The Broken Ankle

Fantasy can be brought crashing down very quickly by the intervention of reality, and perhaps it should be.

Yes, Jackie was beautiful. Yes, I thought this was the woman I wanted to spend my life with. In my eyes she was the loveliest and sweetest creature I had ever met, and I was deeply, passionately in love with her.

I had spoken to her of marriage and she had smilingly gone along with my flights of connubial fantasy. Not for one moment did I doubt her fidelity and our future together.

I had met her when I was twenty four and at university. I was working for my master’s degree, with the hope of eventually gaining a doctorate in geology. She was twenty and studying with the Department of Education with the aim of becoming a teacher. I was completely captivated by her as soon as I saw her.

Of course, many other males were also captivated, and it was with amazement that I found myself to be her “chosen one.” A least, I thought I was chosen.

Within a month we began our sexual relationship. She shared a small flat with a couple of other girls, while I still lived at home; so many nights were spent in her flat.

There had been girls before her; girls I had been “in love” with, by which I mean, “infatuated with.” They had ranged from one night stands to a few weeks of “having a relationship.” With Jackie I decided, “This is it”.

For almost a year I went along in my illusory heaven. Marriage, home and children with Jackie, what more could I desire, unless it was the far off doctorate? Yet even that would be for Jackie. Not only would geology be my other love, it would be the means of giving to Jackie.

It was towards the end of our year together that I first experienced a change in our relationship. It began with little things like telephoning her to be told by a flatmate that Jackie was not there and, “She has just popped out for a while, but I’ll tell her to get back to you.”

For a while she did get back to me, but ever more infrequently. We seemed to see less and less of each other. “Darling, not tonight, I’ve got an essay to write.”

A few times I called at her flat without prior contact with her, to be greeted by one of her flatmates who would inform me, “Oh, she’s not here Brent. I’m not sure where she is, but I’ll tell her you called.” Formally I would have been invited in to wait for Jackie and be offered a cup of coffee. Now the door was almost being shut in my face.

It was the night I decided to wait for her in my old station wagon in the street outside that the crash came. It was past midnight and I was about to give up and go home, when a car’s headlights swung into the street. It pulled up outside the building that contained Jackie’s flat. By the light of a nearby street light I saw a man get out of the car, go round the other side, opened the door, and out got Jackie.

The man locked the doors of the car and together they went towards the entrance of the building. Right near the street light they stopped and embraced. I could clearly see their hips grinding together, just as Jackie and I had done in the past. They went inside holding hands and laughing.

Under the street light I had recognised the man. He was studying in the School of Business Management, and was well known as the son of a local multi-millionaire. He splashed his father’s wealth around with great abandon, on cars, clothes, women and what passes for “The good life.”

I felt as if the blood had drained from my body. There was a roaring sound in my ears and I suddenly want to defecate and urinate. Bile rose in my throat and my emotions tumbled over each other ranging from impotent rage to snivelling self-pity.

In seconds my world seemed to fall apart. Had all the love and planning for the future been a hopeless self-delusion? Amid the turmoil I was experiencing a nasty little voice kept saying, “But it was you, not her who was always planning for the future.”

I sat in my vehicle until four in the morning, and the man did not come out from the building. My imagination added excruciating detail to what I knew in fact to be happening up there in the flat.

I drove home just after four and went to bed, but not to sleep. I lay there weeping for my shattered illusion and the humiliation that went with it.

My mother called me for breakfast at the usual time, but I made no response. She must have assumed I had decided to take a day off from the university and was sleeping late, because she did not call again until lunch time.

“Brent, you’d better get up and have some lunch.”

I made no reply.

“Are you all right, Brent?”

No reply.

Her head came round the door and a look of concern came over her face. “Brent what’s the matter, you’re as white as a sheet?”

She came to me and sat on the bed. “What is it, darling? What’s happened?”

I had always confided in mother, telling her of my hopes and miseries, my joys and despairs. She had always been a great support and comforter. She knew of my plans for Jackie and me, and if she had been a bit doubtful about Jackie and me getting married, she had said nothing.

