Just Visiting

by Graham Wilson

  Chapter 11 – Fishing Calvert and Robinson – Day 24

  They were up early again the next morning. Susan was yawning and felt tired as she got up but Mark told her he had a special surprise organised for today. Mark’s eagerness was contagious, and Susan felt anticipation catch her too. She asked him what the special surprise was, but Mark remained tight-lipped. “You will just have to wait and see.”

  Leaving Hells Gates they drove northeast for half an hour, coming to a sign for a roadhouse named Wollogorang. This marked the boundary of the Northern Territory, and Mark told her they were now entering one of its most famous stations; that with the longest continuous occupation since the 1880s, from which the roadhouse was named.

  Mark was full of stories of the area. He seemed a goldmine of knowledge of early NT history. When Susan asked him about where he got it he replied, “Oh from lots of places, a bit from reading books about it, but more from talking to old timers across this country. You would be surprised at the stories they tell, sitting around a campfire over a mug of tea or sometimes over a pannikin of rum. While many tales get stretched in the telling they often start with the truth.”

  Susan watched the changing scenery outside. After driving up the valley for maybe twenty miles the road began to climb. It wound through a series of gorges and cuttings as it worked its way precariously up the side of a mountain, until they came out onto a flat and barren plateau at the top, a wasteland of dry sandy spinifex and scrub.

  A few miles later they came alongside an airstrip that ran next to the road. At its end was a sign for Redbank Mine. Mark turned onto a track that brought him to the airstrip. Near the end was an assembly of 200-litre fuel drums marked with a label saying Avgas.

  Sitting alongside these was a helicopter with a large round clear bubble. Susan thought it looked something like a giant insect, perhaps a dragon fly. The round bubble at the front was its head, two holes on each side looked likes eyes, a wing like rotor blade above and a long metal tail with a smaller tail rotor. It rested on two skids, its insect like legs. It seemed alive and exotic, not like the sleek and streamlined modern helicopters that Susan had seen before on the evening news.

  A slightly built man, with darkish skin and dark features, was pumping fuel from one of the drums into the helicopter tanks. He called out with obvious familiarity, “Hey Mark!”

  Mark pulled to a halt waved to him. Turning off the engine, Mark and Susan got out.

  “How ya doin, Vic?” asked Mark.

  “Yeah alright.” replied Vic.

  “How’s the old Bell 47?”

  “Still firing on all cylinders.”

  Then Mark turned to Susan and said, Sorry, I am being impolite, let me introduce you to a good friend of mine and the best helicopter pilot I know. His proper name is Vikram Campbell but we all call him Vic.

  Vic waved at Susan and said, “Hiya.”

  Susan nodded and smiled a greeting in return. “I know a Pakistani named Vickram in London, do you have family from there.

  Vic grinned back, “Not to the best of my knowledge, thought they tell me that London is a big place full of Pakis and Indians so who really knows. My great grandfather was called an Afghan in Australia, though who knows where he really came from, some story about Kashmir. He worked the camel trains between the Alice and Adelaide a hundred years ago. He had a family with an aboriginal woman in Alice Springs. His name has sort of continued, down through the generations, most typically shortened to Vic or Victor.

  “As best I can tell I am descended from a big mixture, the Afghan, a bit of Arrente, that’s the aboriginal tribe, and then other bits of Scots, English, Irish and God knows what else. The Campbell is from the Scottish branch.

  “So I suppose the Afghan could really be Pakistan, but the name is common in that part of the world, there are probably a million other Vikrams and the detail of that part of my ancestry has got lost. However the name keeps some bit of this man’s memory alive. Now most people call me Vic but Mark knows the story and does his bit to keep it known.”

  “I guess you figured we might need a bit of fuel,” Mark said, pointing to the helicopter and then turned to Susan, “Fancy a ride in this old girl?” She is getting a bit long in the tooth, but they are a super reliable old machine provided you look after them properly, and they are much cheaper to run than many of the new fangled jet turbine jobs.”

  “Is that the surprise?” she asked.

  Mark nodded. “You got it, only way to see this country properly. “Vic used to contract chopper muster scrubbers for me, now he owns his own machine. I knew he was working nearby so I rang him and asked him to take us for a spin this morning.

