If You Could Go Anywhere

by Paige Toon

  The irony, it seemed, was lost on her.

  When she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, she begged me to stay in Coober Pedy. And I promised her again and again that I would.

  Some said she never should have asked such a thing of me, but I understood. I was all she had left. She had raised me like a daughter, hoping to fill the gap left by the one she’d lost.

  Three days after giving birth to me, my mother had developed an infection that led to septic shock and multiple organ failure. She’d been only a few weeks pregnant when she’d returned to Coober Pedy after being away for almost two years, travelling first around Australia before heading overseas. According to Bonnie, she’d rarely called home in all that time, preferring to send letters and postcards rather than endure her mother’s wrath over the telephone.

  Nan couldn’t bear the thought of me taking after my mother.

  But it hadn’t always been that way. When I was a child, she and Grandad used to find the similarities between us heartwarming. I remember countless times, growing up, when they’d glanced at each other with delight and exclaimed that I looked ‘just like Angie’, or sounded ‘just like Angie’, or done something that Angie would have done. We even have the same name, Mum and me: Angela Samuels.

  Personally, I couldn’t see any comparison – from the pictures I’d studied, I didn’t think I resembled my mother at all. Where her hair had been long, glossy-straight and dark, mine was a mass of frizzy blond curls. Where her eyes were the colour of a sunny daytime sky, mine were more of a milk chocolate. Her complexion was fair and freckly while mine was honey-hued in colour. She was taller than me by three inches: five foot seven compared to my five foot four, measured against the markings on the kitchen wall on our respective seventeenth birthdays.

  Our likenesses, my grandparents had insisted, were in our smiles and in our actions, in the way that we spoke, danced and played. None of these comparisons were tangible to me, but I welcomed every one. I was glad my grandparents could see my mother in me; they said they knew nothing of my father.

  There had been one night, though, when I’d questioned the truth of that claim. It was New Year’s Eve and I was ten or eleven. I’d been speculating out loud about whether my father might be out there somewhere, waiting for me to come and find him. Nan had had a few drinks and she’d muttered – I’d heard it as clear as day – that he was a ‘bad man’. I’d jumped to my feet in shock, demanding to know what she’d meant, but she’d immediately denied saying anything at all.

  But I couldn’t forget those two words. They chilled me to the bone. And although I’m still curious about my biological father, part of me wonders if I’m better off remaining ignorant about who he is and where I came from.

  Chapter 3

  Five days later, I find myself back at home. After the funeral director came, I kind of crashed out.

  ‘You’ve been holding up your nan for so long, it’s no surprise your walls have crumbled,’ Bonnie said as she made up her daughter Helen’s bed for me that first night.

  I suspect I’m now four parts blood and bone and one part chicken noodle soup, but it was nice to be mothered for a change.

  Nan’s funeral is this afternoon and I’m trying to rustle up the energy to get dressed. I’ve been lying on my bed for the last forty-five minutes, staring up at the world around me.

  I used to ask everyone I met to send me postcards when they went on holiday, moved away or returned to wherever it was that they’d come from, and I still have them stuck to the rough, domed ceiling and walls of my bedroom, a mosaic of colours and countries from all over the globe.

  The awe-inspiring pyramids of Egypt and the crumbling ruins of Rome. The Northern Lights of Scandinavia and the crystal-clear waters of Greece. Thailand’s white-sand beaches and Switzerland’s snow-capped mountains. The purple heather of England’s moors and the green hills of Ireland’s Emerald Isle. Oceans and savannahs, sunrises and sunsets, skyscrapers and shepherd’s huts. Paris’s Eiffel Tower and China’s Great Wall and many, many more.

  The sharp trill of the doorbell pierces the air. Friends have been coming by Bonnie and Mick’s to offer condolences, but word must’ve got around that I’m back in my own home. I wearily swing my legs off the bed and drag myself to the front door, opening it to find a glamorous blonde bombshell before me.

  ‘Louise!’