Now I told her of what I had seen the previous night. She tried to find acceptable reasons for what I had seen. Could it have been her brother? No it couldn’t as she had no brother and I knew exactly who the man was.

After a few more futile attempts to find explanations she gave up and said, “Telephone her, Brent, there might be a perfectly innocent reason for what you saw.” We both knew there was no “perfectly innocent reason.”

Never the less I telephoned, and this time Jackie did answer in a bright cheerful voice. At least, it was bright and cheerful until she learned it was me on the other end.

“What do you want, Brent, I’m busy.”

I halting told her what I had seen and got her response.

“So what, you don’t own me.”

I spoke of our plans to be married and she laughed. “They were your plans, not mine. I never said ‘yes’ to them. Look, Brent, I tried to let you down softly by not being available. If you chose to spy on me and didn’t like what you saw that’s your problem.”

“But…”

“There’s no ‘but’ about it, Brent. If you thought I was about to spend the rest of my life with dollar a week rock chipper, that’s your fault. Frankly, I’ve had a better offer, so goodbye.”

She rang off.

I ran to the toilet and vomited until there was nothing left to vomit on, and I lay with my head resting on the toilet bowl.

Thus ends self-delusion.

I ate nothing that day despite my mother’s urging. She must have told my father what had happened because when we were alone briefly that evening he said, “Had a bit of let down, old chap?”

“Yes.”

“Give it a bit of time, you’ll get over it, and there’ll be someone else.”

I think I said something like, “Humph,” and went and hid in my bedroom again.

For two more days I ate nothing, and obviously my mother was deeply concerned. She talked about a doctor and things like that, but it was my father who made the really bright suggestion.

After his first rather cliché response to my woes, his wiser self prevailed. “Look, old son, have you got any field work that needs doing?”

In fact I had a need to get out into the field to do some work in relation to my thesis, so I told him so.

“Get out and do it then,” he said. “If you can get off for a week or even two, and bury yourself in work away from that girl and the things that remind you of her, you’ll start to mend.”

For want of a better idea, I prepared to follow his advice. Despite Jackie’s scorn for my financial status, I was in fact not completely penniless, or rather, my parent’s weren’t. Whilst having nothing like the wealth that my rival with Jackie had, we were what people call, “comfortable.” As I could afford the trip at my own, or at least my parent’s expense, I had only to contact my thesis supervisor and let him know that I would be off on field work for a while.

I hurriedly, and I must admit rather carelessly, loaded the station wagon with supplies of food, put some spare cans of petrol in the back together with a small tent, and set out next day for an area where I had intended to do some research at some time.

I drove out through the city suburbs; passing by the building where Jackie’s flat was located, feeling a lurch in my stomach. Then I was out in the green rolling hills with the farms dotted here and there.

I was initially heading for “The Hill” some six hundred kilometres north east from the city. I drove through small prosperous looking towns until finally I left the fertile region behind and was out on the arid plains.

The railway line came to run alongside the road, and the little, almost derelict towns that had once existed to service the needs of the railway, were the only signs of habitation. I reflected that these places looked almost as bereft as I felt.

Emus, wallabies and kangaroos made an occasional appearance. The kangaroos and wallabies were less frequent, but at night they are inclined to come on the road and fascinated by vehicle headlights, stand mesmerized to be mowed down by passing trucks. The roadside bore witness to this in rotting carcasses preyed on by hawks, crows and very occasionally wedge tailed eagles.

My mood was such that I began to feel I had brought my self into a world of desolation that matched my own bleakness within. In a better personal state of mind I would have recalled how for all its apparent harshness, this region has a vibrant life of its own. The stranger’s eyes may not see this life, but the dwellers in this region know of it.

I crossed the State border and shortly began to approach The Hill. A strange place in some respects, as it looks as if a city suburb has been translated into the desert, yet has a life that was peculiarly its own. A city built for the mines which have been its reason for existence, it now faced the closure of those mines as the seams containing the silver, lead, zinc and tin ran out.

The city, despite the closure of mines, was still optimistic and vital. Tourism was its future, and in addition and almost unexpectedly, a community of artists had grown up, scattering art galleries across the city.