  “Of course, I would love it!” exclaimed Susan.

  Mark continued, “What you reckon Vic? Thought we might go along the gorges of the Calvert and Robinson Rivers, see if we can catch a few barra, perhaps get a pig or two. There is one particular huge boar I have been looking for as a hunting trophy for more than two years, and if we get real lucky we may find him today. Can but hope. Either way, Susan, it will give you a bird’s eye of some spectacular NT scenery.”

  Susan felt amazed as she thought. All this for me; like my own private safari, with my own private safari guide. She was tongue tied for a minute. Finally, she managed to say, “Wow, that would be brilliant.”

  While Vic continued pumping the fuel into the helicopter, Mark loaded two fishing rods, his 223 rifle, some ammunition, a water bottle and some other bits inside. Then he indicated the middle seat to Susan.

  “That’s where you sit. Hop in when you are ready. I will be a few more minutes.”

  Susan climbed in and looked with wonder at all the gauges and controls. A long stick came out of the floor with various buttons and knobs attached. Then there was a radio, headsets and lots of dials, other knobs and yet more buttons.

  Vic finished fuelling up and walked around completing a careful check of all the parts of the helicopter.

  Walking over to Susan’s window, Vic gave her a big smile. “He sure pulls the beautiful ones. How did he find someone as gorgeous as you? And him just a busted-arsed ringer. If you want to trade up to a bit more class let me know.”

  Susan found herself liking this man’s warm open face and sardonic humour. She also thought his wiry body and dark features were kind of cute. “I am sure you have a lot of far more beautiful girls than me on a string, offering to take them for mile high rides in the sky.”

  Vic laughed. Then he patted the clear Perspex bubble of the helicopter. “I wish! Ever been in one of these before?”

  She shook her head, “No, first time and I can’t wait!”

  He gave her a quick explanation of the main controls before saying, “I’ll just be a couple minutes. Mark and I have a bit of business to do, and we need to finalise our route on the map so I can call flight control. Why don’t you strap yourself in,” he said pointing to the seatbelt. “We will be with you in five.”

  She clicked her seatbelt in, feeling a buzz of excited tension. She thought she should be nervous; but all she could feel was a huge thrill on anticipation—primal and almost sexual. It flowed through her. The more she saw of Mark, his generosity and sense of fun, the more she was captivated by him and this whole experience. It was far beyond anything she could have imagined. Huge warmth and affection flowed out from where she sat, towards him.

  Then the other two were aboard, the engine started and the rotor was whirling, slowly at first, then faster and faster; the machine roared, wind blowing up dust eddies.

  Mark passed her a headset and showed her where to push the button to talk; then he indicated that they should postpone conversation until they were in the air and Vic had called Air Traffic Control.

  Vic was concentrating on all the controls, checking and zeroing various instruments. Then he slowly dialled up the engine and rotor revolutions until a thing called Manifold Pressure was in the dial’s green zone. He looked across at her and Mark and asked, �
�Ready?” Mark stuck his thumb up in the air.

  The motor surged further then the engine note dropped as Vic adjusted a control on the stick. She could now feel the blades change noise and start to bite into the air. The whole helicopter was shaking like a caged animal seeking to flee its bounds.

  Vic lifted the stick up an inch. The helicopter rose straight up; imperceptible at first, and then it was several feet into the air. He pushed the stick forward and their motion changed from a hover to moving forward, going straight ahead. They picked up speed, and made a slow circuit over the airstrip while he logged his trip with Air Traffic Control.

  Then, with another small move of the control stick, the helicopter flared into the air and banked over to the side, making a steep turn to the northwest.

  Susan was spellbound. She split her time watching as Vic deftly manipulated dozens of controls and gazing in rapt awe as the country opened before her. At first they flew across the barren flat plateau, a sand plain covered in spinifex with occasional broken boulders. They picked up a watercourse that gradually grew out of the flat lands, first a small scrub lined creek then it gathered size and started to cut its way down into the increasingly rocky hillside. Pools of water started to appear along it.

  Mark spoke over the intercom. “We are following the headwaters of Karns Creek; a creek through a piece of tiger country that flows into the Calvert River, cutting through a series of gorges. Vic and I contract mustered here maybe ten years ago. We got out some of the maddest and wildest scrub bulls I have ever seen. They would try to crawl under the bushes and into the creek to get away from us. Sometimes they got so mad that they would try and hook their horns up into the sky to catch our helicopter.”

