by Di Morrissey
‘Okay. He’s breathing. Get some water, Kev. He’s badly dehydrated.’ He felt the man’s pulse. It was weak and irregular. ‘I don’t like this. Maybe he’s got a heart problem.’
Kevin was shocked at the man’s appearance. ‘We should have brought Bette, she’s had some nursing experience.’
Bobby worked on the limp body, talking to Matthias as he massaged his chest. ‘Come on, mate, you can do it. We’ll have you outta here soon. Don’t want you to be dinner for bloody eagles, it’s bad for tourism. Come on now.’
‘I’ll get on to the Flying Doctor,’ snapped Kev, anxious to be more useful, and he dashed to the radio in his wagon.
Matthias coughed, his head rolled and his eyelids fluttered. Bobby poured water into his mouth and over his head.
Groggily he responded. He was barely conscious, but managed to swallow the water. His hand fluttered weakly and reached out towards Bobby, who grasped it. ‘It’s okay, mate, you’re going to be fine. The doc has been called and she’ll be on the way quick smart. Pretty hot doc too. A real nice lady . . . blonde, like you.’
Bobby gave Kevin a worried look as he stepped out of the four-wheel drive. ‘Did you get on to them?’
‘Yeah. But where the hell are we?’
‘Let me talk to them. Take over here. Keep giving him water . . . not too much at a time. His breathing is weak.’
Kevin knelt in the dust and lifted the man’s head. His bloodshot blue eyes stared blankly at Kevin who forced a big smile. ‘G’day, Matthias. I’m Kevin. You took a bit of a walk, eh?’
‘Ya,’ he managed weakly.
‘You should’ve realised this isn’t Sound of Music country. The only people who dance around this sort of scrub are the Aborigines, mate.’
Bobby finished talking and replaced the phone. ‘Let’s move him into the car. We’re lucky, the Flying Doctor has a plane in the vicinity. They should be here in an hour or so.’
‘How will they find us out here? And where will they land?’ asked Kevin, slightly incredulously.
‘I had to fill in my time while I was stuck back at the taxi. So I worked out the mileage and roughly where we were. We’re only about five k’s off what passes as the main road. They’ll find us. Let’s drive back to the road, it’s an easier place for them to land.’
Kevin drove carefully, conscious of the slumped man in the back seat with Bobby. It was easy to drive back in their fresh wheel tracks. As soon as they saw the caravan Kevin blew the horn, but Bette had heard them coming long before. She was relieved they were back, and when she saw Matthias she ran into the caravan to collect her first-aid box. Bobby pulled a swag from the boot of the taxi and spread it under the van awning, and soon the rescued man was responding, vaguely, but it was a good sign. He even managed a smile when Bette began treating the severe sunburn on his face.
‘Aloe vera cream,’ she told him, ‘absolutely first class for sunburn and you have a bad case of it.’ She saw he needed more serious medical attention than her first-aid kit could provide.
By the time the Flying Doctor plane had located them, Matthias was fully conscious, but still very distressed. The plane skidded along the dirt road in a controlled but bumpy landing. A woman with a medical kit leaped out as soon as the propellers stopped.
After a quick briefing from Bobby and a nodded hello to the Leans, she checked Matthias and gave him a shot. ‘Bad dehydration, skin damage from sunburn, heart still not one hundred per cent, but he should be all right. We’ve got oxygen on board. We’ll get him back to Broome.’
‘Thanks, Doc. Too bad he’ll miss the races,’ said Bobby.
The doctor didn’t smile. ‘Typical Broome reaction. C’mon, give us a hand to get him on board.’
As they lifted the stretcher into the light plane, Matthias struggled to sit up. ‘My bag, my things . . . I must go . . .’ he gasped.
‘It’s okay, mate. I’ll bring ’em back to Broome for you. You just get going. I’ll see you in a day or so, no worries.’
Matthias struggled. ‘Bradley Station, must go . . .’
The pilot slammed the door before Matthias could say any more and the plane roared down the road and into the air.
‘What are you going to do about the taxi?’ asked Kevin. ‘You’re welcome to travel with us. We’re heading where you must be going, the big race event at Bradley Station. Then we head back to Broome. We plan on spending the winter there.’
