The Opal Desert (12 page)

Kerrie had enjoyed the other travellers' company and she slept well that night, but found it confusing when she woke up to find no light coming into the room. When she went into the bathroom, which had a skylight, she was surprised to see bright daylight. She showered and dressed and went to the dining room.

‘What time is it?' she asked as Pam put a fresh pot of coffee on the table.

‘Only seven, but the others you met last night have already had breakfast and gone. They wanted to be airborne by six. Hope they didn't disturb you.'

‘No, not at all. These walls seem very thick. I vaguely remember hearing a noise when I was falling asleep, but I might have imagined it,' said Kerrie.

‘You might have heard Doug. He goes into the back tunnel and has a bit of a dig some nights after dinner. He's enlarging a space for an office for himself and a wine cellar. He doesn't use the jackhammer, just the pickaxe, to keep the noise down. Sorry if it woke you.'

‘I might take my mug of coffee outside and sniff the morning air. See what kind of a day it's going to be,' said Kerrie.

‘Same as yesterday,' said Pam. ‘Would you like scrambled eggs or pancakes, or both, for breakfast?'

‘Just eggs, please.'

The morning was crisply cool. The light around the Golden Dome was brilliantly clear and the distant low hills hazy soft. There was no movement in the town. Suddenly Kerrie had an urge to sketch the scene and hurried inside to get the sketchbook she'd brought with her in her hold-all. Looking around, she realised that Murray had turned on a passion inside her that could not be extinguished. Everywhere she looked she saw subjects to paint. Now she had the desire and the will to sketch and plan paintings, collections of subjects, and she found that she had hazy, yet-to-be-explored ideas for other mediums and styles.

She'd completely lost track of the time when Doug appeared and looked over her shoulder at her little sketch of the township.

‘Breakfast is getting cold. Say, that's good. You've captured the feel of the place with just a few lines. Will this be the basis for a bigger picture?'

Kerrie straightened up and looked at the sketchpad.

‘I haven't decided.'

‘Lots to paint around here, I could show you a few places if you like. Old mines, historic huts, a pretty gully, the Opal Lake, of course. I don't mind taking you for a drive.'

‘That's so nice of you, Doug. I feel so silly coming here on the spur of the moment and without a car. But I'm glad I came. You and Pam are being very kind.'

‘Our pleasure. Come and have breakfast. Pam said she was taking you up to see Shirley later.'

After breakfast and before it got too hot Kerrie walked around the loop road at the top of the hill. There she found a small hidden community. Letterboxes and front gates were replaced by names painted on a large red boulder: ‘Ian and Trish', ‘The Ballards'. In one place a rusty piece of machinery had been turned into a sculpture with a number hanging from it. There were a few attempts at creating gardens, but most front yards were littered with vehicles, machinery, or a storage shed reached by a steep rubble-strewn path. A few places had a garden or tank on top of their roofs. It was a strange rabbit-like existence, thought Kerrie. Practical, but odd looking and certainly private. No inquisitive neighbours peeking through their windows here. She wondered what Shirley's dugout would be like.

Towards the end of the loop, one garden in particular grabbed her attention. A dry-stone wall of local red-gold rocks surrounded a garden filled with vegetables and fruit trees. Several grapevines were trained along a professional-looking trellis. On a raised terrace was a stone table with chairs facing the view to the north. Shells, stones and pebbles marked the path and to one side of it was a wooden building containing tinted glass windows and shaded by an overhanging corrugated-iron roof. On the other side of the path was a greenhouse made from shade cloth, which sheltered an assortment of pots and plants. The place had a look of permanence and peace, and a rakish air. The entrance to the underground house was faced with flagstone slabs set in blood-red mud and Kerrie immediately thought of the hippy homes she'd seen in the south-west of the USA. The place struck her as being rather creative and she spotted a sculpture of a giant bird, and several other works, roughly hewn from weathered desert tree trunks. Maybe an artist lived here.

Shirley lived on Old Tom's Hill. Pam drove down into the town, past the pub, and circled around the road leading to the cemetery. ‘Worth a visit,' she said. ‘Lots of pioneers' graves in it, if you like that sort of thing.' The second hill was slightly steeper and higher than Sampson's Hill and, to Kerrie, it seemed an older, rougher area, as if spurned by those who had made money.