  Now this so called Karns Creek was the size of a river, with cliff of two hundred feet along both sides. Magnificent paperbarks and water lilies fringed the edges and the water was the colour of clear weak tea, with a bright surface refection of trees and cliffs. They followed its winding length, staying just below the cliff line. Abruptly the helicopter flared up above its sides. There, before them, lay a huge river, the Calvert, cutting its way down through a gorge, running hundreds of feet below. She saw where Karns Creek joined the river. Then they were down between these monstrous river cliffs, heading north.

  It was hard for Susan to think of any words to describe this beauty. The cliffs were several hundred feet high and sheer. Their sides held myriad colours and details; vibrant red, orange, yellow and black rocks, places where dark openings into caves were seen, dotted along. Trees grew in incredible places, twisted roots probing their way into cracks in the rocks. Perched along the cliff, leaping from narrow ledge to narrow ledge, were numerous rock wallabies. In a mad panic they sought to evade the helicopter, making phenomenal leaps from rock to rock. Occasional waterbirds were disturbed by their passage. A few times Susan glimpsed shadowed outlines of large fish in the water below. Several times she saw reptiles, perhaps 1-2 metres long, sunning on rocks. They would fling themselves forward and dive into the water at the helicopter’s approach. Susan eyes widened as she realised they were crocodiles. She looked at Mark as she pointed.

  “Just freshies, but you do get the big saltwater ones along here too.”

  Then the river valley widened slightly. It was the confluence of another creek and on one side there was a small swamp area with paperbarks and swamp grasses. Mark gave a sign to come around. They circled tightly above the swamp, perhaps 50 feet high.

  Vic spotted something on the ground and pointed down. They saw a place where the swamp grasses had been rooted up. In its centre stood a huge black pig, with wicked tusks, several inches long, protruding from its mouth.

  Mark smiled. “I have been looking for you for three years. Today is your date with destiny.”

  He indicated to Vic to land 100 yards from the swamp where a flat grassy opening lay. As the helicopter touched down Mark was out, gathering his rifle and running in a half crouch across the intervening ground.

  Vic indicated with his hand that Susan should stay sitting. He let the rotor slowly wind down. Then, with the engine stopped, they sat quietly for perhaps five minutes, Vic indicating to be quiet and stay put.

  Finally a sharp crack broke the stillness, followed a minute later by a second one, then silence again. Vic gave a sign to undo her belt and they walked across the ground towards where Mark had disappeared. Half way there Vic called out, “Yoo Hoo.”

  Mark called straight back, “Come on, he’s dead now.” They continued and Mark met them in another 20 yards. He led them on the final part.

  Almost completely hidden, in a thick clump of paperbark saplings, lay a huge boar. It was longer than either man and twice their girth. One tusk was dug into the mud, as if in a final act of outrage at its untimely death.

  Vic said “So you finally got him. I spotted him once, about six months ago, but I did not have a rifle that day. Plus I knew you wanted him more.”

  Mark grinned widely. “This fellow will easily pay for our trip. I know a taxidermist who will give me at least 2 grand for this one. He is the biggest I have ever shot and close to the biggest I have ever heard of. You must be the source of my good luck, Susan.”

  Susan answered, “You don’t need any help from me in the hunting department. Apart from one other thing which we better not talk about here, it is what you are best at.”

  Mark looked uncomfortable, while Susan and Vic both laughed.

  Vic asked, “Was he easy to find? Last glance I saw him heading for that thick patch at the other side of the swamp. I thought you would be hard pressed to track him in there.”

  Mark said. “I thought he had gone that way too, so I cut to that side of the swamp but there were no fresh tracks. Then I realised that he must have been playing gamin to us and had cut back to the centre. I found a track coming back. So I scanned the swamp carefully but nothing was in sight. I finally realised that this little patch of saplings was the only place he could hide without being seen.

