A Promised Land?

by Alan Collins

  ‘‘Well, despite all that, we believe Joshua Kaiser has left Sydney and the most likely place for him to go is here where he thinks maybe the bush is a good place to hang out in —’’

  Wayne Williams chipped in: ‘‘And where his grandmother Mrs Ethel Piper might be mug enough to help him.’’ The two policemen leaned back in their chairs and eyed the sergeant cynically. Despite the warmth of the day, there was an icy chill in the air.

  Suddenly Kelso shot to his feet. ‘‘I would be obliged, Sergeant Fisher, if you would get Andy Piper and his Sydney nephew down here straightaway. Williams will take the car and get Mrs Piper.’’ He paused. ‘‘Is there anyone else in the family to interview?’’

  Fisher hesitated; the headstrong Toni Piper could hold her own with most of the men she came in contact with, including the petrol heads that hung around Andy’s shed, but two wily Commonwealth Police cops … Well, maybe. The dilemma was solved for him by Wayne Williams delving once more into his briefcase. ‘‘Antoinette Peggy Piper,’’ he read smoothly, ‘‘aged seventeen, daughter of Andrew and Margaret Piper, resides at home at Brilliant Street, Bathurst … shall I go on?’’

  Sergeant Fisher looked coldly at Williams. ‘‘It was hardly worth mentioning — a kid really. She wouldn’t know anything.’’

  ‘‘Not notice if a good-looking young bloke comes to town, Sergeant?’’ Senior Constable Kelso instructed Williams to ‘‘collect the kid too’’. He didn’t ask about Toni’s mother, Andy’s wife, Fisher noted, and grudgingly acknowledged that perhaps the Commonwealth Police were not so sloppy about their work.

  Wayne Williams took the police car keys off the hook as though he were entitled to nothing less and went out. Fisher rang Andy and politely but firmly requested his presence forthwith at the police station. Kelso, looking very pleased with himself, proposed that they go to the pub while they awaited the Piper family. Fisher led the way. If there was one time he felt like a drink, this was it; just too bad that he didn’t much care for his drinking companions. The two policemen drank two schooners of beer in about the time it took Andy Piper to wash up and join them at the bar. They had another beer, talked about the weather, then the three of them walked back to the Rankin Street police station.

  Andy broke away from the policemen and ran ahead to where his mother and Toni were waiting. ‘‘I didn’t tell ’em anything,’’ he whispered, ‘‘but watch out for the two Commonwealth policemen, they’re as sharp as bloody tacks.’’

  Sergeant Fisher came up to Ethel and Toni. He wanted to explain but just could not find the words. He barely managed a ‘‘G’day’’ before Kelso introduced himself, completely ignoring Wayne Williams.

  ‘‘Well,’’ he began, ‘‘we seem to be all here, or am I mistaken? Mr Piper, where is your nephew, Mister Joseph King? Not at work with you this morning?’’ He swept his arm around the room theatrically. ‘‘The star of our little gathering and he’s missing. What a shame!’’

  Mrs Piper smiled a thin-lipped smile and murmured something about city fellas being unreliable. There was a silence then Toni said in a little girl voice: ‘‘Well, Mr Kelso, you’d never guess, but our dog Bazza’s gone missing. While you’re looking for draft dodgers, could you keep an eye out for Bazza? He’s a Border collie and …’’

  Kelso cut in roughly. ‘‘We’re not here as dog catchers, Miss.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Toni replied sweetly, ‘‘just young guys unlucky enough to have their future drawn out of a barrel like in some death lottery.’’

  ‘‘Is your cousin a draft dodger, Miss Piper?’’

  ‘‘No, he isn’t. He’s a …’’

  Mrs Piper interrupted her. ‘‘I think we’ve done all we can to help the police in this unpleasant matter. Now perhaps I can get back to my florist shop. And you, Toni, get on with the shopping.’’ She took Toni by the elbow and pushed her out of the room.

  Andy made a move towards the door. Kelso blocked his way. The suave Commonwealth policeman put a hand on Andy’s shoulder. ‘‘Look, old son, we’re not stupid. There’s no doubt that your Sydney nephew and our draft dodger are one and the same person. Now, you have the choice of assisting us or’’ — his fingernails dug into Andy’s shoulder — ‘‘or we charge you with aiding a person to evade lawful detention.’’

