Cyclone Season

by Victoria Gordon

  Next morning, she arose far too early; although the relative coolness of the dawn air was pleasant, there was simply nothing to do but some over-cautious sunbathing until the rest of the community awoke. Then, she devoted herself to the role of tourist, and did it with a vengeance spurred on by Wade having suggested that in the first place.

  Holly managed, with surprisingly little difficulty, to drive every single road and street in the community by early afternoon. And that was religiously following the tourist guide map she appropriated as soon as the tourist bureau had opened for the day.

  It was, she supposed, a fascinating place. At least, it should have been. But the fascination was overshadowed by the raw newness, the haunting aura of impermanence. She was unable to tour the most logical attraction, the Mount Newman Mining Company’s port facility, for one of the most logical reasons. Everybody was on strike, a situation Jessica had mentioned as being almost as common as having the men working. But Holly made up for that questionable lack by driving through the town’s general port area, feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the immense ore carriers, the mountain of iron ore and the vigorous town activity that denied the growing heat of the day.

  In tonnage terms, she discovered, it was the largest port in Australia, taking millions of tonnes each year on to ships so large they defied description.

  She spent some time wandering across the edges of the tidal inlet called ‘Pretty Pool’, described as a haven for shell collectors. But she found it was also a haven for sandflies, and cut her visit short. She was also unable to free her imagination from the display of hostile stonefish and sea snakes she’d viewed at the tourist bureau.

  It was vaguely annoying, she decided, to find evidence of marvellous seaside facilities that became virtually unusable for so much of the year because of the deadly sea snakes and the ever-constant danger of treading upon a stone-fish.

  The stone-fish, she thought, must be the ugliest marine creature in existence, a prehistoric creature still somehow existing in the modern world because of the same poisonous nature that had kept it alive centuries before. She resolved never, ever, to set foot on the reefs without the stoutest of footwear.

  A far more interesting attraction was the Kingsmill Street headquarters of the Royal Flying Doctor service, the world-renowned life-line between the far-flung outback areas of Australia and the isolated centres that served them. Holly listened in fascination to the scheduled radio ‘galah session’ in which all the outlying properties used the radio network like a telephone in a fast-moving gossip and information exchange whose casualness belied the serious importance of the service.

  Was Wade out there somewhere, she wondered, linked to her unknowingly by this invisible chain of faceless voices, each one its own bastion against the loneliness of the next?

  And later, as her drive to view the shimmering wasteland of the salt company’s evaporation ponds beside the North West Coastal Highway revealed more of the sheer vastness of the country, the flat, bleak, yet somehow still-beautiful emptiness, she wondered how any so-called civilised man could have withstood the emptiness to settle and survive here.

  And how the original inhabitants, the naked and nomadic Aborigines, could have survived was beyond wonder, especially for a girl who could get sunburned even in the shade! Holly shuddered and resolved to investigate Wade’s extensive library for more information before she tried to reach any conclusions on that particular subject.

  As the afternoon heat made even driving uncomfortable, she devoted herself to touring a private collection of sea-shells and Aboriginal artefacts, and another of local handicrafts, then steered for the surprisingly large and well-serviced shopping centre in South Hedland.

  It was fully air-conditioned, almost too much so, she thought, marvelling at the broad racial and cultural mix that was obvious to even the most casual observer. Local Aborigines mingled with colourfully dressed, soft-spoken Malaysians and families of every conceivable European background, to judge from the accents she heard.

  And there was money. A good deal of it, to judge from the high-heaped shopping carts and the range of pure luxury items that seemed incredibly extensive for such a small community.

  Roughly fifteen thousand people, almost all of them totally dependent upon the mining industry for their livelihood, she realised. And yet despite the relative isolation they seemed to lack no tangible evidence of a fully modern, typical consumer lifestyle.

  Almost every item in every aspect of living was top-of-the-line or close to it. The prices were, to Holly’s inexperienced eye, astronomically high. But there was certainly no lack of customers. The reason, at least in part, was revealed when she paused for a cool drink and a sandwich and overheard the conversation between two women at the next table.

