The Opal Desert (7 page)

‘I love you, Mum. You've been the best mum in the world.'

Her mother surprised her by whispering, with great effort, ‘Love you, Ker. Such a good . . . girl.'

They were the last words her mother spoke. Over the next forty-eight hours Glynis struggled, her breath coming in hoarse, laboured gurgles. Kerrie went into the kitchen, shakily trying to make a cup of tea. The palliative care nurse she'd hired when her mother had made it clear that she did not want to go to hospital quietly explained to Kerrie that her mother's body was closing down and that it wouldn't be long now. Kerrie burst into tears.

‘Let me do that for you,' said the nurse softly. ‘Stay with your mother. These are precious moments. You're lucky she isn't in pain.'

‘Does she know I'm here?'

‘You know you are here, with her, and that will comfort you,' answered the nurse.

When the moment came, her mother suddenly tried to lift her head, her eyes snapping wide open as she looked towards . . . something.

Kerrie grabbed her feather-light frame in her arms, putting her face before her mother's eyes.

‘Mum, it's Kerrie, I'm here, I'm with you. Be safe, be happy. You deserve it. Oh, Mum . . .' As the sounds in her mother's throat stopped, Kerrie lay her gently on the pillow and rested her head on her mother's chest, her tears spilling onto those frail hands.

‘Stay with her as long as you like,' said the nurse as she watched Kerrie from the doorway.

The late afternoon light faded from her mother's bedroom, which was filled with the little things she loved. Kerrie sat there, feeling completely desolate. The nurse brought her a cup of tea.

‘What do I do now?' asked Kerrie, a rhetorical question that she quickly amended to, ‘I mean, about my mother . . .'

‘I'll notify the doctor. If you let the funeral home know . . . Can I call someone to come and be with you?'

Kerrie shook her head. ‘There's no one.'

‘There will be some paperwork, but there won't be any red tape over the death certificate,' said the doctor, when he came. ‘This must be hard for you. You've just lost your husband, haven't you?'

‘Yes, I have. I just wanted to say thank you for all the care and attention you've given Mum . . .' Kerrie choked up and could say no more.

‘She was a very sweet lady. I'm glad that you were here. That will give you some comfort in the future.'

Kerrie nodded tearfully. ‘I just wish I'd been able to say goodbye to my husband . . .'

The doctor patted her hand, knowing there were no words he could say. He felt immeasurably sad for this still young woman who seemed so alone in the world.

Glynis Jackson's funeral was small and simple. Relatives, neighbours and friends, who'd known her for years, came along to say goodbye. Her mother had asked to be buried next to her husband and there were only a few from the funeral who came to the graveside. Milton's daughters sent flowers but did not attend. Kerrie stood bleakly as the small service concluded and she walked back to her car by herself.

Three weeks later she was contacted by Milton's solicitor to arrange an appointment to read Milton's will. Milton's brother Byron was the executor, but couldn't travel from his home in the USA due to complications from a knee replacement. The solicitor, Walker Smith, a family friend, had told Kerrie it wasn't necessary for Byron to be present anyway, as he had spoken to him on the phone.

Kerrie sat opposite Walker Smith. His hands were folded on top of a file. He smiled at Kerrie.

‘How are you holding up?'

‘All right, thanks, Walker. I've had two funerals to deal with.'

‘I was sorry to hear about your mother. This is a hard time for you.'

Kerrie nodded. ‘I'm coping. But it's a bit overwhelming with all the cards, emails, phone calls about Milton. It's going to take a long time to respond to so many.'

‘Will the girls help you?'

‘They could, but they won't.' She sighed. ‘Now that Milton has gone they seem to have dropped all pretence of being cordial to me.'

‘They're grieving, Kerrie. Like you. Let them do it their way. They're lucky they have each other. Who's looking after you? Helping you?'

‘Oh, lots of our friends have called, invited me to come and be with them for meals, outings. But I find it too hard. I'm not ready to talk about Milton . . . the good times, reminiscing . . .' Her eyes welled up. ‘I just want him back,' she said, her voice rising.

‘I can understand that. Have you any close friends, particularly a girlfriend? My wife tells me that they are very useful at times like this,' said the solicitor kindly.

