The familiar ache of grief sat in his stomach every day, but it was worse on nights like these.
He’d met her when he was only nineteen and he remembered the day so clearly. The Barrabine north wind had tossed his hat from his head and it had skipped across the dirt road, becoming covered in red dust—even more than it was already. As he’d chased after it, he’d heard the music. He hadn’t known what the instrument was, or who was playing it, but the notes were sweet and sad at the same time. It’d made him imagine raindrops, even on that hot and dusty day when he’d felt grimy and gritty.
Tim could see himself stopping and picking up the hat, slowly walking towards the music. Why the window was open on a day like that was beyond him, but he stood there for nearly twenty minutes…stood in the sun even, and listened.
Then he saw her. She was standing in front of the window, reaching up high to pull it shut. Raven black hair falling over her shoulders, deep olive skin and a flash of silver-blue eyes. Eyes that looked straight at him as she was closing out the heat, closing out the dust and snatching the music away.
A mopoke called loudly from the tree above him and Tim was brought back to the present. Realising there were tears on his cheeks, he stood up quickly, annoyed with himself. He tried to keep Marianne out of his thoughts these days, for thinking of her served no purpose. She’d been gone for so much more time than they’d had together.
Another reason to stay out here. No one bothered him with questions. Although it had been a long time since anyone had asked about her. Marianne would be forgotten by most of the old-timers now. Remembered only by him, her husband. The one who had loved her the most.
Trying to dispel the memories, he walked out into the night—it had cooled down from the heat of the day, but it wasn’t so chilly that he needed a jumper. The moon cast a white glow across the land; the shadows of the trees were slim and long.
Not needing a torch, he kept walking, one foot in front of the other, sidestepping bushes and trees and keeping an eye on the moon so he knew which direction he was going. Chief walked silently at his side—the dog was as fit and lean as he was. He’d heard Caitlyn say at the pub earlier that you could boil both of them down and you wouldn’t get enough fat to make a cake of soap. He’d grinned at that, knowing he was wiry, but he had never thought about making a cake of soap out of his fat!
Chief went in front a few steps and looked back to make sure he was following and knew where he was going.
‘Where are you off to, old mate?’ Tim said, his voice sounding loud against the bush silence. There was a flutter of wings suddenly overhead; he must have disturbed an owl.
The dog didn’t stop walking, just kept in front, following the invisible track. Tim walked behind him, enjoying the freshness of the night air against his skin. As he got older, he was finding each summer a little harder to bear, but he’d already decided to stay where he was until he died. What else was there for him to do? He didn’t like Barrabine; there were too many people on the pathways to walk in a straight line. The noise of the cars had given him a headache the last time he’d stayed for more than a day. No, that place was not for him.
Dee had suggested he buy a small block on the outskirts of Oakamanda and build a house. ‘You could have air-con and be comfortable,’ she’d said. ‘Build a smelter shed. You’d still be able to do all the things you want. You could still go out and mine—use your loader and dry blower. Find gold in an easier way rather than being underground.’
Air-conditioning was tempting, to be sure, but living so close to people, even to people who were his friends? No, that didn’t interest him either.
Nope, it was the bush for him, no other place.
Tim knew every stone and shrub on his lease, which was why the nightly walks he took didn’t frighten him. Fifty-nine years he’d been here and during that time he’d learned the land had her moods. Watched her bloom in spring and die in summer.
Chief stopped, the hackles rising on his neck, and he growled a low, long snarl. Tim stopped too, his hand going to his belt for his pistol. His eyes darted from one side to the other but he couldn’t see anything. He sniffed quietly, trying to see if he could smell campfire smoke or body odour or something to indicate there was a person in the blackness.
That was how he’d caught the bloke who’d been in his hut back in 1962. Body odour.
Tim’d had a win. His third big win. Forty ounces of gold. He’d told no one but, still, somehow word had filtered out—he guessed the bank manager or gold buyer had opened their mouth a little too wide. Confidentiality had had a different meaning in the goldfields back then. There were very few secrets and nothing could be done about it. Since he’d been to town to put most of the gold in a safe box and cashed in the smaller nugget for groceries and a few essentials, he’d had a few blokes come to ask if they could help him mine. He always said no, happy on his own and happy he didn’t have to share what he found with anyone.
This particular night, about two weeks after his visit