  ‘I worry a bit about the kids, sometimes,’ one was saying. ‘It seems there just isn’t anything they want that we can’t afford to buy for them — and Bill does buy it, never fear. It just can’t be healthy, and yet, what else is there? We can’t afford to leave even if we wanted to, not for another few years. And there’s so little for kids, really.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll ever be able to leave,’ her companion replied. ‘And for the same reason: we spend it as fast as we make it. But, they’re things we couldn’t afford anywhere else, and Geoff likes his work, so why worry? I can stick it out for another few years, anyway, and then we’ll see.’

  The two women left shortly, but Holly lingered, eavesdropping shamelessly on whatever other conversations were in a form of English she could understand. It was enlightening.

  Some people loved the place; some hated it. But without exception the people she overheard regarded the town as only a temporary aspect of their lives. All had families somewhere else, interests somewhere else, and considered Port Hedland a means to an end, a place to make the money to get away from.

  The town, certainly, wasn’t temporary. Given, at least, reasonable consideration from cyclones and world iron prices, it was here to stay. But would it always, she wondered, have that somewhat tragic air of human impermanence? Or would there be, one day, an entire breed of Northwesters like Wade, who obviously felt none of this transient, fleeting temporariness she found in almost everyone else?

  It was difficult to judge, especially from the viewpoint of a visitor whose own permanence was, to say the least, rather questionable. And could she ever consider herself living so far from everything she’d grown up with, far from the theatre, the arts, the incredibly ancient — by Port Hedland standards — history of her own country?

  Jessica had managed, but at what personal price? She recalled hearing her aunt say that the town’s second- biggest industry must be that of video recorders and video movies which were rented at quite inexpensive rates. A large percentage of the town’s population had them. Holly had been told, renting movies often every night of the week.

  Wade had mentioned at one point that he had seriously thought of putting in a swimming pool, but he feared the amount of extra work it would entail, especially during cyclone times,^ and the fact that he didn’t think Jessica would use it often enough to justify the expense and the desecration of the garden that would be involved.

  It wasn’t until later that evening, long after the tropical sun had performed its daily magic trick of disappearing into the sea almost instantaneously, that Holly realised how often that day she’d given half- serious consideration to staying in the Northwest permanently.

  ‘I must be mad!’ she exclaimed aloud at the sudden realisation. Then looked self-consciously over her shoulder as if expecting somebody — Wade, perhaps? — to be observing her. It was thought-provoking to admit that it was his influence and little else that had created such considerations.

  Would he be back the next day? Or perhaps yet tonight? And when he arrived, would he still be so cold, so determined to shut her out of every aspect of life except Jessica?

  Jessica, who hadn’t yet telephoned that evening. And who should have, Holly realise
d. Certainly she wouldn’t be leaving it until nearly midnight?

  Holly found the telephone number for the flat, almost completed dialling it, then abruptly hung up. It was also too late for her to be ringing. What if Jessica was asleep, exhausted from her tests? She might just have forgotten, and would surely ring in the morning. If not, well Wade should be back and would surely know what to do.

  None of these thoughts made it easier for Holly to sleep. She was restless, edgy, awake every few hours wondering if Wade had returned and if Jessica was all right. Morning took forever to arrive.

  With the first rays of morning sun, Holly was sitting at the kitchen table, already into her third cup of coffee and wondering how early she dared telephone the flat in Perth. Certainly, she thought, not quite this early.

  But at seven o’clock she could wait no longer, and dialled the number with fingers shaking from an overabundance of coffee in her system. It rang, rang some more, and finally rang off, leaving her no wiser than before. Could Jessica have slept through that? Or was there some device for turning off the telephone bell, or did Jessica have the phone locked away in a cabinet, as Wade had once done?

  She tried again half an hour later, and again at eight o’clock, but the result was the same. Then she became really worried and started ringing the other numbers Wade had left her, only to find a series of recordings advising her to try again after nine.

