The Opal Desert (17 page)

‘But I'm sure you're pleased that his work, his name and his creations live on,' said Shirley.

‘Yes. I am. There are also some pieces put aside for his daughters, but at the moment they take no interest.'

‘You mean they'd just as soon sell them?' said Shirley.

‘I'm not sure. I certainly hope not, but it's up to them,' said Kerrie. ‘Anyway, I have a bit of breathing space and I got a bit emotional about what to do with myself over Christmas, so here I am.'

Shirley patted her hand. ‘And very glad I am to see you. But you know what, Kerrie? I just want you to damn well start painting. Pick up that brush and face the blank page. Canvas. No procrastination. Just take the first step up the mountain.'

Kerrie nodded. ‘I know. You're right. I'm nervous. Suppose I won't be any good?'

‘What's good? Who decides that? Don't be so hard on yourself. Anyway, who cares, but you? At least get something under your belt. See what you can do,' said Shirley.

Kerrie nodded. ‘Like Pam said, there's nowhere to hide from yourself, is there? Not even in a dugout.'

‘So go out early, put in your working hours, and then come and have a sundowner and dinner with me, every day. Promise?'

‘It's a deal. I'll cook, too,' said Kerrie, putting down her tea mug.

‘That would be nice, but you don't have to. We'll just keep it simple. Salads. Sandwiches.'

‘No, Shirley, I enjoy cooking. Let me make you some nice Italian dishes. I'm sure I can find some suitable ingredients.'

‘Well, that would be a bit of a treat,' said Shirley with a smile.

Their routine was quickly established and each looked forward to their time together.

Kerrie found she enjoyed the solitude of Ingrid's quiet dugout. She set out her paints, brushes, canvases and sketchpad in the studio. She made herself cups of tea but quickly ran out of distractions and excuses. Then she looked at the bursts of creativity that filled Ingrid's glass display cabinets and, finally, began preparing her paint.

‘I put myself here. Okay. Let's see what happens.'

There was nothing else to do inside Ingrid's womb-like work space. Kerrie heard nothing of the outside world, and other than the evening light fading through the skylights, she had no indication of the time of day. She lost herself in the focus and concentration of her painting. And, as she pored over her reference sketches, she felt as if she was standing there in the bright light experiencing once again the incredible sensation she'd had when first exposed to the space and air and light of the bush with Murray Evans. Slowly Kerrie's hesitation and nervousness dissipated. She stopped pausing to judge what she was doing and simply lost herself in the process.

Shirley could tell Kerrie was making progress, but she didn't ask questions. Sometimes Kerrie arrived late at Shirley's dugout, where a glass of chilled white wine waited. Often she was still in paint-smeared working clothes, having stopped only to wash her hands and face. Sometimes they sat outside the dugout to watch the sunset, even though the furnace heat of the day had yet to diminish, and Kerrie would talk about her work and Shirley would listen approvingly.

Sometimes Kerrie cooked dinner for them both, a task she enjoyed, while they listened to the news on the radio. Over their meal they discussed world events, politics and their views on national issues. Kerrie quickly appreciated that Shirley's knowledge and opinions were wide ranging, and, in comparison, she realised how out of touch she'd become in the months since Milton's death.

Sometimes they played a game of Scrabble or watched a DVD, but mainly they just sat and talked before Kerrie drove the few minutes back to Ingrid's dugout. Occasionally, late in the evening, they would have a nightcap in the dark on Shirley's small porch, looking at the carpet of stars above, and the few yellow pinpricks of lights below, and in the distant sky above the horizon, silent flashes of lightning would flicker.

‘Wait till you experience a summer thunderstorm,' said Shirley. ‘In Lightning Ridge it's said that the ironstone ridges attract the lightning.'

‘Is that how it got its name?' asked Kerrie.

‘Yes. The story goes that a shepherd and several hundred sheep were all struck and killed by a lightning strike. The thunderstorms are frightening and dangerous out here. I saw one at the lake once . . .' Shirley shuddered. ‘A storm can be a spectacular sight just as long as you're not out in it.'

