Spirits of the Ghan

by Judy Nunn

  ‘S’cuse me, Gav. Mind if I have a word?’

  He’d sought Gav out back at camp at the end of the work day. Better to front him alone, he’d decided, rather than on the job and in the company of the other members of the team. He’d put up with the man’s surliness for three days now, but had said nothing, avoiding confrontation as he always did. Matt disliked confrontation by nature, and as a leadership method avoided it whenever possible, rarely asserting his authority. He preferred to respect each man’s contribution to the team rather than play ‘boss’. In a remote location, and particularly when a small group was working far from the company of others, mutual respect, he’d discovered, was vital.

  Gav gave a shrug as if he couldn’t care less, which was no doubt the case. He was sitting on the front step of his donga, can of beer in hand, a dark-haired man in his early thirties with the burly build of the rugby league player he’d once been and clearly wished he still was. He was chatting to another worker sitting on the step of the donga opposite, also with beer in hand. The transportable units, four dongas a piece, were twelve metres long and three metres wide; set out in rows they formed a barracks that could house over two hundred.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt.’ Matt smiled an apology to the other man.

  ‘No worries, mate.’ The man saluted him with his beer.

  ‘Want to come for a bit of a walk?’ Matt suggested.

  Another shrug and Gav stood.

  They walked on past the ablutions block and laundry, where men were showering and washing clothes; on past the kitchen where cooks and kitchen hands were preparing the many dishes that would constitute the evening meal – workers needed variety as well as substance; and on past the prefabricated building of the canteen that stood adjacent, men already milling, helping themselves to coffee and tea as they waited for the food to be delivered to the serving tubs. The camp was always busy at this time of day, when the final shift was over.

  When he felt they were far enough away from the others, Matt decided to get straight to the point.

  ‘Do you want me to have a chat with your boss, Gav?’ He kept his voice friendly and the suggestion casual.

  ‘What about?’ There was no denying the edginess in Gav’s reply.

  ‘About putting you back on the workers team. We can get another machine operator appointed to us. I don’t mind in the least.’

  ‘You going to make a complaint about me, are you? Why would you do that? What’s wrong with my work?’ Matt was met by a barrage of belligerence.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with your work, mate,’ he replied pleasantly; the man’s antagonism was bewildering. ‘I’m not being critical, I can assure you. It’s just that you don’t seem to be happy with us and I thought …’

  ‘You want to get me the sack, do you? You want to get me busted, is that it?’ Gav’s fury was growing by the second. It was true he didn’t particularly like being part of the surveying team, he was a man’s man and he wanted to work with men, not university smartarses. But there was no way he was going to have a wimp like Matt Witherton complain to his boss and say his work wasn’t up to scratch. That’d be fucking humiliating. ‘If you reckon my work’s no good then you say so to my face, you don’t go ratting to my boss.’

  The man’s more than antagonistic, Matt thought, he’s downright hostile. There could be only one conclusion. The reason was personal. Gav simply didn’t like him. Ah well, he decided, I can live with that. Pity the rest of the team has to though.

  ‘Rightio then, we’ll leave things as they are.’

  ‘We’re stuck with him I’m afraid, Pottsy,’ he said over dinner an hour or so later. He and Craig Potts, Assistant Surveyor, were good mates. They’d met in the Pilbara eight years previously and since then had worked together as a team on many a project all over the country. Matt would put in a request for Craig Potts as his assistant whenever possible – that is, if Pottsy was available. Many others were also aware that Pottsy was very good at his job.

  ‘He won’t bother us,’ Pottsy replied with a shrug and a glance at Gav, who was holding court with a gang of his mates a number of tables away. Gav made a point of distancing himself from the surveying team back at camp. ‘We’ll just ignore him.’

  An amiable Western Australian, Pottsy was the type who should never work in the desert. Of Scottish heritage on his mother’s side, ginger-haired and freckle-skinned, the sun was not kind to him and he looked ten years older than his thirty-four years, but he didn’t care. Like Matt, he couldn’t help himself. Pottsy was lost without his regular dose of the desert.

