a lot of the dead folks had spent their lives working under the ground as well. Many of the signs said
Killed in Mining
Accident.
And there were flowers and colourful stones under their names and most of them said R.I.P. I used to think that meant they’d sort of been ripped out of their lives like opal ripped out of the clay.
I noticed that Bob the Swede had a bit of space next to his grave. Room enough for two more, I thought, if old Bobby-boy budged over a bit. There was graves for little kids who died young as well. They were under piles of earth like the mullock heaps out at the mines, only reddy-brown. I suddenly felt mighty sad about Kellyanne and I was thinking what it might be like if she had to be buried out here in a sad little grave with a few plastic flowers in front, and all because a couple of imaginary friends died out in my dad’s mine. But I told myself to stop thinking like this, and that everything was going to be okay now, because I’d managed by some fluke to find the bodies. She’d get better once she’d mourned at the funeral I was going to buy with Dingan’s bellybutton stone. There were tears in my eyes, but. Maybe it was cos I had to get rid of my first opal. Anyway, I think it was only the second time I ever had them in my whole life.
12
I knocked on the door of Mr. Dan Dunkley, the funeral director. A voice said, “Come in.” I turned the handle of his door and entered.
Mr. Dan was a fat man with too many chins for his own good. His office was spick-and span—well, spick, anyway—and he was sitting at his desk with his cheek in his flabby white hand. Behind him he had a grinding wheel going and a couple of dibbers and dob-sticks laid out on a tray next to a bottle of methylated spirits and a Little Dixie Combination Assembly. On his forehead Mr. Dan had his weird glasses for looking at opals. Like most people out at the Ridge who don’t have the guts to mine, he did a bit of cutting and buying and selling on the side to keep him ticking over when not enough people were kicking the bucket.
Mr. Dan looked up at me. He didn’t know who I was, unlike most people, and my guess is he wasn’t too sociable and only got to know people when they had croaked it. I said: “My name is Ashmol Williamson and I have come to talk graves.”
Mr. Dan took off his specs and did a frown and lit up his pipe. After a while he muttered: “School project?”
“No sir,” I said. “You may have heard about my sister Kellyanne Williamson? She’s dying.”
Well, I figured he was bound to twig when I told him Kellyanne’s name. He probably had her coffin all ready and made up out back. Sure enough, a bit of a nod came up on his face.
“Reason she’s dying is she lost two of her friends a while back. And she’s sad,” I said.
“Oh,” said Mr. Dan. “I didn’t know that. All I know about you Williamsons is that your daddy’s in a spot of trouble.”
I walked over and bunked myself up onto Mr. Dunkley’s desk and sat there like a cat, looking at him. “These friends of my sister,” I said, “they went missing. They were gone a few days and nobody could find them.”
Mr. Dan suddenly looked interested. “I didn’t know any of this.”
“Well. You’re the only one who doesn’t,” I said. “See. That’s the reason you ain’t had too many people coming in with opals to sell recently. Everybody’s been out looking for Pobby and Dingan all day long. Nobody’s been mining.”
“Are you sure you ain’t making this up, kid?”
“Positive,” I said, all confident and smart, like James Blond.
Mr. Dan walked over and switched the grinding wheel off.
“Well, boy, what do you want me to do? Go looking for two kids down a hole? Happens all the time, little fella. Kids don’t take any notice of where they’re going, cos they got their heads in the clouds, and then they trip up and fall. Wham! Splat!” Mr. Dan whopped his hand down hard on his desk.
There was a silence, and then
Killed in Mining
Accident.
And there were flowers and colourful stones under their names and most of them said R.I.P. I used to think that meant they’d sort of been ripped out of their lives like opal ripped out of the clay.
I noticed that Bob the Swede had a bit of space next to his grave. Room enough for two more, I thought, if old Bobby-boy budged over a bit. There was graves for little kids who died young as well. They were under piles of earth like the mullock heaps out at the mines, only reddy-brown. I suddenly felt mighty sad about Kellyanne and I was thinking what it might be like if she had to be buried out here in a sad little grave with a few plastic flowers in front, and all because a couple of imaginary friends died out in my dad’s mine. But I told myself to stop thinking like this, and that everything was going to be okay now, because I’d managed by some fluke to find the bodies. She’d get better once she’d mourned at the funeral I was going to buy with Dingan’s bellybutton stone. There were tears in my eyes, but. Maybe it was cos I had to get rid of my first opal. Anyway, I think it was only the second time I ever had them in my whole life.
12
I knocked on the door of Mr. Dan Dunkley, the funeral director. A voice said, “Come in.” I turned the handle of his door and entered.
Mr. Dan was a fat man with too many chins for his own good. His office was spick-and span—well, spick, anyway—and he was sitting at his desk with his cheek in his flabby white hand. Behind him he had a grinding wheel going and a couple of dibbers and dob-sticks laid out on a tray next to a bottle of methylated spirits and a Little Dixie Combination Assembly. On his forehead Mr. Dan had his weird glasses for looking at opals. Like most people out at the Ridge who don’t have the guts to mine, he did a bit of cutting and buying and selling on the side to keep him ticking over when not enough people were kicking the bucket.
Mr. Dan looked up at me. He didn’t know who I was, unlike most people, and my guess is he wasn’t too sociable and only got to know people when they had croaked it. I said: “My name is Ashmol Williamson and I have come to talk graves.”
Mr. Dan took off his specs and did a frown and lit up his pipe. After a while he muttered: “School project?”
“No sir,” I said. “You may have heard about my sister Kellyanne Williamson? She’s dying.”
Well, I figured he was bound to twig when I told him Kellyanne’s name. He probably had her coffin all ready and made up out back. Sure enough, a bit of a nod came up on his face.
“Reason she’s dying is she lost two of her friends a while back. And she’s sad,” I said.
“Oh,” said Mr. Dan. “I didn’t know that. All I know about you Williamsons is that your daddy’s in a spot of trouble.”
I walked over and bunked myself up onto Mr. Dunkley’s desk and sat there like a cat, looking at him. “These friends of my sister,” I said, “they went missing. They were gone a few days and nobody could find them.”
Mr. Dan suddenly looked interested. “I didn’t know any of this.”
“Well. You’re the only one who doesn’t,” I said. “See. That’s the reason you ain’t had too many people coming in with opals to sell recently. Everybody’s been out looking for Pobby and Dingan all day long. Nobody’s been mining.”
“Are you sure you ain’t making this up, kid?”
“Positive,” I said, all confident and smart, like James Blond.
Mr. Dan walked over and switched the grinding wheel off.
“Well, boy, what do you want me to do? Go looking for two kids down a hole? Happens all the time, little fella. Kids don’t take any notice of where they’re going, cos they got their heads in the clouds, and then they trip up and fall. Wham! Splat!” Mr. Dan whopped his hand down hard on his desk.
There was a silence, and then
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