The Opal Desert

by Di Morrissey

  ‘Bit of both perhaps. Are you a local?’

  ‘Yep. Though what qualifies you as a local is a bit elastic. Where’re you staying?’

  ‘I haven’t found anywhere yet. I assumed I’d just find a room at a motel,’ said Kerrie.

  ‘Hmm. You can’t stay at the Diggers. It burnt down. Again. The pub and motels could be booked out. There are buyers in town. But there’s some good little B&Bs. And the caravan park of course. How long you staying? Mind if I sit with you?’ He pulled out the other chair at the small wrought-iron table and waved to the girl at the counter for another coffee.

  ‘I’m Billy. At your service.’ He held out his hand.

  Kerrie smiled as she shook Billy’s hand, glancing at his friendly blue eyes, the salt and pepper beard, the faded T-shirt and shorts and the bush hat he carried. An expensive mobile phone, she observed, was clipped to his belt. ‘I’m Kerrie and actually I have no clear plans at the moment. I’ve come to meet a friend of a friend and just look around.’

  Billy grinned. ‘Lady friend? There’s a lot of t’riffic women working up here now. On their own, too.’

  ‘What sort of thing do they do on their own up here?’ asked Kerrie.

  ‘Lots. They mine, work in the shops and the local community, and in the hospitality industry, of course. Most of the opal stores are run, or owned, by women. Some are talented jewellery designers. One grew up here. Her grandfather and father mined and she learnt a lot from them. Some girls come to the Ridge for a couple of days and never leave. So who’s your friend? I might know her.’

  ‘It’s Murray Evans. He’s an artist.’

  ‘Too bloody right he is. Lovely fellow, so’s his wife, Fiona.’

  ‘You know him?’ said Kerrie.

  ‘Sure do. Known John and Fee since they first came to the Ridge. Nearly twenty years ago. His gallery is down the end of the street but he works in his studio out at his camp. Fiona is nearly always in the gallery.’

  ‘How long have you been in Lightning Ridge?’ asked Kerrie. ‘Sounds like a long time.’

  ‘I was born around here in Mehi. Went away for a long time then came back. My missus died a while ago and so I moved out of town. You caught me on a town day. If I can help you, let me know. Murray has my number. I’ll take you for a drive out to a mine or whatever, if you’d like.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s kind of you. Do you mine for opals?’

  ‘That’s the name of the game. The raison d’être for being at the Ridge. Yeah, I’ve got a claim or two round the place.’

  ‘Do you find many opals?’ asked Kerrie. ‘I don’t know much about them.’

  ‘That’s a question you never ask around here. No one ever talks about what they’re digging – though word creeps around soon enough.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. Is it because someone else comes and pegs a claim next to you?’ asked Kerrie.

  ‘Nah. Because of ratters.’

  ‘Ratters?’

  ‘Bastards who sneak into your mine at night and rip out your opal. The night shift!’ explained Billy.

  ‘Can’t you secure your mine at night?’

  ‘These blokes have night-vision goggles and heavy artillery. Serious stuff.’

  ‘It sounds like the wild west. Do the ratters get caught?’

  ‘There’s always been Ridge law to deal with ratters. Funny how some fellas get pissed and stumble down a fifty-foot mine shaft in the dark and break their neck.’ Billy grinned. ‘But now days, crims come in many guises. Some of the blokes who arrive in smart cars and fancy shoes are just as crooked as any ratter. The boys from the big end of town are creeping in.’ Seeing Kerrie’s startled look, he went on, ‘We’re facing the end of an era here. But that’s not what visitors want to know. You should get a sense of how it was in the old days.’

  Kerrie nodded. She was startled by Billy’s tales of lawlessness and wasn’t sure whether to take them seriously or not. ‘Billy, you are a mine of information. Sorry about the pun,’ said Kerrie.

  ‘No worries,’ said Billy. ‘Ridge people are friendly on the whole. It’s the spirit of the place. It’s always been a pretty rugged lifestyle and if you don’t help a mate in strife, well, don’t count on getting help when you need it.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Kerrie. ‘To tell you the truth I’ve never been this far outback before.’

