by Di Morrissey
Colin was surprised that everyone was on time and ready to go when they assembled outside Madame Olga’s mansion at Darling Point in the dawn light. It augured well for the trip, he thought. He gazed at his fellow travellers.
Topov strode among them, dressed in what appeared to be a new outfit of large khaki Bombay shorts held up by a leather belt with an elaborate buckle. Glasses hung around his neck as well as his director’s eyepiece, which was on a length of leather and tucked into his top pocket. He carried an ancient straw hat and wore boots that looked to be more suitable for snow than dust. Topov waved his arms a lot and kept checking on the last-minute loading of the cars. Peter and Drago ignored him.
‘Keep camera ready on top. Put in number one car. Topov can shoot quickly.’
‘There won’t be anything to film yet, for a while,’ said Drago.
‘Where is map? Topov keep map, show way to Northern Territory.’
‘Won’t we need a map to get to Bourke first?’ asked Colin. ‘We have to know which highway to take.’
‘We need to be on the road,’ said Helen, glancing at her watch. She was sensibly dressed in cotton slacks and a short-sleeved shirt and carried a large notebook.
Johnny lit a cigarette. ‘Who’s carrying the food? And who’s going with me?’
Johnny, Drago and Peter were the drivers. Topov, who assured them that he was an excellent driver, preferred to be in the lead car and navigate. ‘I see shots, we stop.’
Colin thought it strange that they’d be filming random things that caught Topov’s fancy. From the books he had read he was envisioning a large crew carefully setting up cameras and directing proceedings. ‘Is this how it’s always done?’ he asked Drago.
‘Shoot from the hip and run seems to be Topov’s idea, which is okay for some sequences. But I’m sure you’ll see the Hollywood-style director extravaganza before we finish,’ said Drago with a grin that was almost a grimace.
They set off. Johnny drove the Land Rover with Topov and Helen, who kept a wary eye on the little caravan they were towing. Drago drove the Jeep. Peter, Marta and Colin followed in the Dodge. There was little traffic as the convoy drove west towards the Blue Mountains.
‘Goodbye, Sydney. Goodbye, Sydney Harbour. I don’t suppose we’ll see as much water again for a long time,’ said Peter.
‘It is a beautiful city,’ Marta observed. ‘So . . . unspoiled. I don’t mean clean or not built up, but untouched. These Australians are very fortunate people.’
‘Untouched by war, you mean,’ said Peter looking at her. ‘Sweden was neutral. I don’t expect that you saw very much of the war. You didn’t see what I did.’
‘I saw enough. Where were you in the war?’
‘I was with the Dutch Resistance. Some of my family were killed in the war. After it was finished I wanted to get as far away as I could, so came to Australia. I worked on the Snowy River Scheme. Why are you here?’
Marta glanced back at Colin. ‘Europe is old and dying. I wanted to see the new world. Do as I wish.’
‘You must have a lot of stories, Peter,’ said Colin.
‘We have a long drive. Okay, I will tell you my story, sometime. And you must do the same.’
‘I don’t have anything exciting to tell. I’ve never travelled. Until now,’ said Colin. ‘So this trip is a first for me.’
‘For all of us it will be new,’ said Marta. ‘I wonder how we will be when it is all over.’
The day was long. They crossed over the Great Dividing Range and Colin explained that it was called the Blue Mountains because from a distance the range looked a hazy blue. They parked at the scenic lookout of Echo Point with the craggy peaks known as the Three Sisters on one side, the deep valleys below. It had been cool and cloudy and as they stood there the mid-morning mist floated away. Golden shafts of sunlight stabbed the sinister gloom and the sharp clear call of a bird reverberated.
‘I’ve seen grander mountains. But this is very magnificent,’ said Peter.
‘It needs snow,’ said Marta.
‘Shall I take a shot, Topov?’ asked Drago.
The director shook his head. ‘No. It is beautiful but not exciting. We go to jungle.’ He turned back to the Land Rover.
Colin decided to travel for a while in the Jeep with Drago. By late afternoon they were travelling through open countryside, past paddocks filled with sheep.
