IT WAS A SCORCHER of a morning, though. I was pleasantly surprised when I came out the front gate and saw the blue Rover was still there. A tinted window slid down, Kevin’s head appeared.
‘Offer you a ride somewhere?’
‘Thought the wife was waiting.’
‘Didn’t seem right to leave you wandering around in this heat.’
‘You’re a marvel, buddy. If you could run me back up to the hospital?’
‘No problem.’
I made to enter, then hesitated when a jackhammer started up across the road. The Works blokes were on the job again. Or one of them, at least, a whip-thin fellow in a fluorescent jacket who was ripping into the footpath. On a Sunday now—did these bastards never rest? I went over and tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Excuse me!’
He startled, didn’t seem to appreciate the interruption: the lock of orange hair poking out from under the hard hat bristled.
‘Wouldn’t be able to tone it down a bit, would you?’
He shot me a look that said, quite sensibly, ‘Mind telling me how to tone a jackhammer down?’
‘Maybe you could start down the other end of the street?’ I suggested. ‘We’ve got a sick boy in here.’
The bloke assented with a stringy shrug and I climbed back into the Rover. A late model job, its air-con ice cool, its seats inviting the passenger—even trash like me—to snuggle up and make herself at home.
‘Sorry,’ said Kevin as we took off, ‘what was your name again?’
‘Emily—Tempest.’
‘Tempest…? Tempest. Rings a bell.’
‘Not an alarm, I hope.’
‘Ah yes, the fellow from the Burnt Shirt Mine. Jack Tempest. A relative?’
‘Distant. He’s me father.’
‘You should be proud of him. He’s a minor legend around these parts; Burnt Shirt’s the most successful small-scale operation in the region.’ A wafer-thin smile. ‘Smart move, then, my giving you a hand. You’ll be worth a lot of money one day.’
‘Money! From Jack? I’ll be lucky to get the shirt! You obviously don’t know him personally.’
‘Can’t say I do, no.’
‘He’s made and lost at least three fortunes that I know of in the past twenty years.’
He shrugged. ‘Nature of the game, alas.’
A pause. ‘You in the game yourself?’ I enquired, racking my brain for conversation openers.
‘Mining? Yes, more on the admin side, though.’ That figured: he looked like an office johnny.
‘Copperhead?’
‘In a roundabout way.’
‘Mate, everything’s Copperhead if your roundabout’s big enough.’
‘King of the Mountain Holdings. We’re strategic management consultants.’
Another pause. ‘What’s strategic management entail then?’
‘Mostly sitting at a computer trying to anticipate mineral prices.’ He shrugged, almost apologetic. ‘A far cry from the world your old man moves in…’
‘That explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘The soft hands, the clean fingernails, the flash car…’
He glanced ruefully at his hands on the wheel. ‘They look after us. We give back, though.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes. I like to think we make a contribution. Not just to the company: to the community—to the nation. What we dig out of the ground is our biggest export earner. It doesn’t just pay for the car I drive—ultimately, it pays for the way of life we all enjoy—even you.’
‘Jeez mate, I come pretty cheap: tin of tobacco, tank of petrol, packet of sausages if I’m lucky.’ He smiled. ‘You’re preaching to the converted, though—remember, my old man’s a miner.’
‘Then you’d understand: we work long and hard for the perks—even those of us behind desks—and we take risks.’
‘Well, you took a risk this morning…’
‘Oh?’
‘Helping a troubled boy in front of that mob in church. And I’m grateful to you for it.’
He fiddled with his spectacles, uncomfortable with the praise. ‘It was nothing. Should be your first port of call, really.’
‘What should be?’
‘The church. If we can’t show some compassion to those of our parish who are in need, what’s the point of the whole thing?’
‘Pity everybody doesn’t share the sentiment.’
I settled into the seat, enjoyed the chilled air rippling up my dress. Kevin eased the car out onto the main drag, drove slowly and carefully. ‘We have been encouraging Copperhead to take a more pro-active role in relation to the Indigenous community,’ he expanded. ‘Apprenticeship schemes, land reclamation programs, that sort of thing. Hundreds of employees at the Copperhead: guess how many Aboriginals?’
‘Not many.’
He thumped the wheel; this was something of a hobby-horse. ‘Two! That’s it! And neither of them locals. They’ve been incredibly backward in that regard—and short sighted. Finding staff is the hardest thing about running a remote operation, and yet they’ve got a ready-made workforce sitting on their doorstep. Your young friend back there—what was his name again? Danny?’
‘Danny Brambles.’
‘And he’s from Bluebush?’
‘His country’s down south from here. Stonehouse Creek, out on the Gunshot Road.’
‘Stonehouse? Don’t believe I’ve heard of it.’
‘You’re not alone there.’
‘Well, maybe I could find something for him. Landscaping, mechanics. Do you know what his interests are?’
‘Right now? Drinking, smoking and playing guitar.’
‘I see.’ He gave the matter some thought. ‘Obviously comes from a decent family, though. Can he read and write?’
‘Had a very disrupted education…’ I thought about the song he’d sung out at the shack. ‘Don’t know what his reading’s like, but he’s got a way with words. He’s just a little unstable…’
‘Yes, I got that impression.’ He made the turn into Hospital Drive. ‘Did you have any idea what he was talking about?’
‘God knows. Radio waves? I’m pretty sure it’s not them that’s frying his brain.’
The driver concurred with a wry smile as we pulled into the hospital car park.
‘Well, thanks for your help back there, Kevin.’
‘A pleasure, Emily. Look, I meant what I said about the boy. I’ll have a word with Personnel—see what we can find.’
He gave me a sympathetic toot as he drove away.
A job for Danny? I thought. Good luck.