Frog Whistle Mine
Authors: Des Hunt
Tony stepped off the bus and ran to the shelter of the porch, followed a moment later by his mother.
‘Go give the driver a hand, please Tony,’ she said, passing over their umbrella. He struggled to raise it against the pounding rain, only to find it was next to useless: two of the ribs were broken and the plastic end-piece had popped off another. He spread the wires until he had a canopy of sorts and stepped into the rain.
The driver was crouching by the side of the bus, trying to free the latch to the luggage compartment. Already his white shirt was soaked, revealing a bush of black hairs down the middle of his back. Tony flattened himself against the bus and held the umbrella over the man. The driver nodded his thanks and returned to the latch. With a woosh the door lifted and the driver climbed inside.
‘You know which ones are yours?’
Tony crouched to see. ‘That green canvas one and that broken suitcase. Oh, and the school bag.’
The bags were pushed out onto the wet ground. ‘There you go,’ the driver said cheerfully, slamming the door shut
with his foot. ‘Enjoy Charleston. It doesn’t rain like this all the time, you know.’ Then he chuckled. ‘I heard it’s been fine a couple of days this year.’ Soon he was back in the driver’s seat, easing the bus onto State Highway Six, heading south to Greymouth.
Christine—Tony’s mum—dashed out to drag the canvas bag into the shelter, while Tony struggled with the rest. They formed a sad sight, those two wet travellers with their shabby baggage, huddled in the porch of the Charleston Public Hall. Both were small, slim with fair hair, and somehow that made them look even more helpless and exposed. They were the whole family: Tony Hogan-White and Christine Hogan. Somewhere in the world there was a father—Steve White—but he hadn’t been seen since soon after Tony was born, twelve years before. So, now they only had one another, and in those scruffy bags was everything they owned: Christine’s canvas bag and Tony’s suitcase, with the school bag containing anything that couldn’t fit in the others.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Tony.
‘Wait, I suppose. Mr Birch said he would pick us up. I hope he hasn’t forgotten.’
‘Where is the place, anyway?’
‘I dunno. Around here, somewhere.’
Tony edged along the front of the hall until he was under an overgrown hedge that gave some protection from the rain. He moved to look back down the road. From there he could see almost all of Charleston. Next to the hall were a couple of houses. Then came the pub and beyond was
a motel. Looking in the other direction, there was a road leading inland and a camping ground. Over the highway were a few houses and a whole lot of wasteland. The only indication of Charleston’s glorious past was a broken building that may once have been part of the old gold-mining town. A ghost town is what Christine had called it, and to Tony, that’s what it was—a town left to the ghosts. He shivered, unsure of whether it was from the cold or at the thought of ghosts lurking in that ugly, abandoned landscape.
‘What do you think?’ asked Christine.
‘It’s a hole,’ he moaned. ‘Just like the last place, and the place before, and the place before that.’
She ruffled his hair. ‘C’mon Tony. You can’t judge places on looks. You never know, this could be
the
place. You know, the light at the end of the tunnel, where everything comes right.’
That was one of her sayings. Whenever their future looked bleak, Christine would say: ‘There’s always light at the end of the tunnel.’ But so far there never had been.
It was half an hour before a white ute splashed through the puddles in front of the hall. After skidding to a stop, the door opened and a man slowly climbed from the cab—he was tallest man Tony had ever seen.
The man stood in the rain, staring at them for a moment. His face was long, with a wide hanging mouth, like a
scream mask left over from Halloween—just the sort of person Tony expected to live in a ghost town.
Then the man smiled and the ghoulish face became warm and welcoming. ‘Christine?’ he asked in a deep, rumbling voice.
She nodded.
‘Hi, I’m Lofty Birch. Sorry I’m late. We just had a surge of visitors checking in.’
They shook hands. ‘Hello, Mr Birch.’ She turned to the boy. ‘This is my son, Tony.’
Instantly, the scream mask returned. ‘Your son?’ he asked. Tony looked down at the ground in shame. It looked like she had done it again: applied for a live-in job without telling the full story. ‘You didn’t mention a son, Christine.’
