The Opal Desert Read online

  Kerrie, in her 40s, has just lost her famous sculptor husband who had been the centre of her existence and for whom she sacrificed her own art career. Now she needs to find the courage to rekindle her dreams.

  Shirley, approaching 80, believes she was betrayed by her lover many years ago and has retreated from the world, becoming a recluse living in an underground dugout. Her new friends cause her to reassess what she’s done with her life.

  Anna, 20, has a promising athletic career but is torn between the commitment to her sport, which could carry her to the Olympics, and the other challenges in her life. Will running away solve her problems?

  The friendship that develops between these three women who meet in the strangely beautiful but desolate landscape of Opal Lake, helps them deal with the next stages of their lives.

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Kerrie

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Shirley

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Anna

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Acknowledgements

  About Di Morrissey

  Also by Di Morrissey

  Imprint page

  For my new grandson, William James Bodhi Morrissey.

  Darling Bo, may you come to know and love the wonderful land of the opal, with all its diversity and uniqueness, as much as I do. And may we share journeys of discovery together.

  Prologue

  THE DESERT. RED SOIL, white domed mullock heaps, a landscape scarred by acne eruptions of excavations, the excreta of miners’ enthusiasm and despair. Among the green smudged hillocks, dwellings were burrowed into the hillside. Other barely discernible buildings looked temporary. What was permanent was hidden below.

  In this lonely landscape a figure appeared, resolutely running through the clinging dust, searing sun and empty wasteland.

  A slight figure, whose flying footsteps left no imprints in the red soil, she darted between the clumps of spiky desert plants and the fuzz of new, greener growth. Since the spring rains, the dry soil had exploded seemingly overnight as vigorous plants awakened from two years of somnolence.

  This morning she varied her usual track, taking Sampson’s Hill first before circling the quiet dugouts where rusting machinery waited for the return of the fossickers and the part-time miners. These itinerants always came back in the milder winter months to pursue a dream, a lifestyle and the special beauty of the outback. They left only when the searing summer heat became too much.

  From the cool, dim interiors of their dugout homes, few saw or heard the girl pass. One bearded miner stood by the entrance to his simple dugout and dragged deeply on his cigarette as he watched her pass. She gave no acknowledgment of his presence. He ground out his cigarette and returned to his snug hole as Anna continued her morning run, circling the tiny hamlet of Opal Lake before heading back towards the town’s sole hotel, where she worked.

  Bev and Wayne, unmistakable Australian grey nomads, were seated outside the horseshoe entrance to the Shincracker Motel, watching a baby magpie hop from step to step up a long ladder that leant against a gum tree.

  ‘Fell out of its nest and can’t fly up that high,’ explained Anna, pausing briefly to speak to the tourists, only faintly breathless, her skin glowing with moisture.

  ‘Ingenious,’ said Bev smiling. ‘I just love magpies. How can you run like that when it’s so hot?’

  ‘Going to be a stinker,’ agreed Wayne.

  ‘I don’t mind. I just like to run.’ She glanced at their caravan. ‘You setting off today?’

  ‘Yep. This has been fascinating but we have to meet up with friends. We’re heading to Darwin,’ said Bev with some pride.

  Anna glanced at the caravan with Bev ’n’ Wayne on the nomad trail printed on the rear beside their CB radio call channel.

  ‘I’ve never been there. Have you had a good time here?’

  ‘Interesting place. We didn’t find any opals, but. Reckon Sampson must’ve got the lot, eh?’ Wayne smiled.

  ‘Was there a Sampson?’ asked Bev.

  ‘I don’t know. But if you want to buy some opals, Greg in the general store or Mick at the pub sells them. Excuse me, I’ve got to get cleaned up before the pub opens.’

  Wayne watched her disappear around one of the low hills. ‘What’s a young girl like that doing working in a place way out here?’ he wondered.

  ‘She seems nice, very pretty, too. I suppose she’s a backpacker. What we should’ve done when we were in our twenties,’ said Bev.

  ‘We’re doing it now, love. Forty years later. These are going to be the best years of our life.’ He glanced over to where the girl had disappeared, an early morning apparition that stirred memories. ‘That girl can certainly run. Wonder why she does it out here? She’s in good shape, though.’

  ‘You noticed,’ said his heavy-set wife. ‘They say running clears the head; maybe she’s got a lot of thinking to do.’

  ‘Looks like hard work to me. Maybe she’s just running to get away. Well, we’re off now, so we’ll never know. C’mon, let’s get packed up and hit the road. New places for us to see. This is the life.’

  Anna let herself into the pub. She knew that those tourists were curious about her. Most people were. She was very out of place here, but the locals, all forty-eight of them, hadn’t asked questions, adhering to the unspoken rule of the opal fields where, for a hundred years, no man was asked his last name, where he was from or what he’d found. Anna liked that rule, and she realised that the time she had been at Opal Lake had been the most peaceful she’d known for a long time.

  But she knew that she had to keep running.

