Storyteller - Colin & Anne Brookfield (ebook and pdf reader .txt) 📗

to get used to it. The local map proved difficult to interpret, particularly as the area was festooned with unmarked tracks, so it was mid-day before my vehicle finally shuddered to a halt in a place that sensibly should only have been arrived at by mule.

This was Tomahawk Creek and I was faced by a shallow rock-strewn gully. Dante’s Inferno, I thought, as the blast of mid-summer heat struck me but I had come too far to give up at the first obstacle. Armed with a pick axe, I descended. It proved to be the most appalling heat trap and my exit from that place was immediate – no human could survive that burning temperature. So, with a mixture of relief and disillusion, I extricated myself from Tomahawk Creek.

The next port of call was Anakie (still north of the Tropic of Capricorn), where I was hoping to discover some signs of human life; the only life forms to reveal themselves so far were two magnificent eagles. They were standing together on the ground (quite unconcerned) about twenty feet or so from my passing vehicle.

By this time I was hundreds of miles inland from Rockhampton and it was with some surprise that I discovered that Anakie had a permanent community of miners. They were a hardy ‘rag-taggle’ lot as it turned out. It made one feel they could easily have emerged from the pages of the American wild-west. I discovered later that each of the diggers had their own small workings. Hundreds of these excavations were scattered here and there across the hot, dry expanse of these gem fields.

The miners’ accommodation was anything and everything, from a camper to a piece of canvas improvised into a tent. I learned later, that the ancient river beds in which the gemstones were to be found, had an overburden of concrete-hard volcanic deposition, these were sometimes several yards thick. It was not a place for the work-shy or those without a vision.

The smell of brewing coffee from somewhere unknown, reminded me that it was time to do the same, so with my cup in hand, I sat mulling over the day’s events and wondering what kind of a fool I was going to make of myself amongst those experienced miners.

During those thoughts, I had been gazing vacantly through the open door of the camper and caught sight of a strange tubby little bird scratching about on the ground. I discovered later, that these were known locally as ‘dumpers’. The bird was about the size of a man’s clenched fist and as about exciting to look at as the grey dusty earth into which it so well blended. Realising that it must be hard to earn a living in these parts, I discharged a handful of breadcrumbs in the birds’ direction and received what I thought was a squawk of appreciation, but I had obviously misheard. What it really said was, ‘Come on lads, there’s a soft touch here’, whereby the rest of the tribe dropped out of the trees. Half a loaf later, the ground was a sea of active little bodies.

Eventually one of the birds decided it was time to leave, but it mistakenly headed straight through my open camper door. Taking hold of the fluttering creature gently with both hands, I was poised to eject it safely out of the door when it skewed its head around, fixed its wide-open eyes on mine and let out a piercing shriek. At that precise second, every bird on the ground stopped still and fixed their eyes onto mine. It was like a moment frozen in time – not a sound or a movement. When I finally gave the rescued bird back to the air, they all exploded upwards and into the trees to hear about the ordeal.

A peal of laughter rang out from a nearby hole in the ground and a leathery looking man, about fifty-eight years of age, climbed out. He had been watching the whole thing.

“That was weird,” he said extending his hand for me to shake. “Sid’s the name. Come to do a bit of prospecting have you?”

With that introduction, it established our friendship and how I came to hear his story. It took three or four stubbies (small bottles of Australian beer) from my refrigerator before he got into full flow.

It began when he first arrived in Sydney as a British seaman in 1938. Whilst ashore, he had met up with some Aussies in a bar and over a few stubbies, their conversation had drifted onto get-rich-quick subjects. The one that caught Sid’s imagination, concerned the Chinese miners who had been ejected by the government from a place called, Anakie. Apparently it had been the custom of the Chinese miners to return the mortal remains of their deceased to their ancestral country – that is – until it was discovered that by this ploy, most of the precious stones etc., were leaving the country untaxed. The bottom line, was that the mines and empty houses had since lain unused, which was a golden opportunity for the enterprising person.

Sid had proved to be that person. It took several weeks of hitch-hiking before he finally arrived at the gem fields, and only then, because a miner with a vehicle had kindly conveyed him and his stores from Rockhampton. As it transpired, the gem fields were not exactly like the story he’d been told. Rightly enough, the place seemed empty of life but there were no houses or shacks to be found. Several battered corrugated iron sheets, and the remnants of an old canvas tarpaulin were all that could be discovered for a shelter.

