An Iron Rose

by Peter Temple

  I took the deep drawers out. One held stationery, a fountain pen, ink bottle, stapler, hole punch, thick wads of bills and invoices held together with rubber bands, a large yellow envelope, Ned’s work diary, a ledger. The other one held a telephone book, a folder with all the papers relating to the purchase of the property and the regular outgoings, three copies of the Dispatch, string, a magnifying glass, a few marbles, and a wooden ruler given away by a shop in Wagga Wagga. The yellow envelope was unsealed. I looked into it: staples, rubber bands, string, assorted things. I stuffed the newspapers into a garbage bag and packed everything else into a box.

  At the end of the day, I had all the things to go to the Salvation Army in one shed, the things to keep in another, and the contents of Lew’s room and Ned’s personal things on the back of the Land Rover. I also had two large bags of stuff to be thrown away.

  I drove home via the shire tip and dumped the bags. Then it was all speed to the Heart of Oak, the pub a few hundred metres from the smithy. I was parked outside, taking out the key, taste of beer in my mouth, when the question came to me.

  Why would Ned keep three copies of a newspaper in his drawer? All the other papers were in the shed, tied in neat bundles for the recyclers.

  Forgot to throw them out.

  No. Everything else in that drawer had a purpose.

  I turned the key. Back to the tip. The man was closing the gate as I arrived.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘You want it back.’

  The bags were where I’d left them, and the papers were on top of the one I opened.

  I took them into the Heart of Oak with me. It was just me and Vinnie the publican and a retired potato farmer called George Beale. Vinnie and George were playing draughts, a 364-day-a-year event contested in a highly vocal manner.

  ‘Now that’s what I call a dickhead move,’ George was saying as I came in. ‘Told you once, told you a thousand times.’

  ‘Funny how I keep winnin,’ Vinnie said.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said George, ‘the Lord loves a dickhead.’

  They said Gidday and Vinnie drew a beer without being asked.

  The papers were about six weeks old, the issues of a Monday and Tuesday in April and a Thursday in June. The front-page lead in Monday’s paper was headlined: Body in OLD MINE.

  I VAGUELY REMEMBERED READING THIS, PEOPLE TALKING ABOUT IT IN THE PUB. THE STORY READ:

  Police are investigating the discovery of a skeleton at the bottom of an old mine shaft at Cousin Jack Lead in the State forest near Rippon.

  The macabre find was made by Dean Meerdink of Carlisle, whose dog uncovered the shaft entrance and fell about ten metres, landing on a ledge.

  ‘We were out with the metal detector,’ Mr Meerdink said. ‘Deke was off looking for rabbits and he just vanished. I was calling his name and I heard a faint bark. Then I saw this hole and I thought: he’s a goner. I didn’t want to get too close in case there was a cave-in, so I went back and rang the shire.’

  Three CFA firemen with a ladder went to the scene and shone a spotlight down the shaft.

  ‘The shaft goes almost straight down and then branches off parallel to the surface,’ said CFA fireman Derek Scholte. ‘The dog was fine and I was about to go down when I saw the skull. We called in the police.’

  A police spokesman said the remains were human and had been taken to Melbourne for forensic examination.

  I turned to Tuesday’s paper. The follow-up story was also on the front page, under the headline: Mine Body Is Young Woman.

  It began:

  The remains of a body found in an old mine shaft near Rippon yesterday have been identified as those of a young woman.

  Melbourne forensic scientist James LaPalma said yesterday the skeleton was that of a woman, probably under twenty. It was at least ten years old. The cause of death had not been positively ascertained but an initial examination suggested that her neck had been broken.

  A spokesman for the Victoria Police said the discovery was being treated as a murder. An inquiry was underway.

  The third paper, published on a Thursday in June, didn’t have a front-page story on the skeleton in the mine. The story was on page three, under a photograph of a chain with a broken catch. On the chain was a small silver star.

  Man’s Chain Find Near Deat h Mine A man fossicking for gold with a metal detector near the mine shaft where the remains of a young woman’s body were discovered last month yesterday found a silver ankle chain police say may belong to the woman.

