Marble Bar

by Robert Schofield

  Kavanagh stepped down and blew out her cheeks in disgust at the heat, adjusting the hat on her head. She watched Ford as he opened the rear of the car and took out the spare and the jack, setting them down beside the rear wheel. ‘Need a hand?’ she asked.

  ‘See if you can find me a flat rock,’ said Ford, ‘something to spread the load from the jack.’

  She took the gun off the seat and tucked it into the back of her jeans, all the while staring back down the road. She walked around the front of the car and gazed out across the plain. Beside the road was a stack of boulders, rising above the spinifex where they had been cast aside when the road was cleared. Daubed across the flat face of the largest boulder in large white letters were the words ‘Welcome to Hell’.

  She stepped off the road and found a flat stone twice the span of her hand. She bent her knees and got her fingers under it to test it for weight. By the time she had shuffled back to the car Ford had the nuts off the wheel and was kneeling beside the car, waiting. She dropped the stone next to him, raising a plume of dust in his face. He coughed and nodded his thanks, scooting the rock under the car and lining up the jack on top of it.

  While Ford lifted the car and swapped the wheel she stood with her back to him, her hands on her hips, squinting from under the hat, watching the road. There was no sound but the slight hiss of wind through the spinifex, and the occasional clash of metal against metal from the tyre iron, the ringing muffled by the heat in the air.

  Ford dropped the jack and tightened the nuts on the new wheel, then stood the flat tyre on its rim. He rolled it slowly forward until he found the puncture. It was a small, neat hole in the middle of the tread. He felt the hole with his finger. ‘Not so bad. The last blowout I had up here shredded the whole thing. Scattered ribbons of rubber across the road and left me riding on my rim.’

  He lifted the tyre into the back of the Toyota, opened the esky and picked out a water bottle. He took a long drag and tugged at his shirt where the sweat was sticking to his skin. He passed the bottle to Kavanagh and followed her gaze down the road.

  ‘How far behind us are they?’ he said.

  She took a drink and thought about it. ‘It doesn’t really matter,’ she said. ‘They knew we’d be on this road. They were in Nullagine ahead of us. That means they know where we’re going as well. Our only chance is to keep moving and get what we want from Marble Bar before they catch up.’

  ‘And what is it exactly you want from there?’

  She handed him the bottle. ‘Gold,’ she said.

  He slammed the back doors and walked around to the driver’s door. ‘Gold is not the only reason we’re going there.’

  She looked at him over the roof of the car and swatted away the flies from her face. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Roth is going to be there.’

  TWELVE

  A series of rusted iron signs announced their arrival in Marble Bar, proudly declaring it the hottest town in Australia. It nestled between low yellow hills, the highest topped with a water tank offering another welcome to the town, painted in large black letters across the concrete. The buildings either side of the road seemed deserted, the houses shuttered against the midday heat. There were no cars on the street, nobody outdoors at all. The wide main street swept gently downhill, a row of slender gum trees casting almost no shadow, and on their right Ford spotted the Ironclad Hotel, a low accretion of squat buildings with gables of varying heights, tied together by a sagging verandah. The walls and roof were clad in corrugated iron, and all the windows were dark and lifeless. There were two cars parked outside, the only ones in the street, and the front door was open, a dark rectangle with no light showing inside.

  The broad median strip in the road stopped them from pulling in to the pub, so they continued on. Opposite the hotel was a petrol station with two old bowsers, the building behind it declaring itself a post office and general store, but it was closed up and looked as deserted as every other building in the town.

  As the road crossed over a dry stony creek bed an illuminated sign reminded Ford again that he was in the hottest town in Australia. To illustrate this the sign displayed the current temperature in large red digital numbers. As they passed it, the sign flicked over from thirty-nine to forty degrees Celsius.

  Overlooking the creek bed was an imposing stone building, the only two-storey structure in the town, a series of steep roofs and high gables laced with elegant windows. Topped by tall chimneys and a tower, it stood proudly, a colonial relic from the time of the first gold rush, deposited in the bush in an optimistic gesture of civic pride as the foundation stone of a town that never grew to achieve the ambition of its first public building.