Tony kept quiet. He knew this was a critical moment. Twice before jobs had evaporated when the employer discovered a boy was part of the package. If it happened this time they were in real trouble. He doubted they had enough money for a night in the camping ground, or for food, or the bus fare to get to anywhere half decent.
‘Sorry, Mr Birch,’ mumbled Christine. They stood and waited while Lofty came to grips with the new information.
After a while, the smile returned. ‘No harm done. We’ll find a place for him.’ He leaned forward and grasped Tony’s hand with a mitt as big as a softball glove.
‘Thank you, Mr Birch,’ said Tony with relief.
‘You can forget about the “Mr Birch”, both of you.
Nobody calls me that. I’m Lofty to everybody and have been for longer than I can remember.’
‘OK, Lofty,’ said Christine, relaxing a little. ‘I think we’ll be able to handle that.’
With Tony squashed in the middle, they headed south along the main road. A bit more of Charleston became visible: a cemetery with a white statue of the Virgin Mary; a black coal seam exposed in a nearby road cutting; a house surrounded by rusty mining equipment; and lots more of the scrub and wasteland.
Tree Frog Lodge was perched on a hill deep in the scrub on the coastal side of the road, about a kilometre from the hall. The high A-framed buildings matched the hills that formed a distant backdrop. A roadside sign invited visitors to
Enjoy the comforts of home at a price all can afford
.
Lofty drove into a covered area attached to the main building. ‘You’ll find Betty in there. She’ll explain the arrangements. I’ll drop the things off at your chalet.’
Inside was a large room, with rows of pot plants dividing it into a dining room and lounge. It was already decorated for Christmas. At the far end was a bar surrounded by a lot of old photos. Most of one side was enclosed by glass doors. If the rain ever stopped they could be opened, giving access to a large wooden deck. Somewhere out there, thought Tony, there must be a view, although the rain gave no hint of what it might be.
At one end of the room a door and a servery led to a kitchen. A young woman was slicing vegetables, and a much older, dumpy woman was making a huge pie. The
older woman looked up as they entered. ‘You’re Christine, I gather?’ she said wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘I’m Betty. Welcome to Tree Frog Lodge.’ She came out and shook hands with Christine. ‘And who are you, young man?’ she asked, turning to Tony. Her voice was friendly, with just a hint of surprise.
‘I’m Tony,’ he said. ‘I’m the son.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Ah, we weren’t expecting one of those.’ She paused, thinking for a moment. ‘But that’s no problem.’ A longer pause. ‘Mmm. I gather you wouldn’t want to share the room with your mother?’
Christine answered before he had a chance. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Birch. We can share. We have before.’
‘No,’ replied Betty. ‘We can do better than that. Just let me think for a moment.’
Tony was starting to like this woman. Yes, it was true that he and his mum had shared a room before, but it had never been all right—not for him. Sooner or later Christine would want some privacy and he would only be in the way.
Betty looked at him. ‘You don’t mind being in your own place, by yourself?’
‘No,’ replied Tony quickly. ‘I don’t mind.’ Having his own place would be heaven.
‘It’s just that there’s an old caravan out the back, left over from when this place was built. You can have that if you like.’
‘Yes, please,’ he said, eagerly.
Betty laughed. ‘I think you better wait until you’ve seen
it before you get too excited.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Come on, I’ve got time to show you around.’
Three covered ways led into the bush surrounding the common room. The paths were gravel, bordered with mosses and a wide range of different ferns. Every few metres, a smaller path led to a chalet that could be glimpsed through the manuka and tree ferns.
‘Most of our guests are couples seeking something different from the usual backpacker dormitories,’ Betty explained. ‘They don’t mind paying a little more for a few days’ privacy. You’ll find that they’re not early risers. You won’t be able to service the chalets until around lunchtime. But that means the common room is empty and that’s where you’ll start your day.’
Gradually the path narrowed until they reached two chalets that were smaller than the others. Betty opened the door to the one on the right. ‘This is your room, Christine. The other is Angela’s. She helps in the kitchen. You’ll meet her later.’