  The man, who does not wish to be identified, found the broken chain about one hundred metres from the entrance to the mine shaft and two hundred metres from the track through the State forest near Rippon.

  The story went on to repeat the information in the two previous ones. The police asked anyone who recognised the chain to come forward. I read all three stories again, finished my beer and went home.

  I rang the newspaper and asked for Kate Fegan, the name on the stories about the skeleton.

  ‘Kate, my name’s Milton, Geoff Milton. Canberra Times. I wonder if you can get me up to date on a story you handled about six weeks ago?’

  Lying comes easily when you’ve lived my kind of life.

  ‘Well, sure. If I can.’ She was young, probably just out of her cadetship.

  ‘The body in the mine shaft. Has that been identified?’

  ‘No. The teeth are really all they’ve got to go on and they’re no help. She had all her teeth, no fillings. She probably never saw a dentist, so there wouldn’t be any dental records. They’re pretty sure it isn’t someone local. That’s about all.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘There’s no-one missing from around that time. No-one that age.’

  ‘They’ve put a time on it?’

  ‘Within a year, they reckon. Around 1985.’

  ‘How’d they do that?

  ‘The shire put a track in there in late 1984. Before that you had to walk about five kilometres through dense bush to reach the mine. Then there’s the decomposition. There’s a scientist in Sydney who specialises in that. Reckons no later than 1985 to ’86. Firm on that.’

  ‘And her age?’

  ‘Around sixteen. They can tell from the wrist bones.’

  I said, ‘So there’s nothing with the remains? Clothes, stuff like that?’

  ‘Nothing. No trace of clothes or shoes, no jewellery. She was probably naked when she was thrown down.’

  ‘And the cause of death?’

  ‘Difficult to say. Her neck was broken. But that might have happened after death. That was in another story I wrote. Are you doing a story?’

  ‘Just a general piece on missing girls,’ I said. ‘So they don’t hold out much hope of identifying her?’

  ‘It would be pure luck, they say. I could fax you the clippings.’

  ‘Thanks, but I think I’ve got everything I need. You’ve been a big help.’

  As I put the phone down, Lew came in, tracksuit and runners, hair wet with rain, sallow skin shining.

  ‘You play in this?’ I said.

  ‘Just the short game. He made me hit about a million.’

  ‘He’s a hard man. Hope it’s worthwhile. Listen, I want to talk to you about school.’

  Lew had dropped out of school at the beginning of the year. I knew Ned had tried everything to prevent it happening but the boy became withdrawn and Ned gave up. I think his fear was that Lew would end up running away, as his mother had.

  ‘School.’ Lew took on a wary look. ‘I’ve got to shower.’

  ‘Hold on, mate,’ I said. ‘Ned asked me to look after you. That doesn’t give me any rights. But I want you to know what I think, okay?’

  He didn’t look at me. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Leaving school at sixteen is for people who for some reason don’t have any choice. That’s not you. I want you to think about going back.’

  He screwed up his face. ‘Mick says I could be a pro.’

  ‘Millions of kids wan
t to do that, Lew. Maybe it’ll happen. But give yourself some other options.’

  He looked at me for a moment, in his dark eyes something I couldn’t read. ‘Got to shower,’ he said and left the room.

  I’d done my duty. Ned would have wanted me to try, but pushing it wouldn’t work. I wasn’t much and I wasn’t family but I was all Lew had now and he was at the age when the testosterone and the self-doubt turn some boys into unpredictable explosive devices. I couldn’t be a parent to him. The best I could hope for was that he would value my friendship, trust me. I had always been comfortable with him, liked the dry sense of humour he’d got from his grandfather’s genes and example. From the moment he came into my house to stay on that grim early morning, he’d fitted into the routines of the place. He helped out without being asked, washed clothes, vacuumed, made fires, cooked. By Ned’s account, Lew’s life with his mother had been anything but easy. You could read some of that in his self-contained manner, but he was still just a boy in most ways.

