The Opal Desert (30 page)

When Jock returned Shirley's equipment he scraped his boots and whipped off his hat as she invited him to come in and sit down.

‘You look pleased with yourself, Jock. How'd you go?' asked Shirley.

The normally taciturn Scot gave a broad grin. ‘It was there all right. Not much, but it's safely stowed, till them buyers hit town.' He reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a sock and shook out several pieces of opal onto the table. ‘Here, have a look. You're a pretty good judge.'

Shirley studied the stones, admired the colour, congratulated him on his find and spent the next hour talking to him about opals.

Finally, Jock felt comfortable enough to ask, ‘You won't be mining no more?'

‘Hard work for me on my own,' admitted Shirley. ‘But I'm thinking about it.'

‘Plenty of fellows would go in with you. In the mine,' he said, looking faintly embarrassed at coming close to what was locally considered the taboo subject of Stefan.

‘I'm all right for the moment, Jock. I'll manage. I still have my little nest egg, but when I need to, I'll think about mining again. Plenty of time.'

Jock scratched his head. ‘Aye, time, there's the rub, eh? Fellow like me, pushing eighty. I haven't got as long as I'd like. My back gives me trouble. Not as strong as I used to be.'

‘So you need to find a young fellow to come in with you. Got any family out here?' asked Shirley.

‘No. It's only me. Got a few nephews back in Scotland but they don't fancy this lifestyle. Not that I blame them, it's hard work. And all the new people out here now want the fancy gear. Heavy machinery. They'll be looking for big investors, serious mining people.' He shook his head. ‘It's all changing. Don't know how much longer I can keep at it.'

‘What else would you do with yourself, Jock?'

‘That's a tricky one. Not going back to the city, that's for sure. Reckon I'll be staying in me little camp out in the bush, till the day comes and they find me sleeping the sleep of the dead under a tree.' He smiled. ‘Could be worse places. I have a nice bed under the trees and I lie out there under the old net and listen to the leaves rustling and talking. A lot of stories whisper across the opal fields. But one day all those stories will be gone.'

‘That's a sad story you're telling me, Jock,' said Shirley, trying to mimic his Scots brogue. ‘Don't you know any cheerful ones?'

‘Stories! I know stories that will make your toes curl, make you bust a valve laughing, and secrets too. Och, aye, I do.'

Shirley studied him as he reached for his pipe. ‘Y'know, Jock, it'd be a shame if those stories were lost. There's a lot of history out here.'

He nodded emphatically. ‘Aye. Once people are gone, it's all gone. But what to do, eh?' He shrugged.

‘I'll tell you what we do, Jock. We'll write them down. Or I will,' said Shirley suddenly. ‘When you're so inclined, come and see me. You tell me those stories and I'll put them down. What do you say?'

He thought about it for a moment. ‘That's a grand plan. Will there be biscuits?'

Shirley laughed. ‘Indeed there will. Maybe a fruitcake with the tea. I'll look forward to it.'

Jock was pleased to see the light back in Shirley's eyes. He didn't think anyone would be interested in the stories he had to tell, but if it gave Shirley some spark and put the light back in her eyes he'd be sure to come and see her again.

So it began. Jock's visits were augmented by visits from one or two of the other old-timers, who also came to share their stories. At the pub there were jokes about Shirley's old suitors. The men swore they were doing it to help Shirley and give her an interest. But deep down the miners and the loners who'd lost touch with their families long ago saw it as a way to leave their small mark, explaining who they were, what they'd seen and what they'd done.

It was the spark, the lifeline that Shirley needed. Her skills of gentle probing, patient listening and hours transcribing were valuable. She filled notebooks. She dragged out her old typewriter and the tape recorder she'd forgotten why she'd kept, and set them up on her kitchen table.

Gradually she filled the old fruit boxes and cartons that Toby sent up from the store with files and notes and packed them away, clearly labelled.

When she didn't see Jock for a few weeks, she asked if someone could check on him. They found him, as he'd hoped, sleeping on his stretcher bed beneath the sandlewood trees under a shroud of torn netting. The occasional bird call and the soft rustle of the leaves kept him company.