As I drove into The Hill at that time, I cared nothing for its past, present or future. I intended to spend one night in the place, add any supplies I needed, and move on, dragging my misery with me like a starved horse trying to pull a heavy cart.

I booked a room in a motel and actually managed to eat a meal at a nearby pub. After drinking too many beers I weaved my way back to my motel room, fell still clothed on the bed and descend into a restless alcohol inspired sleep.

I woke next morning with a thumping headache and a mouth like sandpaper. I managed to make my self feel slightly more human with a shower, and ate some of the unappetising breakfast provided by the motel. From there a brief shopping expedition to purchase a few things I had forgotten to load at home, petrol tank filled up and a couple more cans of petrol purchased, and I was on my way.

I drove North West out of the town, passing through an old ghost town now inhabited by a few artists and a museum keeper, and continued along a dirt road. After a few kilometres I came to the brow of a hill, and stopped my vehicle to stare out across a vast plain of salt bush and blue bush. In the distance I could see my goal.

There was a line of low hills seeming to hang on the horizon like blue grey ghosts. Looking at them one might be unsure if they were really there, so indistinct they appeared. The map reassured me they were there, and I set off again down to the plain.

Passing over a rough wooden bridge that spanned a dry creek bed, I came to a track running off from the road going in a westerly direction. Perhaps even “track” is too significant a word for it. It was a couple of vehicle wheel marks on the baked ground.

I turned on to the track and began to bump and lurch my way along it. No one graded or attended to the track. Only vehicles had made it, and while generally it looked as if it had not had any used for a long time, there were signs that one vehicle had passed that way recently. There was just one line of new wheel marks, and as the track came to an end at the hills I was heading for, the vehicle must have been going in the same direction as I, and had not yet returned.

I cursed whoever it was ahead of me. I had come for solitude not company and it looked as if I was to have the doubtful pleasure of someone, probably a geologist, to engage me in geological talk.

In the hope that I would pass them on their way out I continued my journey, the wagon leaping a bucking over the ragged and rock littered ground, and kicking up clouds of dust in my wake. “My God,” I thought, “If I broke down here…” For a moment I was glad there was someone else ahead.

The hills drew closer and took more tangible form. “Hills” is perhaps too grand a title for them. They were little more than large rocky outcrops but as I had been warned, did have some dangerous declivities which, if one fell into them, could mean serious injury. Injury in that country could mean death by starvation or thirst.

The track ran alongside the hills for a while before they curved to loom up in front of me. I slowed down searching for a place to camp, then a couple of hundred metres ahead I saw a vehicle. It stood by a tumbledown corrugated iron shed. The shed, I conjectured, had been put up long ago by a pastoralist running sheep or cattle in the days when mustering was done on horse back. It probably had contained emergency supplies and some tools. Now, with most of the mustering carried out on motor bikes, off-road vehicles and even helicopters, the hut had become irrelevant.

It should be noted that in this country you did not ask how many head of sheep or cattle were run to the hectare, but how many hectares for each animal.

I pulled up a little distance from the stationary vehicle, wary in case I got a hostile reception. I got out of the wagon and tried to brush off the dust that covered both me and the vehicle. No one was in sight or sound. Alongside the vehicle was a tent, so I walked over to it. The flap was open and glancing inside I saw a camp bed with a neat pile of blankets, clothing and other paraphernalia that goes with camping, but unlike my own tent when I have been out on field work on other occasions, all was clean and orderly.

A glance at the clothing told me nothing about the wearer. There were a couple pairs of jeans, some loose looking tops and socks. I noted that a rope had been strung between two stunted trees. From it hung another pair of jeans, two tops and a pair of socks.

Since my own supply of clothing was very limited – one change only – and I never washed clothing, or often myself, when out in the field on my own, I was a bit overawed by my neighbour’s high standard of cleanliness.

The vehicle gave no further clue as to the identity of its owner, but looking into the ramshackle hut I was surprised to see a large gas bottle and two gas rings for cooking. I intended to heat up my own Spartan supplies in an old saucepan and frying pan over an open fire.