‘That’ll be nice for you. Thanks for the offer, but I’ll grab some tucker and water off you if I can and wait for my cousin. I’ll give him and Mr Choy another call on your system, if you don’t mind, just to let them know what’s happening.’
The call was reassuring. Bobby was told that a repair and towing team would be there early the next morning. It wasn’t long before the van had been hooked up and the Leans were ready to set off.
‘We’re going to camp the night a few k’s down the road then head to Bradley Station tomorrow. When we’re back in Broome, look us up in the Buccaneer Caravan Park,’ said Bette brightly as she shook hands with Bobby. She was now in high spirits, buoyed by the drama and its outcome.
‘I’ll do that. I owe you one. Thanks for your help.’
‘Oh, it was a pleasure,’ she responded automatically, then realised how absurd the remark sounded and burst out laughing.
‘Welcome to the real outback,’ said Bobby.
After the Leans had left, Bobby rigged up the tarpaulin they’d lent him to provide some shade, and set up a stone fireplace for brewing a billy of tea and heating up a tinned stew as the sun set. He felt exhausted, not just tired, but completely drained. He’d been really scared, if the truth were known. He put this feeling down to delayed shock, but a sense of failure and frustration overwhelmed him. ‘I’m bloody cursed,’ he told himself. Every time I get a fresh start I mess it up. Who’d hire me as a tour guide after all this? he wondered.
He pulled his sleeping gear out of the boot and was moving Matthias’ rucksack when a surge of curiosity stirred him. He knew almost nothing about the man who had caused all this drama, except that he had an important rendezvous with someone at the races. Bobby had mentioned that it was an odd place to meet up, but Matthias was clearly uncomfortable about the questioning. Bobby wondered what Matthias’ belongings might tell him. He opened the rucksack and went through the contents. Nothing out of the ordinary in the way of clothes, a torch, shaving and toilet kit, a small diary filled with notes in German, photos, spare shoes, sandals. At the bottom, wrapped in a towel, was a small wooden box. In an era of plastic bags for everything, Bobby was intrigued by the well-made box with its smart brass fitting. He twisted the catch and the lid opened smoothly.
Inside was a metal object which he thought might be a pendant, a souvenir of some kind. It was a crafted image of the sun, rimmed in turquoise. The centre was inlaid with brass or maybe gold and radiating from it were seven rays that ended in bud-like shapes, almost like rosebuds. After puzzling over it a while longer, Bobby put the piece back in the box and settled down to sleep on the back seat.
Was he still dreaming? So many troubled sensations and images had accompanied him through the evening. Now here was a hideous face, sneering, leering, spitting at him. All yellow teeth and putrid breath. The spitball on the face brought Bobby fully awake with a shock.
It was daylight. A camel had its head through the window. At his shout the beast was yanked away and a sun-shrivelled human face peered in at him.
‘You okay, mate?’
Bobby scrambled from the car to find two laden camels and four young ones linked together, led by an old man. Although on closer inspection he might not be as old as he seemed. He seemed to be fashioned from well-worn leather, with eyes like dates and a wisp of a moustache. He wore a hat with a woven band and a small tassel.
‘God, I didn’t expect company out here,’ said Bobby. ‘You’re the camel man from Broome, aren’t you? I’ve seen you out at Cable Beach.’
‘Yes, that’s ri
ght. I am Farouz.’ He gave a slight bow. ‘Do you need some help?’
‘Bobby Ching. Hopefully help is on the way. There’s been a bit of an accident,’ said Bobby laconically and told him what had happened as he lit the fire to make a morning billy of tea.
‘A most unusual incident. A German visitor, you say?’
‘Yeah, Matthias Stern. He was really keen to hit the races at Bradley Station. He said he was meeting someone there. Hooking up with another travelling friend, I guess.’
‘Very probably,’ said Farouz as if concluding that part of the conversation. ‘Is your father Clarrie Ching?’ Bobby nodded and Farouz gave a small smile. ‘We know each other. I used to carry stuff for Clarrie, gear for miners, before he bought the trucks. He still working?’
‘If you call sitting in an office at a computer all day working, yeah.’