  A sign pointing down the street identified it as the Government Buildings, and directed them to the police station. Ford swung the Toyota down the side street that led in front of the façade, and as they drove past he saw that it was a terrace broken into several departments, each with its own front door, and he read the signs over each. A large arched porch in the centre was marked as the Mining Registrar. The door next to it had a sign with the blue and white checkerboard of the police, but there were no vehicles outside. Under the shade of a small verandah, wedged between two gables, was a large white door. It was closed and there were no vehicles outside. Ford stopped the car beside the blue sign.

  ‘You want to check in?’ he asked.

  Kavanagh shifted in her seat and plucked at the sleeves of her shirt. She looked past Ford at the white door to the station and then sucked her teeth. ‘Nobody home,’ she said. ‘These small country stations are never open twenty-four seven. If the duty copper gets called away, they lock up.’

  ‘I thought they’d have more than one guy to each station,’ said Ford.

  ‘Three, most likely,’ she said. ‘But they might not all be on shift.’ She stared out the other window, across the creek to the town. ‘Turn around and we’ll check out the rest of the place. There must be life somewhere.’

  Ford swung the car around at the end of the street and back on to the main street, away from the hotel. After a few hundred metres the old weatherboard houses petered out, the bitumen stopped and they were back out on a gravel road, a line of barren rocky hills running along the horizon in front of them. Ford stopped the car and turned it slowly in the road.

  A white horse stood in the parched yellow grassland that bordered the road, sheltering under the sparse shade of a bloodwood tree. It was old, its mane grown long, its back concave. It leaned against the tree, one hind leg lifted off the ground, its tail flicking at the swarm of flies that surrounded it. It gazed at them forlornly, blinking its eyelashes to fend off the flies crawling around its eyes, seeking out the moisture. Kavanagh laughed. ‘That’s the first inhabitant we’ve seen,’ she said. ‘It really is a one-horse town.’

  Ford drove back up the main street and pulled up in front of the Ironclad Hotel, beside the two other cars. One was a battered Land Rover with a vast bull bar on the front, most of its panels replaced with plain aluminium that looked as if it had been hand-beaten. The other was a new HiLux ute, fitted with lights on the roof to the same mining spec as Ford’s vehicle, a red, black and yellow logo he didn’t recognise on the door.

  Ford got out and opened the back door for Grace, her eyes squinting against the bright light, yawning as she got down. ‘Where are we?’ she said, as Ford led her under the shade of the verandah. Ford looked into the shadows beyond the open door, a trickle of cool air leaking from the darkness out into the bright sunshine. Kavanagh joined them, her hand fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, pulling it down over the waistband of her jeans where she had tucked the pistol. Grace stood between them, looking from one to the other, waiting for them to speak. One hand found Kavanagh’s and took hold of it, the other grasped her father’s hand, then she stepped forward, pulling both of them through the door of the hotel.

  They stood together just inside, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the gloom, enjoying the cool. The front doo
r opened directly on to a large room with a vaulted ceiling, clad in the same corrugated iron as the exterior, decorated with road signs and old enamel advertisements. A wooden bar ran along one wall, and the woman behind it turned to them and smiled. Ford returned her smile and stepped forwards, pulling Grace and Kavanagh with him. The wall opposite the bar was lined with furniture: a pair of battered couches covered with threadbare patchwork blankets, and a single armchair with great curved arms.

  The only customer was sitting in it, a small dark man, wiry arms poking out of a black American football shirt, Pittsburgh Steelers, yellow stripes on the sleeves and a large number 69 across the chest. The shirt had been made for a bigger man, and it hung off him like he was a coat-hanger. He wore a pair of loose black athletic shorts and his skinny legs were stuck out in front of him, thongs dangling from his broad toes. He was slurping noodles loudly from a bowl in his lap, poking them into his mouth with a pair of chopsticks. Brown eyes stared at Ford from under a new baseball cap, the brim ironed dead flat, twisted slightly to one side. Ford smiled at him and guessed his age as mid-twenties. The man’s expression did not change, he kept staring, and Ford realised he was not looking at him, but over his head at the TV screen mounted high on the wall opposite, which was showing football with the sound down.

