AUSTRALIA 1999

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A longing comes upon him for the green hills of Ireland

Stone-walled cabins; warm loaves baking;

Of flocks in the plain; the deer of Innisfallen

Planks clatter loudly as he crosses the narrow wooden bridge, the river lying flat as glass below.  The bank is thick with gum trees, their peeling bark exposing rust-coloured wounds of oozing sap.  It is just as the elfin Charlea had described it.  Not that she is short in stature, rather it is the eyes and high cheekbones offset by a pear-shaped face, which gives her the waiflike appearance and her limbs so skinny you would think she lived off birdseed.

He turns off as instructed, red dust billowing in his wake as he speeds lead-foot along a rutted road that runs parallel to the river, climbing steeply as it does so. Pink-breasted galahs congregate in the twisted branches and, some miles on, he sees two large kangaroos in the shade of a gully, their coats a rustic earth colour that camouflages them incredibly well. Not so desolate, he thinks and realises the place is beginning to grow on him.

The road climbs steadily, leading him through rocky gorges and gullies that are overhung by large boulders and is often lost to sight around numerous curving bends. Twice, he has had to stop his vehicle to open wire-covered gates that bar his way. His utility rattles over the cattle grids and, obeying the signs on the gates, he stops on the other side and walks back to shut the gate.

After several kilometres, It dawns on him that Charlea could not possibly have walked to the spot where he had found her. Someone must have driven her to the main road, at least. Had she caught the bus then hopped off at that spot, perhaps without the driver realising it as he stopped to pick up other children from the roadside? If so, how would she normally have found her way into town? Surely, she didn’t make a habit of hitching?

Around a sharp bend, gateposts are suddenly visible. Shingleback, the sign reads and, beneath, in bold cursive is the name Crawford. He has not come across anything quite so imposing since leaving the leafy suburbs of Sydney. Driving over the cattle-grid, he follows an archway of slender trees, their numerous spindly branches sprouting upward from a main trunk and throwing a path of stippled light across the road in front of him.  A circular driveway meanders around an immense elm, which dominates the front of the homestead.

Bringing the vehicle to a halt beneath its shade, Séamus climbs out and stands for a moment admiring the rambling house. Its tin-roof is olive green with white guttering that match the white veranda posts; a stark contrast to the olive green, as are the four white chimneys that tower above the roof line, giving credibility to the fact temperatures can drop below zero on a cold winter’s night in the desert.

Séamus knows very little about Australian architecture but he believes the homestead to be what Australian’s refer to as Federation, like the private hotel in Kirribilli, where he had lived for a couple of weeks. The lush greenness of the garden, with its verdant lawns, stately trees and its mellow grandeur of exotic shrubs, is incompatible compared to the surrounding countryside which is dry and barren and to the stony hillside in whose shadow the house sits. He presumes Tom Crawford to have a good borehole or two.

Séamus opens a small gate and steps onto a path of crazy paving.  He notices the grapevines hanging off a trellis at the front door and sees that the door is open. From the dim interior, a man stands, just inside the doorway, silently observes him. So too, do three oversized wolfhounds.

The man steps out of the house and onto the veranda. He is six feet and several inches tall, with the strong flat stomach of one who exercises regularly.  His sandy coloured hair is thick and neatly cut and his button-down shirt is ironed to perfection. The dogs take up a defensive forward guard position as the man pauses at the top of the stairs.

Séamus doffs his wide brimmed Australian hat. ‘Top of the morning.’ He indicates the dogs. ‘Irish, are they?’

‘Kin, by the sounds of it.’

Séamus laughs, ‘Aye, if they’re Irish. I’m impressed. I’ve been out of the mother land so long few pick up on the accent.’

‘It wasn’t the accent. It was the greeting.’

Séamus smiles. ‘Ingrained, unfortunately.’

‘If it’s any consolation, the dogs aren’t strictly Irish, either. A bit of a mixture. Australian blue has slipped in and Lord knows what else. Tom Crawford’s the name. How may I help you?’

Séamus’ climbs the short flight of steps and holds out his hand. ‘James McFáelán.’ They shake. ‘I heard you had a garage looking for a tenant?’

‘Maybe. Any references?’

‘Some. I can pay you six months rent in advance.  In cash.’

Tom Crawford considers this. ‘Come on in. Let’s discuss this out of the heat.’

The dogs fall into step behind him as Séamus follows Tom Crawford down a long  timber panelled hallway.  Beneath his feet is the familiar creak of old floorboards.

At the end of the passageway is a glass-walled conservatory. Clearly, a recent addition as the modern design lacks the olde worlde charm of the rest of the house. Heavy cane furniture and large potted plants are grouped in front of a glass wall that has an imposing view of the countryside beyond.   As far as the eye can see, stretches a canvas of blood reds, muted greens, earthy browns and yellows, rolling towards the distant mauve of hills. Closer at hand, a stone covered gully meanders northeast towards the river and its river gums.

