an axe from the cabin and walked away. He had a smooth, easy gait, his boots kicking through the spinifex, crunching over loose stones.

  The Toyota clicked and creaked, unwinding. I got out of the cabin and did the same, then sat on a rock overlooking the water- hole. Light shot away from the sandstone, hummed in the plants: grevilleas and sedges, burr daisies, rock ferns. A lonely fig tree struggled for a foothold on the cliffs.

  Birds darted and called: honeyeaters and wood swallows, kingfishers, finches. A pair of rock pigeons took off in noisy flaps, glided across the water, alighted upon a shelf.

  I remembered a comment my father made once, as we sat here years before: 'Make it all worthwhile, don't you reckon, places like this? It's as if they take all the energy out of a hundred square miles of rough desert and force it through a single fuse.'

  The only human sound to be heard was from Jojo, the crunch of his boots on a branch, the soft thunk of iron on wood. He was three metres away, his back to me as he worked.

  He turned around, grinned, the hovering sun burnishing his face. 'Gonna have a fire, might as well make it a decent one,' he said as he walked towards me, his arms full of branches, his beanie dusted with leaves and pollen. He dropped the wood, cleared a patch of grass.

  As he crouched low to put the sticks in place, his shirt rucked up over the top of his shorts to reveal a finger's-breadth of flesh, the lower stretches of his arcing spine.

  I watched him for a moment or two, the breath rushing across my throat. 'Jojo.'

  'Eh?' He looked up.

  I took a couple of steps towards him, put my hand on his beanie, pushed my fingers under its rim, ran a hand through his wir
y hair. Lifted my top and drew his head towards my bare belly, let it nestle there for a moment. 'The fire. Don't know that I need one right now.' I took his hand, moved it up under my skirt.

  He stood up, smiling into my eyes. 'Must admit, I was kind of wondering myself.'

  'About the fire?'

  'About you. Us.' He stroked the inside of my thigh, brushed lightly against the tender flesh further up. 'This.'

  I rubbed my cheek against his jaw. It was pleasantly sweet and rough-whiskered. 'While since I felt one of those,' I said, moving against his fingers.

  I pulled him in close and kissed him hard, felt his tongue dance in response. 'While since I felt one of those, too.' I slipped my hand inside his hard yakkas. 'Not to mention…'

  'Don't say it,' he whispered, and drew my body into the fold of his arms. Ran a hand down my spine, massaging it with fingers that felt as smooth and strong as the limbs of a ghost gum. Cupped my arse, lifted me off my feet and kissed my throat, slow kisses that seemed to ripple through my body.

  A low moan escaped from my throat and I pulled my head back. Caught my breath, took a look around.

  'Dunno if this is such a good idea.'

  'Shit,' he gasped. 'Now you tell me.' 'Not what I meant.'

  I freed myself from his embrace, went back to the vehicle and grabbed my red blanket. Came back and threw it over the stones and the porcupine grass. 'Now,' I said, grappling with his buttons, 'it's a good idea. Bloody great idea, in fact.'

  We lay down, eased each other out of our clothes, then eased each other out of our brains.

  The next morning we loaded the Cruiser and headed back down the track. Even when we hit the highway Jojo drove slowly, with one arm on the wheel and the other around my shoulders. I kicked my shoes off, nestled up close to him, enjoyed the warmth of his body, the solid strength of his ribs.

  'You gonna give me back my hat?' he asked.

  'No.'

  'But it's part of my uniform.'

  'Bullshit. And besides, it matches my blanket.'

  'You gonna take your hand out of my pants?'

  'You really want me to?'

  'Well, no, but I don't know what Freddy Whittle'll think about it.'

  'Who?'

  'Bloke who's driving the truck that's about to overtake us.'

  I looked up as a huge Kenworth came roaring up alongside us. A burly character in a towelling hat gave us a wave and a blast of the horn as he accelerated away.

  'Oh well,' said Jojo, 'that would've made his day.'

  We drove for another minute or two, Paul Kelly on the tape deck. Nukkinya. A lovely song about another black chick and her feller in the morning sun.

  'You gonna be my girl?' asked Jojo.

  'I'm gonna be your something.'

  'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'Let's wait and see. No other… complications?'

  'Complications?'

  'Attachments.'

  He thought for a moment. 'Just Annie.'

  I frowned. 'Who's Annie?'

  He patted the steering wheel. 'We're riding in her.'

  'That's all right. Car I can handle.'

  As we approached the town boundaries, he asked me, 'Your place or mine?'

  'You've seen mine. Is yours any better?'

  'It's pretty rough.'

  It was gorgeous - an open shack made from mulga poles and sandstone, with central posts of rough-dressed desert oak. The house was on a ten-acre bush block on the outskirts of town: it had an earth floor, an open fire, a solar shower and a big spring bed which looked like it could do with some company. Over the next few hours we made lunch, made love, and made it to our respective jobs with moments to spare.

  Looking Down the Barrel

  That afternoon set the pattern for the next couple of days, which we spent enthusiastically slipping in and out of each other's beds and bodies. On the morning of the third day, however, Jojo was due to go out bush. We spent the night in at my place.

  I woke up at first light, heard him pottering around the room.

  'Do you have to go?' I asked him.

  'It's my job.'

  'When'll you be back?'

  'Few days.'

  'Can I get in touch with you?'

  'I'll try to give you a call. If you need to get me you can try the Emergency Services frequency.'