Tears rolled down Kerrie's face, and she shook her head as she searched in her handbag. ‘None that I really want to talk to.'

The solicitor pushed a box of tissues towards her.

‘Maybe you should take a short break, Kerrie. Get away from that house in Rose Bay with all its memories. Gather yourself and start to come to terms with your life now. Maybe away from everything you'll be able to deal with things better.'

‘Where would I go? I couldn't face the villa in Italy.

I don't think I'll ever go there again.'

‘Have you thought about what you would like to do now, Kerrie? You've devoted yourself to Milton for twenty years.' He paused and asked delicately, ‘Isn't there anything that you want to do for yourself?'

‘Milton swept me off my feet and I haven't thought of anything but Milton, his wishes, our life together ever since.' She smiled softly. ‘We have . . . We had a wonderful life. I've been very lucky.'

‘So don't you think it's time to think about yourself now?' he persisted gently.

Kerrie was quiet for a moment, she looked down, avoiding Walker's gaze. ‘I was an art student when I met Milton. I thought I was going to be an artist,' she said slowly. She looked up and gave the solicitor a rueful smile. ‘I haven't picked up a brush in all this time. Milton was the gifted one.'

‘Indeed he was. But as I understand it, when you have a talent, a dream, like your desire to be an artist, the passion is always there, it doesn't go away. Maybe it's time to let your own creativity flower.'

She stared at the kindly man in the dark suit and neat tie. In her head she suddenly saw a vision of Walker Smith as some kind of artist angel handing her a palette and a fan of paintbrushes. She smiled in amusement. ‘Actually now that you've said that out loud, you've kind of made that fuzzy dream seem vaguely possible.'

‘You'll never know if you don't try. But leave that for the present. What I'm advising, as a friend, is to just take a little time out for yourself. You'll think a lot more clearly about the future, then. Especially after we go through this.' He patted the file. ‘Shall we?'

Kerrie nodded. ‘Shouldn't the girls be here?'

‘Byron is the executor and he is privy to the contents of Milton's will, and he has instructed me to act on his behalf to administer the estate according to Milton's wishes.'

Walker Smith opened the file, took out an envelope, removed a document from it and, in a professional voice, began reading the last will and testament of Milton Carlo Faranisi. The words washed over Kerrie and seemed to have little meaning as Walker intoned the legal jargon. There were some specifics about where certain pieces of his work were to go. His boat he left to one of his old friends, there was a bequest of certain pieces to Byron and a handsome bequest to Wendy. When Walker paused and glanced at her before clearing his throat and continuing, Kerrie sat up straight and tried to pay more attention.

‘As my three daughters have been more than adequately provided for from their mother's estate, I leave my entire estate, excepting those bequests aforementioned, to my wife, Kerrie Joy Faranisi, to administer as she sees fit. The disbursement of my work is to be her decision as is the distribution of my personal effects . . .'

Walker glanced up at Kerrie. ‘The rest of this is pretty mundane. Milton did not want an ostentatious memorial plaque or statue erected. And obviously you will know which works he is referring to in this attached list of pieces he wants you to keep or dispose of to appropriate people, or places.'

As the solicitor paused, Kerrie shook her head. ‘Walker, have I missed something? Does he say in effect that I am the sole beneficiary of the bulk of his estate? Surely that can't be right? What about his daughters?'

‘He says quite clearly that they were provided for from their mother's estate.'

‘But I know they'll be expecting something from their father!' exclaimed Kerrie.

‘Possibly they are.'

‘But this is terrible! They're going to think that I coerced Milton into making this will to benefit just me. What did Byron have to say?'

‘That if that's what Milton wanted, then so be it.'

‘Should I give them something?' asked Kerrie, feeling quite overcome.

Walker Smith looked at her. ‘Listen to me. Milton had his reasons for doing this. He wanted you to be in control of his estate and decide, as you've always helped him decide, where his sculptures should end up. Maybe, down the track, when you have had time to think, you might want to do something, but this is not the right time for rushing into rash decisions,' advised the solicitor.

‘I suppose I could do that.' Kerrie sighed.

‘Milton has made you the custodian of his legacy. You know his daughters are more than adequately provided for. He wanted to make sure you were looked after. Kerrie, when he did this will after he won that big art prize in Brussels, he told me that he owed so much of his success to you and that you had given up your dreams and made him your career. I can only agree.'