‘We’re out in the country now,’ said Colin. ‘Haven’t seen another car or town for ages.’ He glanced at his map. ‘But it looks like we still have a way to go to Bourke. We’ll have to stop somewhere. Like Dubbo.’
‘I hope Topov doesn’t want to film anything. It’s going to be dark. And where are we staying?’
‘Let’s ask him. They’ve stopped.’ Colin pointed up ahead to where the Land Rover had pulled over. The Dodge was some distance behind them. As they pulled to the side of the bitumen road they saw Topov studying a map. Helen was striding ahead, stretching her legs. Johnny was smoking a cigarette.
‘Is there a problem?’ Drago asked.
Topov took off his hat and rubbed his head, stabbing at the map with a finger. ‘Here, is town. Topov want coffee. Where coffee place?’ He looked around accusingly.
‘What town?’ asked Colin.
‘Red star here means town. Here must be town. You say we go Bourke way.’
‘Not in one day, Mr Topov,’ said Colin.
‘Here, look on map. B-O-U-R-K-E. Here, Sydney.’ He measured with the tip of his finger. ‘Is just finger between.’
‘On paper. But in Australia there are long distances between places,’ said Colin.
‘Well, there ain’t nothing out here,’ said Johnny. ‘Let’s drive on, it’s hard to tell distances.’
Drago looked at the map and the stretch of empty road disappearing towards the horizon as far as they could see. ‘No towns out there.’
Helen walked back to them. ‘There’s no point in standing around. Let’s continue. We’ll get coffee when we arrive in Dubbo.’
‘I hope they drink coffee in Dubbo,’ said Colin quietly to Drago. ‘Australians drink tea. You don’t see coffee much outside Kings Cross.’
Drago rolled his eyes. ‘I hope Johnny packed some coffee or Topov will go crazy.’
Two hours later they stopped at a café in a small country town but the waitress shook her head when Topov ordered coffee. Topov went red in the face and shouted at her, which sent the girl scuttling into the kitchen and the rest of the group looking embarrassed.
A woman appeared from the kitchen with a bottle of Camp Coffee Essence, a black sticky liquid she assured him tasted ‘quite nice with condensed milk’.
‘What is condensed milk?’
‘It’s thick, sweet, tinned milk.’
‘Okay. Bring me cup of condensed milk, I pour this black sludge in it.’
They travelled on much more slowly than they had expected because of the caravan and the poor road. It was now dark, the headlights illuminating a stretch of road lined with the occasional ghostly silver eucalyptus tree. In the three cars, all had fallen silent. The day had seemed endless and they all felt that they were travelling into a void. They were tired and uncomfortable.
Their packed lunch had long gone and all were hungry, each thinking of what they would like to eat when suddenly the Jeep ground to a halt. A quick inspection by Peter revealed that it had run out of petrol. It was refilled from the petrol can in the Land Rover.
‘Why it is empty? I hope it’s not leaking,’ snapped Peter looking at Johnny, who shrugged.
‘It doesn’t have as big a fuel tank as the others. We should have filled up when we stopped for coffee,’ said Johnny.
While Peter was filling up the tank some of the petrol spilt and when Johnny went to reach for a cigarette Colin stilled his hand. Johnny put the packet back in his pocket after exclaiming in some very ripe language.
‘Watch your language, please, Johnny,’ snapped Helen.
They had barely travelled anoth
er two miles when the Dodge’s engine began to make a pinging noise. Peter slowed down and pulled over.
‘Trouble?’ asked Colin, who’d joined the Dodge after the last stop.
‘Sounds like it. I’ll have a look.’
‘Can you tell what the matter is?’ asked Colin anxiously.
‘Could be a small thing. Could be a gasket. It will need a part. This car needs a big overhaul.’ Peter glared at Johnny. ‘Not such a good vehicle for a long journey.’
‘So what do we do? How much further to where we’re staying?’asked Marta, shivering in her shorts and top.
‘How far is the next town?’ asked Johnny.
Helen got the map from the Land Rover and woke Topov who was snoring in the back seat.
By the beam of the torch they peered at the map spread on the bonnet. ‘We’re not far from Dubbo,’ said Colin. ‘But I doubt there’ll be anything open this late.’
