chapter 3

in which there is not much story, but lots of notes …

Peter trudged back to his room. The afternoon sun seemed to bounce off every surface into his eyes. How could there be so much glare with so much dust?

The room was still hot but Peter propped back the door lay on the bed and waited for a breeze.

No ice! Peter loved ice. He should’ve gone to Antarctica. He thought about this. Thought about penguins and seals diving in ice filled waters. Imagined himself standing on the deck of an ice cutter watching towering icebergs fall from the remains of a glacier. He thought about being caught in a blizzard and getting hyperthermia.

It was no use, he was hot. And he was hungry. He hadn’t eaten a proper meal since he boarded the first of the trains away from Canberra. Australia might be a land of mineral wealth, steadily getting stripped by its government, but culinary delights or even regular sustenance was hard to come by in the hinterland. The food on the first train had been, in retrospect, almost bearable, slices of roast chicken with vegetables and gravy, and jelly and fruit for afters. Why had he turned up his nose at that? At the time it’d reminded him of the food served in the nursing home. Oh Lord make us thankful for small mercies! The second train had served food recognizable as such, almost: a white bread roll with a lump of processed cheese, a lump of processed meat, and red sauce, followed by a lump of processed fruit. The food on the planes had been dire, more like small packets of office stationery than food, on the second but last flight he’d been served something that looked, and tasted, like a glue stick. On the last flight there’d been nothing.

Oh God he was hot!

He sat up, resolute and reached for his brief case. The sooner he assessed the situation in Bronzewing, the sooner he could get out of here. No need for him to remain on site. That was it. Interview the site manager, interview the mine manager, and get out. He could write it all up on the trip home. And the efficiencies could be enacted from a distance. Even if they weren’t the funds would be reduced, or cut-off, to the level proscribed in his plan.

Yes! Let’s do it.

He sat down at the desk and pulled out the background papers on Bronzewing, the mine, and the site manager. As he read he made notes. It really wasn’t as clear cut as he’d hoped … and dammit, he was hot!

He gave up. He was still hungry.

Peter stood up, he peeled the shirt from the small of his back. Fanned himself with the papers and stuffed them back in the briefcase.

He shrugged, walked out of the room, and trudged along the path, back to the canteen.

Shift must have ended, because an unholy racket shook the canteen building, the thunder of chairs scraping carelessly across thin wooden flooring, fists banging on tables, coarse laughter and young men shouting and whooping. He hesitated for a moment, and then decided against it, retracing the path Kim had taken him around the building to Narj’s kitchen-cum-workshop. “Hello again,” said the cook, coming out of the canteen with a huge pot on each arm. “Chef’s table for you, my man.” He seemed to think it was a joke, but Peter, having never experienced nor read about what used to be called fine dining, didn’t get it. “You can eat out here with me,” Narj explained. “Full up inside, anyway.” “How many does it fit in there?” asked Peter. “Used to fit 75 people, but you put 50 of those fucking gorillas in there and I call it overcrowded,” the cook spat. “There’s maggots with more table manners than those boys. National service, my oath. Probably good for the nation they’re stuck out here in the middle of nowhere instead of fucking shit up where people might see them. Not that they’s not a great bunch of miners, I’m sure,” he backtracked, conscious again of who exactly he was talking to, “but I can’t say they’re a credit to the species, if you know what I mean.” As he dished out two bowls of curry, very different to the gamey stew smell that had evidently been the mine workers’ meal, the racket from the canteen took on a different tenor, almost spectatorly. The sound of metal on wood could have been furniture being cleared aside, and Peter wondered if perhaps there was about to be a fight. But the Narj passed him his meal and he was too hungry to notice anymore. He hadn’t realised how much he’d needed to eat. He wanted to inhale the curry whole, but the richness of the flavours slowed him down, delighting his senses at the same time they unsettled his unprepared stomach. “Too spicy for you?” Narj asked. “When was the last time you ate, anyway?” Peter told him. “Should have said! Bloody fool. Can’t eat this stuff on an empty stomach.” And he slapped on his hat and sunglasses and made off for a distant corner of the outdoor kitchen. He came back a couple of minutes later with fresh roti. “I don’t always make it when it’s just me,” he explained. “Eat slowly, drink plenty of water. Don’t rush. Nurse’s too busy setting bones to care if you get the trots.” He didn’t argue. It was a red curry, he thought it could be tomato, but sour and sweet at the same time, with a peppery heat and a hint of cinnamon. He and Narj ate without further conversation. Peter was grateful for the reprieve from having to make small talk after their awkward introduction earlier. He had just wiped his bowl clean with the last of the roti when Kim reappeared. “Time to go meet the boss,” she said.

* * *

Peter goes to meet the boss.

Her name is Marion. She’s very capable, offers to show Peter about the site, blinds him with science and brute force of mine, then shows the accommodation.

“As you can see we’re rough and ready.”

Peter explains reason for efficiencies: AU under pressure from rest of the world to take more people, getting labour for free through National Service, but costs of transport etc and maintaining border security are soaring, also protecting shipping from pirates. More has to be done with less. So get the gold out and ship it securely to Saudi Arabia, Singapore, Hong Kong. Major markets, then Great Britain, Italy and Egypt.

“It costs money to run the country.”

“Yes, in the way that it’s currently set up.”

Marion wants to keep the site going as a cover for the immigration racket.

Obviously she doesn’t tell Peter this.

He asks her why she is out in the middle of the desert.

She says she came out here and stayed.

It’s obvious that Kim respects her and wants to be like her, but Kim hasn’t had the same organisational opportunities. Marion started out as govt flunky, much like Peter, but has changed, developed into a creative thinker. Questions value of the large towns. She wants to stay because of the sub-culture that is being built, via the postal network. She believes in personal power, the small is beautiful movement, but enjoys the irony of living in a mining town linked to the coast by a direct purpose built railway.

Peter wants to get the assessment done quickly but Marion slows him down. Why? Why doesn’t she want to get rid of him as soon as possible?

He’s her long-lost son? He’s remarkably attractive in a public service kind of way? She wants someone to kick around? She wants someone to take the flack? To misdirect attention from what is happening in the town? She believes that the only way to continue to change to “small” run country is behind smokescreen of “large”, nay! “Mega” country.

Perhaps she wants to get rid of him as much as he wants to go home, but something conspires to keep him in Bronzewing. No way to fly back? What’s the ticking clock?