Above the Fold Read online

  He wondered if he had gone too far but thought no, too far is not even enough, and went on in this strident vein for another page, ending with the use of Rupert’s own words. It is a surprise and great disappointment to me that this skilled advocate has to work on her kitchen table, because the jealousy of male barristers refuses to allow her to purchase — I repeat and emphasise the word purchase — a room in any chambers. As a result these rooms remain vacant, a testimony of the barristers covetous and despicable behaviour.

  He took it down to the reception desk and asked them to make three copies, went to the Post Office and bought express envelopes, sending one to The Sydney Morning Herald, (for the attention of Harry Morton, who had moved to Sydney and was working at the Fairfax office), one to The Law Society and the third to Helen and Rupert at home. On theirs he put a scribbled note that he’d only pinched one line of Rupert’s, and hoped they could meet for dinner when he returned.

  That should be in about a week, he wrote, but it turned out to be much longer than that.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Todd Boyd was there as promised the next morning, a dark-skinned man in his mid-fifties, dressed in dungarees, a cotton shirt, R.M. Williams boots, and a bushman’s hat. He owned a battered Land Rover, the back of it loaded with equipment including a tent and two bed-rolls, for as he explained, camping would be the only option in some of the places they were going. There were three large eskies, one filled entirely with ice, two more with food and bottles of water. He seemed to be prepared for every contingency. There was a portable refrigerator feeding off the batteries, a compact gas barbecue, a spade and special trucking jacks in case the vehicle got bogged, extra jerry cans of petrol, two spare tyres, a long-range UHF transmitter and, among a mass of tools, maps and other items, a Geiger counter. There was just enough space for Luke’s suitcase and the two things he never travelled without: his portable Olivetti typewriter and a tape recorder he’d purchased from the BBC.

  Todd looked what he was: a mixed-blood former stockman, but there was much more to him than that. He’d given up being a stockman in his thirties, and become a ranger working for the National Parks and Wildlife, as well as a part-time artist whose bark paintings had begun to find a market in the eastern states. Because of this they discovered an instant affinity. He had read Luke’s book on Namatjira and expressed admiration for the way he’d treated the story.

  “You really caught the bloke’s tragedy,” he said, “and showed how both sides buggered up his life. He was a beaut old cove, let down by the whites who tried to make him one of them and by his own mob who wouldn’t let him forget he was one of the tribe and subject to its law. All he wanted to do was paint his ghost gums, and afterwards enjoy a few beers with friends and family. Not much to ask really,” Todd said with a meaningful shrug.

  “It was a disgrace, the way he was treated,” Luke said. “But at least the Australia I’ve seen on this trip seems like a different place to the one that sentenced him back in the nineteen-fifties.” When the other shook his head, Luke asked why he disagreed. “Surely things have changed for the better?”

  “You reckon?” Boyd sounded cynical. “Have you heard about Moree in your home state?” Luke agreed he’d heard there was sometimes racial tension there. Boyd said, “Did you know the latest dictum from the council? Abo kids aren’t allowed to use the town swimming pool. The local councillors reckon they’d make it dirty.”

  “Shit, are you serious?”

  “Bloody oath I’m serious. And there are still plenty of magistrates, like that deluded hoon who sentenced Namatjira. They’d earn brownie points for putting an uppity boong in his place.” When Luke turned to stare at him, Todd grinned. “I’m half and half, Luke, so I can use expressions like that. One of me few birthrights. I’ll grant you there were people with a conscience who felt ashamed or angry when Albert was jailed. But not enough spoke up. Maybe more would today,” he sounded doubtful, “but sometimes I look around and I ain’t so sure about that.”

  Luke hoped they were going to get along, for he had to confide his full intentions to Boyd. There would be little chance of success without him being aware of the reason for this trip. So while they were negotiating the Adelaide traffic Luke began to fill in the background of his partly written new book that lacked the final chapters regarding the secret British Maralinga tests. He asked Todd if he’d ever heard of them.