  KERRIE

  1

  AS SOON AS THE limousine cruised through the iron gates into a landscape of shorn green lawns and clipped ornamental bushes, where discreet signs planted in the grass pointed to the various chapels, memorial gardens and meditation rooms, Kerrie knew that her husband would have loathed a send-off like this.

  People stood in dark clusters while journalists hovered on the periphery noting their names as photographers, some unusually wearing ties, snapped other arrivals. The formality, the sterility, the hushed reverence was not what either Kerrie or her late husband, Milton Faranisi, would have wanted.

  ‘Too bad none of his works are on display. This is pretty boring,’ muttered one reporter.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Have you ever seen the size of some of his stuff? You should go to the Museum of Contemporary Art. There are a couple of his big sculptures in the courtyard,’ responded another.

  ‘That’s where his early work is. Google the Met in New York, the Getty in LA or the Tate in London – that’s where his best pieces are,’ added a photographer. ‘And by the way, how’d he get the name Milton? He was Italian, wasn’t he?’

  ‘The story is that his mother liked English poets. His brother’s name is Byron.’

  ‘You’re kidding. Is he an artist too?’

  ‘Nah, apparently he’s a computer nerd. Started back in the early eighties and made a fortune.’

  Inside the large chapel, rows were filled save for the front pew. Kerrie Faranisi made her way silently to it, trying to avoid eye contact with the other mourners in case she started crying again. She sat alone, a slim figure in black linen, her head bowed as she studied her hands clasped in her lap, as though trying not to acknowledge the unadorned coffin that lay in front of her. In the row behind her sat two of Milton’s daughters. Their expressions appeared to
be eternally disapproving. There were conversations, carried on in hushed tones, and many a head leant forward to study the widow, ostracised to the front pew.

  With a clatter, a late arrival rushed in, hair dishevelled, huge dark glasses obscuring her face as she glanced around, and, seeing her sisters, hurried forward. She paused, looked at the lone figure of the woman in the very front and deliberately sat immediately behind her, with her sisters, who greeted her with solemn nods of the head. If the young widow was aware of the arrival of her youngest stepdaughter she did not show it, but everyone else noted the deliberate snub and eyebrows were raised.

  The widow straightened her back as the memorial service began.

  Brief but sincere eulogies were delivered by the director of the Modern Art Gallery, the director of the International Sculpture Centre of Australasia, the governor of New South Wales and an esteemed artist who described the renowned late sculptor, Milton Faranisi, as a national treasure who had helped shape the form and standing of Australian sculptors internationally:

  Milton Faranisi built a formidable reputation and his body of work will live on for centuries, challenging our senses, our concepts of the interpretation of harmony, space and logistics while expanding our intellectual horizons, minds and hearts – as he did personally as well as professionally. Milton’s legacy – in marble, bronze, stone, wood and paper – will continue to inspire. Milton had a talent that dwarfed his contemporaries’. This talent and love for life, equally majestic, sometimes threatened to swamp lesser mortals. In Milton’s company you were in no doubt that you were in the presence of a genius who was happiest when he had a chisel and a hammer in his hand.

  He leaves behind a wonderful family of three lovely daughters and a devoted wife, but it is his intimidating, awesome sculptures that will continue to touch our hearts, minds and nerve endings and bring wonder to those who stand before them and ask, ‘What kind of a man could create this?’

  Those here today were privileged to have known and loved him and we can all acknowledge that there will never be another Milton Faranisi.

  The next speaker came not from the art world but from the world Milton had long left behind – an Italy not yet recovered from war. He spoke of Milton’s parents who had come to Australia with their young sons and forged in them a desire for stability, permanence and beauty. Partly as a result of their sacrifices and influence Milton’s magnificent creations were displayed around the world as a beacon and a symbol of one man’s steady footprint on the surface of an increasingly fragile and rocking planet.

  A faint cultured accent of Northern Italy clung to his words and Kerrie smiled briefly at the elderly, courtly friend of her husband’s parents, dressed in a vintage shiny dark suit that had seen better days and happier occasions.

  The final eulogy came from Milton’s youngest daughter. Alia walked to the podium, her face streaked with tears and reached for the microphone, bringing it closer.

  ‘My father . . . was a great man. Everyone here knows him for his work, for being charismatic and . . . out there.’ Her mouth twisted, whether in a grimace or a smile was hard to tell. ‘But I, we, know he was a wonderful father, fun and loving. And that is how we will remember him, as the father who loved his little girls.’ Her head moved and behind her dark glasses she gave the impression that she was looking at her stepmother before continuing, ‘We had to share you, but we love you Daddy.’

  She stepped down and as she returned to her seat, both her sisters reached across and briefly touched her hand.

  From the front pew the widow stood and, holding a dramatic long-stemmed red heliconia, walked to the coffin, kissed the blood-red flower and placed it on the lid. As the congregation stood to sing the final hymn she walked from the chapel, through the snapping photographers, to the waiting limousine.

  The driver sprang forward and opened the door. ‘Where to, Mrs Faranisi?’ he asked.

  Kerrie took off her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes. ‘Actually, I have no idea. I just couldn’t stay in that poisonous atmosphere any longer.’

