Spirits of the Ghan

by Judy Nunn

  ‘I’ll see you back at camp,’ he said and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Pottsy watched the vehicle pull out of the car park. Despite the years of their friendship, he felt on occasions that he really didn’t understand Matt Witherton. There was a remoteness about him, something so detached that it was easy to understand why people sometimes considered him unfeeling, even though Pottsy knew him to be the most caring of men.

  Oh well, he gave a shrug as he walked off to the Land Rover; he’d given up trying to figure out what it was about Matt Witherton.

  ‘What’s your problem, Gav?’ Matt asked when they’d driven in silence for ten minutes or so. ‘Why the chip on the shoulder?’

  Further silence as Gav continued to stare morosely through the closed window at the desert night speeding by.

  ‘Come on, mate, spit it out.’ Matt was determined to push for answers even at the risk of alienating the man further, indeed perhaps hoping that further alienation might reveal the truth. ‘Why are you taking your unhappiness out on the rest of the team? If you’re having a crook life, and you appear to be, it’s hardly their fault.’

  The goading tactic worked. Gav turned to him glowering, one eye already closing, bloodied nose and split lip congealing: not a pretty sight. ‘Yeah, it’s all right for you isn’t it, mate?’ he said derisively, his voice husky and rasping from the pounding he’d taken, ‘your life’s never been crook, has it? You and your lot, you’ve got it made. Money no problem, posh schools, university, cushy jobs: you pricks have never had to do it hard.’

  So it’s that simple, Matt thought, I represent everything he envies, no wonder he’s taken a personal dislike. There really isn’t much I can do to change an attitude like that. He maintained silence and let the man rant on further.

  ‘Think you’re better than us lot, don’t you,’ Gav said accusingly. ‘You’re not, you bastards.’ He wanted to call the bloke a wimp, he wanted to call them all bloody wimps, but how could he after the thrashing he’d just received? Gav had never felt so humiliated. ‘You’re not better than me, you smartarse bastard,’ he ended weakly. ‘You’re bloody well not.’

  ‘Of course I’m not. I never said I was.’

  ‘Course you fucking did. You say it every fucking day. You’ve been pissing on me right from the start, you and your bloody cronies.’

  ‘No we haven’t, mate.’ Matt couldn’t let that one go past and he couldn’t be bothered talking any further. ‘Why would we waste our time? You’re too busy pissing on yourself.’

  End of conversation. Matt focused solely on the track ahead and Gav turned again to gaze morosely through the window at the desert night, but he wasn’t seeing the passing spinifex and acacias lit up briefly by the car’s headlights. He was thinking of the words that had really hit home. ‘If you’re having a crook life’, the prick had said. Well of course he was having a crook fucking life. He’d been having a crook fucking life ever since they’d dropped him from the club list, and that was a whole five years back. A career in Rugby League was all he’d ever wanted, to be one of the boys, a man among men, a real somebody, and he’d worked bloody hard – Christ, no-one had trained harder. But they’d dropped him from the reserves after only two bloody seasons. He’d never played first grade, not even one game: hell, he hadn’t even sat on the bench! He’d come up with the injury story over the years, sure, but he hadn’t suffered injuries: he just hadn’t been good enough. And now he was a shit kicker like everyone else. Everyone except those university pricks who’d had it all handed to them on a platter.

  A crook life, Gav thought, my oath it’s a crook life, and it’s about to get a fucking sight crooker. I’ll be on report for tonight, I’ll probably get the sack, but worst of all when the boys hear the bloody surveyor belted my lights out I’ll be a fucking laughing stock!

  Gav’s perennial bitterness had finally been overshadowed: humiliation outweighed insignificance.

  The following morning Gav didn’t join his mates for breakfast in the canteen, grabbing an egg sandwich and a coffee to take back to his donga instead, but even then despite the dark glasses he couldn’t avoid the odd comment. ‘Walk into a door did you, Gav?’ and from those who knew him as the tough NRL bloke he was, ‘Shit, mate, is the other fella still on his feet?’

  He shrugged off the comments and headed back to his donga where he sat on the step eating his sandwich and waiting to be called to the AdRail site office for dismissal, or at the very least a whopping great lecture and a warning.

