The Thousand Smiles of Nicholas Goring (14 page)

There was more laughter in response, but then Lisa got right back to business. "I've been thinking about the waterhole itself," she said in serious tones. "Nicholas told me your theory, David, about the pool itself being fed directly from the water table."

"Um … yeah," Dave replied, wondering if he'd ever had a theory before. Obviously there was a first time for everything.

"If that's the case, then it raises the issue of any changes to the water table possibly affecting the level of water in the pool – and
that
might have a detrimental effect on the flora and fauna."

"Oh," said Dave, starting to scramble towards the full implications. Nicholas got there before him, and looked horrified. "You mean," Dave said, "even if the mining company kept their distance from the place itself, they might affect the water table, and that might …"

"Exactly."

"Oh God."

Nicholas stuttered a couple of times before managing to say, "The waterhole seems so timeless. Changeless. As if it hasn't been disturbed by anything for centuries."

"As if it's still dreaming," Dave found himself saying.

Nicholas stared at him, and then lifted a hand to his head as if he could hardly bear his own thoughts. "I've been thinking of it as almost … eternal. But nothing in nature is. Or only when you take the largest view of it all. The conservation of matter and energy means nothing is ever lost, but everything eventually changes. Everything has its season."

"A
natural
season," Robin protested. "Just because it will eventually be destroyed doesn't give us leave to destroy it now."

"Spoken like a true philosopher!" Nicholas replied, reaching a hand to ruffle Robin's hair. "And maybe you can tell me what there is in that field about a change in perception. I feel as if my perspective has just shifted one hundred and eighty degrees … One moment I'm thinking that the waterhole is changeless, and the next I'm thinking that the place exists in such a delicate balance, that actually it's … unbearably fragile. And that scares the dickens out of me."

"All right," said Dave. "So that's one more thing to take into account."

"David, we really need to push this whole thing as hard as we can."

"I know," he replied, though he still felt as if all the important stuff was out of his hands. "You guys keep working on your nomination forms. We'll take Lisa out there as soon as we can – and if either of you have any ideas about a surveyor we can take, someone to help us pin down the location, that would be great. Otherwise I'll be looking up the Yellow Pages."

Nicholas came to sit by Dave, looking troubled and impatient. He didn't say anything, but then he hardly needed to.

After a thoughtful pause, Robin said, "Uncle David … you know that man you talked to about Native Title? He'd know someone, wouldn't he? Or he'd know who to ask. I mean, they'd need to establish boundaries and such all the time."

Which earned Robin a broad happy grin from Lisa, and a particularly beautiful grin softened by affection from Nicholas – in the midst of which Dave's thanks went pretty much unheeded. Not that Dave minded one little bit.

The phone rang the next day, and Dave picked it up. "Hello, this is Dave."

"Hello, Mr Goring Taylor. This is Shirley Johns; I'm mayor of the shire council out at Cunnamulla."

"Ah," Dave responded rather intelligently, while reflecting that he probably should have been expecting this. "G'day, Shirley."

"G'day, David. Well, I won't beat about the bush, as you probably know why I'm calling."

"I can guess."

"Yes. I've had a couple of meetings with a Mr Fred Harvey of Reddy Eight. I believe you've met the man. He's interested in our natural resources, and we're interested in his investment. But we need your help."

"Yes, well, I'm interested in protecting something that's even more precious than iron ore."

"I'm sure I don't need to explain what a boon for the community it would be – and for the whole region – in terms of jobs and infrastructure. We'd be very grateful to you."

Dave sighed. "And I bet he passed on my answer. That hasn't changed."

"I confess I'm rather confused, David, about no one seeming to know where this place is. Can you at least tell me whose property it's on?"

"No, I can't – and that's not me being difficult. We've never been able to really pin it down."

"Mr Harvey mentioned that they've tried to locate it from the air as well. Apparently iron ore is quite obvious if you know what you're looking for. But they're left feeling as confused as I am."

"Well, I'm not surprised," Dave said – though he was, rather, by all of that. "The place isn't easy to find. I can't even explain why, really, unless you're prepared to believe that the Ancestors are protecting it, or something."

