by Lucy Walker
‘What’s troubling you Cindie? By the way, you chaps, this is Cindie Brown. The boss brought her in last night. Marooned by the river. Cindie, this ‒’ She pointed with her pencil to a slim dark young man whose face was almost as kind as Jim Vernon’s had been. ‘This is Dicey George, who’s the radio mechanic on the camp, and on the general ironmongery up on the road too. This other fellow can’t speak English yet ‒ he’s Italian ‒ but soon will. His name’s Molani. So he says, but this employment contract shows three more syllables to it.’
The Italian smiled shyly but Dicey George grinned broadly.
‘Don’t take any notice of Mary being caustic,’ he said. ‘Molani has more syllables to the end of his name all right, but no one can pronounce it thataway. Molani for short suits everyone.’
‘Thanks for the explanation, Dicey,’ Mary said with sarcasm. ‘Now let’s get on with what Cindie wants. You’re the radio man. You give her the answer.’
Dicey grinned across the paper-littered table. ‘How come you sometimes say the right thing, Mary? You must be slipping. Taking Miss Cindie in hand is the very break I’m looking for. You shoot ahead and fix up friend Molani and I’ll have the girl!’ He stood up. ‘Back soon,’ he added as a final comment.
He winked at Cindie as he turned to her. She knew the wink was a friendly one, no more.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You mean you can help me get a message through?’
He looked at his wrist-watch. ‘Ten minutes to go, and the air’s open. You come along with me and I’ll fix all ‒ Nick being absent from camp ‒ I hope.’
Chapter Four
Dicey started to walk down the long floor with Cindie at his side. He was young but very nice, she thought. She guessed twenty-two. His brown cotton clothes, shirt and shorts, were clean and pressed. His brown face and dark hair looked scrubbed and polished. His appearance said he was more of a technical officer than the other two men, who probably dug at the earth with spade and shovel or from behind the wheel of a dust-blowing grader.
‘If Nick comes back from the site ‒ and he’s due soon ‒ we’ll tell him this is exceptional circumstances,’ Dicey said as they walked along. ‘After all, someone has to be bothered somewhere what’s happened to one lost girl. Yes?’
‘It’s Jim Vernon at Baanya,’ Cindie said uneasily. ‘You see, he’s a friend of mine. He’ll ‒’
‘Let your people know?’
‘Ye-es. He’ll let them know.’
Someone, way back in her childhood, must have taught the lesson ‘Tell one lie and you have to tell fifty to support it.’ What sort of miserable mess was she getting herself in now?
One fib after her name to begin with ‒ then complications! Changing one’s identity wasn’t all wombats and wallabies, after all.
All the same, she couldn’t let those people up at Bindaroo Station know she was coming. This was for her mother’s sake. She alone could find out what was going on there. Did the end justify the means? Had anyone ever settled that little moral issue?
‘You’re mighty quiet, Cindie,’ Dicey George said as they crossed the red gravel square to another large mobile unit, bristling with antennae and wireless masts. ‘You’re not scared because you’re caught up here on a construction site?’
‘Oh, no!’ She was almost too hasty with that reply.
‘That’s good.’ He glanced at her quickly as he mounted the unit’s steps then held open the wire door for her to go through. ‘Don’t take too much notice of Mary. She has a blunt tongue, but a heart of gold. Don’t know how we’d build the thousand-miler without her. There’s several wives come down for a visit and, like you, are caught by the floods. They’re in the caravans back in D’D row. You’d better mind them more than Mary. All they have to do is sit and talk all day.’ He grinned at her slyly. ‘Some talk too! One hour in the camp and they know everyone’s business, and everyone’s past history. A whole gaggle of transceiver sets helps them.’
Cindie was genuinely surprised. ‘There are other women stranded here now? I’m not the only one?’
‘If no one’s apprised you of the fact it’s maybe because someone, Nick Brent to boot, is waiting to see just how soon you mix up with that gossip group. Or don’t, as the case may be.’
‘Thank you for telling me,’ Cindie said. She looked at the radio panel above a bench at the far side of the unit. It made her think of the operations room she’d seen at the space station at Carnarvon.
‘All that gadgetry?’ she queried, surprised.