  ‘Out here you have to rely on other people for everything – social life, helping with a job, getting supplies, that sort of thing. Mind you, there are people out in the scrub who prefer to keep to themselves. Might go months without seeing another human being. But that’s the way they like it.’

  ‘Thanks, Billy. I have enjoyed talking with you. Let me pay for your coffee.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks. It’s on the tick. I have a running account here.’ He waved to the girl behind the cash register who smiled and held up two fingers, then pulled out a tattered notebook and added two coffees to Billy’s account.

  Leaving the café Kerrie could feel the deep warmth of the sun even though it was, by local standards, a balmy spring day. ‘It must get terribly hot here in the summer,’ she said to Billy.

  ‘Too right. Quietens down then, too. The tourists leave and so do the winter miners.’

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Kerrie.

  ‘Lots of retired people come up for the winter and dig away at their claims. It’s a lifestyle thing, though they get a kick out of picking up a few dollars here and there.’

  ‘They don’t make any big finds then?’ said Kerrie as they strolled along the street.

  ‘Nah. Most of them just pick through the old diggings. To work anything new now you need decent machinery.

  A jackhammer can be hard work for an old bloke. The real professionals use heavy-duty gear. Can be very expensive. But you can get lucky, and that’s what everyone dreams of and why they keep pecking away. There could be opal an inch away. There’s a story goes that one couple hit a patch of good-quality opal a few years back, and made several million bucks. And you know what? They’re still here, living in their caravan, except that now it has a satellite dish.’

  ‘Maybe in the summer they go to their new million-dollar home in the Bahamas,’ said Kerrie.

  Billy laughed. ‘Who knows? Anyway, they’re here because this’s where they want to be.’

  ‘Must be nice to feel like that, and doing something together that you enjoy. Maybe finding opals is just an excuse.’

  ‘Might be. Some of them work like navvies, keeps them fit and they live together in little communal camps scattered round the place. But there are others who are deadly committed to finding opal. Opal mining gets to you. Opal is such hypnotic stuff. The men love it as much as the women.’

  ‘Like gold?’ asked Kerrie.

  Billy nodded. ‘I guess it can become an obsession. Now here’s Murray’s studio. I’ll just pop in and say hello.’ He pushed open the swinging saloon-style doors of the large gallery and shouted out, ‘Murray? Fiona? You’ve got a visitor.’

  Inside the gallery was a counter cluttered with postcards, fridge magnets and brochures and on the wall behind it were two huge paintings of political leaders portrayed as animal caricatures. There was a small office to one side and Murray Evans came out to greet them.

  ‘G’day, Billy.’ The artist smiled at Kerrie.

  ‘This is Kerrie, just arrived and says you have a mutual friend. So I’ll leave you to it. Sold a few, have you, Murray?’ enquired Billy as he glanced around at the gallery walls.

  ‘Doing all right. Had a lot of visitors. See you, Billy.’

  ‘Hooroo, Kerrie. I’ll see you next time I’m in town, if you’re still around.’

  The artist came around the desk and shook Kerrie’s hand. He looked to be in his fifties, his sandy hair was flecked with grey, and he radiated energy and good humour. ‘So who’s our mutual friend?’

  ‘Walker Smith. He’s my solicitor. My husband died recently and Walker suggested that I get away for a bi
t, take a trip out here and look you up.’

  Murray nodded. ‘Sounds like Walker. Sorry to hear about your husband. Walker and I went to uni together.

  I was supposed to be doing law but I dropped out. I knew a collar and tie job wasn’t for me.’

  Kerrie glanced around at the two large rooms. ‘Your work is very strong. Do you paint in the field or take photos? Where are these places?’

  She walked up to the wall hung with brilliant oil paintings of dramatic arid lonely landscapes. Some featured an uncoiling rusting wire fence or a rotten slab of wood that was once a small hut and was now a home to lizards. The remains of a half-buried old truck abandoned to the sand years ago caught her eye. In a small detail she noticed the tiny animal tracks in the sand, and a shadowy shape and a pair of wary eyes peering from beneath a splintered mudguard. ‘Makes you wonder, who lived in the old hut, who drove the truck, and what happened to them. Now they’re homes to little animals,’ she said.

  Murray looked at her with a half smile. ‘Very observant. You paint?’