‘Might be best to wait till daylight and get to a garage. I don’t think it is a good idea to travel in the dark in case the engine gets worse,’ said Peter.
Topov ambled to the group and hearing this announced, ‘We camp. Go in bush and make fire. Make food, put up tent.’
There were sighs and grumbles.
‘We’re all tired and hungry. This is the best thing to do,’ agreed Helen.
They pulled into the dirt and under Peter’s direction began unloading tents and the other camping gear. Marta took a torch and walked further from the road into the bushes looking for kindling. In a minute there was a shriek and she hopped and squealed, dropping the torch.
Colin raced over. ‘What’s up?’
Marta pointed at a bush. ‘Over there. A snake!’
Colin nervously swung the beam of his torch at a small shrub.
‘Get a stick, kill it!’ Marta grabbed a branch lying on the ground and handed it to Colin.
‘Be careful picking thinks up in the dark.’ Cautiously he poked the stick at the bush, then leapt back.
A small rodent with a long tail darted away.
‘It’s only a bush rat of some kind. You’d better not go into the scrub alone in future. Take Helen or someone with you so you can look out for each other.’
Marta wrinkled her nose. ‘Helen wouldn’t like that. She is a very snobbish person, you know.’
Colin wanted to agree that he found Helen very intimidating but said comfortingly, ‘Oh, she’ll settle down once we’re all roughing it.’
At the fire Topov announced, ‘Topov has caravan. It is my house. My office.’
‘Where are the rest of us going to sleep?’ demanded Marta.
‘We’ve got tents but I’m happy to sleep in the car,’ said Drago. ‘Let’s get some food going.’
The discussion went to and fro. Drago and Peter began putting up the tents and Colin continued collecting wood for a fire.
‘Be careful there aren’t spiders or snakes under the bigger pieces,’ Marta reminded him.
‘Helen, you know how to put up a tent?’ called Peter, anxious to get on with things and end the talk.
‘I do not.’
‘Then you will have to learn,’ said Peter. ‘We’ll make a rule that everyone has to put up their own tent.’
‘I’ll need a lesson I’m afraid,’ said Colin.
‘Topov make rules,’ said Topov who felt he was losing control of the situation as the activity swirled around him, everyone now anxious to get settled.
‘Why bother with tents,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ll just sleep in a sleeping bag.’
‘Good idea,’ said Drago.
Peter began to swear under his breath in Dutch then turned to Johnny. ‘There aren’t enough tent pegs or guy ropes. Who sold these to you?’
‘It was a good deal, army surplus. They’re good enough for fighting men,’ answered Johnny. ‘Look, we can pick up what we need tomorrow. There won’t be a problem.’
‘Oh shut up, Johnny,’ said Marta. ‘Where is the food? You’re the cook.’
Tinned soup and toast made over the fire and a hot pot of real coffee helped everyone’s temper, although, not surprisingly, Helen preferred tea. Topov announced that he would now retire for the night and closed the caravan door behind him. Drago and Peter were the first to roll into their sleeping bags while Helen and Marta were sharing the best tent. Drago had shown Colin how to put up his tent and he gladly settled inside. Only Johnny remained in a collapsible chair by the fire, staring thoughtfully into the dwindling flames.
In the small hours when the fire had become warm ashes, not even a cattle truck rattling south along the Mitchell Highway disturbed the exhausted travellers camped by the side of the road, miles from their destination, while, unseen, cattle chewed quietly in a paddock beside them.
4
THE SECURITY IN THE small but ultra-modern building in the city initially surprised Veronica. There were surveillance cameras, a buzzer and speaker for entry into the building and another set of doors into the reception area. Thick carpet, the security guard next to the elevator and dark tinted glass doors at the entrance gave no clue as to what lay beyond. As she noticed the heavy gold frames around pictures of thoroughbred horses, she realised that someone like John Cardwell would take precautions.
She thought back to their research about him when they’d wanted to include him in a story on the racing industry and recalled tales of gold bullion under beds, a horse-swapping swindle in Hong Kong – blamed on the trainer – and offshore casinos with high-roller rooms frequented by celebrities, corporate executives and Saudi princes. But Cardwell had refused to be interviewed, no-one would speak about him and there were scant press cuttings or photographs of the elusive businessman.