‘All of it. We don’t just talk on area outposts from here. We give weather information down south, geological data to the experts across the continent. Fetch in Radio Australia for news round the world. We even print a broadsheet daily, two pages, so the chaps can read the news for themselves.’
Cindie was awed. ‘They get service, don’t they? Iced drinks, and news of the world out in the middle of a desert!’
‘Don’t you let the old-time nor’-westers up hereabouts hear you call this part of the world a desert. It’s plain home to them.’ Dicey sat down in front of a panel, turned one switch, then tuned in with another. The relay from the Meekatharra Outpost was just closing down the telegram session.
‘Sit down in this chair here, Cindie, next to me. The open session’s coming on now. As soon as I raise Baanya I’ll hand over the mike to you.’
Cindie sat down and watched Dicey’s intent face as he operated the transceiver.
There was a buzzing, a clicking, then a voice.
‘Marana Outcamp here,’ a clear voice said. ‘Good morning everybody.’
Cindie recognised this at once as belonging to someone called Erica who had spoken over the air to Nick yesterday. A haughty voice: very sure of itself. ‘Come in the construction camp if you’re listening.’
Dicey put his hand over the mike and winked at Cindie.
‘We’re not listening!’ he said with a grin.
The inquiry came again but still Dicey said nothing. There was absolute silence in the unit for half a minute.
‘She’s off,’ he said at length. ‘Now we’ll try Baanya for ourselves. Too bad for poor Erica. No one wants to talk to her this morning.’
He eased the knob a little.
‘Dicey George calling Baanya! Dicey George calling Baanya! Come in please.’
His hand over the mike, he leaned towards Cindie and whispered in her ear.
‘You know the whole north ‒ including Erica ‒ is listening in? And she won’t be pleased we didn’t answer her call.’
It was a warning. She smiled gratefully at him. At the same time she was desperately trying to think how she could ask Jim Vernon, if he came on the air, the sixty-four-dollar question. Would he keep her secret? She was not Cynthia Davenport. She was Cindie Brown.
‘Mrs. Overton, Baanya, here. You want the men for anything particular, Dicey? The overseer is the only one in the homestead. My husband has gone out with the stockmen. They’re mustering round the river paddocks. You know the river’s down, Dicey?’
‘We know all right, Mrs. Overton. Nick and Flan saw it yesterday. Matter of fact, the overseer is the one we want. There’s someone here wants to talk to Jim Vernon urgent-like.’
Dicey glanced sideways at Cindie. She gave him an imploring look, and shook her head.
‘Don’t tell her who ‒’ she begged.
Dicey’s eyebrows did a dance and his grin had an edge of knowingness in it.
‘Personal? A surprise?’
She nodded.
The woman’s voice came back.
‘Jim’s coming now, Dicey. How are things on the site? Pity you can’t get any rain or river water up there. Erica, over at Marana Outcamp, said Bindaroo’s had nineteen inches. Nick’ll be pleased, anyway.’
Cindie’s ears buzzed. Nick, Erica and Bindaroo all mentioned in one breath! Why should Nick, who was a road-construction engineer, be pleased about rain falling on Bindaroo?
‘Maybe a few of us’ll cut across the pla
in to the river and do some fishing in the week-end,’ Dicey was saying into the mike cheerfully. ‘It’s up to Nick ‒ and the lottery for the utilities, of course. There’s never enough.’
‘Here’s Jim now.’
Dicey handed the mike to Cindie, pushing back his chair as he did so, to walk away.
‘Can’t be too private,’ he reminded her. ‘I won’t listen, but the rest of the world will.’
Cindie gave him a wry smile as she took the instrument. Now her thoughts were in a helpless tangle, thanks to Mrs. Overton.
‘Jim Vernon here,’ the next voice came over the air. ‘You want me, Dicey?’
Cindie recognised the light soft tone instantly. She forgot her doubts connecting Nick, Erica and Bindaroo. Time enough later for that. How slowly Jim drawled his words! She could have cried. How strange things were. She’d bought some petrol from a station overseer, talked and laughed with him a little while, signed a cheque that could embarrass her beyond words, then driven away. Yet suddenly his voice sounded like the voice of home: of safety. An endearing voice.