One evening, feeling mellow after a good dinner and the best part of a bottle of wine and grateful to this supportive and spunky woman beside her, Kerrie said, ‘Shirley, you've become such a good friend. I feel I've dumped all my problems on you. You've always listened and given me such good advice. And I thank you so much for that. You know more about me than anyone else, I think. But you know, I hardly know a thing about you, your background, your life. I've been so selfish and wrapped up in my own issues that I haven't bothered to ask about you.'

Kerrie was expecting Shirley to brush her comment away or make a light-hearted remark about it, so she was surprised when Shirley looked suddenly thoughtful and was silent for a moment or two.

Finally Kerrie said quietly, ‘Sorry, I didn't mean to pry.'

Shirley looked at Kerrie. ‘People always say that I'm happy to tell them all about myself, if they just ask, but only a few people really know the true story of why I came here and why I stay. And sometimes I wonder myself.'

‘Shirley, you don't have to tell me a thing if you don't want to,' said Kerrie quickly.

Shirley smiled at Kerrie. ‘But you're right. I do know a lot about your life, and I'm happy to listen. Occasionally you can get close to someone you haven't known very long, but out here that doesn't often happen. Perhaps it's the isolation, the overwhelming enveloping sense of space and landscape, and the fact that many people come here to escape, so no one talks about their past.'

‘I'm sorry. I've broken a cardinal rule.'

‘Nonsense. You and I are different. Sometimes there's a connection between women that's spontaneous.'

‘Yes. I've been thinking that, too,' said Kerrie. ‘Although I haven't really experienced such a bond before, except with my mother. I was never a coffee-with-the-girls type.'

‘Your Milton took front and centre in your life.'

Kerrie nodded. ‘I don't regret the fact he was, but it's left me unprepared to face the future alone.'

‘You mightn't be alone forever. But I won't lay platitudes on you because I can't talk. I stayed alone.'

‘Here?'

She nodded. ‘When you have a great and overwhelming love in your life you can't believe it won't be there forever. And when you're hurt by that person . . . I suppose we all deal with these things differently.'

‘Were you hurt badly?' asked Kerrie softly.

Shirley shook her head. ‘I've always been a very practical person.' She smiled. ‘I was a career woman and thought my time for love had passed.'

‘Did you get swept away?' asked Kerrie and, as Shirley nodded, she added, ‘Don't you think to have known a great love is better than never having experienced such feelings?'

‘If I'd known what was to come, I might have exercised some restraint,' said Shirley briskly. Then her voice softened. ‘Actually, I would like to tell you what happened. But I suppose it's a bit like painting a portrait. You need to know the background and the life experiences to capture what's inside a person. When you get to my age, they say that your life story is written on your face, in your eyes. As an artist, perhaps you can see that landscape of the soul. To understand my story you have to understand about opals, and the effect they can have on people.'

‘Like here, in Opal Lake?' asked Kerrie. She realised that Shirley might be slowly opening a door that had long been bolted.

‘And Lightning Ridge. The opal fields. I've lived through a lot of changes.'

‘And you wouldn't live anywhere else?'

‘No, I wouldn't,' said Shirley. ‘Well, that's how I see it. Others might have acted differently.' She straightened and resettled herself in her chair. ‘Top up our drinks, and I'll start at the beginning.' The hesitancy had gone, and her voice became stronger, almost enthusiastic.

The young girl bounced beside her father, taking three steps to each one of his strides. She skipped and hopped and occasionally spun in a circle, dancing to a tune she hummed, and then she ran to catch him up.

‘You'll spend a lot of energy and walk twice as far as I do hopping around like that,' said Albert Mason. ‘Slow down. You'll wear yourself out in this heat.'

‘Where are we going today, Daddy?'

‘Hmm. Where do you think? We're going to go down deeper into the mine shaft.'

‘Are we getting close to the opals? When will we find some?'

‘I don't know. It's the luck of the draw, sweet pea. There're a lot of hardworking fellows who never strike it rich and then some lucky chap comes along and finds opal in five minutes. Well, almost.'

‘Are we lucky?'