  Ford turned back to the woman behind the bar. She was big and pretty and pale-skinned, broad across the shoulders and hips, heavy breasts pushing against the front of her black singlet, the neck of it straining to contain her cleavage. She pushed back the lank brown hair that hung past her shoulders. ‘Hi there,’ she said, her voice deep and husky. She spread her arms wide in welcome and put her hands flat on the bar, leaning forward so that her chest rested on the counter. Her small brown eyes creased as she smiled. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Hi,’ said Ford, trying to maintain his smile. He looked past her along the bar and through the archway that led to a back room. It was unoccupied, bare except for a pool table and a jukebox, which was playing soft rock at low volume. ‘We were supposed to be meeting someone here. Has anybody been in?’ he said.

  ‘We only just opened for lunch,’ she said. Ford saw her smile slide as she noticed the cut across his nose and the bruising on his eye, before she recovered and pumped it back up into a wide grin. ‘Were you looking for one of the regulars?’

  ‘No, someone from out of town. Any strangers been through?’

  ‘Only youse three,’ said the man from the chair. He was watching them carefully now. He stood up and carried his drink and empty bowl over to the bar. He put the bowl on the counter and took a last swig from the beer before pulling the empty can from the foam stubby-holder and crushing it. ‘Same again, Stacey, darling,’ he said.

  The barmaid opened the galvanised steel door on the large icebox that filled the wall behind the bar and reached for a can of beer. ‘Not that one,’ he said. ‘Get me a frosty one from the back.’

  She gave it to him and he popped the top, watched it foam, then took a long pull.

  ‘You’re going to have to settle that tab soon, Muddy,’ said Stacey, ‘or the man will cut you off.’

  ‘He’d never do that,’ said Muddy. ‘End of the month, I always settle.’ He smacked his lips and winked at the barmaid, taking off his cap and running a hand through his long curly black hair, pushing it back and tucking it under the cap, adjusting it so the peak pointed backwards. He then looked over Ford’s head at the TV screen, occasionally dropping his eyes to glance at Kavanagh.

  ‘Can I get you a drink while you wait?’ said Stacey to Ford, wiping the bar and trying to look busy. ‘How about some lunch?’

  Ford sat down on the stool at the end of the bar. He noticed there were no beer pumps; all the beer was in cans and bottles in the icebox. ‘I’ll have whatever this fella’s having,’ he said. He then turned to Kavanagh. She stood behind his daughter, a hand on either shoulder, looking warily around the room.

  Grace was wide-eyed, and Ford realised it was the first time he had taken her inside a bar. ‘Hungry?’ he asked her. Grace nodded and Kavanagh shrugged.

  He turned to the man called Muddy and nodded towards the empty bowl. ‘Those noodles good, mate?’

  Muddy grinned. ‘They’re deadly, bro,’ he said. ‘The cook’s Chinese. He does cracking noodles, stir-fry, all that stuff. Good curry too. He hasn’t quite mastered the parma yet, so best give that a miss.’

  Stacey put Ford’s beer on the counter and he picked it up and pressed the cold can against his forehead, rolling it down his temples, then held it against the bruise on his eye. He pulled the tab and drank deeply, feeling the icy beer burn his throat, the bubbles bursting up his nose. When he lowered the can he saw Kavanagh glowering at him. ‘I thought you were on the wagon?’ she said through her teeth.

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘I haven’t seen you take a drink since I came up north,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve hardly had the chance,’ said Ford. ‘It’s my day off today. I don’t drink when I’m rostered on, because the testing is stricter up here, big multinational and all. The gold industry was all about security, but here it’s all health and safety. Bigger trucks, more explosives, a lot more mess to clean up if someone fucks up.’

  ‘Your old lady nagging you, man?’ said Muddy.

  Ford turned to him. ‘She’s not my wife.’

  ‘Sure sounds like one.’