  But when she finally did get through, at one minute past nine, it was only to be told that the doctor could tell her nothing, and indeed would tell her nothing. ‘Just have Mr Bannister ring us, preferably as soon as possible,’ the woman at the other end of the telephone insisted. And hung up over Holly’s protests that she was Jessica’s blood relative, not Mr Wade Bannister.

  When Wade himself walked in ten minutes later, almost unrecognisable through a coating of reddish- pink Pilbara dust, his grin faded before the fury that Holly unleashed before he’d even got through the door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Settle down, damn it,’ Wade shouted just as Holly was getting fully wound up, her verbal assault screaming into top gear and her body ready to launch a physical attack to match.

  ‘Settle down? How the hell can you dare to tell me that?’ she squalled. She was half crouched, her hands extended, nails ready to claw out at him in her fierce anger. ‘You ... you utter bastard! How dare you arrange it so the doctors wouldn’t tell me what’s happening? Jessica is my aunt; I’m her only blood kin, but they want to talk to you. Why you? What possible right can you have to ...?’

  ‘Damn it, I’ve probably got nearly as much as you have,’ he snarled. ‘But that isn’t the point. The point is that I didn’t arrange any such thing! Did NOT! Have you got that? I don’t have the faintest idea what’s going on, except maybe that somebody’s screwed up in Perth, but if you’ll just settle down and act like a civilised person, and let me get on the telephone, then we’ll both know.’

  ‘But ...?’ She got no further. Hands like iron clamps shot out to grip her shoulders, and then she was being shaken until her teeth rattled.

  ‘But — nothing!’ And she was flung halfway across the room, her bottom landing in a chair with a resounding, thoroughly sobering thud.

  ‘Now sit down, shut up, and maybe in a minute we’ll have this straightened out,’ Wade growled. ‘And don’t even think about getting up, or interrupting me, unless you want that pretty little backside tanned for you. Is that clear?’

  He didn’t wait for a reply; didn’t so much as glance to see if she’d heard. Already he was lifting the telephone receiver, dialling the appropriate number with fingers that trembled with his anger.

  He spoke for perhaps three minutes, then shook a finger at Holly to keep her immobile and made yet another call. That one took only slightly longer, and from Wade’s portion of the conversation, Holly found herself prepared to believe the worst.

  ‘Damn Jessica anyway,’ he cursed when he’d hung up after the second call. ‘When this is over, I’ll have her head on a plate, mark my very words. And you should, too, because she’s the reason you couldn’t get any information. Bloody stupid woman!’

  ‘What? Jessica is the reason? But ... but ...’ Holly was floundering, her brain incapable of assimilating his comments.

  ‘Yes. Jessica! Your dear, beloved aunt and my addle- brained housekeeper,’ Wade retorted. ‘She didn’t want to worry you, or maybe she just realised you might go all to pieces. How the hell do I know? Anyway, she specifically organised things so that they wouldn’t tell anybody but me.’

  ‘Tell you what? What? That’s what I want to know,’ Holly cried.

  ‘Tell me — us — that she’s been lying like a bloody footpath all along,’ Wade raged. ‘This second run of tests wasn’t tests at all — the damned woman’s in there having surgery today. That’s what she doing.’

  ‘Surgery? Oh, surely she wouldn’t ...’ Holly paused, only too aware that Jessica would, could, and obviously had. Wade’s face told her that. No question about it,

  ‘And people wonder why there are male chauvinists,’ he muttered disgustedly. ‘Lord love us, the things some women will do.’ Then he sobered considerably. ‘Yes, surgery. Not, apparently, the most serious surgery one might imagine, but serious enough that it’ll be evening before we’ll know if it’s gone successfully.’

  ‘And what are we supposed to do in the meantime — sit here biting our nails?’ Holly asked, not bothering to hide the bitterness she felt. Damn her aunt for being so stubbornly independent!