“And there it is,” said Sid pointing to a tiny lean-to structure, “exactly the same thirty years on; same as the day I nailed it against this very tree. The first nights here were terrifying. I’d never been alone before but gradually, I ranged a little further away and discovered some excavations of the other miner who had helped me to this place, which proved to be my salvation. He gave me work so that I didn’t go hungry, and in my spare time I worked on my own dig.” Then pointing at the great hole in the ground, he said, “Gradually, my excavation started to come good and produce some saleable sapphires. The gemstones were sold to a Japanese buyer who visited this place every few months.”

I handed Sid another stubby from my refrigerator as he continued.

“So, that’s how I’ve scraped a living all these years, but things have improved a lot. Many more miners have arrived and spread out far and wide, so that means plenty of mates. We have a full time gemstone cutter and polisher working for us now and his charges are quite reasonable. The buyers still visit us, but now we get a bigger profit from finished stones.”

Then he withdrew a battered tobacco tin from his pocket, opened it and removed a layer of cotton wool to reveal three large black star sapphires, two greens, four ambers and six party-coloured. I was quite mesmerised, not only by their size but also, their extraordinary lustre.

“I’ll never sell these,” he said, “all my pride and all that I’ve made of my life is in this baccy tin.” I understood completely.

I was given the privilege of working on the less productive end of Sid’s mining area, which I’m quite sure was more than most miners would do for a stranger. Three weeks later I had amassed a handful of small sub-standard sapphires (which I still have), and six crates of empty beer bottles, that had cost me more than a Japanese buyer would have paid for my treasure-trove.

I asked Sid the silly question. “Would you ever consider returning to England?” and got the reply I had expected.

“No! I’ve built up a family of mates here and we all have the same interests. Because of that, we understand one another and what’s more, we’ve a reason for getting up in the morning. I’d be a lost soul in the Old Country. Mind you, being an illegal immigrant in Australia is not without its problems, I’m always looking over my shoulder just in case, but I expect I shall get used to it one day,” he said with a grin. “In a wild no-man’s-land like this, we all have to organise everything in our lives, like a mate of mine, who has willed his valuables to me and I’ve done the same to him. It’s all written down, and signed on notepaper.”

That day turned out to be a good one for Sid; he had scrambled excitedly out of the dig to plunge his new find into a bucket of water.

“It’s a goodun!” he exclaimed, looking at the washed stone. Then, in the excitement of the moment, he turned and rushed away in the direction of the cutting shed.

Two days elapsed before I was to see the finished results of Sid’s find, and when I did, I swallowed hard at the sight of an enormous pendant-shaped blue sapphire.

“I’ll get my camera,” he shouted excitedly, “I want you to take some pictures and they can be developed the next time my mate runs me into Rockhampton for our supplies.”

 

Joan laid the book down for a moment, and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She was running out of time, but there was just enough to make tea for both of them. Skipping the rest of the book she said to herself, Another time, and went to the last paragraphs on the finishing page.

 

My final parting with Sid coincided with a rather rare happening; it poured with rain!

“Something for nothing at last,” yelled Sid picking up a small object, washed clean of the all pervading dust. “Not a bad little find,” he chortled. “There might be a few more sapphires to be seen if the rain keeps up.” Then he rushed off.

We had already said our goodbyes and so I moved off homewards – not the richer in my pockets, but much more so in my understandings. I doubted later that it ever entered Sid’s mind that he was merely the custodian of that magnificent pendant sapphire and beautiful gems in his ‘baccy’ tin.

It was almost four decades later, when I came more and more to wonder whose hand or slender neck would now inevitably be wearing those sapphires, and not even be aware that they had once represented the pride and life’s fulfilment of one amazing old character. Sadly, by this separation from their story, their far greater value would have been lost.

 

Joan placed the book back on the table with mixed emotions. “I’ll make us a nice cup of tea,” she heard her awakening grandmother say.

“Beaten you to it,” replied Joan as she rose to her feet, “and then I must go so that I can follow up on something rather interesting that I read in the paper.” She finished her tea and kissed Hannah goodbye. “I’ll pop in tomorrow,” she shouted as she closed the door behind her.

After travelling two stops on the train, a short walk brought Joan to the front entrance of the crowded auction rooms.

“LOT THIRTY-FIVE,” bellowed the auctioneer. “This item has made an appearance here several times, but due to certain queries concerning it, the stone had been withdrawn from sale. I might add it has attracted much interest despite this. There is little doubt that the controversy surrounding this item is due to its extraordinary quality and lustre – and of course, its size – 30 carats. The best quality sapphires are associated with countries like Burma and not Australia. This is the reason the sapphire’s provenance has been in question, but ...... no longer.”

He paused to allow the bidders to digest the information.

“Shall we start the bidding at £150,000?”

Charlie Thornton was number 140, and the number of his main competitor (who was a celebrated collector of the largest and the best) was number 78. Joan being