‘What's the difference between Sampson's Hill and Old Tom's?' she asked Pam. ‘Is it like the right and wrong side of the tracks?'

Pam smiled. ‘No, it's not, despite how it looks. It's just that we like to think we make a bit more of an effort on Sampson's. We're the newcomers.'

‘City people?'

‘Mostly. Old Tom's Hill is named after an early prospector who mined here in the 1890s and made some of the first big finds. The original mines were here, but they're finished now. Mind you, someone digging their garden a few years back found a beautiful nobby, so you never know.'

Pam drove up a packed-earth driveway, past gas bottles, drums of diesel, stacks of firewood, some potted plants and two large garbage bins. She parked the car and they walked past a small corrugated-iron shed and onto a stone patio. The old wooden doorway at the entrance was made of thick gnarled tree trunks, while the walls beside it were rock slabs, hand cut and set together.

Pam went inside calling out, ‘Shirley . . .'

‘Come in.'

Kerrie followed Pam inside, glancing around as best she could in the dimness of the rooms. This felt like a cave. The walls were not limewashed as Pam's were and it smelled musty. Earthy. It reminded her of the mine she'd been in at Lightning Ridge. It appeared to Kerrie that this room was where its occupant ate, slept, worked and watched television.

Shirley was seated at a long wooden table that was smothered in files and paperwork. A large box-like computer and its cumbersome hard drive took up one end of the table. It was the oldest computer Kerrie had ever seen. Two walking sticks leant against the table. A large woman smiled at them both and made no attempt to get up.

‘Pammie! And you've brought a visitor for me. Wonderful!'

‘This is Kerrie. She's staying with us for the week. She's from Sydney and she's an artist.'

‘Lovely. Plenty of nice scenery to paint out here. And the diggings, of course. Pam, put the kettle on and make us some tea, would you mind? How long have you been an artist? I suppose that's a silly question, isn't it?' said Shirley, waving Kerrie to a chair at the table. Pam bustled into the small kitchen alcove.

Kerrie warmed to Shirley instantly. She was large, overflowing from her striped cotton shirt and baggy slacks, her wispy grey hair knotted on top of her head. Her blue eyes peered at Kerrie through her glasses and Kerrie sensed that Shirley missed nothing.

‘To tell you the truth, Shirley, I've hardly been an artist at all. I studied art then I got married and now that I'm on my own I'm trying to remember how to do it again,' said Kerrie.

‘Are you divorced?' asked Shirley.

‘No, my husband died – not very long ago.'

‘That's very sad. You're young to be widowed . . . I hope you're making up for lost time with your painting.'

‘I'm trying,' said Kerrie, not really wanting to talk about herself. ‘How long have you lived here?' she asked. ‘Pam said you were the local historian.'

‘I suppose I am. I moved back here years ago when life took an unexpected turn and then I began to be interested in the old stories. This place holds some of my happiest memories from when I was a little girl.'

‘Really? You lived here when you were a girl?' asked Kerrie.

‘I did. Before the war my father used to mine at Lightning Ridge, but then ended up here. This was his mine.'

‘Did he find opals?'

Shirley nodded. ‘Yes, he did, but not enough to make his fortune. Not many people do.'

Kerrie looked at the files on the table. ‘What are you researching, Shirley? Are you writing the early history of this area?'

‘Yes, but not in the way you think. People have written about the pioneering days and many of them are totally wrong. I'm trying to correct a lot of the myths and misconceptions.'

‘You sound like a detective,' said Kerrie. ‘But you haven't always lived here, have you?'

‘Heavens, no. I used to be a nurse in Sydney. You know, my skills have proved to be very useful out here,' she said.

‘Shirley is always stitching up some miner. She's great for emergencies. Serious medical help is hours away in Broken Hill, and Dubbo Base Hospital's even further, so Shirley's talents are certainly useful to us here in Opal Lake,' said Pam.

‘Tell me, what have you seen since you've been here, Kerrie?' asked Shirley.

‘You're the first port of call,' said Pam. ‘Kerrie doesn't have her car. She came on a whim with Davo. He's picking her up next week.'