  ‘G’day, Gav, ready to go?’

  The surveyor was standing right in front of him. Apart from the small square of Elastoplast above his slightly puffy left eye, it was if nothing had happened: his manner, his appearance, everything was as normal. Gav stared up from the step of his donga, egg sandwich forgotten.

  ‘Got your crib?’ Matt knew Gav had expected his whole life would change, but it wouldn’t, not unless he wanted it to. Either way, Matt didn’t particularly care. The man needed to get his act together, nobody could do it for him.

  Gav shook his head. He didn’t have his crib. He hadn’t even considered making up his lunch box at the canteen. He hadn’t expected to be out in the scrub with the others, not today of all days.

  ‘Hurry it up then, you’ve got ten minutes.’

  As it turned out, bizarrely, the day went much like any other. There was some initial commentary from Baz and Mitch – ‘Been in a bit of a punch-up, mate,’ Baz said sympathetically, and Mitch, always one for a laugh, added ‘Bet the other bloke looks like a Mack truck hit him’ – to which Gav returned his customary grunt, but after that not a word. Withers and Pottsy made no mention of the fight and young Baz and Mitch clearly didn’t link his battle scars with the small square of Elastoplast on their boss’s face. They didn’t seem to notice the grazed knuckles of their boss’s right hand either, or if they did they made no connection. Why would they? Their hero Withers never got into fights. Their hero Withers was the sort who always turned the other cheek.

  Gav couldn’t believe his luck: he was off the hook. He’d obviously not been put on report, he was not going to lose his job and, most important of all, it looked like he had escaped the unspeakable horror of public humiliation.

  All this and more was whirling around in Gav’s mind as he looked on from the sidelines at the surveyors going about their work. They were an efficient bunch, he had to give them that much. Withers had his eye to the theodolite set up on a tripod, Pottsy some distance away was holding the pole with its prism that reflected the telescope’s laser beam, and Baz, standing beside Withers, was marking down details as instructed, for although the electronic measurements were sent straight to a data recorder Matt Witherton always chose to record his mathematical definitions on paper. Mitch, like Gav himself, was standing by awaiting orders; areas would shortly need to be cleared and boundary pegs set up some distance from the centre line, marking the necessary allowances for firebreaks and service roads.

  They’re more than just ‘an efficient bunch’, Gav thought, watching them. The reason they worked so well together was because they liked one another and because each bloke was proud of his place in the team. And that was due to just one man. A team always reflected the bloke at the top.

  When they broke for lunch he joined the others, which was unusual. In the past he’d made a point of taking his crib several yards away, considering it a statement, disassociating himself from the wimpy boss and his wanker mates. He didn’t say anything as he ate, but listened to the others chatting. Well he listened to Mitch anyway: Mitch was a real talker about all and everything from sport to movies to politics, at the moment it was the American Academy Awards of a month or so back. The others for the most part found Mitch a source of interest or amusement or both, a fact that Gav had always taken as further evidence of the wankers they were. Certainly if he went on too much Pottsy or Baz would tell him to give it a rest, but Withers never said anything, which had of course revealed him as the wimp G
av had believed him to be.

  Withers wasn’t saying anything now. Gav’s gaze had been drawn to him again, as it had been repeatedly since they’d all sat down and the man’s focus was principally on his meal, as it usually was. His aloofness had always seemed proof he considered himself superior.

  Then suddenly their eyes met: Withers had obviously sensed he was being looked at. Gav wondered what he should say or do. Apology did not come easily to him. In fact he couldn’t quite recall having apologised to anyone. Perhaps he never had.

  Their eyes remained momentarily locked, Withers appearing curious, aware that Gav wanted to say something. Then as Mitch continued his spiel about the injustice of Russell Crowe not receiving Best Actor for A Beautiful Mind, Gav heard his own voice.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. He doubted the others heard him because Mitch didn’t let up for a second, but Withers certainly had, and that’s all that mattered. He struggled briefly with the next words, ‘I’m sorry’, which he intended to add, but he was too late, Withers had turned away to pick up his Thermos flask. Not that an apology appeared necessary, Gav realised, for before he’d turned away he’d given the merest of shrugs that said ‘no worries’.

