Dust of the Land

by J. H. Fletcher

  ‘What goes up can also come down,’ Owen reminded her.

  ‘And in this case what comes down will also go up again,’ she said.

  She believed it absolutely. The market would revive. Now was the time to invest in the future.

  She sent Owen to enter into agreements with the landowners; she sat down again with the state premier. It took months, but in the end she had her way. Development at Port Anthony began. They would build a spur to connect the port with BradMin’s railway. Even with the additional capital, finances were stretched well beyond the limit of what was prudent but, confident in her star, Bella did not care. She was living dangerously and loving it.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  The runway lights appeared on schedule, standing out amid the thin cluster of lights of the town. They were a welcome sight in what until a few minutes ago had been the unrelieved darkness of the land beneath the Cessna’s wings.

  It was 7 December 1975 and Bella was on her way to inspect the on-going construction at the Port Anthony terminal south of Port Hedland. She had radioed the airstrip half an hour ago to confirm the lights would be switched on. The next few minutes would be tricky, even so; it was the first time she had attempted a landing in the dark but there was a first time for everything and tonight, she told herself, was the night.

  She throttled back, checking altitude, wind speed and direction, trim… Slowly the runway rose to meet her. Throttle back a little, the engine noise quieter now… Careful not to stall… Recheck the alignment… Down and still down… The lights rushing to meet her… The wheels touched, tyres screaming, hands busy on the controls, slowing now, taxiing now, everything under control…

  Whew!

  There was a brick shack on one side of the runway. Bella parked in front of it and switched off. Silence came rushing as the engine died.

  A man in overalls greeted her as, suddenly weary, Bella climbed down.

  ‘Welcome to Port Hedland,’ he said.

  He was young, cheerful and bare-headed, the breeze lifting the blond hair on his head. A physique that even an old woman could appreciate.

  ‘Sorry to keep you late,’ Bella said as she shook his hand.

  ‘With BradMin’s terminal outside town and your Port Anthony coming up twenty-five kilometres down the coast, we get traffic at all hours. Very different from the old days,’ he said.

  They walked side by side towards the building. There was a light breeze and overhead the sky was bright with stars.

  ‘Your vehicle is waiting to run you into town,’ the young man said.

  ‘When the Port Anthony landing strip is operational we won’t have to trouble you any more,’ Bella told him. ‘Okay to leave my plane where it is?’

  ‘She’ll be right,’ he said. ‘There’s a cyclone out there somewhere, but it’s well off-shore and tracking west. We’re not expecting trouble.’

  The driver of the Land Cruiser was also young. This is a country for young men, Bella thought. His name was Frederick and, unlike the man who had greeted her, was taciturn and scrawny: no heartthrobs there. He took her overnight bag and tossed it into the back of the cruiser without a word. He drove her into town and dropped her at the motel, where a room had been reserved.

  The motel was a low building, the walls yellow, and Bella thought that in daylight it would have a view of the sea. She breathed in the tropical smell of the coast, a mixture of salt, coral and rot, fecund with birth and rebirth. The night was still and she could hear the sound of waves in the darkness. She went indoors and booked in. She ate sparsely in the empty dining room and within the hour was asleep.

  In the morning she stood on the balcony outside her room and looked at the view. There were palm trees along the shore, their long fronds hanging limply. The sky was clear, the calm sea the colour of slate. It was seven-thirty, the heat already oppressive, and the air was still.

  She was eating breakfast when the cruiser arrived. She downed a second cup of coffee, went out and climbed in beside the driver.

  ‘Not much wind today,’ she said.

  ‘Bad weather out there somewhere,’ Frederick said.

  ‘Not too bad, I hope.’

  He grunted but said no more. They drove west along the coast road, the sea visible at intervals between clumps of vegetation.

  The site manager, whose name was Steve, told Bella how things were going.

  ‘About two-thirds finished,’ he said. ‘The deepwater jetty is almost ready, similarly the rail link and access road. We still have to complete the wharf, admin block and loading plant, but she should be up and running in a couple of months.’

