dinner. Actually, thereâs a party at Jonoâs tonight. You guys should come for
a beer.
Thanks, I said. But I think weâre planning a quiet one tonight. Itâs been a long
week.
I donât know, Christie said, her brown eyes daring me. I havenât been to a party
in ages.
You should totally come, Pete said.
Iâll see if I can convince him, Christie said. Heâs got your number?
Yeah. Or I couldâ¦pick you up?
Christie smiled. Iâll let you know. Steve, Iâm going for a walk.
The pot was boiling now. I turned off the element. You donât want any coffee?
No.
Okay. Iâll come find you. Where?
Other side of the mine. Youâve got the map.
Iâd be careful, Pete said. Thereâs a lot of unmarked shafts round here. Stick to
the tracks.
Yes, Dad, Christie said in a mocking, flirtatious voice.
With Christie gone, Pete didnât stick around. I saw him off and started the climb
up behind the house. A few hundred metres along I found the head of the mine. I stood
and looked out over the vast bite it took from the valley. I was certain Pete hadnât
seen us, but I felt unsettled. I wasnât sure which was more strange: pretending Christie
was my daughter, or the fact that she wasnât.
Down the other side of the slope I found a crumbling dry-stone wall. The surrounding
bush was peppered with the alien green of European trees. I felt a small thrill of
discovery.
Christie? I called.
Steven!
The air smelled different here, snatches of something foreign and sweet. I moved
clear of the bush and found the crumbling stone footings of an old stamper battery.
There were still a few of these things running when I was young: the hammer of engines,
the earth pulverised beneath iron hoofs. The main building here was gone to a scattering
of stone but beyond, more recent outbuildings sagged beneath the weight of creepers.
In here, Christie called. Look.
I moved towards the nearest shed. Christie emerged from the darkness. She placed
something small and heavy in my palm. It was another .22 shell, this time with its
nose intact.
You havenât told Pete yet, she said.
I pursed my lips. No. Sorry. I havenât been able to find the rightâ
Donât be weird about it, she said. Tell him, okay?
I will.
Christie looked down at the bullet. What do you think of that?
Coincidence, I said. Theyâre pretty common.
Boring. Maybe the guy who lived here dumped that ute after a robbery.
What? Someone lived here?
Yeah. And just abandoned the place. Come and look.
The shed had been roughly lined with fibro panels to create two small rooms. Creepers
had prised apart the boards, and daylight gleamed like jewels above. In the living
room an armchair faced a window looking over the valley. A side table held dusty
photographs: a middle-aged couple tiny against the red stone bulk of Uluru; the man
in rubber waders proudly holding a fish; the man again, arm around what looked like
his daughter. She was a striking, sharp-featured girl in school uniform and knee-high
socks. I crouched beside a swollen chipboard bookcase and fingered the contents.
Nabokov. The I Ching . Books I had read.
Educated people, I said.
There was a camp stove on a bench in the corner. Christie held up a rusty tin of
soup. Doesnât look like he ever learned how to cook.
You donât know it was a he.
Look at the bath! she said, sounding delighted. Only a man could let it get that
disgusting.
Outside the back door a tiny bathtub crouched beneath an old-fashioned showerhead.
It was full of flaking paint and leaves, and was darkly scummed with grease.
And look in the bedroom, Christie said. Menâs clothes. He didnât even take them all.
In the bedroom a row of dusty shirts lay on the still-made bed. A pair of menâs leather
shoes peeked out from under the bed. There was something about those shoes I could
not bear.
I have to go outside, I said.
And this, Christie said,
a beer.
Thanks, I said. But I think weâre planning a quiet one tonight. Itâs been a long
week.
I donât know, Christie said, her brown eyes daring me. I havenât been to a party
in ages.
You should totally come, Pete said.
Iâll see if I can convince him, Christie said. Heâs got your number?
Yeah. Or I couldâ¦pick you up?
Christie smiled. Iâll let you know. Steve, Iâm going for a walk.
The pot was boiling now. I turned off the element. You donât want any coffee?
No.
Okay. Iâll come find you. Where?
Other side of the mine. Youâve got the map.
Iâd be careful, Pete said. Thereâs a lot of unmarked shafts round here. Stick to
the tracks.
Yes, Dad, Christie said in a mocking, flirtatious voice.
With Christie gone, Pete didnât stick around. I saw him off and started the climb
up behind the house. A few hundred metres along I found the head of the mine. I stood
and looked out over the vast bite it took from the valley. I was certain Pete hadnât
seen us, but I felt unsettled. I wasnât sure which was more strange: pretending Christie
was my daughter, or the fact that she wasnât.
Down the other side of the slope I found a crumbling dry-stone wall. The surrounding
bush was peppered with the alien green of European trees. I felt a small thrill of
discovery.
Christie? I called.
Steven!
The air smelled different here, snatches of something foreign and sweet. I moved
clear of the bush and found the crumbling stone footings of an old stamper battery.
There were still a few of these things running when I was young: the hammer of engines,
the earth pulverised beneath iron hoofs. The main building here was gone to a scattering
of stone but beyond, more recent outbuildings sagged beneath the weight of creepers.
In here, Christie called. Look.
I moved towards the nearest shed. Christie emerged from the darkness. She placed
something small and heavy in my palm. It was another .22 shell, this time with its
nose intact.
You havenât told Pete yet, she said.
I pursed my lips. No. Sorry. I havenât been able to find the rightâ
Donât be weird about it, she said. Tell him, okay?
I will.
Christie looked down at the bullet. What do you think of that?
Coincidence, I said. Theyâre pretty common.
Boring. Maybe the guy who lived here dumped that ute after a robbery.
What? Someone lived here?
Yeah. And just abandoned the place. Come and look.
The shed had been roughly lined with fibro panels to create two small rooms. Creepers
had prised apart the boards, and daylight gleamed like jewels above. In the living
room an armchair faced a window looking over the valley. A side table held dusty
photographs: a middle-aged couple tiny against the red stone bulk of Uluru; the man
in rubber waders proudly holding a fish; the man again, arm around what looked like
his daughter. She was a striking, sharp-featured girl in school uniform and knee-high
socks. I crouched beside a swollen chipboard bookcase and fingered the contents.
Nabokov. The I Ching . Books I had read.
Educated people, I said.
There was a camp stove on a bench in the corner. Christie held up a rusty tin of
soup. Doesnât look like he ever learned how to cook.
You donât know it was a he.
Look at the bath! she said, sounding delighted. Only a man could let it get that
disgusting.
Outside the back door a tiny bathtub crouched beneath an old-fashioned showerhead.
It was full of flaking paint and leaves, and was darkly scummed with grease.
And look in the bedroom, Christie said. Menâs clothes. He didnât even take them all.
In the bedroom a row of dusty shirts lay on the still-made bed. A pair of menâs leather
shoes peeked out from under the bed. There was something about those shoes I could
not bear.
I have to go outside, I said.
And this, Christie said,
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