The Opal Desert by Di Morrissey Page B

have a running account here.’ He waved to the girl behind the cash register who smiled and held up two fingers, then pulled out a tattered notebook and added two coffees to Billy’s account.
    Leaving the café Kerrie could feel the deep warmth of the sun even though it was, by local standards, a balmy spring day. ‘It must get terribly hot here in the summer,’ she said to Billy.
    â€˜Too right. Quietens down then, too. The tourists leave and so do the winter miners.’
    â€˜Who are they?’ asked Kerrie.
    â€˜Lots of retired people come up for the winter and dig away at their claims. It’s a lifestyle thing, though they get a kick out of picking up a few dollars here and there.’
    â€˜They don’t make any big finds then?’ said Kerrie as they strolled along the street.
    â€˜Nah. Most of them just pick through the old diggings. To work anything new now you need decent machinery.
    A jackhammer can be hard work for an old bloke. The real professionals use heavy-duty gear. Can be very expensive. But you can get lucky, and that’s what everyone dreams of and why they keep pecking away. There could be opal an inch away. There’s a story goes that one couple hit a patch of good-quality opal a few years back, and made several million bucks. And you know what? They’re still here, living in their caravan, except that now it has a satellite dish.’
    â€˜Maybe in the summer they go to their new million-dollar home in the Bahamas,’ said Kerrie.
    Billy laughed. ‘Who knows? Anyway, they’re here because this’s where they want to be.’
    â€˜Must be nice to feel like that, and doing something together that you enjoy. Maybe finding opals is just an excuse.’
    â€˜Might be. Some of them work like navvies, keeps them fit and they live together in little communal camps scattered round the place. But there are others who are deadly committed to finding opal. Opal mining gets to you. Opal is such hypnotic stuff. The men love it as much as the women.’
    â€˜Like gold?’ asked Kerrie.
    Billy nodded. ‘I guess it can become an obsession. Now here’s Murray’s studio. I’ll just pop in and say hello.’ He pushed open the swinging saloon-style doors of the large gallery and shouted out, ‘Murray? Fiona? You’ve got a visitor.’
    Inside the gallery was a counter cluttered with postcards, fridge magnets and brochures and on the wall behind it were two huge paintings of political leaders portrayed as animal caricatures. There was a small office to one side and Murray Evans came out to greet them.
    â€˜G’day, Billy.’ The artist smiled at Kerrie.
    â€˜This is Kerrie, just arrived and says you have a mutual friend. So I’ll leave you to it. Sold a few, have you, Murray?’ enquired Billy as he glanced around at the gallery walls.
    â€˜Doing all right. Had a lot of visitors. See you, Billy.’
    â€˜Hooroo, Kerrie. I’ll see you next time I’m in town, if you’re still around.’
    The artist came around the desk and shook Kerrie’s hand. He looked to be in his fifties, his sandy hair was flecked with grey, and he radiated energy and good humour. ‘So who’s our mutual friend?’
    â€˜Walker Smith. He’s my solicitor. My husband died recently and Walker suggested that I get away for a bit, take a trip out here and look you up.’
    Murray nodded. ‘Sounds like Walker. Sorry to hear about your husband. Walker and I went to uni together.
    I was supposed to be doing law but I dropped out. I knew a collar and tie job wasn’t for me.’
    Kerrie glanced around at the two large rooms. ‘Your work is very strong. Do you paint in the field or take photos? Where are these places?’
    She walked up to the wall hung with brilliant oil paintings of dramatic arid lonely landscapes. Some featured an uncoiling rusting wire fence or a rotten slab of wood