  ‘Don’t give him a second thought, Withers,’ he said, ‘Gav’s a ratbag, not worth the worry.’ Pottsy was aware as always of Matt Witherton’s genuine concern for the welfare of his team. The boys are too, he thought, inexperienced though they are. Baz and Mitch, newly qualified and on their first job, couldn’t have copped a better boss than Withers. He’d told them so. ‘This job’s the best field experience you boys could have landed,’ he’d said, ‘you’ll learn more working with Withers on the Ghan than you have in the past three years at Tech.’

  ‘The boys won’t care either, mate,’ he said, watching Baz and Mitch, who were wending their way over to the table, plates piled ludicrously high. ‘Gav’ll become invisible – we’ll pretend he’s not there.’

  That had been over a week back and they’d successfully ignored Gav since. Even on the occasions when he’d openly goaded Matt, daring him to lose his temper, the others had followed the example of Withers himself and simply ignored the man.

  But the previous night things had come to a head.

  ‘I think you’ve got trouble on your hands, Withers,’ Pottsy had said, seeking Matt out back at camp an hour or so after they’d returned from their day’s work.

  ‘Gav I take it?’ Matt had been waiting for the moment when Gav would go that step too far. The man seemed determined to force a confrontation.

  ‘Yep. He’s pissed off to Aileron, left just after we got back. Made a big song and dance about it to young Baz and Mitch; said, “Tell your mate Withers to come and get me if he’s got the guts.”’

  ‘Oh shit.’

  The Aileron Roadhouse on the Stuart Highway fifty kilometres from the donga camp was supposedly out of bounds to the workers, but a rough dirt track had been carved through the scrub and the bosses turned a blind eye to the obvious action the bar saw during the weekends when the various shift workers were allocated an afternoon off. Weekdays were a different matter, however. Any worker daring to pay a visit to Aileron during the week did so covertly. He did not announce his intention.

  ‘Bugger the man,’ Matt said, frustration bordering on anger. Today was a Wednesday. ‘What the hell’s he playing at?’

  ‘He’s out to rile you, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Ah well, nothing for it I suppose: I’ll just have to play boss.’ He set off purposefully if reluctantly towards the Land Rover.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Pottsy said, falling in beside him.

  ‘If you like,’ Matt was glad for the company, but firm in his instruction nonetheless. ‘No interference, though, I need to handle him on my own.’

  ‘Sure, mate. I’m only coming along in case someone needs to pick up the pieces – let’s face it, the bloke’s built like a brick shithouse.’ Pottsy grinned to show he was joking, but Matt didn’t appear to hear. His focus was elsewhere.

  It was dusk when they arrived, the air turning chill and promising a cold night as the desert in April could. Aileron was little more than a roadhouse and petrol station, but attractive nonetheless. A tin-roofed building with surrounding verandahs sprawled amongst acacia trees in the middle of nowhere, it was atmospheric, boasting a bar that was sizeable and welcoming and food that was tasty and substantial. Aileron was a popular stopping-off place for travellers.

  Matt pulled the Land Rover up in the large parking lot, which was virtually empty but for a few vehicles including a conspicuous AdRail company four-wheel dri
ve. He and Pottsy climbed out and together they headed through the main doors that led directly to the bar.

  Gav was there, propped on a stool at the far end. Having settled himself in for the past hour or so, he was chatting animatedly to the young barman, who appeared to find him riveting. The place was pretty much deserted, as it usually was mid-week. Beyond where Gav sat, in the open dining room adjoining the bar, two men were tucking into their sausages with mash and gravy and a middle-aged couple, teenage son in tow, were dining at a table near the windows. In the bar itself, however, Gav was the only customer.

  ‘Well, well, look who’s here,’ he said jeeringly the moment Matt and Pottsy stepped inside. From his position he had a clear view of the main doors and had obviously been waiting. ‘Come to tick me off, have you, Boss?’

  With a wink to the barman, who was all of twenty, he downed the remains of his drink and dumped his glass on the table. ‘Fill her up, Harry mate, same again.’ Gav was drinking double Bundaberg rums with coke in short glasses and downing them quickly to make up for lost time; they didn’t allow hard liquor back at camp.