  “Can’t say I have,” was the reply. “If these things did happen, both the governments, ours and the Brits, must’ve kept it really tight under wraps. Not like the bloody bomb tests. We saw pictures every day, and were told how marvellous they were, so vital for the defence of the country. But you have to ask like a lot of us did, who the hell was gonna be mad enough to use atom bombs?! And against what imagined enemy would we use ‘em?”

  “How did you feel about all those headlines?”

  “Bloody livid,” was his answer. “That’s why I’m here. I got involved in protests, ended up labelled as a rabble rouser,” he grinned. “Nearly lost my job as a ranger because of it. When a mate rang up two nights ago and said did I want to meet a bloke who was writing about it, I said bring him on!”

  “A mate rang you?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t know at first he meant you. I’ve read your books and stuff for the papers. A lot of it from overseas. Don’t live here these days, do you?”

  “No. I’d like to come back. I miss the place, but there’s a few personal reasons why I stay away. Lost touch with friends, for a start; they’re scattered far and wide. One is even a bigwig in Canberra.”

  Luke said it deliberately. If Todd had been recruited by Barry, this was a good opportunity to say so, but there was no reaction. Silvester’s name wasn’t mentioned in any of their conversations. In fact, Todd openly told him the name of his contact. It was Freddy Parkin, a well-known Melbourne activist who’d led a lot of street demonstrations against nuclear bombs ever since Hiroshima.

  “Fred sounded a bit mysterious. Said a mate of another mate had heard about this, and it occurred to him I might be able to help. Plus earn a few quid,” he grinned.

  It appeared to Luke that Barry had skilfully covered all trace of his own involvement. Fair enough, he thought. They were on the outskirts of Adelaide when he raised the subject of permits. “You’ve got one, of course?”

  “Sure. Probably wouldn’t need it, but just in case.”

  “Good.”

  Todd was silent for a few moments, then he rather casually added, “Mind you, it’s a bit on the elderly side. I mean, slightly out of date. But it should be good enough to pass muster. I’ve heard strict security no longer applies, and the chances are we won’t need it at all.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Fairly sure. Better than fifty-fifty, according to my info.”

  There was another pause. “I see,” Luke said, feeling uneasy. “Bit of a punt, then?”

  “Sort of.” Todd paused again. “Up to you though, Luke. I mean, have you got a spare six weeks to sit on your arse in Adelaide, while we wait around for a new one?”

  “Six weeks?”

  “At least. And it comes with a long questionnaire about the reason for your trip that gets sent down to Canberra, then you wait. On the other hand, we can get cracking and take a chance. Strictly your choice, mate.”

  “What’s our route from here?” Luke asked him.

  “North through Gawler and the Barossa Valley, on our way to Wilpena in the Flinders Rangers. Then Coober Pedy. After that we start to head west. Or else I can do a U-turn and it’s back to Adelaide if you’d prefer.”

  “Bugger it. I haven’t got six weeks to frig around,” Luke said after a few moment’s thought. “Let’s keep heading north.”

  With this decision made they relaxed and the conversation turned back to painters. Todd told him of the growing number of bark artists in Australia, some thousands at the latest estimate, and explained how it had started in Arnhem Land and the Kimberleys. The theory, he said, was
that it dated back hundreds of years, long before white men or their ships were sighted, before James Cook was even born, let alone mapped the east coast.

  “I studied the history of it, as well as started to paint,” he said. “It goes back to a time when the bark walls of huts were painted as home decoration by the women, while the men were out hunting. Just a sort of handicraft for wives at first. Then it gained impetus when a bunch of missionaries asked the Yolngu tribe to produce paintings that could be sold, in order to raise money for a church and some new mission stations.”