‘Jim ‒’ There was nearly a frog in her throat, certainly a prayer for understanding in her heart. ‘It’s Cindie. You know ‒ Cindie …’ She hesitated, then emphasised it. ‘Cindie Brown-all-over. You remember how I was? Covered in dust. At least ‒’
There was a chuckle of pleasure over the air. ‘Do I remember? Now that you’re a long way away, Cindie, I can say what I couldn’t say then. Blue eyes, straight back, dark hair, a smile like a rainbow. I remember all right.’
Cindie, alone by the transceiver, blushed. Was he joking? No, he wasn’t. He was being utterly nice and didn’t care a darn that the whole nor’-west could be listening to him saying flattering things to a girl over the air.
She had heard Dicey go out, but now it seemed that he had come back. Behind her she heard footsteps come into the unit, then halt just inside the door. She didn’t mind Dicey. He was a friend in need.
‘Thank you Jim for sending my movements forward. I was rescued all right,’ she said, a waver in her voice. ‘You won’t forget me, Cindie Brown, will you? Please forget the rest of it because ‒’
‘The rest of it?’
‘Yes. The “all-over” that came after the Brown. Just Cindie Brown. You see, Jim, I’ve had two cold showers, and I’m not all over dust any more. So I’ll just be Brown. All by itself. I’m sorry I didn’t take enough notice of your advice about speeding along faster, and getting across the river in time.’ She was hurrying on now. ‘I put you to trouble, and the people here at the construction camp too. I just want you to know that Cindie Brown’s sorry she’s put everyone to trouble ‒’
‘Listen Cindie Brown-all-over … Oh, I’m not allowed to add the “all-over”? Right, I’ve clicked! You don’t like names with more than one syllable! Well, I don’t either, though mine’s got two. The Vernon part. Most people just call me plain Jim to make it short. How’s that? Brown’s a nice name anyway. Kind of warm.’
‘Yes, Jim. Thank you for being helpful … about … well, direction and advice …’ Cindie’s voice was so low with relief she was afraid, when she thought about it later, that the listening ears across the nor’-west would have thought the tenderness in her voice was too marked for an air-talk, and for what ought to be said in a letter, or face to face. But Jim Vernon had clicked. That was what really mattered. She was Cindie Brown. What would he wonder? What would he be thinking of her?
‘Jim … I’d like to see you. I know I can’t because of the river. But when I come back I want to explain something ‒’
‘You’ll see me all right. When the river’s down a bit. I’ll come across by flying-fox. I’ll be there. Don’t you worry, Blue Eyes.’
‘If you can come over by flying-fox can’t I go on eastwards the same way? I mean to the upper tableland? I don’t want to go back to the coast yet. Not till I’ve gone through ‒’
‘No flying-fox east or north for you, Cindie. It’ll be flood-land any time now on the other side of the thousand-miler. You can’t take your car over that way. You wouldn’t want to say good-bye to it? And you can’t walk! You stay right where you are till it’s safe. It’s me who’ll have to come to you. No hardship that, Blue Eyes ‒’
A male voice cut in on the air. It had a tease in the tone.
‘Come off it, Baanya! There’s other stations want to get through, including Marana. Who you courting over there at the construction camp, Jim? You’ve about a hundred and twenty likely competitors up thataway.’
‘Okay, we’ll break off now, Sam,’ Jim Vernon told the intruding voice. ‘But in case you think I’m courting ‒ you’re dead right. How’s that, Cindie?’
She knew he was joking. A weight had fallen from her shoulders, and she could have laughed with relief.
He was a man, known for a short moment in time only, but he was her friend. He knew she was in some private difficulty about her name, and was playing the part for her.
‘Good-bye, Cindie Brown. Golly, I nearly said “Brown-all-over”. Wish I could see you, right now. ’Bye, Cindie-girl.’
He kept repeating her name to let her be sure he understood her message.
‘’Bye Jim. Thank you so much. I love you ‒ for that. The way you said it, I mean ‒’
Silver bells were in her voice. Now she was really ‒ suddenly and completely ‒ happy. She could have danced.
She turned the ‘Off’ knob and sat, the tips of her fingers on the bench, her toes tapping on the floor as if she heard far-off music.