Kerrie sat quietly, digesting what Walker had said. She didn't know what to think or feel, knowing that Milton had acknowledged, if not to her then to his lawyer, the fact that she'd sacrificed her own dreams to support him. ‘I didn't know Milton felt like that. I never considered him a selfish person, it's just how he was, so focused, so single-minded about what he was doing that he swept everyone along with him.'

‘You're a generous and selfless person, Kerrie. A lot of us on the outside looking in considered Milton took more from you than he gave. The way you ran everything for him, tried so hard with those girls, and never seemed to argue or complain. Milton knew that you once wanted to be an artist and that you gave up your ambitions for him so maybe this is his way of thanking you.'

‘I didn't give up being an artist,' said Kerrie quietly.

‘I never even tried.'

‘Then I rest my case,' said Walker. ‘You are only in your early forties. You are beautiful and independent and now wealthy. So take time out just for you.'

‘Where would I go? I've never been anywhere without Milton.'

‘Do you like the outback?' asked Walker suddenly.

‘I've never been. Milton preferred to travel overseas.'

‘Then may I make a suggestion? I have a friend who happens to be an artist. Lives way out west. I can put you in touch with him if you like. He's a terrific character. I'm sure you'll like him maybe he can help you.'

‘Thank you, Walker. I'll think about it.'

S
HE WAS NOT ALONE
in the car. Andrea Bocelli kept her company and Kerrie sang along with the Italian tenor, trying not to cry as memories of the times she and Milton had spent in Italy flooded over her. Porto Ercole and their villa, Rome, Ravello, would she ever go back?

The countryside through which she was driving could not have been more different from Italy. The landscape was flat. The arrow of bitumen in front of her pointed to the centre of the horizon where a smudge of hills seemed to float above the earth. Perhaps it was a mirage. She wouldn't know for some distance yet. Stretching away on either side of the highway were scrubby patches of grass and grey shrubs that looked barely anchored in the black soil plains.

A few times her car was observed by statuesque emus, their soft feathers as dusty as the earth around them, their expressions imperious, heads held high on graceful long necks. But their eyes were beady and hard and Kerrie had no doubt that their beaks were sharp.

As she drove, so much of what she saw was familiar to her, even though she had never ventured past the city limits. Pictures she knew from books, calendars, magazines and movies, the familiar flora and fauna of Australia, seemed almost a cliché in reality. She wondered why she and Milton had never come out here.

Their life in Sydney was always so hectic, and when they got away it was for Milton's work or to places he loved, in Europe. And that's where most of their friends and acquaintances were, too. In Sydney, Kerrie realised she had no close friends who lived nearby.

Her mother had once tried to persuade Kerrie to take a little holiday just with Milton and had recommended Lord Howe Island where Glynis spent her honeymoon. Kerrie didn't even bother mentioning the idea to her husband, for she knew that it would not have appealed to him.

But now, out here, the openness, the light, the colours, so different from Europe, began to enchant her and she wished she and Milton had explored at least a little bit of the Australian bush.

The deaths of Milton and her mother had overwhelmed Kerrie. There was no time to grieve, she found that there was simply too much to do and so her feelings were put on hold.

Her mother's estate had to be finalised and her house emptied and sold. Sifting through her mother's possessions had been heartbreaking and as she sat alone in the house where she had grown up, surrounded by the things that her mother had loved, Kerrie realised just how much she had relied on her mother for support and companionship. But however emotionally hard sorting her mother's effects had been, it paled in comparison with the difficulties Milton's estate had presented.

Kerrie had to make decisions about many of his sculptures, sorting through which of them were on loan, which were part of an unfinished commission, and which he owned. She also knew that Milton would have wanted some of his work not just sold but donated to favoured institutions.

But any determination she tried to make was immediately and violently opposed by his daughters. Although Milton's will had made it clear that all decisions regarding his works were Kerrie's sole preserve, the three girls had argued about them. They accused Kerrie of not doing enough to maintain their father's reputation and that she was getting rid of much of his work with indecent haste so that she could make money from it.

Their opinions became too much for Kerrie. She remembered Walker Smith's suggestion and so here she was on her own, escaping, at least for now, to an unresolved future.