  ‘I want photographs,’ Bella said. ‘Pictures of everything here.’

  ‘You want pretty pictures for your office,’ Steve said, ‘I’d wait until she’s finished.’

  ‘I shall, when it’s ready. But I also want some today. To show how far we’ve got.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Steve said.

  They walked along the jetty, which ran quarter of a mile into deep water. A tug was anchored a hundred yards further off-shore. A team of men was laying rails down the middle of the jetty, while others welded guardrails along either side.

  She reached the end and looked back at the shore.

  ‘Long way,’ she said.

  ‘Bulk carriers need deep water,’ Steve said.

  She stared at the steel piles disappearing below the surface. Still no wind but the sea was surging against the structure, stirring uneasy bursts of foam a foot or two into the air.

  She watched the water for a minute before turning and walking back with Steve towards the shore.

  ‘The airstrip manager was saying there’s a cyclone out there somewhere,’ she said.

  ‘They’ve even given it a name,’ Steve said. ‘Joan is well off-shore. They estimate it’s tracking at about five kilometres an hour along the coast.’

  ‘That’s slow,’ Bella said.

  ‘That’s its speed across the water. Cyclones spin around their centre much faster than their land speed. Sixty, eighty miles an hour, sometimes more. But those piles are built to last. We’re not expecting trouble.’

  ‘And if Joan turns inland?’

  He grinned. ‘That would be different. But it won’t. The barometer hasn’t shifted for a week.’

  Yet Bella felt uneasy. She knew the marine architects who had designed the jetty had factored in the details of every cyclone along this coast for the past forty years, yet there was something about the sullen surge of the slate-grey sea that did not feel right.

  A yellow earthmover ground past as Bella left the jetty and walked to the caravan being used as a site office. The caravan was large, with a bathroom and three bedrooms, and Steve said he slept in it when he was not working.

  ‘You’re not married?’

  Not that it mattered but it was something to say, and she always liked to get close to her staff if she could.

  He shook his head, grinning. ‘Still playing the field, that’s me.’

  There were power cables lying on the ground and the caravan was air-conditioned.

  ‘What happens to this if a cyclone hits?’

  ‘Concrete base. Deep anchors. Heavy duty cables.’

  ‘So she’s safe?’

  ‘As houses.’

  Bella had a cup of coffee with Steve and studied the plans of the development. Afterwards she got him to escort her around the site; she was determined to see every inch of what had been completed and all that remained to be done. Teams of men were working everywhere. She could see they were making good progress and was pleased.

  ‘Where do they stay when they’re not working?’ she asked Steve.

  ‘Port Hedland. We’ve got trucks to run them to and fro.’

  Bella took dozens of photographs. It was twelve o’clock and she was dripping with sweat by the time she finished.

  ‘What I would give for a breath of fresh air,’ she told Steve when they got back to the caravan.

  ‘You
can shower here if you like,’ he said.

  ‘I need a change of clothes,’ she said. ‘I’ll get Frederick to run me back to the motel.’

  After she had showered and changed she felt much better. She gave her hair a thorough brush and put on a dab of lipstick; being the boss lady meant looking the part, as well as acting it. Satisfied with her appearance, she went and ate lunch in the dining room.

  She had told no one why she was here, but the banks were getting nervous and wanted a progress report on how things were going.

  Had it not been for the Arab oil embargo they would have been all right. They could have funded the development out of profits but revenue had collapsed along with the iron-ore price. Prices had just begun to pick up again but she had learnt that banks to whom you owed money were like children, in constant need of reassurance, so she had flown up herself, knowing that a personal report, backed by photographs, would carry more weight than the normal surveyor’s assessment. Not that she planned to say that to Steve; confidence was a fragile plant, easily damaged.

  She finished her lunch – fillet of barramundi and salad – and had signed the bill and walked outside just as the Land Cruiser turned into the forecourt of the motel. As she walked towards the vehicle a breath of wind touched the back of her neck. She turned to taste it, feeling it cool on her face.