A new land, a new person, and someone who cared.
The footsteps that had come into the unit a few minutes earlier came across the floor towards the panel.
Cindie started. These were not Dicey George’s footsteps. There was a quiet insentient tread about them. They came towards her with the cold precision of a guided missile.
She swung round. Bang went the beat of her day-dream! She almost heard the last chord; then the dying-fall.
It was Nick Brent.
‘The men, and there are more than two hundred of them, are not allowed to use the air for social calls.’ His voice was spare, yet firm. He leaned over the set and turned the ‘On’ knob. The Sam-voice of a moment ago was talking to another about the dust haze on the new road and the racket made by bulldozers, earthmovers and graders across his station lease. Nick turned the tone down to ‘Low’ so that this air conversation was now no more than a faint sound.
‘I do have to let people know,’ Cindie began, trying to be logical. ‘I mean, after all, people could wonder, or be alarmed about me. I had to let them know ‒’
‘The overseer at Baanya?’ There was irony in his voice.
‘You mean Jim Vernon? Well, you see he’ll let people know. He can send the news home for me. That is ‒’
She broke off. She was in a maze of half-truths again. Her backbone seemed made of rubber.
He was looking straight at her. She did not let her own eyes waver. That would give her away completely. So she was angry instead; her only defence. The safest, too.
‘Why don’t you like me, Mr. Brent? Why are you judging me before you even know me? You did that down there at the river when you rescued me. It can’t be only because I’m a girl. There are several other women here, besides Mrs. Deacon. Do you look at them this way? As if they had no right to exist on a construction camp? It can’t be wrong for them to be here, else you wouldn’t have special houses in a row called D’D for the men’s wives to visit them occasionally.’
‘That is the point, Cindie.’ He spoke with a simplicity that had subtle depths. ‘And, by the way, I’m not Mr. Brent to anybody, I’m either “the boss”, or Nick. I’m being the boss right now. The point about the women over at D’D is that they are wives. They have their husbands to look after them.’
‘I rank as defenceless?’ Cindie asked, tilting her chin. ‘Yet Mary Deacon is not defenceless ‒’
‘Mary is self-sufficient as a person. That is the diffe
rence.’
‘Then why have you judged me in advance? How do you know I am not self-sufficient too?’
His brows went up and his eyes went stone-cold.
‘You didn’t sound like it on the air to Jim Vernon. That conversation was particularly personal in tone. It was not an urgent matter. Yes, Cindie, I’m afraid I heard it, as the rest of the air-world did. It is my business as boss to know what’s going on: and why rules are broken. Everything that goes on in this camp and on the site is my business. I need to know why any unauthorised air-conversation is taking place. Of course, Dicey George gave you permission, but then I’ll have a “please-explain” from him later. I wanted first to know just how blameworthy he was. Or if you had some motive in persuading him to relax a rule.’
How dare you! she thought. She knew her expression must have said the words aloud for her. But she didn’t care. Here she was, embarked on the business of crossing the west side of the dead heart of Australia to deal with a million-acre property, to which her mother, poor in health and helpless by nature, had some financial claim. Yet this man ‒ this Nick Brent ‒ thought she was a stupid female bent on beguiling people like Dicey George, and Jim Vernon, for purely frivolous reasons. Perhaps he thought she was a man-chaser, or something?
A simpleton, male or female, couldn’t have come safely as far as she had come ‒ until that darned water came down too soon ‒
‘It was that beastly river,’ she said bitterly. ‘Oh, yes, I know it is a kind of watery paradise-on-earth, and big money, to the pastoralists. But to me it has been no more than something ‒’ She broke off. Something what? Only a minute ago she had thought she had found heaven! How far could one fall in a moon-drop?
The voices of Sam and the other man interested in dust hazes and bulldozers on the thousand-miler were continuing their dialogue like a distant low-pitched refrain to this conversation-piece between Nick Brent and herself.
‘The river is no more than something in your way? I think that was what you were about to say, Cindie. You think you have a right to foreclose on rivers? Probably mountains too?’ His voice was pointed with sarcasm. ‘Where were you going on this track? There’s nothing past Marana to the upper tableland. Beyond that there’s only the breakaway country and Bindaroo Station.’