KALGOORLIE ROUND

 “Kids? Who’d have ’em?”

Such was Nick Ward’s reply when I asked if he was a family man.

We’d connected via the frivalous commonality of both having backed a roughie in the last race of the famous Kalgoorlie “rounds,” an annual event which attracts city slickers like me, Alan George, out of the rat race and propels them into the wild western gold mining town for some distraction from the humdrum. Unlike yours truly, Nick was a local and after some mutual gloating over our common good fortune, I found myself seated opposite him over a counter meal at the “Miners” hotel where he swore that his lady friend, Jess something-or-other,could cook up a storm.

“Mind you,” he continued, “I would have had kids but I’d have only been a chain around the neck of a good woman in those days after returning from ‘Nam. Funny thing is Al, I now have fifteen of the buggers around me most of the time.” He elaborated,”I teach plumbing at the local tech school and most days do voluntary supervision at a hostel for indigenous lads.” I had noticed the place as I’d driven into town.

Indeed, it turned out that Jess and the mains she brought to our table were both wholesome and appealing to the eye. Nick, I suspect, noted my admiration and as Jess departed said, rather sotto voce, “But, my friend, while it’s too late to breed my own tribe, I have one good lady right there. And to think I nearly lost her recently.” There was a story coming. I could feel it.

“Doesn’t sound good,” I said lamely. “Anything to do with the bruising and stitches on your temple?”

I’ll be honest: he was an attractive bloke, rugged looks a la Johnny Cash, maybe 25 years my senior, and I had only been willing to accept his dinner invitation since he had mentioned that he had ties to a female. That’s me, burdened with some unpleasant previous experiences. And I was genuinely interested to hear his answer.

He responded, but I shall omit the frequent expletives and blasphemies as my dear mother may get hold of this account sometime. Nick narrated …

“Friday nights Jess and I usually take a troop of the lads from the hostel out bush for a kangaroo shoot. It’s part of lessons that attracts a remuneration from government: we teach ’em butchering the carcasss for one, second is tanning the hide, and third is the cooking. So, last Friday, with five indigenous boys plus one of their white mates from school, loaded on the back of my king cab along with Bob Murray, a supervisor from the hostel who handles the firearms part, I’m driving with Jess beside me. Dark night, really black. We pass the pit [the open cut gold mine noted for the ability to be seen from space], heading out of town and steady as she goes for about forty K’s.

“I slow because young Harold in the back has the spottie and we see a few ‘roos in the distance. Too far for a shot. I begin a crawl, hoping a ‘roo jumps out of the bushes close by and Harold catches him in the spotlight.” Nick is almost whispering now, gesticulating a winding slow movement with his hand to emulate his vehicle taking a slight bend around bushes and trees, since there is no actual road to mention. Suddenly his eyes widen. He slaps the table so hard it disturbs the cutlery. “Then bang! Just like that. A tire blows. I swear I heard a rifle shot at the same time as though someone had shot the bloody thing out. Then light. Lights in my face. I’m blinded. A shot pings off the bonnet. Another. And four figures, silhouettes in front of their blinding headlights and spotlight. ‘Get out of the car’ one of them shouts. He repeats it. ‘Get out or I shoot you through the window.’ I can’t make out their faces but I know who they are. Yeah, I know who they are. My eyes adjust a bit. I make out the kangaroo skin waistcoat he always wears and the long streaky hair of Les Morgan and no doubt his notorious mates who enjoy making trouble when they come into town to sell the nuggets they find on their claim. Jess and I get out of the cab. ‘Kneel you arseholes. Kneel.’ We do. Smack. Les swipes me with the butt of his rifle. They laugh. So, there you go Alan, that’s how I got the cut and the bruises.”

“That’s it?” I quizzed. I uttered a word my mother wouldn’t approve of, followed by: “C’mon mate. Why the….. I mean how do you know these blokes? … you’re out in the sticks, so how’d they know where you’d be? ….. why did they jump you? ……what happened after that? …..surely …?” I realised the questions were superfluous because no decent raconteur would end his tale at that point. He was teasing. We both knew he would elaborate, but he wanted time to relish in my piqued interest. He eventually continued.