  My oldest friend steps forward to hug me hard.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your nan, Angie,’ she mumbles into my hair.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I withdraw to stare at her, unable to believe it. It’s been over five years since I last saw her.

  ‘I’ve come for the funeral! As if I wouldn’t!’ she chastises. ‘Let me in, it’s like a furnace out here. My face is melting.’ She bustles me into the hall.

  Growing up, Louise used to hate her curves, but when she moved to Adelaide and got a job at a beauty salon, she embraced them. Gone are the drab, baggy T-shirts of her teenage years, replaced with a wardrobe of brilliantly coloured, figure-hugging outfits. She’s wearing an uncharacteristically demure navy dress today, presumably for the funeral, but is still rocking the red lipstick and false eyelash look that I’m familiar with from her Instagram posts.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’

  ‘Thought I’d surprise you. I was shocked when Bonnie called. Well, not shocked. I mean, we knew it was coming, but still. I can’t imagine how you feel.’

  Bonnie offered to call everyone who had known Nan to tell them of her passing. I was too shattered to do anything besides acquiesce.

  ‘Are you wearing that?’ Louise asks, belatedly noticing my faded blue T-shirt dress.

  ‘No, I haven’t changed yet.’

  ‘Oh. Phew,’ she says.

  I think she’s done with the sympathy. It was never her strong point.

  ‘What about your hair and make-up?’

  My hair is… I don’t know how to describe it, much less know what to do with it, so I choose to ignore the question. ‘I haven’t worn make-up in years,’ I say instead.

  I stopped wearing it at around the same time Nan stopped wearing her trademark pink lipstick.

  ‘Well, thankfully, I have my kit with me – including waterproof mascara,’ Louise adds meaningfully, ‘so there’s no need to panic.’

  I wasn’t panicking. She could dress me up as a Tellytubby and I’d probably go along with it.

  ‘Come on,’ she urges. ‘Let’s see what’s in your wardrobe.’

  In my bedroom, she pushes a red curtain aside, revealing a rectangular space filled with clothes. Grandad cut the wardrobes out of the rock for my mother – this was once her bedroom – but he never got around to hanging proper doors.

  ‘I remember this from when you were sixteen!’ Louise exclaims, pulling out a yellow dress on a hanger. ‘And this!’ She yanks out a navy and white striped skirt, although the navy has faded to a washed-out purple now. ‘You need a serious wardrobe overhaul, girl.’

  ‘Don’t get a whole lot of chances to go shopping.’

  Her expression morphs into pity. ‘When are you going to come and see us in Adelaide?’

  I perch on the end of my bed and fight the urge to climb under the covers. ‘Soon,’ I promise. ‘I’m desperate to meet the girls.’

  Louise hasn’t wanted to drag her children the nine or so hours it takes to drive here. They’re only two and four years old.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to follow in your mum’s footsteps and go to Europe before you do anything else.’

  ‘I’m not sure what I’m going to do.’

  ‘You’ve had enough time to think about it.’ She casts a significant look around my room.

  ‘I can’t afford to go travelling.’

  ‘But you will once you sell up, right?’

  Her casual question causes my insides to convulse. This dugout might’ve been my prison, but it holds a myriad of happy memories. The thought of packing up Nan’s things and saying goodbye fo
rever…

  ‘I’m sorry!’ Louise gasps, seeing my face. ‘There’s no rush for you to do anything, of course there’s not. Adelaide – and we – will be waiting for you whenever you’re ready.’

  I nod and she squeezes my shoulder before returning to my wardrobe to rifle through the rest of my clothes. ‘How about this?’ she asks of a black knee-length cotton dress.

  ‘I wore that to my grandad’s funeral,’ I mumble as she dusts it off.

  ‘Does it still fit?’ She holds it up and gives me the once-over.

  I might be softer around the edges than I used to be, but I haven’t put on that much weight in the last ten years, mostly thanks to exercise DVDs.

  ‘I reckon it does,’ she answers her own question. ‘Lucky cow. Come on, chuck it on and let’s get started on your hair and make-up.’

  Like I said, sympathy is not her strong point. I don’t think I mind.