  Matt poured himself a mug of coffee. He was pleased. No, he was more than pleased: he was thankful. The fight he’d been trying so hard to avoid had served a purpose after all. Good, he thought, problem solved.

  Back at the donga camp, Jess was about to join a group of Aboriginal workers who were tucking into their well-earned lunch.

  She’d seen Donny the moment she’d entered the canteen. They’d exchanged a wave and when he’d beckoned her to join him and his mates she’d returned a nod. Then she’d headed off to the self-serve counter and helped herself to a plate of ham and a variety of salads, avoiding the heavy stews and steaks and roast dinners so favoured by the men. Donny and his mates were downing huge meals, as were the dozens of other labourers who’d just returned from the gruelling dawn shift.

  The mammoth job of creating the rail corridor was relentless at all times, but particularly so further to the north, with the Dry season now upon them. The earthworks crews progressed at an average rate of one to one point five kilometres a day and their schedule needed to be strictly maintained if not bettered. Delays might well be encountered later in the year during the Wet, when flooding could hinder the building of bridges and culverts. At the moment, however, each of the four sections of the railway’s construction was progressing remarkably to plan. With much of the corridor now created, the first track had been laid at Katherine just the previous week, a momentous occasion accorded great celebration by the locals, and track-laying was shortly to commence north from Tennant Creek. Already the mighty Ghan was starting to snake its way across the vast Northern Territory.

  Jess’s meeting with the local community leaders at Ti Tree that morning had gone extremely well. This was Anmatyerre land and the Anmatyerre elders were pleased that a number of their young men had been employed to work on the railway. Indeed most of the talk had been about the job opportunities on offer and the new work camp that had been set up just south of town. The railway was keeping their boys out of trouble and earning them good money, the elders agreed.

  Now, having arrived at the camp, Jess had decided that lunch in the canteen would be an excellent opportunity to chat to some of the young men themselves. She’d politely declined the invitation to dine with the AdRail site office team and two visiting APT executives. She was there to do a job after all.

  ‘Thanks, Donny.’ Donny had pulled a spare chair up to the table for her. ‘Saw your mum yesterday,’ she said sitting beside him, ‘and Aunty Jill and Aunty Molly.’

  ‘Yeh I know, I dropped them off early on the way up here.’

  ‘That’s right. Course you did. I forgot.’ Jess hadn’t forgotten at all; she’d deliberately mentioned Donny’s mum in order to give him face with his new mates.

  The ploy worked. Donny beamed broadly as he introduced her around, his mum’s real good friend, he said. Donny was proud as punch – crikey, who wouldn’t be, introducing the good-looking negotiator employed by the head honchos? He was winning points like there was no tomorrow. He could tell the boys were impressed.

  There were eight Aboriginal workers at the table: Donny and two others were Arunta men and the rest were Anmatyerre. All were speaking English, which Jess thought was probably in deference to her. They no doubt assumed she was from a city mob down south and had little knowledge of their desert language, but she was accustomed to such a reception upon first meeting. In any event they were very friendly and welcoming.

  She was pleased to see Donny off the grog and so happy and healthy, tucking into his food with a labourer’s appetite. This was only his second day, of course, but the hard work, the camaraderie and above all the sense of purpose the job offered would surely keep him on the straight and narrow. She certainly hoped so.

  ‘So how’s it going,’ she asked the table in general, ‘everyone good?’

  ‘Yeh, yeh, real good,’ they agreed with grins all around. ‘Good tucker,’ one said and the others nodded, jaws pumping vigorously.

  Only one of the men seemed quiet and lacking his mates’ enthusiasm, the young one seated opposite her, the youngest of them all – barely twenty, Jess guessed. He’d been introduced as Laurence and this was his first day on the job. Laurence was withdrawn. More than withdrawn, she thought, Laurence was angry. He was not eating, but glowering at the hearty bowl of casserole on the table in front of him as if he found it offensive.

  ‘What’s the matter, Laurence,’ she asked, ‘your tucker no good?’

  His black eyes shot up to meet hers, but before he could reply one of his mates answered for him.