She stopped for a break in the tiny township of Burren Junction and found a take-away shop where she had a mug of rather bad coffee and an excellent meat pie. As she drove through the town's outskirts she saw a large green and white sign and halfway down it was her destination: Lightning Ridge 160 kilometres.

The outback opal mining town was not what she'd expected. In her mind's eye she had a vision of corrugated-iron shanties, a couple of old-style pubs, a basic motel, an ageing supermarket, a few shops, places selling mining supplies and an old fossicker selling an opal or two. But as she drove down Morilla Street, she was amazed at what a vibrant tourist town Lightning Ridge appeared to be. Signs for mine tours, fossicking trips, an unusual underground sculpture gallery, events and shows seemed to be everywhere, but art galleries and souvenir shops were outnumbered by dozens of opal shops. There was a new supermarket. Kerrie saw signs for accommodation of all descriptions: caravan parks and motor home areas, B&Bs and renovated fossicker's cottages all vied with the staid sixties-style motels for customers.

She pulled up outside a trendy café that would look at home in Double Bay or Kings Cross. She ordered a cappuccino from the blackboard menu of vegetarian and health food specialities and sat at a small outdoor table.

A man at the next table drained his coffee, folded his newspaper and handed it to Kerrie.

‘Yesterday's
Herald
. Like to look at it?'

‘No, thanks, I've read it already . . . yesterday. But thank you for asking.'

‘Not all the papers get up here on time. You visiting, eh?'

‘Just arrived.'

‘Picked the best coffee in town. Sightseeing or fossicking?'

‘Bit of both perhaps. Are you a local?'

‘Yep. Though what qualifies you as a local is a bit elastic. Where're you staying?'

‘I haven't found anywhere yet. I assumed I'd just find a room at a motel,' said Kerrie.

‘Hmm. You can't stay at the Diggers. It burnt down. Again. The pub and motels could be booked out. There are buyers in town. But there's some good little B&Bs. And the caravan park of course. How long you staying? Mind if I sit with you?' He pulled out the other chair at the small wrought-iron table and waved to the girl at the counter for another coffee.

‘I'm Billy. At your service.' He held out his hand.

Kerrie smiled as she shook Billy's hand, glancing at his friendly blue eyes, the salt and pepper beard, the faded T-shirt and shorts and the bush hat he carried. An expensive mobile phone, she observed, was clipped to his belt. ‘I'm Kerrie and actually I have no clear plans at the moment. I've come to meet a friend of a friend and just look around.'

Billy grinned. ‘Lady friend? There's a lot of t'riffic women working up here now. On their own, too.'

‘What sort of thing do they do on their own up here?' asked Kerrie.

‘Lots. They mine, work in the shops and the local community, and in the hospitality industry, of course. Most of the opal stores are run, or owned, by women. Some are talented jewellery designers. One grew up here. Her grandfather and father mined and she learnt a lot from them. Some girls come to the Ridge for a couple of days and never leave. So who's your friend? I might know her.'

‘It's Murray Evans. He's an artist.'

‘Too bloody right he is. Lovely fellow, so's his wife, Fiona.'

‘You know him?' said Kerrie.

‘Sure do. Known John and Fee since they first came to the Ridge. Nearly twenty years ago. His gallery is down the end of the street but he works in his studio out at his camp. Fiona is nearly always in the gallery.'

‘How long have you been in Lightning Ridge?' asked Kerrie. ‘Sounds like a long time.'

‘I was born around here in Mehi. Went away for a long time then came back. My missus died a while ago and so I moved out of town. You caught me on a town day. If I can help you, let me know. Murray has my number. I'll take you for a drive out to a mine or whatever, if you'd like.'

‘Thanks, that's kind of you. Do you mine for opals?'

‘That's the name of the game. The
raison d'être
for being at the Ridge. Yeah, I've got a claim or two round the place.'

‘Do you find many opals?' asked Kerrie. ‘I don't know much about them.'

‘That's a question you never ask around here. No one ever talks about what they're digging – though word creeps around soon enough.'

‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. Is it because someone else comes and pegs a claim next to you?' asked Kerrie.

‘Nah. Because of ratters.'

‘Ratters?'

‘Bastards who sneak into your mine at night and rip out your opal. The night shift!' explained Billy.