  *

  Houses aren’t the only things that are underground in Coober Pedy: some hotels, motels, restaurants, bars, shops, galleries and even churches are.

  It is in the front row of one of these churches that I find myself sitting that afternoon, with Louise to my left, Bonnie and Mick to my right and Nan’s small, frail body resting in the casket in front of us. Behind us, the seats are full and many are standing. Nan had lived in this town for over fifty years and she meant a lot to the people here, just as these people now mean a lot to me.

  Each and every person I’d call a friend, but I’m unused to being around all of them, all at once. The reverend is the first to repeat what Bonnie told me – that I couldn’t have done more for Nan and that I was the best granddaughter she could have wished for – but he’s not the last. Although I know the words come with the best of intentions, I’m uncomfortable hearing them, and by the time we reach the pub for the wake, I’m feeling overwhelmed. All I want to do is return to the solace of my quiet, secluded dugout, but I feel an obligation to stay.

  Towards the end of the evening, I go to the bathroom and sit on the toilet with my eyes closed and my head in my hands. It’s only a momentary respite.

  ‘You okay in there, hon?’ Louise asks with a rap on the cubicle door.

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘Bonnie and Mick want to make a speech before people start to drift off.’

  ‘Really?’ Bonnie spoke at the funeral – what else could she have to say?

  I flush the loo and come out to see Louise waiting. She smiles at me. ‘Despite everything, you look lovely.’

  I pull a face, unused to compliments, but as I wash my hands, I am slightly taken aback at the sight of my own reflection in the mirror over the basin.

  Earlier, Louise styled my frizzy mass of honey-blond curls into a tight, high bun. She accentuated my cheekbones with peachy blusher and made my light-brown eyes look wider and more almond-shaped with a sweep of jet-black eyeliner and mascara. The make-up, remarkably, is still intact.

  ‘Can I?’ she asks me now, holding up a compact of pressed powder.

  I stand self-consciously, allowing her to remove the shine from my nose, but I turn down her offer to apply colour to my bee-stung lips.

  ‘Lip-gloss, then?’ she asks hopefully, brandishing a rose-pink wand.

  ‘Vaseline,’ I barter, spying some in her handbag.

  We head back to the bar area. The room is quieter than it was when I left it, but now it falls completely silent.

  My eyes graze over my friends in the crowd to seek out Mick, one of the tallest men in the room. Beside him, I find his rosy-cheeked wife, who smiles warmly and beckons me over.

  ‘We all know that Ginny, Angie’s nan, thought of Angie as more of a daughter than a granddaughter,’ Bonnie begins when I’m at her side. ‘But she had a bit of competition in later years because Mick and I think of Angie as a daughter too.’ There are a few chuckles. ‘And we’re not alone,’ she continues, addressing the room. ‘All of us have spent time in this young lady’s company and I’ve heard some of you say that she feels as much like family to you as your own flesh and blood. We want you to know, Angie,’ she says, turning to look at me directly, ‘that you’re not alone, love. You’ll always have family and friends here in Coober Pedy, and even when you’re off traipsing around the world, we want you to remember that. This will always be home.’

  A stinging starts up behind my eyes and Bonnie takes me in her arms, squeezing me tight to the sound of sympathetic murmuring from all around. After a moment, I pull away and try to compose myself.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, turning to look at the sea of smiling faces before settling on Grandad’s old mining partner, Jimmy, at the front. He’s leaning on his walking stick, his left eye twinkling – his right is hidden behind an eye patch. I feel a rush of affection for him as I add, ‘Thank you all for coming.’

  ‘We’re not finished, Angie,’ Mick interrupts, prompting a few laughs from the crowd. ‘How many of you,’ he addresses everyone, ‘have had young Angie ask you where you’d go if you could go anywhere?’

  Over half of the people in the room raise their hands, including Jimmy. I think he was the only person aside from my grandmother who’d replied that he was happy right where he was, thank you very much.