"I see," she said in sceptical tones.

"Shirley, once I'm sure the Dreaming site will be safe, I'll help. I've just got to be certain of that first. It's in
our
interests, now, to be able to locate it on a map, so I'm working out how to do that. But you'll understand I have my priorities."

After a moment she sighed, as if accepting at least a momentary defeat. "I understand – and for what it's worth, you were already well respected in town, David, just as your father always was. That's only increased in recent days."

He huffed a cynical laugh. "Flattery's not gonna do it for you, Shirley."

"It's not flattery if it's true. I'm sure I'm not speaking for myself alone when I say I very much appreciate the stand you're taking."

"Right. Okay, well, if that's the case, then if you can do anything to help Thursday's mob in extending the Aboriginal reserve to include the Dreaming site, I'd appreciate it. And I'll do what I can as soon as I can. That's as much as I'm able to promise right now."

"I understand," Shirley repeated, "and I'll do what I can as well, I promise you that. Thank you, David."

"Thank you, Shirley." And they each said goodbye, and hung up.

So there was someone else to add to the mix of interests precariously balanced around this issue. Dave's head hurt. But there was one thing he never lost sight of, and that was his sense of the true priorities. That had to count for something, surely.

There was another phone call late that night when the house was dark and they were all fast asleep. Nicholas kept a handset by his side of the bed, because of course a call in the middle of the night to him meant England. "Hello?" Nicholas answered blurrily, sounding as if he wasn't even half awake.

There was a long empty pause during which Dave stirred, and Nicholas turned on the bedside lamp.

"Hello?" Nicholas tried again, glancing at Dave with a frown. "Simon, is that you?"

Nothing.

"Father … ?"

Nothing. And then the line cut out. Dave could hear the dial tone kick in.

Nicholas turned off the handset and dropped it into his lap, before rubbing hard at his face for a moment. Then he picked up the phone again, and used speed dial to call the Goring family home in England. "Simon? It's Nicholas. Did you just try to phone us?"

"No, I didn't," Dave could hear Simon reply.

"We just had a call, that's all, but I missed answering it. I couldn't think who else it would be."

"If you can hold the line, Nicholas, I'll check with your father. Is everything all right with you?"

"Yes, everything's fine. I was calling to make sure everything's all right with you!"

"It must be very early in the morning there."

"Two-thirty," Nicholas replied, having checked his watch.

"No wonder you were worried." A few moments later, Richard had added his reassurances to Simon's that all was well.

"Never mind, then," Nicholas concluded. "Sorry to bother you. It must have been a wrong number."

"Goodnight, Nicholas," Richard said in farewell. "It was lovely to hear your voice. Sleep well now."

Nicholas put the handset back in its cradle, turned out the light, and lay back down in the bed. Dave shifted in close to snuggle up to him. "All right?" asked Dave.

"Yes." Nicholas sounded wide awake. "There was someone on the line, you know. It wasn't just dead. I could hear them breathing."

Dave frowned, and finally suggested, "Some idiot dialled the wrong number, and then was too much of a wuss to admit it."

"I suppose," said Nicholas.

"Get some sleep," Dave urged. "Everyone's fine. It's okay to sleep now."

Nicholas sighed. "I suppose," he said again. But Dave suspected he'd be too fretful to really rest.

Nicholas and Dave had decided that Dave would manage the next tour trip on his own. His clients this time were a bunch of blokes in their early twenties who basically wanted to camp out, go off-roading, do an extended crawl of Outback pubs, and generally behave like larrikins. Dave had figured it wouldn't be much fun for Nicholas and Robin to tag along, apart from which the clients might feel their style was being cramped.

Robin seemed to agree it would be a good idea to sit this one out; nevertheless he indulged in a bit of a sulk, perhaps because he'd enjoyed their Yowah trip so much. Nicholas likewise seemed torn in two about the decision, though in his more reasonable moments he agreed that he and Robin were better off at home. As for Dave, even after all these years he couldn't leave Nicholas behind without a serious pang.