‘What a beaut place to sleep through eternity,' muttered one of the men.

They packed up Jock's meagre belongings from his mudbrick shack, pausing to admire the old man's skill in transforming mulga branches into basic furniture as well as the crooked stairway he'd constructed, which led to the flat roof of the dwelling. Amidst the debris of leaves and animal droppings on the roof stood an old tin bathtub with a hose attached to the water tank, where he must have sat and soaked, admiring his view.

Later they delivered a big old rusting biscuit tin to Shirley. She knew that the tin had probably been searched for opals for there was nothing of value in it, only old army medals, yellowing photos and postcards, and a powdery sprig of heather.

Jock was not the last to make Shirley the repository of effects treasured for sentimental reasons rather than their value. Sometimes miners gave her items that were of value with the casual comment, ‘If you find something to do with these, then you'll know what to do.'

The miners' stories and their artefacts were carefully documented and stored. Shirley knew that eventually they would be appreciated by a museum or some other archive, for the life of the opal field that they described was fast disappearing. So she kept them safe.

The mantle of keeper of the stories, the one who held remnants of a life that might otherwise be forgotten, settled gently and easily on Shirley's shoulders. She ordered books by mail and wrote copious lengthy letters to academics and specialists to learn more about the detritus of the lives that ended in the pockmarked landscape of unfulfilled dreams and hopes.

More and more people called in to see her, and Shirley always insisted that she was fine, telling them that she was keeping busy, doing the things she'd been planning to do for years. As if to prove it, she even set up a bit of a vegetable garden in a section of galvanised tank, and erected a shade cloth over it to shelter her plants from the sun. Visitors always knew that Shirley kept a pot of tea on the go and homemade biscuits to share. People would check at the store and the post office to see if there was anything for her before they went to see her and sometimes a visit with her could stretch over many hours.

*

Shirley looked into the remains of the cold tea in her cup and was silent, remembering. Then she sighed. ‘Those old men gave me a reason to be here. So I stayed in Opal Lake, in my dugout, and I tried to forget Stefan and what had happened.'

‘What do you think did happen to Stefan?' asked Kerrie.

‘I never heard from him again. I blame myself.'

Kerrie waited a moment. ‘Do you know if he saw his mother?'

‘I don't know but, as I said before, it was hard to find out anything. I tried ringing his cousin Franko again, in desperation, but I got nothing new. I didn't know what else to do.'

‘Surely you don't believe there was anything in an old flame or a family marriage setup?' said Kerrie. ‘Milton used to always tease me about the girl he knew when he was ten years old who he thought he'd marry. He said that she probably grew up to be hairy and fat.'

‘The trouble was that his disappearance seemed so out of character, but I couldn't get any information.

I called everyone I could think of at the Ridge in the Yugoslav community and no one was helpful. Even Zoran wouldn't speak to me. They'd closed ranks, you see. I was an outsider.'

‘Did you contact the embassy?'

‘Yes. They told me the date that Stefan had arrived in Yugoslavia, but said that they had no date for his departure, so he was still in the country.'

‘But you believed Stefan never stopped loving you?' said Kerrie, imagining Shirley's pain.

‘I was in agony, wondering. But as time went on I began to doubt. I thought that if he had loved me at all, he would have got a message to me to explain what had happened. But nothing.'

Kerrie looked at Shirley sympathetically. ‘And you've never stopped hoping, have you.'

‘I've never stopped hurting,' Shirley corrected her.

‘You didn't want to move from here?'

‘Stefan was the love of my life. Yes, I was hurt. I wish I knew what had happened. But he had decided not to come back, for whatever reason. I've done all the rationalising, analysing, blaming and justifying I can. I locked myself away until those old miners rescued me. I was hurt and wounded and embarrassed and I felt foolish, but people treated me with kindness, even though I know some of them speculated about me behind my back. It was only later, when new people moved here who didn't know Stefan, that things became easier. But deep down I never, never forgot.'