The receptionist was a stern looking, middle aged woman, conservatively but elegantly dressed. ‘Please take a seat. Mr Cardwell has made an exception to see you. As you know he doesn’t give interviews, but you did say this was just a five minute conversation?’ she asked pointedly.
‘That’s right. It’s not a story about Mr Cardwell, but some people he once knew. I thought he might be able to help throw a bit of light on them,’ said Veronica reassuringly.
The receptionist didn’t look convinced. ‘This is very unusual for him. He’s making a few moments between appointments for you.’
‘Thank you. I shan’t keep him,’ said Veronica. She’d been amazed he’d actually agreed to see her in the first place. ‘Does he work every day? He must have tremendous energy.’ Like Colin, he must be at least eighty, she thought.
A few moments later Veronica entered a wood-panelled lift with a mirror on one wall and she wondered if there was a camera behind it, then admonished herself for feeling paranoid. She glided to the third floor where Cardwell’s personal assistant, a pretty young woman, was waiting as the doors opened. She escorted Veronica down a carpeted hallway, slid a security card into the door and ushered Veronica into an anteroom with closed carved-wood doors.
‘I’ll announce you in a moment or two. Would you care for anything?’
‘Thank you, no,’ said Veronica taking a seat on a small sofa. ‘I don’t want to hold Mr Cardwell up.’
There was a buzz, the girl reappeared, motioned to Veronica and opened the wooden doors.
The office was expansive with heavy furniture and wide windows that overlooked the Botanic Gardens. Behind a solid desk sat a man with thinning white hair and glasses, dressed, in contrast to the room, in casual pants and a golf shirt. He stood up and nodded to her, holding out his hand across the desk.
‘Hello. Now what’s all this about? Why is anyone interested in a non-event that happened fifty years ago?’
Veronica was tempted to ask why, if it was such a non-event, was he prepared to see her, but instead said, ‘It seems such an adventurous expedition with such an interesting group of people wanting to film the outback at a time when travelling there couldn’t have been easy.’
‘That it wasn’t. Go on.’ He waved at her to sit as he leaned back in his chair behind
his desk and clasped his hands, waiting.
‘I gather the film was never completed, but could you tell me anything that you can remember about that time?’
‘No. The whole episode fell apart in Darwin and we went our own ways. I never expected to hear about it again and I don’t want to relive it with the media, even Our Country. But what brought it to your attention?’
‘A chance meeting with Colin Peterson. He was the only Aussie in the group apart from yourself and Marta. Colin doesn’t think anyone else from the expedition is still alive.’
‘Colin and Marta and I were the youngest, so I assume everyone else has gone to God by now,’ said Cardwell.
‘Yes, Topov must have long died. How old was he when you met him?’
Cardwell narrowed his eyes. ‘You don’t know very much about Maxim Topov?’
‘Only what Colin has told me. What are your memories of him?’
‘As I said before, Miss Anderson, I don’t give out interviews to the media. Colin was very naïve and the project came to nothing. I suggest that you look for a more entertaining story to explore.’ He rose and held out his hand to end the conversation.
His abruptness surprised Veronica. While she knew that he was media shy and this was an episode in his life that he either wanted to forget or didn’t consider the least bit important, why had he agreed to meet her?
‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr Cardwell. I had hoped that you would like to help me more, but I realise how busy you are.’ Veronica strode across the room and grasped the brass door handle but the doors wouldn’t budge. She glanced back at the old man. Smiling broadly now, he touched a button on his desk and there was a click and the doors opened.
Veronica appeared at Andy’s office door. ‘Can I come in? I’ve just seen Cardwell.’
‘I know. Pull up a chair.’ Andy looked grim. ‘So tell me what transpired.’
‘Not a lot. The place is like Fort Knox. He’s very different from the impression I’d built up of the cheeky cockney cook with connections, though the good contacts must still be there. Cardwell’s outfit smells of serious money. He must have called in a designer to do the office.’