  He came and sat on the edge of the bed. 'How long you got?' I asked.

  'Half an hour.'

  'Just time for breakfast.'

  'What's for breakfast?'

  'Don't worry, you'll like it,' I grinned, dragging him back to bed.

  Forty minutes later he was running out the front door, a piece of burnt toast in one hand, a pair of boots in the other. I turned over, settled down into a pleasantly post-coital sleep, and was still there a few hours later when the phone rang.

  'Hello,' I said, or tried to say, but whoever was on the other end of the line probably didn't hear much more than a discombobulated groan.

  'Emily?'

  'Tom?'

  'Just calling to say good-bye.'

  'Shit!' I woke up in a rush. 'Not the Gunbarrel Highway?'

  'Worse. Darwin. Staff Development Course, they're calling it. Re-education Camp, more like it.' Tom had done a stint in Vietnam. 'Re-educate me not to fuck with the cattle kings.'

  'You interviewed Marsh?'

  'Yeah, and your man Massie, too, who read me the riot act and told me that whatever dealings his department had with Carbine Creek were "commercial-in-confidence" and of no bearing whatsoever upon any murder. By the time I got back from Carbine there was a message telling me to get me miserable arse up to Darwin, post haste.'

  'Which of them was responsible?'

  'Both of em, I imagine. Proper gang bang.'

  'What about Marsh? Did you get anything out of him?'

  'I got everything out of him except his breakfast. He's in the clear.'

  Shit. That only left Blakie, and how the hell was I going to catch him? But then McGillivray went on, 'Far as I can tell. Which probably isn't far enough for you, but there's a limit to how far you can stick your bib in round here without getting it bit off.'

  'What'd he have to say for himself?'

  'It wasn't so much what he had to say as what his men had to say. When I went out there Marsh was in the stock camp, cutting and branding bulls. With half a dozen blokes who swore he was doing the same thing the day Lincoln died.'

  'That's it?'

  'That's what?'

  'I mean they would, wouldn't they?'

  'Would what?'

  'Say that. He's their boss, Tom. They're hardly going to say he was out doing a spot of recreational strangling. Besides which, we're talking Carbine cowboys, right? IQ lower than a bull's balls?'

  'These bulls didn't have any balls. Not by the time Marsh was finished with em. I was lucky I did myself.'

  I wasn't going to let him off that easily.

  'I'd still find it hard to believe your Carbine stockman could remember what he was doing five minutes ago, much less five weeks ago. I've met those boys, Tom. Seen em in the bar. Flotsam from the shallow end of the gene pool if ever I saw it.'

  He was a step ahead of me.

  'Emily, Lincoln was killed the day after the Edge River Races. And they remember it because they were pissed off with Earl Marsh for dragging em outer their swags before dawn when all they wanted to do was curl up and die.'

  'Well, if they were so pissed how do they know what he was up to while they were asleep?'

  His reply was a positive bark.

  'Oh Jesus, give it a rest, will you, Emily! You already got me in enough shit. Marsh was camping with a mob of blokes, and one of em would have heard him drive away, and they couldn't all be bullshittin me. Just give it a bloody rest! If you want a fishing expedition go to the Gulf - you got nothing on the man except you don't like him. Right now I don't like him much myself, but being an arsehole isn't a hanging offence round here. If it was, the trees'd be full of arseholes.'


  'Wish you hadn't put it like that, Tom. Not at this hour of the morning.'

  'It's eleven o'clock,' he said suspiciously. 'What have you been up to?'

  'Minding my own business.'

  'That'll be the day,' he responded. 'And by the way, the Edge River connection explains Freddy Ah Fong as well.'

  'Freddy Ah Fong?' I repeated slowly. I was having trouble tearing myself away from the horrible image of a bunch of arse- holes hanging from the trees.

  'This contract. I agree, it isn't worth a gecko's goolies. Except in so far as it pisses you lot off.'

  'Well it does that all right.'

  'Which is what it was intended to do,' Tom explained patiently. 'Marsh is chairman of the race committee and he was in the process of having Freddy thrown off the property for being in his usual state of smashed as a bottle, when Lance Massie tells him the feller he's maulin is part-owner for Moonlight Downs.' Massie again, I thought. This cat's got its paws all over the cage. 'Marsh didn't get to where he is by being a man to let a chance go by: half an hour later he's got Freddy's piss in his pocket and his X on a piece of paper. Says he just wanted a bit of extra feed for the Dry. But my take on it is that he was trying to cause a bit of family friction, you know? Stirrin the possum. It's the way things work out there, part of the general… cut and thrust. Dunno if you could call it ethical, but you couldn't call it criminal neither.'

  'Depends on who's being cut and what's being thrust. What about the foot prints and tyre marks at the camp?'

  There was a pause from Tom's end of the line, a pause which told me I'd hit a tender point. 'Not enough left of the foot prints to tie em to anything. Too old. Too worn. Could have been made by anybody.'

  'And the tyre tracks…?'

  'I took a techie with me to check em out. Might have been a car parked there. Probably was. About the right time, too. But there wasn't enough to make a positive ID, nothing to tie to a particular vehicle.'

  'I could see that for myself, but at least you could measure the wheel span. Get an idea of what was parked there.'

  'Yeah, we measured the wheel span, but if they are tyre tracks, which I'm not saying they are, they could have come from any one of half a dozen different makes and models - which I'm not saying they did.'

 

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