  Kavanagh scowled at both of them. ‘Why don’t you ring your wife?’ she said. ‘See when she’s going to get here.’

  Ford finished the beer, took his phone out of his pocket, and hit redial. As he listened to it ring, Kavanagh stepped up to the bar with Grace and waved to Stacey to bring two beers.When the barmaid laid the two cans on the counter, Ford noticed a mark on the inside of her forearm. At first he thought it was a scar, but looking closer he saw it was a tattoo in blue ink: a long straight line running from her wrist to the inside of her elbow, the line interrupted at regular intervals by a zigzag.

  The phone rang out and he killed the connection and put the phone in his pocket, shaking his head at Kavanagh. He picked up the beer and drank it. ‘That first beer disappeared into me like water into the parched earth,’ he said.

  He picked up Grace and sat her on his knee. ‘Would you like some noodles?’ She nodded, and so he ordered two bowls from Stacey. As she wrote it out on her pad, he said to her, ‘That petrol station over the road, will it open today?’

  She shook her head. ‘They’re Seventh-day Adventists,’ she said. ‘They open Sunday. Don’t ask me how that works. You need fuel?’

  ‘No, we had a flat tyre out on the road. I thought someone over there might be able to fix it. I don’t like driving out here without a spare.’

  ‘I can fix that for you,’ said Muddy, turning his attention away from the TV. ‘Bring it round the back into the yard and I’ll sort you out.’

  Ford looked unsure. ‘You know what you’re doing?’

  Muddy folded his arms across his chest, cuddling his beer. He tilted his head and looked sideways at Ford. ‘I’m a fully trained diesel fitter,’ he said. ‘I can fix a fucking puncture. I heard you pull up outside. Without looking I can tell you’re driving a LandCruiser with the big VD eight cylinder. Your timing’s a bit off and you’re running a little rich. I can fix that for you too, if you’re not going to be a condescending bastard about it.’

  ‘Muddy will fix you up,’ said a voice from the back room. Ford looked around to see an old man walking through the archway. ‘He can fix anything. Muddy’s the guy they can’t root, shoot or electrocute,’ he said.

  The old man was small, skinny, and he walked with a stooped back. He wore a faded khaki shirt and matching shorts, frayed at the hem with red dust ground into the seams. His legs and arms were thin and gnarled, dappled brown and white with liver spots and sun scars. He peered at them from under the wide brim of a battered grey Akubra, its crown stained black with a ring of sweat.

  He stopped at the bar and looked hard at
Ford, his eyes sparkling behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He tugged at the long grey beard that hung from his chin and spilled over the collar of his shirt, cut square at the end in the colonial style.

  ‘Jeez,’ he said, ‘you step out of the bar for ten minutes for a shit and a smoke and some bastard steals your place at the bar.’

  Ford and Grace both looked at him and then at all the empty stools along the bar. The old man leaned across in front of them and tapped a calloused finger on a small brass plaque screwed into the counter. Ford leaned over and squinted to read the words engraved into it: ‘This seat is reserved for Bobby Dazzler, revered patron of this establishment.’

  ‘I take it this is you?’ said Ford.

  The old man smiled and showed two large gold teeth. ‘Would you jump in my grave as quick?’

  Ford gave him a small bow from the shoulder, and stood up, carrying Grace. He walked to the other side of the bar.

  Bobby Dazzler took his place of honour at the end of the bar. He nodded to Stacey and she put a cold beer in front of him. He smiled at her. ‘Shame on you,’ he said. ‘You just can’t get the staff these days.’

  ‘I thought you’d gone home,’ she said.

  ‘Thirty years I’ve been smoking and drinking in this hotel,’ said Bobby Dazzler. ‘Half those nicotine stains on the ceiling must be mine. Now you make me go outside to smoke in the yard with the dogs.’

  ‘We didn’t change the law,’ said Stacey.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Them dogs can hold a better conversation than half the dumb bastards that hang around this bar.’

  Ford looked at the yellow stains on the man’s fingers, the dirt caked under his nails and the dust coating his scuffed boots.

  ‘You been working today?’ he asked.