‘We live in a fast changing world,’ said Farouz. He finished his tea and glanced at the sun. ‘I must leave soon. I’ll walk through the rest of the morning, make camp and walk again in the cool of the evening.’
‘Have you been rounding up some strays?’ Bobby indicated the young camels.
‘Fresh breeding stock. Now we’re headed to my place in the dunes at Broome. You say you have help completely organised?’
‘No worries. Thanks. The mob from Broome will turn up soon. I organised all that late yesterday.’
‘It might be a slow trip back if you’ve got to be towed,’ said Farouz.
‘Not as slow as yours, mate.’
They both laughed and walked over to the camels. Farouz adjusted the packs, checked the leads, and was about to go when Bobby’s attention was seized by a pattern woven into the faded saddlecloth on one of the camels. It somehow looked familiar.
‘What’s the design on that rug, Farouz?’
The old man patted it, sending dust flying up in a small cloud. ‘It’s from the old country, Afghanistan. Thanks for the tea. Good luck, Bobby.’
‘Latcho drom. Safe journey, Farouz.’
Bobby poured the dregs from the billy into a tin mug and sat in the shade of the tarp thinking about Matthias. He thought too of the strange sun in the box. And then it hit him. The hand-crafted sun with its bud-like rays was almost identical to the pattern woven into the saddlecloth on Farouz’s camel.
‘Well, bugger me,’ he said in astonishment to himself. ‘Now what could that mean?’
C h a p t e r T w o
AGAINST THE SUN SETTING INTO THE INDIAN OCEAN, the string of sashaying camels and tourists astride them became black silhouettes. Led by a man on foot, they made their way across the lawns edging the resort, the ridiculous red tail-light on the last camel winking in the brilliance of a Broome sunset.
From the most famous vantage point in Broome – the Sunset Bar of the Cable Beach Club – guests, tourists and locals gathered to watch as the camels passed. Many of the spectators raised their glasses in salute, exchanged smiles and congratulated each other on spending another day in paradise.
Lily lifted her chilled white wine, pausing to note how the liquid changed to a deeper gold as the sunset flashed into the glass bowl. ‘The colours are always best like this, a bit of cloud to break the rays, no wind. The perfect end to the day, don’t you think?’
Dale leaned towards her. ‘Come back, live here. You know your roots are here.’
Lily gazed to sea and didn’t answer for a moment. Idly she fondled the magnificent strand of pearls lying against her linen shirt. The mellow globules seemed to catch the light, their lustre turning a richer creamy golden pink. ‘I still have commitments in Sydney.’
‘Quit it, Lily. Being the supervisor of a medical laboratory can’t be so fulfilling after all these years. You’re still young enough to build a whole new career.’
The gregarious and attractive Dale Cavendish had done just that. From working in Mt Isa as a builder he’d moved to Broome, started a fishing charter, then gone into heavy machinery, finally becoming a major construction supplier. He’d built an impressive property of his own out past Cable Beach, and he had taken advantage of the first wave of tourism and development in Broome. He now studied his elegant companion. In her early fifties Lily Barton was beautiful, soft and full of energy. She looked years younger, yet she had a gentle kind of wisdom in her eyes. She was the sort of woman people felt comfortable with. As soon as they met her they wanted to share with her the burden of their life story.
‘And do what, Dale? I don’t see retirement as much fun on my own.’ She didn’t tell him, nor had she told anyone except her daughter Sami, that she had already taken early retirement and was now a free woman with a substantial nest egg. Lily didn’t want any pressure from Dale or anyone else.
‘You don’t have to be on your own,’ he reminded her gently.
Lily smiled. ‘Thank you, Dale. But I’m not entirely on my own, I have a daughter and a very special extended family.’
‘A very adventurous daughter. Where is Samantha?’
‘Out in the desert somewhere. On the trail of some old Aboriginal art sites for her research, in the traditional tribal country.’
‘Alone?’ Dale raised an eyebrow. His interest in Aborigines was confined to collecting examples of good indigenous art as an investment, and attending the occasional function in Broome that showcased Aboriginal culture.
‘She’s a very independent creature. I’m sure she’ll turn up when she’s ready. She has her dog and a satellite phone and makes occasional contact.’