  Mick turns back to me and grins. ‘We know you might not be ready to think about this yet, Angie, but we hope you don’t leave it too long before getting out there and seeing the world like you’ve always dreamed. Bonnie and I, and everyone here, want to give you a hand in making that possible.’

  ‘Wherever you want to go,’ Bonnie adds, ‘whatever you want to do, we hope this will help.’

  Mick steps forward and places a grey leather pouch into my hand. It’s about the same size and weight as a bag of sugar, and beneath my fingers, I can feel the objects within clinking and rubbing against each other. I stare at Mick and Bonnie with wide-open eyes and carefully prise open the drawstring at the top of the pouch to peer inside.

  It’s full of opals.

  Chapter 4

  There are two broad classes of opal: precious and common. The internal structure of precious opal causes it to diffract light, resulting in what is referred to as play of colour as it’s tilted or rotated. Common opal is more of a milky colour, often blue or green.

  The opal I’m holding between my forefinger and thumb is most certainly precious. It flashes with layers of brilliance as I turn it this way and that, displaying every colour on the visible spectrum, from luminescent orange, fiery red, pink and violet, to bright blue, yellow and green.

  As a child, it used to surprise me that the opals my grandfather brought home didn’t glow in the dark – they looked like they should. But later I learned that all they needed was a little help from a special black-light torch.

  Grandad used to take me noodling – sifting through the rock ejected from the mineshafts in search of opal inadvertently discarded by miners. Sometimes, at night, he’d drive me out to the opal fields, carefully steering me around gaping mineshaft holes with thirty-metre drops. When he turned on his UV torch, the colour that would jump from the rock heaps would make me gasp with wonder. It wasn’t just the opal that would light up – agate and fossilised wood would, too, and scorpions: Grandad always warned me to look twice before scooping anything up.

  Over the years, I collected enough small pieces of opal to enable my grandparents to have them made into jewellery for me for birthday and Christmas presents. I’ll always treasure those pieces: bracelets, rings and necklaces, held together with sterling silver.

  But the piece of opal I’m holding now is something else. I can’t take my eyes off it. It’s about two inches in diameter and could well be a hundred carat. Colour sparks and flashes under my reading light as I tilt it backwards and forwards. Only about three quarters of it has been polished and I like that traces of the creamy rock from which it was hewn continue to cling to it in parts. It reminds me of my childhood when I’d watch my grandfather preparing his own finds. Seeing him grind, cut and polish to uncove
r the jewel from beneath the rough, dull sandstone was nothing short of magical.

  This opal reminds me of him for some reason, more than any of the others, but it can’t have been his because all of his precious opal was sold after his death to keep us afloat. Bonnie and Mick don’t know where it came from – about two dozen opals were donated anonymously at the wake after Mick raised the idea with some of his mining buddies.

  I’m still reeling.

  ‘You mean a lot to the people around here, Angie,’ Bonnie said to me last night when we said goodbye outside our respective homes. ‘Your kindness and generosity, and the love and devotion you’ve shown your nan, have really warmed the hearts of the people in this community. They wanted to give you something in return. Now all you have to do to make them truly happy is stretch your wings and fly. But come back – even if it’s only to pack up your nan’s dugout. Come back when you’ve decided what it is you want to do for the rest of your life. We can’t wait to hear all about what you get up to so make sure you send plenty of postcards!’

  Her words brought me to tears – again.

  At the sound of the doorbell, I slip the opal into its pouch.

  It’s Louise.

  ‘Good morning,’ I say with a smile, opening the front door wide.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks, stepping into the hall.

  ‘Okay, I think.’

  ‘Not too tired? Bonnie told me you’ve been wiped out. I hadn’t realised. Do you think you might’ve had the flu or something?’

  ‘Maybe. I think it just hit me – all of it, all at once. I feel better today.’

  ‘Good, because I thought we’d spend it out and about – you’ve been stuck inside for too long.’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  Her face breaks into a megawatt grin as she realises I’m going to go along with her plan. ‘I thought we’d take a tour of our past, starting with breakfast in town.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Great! I’ll make us a cuppa while you go and get ready!’