‘I feel a bit silly coming here without a car, or anything at all really, but Pam is being wonderful,' said Kerrie.

‘Don't need much out here. Good lord, I haven't driven a car for years, and I get all my supplies from the general store. I give them a list and they deliver the goods. Easy. I've got everything I want,' said Shirley. ‘But if you want a car to drive around here, my old bomb is out the back in the shed. If someone can get it going, you're welcome to it.'

‘Really? How long since it's been driven?'

‘Can't remember. Didn't Doug turn the engine over a few months ago?' Shirley asked Pam.

‘That's right. I'll ask Doug to come and have a look at it,' said Pam.

‘I don't want to put you to any trouble,' began Kerrie.

‘It's no trouble at all. I wouldn't take the old car too far, but if you're keen on painting the area you have to get out and have a look around,' said Shirley. ‘There are some interesting places fairly close by. I've always thought it would be great to capture them before they disappear. Barney's Well, the Dutchman's camp. The gully – and the lake of course. Pretty dry at the moment, though.'

‘How long since you've been out to these places?' asked Kerrie.

‘Me? Oh, not for years. But I doubt they've changed much.'

‘If Doug can get the car started, why not come with me and show me where they are?' said Kerrie.

‘Not me,' said Shirley. ‘I don't like to leave my dugout. But ask Pam. You'd like to go, wouldn't you, Pammie?'

‘I'm happy to go,' said Pam. ‘But how long since you've been out for a jaunt, Shirley?'

‘Oh, who's counting? You know I'm happy here in my little hole but I can tell Kerrie the best places to go.'

‘Right,' said Pam, ‘then let's make sure that car is working.'

Shirley drained her tea and held it out to Pam for a refill. ‘That's settled then. What else are you doing? Has this girl met Ingrid?'

‘On my list.' Pam turned to Kerrie. ‘Ingrid is a very talented jeweller. A true artisan. She's made some stunning pieces with opal, very contemporary.'

‘And controversial,' added Shirley. ‘Even if you don't enjoy her work, Kerrie, you'll find it memorable.'

‘It sounds intriguing. In a small place like this there are so many fascinating people!'

Pam and Shirley both laughed.

‘Ah, you don't know the half of it!'

The teapot was empty by the time Pam and Kerrie rose to leave Shirley's dugout.

‘I'll send Doug over later on to look at your car, Shirley,' promised Pam. Once they were outside, she turned to Kerrie and added, ‘It's a shame Shirley won't go out.'

‘She doesn't seem very agile,' Kerrie said tactfully.

‘Poor old Shirley. She is a bit of a mess, physically. Vicious circle. She's got poor circulation, and arthritis in her feet, so she never likes to move, so then she puts on weight. She doesn't go out and she likes to live in the past, I mean, with all her research into the old days. But she loves company, as you can see.'

‘She's very warm, very intelligent. I liked her enormously,' said Kerrie.

‘She's a good old stick. Very dry acerbic wit, too.'

‘Where does Ingrid live?' asked Kerrie as they drove away.

‘Ingrid lives around the back of this hill, but it's best if I call and ask if I can bring you to visit.'

‘Of course.'

‘She has a lot of security around the place, because of her opal collection. Sometimes when she's working on something she doesn't like to be disturbed. You'd understand the creative process,' said Pam.

‘Sure do. My husband totally lost all track of time, and whether it was day or night, when he was working on a sculpture.'

Pam glanced at Kerrie. ‘Doug said that you do, too. He said that you were immersed in your sketching this morning.'

Kerrie gave a slight shrug. ‘That's the idea, but I haven't had much chance to do a lot of immersing in the last few years.'

‘Then this is the place for you to be,' said Pam. ‘Why don't you come and stay for a while? We could find you a place to rent, nominal charge. People are always coming and going. Give yourself some breathing space.'

Kerrie looked at Pam as she drove down the bumpy dirt road to the flat. ‘I don't know what to say. My friends in Lightning Ridge made much the same suggestion. I feel so . . . comfortable out here. So welcome. Thank you, Pam,' said Kerrie, wondering if she was so hospitable and helpful to all her guests.