This time he met up with his clients – six of them, almost indistinguishable from each other at first glance – in Toowoomba. From there a convoy of the Cruiser, a client's own Ford Territory, and a rental four-wheel drive headed through Dalby to Chinchilla, where they stopped for lunch at the RSL. Dave was intending a sober trip, for himself at least, to help ensure he could keep an eye on the others' safety, but he had to have a Cascade in honour of Chinchilla native Pete Murray – a ritual Dave and Denise used to observe religiously. He had a private chuckle, though, at the thought of telling this lot Pete's butterfly story, as he'd told Nicholas back in the days when they'd first met. It would take Pete telling it to provoke a suitable reaction in these blokes.

Dave received a call that evening from Denise, though it wasn't for the sake of sharing the Pete-love. She was instead passing on a message. "It's the Barton station," she said. "You were heading there on this trip, weren't you?"

"Yeah, for the off-roading."

"They've called to say they're restricting access to their land."

"Really?" he responded, feeling somewhat mystified. "I've never known them do that before. Did they say why?"

"No. It was Daryl who called, and he sounded a bit odd about it, like maybe he didn't agree himself. But what can he do? They're entitled."

"Of course they are. All right. I'll just reshuffle my plans a bit. These guys won't even notice."

"Having fun, are you?" Denise asked in wry tones.

"They make me feel old," Dave replied, "but mostly in a good way. Sometimes I even feel mature!"

"Crikey! Hang on to that, then."

"Will do."

It took a great deal of maturity for Dave not to swear loudly enough to wake the town early one morning in Charleville, when he came out of the hotel to find that not one but two of the Cruiser's tyres were flat. Luckily his clients were late risers, but by the time he'd swapped the wheels for the two spares, driven the Cruiser down to the garage and walked back, the blokes were straggling down for breakfast.

"We might have a slight delay in setting off," he announced. "I've had a couple of flat tyres."

"Oh," said Scott, the bloke who owned the Ford. "Is my Territory okay?"

"Didn't think to look." Dave accompanied Scott out to where the other two vehicles were parked, but they seemed all right, thank God or whichever Ancestor was watching over them.

"That's bad luck with the Cruiser," Scott observed as they stood there contemplating the Territory. "Both on the same side, I guess? You must have run over something that wouldn't say die."

"Bad luck, yeah," Dave agreed, provoked into further thought. He followed Scott back inside, and sat there frowning over a strong coffee. The thing was, Dave had never had more than one flat tyre at a time, and he certainly hadn't noticed anything while driving the previous evening.

When he headed back to the garage, they announced they hadn't found any damage, though as requested they'd replaced the inner tubes anyway. "Better safe than stuffed," one of the mechanics opined. "Don't wanna get stuck out there."

"Ain't that the truth," Dave agreed. He contemplated the discarded inner tubes, which had been reinflated in an unsuccessful attempt to find the holes and patch them. "D'you think," he asked after long moments, "someone deliberately let them down? As a prank?"

The mechanic looked unimpressed. "Maybe. Can't think what else. Bit bloody-minded for a prank, but."

"Yeah …" Dave sighed, figuring he wasn't going to find an answer, or at least not that morning. "Look, would you keep them inflated for a while, and see if they do go down? It might be a really slow leak. Keep them, though. Sell them or use them, if they're okay. But I just want to know, one way or the other."

"No wuckers," the mechanic said, which of course was Australian for ‘No fucking worries'. He lifted his chin in acknowledgement, and added, "Be seein' ya, then." The latter expressed a wish that it be so, and therefore that Dave stay safe out there.

"No wuckers," Dave replied.

Dave and his clients had planned to camp out that night. Of course Dave was an old hand at this by now, so he got the bulk of things set up efficiently despite the other blokes being more interested in teasing each other about who was going to share a tent with whom. Dave had his own tent, as usual, which was sacrosanct, and he managed to tactfully ignore the ribbing between his clients, who were obviously all concerned about being straight or at least being seen to be so. Some things were slow to change. Still, Dave reflected, they knew well enough that he had a husband at home, so they couldn't have been completely homophobic. "You all better sort it out," he eventually commented, "or one of you might end up sleeping in
my
tent."