Séamus follows Tom Crawford into a large office. This too has a commanding view of the river and the desert beyond. The dogs flop in the doorway as if to block any hasty exit.

Indicating the spread of land, visible from the window, Séamus enquires, ‘All yours?’

Tom Crawford settles himself behind the desk. ‘That it is. Close on one-hundred thousand acres. Take a seat.’

Séamus gives a low whistle. ‘Shit. That’s huge.’

‘Has to be. Can’t support a decent head of cattle on anything less. Lack of water, you understand?’

Séamus nods and eases into the visitor’s chair. ‘Shingleback? Interesting name.’ He is referring to the curved metalwork sign spanning the entrance to the property.

‘Ever seen a shingleback?’

‘Can’t say that I have.’

Tom Crawford smiles. ‘Ugliest bloody creature around. You would remember it if you had. Gets its name from the protective pebble-like scales on its back. You see them in clearings, crossing roads, sleeping on logs… mind you, mostly sleeping, that’s why they’re called “the sleepy lizard”. Sleepy Lizard is a name that rather appealed to me but the wife wouldn’t hear of it. So we compromised and called the place Shingleback. The ridge behind us happens to be covered in shingle, as you may have noticed. So the name seemed appropriate.’

‘It wasn’t the original name, then?’

‘No. Can I offer you something to drink?’

‘A glass of water will be grand.’ For a spit second Séamus had seen a flicker of something pass across Tom Crawford’s eyes. He took note that there was something else linked to the name Shingleback that Tom Crawford clearly did not want to talk about.

Tom Crawford picks up a silver bell from his desk and sends out a peal of high sweet notes. Minutes later, footsteps echo across the tiled floor of the conservatory. A girl, possibly mid-thirties, appears in the doorway. Her hair, a deep shiny mahogany, is swept into a loose knot at the back of her head. Several stray tendrils have escaped and curl provocatively around her face and neck. She has deep intensive eyes and a sulky mouth. Irrespective of the sullen look… or because of it, Séamus finds her rather stunning.

‘A jug of water and two glasses please, Angelique.’

The girl turns away. Tom leans back in his chair and interlocks his finger across his flat stomach. ‘As in any small town, bad tenants reflect badly on the landlord. I’m on the local council and hold prominent positions with the various organisations around the district, Rotary and the like. With that in mind, excuse me for being so cautious and asking you to tell me something of yourself.’

This is the hard part. He has taken an instant liking to Tom Crawford and would rather not lie and so he goes for a compromise. ‘I’m a mechanic by trade’ – that part is true enough. He remembers something Charlea said and quickly adds, ‘I worked mostly on planes at an air force base in Wales.’ Not quite accurate but near enough.

Tom sits up, suddenly interested. ‘Were you in the army there?’

‘Will it go against me?’

‘Possibly not. It helps form a clearer picture that is all. I own a plane. A good mechanic would be useful. How did you find out about the workshop?’

Séamus doesn’t flinch under Tom’s probing gaze. ‘I arrived in in town, saw the “to Let” sign and asked around.  This town seems as good as any other to set up a business.

‘Do you know the rent I’m asking?’

‘I’m hoping it’ll be reasonable.’

Tom Crawford smiles and mentions a figure. Séamus wonders why the man is being so generous. ‘It seems fair,’ he mutters

There is the tap tapping of shoes on the wooden floor and the girl Angelique appears with a jug of water and two glasses. She steps over the dogs and sets the tray down on the desk beside Tom.  Still looking  sulky she flashes Séamus a probing glance and departs, leaving behind a trace of perfume and a vision of green valleys filled with lilies.

Tom pours water into both glasses and hands one to Séamus. ‘Is the ute yours?’ Seeing the blank look, he says, ‘The utility. I’m talking about the open-back one-tonne you arrived in. We call them ute’s here in Australia. It’s short for utility. Is it yours?’

‘Ute? Interesting name. I must remember that. Yes, it’s mine’

‘Give me the rego and let me see your driver’s licence.’

Séamus reaches into his back pocket and withdraws his wallet. He hands over an international driver’s licence in the name of James McFáelán and gives Tom the registration number verbally.

After writing down the details in a small notebook, Tom looks up and, for a moment, holds Séamus’ gaze. ‘I hope I’m not going to regret this? I’m asking for six months rent up front and a five hundred dollar bond on the equipment. Make sure you insure everything, including the hoists, and let me have a copy of the certificate.’

Séamus nods and extracts a wad of hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. Counting them out, he pushes the money across the desk. Tom writes out a receipt and hands it to him along with a bunch of keys, taken from his desk drawer. ‘Do you have anywhere to stay?’

‘I’ll put up at the pub, until I find something more suitable.’

‘Don’t do that, it’s a dump. I own a cottage a couple of miles out of town. Garden is a bit run down but the house is perfectly liveable.’ Tom reaches for another set of keys. ‘I’ll negotiate a fair rental if you want it. Spend the night. It’s fully furnished. Let me know tomorrow.’