  Young Harry was quick to oblige. This’d be the fifth double Bundy and coke he’d served Gav in an hour, but the bloke could obviously handle it. Hell, he’d been a professional rugby league player! Still would be too if his injuries hadn’t caught up with him. They were as tough as all get out those blokes. Harry wasn’t from New South Wales and didn’t follow NRL closely, being South Australian Aussie Rules was his code of choice, but he admired the toughness of League and those who played it.

  ‘Brought Ginger Meggs with you, I see.’ Gav looked Pottsy up and down: Another university smartarse, he thought, weak as piss. ‘Needed a bit of back-up, did you, Boss?’ he sneered. ‘Well I don’t reckon old Meggsy here’d be much use.’ Gav had no time for uni blokes. Up themselves the lot of them, thought they were superior – well they could go and get fucked.

  Harry placed the rum and coke on the counter, a little tentative now. Gav’s tone was insulting and he hoped there wouldn’t be trouble. Should he get the manager? The manager was out the back having dinner with his missus and wouldn’t like being disturbed unless it was necessary.

  Matt crossed to the bar where Gav sat and Pottsy remained at the door, knowing that’s what Withers wanted.

  ‘Time to go, Gav,’ Matt said calmly but firmly.

  ‘Is that so, Boss?’ Gav swigged back the Bundy and coke in several hefty gulps, slammed the glass down on the counter and stood. ‘That an order, is it?’ The bloke was a wimp and Gav didn’t take orders from wimps.

  ‘Yes, you’re right on both counts: I’m your boss and that’s an order. While you’re on my team you do as I say and I’m ordering you back to camp.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Gav’s sneer turned to a threat as he threw down the challenge. ‘You’re gunna make me, are you?’ He glanced over to where Pottsy remained at the front door. ‘You and what army? Meggsy here?’

  ‘No. Just me.’

  ‘Right, you weak prick.’ He put up his fists, this was just what he wanted, he’d been spoiling for a fight with the smartarse surveyor, who he knew looked down on him. ‘Come on then: give it your best shot.’

  Young Harry, alarmed, was about to dash out the back for the manager, but catching Matt’s glance, which clearly said ‘don’t bother’, he suddenly realised who was in command and that it wasn’t the rugby league player. This bloke really was the boss.

  ‘You don’t want to fight, Gav,’ Matt said.

  ‘Oh yeah, and why’s that?’ Gav’s fists remained raised.

  ‘You’re drunk. You’d lose.’

  ‘Try me, you bastard.’

  A brief pause followed, Matt considering further negotiation, then, ‘All right,’ he said, ‘outside.’ No point, any further negotiation would have been futile.

  Pottsy held the door open and Matt strode past without a glance, Gav hot on his heels.

  Gav was fuming, he’d murder the bastard – he wasn’t drunk. Christ, he could drink a bottle of Bundy straight. Who did the prick think he was saying he couldn’t hold his liquor? It was typical of uni shits like him who looked down on everyone else just because they had an education.

  The door swung closed behind the three, Pottsy also stepping outside to stand on the verandah and observe the proceedings. As instructed, he had no intention of intervening, whatever the outcome. Young Harry stared after them, wide-eyed. Crikey, he thought, there’s going to be a fight. He was no longer concerned about fetching the manager, the men couldn’t do any damage outside, but he might get into trouble if he deserted his post and he wanted to watch. What the hell? he thought after a moment or so. I can see the bar from the door.

  Circling the counter, he crossed to the door and opened it to look out at the car park where, in the lights from the petrol station, he was just in time to see Gav hurl himself at his adversary.

  Matt blocked the man’s punch and stepped aside, allowing the impetus of Gav’s attack to hurtle him uselessly forwards, then turning he waited, studying the man’s every movement as Gav also turned, marshalling his forces to attack again. The same thing happened, only this time after blocking the punch Matt landed a hefty blow to the solar plexus before stepping aside.

  Gav grunted and staggered, but kept his feet, and now enraged came at Matt like a battering ram, head down, fists pumping like pistons – anything to land a blow that would cripple the bastard.