  “Trust those bloody Bible bashers,” he said with a shake of his head, “for a lot of years they took the paintings with a big thank you, but not a word about anything else like payment. Buggers were skilled at the old lurk of persuading Indigenous people that quaint daubs on stringybark were cute, like a child’s paintings that had no serious cultural value. It took us a fair old time to catch on.” He gave a cynical smile as he drove the Land Rover onto the track towards Black Springs. “A lot of years, if the truth be known,” he said, and reckoned it was time they stopped for a cold drink from one of the eskies.

  While they relaxed in the small patch of shade offered by the Land Rover, Luke asked about how he prepared the material for painting.

  “It has to be cut in the wet when the sap’s rising,” Todd said, “then heated in a fire and laid flat to dry. After that it’s ready, just like canvas. Firm and easy to paint on. As soon as the painting’s done you apply a fixative. I use mostly a native orchid juice to seal it.”

  They reached Wilpena in late afternoon. The ‘Ramparts of Grandeur’ someone had once called the place, and the giant valley shaped like a vast cattle pound was well named. According to Aboriginal legend it was formed by two serpents in the dreamtime, and their petrified bodies created the walls of the rocky enclave.

  “Palaeontologists reckon it’s six hundred million years old,” Todd told him, “and I think they’d be closer to the mark than the flat earth drongos who believe God made the world in seven days a few thousand years ago. At least the locals all agree the first white bloke to see this place was the explorer Edward Eyre.”

  They booked into the bungalow style Wilpena Motel, and sat outside with beers after an early dinner, while Todd explained the next day’s travel, “We’ll get a real early start while it’s still cool, and head out towards Leigh Creek and Marree.”

  By early afternoon the next day they were on the Oodnadatta Track to Coober Pedy, without seeing another vehicle all the way.

  “This route is longer than going south via Woomera,” Todd said, “but there’s some people you should talk to in Emu Junction, and taking this way we’ll meet them. Besides, if you’ve never seen Coober Pedy, it’s worth a look. The locals call it the opal capital of the world. You won’t find another place on earth like it.”

  Luke had seen photographs, but after seeing the place itself agreed they counted for nothing. Sitting in his comfortable motel room below the ground that night, he set up his Olivetti portable and made notes to capture the essence of the place for future use.

  It is like a lunar landscape. Harsh and hot, particularly when the north wind blows. The first impression is a vista of strange pink dust and mine shafts, with tailings dotted everywhere like giant ant heaps. It exists in a heat haze on what seems like the edge of nowhere, a cluster of buildings, some surprisingly luxurious, some just rusting iron shanties. Far out against a stark horizon bulldozers rip the earth. It is an exotic place crowded with a mix of nationalities, where fortunes are sometimes found but more often lost. Where people migrate because of broken marriages, or unemployment, some escaping the past, others attracted by dreams of the future. A dangerous place, inviting misfits and criminals, drawn by the chance of easy money or the lack of law and order. It is surrounded by a massive desert, red and relentless, and the perimeter of the town is a wasteland lined by the rusting skeletons of trucks and cars, dumped there when they are no longer useful, as a windbreak against dust storms and the heat wave westerlies.

  But that is just the section of Coober Pedy visible on arrival. Most of the town is below the surface; the homes that miners and their families live in are comfortable dwellings, built underground to escape the intense summer heat. There are also underground museums, art galleries, a variety of shops, several well-stocked pubs, a wine bar and to complete the scene, an underground church.

  They left at sunrise the next day, but Todd had been up even earlier taking on new supplies, as well as more ice and extra drums of petrol. For a short time they continued north, then turned west through saltbush country when they reached a rough track called the Anne Beadell Highway. It was named for the wife of Len Beadell, the British surveyor who found the site and had cut a track to Emu Junction for the first tests to be conducted there. The ‘highway’ meandered over boulders and ditches, through scrub and across sand hills, until they reached a clay pan and were met by a large roadside sign.

  COMMONWEALTH OF AUSTRALIA

  ATOMIC WEAPONS TEST RANGE

  PROHIBITED AREA

  Under the Defence Undertakings Act of 1952 vehicles may not leave the road without a permit from the Control Centre.

