Beyond the Black Stump (27 page)

B
Y
the end of May the oil drillers had reached a depth of about nine thousand feet, the last two thousand of which had been through shale impregnated with oil traces. They had brought no oil to the surface, however, and now it did not look as though they would do so. At the top of the shale they had found quantities of gas trapped underneath the second layer of anhydrite, but in the Lunatic this gas was singularly useless. All that they had discovered in five months of work was that there had once, in the far geologic past, been oil in that shale bed, and they had discovered with equal certainty that it was not there now.

Stanton Laird went down to Perth for a conference at his head office. It was not a particularly depressed conference, for this was normal in the affairs of the Topeka Exploration Company. This highly profitable concern drilled, on the average, four useless wells for every one that turned out to be a good producer, but that one showed profits that would pay for a dozen of the others. Topex, in fact, were more accustomed to failure than to success; their day-to-day business was in drilling and abandoning dry holes, and no particular disappointment or discredit accrued to anyone for the dry hole on Laragh Station.

They decided to abandon the venture and to investigate a new and more promising prospect in the Kimberleys. At this point, Stanton Laird put in his resignation from the Company. He had already warned the Topex representative in Perth, Mr. Colin Spriggs, of his intention, and he had now but to confirm it in writing. “I guess this is it, Mr. Spriggs,” he said, in handing him the formal letter. “I kind of hate to let go of the oil business, but this opening my Dad’s got for me in my home town is one a fellow just can’t pass up.”

“Sure,” said Mr. Spriggs. “Mr. Johnson’s going to be real sorry when he sees this letter, but I’d say you’re right. Ford and Mercury are doing mighty well back home.” He glanced at the geologist, smiling. “I reckon you won’t be sorry to see the last of the Lunatic Ranges.”

For some queer reason that he could not understand himself the remark irritated Stanton a little; there were things he now knew about Australia that Mr. Spriggs would never understand. “It’s quite a place,” he said quietly. “But I could use a river, and the sight of snow on a mountain.”

He went on to have lunch with Mike Regan, the accountant, on Mollie’s suggestion. He found her half-brother to be both affable and competent, and they got on well together. They discussed the matter of Mollie’s passport. “She’ll have to have a passport and a visa from the American consul,” the accountant said. “I’d better get going on that right away.” He sat in thought for a moment. “It’s just a little bit complicated, and it may take some time,” he said. “I suppose you know she’s illegitimate?”

“She told me,” said Stanton shortly.

“I’ll have to see how that affects her passport. She must be able to get one … She’ll have to have a birth certificate, but I don’t suppose she’s got one of those. I’m not sure that any of those children had their births registered. In the eyes of the Law she’s probably not there at all.”

“She’s there as far as I’m concerned,” said Stanton warmly.

The accountant laughed. “Too right. Well, the first thing that I’ll have to do is to register the birth. Then we’ll see how we get on after that.”

Stanton got back to the oil rig three or four days later. Already drilling had stopped and dismantling of the rig had commenced; the Americans did not believe in wasting time. Stanton talked for a while with Spencer Rasmussen, and then got into the jeep and went over to Laragh.

He found Mrs. Regan and Mollie together on the verandah shelling peas; the mother made some excuse and went off to the kitchen, leaving them together. He kissed her, and then said, “Well, honey, it’s all over at the rig.”

“All over, Stan?”

He nodded. “Stopped drilling last night, dismantling today. We decided there’s no sense going on at this site.”

She had known that this was coming, but that hardly softened the blow. “There isn’t going to be an oil well here at all, ever?”

He shook his head. “Not here, honey. There’s no oil.”

“Oh, Stan!” There would never be a town here in the Lunatic. The shops, the churches and the movie theatres,
the hairdressers and the cafés and the bitumen-paved roads were all to remain mere dreams, mere disappointed hopes that might have been. The Americans were all to go away with their ice cream, their magazines, and their movies; everything would go back to what had been before. All the hopes that had been built up over the last eight months were brought to nothing. Laragh and Lucinda would go on just as they had before.

He knew her well enough by that time to feel her disappointment. He drew her to him. “It’s too bad, hon,” he said quietly. “I know just how you feel. But you’re the only one who’s going to miss it, really. And you won’t be here. You’ll be back in the States, with me. And believe me, that’s a country doesn’t need no oil to make it good.”