  “So I worked back, real slow and steady, watching for anything. Finally, when I was only thirty yards away, I saw a tiny movement in the shadow, the smallest flick of his ear in reflex to a fly. So I brought my gun up and there he was in my scope. He was so well camouflaged that he was almost invisible, facing up with his head up sniffing the wind. He seemed so surprised when the first bullet hit that he did not know what to do, but you can see how mad he was by the way this tusk has ripped into the ground.”

  They agreed they needed to get the boar to the chopper but there was a lot of weight. So, all straining together, they pulled him a few feet out of the patch of paperbarks. Mark carefully sliced him open and removed his innards. Then he used a short piece of rope to tie his back feet together.

  Vic headed back to the helicopter to bring it round to them. After a few minutes Susan and Mark heard the helicopter roar to life and fly towards them.

  Hovering the helicopter directly above, Vic lowered a chain. There was a large hook hanging on the end of it. Susan guided the hook between the pig’s feet, while Mark lifted these towards her. When the pig was attached Susan gave thumbs up sign towards Vic.

  With a burst of power, the helicopter pulled the pig up into the sky. It hovered at fifty feet for a couple seconds. Then it was away, flying in a straight line to the southeast.

  “Vic is going back to the airstrip. He will arrange for the boar to be placed in a cool-room at the Mine until transport is organised to take it to the taxidermist in Mount Isa.” Mark explained, “Now we have a couple hours for fishing and lunch before he returns.”

  Vic had left the rest of their gear at the landing site. They collected it and walked towards the edge of the river. A sandy bar ran out from the bank, going a few metres into the water. It had the branches of a large dead tree to one side and clear water on the other.

  Before they came close to the water Mark said, “There are some really big crocodiles in here and we need to be careful.”

  The
y came to the bank looking out towards the sandbar. They sat on the bank and Mark watched closely for a couple minutes, scanning the banks and looking for any other signs to indicate that a large salt-water crocodile might be lurking. As he sat he pulled a crocodile, about hand’s width long, carved from dark timber and brightly painted in ochre colours, from his pocket. He looked at the toy crocodile closely and then at the water. To Susan it seemed as if he was talking in his mind to both.

  After a couple minutes he said. “It seems OK, but don’t get too close to the water. I’ll fish on the side of the sandbar with the dead tree. There could be a big barra lurking under the snags. You should try the open side. There’s a good chance for something there.”

  Mark asked Susan if she had ever tried lure fishing.

  She shook her head “No, only bait fishing, and a couple times my father tried to teach me fly fishing for trout, but I never quite mastered it.”

  He gave Susan a rod with a floating fish lure, about four inches long with two three barb hooks attached. It was a blue-grey colour with red and black side stripes, a “Nilsmaster” he told her. He said to cast into the middle of the clear water then wind back in at a steady walking pace.

  He put a small lure with some green and yellow markings onto his own rod and looked for some clear water, amongst the branches, to cast into.

  Susan’s first cast did not go according to plan. She didn’t time the line release right. The line flipped to the side as the lure jerked back, landing a few yards from her feet.

  Mark came across. He put his hands over hers, guiding her with slow, deliberate movements. “Don’t try too hard until you get the hang of it.”

  Susan tried not to get distracted by Mark’s closeness. Together they did a gentle cast and release with the lure hitting the water about ten yards out. “That’s it, work on improving from that,” he said.

  She wound in and concentrated on getting her timing and direction right. Her next cast went out straight about fifteen metres and the third one went a good twenty. She had only wound in a metre when the line jerked and snaked through the water in a crazy zigzag.

  “Mark, I have something,” she called.

  Mark came across, but it was clear that Susan by now had it well in hand. So he stood back to watch.

  Susan felt her heart pounding as she hooked the fish, but she knew she had to remain calm and focused to reel it in. With a jerk the fish exploded out of the water, skipping across the surface in a tail dancing run.

  Susan shouted behind her, “Mark did you see that, it’s huge!”

  “It is probably half a metre long, a good five pounder,” Mark called back to her.

  In less than five minutes Susan had the gleaming barramundi on the sandy spit.

  “Well, seeing as you’ve caught our lunch, I’ll get a fire going,” Mark said.

  Susan could not restrain her elation, she felt like jumping up and down as she chattered with excitement. “Wasn’t the way it jumped out of the water and stood on its tail just amazing! I was sure it was going to get off.”