‘Sure we are, Shirley. Aren't we lucky to be out here with the birds and the animals, stars above us at night, food to eat, and a billy of tea by the fire?'

‘But we're here to find opals! You told Mummy that you'd bring back opals.'

‘Well, let's hope today is our lucky day.' He took her hand and they swung their arms as she skipped beside him.

‘If we find an opal, will we be the first people to ever, ever see it?' asked Shirley.

‘We will. It takes millions of years to form one, but opals have been treasured since ancient times. There's a story that a Mughal ruler wore an opal in his turban. And Napoleon gave the Empress Josephine the most beautiful opal in the world. It was called the Burning of Troy because it had wonderful flames of fire in it.'

‘Where is it now? Can we see it?'

‘It's sad, but after Josephine died, no one knows what happened to the opal. It might reappear one day, you never know. In Roman times, Mark Antony tried to buy a magnificent opal ring from an old senator to give to Cleopatra, the queen of Egypt. But the old senator refused to sell it even though he was threatened with all kinds of punishments.'

‘Did he keep the ring?'

‘Yes, he did. He escaped and lived as a poor man in another country rather than part with his opal ring.'

Shirley mulled over these stories. Her father dispensed information in stories, anecdotes and sometimes poetry, all the time. The names he mentioned were not familiar to her but she knew that if she listened to her father she would learn things.

They came over the small rise studded with what her father called wild orange trees, which offered welcome shade to the diggings. They stopped and Albert contemplated the pockmarks in the white clay spread before them. The soft mounds of stark cream-coloured mullock heaps, which stood beside the mostly abandoned shafts, looked like the night foragings of giant bandicoots.

Albert smiled to himself. ‘Well, lass, it seems as though everyone is hard at work, unless they've moved on to the new field out at Pig Tree Hill.'

‘Will I go and see where everyone is?' asked the girl.

‘You know the rules. You don't go near shafts or run around without me. There could be a mine that's not easy to see and if you fell down it, what would I do then? Come on, you and I have work to do.'

‘Yes, Daddy.'

The little girl helped Albert pull the sheet of iron, branches and stones from the top of their shaft. Underneath was a roughly cut hole, two and a half foot square, disappearing into darkness below. Together they pulled the tattered canvas cover from their simple metal windlass, its green cowhide bucket attached to the rope. Albert slung the ladder, which he'd made from rough pieces of wood and wire, down the shaft, checking that it was secure, for the shaft was now fifteen feet deep. Initially he'd simply dug footholds into the sides of the mine with a tomahawk, but when Shirley had slipped and fallen, he had built the rough ladder, which they now used. Once he was at the bottom, Albert called for his daughter and helped her down.

Nimble and swift, her feet half slid down the ladder. As she jumped lightly to the floor of the shaft, her father admonished her.

‘Take it easy, kiddo. Wait till your eyes adjust to the light, and look around before you move. You never know what might be down here.'

It was easy to trip over the tools and piles of dirt and rocks that lay around the bottom of the shaft, and in the tunnel that angled away into darkness. Using his torch, Albert found their spider, the metal-ring candle holder that was stuck into the wall, and lit the wick of the candle. The pale yellow glow cast shadows onto the gouged earth walls.

He had started a small drive to the left, just high enough for him to sit reasonably comfortably and use his pick to bite into the packed-earth face of the mine. As the piles of dirt fell around him, his daughter scooped them up with a trowel and dropped them into the hide bucket. Her father smiled at her efforts. After he had been digging for some time, he stopped and helped Shirley fill the bucket. When it was full, Albert climbed back up the ladder and raised the bucket using the windlass, tipping it out beside the mine shaft.

Shirley scrambled out and stood beside him, ready to start picking through the dirt tailings as Albert had taught her to do. She had a keen eye and was quick to pick any stones that showed a discolouration that might indicate potential opal-bearing dirt.

After her father had sent up three or so buckets, he lit a small campfire and, hanging the billy over it to boil, he told Shirley that it was smoko time. While they drank their mugs of tea, they sorted through the bucketloads, putting any possibilities to one side. Occasionally Albert used his cutters to snip a corner off a promising-looking stone, searching for colour.