  Watching from the verandah, Pottsy thought that by physical appearances it should have been an equal match. Both men were fit and of a similar age, Matt the taller of the two giving him the advantage of reach, Gav the more powerful in build and obviously the stronger. But it wasn’t an equal match. Pottsy had suspected it might not be. He’d seen Matt in action before, particularly in the Pilbara all those years ago when they’d been working for Woodside. There’d been some tough boys around then, and Matt had more than held his own with those who’d goaded or bullied or those who’d needed, for whatever reason, to pit themselves against someone who’d earned a bit of a reputation as Matt by that time had, albeit reluctantly.

  Pottsy had often wondered whether anger played any part in the physical conflict Matt Witherton was at times driven to confront. If so, you’d never know it. To Withers, doing battle seemed devoid of anything personal. He fought only when there was no alternative, but when he did his commitment was total and he didn’t stop until the fight was unequivocally decided, be it himself reduced to a bloodied mess or the other man acknowledging defeat. There was never a draw, always a decisive victory, and in the past more often than not the victor had been Withers.

  He watched now as the familiar pattern unfolded, Matt nimble and focused, anticipating every facet of Gav’s attack like a chess player several moves ahead of his opponent, dodging, landing blows when it was safe to do so, Gav all the while increasingly frustrated, becoming clumsy in his fatigue.

  Matt was thankful for Gav’s anger and also for the fact that the man had had too much to drink: the power of his punches, had they connected, would have done a good deal of damage. But Gav’s clumsiness was easy to read and Matt was quite prepared to stay on the defensive, allowing the time it would take to wear the man down to a state of exhaustion and capitulation.

  Then out of the blue Gav scored a lucky punch. Matt, in deflecting a heavy blow to the ribs, was caught briefly off-balance and didn’t manage to avoid the fist that connected with his left cheekbone. His head whipped to the side and, disoriented, he staggered back a pace or so.

  The blow, forceful as it had been, lent Gav new vigour. He’d scored a hit! Just one more punch, a voice in his brain screamed triumphant. One more punch! Make it a killer and murder the bastard! Re-energised and snarling like the all-powerful bull he now felt himself to be, he again hurled himself at his opponent.

  Time to finish it, Matt thought. He met the attack head on, blocking Gav’s clumsy punches, landing blow after blow, each perfectly timed and placed, methodical, almost m
achine-like. Gav became a punching bag. Matt took no pleasure in the exercise. It was simply time to wrap things up. It was over. It had been over from the start.

  Gav’s one lucky hit had expended the last of his energy and staggering back under the force of the blows, he collided against the petrol bowser and slithered to the ground, not unconscious, but exhausted.

  Matt nursed the aching knuckles of his right hand and took a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the cut that was starting to bleed above his left eye. He watched as Gav tried to haul himself to his feet and continue the fight.

  ‘Give it a rest, man,’ he said. ‘You’re drunk. You can’t go on.’

  Pottsy, crossing to the petrol bowser to lend some help now that the fight was over, thought drunk or sober would have made little difference. Gav would have lost in any event.

  Gav had made it to one knee. As he struggled to stand Matt offered his hand by way of assistance, but the offer was angrily waved aside, an action which only served to throw Gav off balance. He crashed back against the petrol bowser and slid to the ground, where he lay, barely able to move and forced to cede defeat. There was no more fight in him.

  Matt gave a nod to Pottsy and bending down they grabbed Gav under his shoulders and hauled the man to his feet.

  ‘I’ll drive him back to camp,’ Matt instructed. ‘You take the Land Rover.’

  ‘Right.’

  Supporting Gav between them, they half-dragged, half-carried him to the AdRail four-wheel drive and piled him into the passenger seat.

  ‘Keys, mate,’ Matt said with outstretched hand. It was an order, brisk but not peremptory. He might even have been doing a favour, driving a drunken mate home.

  Gav, sullen but unprotesting, dug the car’s keys from his pocket and handed them over while Matt tossed the Land Rover’s keys to Pottsy.