  I started work on supper: beef and vegetable stew. Open freezer door, take out two portions of beef and vegetable stew, made two weeks before. Place in microwave to defrost. Open bottle of beer. All the while I was trying to recall myself at Lew’s age. But I couldn’t remember where I’d been then, the places came and went so quickly.

  I took the beer to the sitting room, lit the fire and switched on the early television news. A man with a face immobilised by cosmetic surgery said: Heading tonight’s bulletin: Victoria goes to the polls in five weeks. The Premier, Mr Nash, today called a snap election fourteen months before the end of the government’s term.

  James Nash appeared on the screen seated next to his deputy, the Attorney General, Anthony Crewe, who was the MP for these parts. Nash was short and balding, with a worried expression. His suits had an inherited look. Crewe, on the other hand, looked like the advocate you want to plead your case to an all-female heterosexual jury: sharp features, smooth hair, dimpled chin. He had a wry, knowing smile and his suits lay on him like a benediction.

  ‘The Nash government hasn’t been afraid to take the hard decisions,’ the Premier said. ‘We’re confident that the people of Victoria value that and want us back for a third term of office.’ He didn’t look at all confident.

  ‘Premier,’ said a male voice, ‘how do you react to allegations within your own party that this election is designed to stave off a leadership challenge from Mr Crewe, the Attorney General?’

  Crewe smiled his wry smile and said, ‘I’ll answer that if I may, Premier. Mr Nash has my complete support and loyalty. There is no leadership challenge, election or no election. I’m happy to repeat that as many times as you want me to.’

  The rest of the news was the usual line-up of accidents, strikes, bomb threats and businessmen in court, concluding with the heartwarmer: a man had rescued a guinea pig from a burning house.

  Lew was silent during our meal but I couldn’t feel any tension in him, so I didn’t make an effort to talk. When we’d finished, he said, ‘Good stew. Gotta show me how to do it. I’ll wash.’

  I left him washing up and went out to the office, picking up the dog on the way. The night was still and clear. I heard a car door slam down at the pub and a woman’s laugh. I thought about the naked girl falling down the mine shaft, into the absolute blackness of the earth. Was she still alive when she was stuffed into the opening in the ground?

  I’d put the boxes with Ned’s papers and personal things in a corner. The one holding the work diary was on top. I took the old ledger over to the table and leafed through the pages recording about twenty years of Ned’s working life. In his neat, slanting hand, he had noted every job he did: date, client, type, number of hours worked, amount charged, expenses. The last entry read: July 10. Butler’s Bridge Nursery. Rip subsoil approx acre. Four hours. $120.00. Fuel 36 km.

  I turned back to 1985. The first half of the year had been lean, sometimes no more than three or four small jobs a week, entries like: Mrs Readshaw. Fixed garage door. Half hour. $5.00. 14 km.

  In July, things began to pick up. He had three weeks fencing a property at Trentham, then he did a big paving job, demolished a house, spent five weeks putting in a driveway, gates and fences on a horse property. In October, he built a wall at Kinross Hall, the first of a series of jobs there that took up most of his time until late November. That was where he had found the old anvil. December and January were quiet, but from mid-February, for most of 1986, Ned worked on an old school being turned into a conference centre.

  I read on, through 1987 and 1988, 1989, 1990. I went back and read 1982 to 1984. Then I sat back and thought. About fifteen employers’ names occurred regularly across the years, people who gave Ned jobs big and small. I looked at 1982 again. Two employers appeared for the first time: J. Harris of Alder Lodge, the horse property, and Kinross Hall. I read forward. Alder Lodge became a regular source of work, most recently in May when Ned repaired a kicked-about stable. Kinross Hall employed him three times in 1982, for two long periods in 1983, for almost three months in 1984, and in 1985 he did five separate jobs there, the last a three-week engagement ending on 22 November. That was the end of Kinross Hall. Ned never worked there again.

  I told Lew where I was going and the dog and I walked over to the pub. Half a dozen or so regulars were in place, including, down at the end of the bar talking to Vinnie, Mick Doolan. He was a small man, chubby, florid, head of tight grey curls and eyes as bright and innocent as a baby’s. Everything about Mick was Australian except his Irish accent. I sat down next to him.