She smiled up at him. “I know. But it’s awful to think there’s never going to be a town here, after all.”

“I guess your Dad and everyone at Laragh will be pretty glad about it,” he observed. “It’s going to save them skads and skads of headaches.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s right. They’re probably too old to change their ways. But it’s an awful pity, all the same.”

He released her and they sat down together. “I saw your brother Mike,” he said. “He’s a real nice guy; I liked him quite a lot. He’s getting to work now on your passport and your visa for the States.” He pulled a mass of coloured literature from his hip pocket. “I got these plane schedules from the airline offices.” He showed them to her, and she bent over the maps, enthralled at the strange-sounding names, Nandi, Canton Island, and Honolulu.

“I can’t seem to take it all in, Stan,” she said at last. “I’ve never been outside Australia, you know. I thought only rich people ever went to places like Honolulu—not people like us.”

The financing of her journey to America was, in fact, a matter of some perplexity to the Regans. It was almost thirty-five years since Tom or Pat had seen the world outside Australia or thought much about it, and over thirty-five since Mrs. Regan had left Scotland. The Judge’s knowledge was wider, for in his youth he had travelled a good deal on the Continent, and he had left England as recently as 1930, a mere twenty-five years ago. His experience, however, had been narrow, being limited in the main to literary, mountaineering,
and scholastic matters. None of this experience was very pertinent to the requirements of Mollie Regan on her journey across the Pacific Ocean to the United States.

The men discussed the matter at their storeroom forum after tea one Saturday night, as they sat around on boxes or upon the floor, leaning against racks of store goods in the light of an incandescent petrol lantern on a box. “This letter Mike was after writing to the Judge,” Pat Regan said. “It’s wanting money he is, the way he’ll take a ticket for her on the aeroplane with Stanton Laird. How much was it he’ll be wanting?”

“Three hundred and thirty-six pounds, Mr. Regan.”

“Sure, that’s the power of a lot of money,” said Tom Regan. “A power of a lot of money.”

Pat Regan poured himself his standard measure of rum, a quarter of a bottle. “What would that be the price of, now, Judge?”

The accountant was accustomed to his employer’s methods of assessment in matters of finance. “That would be about thirty-five drums of petrol,” he said.

Pat Regan paused with the drink in his hand, the other hand upon the gin bottle of cold water from the refrigerator. “Thirty-five drums? Sure, that’s no great matter at all. I mind the times we’ve used twenty drums in two weeks, trucking to the coast.”

“It’s a power of a lot of money,” repeated Tom.

“Sure, it’s nothing at all to spend upon the girl, and her going to be wed. How much would a Land Rover cost now, Judge?”

“I am not very sure,” said the accountant. “I think it would be about three times that amount, though.”

Pat Regan turned to his brother. “What was I after telling you? A third of a Land Rover, ’tis nothing at all.” He shot down his rum and followed it with a chaser of cold water. “Thirty-three per cent,” he said academically. “Thirty-three per cent of a Land Rover. Sure, and it wouldn’t be so much as that of a Rolls Royce. ’Tis nothing at all, I tell ye.”

“It’s a power of a lot of money,” Tom repeated gloomily. “But there, it’s all a part of it.”

Pat turned to the accountant. “Tell me now, would that be for her to go there, or to go and come back if she wants to?”

At that time of night the Judge required notice of that
question. He stumbled slowly to his feet. “I will see if I can find the letter, Mr. Regan.”

He lifted the petrol lantern from the box and crossed to the high, Uriah Heep desk where the correspondence of the station was kept till time had marched on and it could be burned, a ceremony which took place once a year. He fumbled to put on his spectacles, fumbled till he found the letter, and read it slowly through. “That is the single fare, Mr. Regan,” he said at last. “That is the price of the tickets to go from here to this place Hazel in America. Not to return.”

“And how much would it cost to come back if she took a thought to? Would that be the same, now?”

“I think it would,” said the accountant. “There might be a small reduction if she took a return ticket before she went.”

“To go and come would be two-thirds of a Land Rover? ’Tis nothing at all.”

