there in a bed of cotton wool was the ring that Sergio had bought for Mary Jackson those twelve long years before.
“And don’t say you can’t accept it Johnny Doss. I owe you for my life, remember, and I’m not taking it back.
“You should know, too, Johnny; no one except my mate in Bendigo knows about that ring – not even Gino and Mama. I was keeping it for Mary, see; afterward I kept it for her memory. I know she’d want you to have it, Johnny, and I don’t think I’ll ever need it again.
“But look, mate. There's only one thing they're good for, so give it a go; see if it works. Hey! And if I ever do need it again I'll just borrow it back!”
So on Christmas day Sergio Domenici and Johnny Doss put on their very best clothes and drove to the iron hut to join the celebrations. And there, after dinner, in front of the Spinellis and all their guests, Johnny knelt before his beloved Angelina and offered his proposal. Angelina, speechless – breathless – could only nod her acceptance.
Her father sat there, paralysed, stunned into momentary silence as the unexpected scene unfolded, his chest tightening and his face reddening with rage. Sergio grabbed Gino’s arm before he exploded. “Wait!” he hissed urgently. Then Johnny produced the ring. It fitted Angelina’s finger perfectly. Mary Jackson had been a sturdy girl too, after all.
Gino was just dumbfounded. The ring he’d set as a precondition for Johnny’s proposal had been met, and handsomely so. But had the thing simply fallen from the heavens? If not, then how could Johnny have acquired it? At that moment (and, to a lesser degree for the rest of his life) Gino would almost have sold his soul to have known, yet he could never bring himself to ask.
So Johnny and Angelina became blissfully and ecstatically engaged. And what a celebration there was. The Spinelli’s friends and family had come from all over the mica fields to join them for Christmas, some from as far as Alice Springs and Tennant Creek.
Because of numbers the Christmas festivities were held outside in the cool evening air, on Angelina's beautifully raked and maintained area of hard-packed sand in front of the iron hut. Gino played his piano-accordion while Johnny and Alina danced, then Johnny danced with Mama and Alina danced with Sergio. Later, laughing uproariously, Sergio and Johnny danced with each other.
Four months later Johnny and Angelina were married in a beautiful wedding ceremony in Alice Springs, following which they were blessed with a long and happy life together. After the mica-mining era Johnny went bore sinking and windmill contracting, or took employment on cattle stations. And, apart from just one short period, they never did return to living in town.
They raised five of the wildest hairem-scarem bush kids you ever would have the misfortune to meet – all boys – and educated them via School Of The Air (if ‘educate’ is the right word here). In time they scattered like waxbills on a windy day.
On retiring from work Johnny and Angelina did move back into Alice Springs for a while, but they were so used to bush living that it simply didn’t suit them. After a time they loaded up what little they owned and moved back out to the iron hut. It was still there. It’s there even now.
By this time everything had changed and the iron hut was now a long way from anywhere. Most of the old mining tracks had disappeared and new station tracks in the area went elsewhere. The old Queensland Road through the hills was no longer used, abandoned for one which stayed on the flat country north of the ranges. A few rock-hounds were starting to fossick in the Harts Ranges for gem stones as well, but they mostly stayed at the western end or in The Inkamulla Valley. No one ventured near the iron hut.
People who wanted to visit Johnny and Alina during this time had to know exactly where to go, which of the old tracks to use and which of the teatree lined creeks to drive along. From time to time there'd be fresh tyre marks to follow as Johnny and Alina would load their empty drums and drive the old Chev truck to Inkamulla Bore for water. Sometimes they'd leave their empties at the bore and go on to the Police Station to collect mail and supplies; more rarely they would continue on to Alice Springs.
And there they lived for many years. Then one day it was noticed that their occasional visit to the Police Station had not taken place for some time. This was of no concern at first, because Johnny and Alina lived their lives very much at their own pace, in their own company.
Then one day acting Senior Constable Chantal Parsons decided she should go and see how they were faring – Chantal being the Harts Range Region Police Officer at the time. A few days prior to this I was in a store in Alice Springs and discovered that Johnny and Alina had sent in a supplies order with someone. It was packed, ready to go.