  She shrugged. ‘I studied art, wanted to be an artist, but didn’t stick with it. I married an artist instead. A sculptor.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Murray. ‘Would I know him?’

  ‘Milton Faranisi.’

  ‘Of course. I read that he died. All of a sudden wasn’t it? I’m sorry about that. So Walker sent you to see me. You must come out to the camp, meet the wife and see what I’m doing. The stuff I really enjoy doing.’ He pointed to the second showroom. ‘That’s what the tourists like. Not big works, they like the more fun stuff.’

  ‘Quirky sense of humour!’ said Kerrie, looking at his paintings of native animals and birds. ‘You use them instead of people to make political statements.’

  ‘Yes, I get away with bloody blue murder that way,’ Murray said.

  Kerrie smiled at three galahs that bore a striking resemblance to some well-known politicians. ‘I think I like the picture with the kookaburra and the frog best. You really like living at the Ridge do you?’

  ‘I leave as little as possible. Fiona goes to Sydney regularly, as our son is at uni. But the art scene in the city doesn’t much like what I do. I’m not sophisticated or adventurous enough. That’s fine by me. I enjoy my art and why try to be something you’re not? I’ve been here almost twenty years and can’t imagine living anywhere else. It’s a great place. I love the air, the scenery, the people, the lifestyle.’

  As they returned to the front of the gallery where several tourists were flipping through large colourful prints of his paintings, Murray added, ‘Hasn’t always been a piece of cake. Had a rough patch or two, but that can happen anywhere. I think staying here saved my life. But that’s another story. Are you staying in the Ridge for a bit?’

  ‘I thought I might stay a couple of days. Billy mentioned a few places . . .’

  ‘I’d say come and stay with us, but the spare room is chockers with furniture – we’re renovating. Building actually, adding a room and a deck. But can you come to dinner tonight?’

  ‘Please, I don’t want to be any trouble . . .’

  ‘No trouble at all. I’ll take you round to Denise’s place. She rents a very comfortable cottage and I’m pretty sure it’s vacant.’ He turned to the tourists who were now strolling round the gallery. ‘I just have to duck out for a minute.’

  ‘Okay,’ said the man. ‘But can you help my wife?’

  ‘I’d like a couple of those fridge magnets, the frog and the galah,’ said the woman, delving into her purse.

  The sale was swiftly concluded, and when the tourists left Murray hung a sign that said ‘Back in 5 mins’ on the door and turned the key.

  ‘Took me a long time to agree to those bloody fridge magnets but I tell you what, they keep turning over at five bucks a pop. Amazing. Not easy to spend five grand or even five hundred on a painting but five bucks? No worries.’ He grinned. ‘You’ll like Denise, she’s a real treasure.’

  They strolled to the corner and turned down another road.

  ‘Is this how it is everywhere out here? People being so friendly and helpful?’ Kerrie asked.

  ‘If they’re not trying to kill you,’ joked Murray. ‘It’s a small place, so you learn to rub along together. Even though the tourist industry is growing. But everything still rides on opal. It’s the reason for our existence.’

  ‘And the lifestyle? Would you stay here if there weren’t tourists and opals?’

  ‘That’s a thought I’d rather not contemplate, but frankly I think there’s still a lot more opal to be found. And everyone loves the lifestyle. This is Denise’s place,’ he said as he led Kerrie down a small lane behind a building housing a hardware and camping store and next to an empty block of overgrown land.

  To Kerrie’s surprise several flowering trees and shrubs protected a small fenced garden containing a little cottage with a bull-nosed verandah. A eucalyptus tree behind the cottage offered some shade and at the rear of the block stood a modern house with a small shop attached.

  A woman came out of the shop to meet them as they crossed the garden.

  ‘Hey, Murray. What’s new?’

  ‘Cottage still vacant, Denise? This is Kerrie, she wants to stay a couple of days or so.’

  ‘Nice to meet you. Yeah, last lot left last night. Haven’t stocked the fridge yet, but it’s all clean and tidy. Just you is it?’

  Kerrie nodded. ‘What a sweet little place.’

  ‘Used to be an old miner’s shack, must be eighty to a hundred years old. Been dolled up, and my old bloke added the patio and the barbecue. It’s pretty quiet here, even though we’re right in town. And if you need anything, you can just give us a shout.’

