The Opal Desert by Di Morrissey

however emotionally hard sorting her mother’s effects had been, it paled in comparison with the difficulties Milton’s estate had presented.
    Kerrie had to make decisions about many of his sculptures, sorting through which of them were on loan, which were part of an unfinished commission, and which he owned. She also knew that Milton would have wanted some of his work not just sold but donated to favoured institutions.
    But any determination she tried to make was immediately and violently opposed by his daughters. Although Milton’s will had made it clear that all decisions regarding his works were Kerrie’s sole preserve, the three girls had argued about them. They accused Kerrie of not doing enough to maintain their father’s reputation and that she was getting rid of much of his work with indecent haste so that she could make money from it.
    Their opinions became too much for Kerrie. She remembered Walker Smith’s suggestion and so here she was on her own, escaping, at least for now, to an unresolved future.
    She stopped for a break in the tiny township of Burren Junction and found a take-away shop where she had a mug of rather bad coffee and an excellent meat pie. As she drove through the town’s outskirts she saw a large green and white sign and halfway down it was her destination: Lightning Ridge 160 kilometres.
    The outback opal mining town was not what she’d expected. In her mind’s eye she had a vision of corrugated-iron shanties, a couple of old-style pubs, a basic motel, an ageing supermarket, a few shops, places selling mining supplies and an old fossicker selling an opal or two. But as she drove down Morilla Street, she was amazed at what a vibrant tourist town Lightning Ridge appeared to be. Signs for mine tours, fossicking trips, an unusual underground sculpture gallery, events and shows seemed to be everywhere, but art galleries and souvenir shops were outnumbered by dozens of opal shops. There was a new supermarket. Kerrie saw signs for accommodation of all descriptions: caravan parks and motor home areas, B&Bs and renovated fossicker’s cottages all vied with the staid sixties-style motels for customers.
    She pulled up outside a trendy café that would look at home in Double Bay or Kings Cross. She ordered a cappuccino from the blackboard menu of vegetarian and health food specialities and sat at a small outdoor table.
    A man at the next table drained his coffee, folded his newspaper and handed it to Kerrie.
    â€˜Yesterday’s Herald . Like to look at it?’
    â€˜No, thanks, I’ve read it already . . . yesterday. But thank you for asking.’
    â€˜Not all the papers get up here on time. You visiting, eh?’
    â€˜Just arrived.’
    â€˜Picked the best coffee in town. Sightseeing or fossicking?’
    â€˜Bit of both perhaps. Are you a local?’
    â€˜Yep. Though what qualifies you as a local is a bit elastic. Where’re you staying?’
    â€˜I haven’t found anywhere yet. I assumed I’d just find a room at a motel,’ said Kerrie.
    â€˜Hmm. You can’t stay at the Diggers. It burnt down. Again. The pub and motels could be booked out. There are buyers in town. But there’s some good little B&Bs. And the caravan park of course. How long you staying? Mind if I sit with you?’ He pulled out the other chair at the small wrought-iron table and waved to the girl at the counter for another coffee.
    â€˜I’m Billy. At your service.’ He held out his hand.
    Kerrie smiled as she shook Billy’s hand, glancing at his friendly blue eyes, the salt and pepper beard, the faded T-shirt and shorts and the bush hat he carried. An expensive mobile phone, she observed, was clipped to his belt. ‘I’m Kerrie and actually I have no clear plans at the moment. I’ve come to meet a friend of a friend and just look around.’
    Billy grinned. ‘Lady friend? There’s a lot of t’riffic women