  Mark laughed, “The first is the most exciting isn’t it. They are great fighters and often manage to shake the lure out of their mouth and get away. But you kept steady and did just great.”

  Using a similar technique as the night on the Frew River, minus the pit, they cooked the fish. Mark shook his head when she suggested gutting it. “Don’t need to when it’s this fresh.”

  Once the fire died down, he laid the fish in the middle of the coals and pushed coals from the sides up over it.

  Fifteen minutes later it was done.

  Mark scraped the coals from the fish’s centre across to one side and, with his knife, gently pushed apart a hole in the charred surface. There below was succulent white fish. Then he pushed the rest of the fire away. He lifted the burnt skin carefully off the top side of the fish. From his pack he found a metal plate and spoon for them each.

  They sat on the sandy riverbank and ate plate after plate of white fish flesh, sprinkled with salt and washed down with cups of water from the river. Even when they both could eat no more, still half a fish was left.

  Susan stretched out, feeling sleepy and laying back on the sloping sand, looking across the river to where the cliffs rose sheer on the other side.

  She said, “How incredible is this! This is a life out of someone else’s story book, my own Northern Territory safari.”

  Mark was silent but gave a half smile back, truth acknowledged.

  It was hard to believe that it would end in another few days, and she would be on a flight to the other side of the world. She wondered if she would ever see Mark again after she left. It was almost too perfect the way it was now. Trying to reconcile their different worlds was something she couldn’t conceive. Perhaps it was meant to be a wonderful memory of a visit to Australia, and she would return to her English life, leaving this story to live only in their memories. Perhaps she would meet and marry an English doctor or lawyer and Mark would carry on with his outback life.

  Could she and a man like this ever join their lives together? Or would it all tear apart, through difference and distance, when reality returned? Half of her thought it was better that way; the other half cried out against the profound loss and sadness she sensed would be left in her soul after their separation.

  Mark lay back silently, staring at the sky, his face a mask, giving no clue to what he felt, whether he cared if they continued with life together. She wanted to ask him what he felt and thought, but no words would come.

  She remembered the small carved crocodile that he had held when they came close to the water to go fishing. She asked him what it was.

  He looked at her, as if he was deciding whether to reveal something significant. Then he brought it back out and handed it to her, placing it in her upturned palm.

  She looked closely. The object was only little, it sat easily in her palm, but the creature it represented was not. It was made of heavy timber, with char marks in places, as if it had been hardened and marked in a fire before painting. It was surprisingly solid to hold and the ochre painting detail was intricate and lifelike. It was a crocodile, of great girth, broad head, body and tail. She knew without saying that it represented a huge and ancient creature. As she held it was as if she held the spirit of a live crocodile in her hand.

  She returned it to Mark. He was watching her curiously, as if seeking her response.

  She said, “It feels so lifelike, as if I am holding the spirit of a real crocodile in my hand.”

  Mark said, “It is my totem, Crocodile Spirit Dreaming.”

  She would have asked him more but a distant throbbing in the air now signalled the return of the helicopter. They both turned their heads skywards and the moment passed. Five minutes later the helicopter settled on the ground nearby. Vic joined them and helped to polish off the remaining fish.

  Vic had brought his own rod. He told them he knew of a great pool on the Robinson River, the next river to the west, which was just alive with barramundi at the moment. The fish appeared to have been trapped inside a small pool since the river had fallen away to a trickle after the big rains of the last wet. As this place was at least ten miles walk from any road or track he was pretty sure the fish would still be there.

  They walked back to the helicopter and flew west, until they came to the Robinson River. They followed it back inland. It was a big wide river in its lower reaches, without the massive gorges of the Calvert. After fifteen minutes they crossed a big dirt road, the road on to Borroloola, and then, a few minutes later, they passed to the side on an aboriginal community.

  Soon they were in a gorge, every bit the equal of the Calvert, but with wider and higher sides. The river lay in a series of large broken pools below them. At first there were roads, tracks, and signs of human occupation, but as they climbed towards the plateau the gorge narrowed and signs of people disappeared.