  Frederick had got out to open the door for her and now looked at her, puzzled by her sudden movement.

  ‘The wind,’ she said. ‘First time I’ve felt it all day.’

  He frowned and turned to face it. It was very light, the merest breath, but it was unmistakable and blowing steadily from the west, the direction in which Steve had told her the hidden cyclone lay in ambush.

  ‘Sea breeze,’ Frederick said confidently. ‘It’ll pass.’

  Bella wasn’t so sure. ‘I want you to run me up to the airstrip,’ she said. ‘I need to be sure my plane is well anchored.’

  She had got what she came for and could have flown out, but the weather didn’t feel right, whatever people were saying, so she decided to stay put.

  There was an aluminium hangar behind the brick airport building, also a tractor that the airstrip manager used to manoeuvre Minnie into shelter. He came out again and closed and locked the sliding doors.

  ‘Lucky no one was using it. She’ll be safe there,’ he said.

  Bella went back to Port Anthony. There was nothing she could do when she got there but went anyway. There was little wind, yet she remained uneasy. All along the port road the vegetation was being lifted and flattened, pressed by an invisible hand.

  ‘Stop here,’ she said to Frederick.

  She walked through the scrub and stared at the ocean. The water was still a uniform grey, broken only by a succession of long, black swells that rose, one after the other, to break sullenly along the shore. Here she could taste the wind. It was still light, the ocean calm, yet the air felt heavy, the horizon had closed in and it was no longer possible to distinguish sky from sea. She walked back to the vehicle amid a sudden rattle of rain that ceased as quickly as it had begun, and the drops were hard enough to sting.

  ‘Let’s get on,’ she said.

  Frederick drove fast along the rutted gravel road, yet Bella could not escape the apprehension that had gripped her.

  Sea breeze, he had told her. It’ll pass.

  She did not believe it.

  They passed a succession of vehicles heading the other way and when they arrived at Port Anthony she found that work had ceased. Steve had pulled all the work gangs off the site and sent them to safety. The heavy plant had been driven into a park a quarter of a mile from the shore and secured by metal hawsers to steel pickets driven deep into the ground. The tug had motored further out to sea and had all three anchors down: more than enough, Steve said, to withstand anything the elements could throw at it. The tug crew was now with the rest of the team, heading to Port Hedland.

  ‘You’d better get back, too,’ she told Frederick.

  ‘How will you manage?’

  ‘I shall stay here,’ she said.

  His expression said she was crazy; maybe she was. She smiled at him.

  ‘Get moving,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  He didn’t need telling twice.

  She watched the cruiser until it disappeared, then turned and walked to the caravan. The air was beginning to move. Somewhere it had picked up weight; it certainly no longer felt like a breeze.

  More like a load of concrete, Bella thought.

  The caravan was anchored securely to its base; while she’d been having lunch cyclone shutters had been bolted across the windows and door, the glass crisscrossed with sticky tape. Except for the lighting, all power had been switched off. Everything that could be done had been done.

  Steve was beside her.

  ‘The site’s evacuated?’ Bella asked him.

  ‘Except for us.’

  ‘And we are going nowhere,’ Bella said.

  All afternoon the westerly wind increased. The radio was issuing cyclone warnings yet the barometer remained steady at 29.8 inches.

  ‘I’ve never heard of cyclonic winds holding steady from one quarter,’ Steve said. ‘They always back and veer. How can it be a cyclone? And the barometer’s as steady as a rock!’

  Bella hoped he was right but felt as though spiders were burrowing beneath her skin. The humidity was overwhelming and, with power to the air conditioner switched off, she was once again drenched with sweat. She had never been so uncomfortable.

  She had intended to stay in the office but was too restless to do so. She walked down the roadway that ran along the almost-completed wharf and examined the turntable where the locomotives would turn before making their return journey to the mine.