  ‘Not bloody likely,’ Wade replied, a new determination in his eyes. ‘I’m going to start by having a shower and shave; and if you’d like to change into your swimsuit and put something over it, we’ll get the hell out of here and see if we can’t find some lunch.’

  ‘Lunch? But it’s barely nine o’clock in the morning,’ Holly argued. Wade was already leaving the room, moving towards the laundry so smoothly that what dust remained on his work clothes seemed held to them by static electricity.

  ‘Okay, then we’ll have coffee first,’ he replied over his shoulder. ‘I just want to get out of this gear before we end up with half the Pilbara in here.’

  A few minutes later, the coffee just poured and Holly still unsure of his plans, he re-entered the room, this time dressed in fresh jeans and a light denim shirt, busily scrubbing at his hair with a towel.

  ‘I hope you’ve not had a mammoth breakfast,’ he grinned. ‘Where we’re going for lunch, you’ll need all the appetite you can muster.’ Then he disappeared again, only to emerge a moment later with his hair combed and his feet in light leather sandals.

  ‘So, what have you been doing with yourself while I’ve been gone — apart from worrying about Jessica?’ he asked, sitting down and reaching for his coffee in a gesture so domestic it made Holly’s heart lurch.

  She told him, although not in particularly great detail. It wasn’t, after all, anything terribly exciting.

  ‘And what did you think of the place?’ he asked when she’d finished, asking not as if he really cared, but simply because the question was more or less expected.

  Holly couldn’t resist it. ‘Well, it’s a nice enough place to visit, but I’m not sure I’d like to live here,’ she replied, following the lines of a gag so old she wasn’t sure where it might have originated.

  Wade might have known, but he didn’t join her laughter. Instead, somewhat to her surprise, his eyes narrowed fractionally and one eyebrow lifted in a look that might have been speculative. But it was all done so quickly she didn’t know what interpretation to put on it.

  ‘Hrumph. Well, maybe you haven’t seen the right parts yet,’ he said finally. ‘We’ll see about fixing that up today. If nothing else maybe it’ll give us both something else to think about.’

  ‘I’ll need to know more than that,’ Holly said. ‘Or were you serious about putting on a swimsuit?’ Of course he wasn’t, she thought, only to be proved wrong.

  ‘Certainly,’ he said with
a slow grin. ‘Can you think of anything you look better in?’

  ‘I certainly can, and what’s more, I’m not going anywhere for lunch in a swimsuit.’ Damn the man anyway; why did he have this uncanny ability to fluster her? How could he make her temper so fragile with so little obvious effort?

  Worse, he seemed impervious to her moods. ‘Well, I had presumed you’d take along something to throw on over it after our swim,’ he grinned. ‘Not that it’ll matter a great deal; we’re going for the tucker, not the social standing.’

  ‘Well that’s better, sort of,’ she conceded. ‘So we’re going somewhere to swim, and then for lunch. Anywhere else?’

  Wade grinned again, this time with definite mischief in his eyes. ‘Ah, now I see,’ he said. ‘Expecting me to lead you down the garden path, take you somewhere you might feel uncomfortable because of the way you’re dressed.’ His eyes roamed boldly across her figure, lingering on the deep neckline of her robe, then wandering down to the curve of her ankles. ‘Why Holly, would I do that?’ And the question answered itself. He could and he would, if it suited him. But not now, not having warned her. Holly didn’t dignify it with a reply.

  ‘Right,’ he said, still grinning mischievously. ‘So let’s get on with it; we’ve got a fair ways to go. You’ve got ten minutes and then I’ll be in to help you figure what to wear.’

  And he rose from his chair like some great cat, striding to the door without a backward glance. Holly scampered to her room, threw on a bikini and a light beach jacket, then had to scramble to find her handbag and a pair of low-heeled sandals she’d bought the day before. She thought seriously of taking jeans and a tank-top in her beach-bag, but before she could collect them she heard Wade knocking at the door, his every knock a threat of intrusion into her fragile privacy.