  Rounding a bend in the river they spotted the wa
terhole Vic had described. It was almost circular, with rock shelves extending three quarters of the way round and one side backing into a sheer cliff, which rose a thousand feet above them. A great sea eagle was overhead, riding the thermals high up near the cliff top. They saw glimpses of fish as they swooped over, and the fish were active, swimming and darting in the shallows.

  They landed, and each took a quarter and got set up, perched on the rock shelf that ran around and above the pool, so their lines would not cross. The water was so clear that they could see down into the depths of the pool below their feet.

  Vic was first to cast and on his first cast they could all see a big fish trailing his lure but nothing happened. It appeared to be the same the second time, but this time the first fish was joined by a second, following just behind. But, just when the lure was almost at his feet, a third and huge fish came surging out of the shadows, and grabbed hold of his line.

  From then on the whole pool went crazy. It was as if the signal was sent that all fish better get in on the action or they would miss out on dinner. Often the three of them all had fish on their lines together, tail dancing across the surface, fighting to cast the lures from their mouths.

  In half an hour it was all over. Twenty-one glistening fish lay on the rocks beside them; eight caught by Vic, seven by Mark and six by herself. The biggest was the first monster that Vic had caught. He pulled a spring scale from the helicopter and it weighed in at 23 kilograms. Mark and Susan had each caught one that was about half that size, both weighed between twelve and thirteen kilograms. The rest ranged from eight down to about two kilograms.

  Vic eyed the big pile of a fish dubiously, “I am not sure whether we can lift all this and also ourselves in one trip.” Thinking some more he added, “I think it should be OK. I’m down to half fuel, and Susan’s not heavy; plus the air is cool in the shade of this rock. That will all help with the initial lift off. Anyway let’s give it a go. If I can get in the air it will be right, there is a good run straight ahead down the valley, to pick up speed before I need to get height on to climb out.”

  So they loaded all the fish aboard, some sitting on wire baskets on the skids and some sitting in the cargo hold. When Vic was happy that the balance was right he signalled them aboard.

  He dialled on the power. The engine revolutions rose up to the top of the green zone, tipping into yellow. He adjusted the blades to cut the air. They could feel the engine die back as it struggled with the load, but Vic kept dialling on the throttle. Slowly the skids came up above the ground. Once he was clear by about ten feet he eased forward. They were away, surging down the valley, piling on speed.

  Gradually the ground fell away as they held altitude and soon the river fell far beneath. Then Vic put them into the second phase of the flight, where they slowly climbed out of the valley, foot by foot, at first pulling barely a hundred feet per minute of climb, but slowly they crept up. Then, as the altimeter passed five hundred feet, he directed their course to the airstrip to the east, flying increasingly easily as the time went by.

  By the time they approached their destination they had topped out at over a thousand feet, enough to clear the highest hills on their way with a hundred feet to spare.

  Mark and Vic divided the fish, with Mark packing his in fresh ice from the freezer at the mine. They gave the mine’s plant supervisor a mid-sized barra for his help, and Mark promised a side of a bullock next time he passed through with something suitable. They were invited to the mine mess for a beer and some dinner. Vic was pleased to accept, but Mark declined, saying they had a way to go and he wanted to call in and see some of his friends early next morning at Seven Emus Station. So, after a quick beer they were off.

  Vic walked out to say goodbye. He and Mark hugged like brothers and then Vic turned to Susan, winking at Mark and saying. “Well, if he does decide to let you go your own way, don’t forget about me, always happy to show you what a real good time is.”

  Susan laughed and gave Vic a spontaneous hug too. I think that one outback man is more than enough, not to mention my home is across the sea, on the other side of the world. But thank you for the kind offer.”

  Mark laughed too. He said, “As you know my brother, I already have my heart set on this one. She is the best in every way and not for sharing.” Now it was Susan’s turn to blush.

  Susan and Mark drove for a couple hours before setting up camp on the banks of the Robinson River, taking a maze of tracks that turned off the main road, near the road crossing, for a few kilometres downstream. Even though it wasn’t as cold as it had been in the desert or even at Hells Gates, it was well dark by arrival, and they both wanted the comfort of a good fire to sit by. They felt tired from their two full days, and Susan was in a relaxed, mellow mood from all she had seen and done. They did not talk much but their silence was one of quiet contentment.

