The Girl in the Hard Hat (10 page)

They were looking at fish.

There had to be twenty or more, floating on the surface of the waves. Not dead but stunned by the vibration in the water, bobbing there helplessly around the pile that was being driven.

Big fish too.

Big fish that Fish would be dying to have on the end of his hook.
It must be driving him crazy
, she thought. The hammer ceased and Wendy removed her plugs just in time to have her suspicions confirmed.

‘What I wouldn’t do to be in a little fishing boat down there, scooping the barramundi off the surface of the waves.’ Fish smacked his lips together. ‘As easy as taking candy from a baby.’

‘Well, you know they hire those boats out in Wickham,’ Gavin began. ‘I’ve seen –’

‘Don’t even think about it.’

All the men spun around at the sound of her voice.

‘Oh shit,’ Fish started and began wringing his hands, ‘it’s the cops.’

‘Not quite.’ She couldn’t help but grin a little at his comically gawking face and the red guilt staining the cheeks of the other two men. ‘But I will say this. As long as I’m around no one is fishing on the job.’

‘Really?’ Fish cocked his head to one side in deep disappointment. ‘It’s not dangerous if a man knows what he’s doing.’

‘And I suppose,’ her lips twitched, ‘that man would be you.’

‘Well,’ Fish replied enthusiastically, ‘I was going to get Gav to drive the boat because he’s better at that. But I’ll have the net and nobody can drag in a catch better than me.’

She looked at them all sternly. ‘Nobody is getting any nets or boats and that’s final.’

Gavin, in typical cavalier style, was the first to recover. ‘Guess you better haul me away to the station then, Sergeant.’ He presented his wrists as though expecting to be cuffed. She shook her head at his suspiciously meek expression.

‘Sergeant,’ Craig repeated the name Gavin had given her. ‘I like that.’

Fish groaned. ‘You don’t just hand yourself in,’ he scoffed. ‘Where’s your bloody spine?’

Craig chortled and cast Wendy a knowing glance. ‘He ain’t handing himself in, Fish. He’s chasing tail.’ He glanced at Wendy. ‘You be careful, honey.’

Wendy squared her shoulders. ‘I can take care of myself.’

‘Yes you can,’ Gavin murmured and dropped his wrists.

She tried to give Gavin her best ‘I don’t play games’ look but under the lazy predatory twinkle in his eyes, her gaze faltered. And it wasn’t long before she desperately turned her face to the ocean to get away from the feeling that he had her completely surrounded.

By this time, however, Fish was thoroughly over the turn the conversation had taken.

‘I can’t believe we’re back to this again,’ he reproved Gavin. ‘When are you and Carl going to learn? Women are like trees – eventually they all leave. And then you end up cleaning your own house.’

He didn’t stay for Wendy’s gasp of outrage and Gavin chuckled softly. ‘I’d say that poor fella’s cruisin’ for a bruisin’, fishing boat
or not
.’

That evening, as though to lend proof to Radar’s reputation, she arrived back at her donga to find that someone had replaced her flyscreen. No note had been left: it was simply done. Good as new. It lifted her spirits. Not only would she be able to sleep with her window open now – a great relief given she had no air conditioning – but it also indicated that maybe not
everybody
on this site had it in for her.

In the days that followed, Wendy doubled her efforts to make the Barnes Inc operation a safer and more procedure-oriented workplace. As a result she also raised her profile as the most annoying and avoided person on site.

She was not sure how or when but somehow it had got around that Fish had labelled her the cops and that Gavin had christened her Sergeant. It was now her nickname, bellowed from scaffolding and utes alike whenever she was passing through.

‘I don’t know,’ Chub commented on Saturday afternoon. ‘I kind of like it. Sort of comments on the authority you have, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Or mocks it,’ Wendy returned dryly.

After that the pranks started. Thankfully they weren’t nasty or dangerous, just excessively annoying.

One day, she was out inspecting the end of the wharf and left her camera in the small office donga. When she took it back to the main office, she found all her previous photos deleted and a set of new ones in their place showing a bunch of faceless men pretending to do some ridiculously unsafe things with a flame cutter – like using it as a cigarette lighter.

On Sunday, someone nicked a packet of her
Hazard
and
Out of service
tags. These were basically colour-coded plastic rectangles that were tied onto equipment that was faulty or too dangerous to use. When she left the office at the end of the day, she found that someone had tagged her blue Nissan all over. From the wheels to the side mirrors, to the door handles and the windscreen wipers. Her car looked like it was about to perform in a Pride parade. She had been experiencing trouble starting her car from time to time, mainly because it needed a battery change. But this was ridiculous. And how would they know anyway, unless they’d been spying on her?

It took her half an hour to get all the tags off.

But Monday morning really took the cake.

She should have seen it coming. The day before she had stepped in some particularly muddy ground on site but couldn’t be bothered cleaning her boots after work. Thinking that by morning the mud would have dried and she could just bang them together and the dirt would slide off, she left her boots outside.

But when she stepped out of her donga Monday morning, in sock-covered feet, her boots were gone.

As she stared in confusion at the place she’d left them, realisation dawned. She closed her eyes and let her head flop back.

You stupid fool.

Obviously they’d been taken. It was another prank. She spun around, hands on hips, going through her options – though there was really only one. She’d have to put on her sandals and go to Karratha to buy new boots. Better that than the humiliation of asking around if anyone had seen her old ones.

She’d never find them anyway. They could be anywhere, probably set in concrete by now if she knew the mentality of the boys. Just as she finished the thought, she happened to look up and see her boots, mud still intact, on the roof of the donga opposite hers.

Okay, so maybe I was wrong about not being able to find them.

The problem, of course, was how would she get them down?