  Sullenly Andy nodded his head. ‘‘What do you want of me?’’

  ‘‘You’d know this countryside pretty well, wouldn’t you? Sergeant Fisher here hasn’t the manpower to provide search assistance but I reckon you would know all the gullies and creeks, and I understand there are caves around here too. As they say in the movies, ‘an offer too good to resist’. I’m not going to wait around for an answer. No fear, we’ll start at first light tomorrow with Sergeant Fisher minding the home base.’’

  Sergeant Fisher booked Senior Constable Warren Kelso and Constable Wayne Williams into the Park Hotel. Andy arrived there at five-thirty on a freezing morning that the weather bureau had promised would miraculously turn into a warm day. He was wrapped in a sheepskin jacket and wore a woolly hat pulled down over his ears. Andy had no choice but to drive the jeep. His ute would not seat them all and if they should make an arrest, well …

  When Kelso and Williams came out of the hotel, he was doubly pleased he had the jeep. The Commonwealth policemen were wearing the same dark suits they had arrived in; the jeep would do nothing to keep the chill out, especially when the wind whipped off the Great Divide.

  Andy spread out a map on the jeep bonnet. For all Kelso and Williams knew, it could have been the Simpson Desert. He circled an area that was a fifty-mile arc south-east of Bathurst. It stopped short of Bushrangers’ Cave. Andy knew that was where Toni had driven Joshua the day she had picked him up from his shed; he suspected she might have taken him there two nights ago. Why else would she need to refill the jeep’s tank — and there was the odd circumstance of Bazza going missing.

  The policemen bent over the map, watching Andy’s grease-stained finger stab at various spots, and heard him mutter: ‘‘Well, your man could be anywhere from Blayney to Orange.’’ Even at this stage, Andy refused to admit to the policemen that Joshua was their quarry. It gave him a quiet feeling of superiority to know that these two ill-clad city cops were entirely dependent on him. He folded the map, jumped into the jeep and started the engine. Kelso got in with Andy; Williams looked reluctant but sat nervously on the filthy back seat.

  The first part of the trip was over pastoral land which wouldn’t hide a poddy calf. The bitter wind cut into the policemen. The sun came up above the horizon and warmed them a bit; by that time the jeep was going lower into the many declivities where a myriad of tiny creeks fed the Macquarie River. After a few hours of Andy’s aimless driving along narrow dirt tracks, Kelso could see the futility of the task without a focal point for direction. Andy stopped the jeep. From under his seat he took out a thermos and poured black tea for the three of them. Williams was looking thoroughly miserable and had lost interest in the chase. Kelso asked to see the map. He ran his manicured finger over it, stopping at the Abercrombie Caves.

  ‘‘What do you know about these?’’

  Andy scratched his head, playing for time, a ploy the policemen were familiar with. ‘‘Well, come on,’’ Kelso cajoled, ‘‘Tell us what you know.’’

  ‘‘Ah, nothin’ much. They’re got up for tourists. You know, like the Jenolan Caves sort of. Haven’t been there for years meself.’’ He attempted to fold the map up but Kelso kept his finger hard on the spot.

  Williams said through chattering teeth, ‘‘Let’s have a look anyway. It’s got to be better than sitting here freezing a bloke’s balls off.’’

  Andy climbed behind the wheel with as much truculence as he could get away with; the policeman kept the map on his knees, following every twist and turn of the track. The weak sun barely penetrated the crowns of the trees; the only time the jeep slowed down was to let a lumbering ball of fur cross the track. Wayne shouted, ‘‘Wild pig!’’ Andy
answered laconically, ‘‘Wombat.’’

  They drove on in the uneasy silence of three men who did not care too much for the others’ company. In fact, the spiralling track was making the two policemen queasy, regretting their recent breakfast of chops, eggs and bacon. The map slipped from Kelso’s knees and Williams was about to ask Andy to stop when they were nearly thrown out of the jeep as it skidded to a halt. The policemen got back on their seats to see Andy kneeling on the track with his arms around Bazza, the dog licking his face furiously.

  They watched from their seats in utter amazement before Williams recovered and said sarcastically, ‘‘This must be Bazza, the wonder dog.’’

  Kelso added, ‘‘Well, at least there’s something for you to put on your report sheet.’’ Then to Andy, an official note in his voice, ‘‘What is your dog doing out here, fifty miles from home?’’