As it happened I was at a loose end more or less over the Christmas break, with a couple of invites to come around for a beer and Christmas Dinner in Alice Springs and another in Darwin. But I hadn't decided on what to do and when this cropped up I realised it would be a good way to spend the time – get out of town, see a couple old mates, deliver their goods, stay for a few days relaxing and having a good yarn. And so, before setting off, I purchased some extra Christmas goodies for them as well – some fresh bread, a leg of ham, a couple cartons of beer and some perfume and toiletries for Angelina. Next morning I called in to the Police Station to say g'day.
Chantal was busy when I arrived. She was of the same mind, apparently, and invited me in for a quick mug of tea while her Aboriginal Police Aid, Peter Carmody, finished readying the four-wheel-drive police wagon.
Once into the ranges it was a slow drive. Storms had washed away all evidence of the track in places and there was no sign of subsequent vehicle movement, but both Chantal and Carmody knew the way. I just followed in my old ute, having a scrape and a bump here and there but getting along okay.
The iron hut appeared deserted, as if no one had been about for a month or so. Chantal set Carmody looking for tracks then she and I began checking the place over.
The old Chev was standing there, tyres all pumped up. The battery was okay and the engine started readily enough. This seemed a bit odd, so Chantal went across to the hut. Inside was all neat and tidy, she said on returning. The table was clear, the dishes all put away, the bed neatly made.
We then separated to investigate further – me going down past the workings while she checked around the hut generally. And it was there, under a big old ghost gum, that I found the answer. The lettering on the marker was still fresh then, of course, and easily read.
“Dearest Angelina, ” it said – in a declaration of love, “You are the air I breathe and the water of my life. May you rest forever in peace. Your loving husband, Johnny Doss.” Only it wasn’t a headstone, it was a rusty sheet of flat tank-iron – painstakingly engraved with a small chisel.
Chantal wanted to get the tracker and mount a search for Johnny. “Don’t worry about searching,” I said quietly. “I know where Johnny will be. Tell Peter to wait here while you and I go for a walk.”
And that’s where she and I buried him. We couldn’t dig a grave, of course. Neither did we try and move him. We just spent the rest of the day covering him in a great mound of rocks, exactly where he lay; exactly where he wanted to be buried. You can’t dig a grave in the top of a hill when that hill is solid, unfractured gneiss.
About half way through our labours I stopped for a breather. “Hey Shaz,” I said. “How’s all this going to took in your report? ...Aren’t you supposed to take the deceased’s remains back to Alice Springs for a proper post mortem? And what about Angelina?”
Chantal added the rock she was carrying to the pile. Then she came over to where I was standing and put a firm hand on my shoulder. The look in her ice-blue eyes left me in no doubt that I was to say nothing of our afternoon’s quarrying and drystone construction-work.
Then lifting her gaze to the heavens and in tones of absolute innocence, Acting Senior Constable Chantal Parsons quoted from her yet-to-be-written journal. “‘Permission given, as acting Coroner’s Constable, for Angelina Doss to be buried,’” she sai
d, and “‘Johnathon Doss; whereabouts unknown but presumed deceased, following an extensive search of the area by Aboriginal Tracker Peter Carmody, one volunteer and myself.’ And don’t you forget it.”
I thought of asking as to why she didn’t give herself permission to bury Johnny as well but decided against it. Probably doing it this way meant a whole lot less paperwork.
By the time we arrived back at the iron hut it was late in the afternoon and we decided to camp there for the night. And it was then that one of those strange series of events took place which can only happen in the bush. First Peter Carmody informed us that he could hear a vehicle approaching. It was coming cross country from the east, he said, from what remained of the old Queensland track. In the event it turned out to be two geologists heading home for Christmas, after having completed the last leg of a reconnaissance expedition for their mineral exploration company.
They were at the point of stopping somewhere to set up camp for the night, and were just as surprised to see us as we were them. Carmody already had a campfire going, so Chantal proposed they join us for the evening, an invitation they happily accepted.
Folding chairs came out and cold beers were produced from a car fridge, but before we could settle