The room had a single bed, a bit of a kitchen, a cupboard and a bathroom. Their luggage was piled on the bed. There was no spare space, certainly not enough for Tony to live there as well.
‘You’ll find it quite comfortable,’ said Betty. ‘There’re more bedclothes in the cupboard, and a heater, though we don’t normally need those in December. Yet, you never know in Charleston.’
‘Where’s the caravan?’ asked Tony.
‘Ah! It’s even further away, and there’s no covered
walkway.’ Betty looked out the door. The rain had eased and the sky to the west had brightened. ‘Come on, Tony, a few spits of rain won’t do us any harm.’
A downhill path led from the end of the gravel into the manuka. Betty went first, crouching low to avoid the drenched branches that formed a tunnel. Tony followed, wondering if this caravan idea was so great after all—it was a very long way from the rest of the huts. After a hundred metres or so, the path burst into a clearing containing a small, ancient caravan.
‘That’s it,’ said Betty. ‘Your very own secluded accommodation, complete with a detached ensuite.’
‘Does that mean I have to pee in the bushes?’
‘Yep.’
‘I can handle that.’
The caravan was nothing much to look at. Some time in its life it had been painted cream, with a white roof. Now, the roof was mostly green and black lichen. The cream sides were streaked brown with rust from the metal joins. The tyres were in shreds, the towbar was rusted through, and the tail-lights were held on by a few threads of wire. The thing was well on the way to becoming another one of Charleston’s relics.
They walked through a carpet of weeds to a broken concrete block that formed a step up to the door. It took a moment of jiggling before the catch released and the door creaked open. Betty was right, the water hadn’t got in, but nor had anything else—the stale air stank of decay. One end was set out as a kitchen with a tiny sink, a gas cooker
and shelving below. The rest of the space was taken up by a double bed and a fold-out table with a bench seat. The mattress was badly stained and seemed to be the source of most of the smell. The three windows all had curtains with different patterns, but similar rips. As a home it wasn’t much, yet Tony had experienced worse.
‘I’ll take it,’ he said.
Betty chuckled. ‘Good on ya, boy. I see you’re no namby-pamby. You’ll enjoy yourself here. Now, if you come outside, there’re some things I need to show you.’
They walked around the back of the caravan. ‘See that track,’ said Betty, indicating an overgrown gap in the surrounding scrub. ‘That leads to Fred’s shed. He looks after the grounds and does odd jobs around the place. At the back of the shed is a toilet and shower. You can use that. I’m sure you’ll soon trample down the grass and make a path. But be careful if you ever leave the track. Come, I’ll show you why.’
She led the way into the scrub. A few metres in, she stopped and pointed at a narrow ditch threading through the trees. ‘Have a look down there.’
Tony did. ‘Wow!’ he exclaimed. ‘How deep is it?’
‘That one’s only a couple of metres. Lots of them are deeper than that. They’re watercourses from the gold-mining days. Water was the most important thing in those days. Without water you didn’t get any gold. So these ditches were dug to bring in water from the dams higher up. You’ll find them all over the place in the scrub. There are miles and miles of them.’
Tony straddled the ditch so that he could see more clearly. It was a long way down to his distorted reflection in the slow-flowing black water.
‘Do people ever fall in them?’
‘Yes, every now and again. Mostly tourists. Some of them won’t listen to warnings and will go into all sorts of places to get a better photo. We hauled one out just the other day. He was lucky—a dog found him. Otherwise he’d still be in there. You go down one of these and you don’t get out by yourself. So try to keep to the paths. Apart from these, there are lots of old mines to trap you as well.’
‘Has anyone ever died?’
‘There was a French backpacker a few years back. She disappeared and it’s thought she went down one of these. The police searched as much as they could, but it’s impossible. Her body will be around here somewhere. Chances are, it will never turn up now.’
Tony smiled to himself. This place was becoming more attractive all the time. Old mines, gold, missing bodies, ghosts, plus he had a place of his own. He could imagine all sorts of things happening here. It looked like summer in Charleston wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