Dale was a little puzzled by Lily’s vague reply and decided it was best to change the subject. ‘So, back to something more immediate. Let’s have dinner.’
‘Another time, thanks Dale. I told you I promised Rosie and her family I’d go there for a welcome-home dinner.’ She leaned over and kissed him lightly. ‘Sundowners only tonight, remember.’
‘Well then, one more Margaret River verdelho to welcome the cool of evening,’ he ventured with a grin.
‘Lily, you aren’t happy with the new businesses in town?’ said Rosie as they settled on the verandah of the beautiful old bungalow after Lily’s first full day back in Broome.
‘Tourists don’t come to Broome for hamburgers; Broome Brewery beer maybe. They come to enjoy the beauty, the beaches, the heritage. And they should enjoy the local cuisine,’ she replied. ‘Of course, you can’t escape the fact pearling made this town and it still holds a fascination for outsiders.’
‘There’s a rumour some of the old bungalows might have to go. They don’t meet the current building specifications,’ Rosie added, watching Lily carefully.
‘What! Are the heritage people onto this? Even the tourist board knows that’s the sort of thing people want to see!’
Rosie pounced. ‘So why don’t you help save these places? Stay here and fight the good fight. You could do a lot for the town. But you have to be one of us, living here, to be effective.’
‘Is this my new career you’re planning for me?’ asked Lily mildly.
‘Lily, you’ve said as much yourself, that when you retire from the lab you don’t want to opt out of life and sit on the verandah all day. Broome could be a challenge for you. You have a vested interest here, after all.’
Lily didn’t answer. Harlan, Rosie’s husband, came to replenish their drinks.
‘More wine? Coffee? Lizzie is finally out of the bath, I’ll do the bedtime story. And Lily, Biddy wants to see you again before you go.’
She smiled at the handsome lawyer. The picture of him telling his daughter a story contrasted with his impassioned speeches in court and it amused her. Lily had been so happy when Rosie had met Harlan in New York at her art show. He always maintained their meeting must have been arranged, and anyway they’d been the only two Kimberley Aborigines in the room or possibly the whole of New York at the time. It was destiny, he joked, and fatalistic Rosie agreed.
Now they had a dear little five-year-old girl, Lizzie, whom Aunty Lily spoiled as much as she could.
She stood
up. ‘I’ll kiss Lizzie goodnight and see Biddy. I thought she’d be asleep. I’ll go in at once. And as I’m walking home I’ll have another glass of that excellent red, thanks Harlan.’
‘Biddy dozes on and off in little bursts, don’t rush. But sometimes she’s back in the old days and not the present,’ said Rosie. ‘Often she seems to remember the past with far more clarity than yesterday.’
Pushing ninety was a great feat for an Aboriginal woman who’d worked hard all her life, thought Lily. How much history of the town was bound up in her story? Rosie had taped and transcribed the stories of how Biddy had come as a young Bardi girl from the coast to be trained at the convent up north and put to work as a domestic in Broome for the white pearling masters. It was only when she started to work for Captain Tyndall that Biddy found herself part of a family. And family looked after family, so she was seeing out her days in the care of her people, in the home that Captain Tyndall and Olivia had lived in and loved.
The room was dim, a mellow softness of moonlight and lamplight. No sad shadows lurked here. Biddy was wizened, her deep black skin seeming faded from age, but her eyes were bright and her mouth crinkled into an almost toothless smile as she recognised Lily’s voice.
‘Glad you’re awake Biddy, love.’
‘Plenty time for sleepin’. You goin’ away soon?’
‘No. I’m here for a few weeks yet. Lots of time for visiting you before I go home.’ Lily sat in a small wicker chair beside the bed.
‘This your home. Your country. Your people. You not a city lady. You learnin’ up your stories?’
‘I’m trying, Biddy. I’ll go down and sit with the women when I’m settled. Sometimes they find it hard to talk with white family.’
‘Them old women know you. They know the stories. Gotta know your tribe, Lil.’ She reached for Lily’s hand, her spindly grip still firm. ‘Where your girl be, eh?’
‘Sami is working out in the desert up north. She’s coming here, Biddy.’