” I have to go back to the Wednesday, two nights before this. Jess and I, as well as Bob Murray, took two car loads of the lads to Bailey’s Circus which had just hit town for their annual stint. Most unfortunately, we were seated right in front of Les and his mob of a dozen local troublemakers. They were somewhat inebriated and became raucous at times. In their exuberance Jess copped the occasional kick in the back. The seating was just benches so there were no seat backs. Jess had had enough and just before I reacted she turned around to give them some choice words and one of her scowls I know she has in her armoury. That was met with jibes and some foul insults. Jess then stormed out of the stands and heads for the two coppers in attendance. They then troop up to Les’s crowd and eject Les and one of his mates who’s known about town as Gravel, probably due to his harsh voice. Although things quietened down, there were threats issued in whispers from the others that we were definitely meant to take note of. So mate, that brings us to our ‘roo shoot and ambush of revenge. They had a good idea of the area that we hunted in since we always head for Clover’s Creek because the ‘roos mob there to drink. People talk, spread the word, the lads tell others at school, etcetera. And so, there we are kneeling in the dirt, wondering what Les and Co. are intending.

“Les himself has Aboriginal heritage so I was confident that he wouldn’t harm the lads. In fact, he told them to piss off and walk back to town and if they were true to their blood they would have no trouble. He was going to have a little fun with the wadjalas. Little did he or anyone else know that my own great grandmother was indigenous but I wasn’t going to appeal to that fact out of pride. So we awaited our fate as our charges scattered through the scrub towards home. Or at least that’s what I presumed they were doing.

” For some time after that, Les and his mates yelled threats, drank some more, pushed and prodded Jess and I, and drank some more. Then knives came out. I sensed the situation becoming serious and feared what a drunken mob hysteria might result in. I was planning my own moves should the situation become critical. But what hope did I have? I was ready at a point to silently appeal to God to forgive me and accept me if He did exist, and to help me when my blood boiled over, as I knew it would. I wasn’t going to die on my knees.

“Then, just when I thought that we were done for, and my body was tensing to make a move, the weirdness happened. Everything became surreal. Surreal for all of us. The lights went out. The car headlights and the spotties. Darkness. Silence. We all froze. Then out of the silence a roaring but dull humming. At the same time a shrill melodious tune could be heard, reminiscent of the tune in E.T. the movie. Eerieness prevailed as we were all transfixed. Plonk, plonk, crack, bang. We could feel ourselves being hit with something like hail. Light. Blinding orange light lit up the sky. ‘Effing aliens’. ‘It’s a spacesh….. Let’s get the hell out of here … run, run, there’s something up there!!’ I began to smile and glanced at Jess. She was suppressing a grin.

“So mate, Les and his crew shot through, post haste. I know you’re wondering what happened, so it was like this. On the back of my ute I have a tool box. I keep all sorts of stuff in there for all sorts of situations whether that be for camping, fishing, whatever. The boys removed a few things before Les sent them off. Things like an Aboriginal bullroarer, which is a flat piece of wood on a string. When it’s swung in circles it makes the sound we heard that night. And Harold always packs his harmonica wherever he goes. That was the shrill tune. And one of them removed the flares from my tool box which lit up the sky. The hail we felt was the lads tossing piles of little stones that they had picked up and showered us with. Oh, and one of them snuck into their truck and doused all the lights. Smart lads. Very effective SFX used on inebriated yobbos.”

I was stunned somewhat and open mouthed. “Amazing. That’s amazing Nick. What a …. I don’t know, adventure, lucky escape. Did you go to the coppers?”

The answer was ‘no’. They believed that all’s well that ends well.

We ate in silence for a while. Then Nick looked up, said: “Maybe it’s not quite over.”

I turned to see what had caught his eye.

There was no mistaking the kangaroo-skin waistcoat and stringy unkempt hair. Les and his boys had just walked in.