Part of the reason he commanded a higher rate of pay was because of the difficulty facing employers in finding operators prepared to spend long periods in isolated areas.
Simon, being a sailor was used to isolation, and had over long years become used to solitude. It mattered little to him whether that solitude was to be had on the rolling high seas or on the hard packed Western Plains.
Now after four months of dusty working days in the outback, his bank balance was very healthy. He had enough to cover the refits final payment and he’d not have to work many years to come. This fact was not only because he had worked hard and for many hours. Mostly it had to do with his good fortune when his employer had contracted him and the dozer to a grazier at Lightning Ridge to build an earthen dam.
He’d been in an area well known for opal mines for about a week, and had dug the dam down almost to its required depth when he’d struck a patch of white chalky clay. Over the next few days he’d searched that patch as he had cut it away. He knew nothing about opal mining, but he did learn on this occasion that knowledge was unimportant when one accidentally turned up a small fortune. Particularly when with each cut, the white earth yielded another layer of precious stone. He’d bagged a lot, and just a cursory glance as he grabbed at it showed a lot of the high valued red colour.
He did wonder at the time whether he was in fact stealing it.
The fact he’d hidden the white patch by raking a thin layer of red dirt over it suggested so.
After a few more days he’d finished the Ridge job, and had moved to the small village of Byrock and to a new contract. Spending another week clearing woody weed infested bush for a new fence line before returning to Bourke, where he’d put in his notice to finish up. Without his opal discovery he would have had to stay dozer driving for at least another three months, and he felt elated at having been saved from at least that amount of work.
He could leave the outback right now if he’d wanted to, but the precious stone discovery had somehow taken away the need to rush. He’d become a wealthy man, and had learnt already that although wealth couldn’t buy more time it did allow him the freedom to take his time. His time was his, to be used at his own pace and shared with whomever he chose, rather than at some other persons pace when it was traded for a weekly pay packet.
At some stage of the game he would have to march to another tune, but now with the newfound wealth, that hovering knowledge seemed to have faded into insignificance.
Of more significance at this moment in time was a basic need to have a week or three doing absolutely nothing. That is, nothing other than make the most of his days in the outback, because when ‘der boat’ was back in the ocean it may be years before he had the chance to return to this harsh, dry and broad landscape.
A short holiday after four months of dust, dirt and flies seemed fair.
He’d had time off over that period of course, due to the odd dozer breakdown when he’d had to wait for spare parts, but not all of it had been quality time. Except for some days he’d spent with a single, professional woman whom he’d met at a local bush poet’s night.
She was a newcomer to the outback, and was taking the opportunity offered by this small country town to begin her own private practice. She hoped, when it was built up and sold on, it might bring enough profit to enable her to buy into a Sydney practice.
He sat considering her for a moment, and suggested to himself that he should call her.
Soon, he thought.
For now, he just wanted to relax and adjust to holiday pace, sleep in, do a bit of fishing.
A smile came to his face at the memory of her when he’d offered to be her chaperone on her first excursion into the bush. They’d travelled out to the Warrego River to catch yabbies, and he’d watched with fascination as absolute feminist dealt with waving yabby claws, mud, leeches and a smoky campfire.
He’d wondered as their day had progressed whether in fact she was enjoying the outing. He was reassured at sun down as he delivered her safely home, when she had reached across the car to touch his arm and thank him for an excellent day.
He’d not known Beth for very long, but it was long enough to know that she had a heart of gold.
Simon put ‘der boat’ letter down and reached over to pick up the third and last envelope. It immediately caught his interest as it carried a postage stamp of an animal he’d only seen in picture books.
He grasped the single page and withdrew it from the envelope. Unfolding it he found it was addressed to someone by the name of Garry.
Simon looked to the envelope again.
“Uh, Oh,” he croaked. It was addressed to a man by the name of Garry Sudovich.
The post office box number was the same as Simons, but the place of its supposed destination was a suburb of Sydney, though the postcode was Simon’s postcode.
He studied the handwriting, whose large and very loopy scrawl would be easy to misread. The Post Office staff could be forgiven for the letters incorrect destination. The fact the envelope held the post code of Simons town rather than that of its intended destination wouldn’t have helped much either he thought.
Simon learnt at that moment that these things obviously did happen at times. He was sure misdirected mail was a thing of the past with the introduction of new technology, but nothing could overcome an incorrect postcode.
He looked at the good quality paper of the letter itself. The letterhead told him it had begun its travels in a city he had heard of, and he decided he would have to check the atlas later.
He read the loopy hand with difficulty.
My good friend Garry,
How are you my good friend? It has been a long time since I have called on you in this way. A necessity for the time of trouble has yet again come to my country.
An uprising which started in our north some months ago is becoming more serious by the day, and of the future for me or for any of my colleagues in this government I know not.
The possibility of an over throw hangs over all our heads now, and because of the fear and suspicion that many may be sympathizers of the rebellion, I must be guarded in my contact with you my friend.
I use this method of communication because of the uncertainty of the security surrounding my private and official communication systems. There are many ears alert for the sound of treachery.
If the government falls I must escape, for my life would be considered worthless by the leaders of the uprising. My timing must be perfect, for if I make my move too early then my President will most certainly view my intentions as disloyal.
As you know my good friend, my position in government allows for certain fund transfers and I have at this moment another viable plan. The necessary government ministers are aligned to sign the papers to achieve a smooth result.
I need from you now a facsimile number to be able to further my communication with you. The facsimile number posted at the top of this page is direct to my office, and even though I use it with apprehension it is necessary to do so this once, and one time only. I will brief you as to a more secure line the next time I contact you.
I remind you that your interest in this venture has risen due to the time factor; to 25% of the sum of $32.6m (U.S.) I think this will be to your satisfaction.
I bid you farewell my friend, and I stress once more that time is short and that this plan must be put into effect immediately.
Best Regard
Abu Mohammed
Simon sat back in the old chair and for a moment gazed at a large huntsman spider, which hung on the far wall. He considered the letter for a while, and then decided on a nightcap before moving down the corridor to his bedroom.
He lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling for a short time, until with the welcome sound of lightly falling rain in his ears he drifted off to sleep.
His last thought in an awakened state was of Abu, and he spoke quietly to him in the darkness, “Got your fingers in the till have you mate?”
He s
miled.