She stepped off the front step of her own donga and walked across the dividing gravel path. Jumping up and down didn’t put her any closer to reaching distance.

I wonder if . . .

She raced back into her donga and brought out the plastic desk chair they were all furnished with. Putting this up against the wall of the demountable, she stood on the seat and tried to swat her boots down with a rolled up towel.

No, she still couldn’t reach them.

‘Hey, Sarge.’ An all-too-familiar drawl permeated her senses. ‘That’s a weird place to put your boots.’

She snatched her hand back and spun around, realising that she must look absolutely ridiculous standing on a chair in her socks. He, on the other hand, appeared as handsome and cocky as always, a backpack flung over his shoulder, a rascal of a grin curving his mouth. ‘Need some help getting them down?’

Clearly, he’d been on his way to the car park until luck put him in the wrong place at the right time.

‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ she returned tightly, looking away.

‘You don’t seem fine to me.’

‘Just a little hiccup.’ She jumped off the chair. ‘I’ll figure it out.’

He put down his backpack. ‘I reckon I could give you a boost and you’d reach them.’

She blushed. ‘No, that’s all right.’

‘Geez, Wendy,’ he said crossly. ‘What are you going to do if I walk on? Pull out the desk and put the chair on top. I have to say, I think that’s
grossly unsafe
.’

She stuck her tongue out at him. ‘I can’t use my desk, it’s broken. I got the dud donga, so rest easy.’

‘Oh yeah, that’s right,’ he grinned, ‘so I heard. So what’s plan B?’

They stared at each other for a few seconds until she could stand it no longer. ‘
All right
. I’ll let you give me a boost. But no funny business.’

His triumphant expression was positively shameless. ‘If that’s a warning not to kiss you again, I promise I’ll control myself.’

Embarrassment whipped through her like a hot flush. ‘Let’s just hurry up and get this over with.’ She averted her eyes, not even wanting to acknowledge their first meeting. Better not go there at all!

He came over and stood between the wall of the donga and her, offering his hands laced together as a stepping platform. She gave him one last warning look, before putting her foot between his palms. Feeling decidedly self-conscious, she put her hands on his shoulders to steady herself as he slowly lifted his palms. As she got higher she put her hands on the donga to keep her balance. By this stage she could feel his cheek under her knees as she leaned against him to keep from falling.

This is so not how I wanted to be doing this.

And then her boots were within reach. She took a swipe at them and they fell off the roof and bounced on the gravel a few feet away.

‘I got them,’ she called. ‘You can put me down now.’

Instead of lowering her, however, she felt his hands jerk upwards before releasing her foot. She half gasped, half screamed as she fell, arms flailing, only to feel her body caught seconds later, bride-over-the-threshold style.

I might have bloody known it.

Her face burned as he beamed at her with all the boyish satisfaction of one who had got his way. His face was the very picture of mischief.

‘Put me down,’ she said through her teeth.

His eyes danced and his arms tightened. ‘Do you want me to carry you over to your boots, so you don’t have to walk on the gravel?’

‘No.’

‘Because it’s no trouble.’

‘
No
.’

‘Or I could put you in the chair, bring your boots to you.’

‘Gavin, put me down!’

‘Oh, all right.’ His voice had a distinct ‘spoil sport’ attitude in it before he set her on her feet with a lot of unnecessary assistance.

‘Thank you,’ she said huffily, swatting his hands away as he attempted to dust off her jeans.

‘Will you stop that?!’

‘Sorry.’ He grinned. ‘Guess you’ll be fine then.’

‘Yes, I’ll be fine.’

‘Okay. My work here is done.’ He nodded, picked up his backpack and walked off.

She watched him, unable to stop a silly smile from playing on her lips as she shook her head.

On Monday while she was at work, someone – presumably Ethel – had replaced Wendy’s air conditioner. When she arrived back at her donga that night, she found that the old one had been pulled out of the back hole in the wall and a brand spanking new one pushed into place. She plugged it in and turned it on.

It worked like a dream.

Relieved that Ethel had finally decided to make nice, she resolved to go some time soon, thank her and offer the hand of friendship. After all, there were so few women in this camp: shouldn’t they all stick together?

As Tuesday drew to a close, she decided that she was making good progress. Lobbying individuals was definitely working better. As a result, she thought Carl might let her get away early. After speaking to Ethel, she could go into Wickham and make a few more enquiries about her father while it was still daylight. Perhaps there were a few rocks she hadn’t turned over yet.

Who are you kidding?

She had to face facts.

Wickham was another dead end.

She’d already been to the health centre twice. No one by the name of Hector had been treated there for the loss of two toes on his right foot. The steel mill on the outskirts of town was apparently only ten years old and none of the locals seemed to know of any older mills that had perhaps closed down years earlier. So she decided to widen her search.

Roebourne Golf Club had no memberships under the name Hector. Not that she knew if he was into golf. She just went anywhere that might have a list of names and details to look at. God help her, she’d even driven to Roebourne Prison one scary night to check out their inmate list. No Hectors there. At least she’d been thankful about that one.

The only place she hadn’t looked yet was at work. And as unlikely as it was that her father could be working on the same project as she was, she was reluctant to start asking people if they’d heard of or seen a dark-haired welder called Hector.

What a great way to make a public spectacle of herself.

If she wasn’t one already.

She knew how much the men loved to make fun of her. The ‘TCN spy’ theory was still alive and well. If there was one thing this project loved, it was a good story. Woman searching for a father who deserted her before birth seemed like just the sort of gossip the guys would latch onto and never let go of. If she ever did find her father, it’d be like having a reunion show on
Oprah
!

Her chin sank heavily into her palm. No, she definitely did not want to start more scandals about herself.