Taken aback by the kind offer, Séamus hesitates then quickly says, ‘That’s very decent of you.’

Having drawn a map for Séamus and scribbling his telephone number on it, Tom Crawford uncurls his six-foot-something frame from the chair and, walking around the desk, holds out his hand. ‘Let me know how you get on.’ They shake and Tom turns to lead the way.  The dogs leap to their feet and move aside to allow the men through. Then, as before, take up a rearguard position as Tom escorts Séamus down the passage.

Following the instructions on Tom’s map, Séamus finds the cottage with little difficulty. It is set some distance back from the main road, like the neighbouring properties, with a long driveway of gravel, complete with the inevitable potholes and rain gouged ruts.

A couple of diehard fruit trees stand within the confines of an untended garden but the house itself comes somewhat as a surprise. Séamus had expected a box-like structure clad in grey weathered fibro planking with small timber windows to keep out the heat. He had half expected a chicken coop and even a twisted wire fence around the perimeter. Instead, he sees that the house has sandstone walls and a steep grey shingle roof that rises above arched narrow windows flanked by blue shutters. A climbing rose clings valiantly to post at the front porch, the small red flowers striking against the muted beige of the rustic brick.

The house appears well maintained inside and is pleasantly cool. The entrance hall has a rack of wooden pegs for hats and rain-jackets and a slate floor; ideal for muddy boots, if it ever bloody rained.  Through an arched doorway, he finds a cavernous room consisting of a lounge, a dining area, and a neat, not overly large kitchen.

The unpretentious kitchen, clean as the morning dew, clearly having endured a woman’s touch, has him thinking of his grandmother Rose, on his mother’s side, whose pedantry for cleanliness was second only to her adherence for Godliness. Grandma Rose defined Celtic spiritual wholeness by three conditions: cràbhadh – trust of the soul; creideamh – heart’s belief; iris – mind’s faith. She loved to tell him, and anyone else who was prepared to listen, that harmony abounded when the trinity of soul, heart and mind were as one. However, when not in union then doubt, distrust and neglected observances formed pathways to madness, heartsickness and soul-fragmentation, she cautioned darkly. Dire warning, indeed, and not one to be taken lightly. Not where Grandma Rose was concerned.

On the far side of the room he discovers a small guest bathroom next to a bright, spotlessly clean laundry, evidence again of a woman’s touch. Climbing the steep flight of stairs, Séamus discovers an A-framed attic bedroom done out in pale timbers that line the ceilings and walls. There is a second bathroom up here and a study nook where a desk is positioned in front of a loft window, which looks towards distant purple of mulga covered hills.

He walks back downstairs.

As he unloads the ute – the word seems to roll off his tongue with ease now – Séamus stands for a moment observing the house. He studies the sandstone walls, arched front door, steep shingle roof, and it suddenly strikes him what he is looking at. The more convinced he becomes of it as he lifts his hands and positioning his fingers places an imaginary cross atop the roof’s apex. He hopes the church was Catholic and makes a mental note to ask Tom Crawford about it.

Apart from his few meagre possessions he takes in a case of Guinness and a bag of groceries, picked up on his way through town. He stores the Guinness in the fridge –having found the switchboard and turned on the mains – along with milk, eggs, cheese and some hefty-looking steaks, he had seen in the local butcher’s window at a ridiculously low price. He keeps back a bottle of Guinness. It is warm as toast but Guinness is Guinness, no matter the tempreture.

On the front porch he finds two cane rocking chairs side by side. The rural cosiness of the setup brings a smile to his face. Easing into one of the rockers, he puts the bottle to his lips and reflects on his situation.

He had arrived in Australia with a substantial sum of money, a fake passport and fake driver’s licence. James is an anglicized version of Séamus and McFáelán a corrupted version of his middle name Faolán, Gaelic for “wolf”. It is important for a false name to be as close to ones own as possible. It leaves little margin for error when having to use it or when answering to it. The surname has a Scottish ring, purposely to confuse things further.

He thinks back over his journey, recalling towns he has passed through in the last three days: Dubbo, Bourke… he had lost his way after that and had ended up at a place called Billybingbone. It was hardly there, a tiny speck not even on his map – surely, only the Pharmaceutical Guide to distant towns would have that one listed. Then, on through the bleak opal fields of Lightning Ridge pitted like a lunarscape and finally Morgan’s Creek.

Meara comes to mind like the painful sting of a desert sandstorm – chocking him – and in sudden, uncontrollable fury, he hurls the bottle, still three-quarters fill, with all his force into the yard. The contents stream out in a curving spray of black liquid.

‘Samuel Devereaux,’ he growls, ‘This is for Meara. Not for you, you bastard! Never for you.’

Pounding up the stairs, Séamus heads for the bathroom. Stripping naked, he turns on the shower and stands under tepid water breathing deeply, willing away the fear and remorse that is his constant companion.

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Chapter 4….

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