  Andy grinned. ‘‘He’s a bloody good traveller, don’t you think?’’

  He went to lift Bazza into the jeep but Kelso stopped him. ‘‘Well, if he’s that hot, put a rope on him and perhaps he’ll lead us to our draft dodger!’’

  The policemen stood on the track while Andy slipped a rope through the dog’s collar. He deliberately dropped the end of the rope and Bazza took off through the scrubby undergrowth. Kelso abused him. ‘‘Can’t you hold the bloody dog, man?’’

  Andy got angry. ‘‘Listen, you two, I’m only the bloody driver. I’m not paid to track blokes through the mulga. That’s your job. If you want to follow Bazza, feel free. Me, I’m just gunna sit here and wait.’’ He took out the thermos and sat back in the jeep. He could hear Bazza barking. ‘‘Youse had better get goin’ before old Bazza gets away from you.’’

  The policemen looked at each other then at Andy. Reluctantly they moved off the track. Andy smirked as their blue suits disappeared into the undergrowth.

  Bazza’s barking grew fainter then ceased. The bush had closed behind the two Commonwealth policemen as though they had never been. Andy knew Bazza would lead them in pursuit of every rabbit, wombat and goanna he could sniff out. He settled himself in the jeep and dozed off.

  Whether out of a quirky sense of humour or to genuinely instruct, Toni had included in Joshua’s bundle a leaflet telling all (and there wasn’t really that much) about the Bushrangers’ Cave. The simple map had shown him the Pulpit Chamber, named after the huge stalagmite which dominated the cave, and the Bedroom Chamber, the cave furthest from the entrance. He smiled ruefully; this was where he and Toni had made love. After Toni had left, Joshua lit the hurricane lamp. The soft flurry of bat wings no longer made him shudder. He read the dull geologists’ text with his mind on the delicious Toni. The odd combination lulled him to sleep leaving the lamp burning. When he woke, it had gone out and the kerosene well was bone-dry.

  The cave was still and black. He had no idea of the time. He thought, caves are supposed to be damp but this one was dry with the dryness of suspended time. He felt a tinge of fear, the fear of entombment, a quickening pulse and the loss of dimension and direction. On hands and knees he gathered up his gear and gingerly stood up. The outer cave was the Pulpit; he tried to recall the sketch map which showed one cave leading off another and the crudely drawn north arrow. Joshua put the gear down again. You nong, he told himself. If she gave me a lamp, she must have included matches! He scrabbled frantically until his hand closed over the box. He struck one match after another until he found the map. With only a few left in the box, he took Abe Lewis’s compass from around his neck and laid it on the map. The last match became a charred sliver before Joshua could line up the compass and the map’s north bearing.

  Now he felt a real fear. Squatting on the floor of the cave, he sought comfort and assurance by clutching the items he and Toni had brought into the cave. Hugging the sleeping bag close to him, he felt ashamed of his fears, likening it to his childhood devotion to his teddy bear. With exaggerated bravado, he threw aside the sleeping bag and stood up only to experience a sickening bitterness as the glass face of the compass shattered under his boot. The utter blackness of the Bushrangers’ Cave had closed in on him like an enemy that had remorselessly caught up with him.

  Frightened, hungry and cold, and tortured by thoughts of how Ilan (and even Toni) would have handled his situation, he collapsed on the sleeping bag and fell asleep.

  Joshua woke to a wet nose on his neck, a paw scraping his arm, a tail swishing against him. Bazza nuzzled him into wakefulness. He hugged the dog for its warmth and the life it brought with it. Only then did he notice the rope still trailing from Bazza’s collar. Without thinking of its implication, he grabbed it like a lifeline, felt around in the blackness for his possessions and allowed himself to be led like a blind man.

  Soon the faintest breeze fanned his chilled skin. The blackness was changing into lightening shades of grey. Bazza tugged him onward until Joshua could hear the first curlews of the dawn, as they finally stood framed in the cave’s archway breathing in the clean, icy morning air.

  Joshua and Bazza sat together in absolute silence. His watch told him he had passed a whole night in the cave. ‘‘How about some tucker, Bazza?’’ He opened a packet of Toni’s sandwiches and was about to break it in half when the dog gave a nervous tremble and its ears shot up. After a moment, Joshua thought he could hear the snapping of twigs and human voices. He gathered up his gear and picked up the rope on Bazza’s collar. Despite the shattered glass, the compass needle still found north. For the first time in two days, he stepped outside the Bushrangers’ Cave.