  The wind was stronger now, tugging the hair on her head, the rain squalls more frequent. She went back to the caravan and bolted the door behind her. She sat down, not knowing what to do with herself, and listened to the structure creaking in the wind.

  She did what she did so often in moments of stress, when her body screamed for action which for some reason circumstances prevented: she let her thoughts travel back to other, earlier, times when she had been subjected to intense pressure. The dull thud of Charles being thrown from his horse in the gathering darkness of the Yorkshire dales. The nerve-screaming tension of Charters Towers, knowing that Johnson was watching her in the darkness of her bedroom. Cowering on Townsville beach, waiting to be recaptured by Mr Henry’s thugs. The agony of waiting, after Peace’s accident, to hear whether she was alive or dead.

  She doubted whether the worst of cyclones could compare with the trauma of those moments.

  ‘Living in this part of the world, I suppose this is routine to you,’ she said to Steve.

  ‘A cyclone is never routine,’ Steve said.

  For the third time since Bella had come back from the wharf, he got up and checked the barometer: 29.8 and steady.

  ‘The barometer hasn’t moved,’ he said.

  Yet Steve, too, couldn’t sit still.

  ‘Tell me about cyclones,’ Bella said. ‘What are they?’

  ‘They’re tropical storms that revolve around a central vortex. The whole system moves very slowly but the winds at the centre are huge. They are what do the damage.’

  ‘But you think this may not be a cyclone at all. Despite the radio warnings?’

  ‘The winds are too steady.’

  ‘You’d better be right,’ Bella told him. ‘Because, if you’re not…’

  ‘If I’m not right, what does it mean?’

  ‘It means the whole system must be tracking straight at us.’

  ‘God help us if you’re right,’ he said.

  ‘God helps those who help themselves,’ Bella said. ‘Why don’t you radio Port Hedland, ask them what the weather’s doing there?’

  Steve spoke briefly on the radio then put down the microphone and stared at her. His mouth was working and he spoke as though there was no spit in hi
s mouth.

  ‘Wind gusting southeast to southwest. Speeds up to thirty knots and rising.’

  Being locked inside the caravan was suddenly intolerable.

  ‘Let’s see what’s happening outside.’

  Bella pushed open the door. It took some doing but finally she forced her way out against what was now a gale. She let the door blow shut behind her and stood with her back pressed against the van, the wind probing every part of her body. Out at sea, the black swells had disintegrated, the waves breaking all ways at once. Towards the horizon the sky had turned black and the wind was still blowing without variation from the west.

  The weather out there, cyclone or not, was heading this way. Slowly, perhaps, but it was coming.

  She went back indoors, the wind sending papers flying from the desk. Steve was looking at the barometer. He turned towards her and she saw that his lips were as grey as his cheeks.

  ‘29.3,’ he whispered.

  The barometer had dropped half an inch in an hour.

  Bella could smell the beginnings of panic on him. ‘You know what I would like?’ she said. ‘A nice cup of tea. Shall I make us one?’

  Whether it was the tea or Bella herself she never knew, but his face grew still as he got a grip on himself. ‘I never thought I’d see the day,’ he said with the shadow of a smile. ‘Bella Tucker making me a cup of tea in a cyclone.’

  Because there could no longer be any doubt: a cyclone it was, and heading this way.

  The caravan shuddered under a gust of wind.

  Bella handed him a mug of tea. ‘What can we expect?’ she said quietly.

  ‘There are no rules,’ Steve said. ‘We’ll survive or we won’t. No way to tell.’

  ‘That’s cheerful,’ Bella said.

  ‘It’s honest,’ Steve said.

  There were times when honesty could be a burden but Bella said nothing. As Steve had said, they would survive or they would not. Ultimately nothing else mattered.

  Again the caravan shook as a second strong gust buffeted it. Behind their protective shutters the windows rattled.

  ‘It’s coming,’ Bella said.

  ‘This is nothing,’ Steve said. ‘They’ll get much more serious later.’