Hammond Innes - Golden Soak

She was like a child on that drive, excited by something one minute, relapsing into moodiness the next. Mostly she drove in silence, radiating an atmosphere of constraint — not hostile, but not friendly either. And then, when the gullies ran out into open country again and the going was easier, she turned to me suddenly: ‘Why are you leaving — like this?’ Her voice was tense, and when I didn’t reply she said, ‘Is it because you thought I was throwing myself at you last night?’

I didn’t know what to say and she went on awkwardly, ‘You’re afraid I’ll do it again, is that it?’

I looked at her then and she was grinning at me. ‘I might it that.’ And she added, still with that impish grin on her face, If you’re worrying about my virginity — then thanks. But I’m quite capable of looking after that myself.’

She put her foot down then and I had to hold on to the bar-grip in front of me as we drove flat out across a plain that was near-desert country, the track running out ahead of us, half-obliterated by windblown dust. Driving fast like that, I felt she also wanted to be shot of me, to end the awkwardness of our close proximity.

The sun was striking her face now, the sweat forming in beads as she fought the bucking of the Land-Rover, holding it through.he dust drifts, the freckles showing and her hair limp, her eyes fixed on the track. My God, I thought, she’d make a good wife for some lout of a grazier — earthy, practical, and with the sort of boundless vitality that could stand up to the harshness of this outback country. In that moment she reminded me of the picture of her grandmother, the feminity of her overlaid by an indomitable strength of character. And remembering the features in that oil painting, I was no longer puzzled by her inconsistencies, the way she could appear mature one minute, naive the next, the odd mixture of old-fashioned Victorianism and down-to-earth frankness.

I was still thinking about this and the strange effect it had on me when we reached the Highway. It was a red gravel road and it hadn’t had a grader over it for a long time so that it was badly ribbed. We hit the bulldust in less than a mile, the Land-Rover sliding and slithering on the fine-ground surface, bucking across the truck ruts like a boat in a lumpy sea.

It was like that most of the four miles to Lynn Peak, the turn-off to the homestead marked by a sign that read:

SHORT OF PETROL? THIRSTY? HUNGRY?

The Andersons welcome you to Lynn Peak Homestead ONLY 400 YARDS.

It was just after seven, and as we drove down the track she said, ‘Andie’s a bit of a mystery. They say he jumped ship at Fremantle, but it’s just a story — nobody knows really. His wife’s from Port Hedland. She’s half Italian. They’ve a couple of kids now, and when she isn’t looking after them, she’s dishing out pasta to the drivers who pull in here for a break. It’s a funny thing …’ She was talking quickly as though to cover our parting. ‘Ten years ago you wouldn’t have got any self-respecting Aussie eating pasta. Steak V chips and half a dozen stubbies — that was the staple diet for the roustabouts and jackaroos, all the odds and sods who bummed their way through the North West. Now you’d think they were half Italian themselves the way they roll in here. Pasta — they love it!’ She suddenly laughed. ‘Mebbe it’s Maria they love.’

We were swinging into the yard then and she blew the horn as she braked to a stop beside the house. It was a poor place, built almost entirely of tin with a flyscreened verandah and chickens scuffing in the dust beside the petrol pump. A small, energetic man appeared, about forty with baldish head, and she introduced me. She didn’t get out. She just stayed there behind the wheel talking to him till I had got my suitcase out of the back. ‘I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.’ She said it brightly, a quick smile and that was all. She didn’t stop to say goodbye; just waved her hand, her face set in that bright artificial smile as she turned the Land-Rover and went roaring off in a cloud of dust.

I stood and watched the dust settle behind her, sorry to see her go. I felt suddenly alone, knowing I’d lost the only person who cared a damn what happened to me.

‘So you’re wanting a ride up to Nullagine?’

I turned to find Andie staring at me curiously, his eyes crinkled against the sun’s glare.

‘What are the chances?’ I asked him.

‘Och, somebody’ll be through. In time. It’s early yet.’ He turned towards the house. ‘Janet said to feed you, so come on in and we can breakfast together.’

I was lucky. The first vehicle into Lynn Peak that morning was a Holden driven by a lone prospector from Leonora. He had driven through the night, heading for the Comet Mine at Marble Bar, and he was only too glad to give me a lift provided I took the wheel and let him get some sleep. He was a lean, taciturn man, dressed in khaki trousers and a white shirt turned ochre by the dust, his eyes red-rimmed below the peaked cap and his thin face grey with stubble. He was fast asleep before I had driven half a dozen miles.

We were heading north, the sun behind us and flat-topped hills of red rock moving in from the right. Even if he’d been awake conversation would have been impossible. The car was an old one and the noise of its rattling, the machine-gun clatter of wheelspun gravel, was incessant. It isolated me, and once I got the feel of riding the dirt at speed, I began to think over what Andie had told me about the two men in the Toyota. Both of them were from Nullagine. Phil Westrop was a newcomer who’d been driving a bulldozer at the Grafton Downs Tin Mine for a couple of months. The other was a black by the name of Wolli. And he had spelt it out for me in that thick Glaswegian accent of his, explaining that the man was supposed to have been born at Jarra Jarra, in the black quarters there, and named after Weedi Wolli Creek. ‘He’s a drunk. But he wasna drunk when they pulled in here for petrol yesterday morning. The shakes, yes, but he was just plain scared in my opeenion.’

Was this the black man Kadek had referred to in his letter as Wally? I was wondering about that when I hit a dry creek bed, my head bumping the roof. And why was Westrop so interested in Golden Soak? Stopping for petrol at Lynn Peak, when he could have filled up before leaving Nullagine, was just an excuse to pump Andie for information about the mine. ‘Ah dinna ken much aboot him, just met him a few times over a drink at the Conglomerate. An ex-army sergeant invalided out after being blown up by a Viet-Cong mine.’ The harsh voice had gone rambling on as I ploughed my way through a plateful of bacon and eggs for which he had charged me an exorbitant two dollars fifty. Six years in Australia hadn’t softened the accent. ‘There’s some say it was a bomb planted in a brothel in Saigon, but they wouldna say that to his face. He’s tough, that laddie.’

I was still thinking about Westrop when I ran into my first stretch of bulldust and almost lost control, no feel to the steering, the back tyres spinning and the car lurching wildly. Ahead, round the red shoulder of a hill, loomed a cloud of dust like an explosion, and in the straight beyond, the dust cloud hung in the sky for more than a mile, a glint of glass reflected at its snout. It was the first of the day’s traffic, a big refrigerated container truck throwing gravel at me as it thundered past. And then I was into the red cloud that followed in its wake, a sepia opaqueness of nil visibility with dust pouring into the car, filling my mouth, clogging my nostrils.

‘Wind the window up for chrissakes!’ And by the time I’d done that he was fast asleep again.