  ‘‘Righto Bazza. Here’s the plan,’’ he said, knowing it would sound foolish but hoping that Ilan, man of action, would approve. ‘‘We head east along the ridge by Campbell’s River to Black Springs and then to Oberon by nightfall. There, I’ll put you on the train back to Bathurst and’’ — he patted Bazza as a mate in equal partnership — ‘‘you can kiss Toni for me because I’ll be on the milk train to Sydney.’’

  THIRTEEN

  The usual pall of grime hung over Redfern Station and the surrounding shunting yards, festooning it all like a grubby spider’s web. The Oberon goods train trundled across the myriad points, each one directing it to its ultimate destination, a siding where the great shining milk tanks were tran-shipped by truck to the company dairy. Joshua had actually enjoyed the ride in the guard’s van. The guard, an old time socialist and staunch unionist, told Joshua the Vietnam war was ‘‘the peasants against the Imperialists and Capitalists and I reckon the Jews and Catholics have a finger in the pie too!’’ Joshua, too exhausted to agree or correct the old man, was happy enough that he was not thrown off the train. He realised that after a day and a night in the bush, he looked no better than a derelict. Bazza had been easy to consign back to Bathurst. As for himself, it was only after he had told the guard that the police were after him, that the old man began to sympathise. ‘‘Bloody political persecution, that’s what it is,’’ he growled as he hauled Joshua aboard the van.

  They said goodbye and swore working-class solidarity to each other. Joshua sneaked out of the goods-yard and headed for the nearest phone box. The tattered piece of paper he took from his pocket bore the now barely discernible Hebrew alphabet/numbers of Uncle Siddy’s telephone. Joshua dialled the number, catching a glimpse of himself reflected in the glass. ‘‘Not even my own mother would recognise me,’’ he told himself, and grimaced at the bitter truth of the statement.

  The ringing stopped. A man’s voice asked tentatively, ‘‘Who is it?’’

  Joshua thought he would play the same game. ‘‘Who wants to know?’’

  ‘‘Why do you ask?’’

  ‘‘What does it matter?’’

  ‘‘To me it matters.’’

  ‘‘Siddy?’’

  ‘‘Joshua?’’

  A cackle of laughter came down the line so shrill, Joshua held the phone away from his ear. After the laughter lapsed into a coughing fit (Joshua could almost smell the cigar) Siddy asked him where he was. Joshua hesitated
to tell the old man, who had a big mouth. Instead, he gave the number of the call box and asked Siddy to ring the number at seven o’clock that night. Pretending to be hurt that he was not to be trusted, the old man agreed. They said goodbye. Joshua found a dilapidated cinema showing Italian films. He bought a ticket and sat through two showings of a sleazy B grade film then roamed the streets until it was time to phone.

  The phone box was empty. Joshua pretended to scan the Yellow Pages. Right on seven, the phone rang. But it was not Siddy. Laura’s voice, laced with love and excitement came to him, letting loose a flood of emotion. The phone was quite inadequate to convey their feelings; neither would let the other finish a sentence, Laura trying desperately to explain how the Commonwealth police had trapped her into revealing Joshua’s Bathurst hide-out and Joshua reassuring her that no harm had been done. Suddenly it all came to an abrupt end.

  Ilan’s hard, clipped Israeli accented voice was in command. ‘‘Tell me where you are. Do not move, I shall come in the van. Yes, the same one we …’’ He overrode Joshua’s recall of the drive to Bathurst by hanging up the phone.

  Joshua left the phone box and lounged against a fence. He felt his unshaven face and allowed himself a smile as he imagined Laura’s reaction to seeing him look exactly as she thought a draft-resisting revolutionary ought to look. Minutes later, Ilan’s black van slid into the curb. They shook hands briefly and the van headed through a maze of Redfern’s narrow lanes. It pulled into a backyard strewn with decaying cartons. The two men went up a fire escape to a barn of a room with a cathedral ceiling. Steel shelving lined the walls and much of the floor space. After his brief experience in Andy’s wrecking yard, Joshua could identify some of the motor parts in the opened cartons.

  Uncle Siddy had what appeared to be a cash sale, no-receipts-given trade in hot spares.