  ‘A whitefella told him it was emu,’ Kevin said, pointing at the casserole. Kevin, around thirty, was another Anmatyerre man and knew young Laurence well. ‘The bloke was only joking, didn’t mean any harm, but Laurence believed him …’ Kevin gave a shrug that said it all. ‘Made him feel crook,’ he added.

  ‘I see.’ So the white worker knew the locals never ate emu, Jess thought – a joke maybe, but insensitive, whether or not he knew why. Emu was one of the totems of an Anmatyerre man. To eat a totem creature was against traditional law and strictly forbidden.

  ‘It’s chook, you dumb bastard,’ one of the men said with a huge grin, ‘how many times we have to tell you, it’s bloody chook, mate.’

  A couple of the others laughed, not maliciously, but certainly having a bit of fun at Laurence’s expense. Laurence, however, was not in the mood to be the butt of anyone’s joke. He stared down at the bowl of casserole, the sight sickening him, his guts still in a state of turmoil. He’d been the first to arrive at the table, the others still at the servery, and ravenous, he’d dived into the stew only to hear the white bastard behind him.

  ‘Good tucker emu, eh mate?’

  He’d looked up at the bloke, a big jovial man with a sweaty bald head. ‘It’s chicken,’ he’d said. ‘That’s what they told me at the counter. It’s chicken.’

  ‘Course that’s what they told you,’ the man had informed him in all apparent seriousness. Baldy just loved playing this joke on the new boys. ‘That’s what they tell you fellas in order to keep you happy, but the chef’s real proud of his emu stew.’

  The white bastard had walked off leaving Laurence sick to the guts. He’d been on the point of spewing until a few of the others had arrived at the table with their own meals and explained the ‘joke’ to him. What joke? That was no joke, he’d thought. He still felt bilious as he looked at the bowl. He felt angry too, angry at the white bastard’s lack of respect, angry at his own gullibility, angry that he was being laughed at. He couldn’t take his eyes off that fucking bowl of stew.

  ‘Would you mind if we exchanged meals, Laurence?’

  He looked up. She’d spoken to him in the Anmatyerre tongue. He didn’t know she could speak his language, this city girl.

  ‘I would very muc
h like some chicken,’ she said and when he made no reply, she pushed her plate of ham and salad across the table, exchanging it for the bowl of stew. ‘The ham’s very good,’ she added with a smile, ‘the potato is too.’

  Laurence remained at a loss for words. She’s bloody gorgeous, he thought. He’d been so angry he hadn’t noticed what a top sort she was. Jeez, and that smile was directed right at him. He wondered if he might stand a chance: perhaps she fancied him. He liked older women himself and she had to be at least thirty. He flashed her one of his sexiest grins and tucked into the ham and potato salad.

  Around the table the men shared smiles of their own. It was pretty obvious Laurence didn’t feel crook any more.

  Jess made a point of eating every mouthful of the stew and pretending to relish it although she was not at all in the mood for a heavy meal. Young Laurence needs toughening up, she thought. The men will see to that. Working on the railway will do him the world of good.

  Following lunch, she made enquiries at the AdRail site office about the whereabouts of the surveyor and his team.

  ‘About twenty Ks south,’ she was told, ‘stick to the track and you can’t miss them. I’ll radio ahead and tell them to keep an eye out for you.’

  She met up with the team about a half an hour later.

  ‘Matt Witherton,’ the surveyor said by way of introduction, and he offered his hand, a rangy, fit man she took to be in his early thirties although he could have been older, his face interestingly weathered like the faces of most white men who worked in the outback.

  ‘Hello, Matt, I’m Jess Manning,’ she replied as they shook. He blinked as if startled. Had she squeezed his hand too hard? She’d noted the grazed knuckles of the hand he offered and, linking it with the Elastoplast sitting above an eye that looked puffy, she wondered if the surveyor had been in a fight.

  He introduced her to the members of his team, an older man with ginger hair, two younger ones who looked fresh out of uni or TAFE and a beefy machine operator with a bashed-up face. She wondered if perhaps the fight had been with that one. If so the surveyor had certainly come out on top. Hardly appropriate behaviour for a person in authority, she thought, and hardly what she would have expected of the man she’d been told was such an expert in his field.