A thought struck me about the washing. Out here one of the most scarce and precious things is water. I had brought several jerry cans of water which, following normal practice would not be used for wasteful things like washing clothes – or me.

I decided to investigate this phenomenon of apparently bountiful water supplies. I looked in the tent again, and then in the back of the vehicle. There was nothing that looked as if it contained water. I tried the old shed, and there stood two jerry cans of water I had not noticed before. One seemed to be full, the other around half empty. Also there were a couple of buckets and a large bowl, alongside which were soap and towels. This person’s hygiene was beginning to irritate me.

At that point a voice behind me asked belligerently, “What the hell are you doing nosing round my things?”

I whipped round to be confronted by the owner of the voice, a girl! Well, not so much a girl as a woman. She looked at first glance to be about twenty four or five. Being no more than about five feet three or four tall, and as I’m six feet two, she was looking up at me.

She looked wary and had an aggressive stance that was enhanced by the way she held a geologists hammer in her right hand. In the other hand she held a canvas bag with something in it.

I am a man of peace, so I sought to placate her wrath with soft words. “I’m terribly sorry. I was just wondering who was here. I didn’t touch anything.”

“Who are you and what do you want?” My placating didn’t seem to have gone too well.

“My name is Brent Wilde. I’m a geology student. I’m here to do some investigating up there,” I pointed to the nearby rocks.

“Ah!”

“Yes, I’m interested in the possibility of mineral deposits. May I ask about you?”

“Smith. Norma Smith.”

“I see you have a geologist’s hammer, are you one of our fraternity?”

“Amateur. Just interested.”

One certainly could not accuse Norma Smith of being garrulous. I decided not to pursue the matter for the time being, and asked, “You don’t mind if I camp over there?”

“Can’t stop you can I?”

“Well, if you really objected I could try and find somewhere else.”

“Don’t bother. The track ends here anyway. How long you staying?”

“A week, perhaps more. Depends on how I get on?”

She had been sizing me up as we talked, and suddenly she seemed to relent.

“Look, I’m sorry if I seemed rude, but you have to be careful out here, especially if you’re a woman on your own. You can call me ‘Smithy’, most people do.”

“It’s okay,” I replied, “of course you’ve got to be careful, especially when you find a strange guy nosing round your camp. Call me Brent.”

I extended my hand to shake hands with her, but she ignored it and seemed to recoil a little. “Man hater? Lesbian?” I queried to myself.

“I’ll set up my camp over there,” I said, pointing to what seemed a likely spot. “By the way, I see you wash your clothes, is there some water around here?”

“Just over there,” she said pointing to some lower rocks. “There’s a trickle of water draining down from the higher rocks. It runs into a sort of natural rock bowl then spills over just down there. Look you can see the bit of green.”

She was right. In the midst of the prevailing grey and brown there was a splash of green extending away from the rocks to disappear about a hundred metres from them.

“There always seems to be the trickle of water, even in the worst drought,” she went on. “God knows how it keeps going.”

“You know about this place then?”

She paused before replying, and then said, “Yes, I know about it, used to come here with my dad when I was a kid. He runs a pastoral lease and this is part of it. We sometimes came this way at mustering time.”

I had been surveying her as we talked. She was really quite pretty in what I can only describe as a “serious sort of way”. She had dark hair cut short and although somewhat dishevelled at the moment, showed signs of having been well styled. Her face was slightly elongated in what some might call the “aristocratic manner”. Her mouth was small, and despite her serious demeanour, looked as if it could smile easily with its upward turning corners.

In male fashion I had taken in her breasts which were not large, but were obviously unbridled, showing neat pointed nipples through her thin top. Her jeans clung closely to her body and displayed a feature that I have always found attractive in a woman, a swelling mound above her sex organ. Her legs I could not judge as they were covered by the jeans, but her buttocks were high and tight.

One feature that I found most attractive about her was her voice. Always sensitive to the female voice, one of the questions I ask myself about a woman is, “Could I live with that voice?” Having lost its hard tone at our first confrontation, I discovered that Smithy had a beautifully modulated voice, rather like that of an unaffected actress, if there is such a creature.