  For a change in diet, Mark suggested that he make a stew with left over beef, along with carrots, onions, and potatoes from his tucker box. Susan gave enthusiastic endorsement, looking forward to the hearty meal.

  Also, feeling a craving for something sweet, she asked Mark if she could have a go at making a brownie like they had a couple days before. Mark agreed, seeming pleased to give her this role in the dinner. So she made a mixture of flour, golden syrup and dried fruit, with some margarine, and set it aside while the stew bubbled. They sat side by side, sipping pannikins of rum, making occasional aimless conversation.

  It was then that Susan was struck by a guilty conscience. Mark had paid for everything in their trip thus far: all the fuel and food, as well as the accommodation for the nights when they did not camp and, particularly today, for the helicopter.

  She didn’t know how he made his money, apart from odd jobs for various stations and mines. But it was hard to see how he could be rich from an income like that. She had allowed at least two thousand Australian dollars for this part of the trip and had barely spent a cent since arriving in Alice Springs. She had only a little over a hundred dollars cash on her when she arrived, as she had planned to go to an ATM in Alice Springs. She had spent a few dollars on drinks in the bar at Barrow Creek and some more for food and coffees at Roadhouses, but still, it was almost nothing. So, while she didn’t have the cash with her right now for a major contribution, Susan felt she needed to make one.

  Everything had just happened so fast that there never had seemed to be the time to sort out payments and money, it had sort of got forgotten, and Mark had never looked for anything. But she really must find a way to pay her share.

  So she broached the subject, feeling awkward. “Mark, I’ve had the most fabulous time with you. But you’ve paid for everything, and that’s not really right.

  “I want to pay a share. So, please tell me what you think is fair and the next time we pass through a town with an ATM I will draw out the money to square up.”

  Mark looked at her, his eyes seeming to see all the way through her, “You know you really don’t have to. I’ve loved having you along. You’re great company and no bother, and most of this trip I was going to do anyway, and, despite appearances, I am not short of a quid. So just enjoy the ride and let me sort it all out.” With that he grinned.

  Susan looked back at him, pensive and a little unhappy; it didn’t feel right for her not to pay a share.

  He looked at her serious face. “It bothers you doesn’t it? Tell you what; we’ll be in Darwin for the last night before you fly out. We can stay somewhere nice, and have a flash restaurant dinner and a good last night together. How about I let you pay for that. Much easier than trying sort the money out here.”

  She let it drop, she felt reluctant about it, but did not want to spoil their bit of magic together. So they shared stew and brownie and joined their bodies together under the stars.

  Just as she drifted off to sleep Mark said. “I’ll get up early in the morning. I want to go hunting down the river. There are often pigs along it and the Seven Emus mob are always keen f
or fresh pork, they have a great Chinese cook who does amazing things with it.

  “So I will let you sleep in for an extra hour or two. The people we are calling to see never rise early. I figure we should get going about nine to be there for morning tea around ten.

  Susan drifted off in to a dreamy sleep, liking the idea of an extra hour in bed in the morning.

  She was vaguely aware of Mark getting up when there was barely light in the sky, dressing quietly and heading away.

  Susan woke perhaps an hour later. It was still early, the sun just touching the horizon, perhaps 7 am. She gathered Mark would not be back for an hour or two yet. She thought another hour asleep would be nice.

  But Susan was still feeling uncomfortable about paying her share and it was nagging in the back of her mind. Mark had indicated nothing to her about the cost of the trip and particularly the helicopter, but she had seen Vic hand him a sheet just before they left last night. It looked like a bill. She remembered Mark put it in a black plastic folder that he kept in the compartment on the driver’s-side door, the sort of thing that held car manuals.

  Then a clear thought came to her. Why don’t I have a look, then at least I will know the real cost of the helicopter yesterday and be able to have an idea of how much to pay.

  Susan pulled on a track top and pants to ward off the morning chill. Then, after she put a couple of fresh logs on the smouldering coals, she went to look for the bill. She found it, as remembered and expected, alongside the manuals.

  It listed three hours of helicopter time at $600/hour giving a total of $1800, with a 10% discount coming in at $1620. That’s not too bad, she thought, my half share of that is about $800, I can easily pay for that plus for a final night in Darwin.

  She was about to put the bill back when she noticed something odd. The name on it was different.