  That was when Todd said they’d make sure they didn’t leave the track, mentioning again that his permit was slightly out of date. It was the way he said it that made Luke wonder just how long out of date. But they were gambling on it not being necessary, so there was little point in asking. He thought nostalgically of the cool underground rooms where they’d spent the previous night. Today was going to be a real scorcher; even this early the thermometer in the Land Rover was already creeping past forty degrees.

  Rupert sat at the back of the court watching as the barrister for the defence set out to demolish the Crown case. Helen Richmond was becoming a favourite among the press gallery, and Rupert had heard this first hand from reporter friends. His wife had style; they admired her wit and the care with which she researched her cases.

  Today, for instance, she was cross-examining a detective in the witness box, who claimed the accused man had cornered his victim in an alley, produced a rifle, taken careful aim and shot him dead.

  “What time was this?” Helen asked.

  “Twenty minutes past seven,” was the reply.

  “In the evening?”

  “Of course in the evening.” The detective was becoming irritated, the defence counsel had covered this territory several times in her interrogation during the past few minutes.

  “And it was June the 25th, was it?” she queried.

  The detective spread his arms in a gesture towards the judge, as if to seek help in complaint at this reiteration.

  “Miss Richmond, I think we have clearly established both the time and the date of the alleged offence,” the judge said

  “Thank you for your confirmation of that, Your Honour.”

  Rupert smiled, and saw several of the jury also smile at the way she had turned the judge’s rebuke into an endorsement. He watched as she moved a few paces closer to the witness box.

  “Detective Sergeant Stewart, you assure us the witness saw the crime committed at twenty past seven on this date, the 25th of June?”

  “That is absolutely correct. Both the time and the date are both correct.” He sounded terse, trying to diminish her with sarcasm.

  “It was four days after the winter solstice. You are aware, I hope, that the solstice is the shortest day of the year?” Helen asked.

  “Thank you. I am aware of it.”

  “So can you tell us how your witness was able to see this fatal shot fired with such clarity?”

  “Because of the lights. You do know, Counsellor, that there are street lights in that vicinity, do you?”

  “I do indeed, Detective-Sergeant. Which is why I ask the question. How was the witness was able to see it? Wasn’t he or you, or whoever prepared this case, aware the street lights were out of order on that date, and your witness could not have possibly seen anything at all?�
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  It was a coup de grace that demolished the case with such élan, Rupert said later, that he wanted to leap up and cheer.

  “That would’ve upset his Honour,” Helen said, “and startled me! I didn’t even know you were in court.”

  “I snuck in, and brought you these.” First he gave her Luke’s article that he’d kept as a surprise, and watched her eyes sparkle with amusement as she read it. “Nice,” she said, “very nice. Good old Lukas! And what are these?”

  “Three letters to the editor from this morning’s Herald.” Rupert read from them. “All of them under the heading of the selfishness of barristers. ‘If a room is vacant why do these men refuse to sell it to a woman?’ says one. ‘Are they jealous, afraid of competition, or just pathetic?’ says another. And the third I particularly like. ‘No wonder the law is an ass, if contemptible male barristers condemn their female opponents to working on the kitchen table.’”

  “Lovely! Helen was laughing. I wish we knew where he was, so we could phone and say thanks and well done.”

  “Back in a week or so, he promised. We’ll have a slap-up dinner at the Elizabethan restaurant or somewhere posh to thank him.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  It was rough going and getting worse. The ‘highway’ had deteriorated. It was clear that few vehicles ever came this way any more. They crossed dry creek beds and more claypans. Further along the track it became an infinity of red earth and intense blue skies. The air in the Land Rover grew muggy then oppressive, and sweat ran down their faces and soaked their clothing. There was no escape from the heat as the sun rose higher, and a hot wind began to whip up eddies of dust that covered the vehicle and its windows. The jets and windscreen wipers were having to work overtime, to ensure even partial vision of the road ahead.