  ‘Well, Moc,’ he said, ‘just sayin to Vinnie, can’t get over Ned goin out like that. No sense in it. Not Neddy.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  He drank some stout. ‘Had these police fellas around today. Murderers roamin the countryside and they’re out makin life difficult for small businessmen such as misself.’

  Mick was a dealer in what he called Old Wares, mostly junk, and the police took a keen interest in the provenance of his stock.

  I said, ‘Small businessman? The police think you’re a small receiver of stolen property.’

  He sighed. ‘Well and that’s exactly what I’m sayin, Moc. They form theories based on nothin but ignorance and then they devote the taxpayers’ time to provin them. And naturally they can’t. Vinnie, give us a coupla jars and a bag of the salt and vinegar. Two bags.’

  ‘One, Vinnie,’ I said. ‘Mick, what’s Kinross Hall?’

  ‘Kinross Hall? It’s what they used to call a place of safety. For naughty girls. They won’t let you in, Moc.’

  ‘Did Ned ever talk about working there? Late ’85?’

  He scratched his curls. ‘Well, you know Ned. Not one to gossip.’

  Vinnie arrived with the drinks and the chips. I paid.

  I persisted. ‘Did he ever say anything about the place?’

  Mick munched on chips, washed them down with a big swallow, wiped his mouth. ‘From what I could gather,’ he said, ‘he thought the place should be closed down. He said he wouldn’t work there again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He heard some story. Went to see the police about it and they told him basically piss off, mind yer own business. That’s how I remember it.’

  ‘What kind of story?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you. He never said. You know Ned. Y’had to read his mind.’ He offered me the chip packet. ‘Now you’re a cert for Satdee? And you’d be settin an example to the young fellas by attendin Wednesday trainin. I’ve bin workin on a new strategy, could be revolutionary, turnin point in the history of the game.’

  I said, ‘New strategy? What, we kick a goal? That’ll shock ’em rigid.’

  A girl with a broken neck, a naked girl, thrown down a mine shaft and the entrance covered. I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

  I thought about these things all through the morning as Allie Morris and I worked at the forge on an order for four dozen garden-hose hooks. It was pleasant enough work once we had for
ty-eight lengths: heat the flat steel to glowing red, use jaws in the anvil hardie hole to put a bend in one end, bend sixty centimetres down to make a flap, squeeze the top half in the vice to make a doubled length. Then curve the rest into a three-quarter circle over the anvil horn. The job was finished by putting a stake point on the end that went into the ground. Two people working with red-hot metal can be awkward, but we found a rhythm quickly, taking turns at heating, bending and hammering, Allie’s deftness compensating for my occasional clumsiness.

  We finished just before one pm: four dozen hose hooks, neatly stacked on Allie’s truck to be dropped off for priming and painting.

  ‘That’s a day’s work,’ Allie said. ‘Does the pub do a sandwich?’

  We took turns to clean up in the bathroom I’d built on to the office so that I didn’t have to traipse into the house in a filthy condition, and walked down the road in silence. The dog appeared ahead of us: taken a short cut through the neighbour’s paddock. The sky was clearing, the cloud cover broken, harried fragments streaming east in full retreat. Suddenly the world was high and light and full of promise. I hadn’t talked much to Allie since she started. She had a reserved way about her, not rude but not forthcoming. And I didn’t have any experience of working relationships like this. Man and a woman working with hot metal.

  At the pub, it was just us and Vinnie and two hard-looking women in tracksuits playing pool. The fat one had a lipstick smear at the edge of her mouth. It looked like a bruise when she bent her head. Allie put the beers down and said, ‘Know someone called Alan Snelling?’

  ‘Know who he is.’

  ‘What’s he do?’

  ‘Runs a few horses. Nice house. Nice cars. Gets married every now and again.’

  ‘He asked me out.’

  ‘Available to be asked out?’ I instantly regretted the question.

  She smiled, drank some beer, wiped away a thin tidemark of foam on her upper lip with a fingertip. ‘I’m between engagements. He was at Glentroon Lodge yesterday, looking at a horse. Asked my opinion.’