‘So that's why you're still in Opal Lake?' asked Kerrie softly, deeply touched by this woman's love story.

‘I know that he won't come back, but I think I always hoped he would, and I'd be here when he did. He was the love of my life. For better or worse.'

‘Oh, Shirley. That's so sad.'

‘I've lived with it for a long time, and I've gradually come to terms with how my life turned out. I had a great love. More than I ever dreamed possible. Some people never have that. I've made a life for myself, which I enjoy, in a place that I love.' She smiled. ‘Now, Kerrie. Enough about me. I seem to have talked for hours. Tell me, how is your painting coming along?'

‘Actually, I think a couple of them are okay. Not sure about some of the others. But I've enjoyed doing them. It's like a light has gone on in my heart and soul and mind.'

‘I'm glad. Could I see one?'

‘Of course. You've shared so much with me, how could I refuse? And I won't be offended if you don't think much of them,' added Kerrie. ‘I'll bring one or two of them to show you. And I'll bring a good bottle of red. I've finally managed to find a half-decent one at the pub, but next time I come to Opal Lake I'll bring my own.'

‘That's music to my ears. Next time . . .' Shirley paused. ‘It's nice for me that you escaped having Christmas with Milton's girls, but when you go back they'll still be there. You're going to have to sort out your relationship with them.'

‘Don't I know it. I love being here without the hassle of dealing with them, but I can't just ignore them.

I feel a sense of responsibility towards them because they are Milton's children and I loved Milton more than I ever thought it possible to love anyone. But you know, since Milton's death, I've thought about our marriage and I realise that it was very one-sided.'

Shirley straightened up. Kerrie realised that they had come full circle. Shirley was once again her strong, practical, sensible self. But Kerrie was not prepared for what Shirley had to say.

‘Kerrie, we have talked night after night and I know a lot about your marriage and I have come to a conclusion about you. I think that you were a bit of a wimp and you let Milton subsume you! Why didn't you stand up to him? Surely you must have felt and known how he dominated you.'

Kerrie shifted uneasily. ‘I guess I did, deep down. But I didn't want to rock the boat. He could be quite volatile. He was much older than me and he frequently made me feel like I was a stupid schoolgirl. I think he knocked my confidence around. Even the girls accused me of being a doormat. But overriding everything was the fact that I was in awe of him! He was so talented and so highly regarded all around the world, and I was in his slipstream. People idolised him and I guess I did, too.'

‘There's the public persona and the man at home. You shouldn't have let him bully you – which, from what you have told me, is what he did. It sounds to me as if Milton was arrogant and selfish. And you let him get away with it. That might be partly why things are so bad with the girls. Why would they respect you, Kerrie, when it seems that you didn't respect yourself?'

‘Shirley! You don't understand! I was a very young bride, with very little experience of life, stepping into an established household, with a famous husband and stepdaughters not much younger than me. It was hard,' said Kerrie defensively.

‘Of course it was. And I understand how you loved Milton, but I think that your relationship with him was at some cost to yourself, I have say,' said Shirley. ‘And I can't help but think that he spoilt those girls on a superficial level, which didn't really help them, either. The fact that he left the bulk of his estate to you is a thorn between you and the girls, and it's put you in a difficult situation. Now the question is how should you be dealing with the present poisonous relationship between you and his daughters?'

‘I just haven't known what to do. It all seems too late. I wish that Milton was still here to sort it out.'

‘Well, he isn't here and, far from sorting things out, he's left you holding the bag. It's up to you, Kerrie, but I think that you need to decide whether you want to persevere with your relationship – such as it is – with your stepdaughters or just move on with your life. What do you want to do?'

‘Oh, Shirley, what's the point?' sighed Kerrie.

‘You haven't answered my question. What do you really feel about those girls?'

Kerrie thought a moment. Shirley was being quite confronting. ‘I would like to have an amicable relationship with them. They are Milton's children, and I never had children of my own. And, I suppose if I'm truthful, I've always been very fond of Alia, the youngest. I thought that we could be good friends, but her sisters seemed to overrule everything.'