  When Kerrie saw the spotless cottage, freshly painted in cheerful colours, she knew she’d like it far better than a motel.

  ‘Looks like everything I need,’ said Kerrie. ‘I’ll get a few supplies. My car is back by the café.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Murray. ‘How about I give you directions and you can come out to our camp and have a drink at sunset and meet Fiona.’

  ‘Sounds great. I can’t thank you enough, Murray. How about I give you my mobile number, in case I get lost.’

  Settled in to her little cottage after a trip to the small supermarket, where she’d been shocked by the high price of the wilted vegetables and tired fruit, Kerrie poured herself a cold mineral water. What on earth was she doing here? she wondered. This was so remote. She couldn’t imagine Milton in such a place. She wished there was someone she could ring to tell them about this unusual town that had sprung up on the back of opals.

  Perhaps she could call Walker and thank him for the introduction to Murray, who seemed so nice. But she didn’t know Walker well enough to chat about such inconsequential matters. Who else could she call? The three girls certainly wouldn’t care about Lightning Ridge. Wendy? Kerrie was very fond of her, and their relationship had always been cordial, but there was no more to it than that.

  Suddenly Kerrie realised that there was not a soul in the world, now that she no longer had Milton or her mother, who was the slightest bit interested in what she did or where she was. How could she not have any close friends? She knew the answer. Milton had absorbed her life to the exclusion of everyone else. Tears of loss and self-pity began to trickle down her face. Then she shook herself to stop this train of thought and, locking the cottage door, she set out to tour the streets of Lightning Ridge.

  It was early afternoon and there was now a laziness to the place. Shops were empty of customers and sales assistants read their newspapers beneath slowly turning fans. Kerrie told them that she was just browsing as she went from opal shop to opal shop. Some were small jewellers, others just tourist souvenir shops displaying inexpensive opal pieces. One large store was designed as a cave filled with all manner of displays of uncut opal, great chunks of rock showing the opal seam within. There was lavish jewellery as well as polished opal ready to be set.

 
; A cheerful man with a loud Slavic accent pounced. ‘Lovely miss, are you looking for a special opal? Let me show you some pieces. You have a favourite opal? The fire? The green? The blue and red flash?’

  Kerrie shook her head. ‘I’m just looking. This is all quite dazzling and I need to take it in.’

  ‘Ah. Here try this on, see it against your skin. This is a beauty.’ He lifted a necklace featuring a huge pendant shot with hot flashes of colour against a turquoise background. ‘This is a gem-quality harlequin. Very rare, very beautiful.’

  ‘It is stunning,’ admitted Kerrie. ‘I hadn’t realised the variety . . . This looks expensive,’ she added, pointing to a large ring.

  ‘Oh, yes, this piece is not for sale. Very unusual colour. Did you have something special in mind? A colour? A price? Set? Unset?’

  Kerrie held up her hands. ‘It’s my first day here, I’m still looking.’

  ‘How about a DVD about opals? We have a very interesting one here. Or what about a tour? We can take you to a mine and there is another display room. We have pieces you won’t see anywhere else. And our opals are not just from Lightning Ridge. We have high-quality opal from Andamooka, Coober Pedy, other fields round here like the Grawin, plus Yowah nuts, White Cliffs pineapples and opal from Quilpie . . .’

  ‘Enough. Too much information. Thanks. I’ll just wander round a little more.’ Kerrie found the man’s enthusiasm overwhelming and she made a quick exit.

  Just the same, she was quite bowled over by what she’d seen. Her knowledge of opals was very limited and she had always associated them with the gaudy, overlit pieces displayed in duty free stores. Now she felt as though she was in sensation overload with all the beautiful pieces she’d seen on her short walk. She wandered back towards her cottage, pausing outside a small restaurant where the window had posters for an extraordinary range of sightseeing events and places to go in the Ridge. There was a weird castle made from bottles, entertainment in a cave, a ghost tour, all manner of mine tours, cactus gardens, a fossil museum, lots of art galleries. At the end of Pandora Street was a hot artesian bore baths. Lightning Ridge, Kerrie thought, had a lot to offer.