‘Can't you secure your mine at night?'

‘These blokes have night-vision goggles and heavy artillery. Serious stuff.'

‘It sounds like the wild west. Do the ratters get caught?'

‘There's always been Ridge law to deal with ratters. Funny how some fellas get pissed and stumble down a fifty-foot mine shaft in the dark and break their neck.' Billy grinned. ‘But now days, crims come in many guises. Some of the blokes who arrive in smart cars and fancy shoes are just as crooked as any ratter. The boys from the big end of town are creeping in.' Seeing Kerrie's startled look, he went on, ‘We're facing the end of an era here. But that's not what visitors want to know. You should get a sense of how it was in the old days.'

Kerrie nodded. She was startled by Billy's tales of lawlessness and wasn't sure whether to take them seriously or not. ‘Billy, you are a mine of information. Sorry about the pun,' said Kerrie.

‘No worries,' said Billy. ‘Ridge people are friendly on the whole. It's the spirit of the place. It's always been a pretty rugged lifestyle and if you don't help a mate in strife, well, don't count on getting help when you need it.'

‘I suppose so,' said Kerrie. ‘To tell you the truth I've never been this far outback before.'

‘Out here you have to rely on other people for everything – social life, helping with a job, getting supplies, that sort of thing. Mind you, there are people out in the scrub who prefer to keep to themselves. Might go months without seeing another human being. But that's the way they like it.'

‘Thanks, Billy. I have enjoyed talking with you. Let me pay for your coffee.'

‘Thanks, but no thanks. It's on the tick. I have a running account here.' He waved to the girl behind the cash register who smiled and held up two fingers, then pulled out a tattered notebook and added two coffees to Billy's account.

Leaving the café Kerrie could feel the deep warmth of the sun even though it was, by local standards, a balmy spring day. ‘It must get terribly hot here in the summer,' she said to Billy.

‘Too right. Quietens down then, too. The tourists leave and so do the winter miners.'

‘Who are they?' asked Kerrie.

‘Lots of retired people come up for the winter and dig away at their claims. It's a lifestyle thing, though they get a kick out of picking up a few dollars here and there.'

‘They don't make any big finds then?' said Kerrie as they strolled along the street.

‘Nah. Most of them just pick through the old diggings. To work anything new now you need decent machinery.

A jackhammer can be hard work for an old bloke. The real professionals use heavy-duty gear. Can be very expensive. But you can get lucky, and that's what everyone dreams of and why they keep pecking away. There could be opal an inch away. There's a story goes that one couple hit a patch of good-quality opal a few years back, and made several million bucks. And you know what? They're still here, living in their caravan, except that now it has a satellite dish.'

‘Maybe in the summer they go to their new million-dollar home in the Bahamas,' said Kerrie.

Billy laughed. ‘Who knows? Anyway, they're here because this's where they want to be.'

‘Must be nice to feel like that, and doing something together that you enjoy. Maybe finding opals is just an excuse.'

‘Might be. Some of them work like navvies, keeps them fit and they live together in little communal camps scattered round the place. But there are others who are deadly committed to finding opal. Opal mining gets to you. Opal is such hypnotic stuff. The men love it as much as the women.'

‘Like gold?' asked Kerrie.

Billy nodded. ‘I guess it can become an obsession. Now here's Murray's studio. I'll just pop in and say hello.' He pushed open the swinging saloon-style doors of the large gallery and shouted out, ‘Murray? Fiona? You've got a visitor.'

Inside the gallery was a counter cluttered with postcards, fridge magnets and brochures and on the wall behind it were two huge paintings of political leaders portrayed as animal caricatures. There was a small office to one side and Murray Evans came out to greet them.

‘G'day, Billy.' The artist smiled at Kerrie.

‘This is Kerrie, just arrived and says you have a mutual friend. So I'll leave you to it. Sold a few, have you, Murray?' enquired Billy as he glanced around at the gallery walls.

‘Doing all right. Had a lot of visitors. See you, Billy.'

‘Hooroo, Kerrie. I'll see you next time I'm in town, if you're still around.'

The artist came around the desk and shook Kerrie's hand. He looked to be in his fifties, his sandy hair was flecked with grey, and he radiated energy and good humour. ‘So who's our mutual friend?'