  ‘Do just want me to drive a little while you gather your thoughts?’ he suggested.

  ‘Yes, thanks. Good idea.’

  Kerrie leant back and closed her eyes as the car purred away from the chapel where Milton’s daughters had insisted on holding their father’s funeral. ‘Milton, I’m sorry that was not the sort of send-off that you would have wanted. The formality. All those speeches. I’m sure you would have preferred an informal farewell, with a few celebratory drinks to remember the good times. But I’m afraid that this is what the girls wanted, and they won this round,’ she apologised silently to her husband. She reflected that her entire married life had been one long battle with her stepdaughters. As hard as she’d tried to accommodate them, nothing pleased them. Now she felt too exhausted to fight any longer.

  There was only one reason for the animosity. After the death of their mother, Milton had indulged and spoilt the girls, who, in spite of their father’s subsequent brief associations with other women, had never felt threatened by any of these relationships. There had been brief liaisons with young girls and voluptuous movie actresses, minor European royalty and older women, including an artist known more for her bright red wig than for her art. But in spite of these reckless habits, the girls had always felt secure in the knowledge that he still loved them best. They never took these passing indulgences seriously; they sighed and teased their father about the women who drifted in and out of his bed and his life. They took it all in their stride – until he met Kerrie.

  ‘We can go no further, Mrs Faranisi,’ said the driver, stopping the car.

  ‘Oh, I was daydreaming. You’re right, we’re at Watsons Bay.’ She looked at the small historic lighthouse atop the craggy headland. Below it was the dramatic drop into the ocean.

  ‘It’s none of my business, but I thought you might like to go down to the beachfront. Perhaps have a glass of wine, some food.’

  ‘Well, I could certainly stand a drink, even if I don’t have anything to eat.’

  The memory of the simple fish meals she and Milton had shared at the Watsons Bay restaurant on the edge of the water brought a sudden tear to her eye but now she also recognised that she was extremely hungry. Indeed, she couldn’t recall eating a solid meal in the days since Milton’s sudden heart attack.

  She was shown to a shady table to one side of the main restaurant. She held the menu and watched a family enjoy their meal as their small children played on the sand in front of the outdoor tables. While the young waiter was attentive, and the owner came over to give his condolences, Kerrie sensed that even going to her favourite places was not going to be the same without Milton. She could see him sitting opposite her, silhouetted against the water, leaning back in his chair savouring the view and the ambience. Throughout their twenty-year marriage he had always been the most stimulating and interesting company. His conversation never dwelt on the mundane. Small talk was not part of his vocabulary. He discussed art and history and people he’d met, ideas for new works, food and childhood memories, family stories of Italy, the struggles of the past, and his dreams for the future. Milton, despite his enormous success, never considered he was at his peak. He had so much more to create and achieve.

  When Kerrie opened the flood gates to her memories, tears began to fall onto the menu she was holding. She quickly dabbed at her eyes and took a sip of iced water.

  Twenty years earlier

  The art school was at the bottom end of George Street in Sydney, so Kerrie caught the Manly ferry across to Circular Quay three days a week. Initially she’d found the detailed drawing classes frustrating, for she would have preferred to splash paint boldly over large canvases and have the freedom to express herself rather than be regimented and restricted by pencil and charcoal assignments. But gradually she learned the discipline of controlling her pencil and mastering the technicalities of form, shape, perspective and balance, which she conceded would give her the grounding she
needed in creating the core of a painting. Her tutor explained that learning these basics allowed her the freedom to ‘take off like a bird, control the flight and then land safely. It might look natural and effortless, but you are using your inherent knowledge of aerodynamics and physical talent, be it feathers or a pen, to achieve that freedom.’

  Kerrie carried a small sketchbook and a sharpened pencil with her at all times and as a scene, a shape, a figure, an expression, caught her attention, she’d swiftly attempt to capture it on a page of her book. Often her tutor asked to see her workbook and would make a comment or a suggestion, always handing it back with a nod and the curt comment, ‘Do more.’

  When she could, Kerrie carried a box of watercolours with her and would do quick washes over a pen sketch or paint a scene in watercolours. Gradually she started to master the mercurial run of the paint on paper and even if a painting emerged that was not what she’d planned, she was often pleasantly surprised with the result.

  She experimented with life drawing, portraiture, landscape and watercolours and took the compulsory short courses in sculpting and draughtsmanship. The students frequently visited museums and galleries and it was in her final year that her class was invited to an exhibition and a lecture by the famous sculptor Milton Faranisi.

  The gallery where the exhibition was held was an airy white space with soaring ceilings opening onto a large courtyard where the sculptures glowed in the twilight. The Faranisi figures and dramatic works interpreting the theme of separation dwarfed the guests slowly circling the courtyard.

  Kerrie was overwhelmed. Sculpture had never particularly attracted her or affected her emotionally. She’d thought the hard surfaces cold and found it difficult to connect with the artist’s intent. But there was something about this work that nudged aside her previous feelings and preconceptions.