“There’s a true word,” said Tom, a little surprisingly. “What would you be after doing with two-thirds of a Land Rover if ye had it? Sure, it would be no value without the other third.” He gave the matter some deep thought. “Six hundred and seventy-two pounds,” he said at last. “’Tis the power of a lot of money to be giving to a child. Ye’ll have us in black ruin, begging in the streets of Perth for bread to fill our empty stomachs, if ye scatter money like that.”

Pat Regan was a little alarmed. “God save us, Tom,” he said. He turned to the Judge. “Tell me now, how much money would we be having in the bank?”

The Judge, who had just sat down, got painfully to his feet again, took the lantern, and went back to the desk. He found the black folder of bank statements, put on his spectacles again, and turned the pages slowly till he found the last one. He read the figure at the bottom of the page. “One hundred and ninety-eight thousand, seven hundred and twenty-two pounds, nineteen shillings and fivepence,” he said slowly. “That was at the first of last month.”

“And how much of that would we be owing, for petrol and the like of that?”

The Judge flapped his hands a little helplessly. “I find it difficult to guess, Mr. Regan. Perhaps the outstanding invoices might total about five hundred pounds.”

Tom said, “We’ll have the income tax to pay, the seven curses on it.”

“We paid this year’s income tax last month,” the Judge said. He peered at the page. “It’s down here as having been paid. Thirty-eight thousand and twenty-two pounds, four shillings and ninepence.”

The men sat trying to unravel these figures. Pat Regan reached out for the bottle. “Tell us in plain language, now. How much money would we be after having to spend?”

“About one hundred and ninety-eight thousand pounds, Mr. Regan.”

“What would that be the price of, now?”

The Judge cast about in his bemused mind for a comparison, rejecting with regret the Restoration Fund of Dunchester Cathedral, the only sum of a like magnitude that had ever come his way. “You paid just under seven thousand pounds for the big diesel truck,” he said. He searched for a pencil and began a difficult sum in long division.

“Sure, that’s a lovely truck,” said Tom Regan thoughtfully. “A lovely, lovely truck.”

The Judge finished his arithmetic. “I think that makes twenty-eight,” he said a little uncertainly.

“We could buy twenty-eight trucks the like of that?” asked Tom. “Sure, ye could do the power of a lot of trucking with twenty-eight big lovely trucks the like of that.”

“Come on out of it, and sit ye down after your labours,” said Pat to the Judge. “Give yeself a drink out of the bottle. Wait now—fetch another bottle while you’re on your feet.” And when that was adjusted he said, “Tell me now, Judge. If Mollie went with Stan Laird to America and then got setting down to think she’d have no part of it, ’twould only be a little piece of the money would be needed for her to come home? A little piece, the way a man would never notice it was gone?”

“That is quite correct, Mr. Regan. You can pay her fares each way without worrying about it at all.”

Pat turned to his brother. “What was I after telling you? ’Tis no matter at all.”

“I’m thinking that it’s not the end of it,” Tom said. “Sure, you’d not send the girl out into the great world to live with strangers, and her with not a penny piece to rub between her fingers in the pocket of her dress? It’s new clothes she’ll
be needing, and new shoes, and a pound or two for spending money. It’s all part of it,” he added gloomily.

This was a new angle on this difficult matter. Pat turned, as always, to the Judge for help. “Tell me now, what would things the like of that be after costing?”

“I have no idea, Mr. Regan. I think Mrs. Regan might be able to tell you more what she would want.”

Pat Regan poured another rum in his perplexity. “There’s many would be looking at her in America itself, and her coming as a stranger from Australia. I’m thinking she should not go in a torn dress, or else maybe with a hole showing at the heel of her stocking.” He paused in thought. “She should have money for her spending, too, the way she’ll not be asking anyone for anything till she gets wed. Would ye think now, Judge, we could spare the value of a truck for spending money? Sure, and we’d have twenty-seven of them left to work with.”

“That would mean giving her seven thousand pounds for spending money, Mr. Regan. That would be about the value of seven Land Rovers. I really think perhaps that might be a little excessive for a young girl.”

Tom Regan said, “Ye might as well trust a murdering Black and Tan as trust a woman with money. She’ll have you destroyed entirely, and you not knowing what hit you.” He paused, gloomily. “It’s all a part of it.”