The Broken Ankle

Had I not been so impotent from my shattering experience with Jackie, I might have taken more than a passing interest in Smithy.

She was still going on about the water and the pool. “Look, if you’re going to use the water, for God’s sake don’t do what one of the stockmen did once, and bathe in it. It takes ages before the pool clears again. If you want to use it for washing, then bring some down in a pail. If you haven’t got a pail I can lend you one.”

“Thanks,” I said, “I might take you up on that. I’ll go and make camp now.”

She nodded and I left her to get on with my task.

Having got my tent up and the camp bed erected (I never have learned how to achieve that task in one go and always end up pinching my fingers); I looked around for some wood to make a fire.

It is not always an easy task to find fuel in this environment, but fortunately there were a few stunted and dead trees whose remaining branches broke off fairly easily. I dug the obligatory trench, and with the aid of some dry brush got my fire going. Out came my blackened old saucepan and into it went the splendid feast; one tin of baked beans. This would be more or less my standard fare for the time I remained here. Variation would come with the odd tin of spaghetti and some slices of bacon I had brought. No doubt a dietician’s nightmare.

I saw Smithy depart in the direction of the pool carrying two pails, and shortly after she staggered back, the pails obviously full, and disappeared inside the old hut.

I took no further interest in her activities and settled down to heat and consume my beans. Finishing, and having been slightly inspired by Smithy’s obvious hygiene, I thought it would be a good idea to wash the saucepan. No need to wash a plate since I had eaten straight out of the saucepan.

Unwilling to broach my own water supply, and not having brought a bucket with me, I decided to take Smithy up on her offer to loan me one.

I ambled over to her camp in search of her. She was not in the tent or the hut. I innocently walked round the hut and was pulled up short when I got to the back of it, by the sight of Smithy, stark naked, standing in the large bowl I had seen earlier, washing herself.

I was just beginning to stutter an apology when she started to scream.

“You filthy bastard, you rotten man, you just can’t leave women alone, none of you men can.”

The abuse continued and my hasty retreat was encouraged by a large bar of soap hurled with great force and accuracy at my head.

I felt somewhat aggrieved by this response to a perfectly unplanned sighting of her nudity, but I felt thoroughly reproved when, her abuse subsiding, I heard sobs.

There was nothing I could do, as any intervention on my part would probably appear as another attempt to molest her. I made my way unhappily back to my own camp and its fading fire.

I decided that a mug of tea might settle my crushed spirits, and as bake bean residue does not go well with tea, I relented and washed the saucepan from my own water supply. I filled the saucepan and set it on the remains of the fire to boil.

As I waited for the water to boil I saw Smithy out of the corner of my eye flit from the back of the shed to her tent wrapped in a towel. I settled down to drink my black sugar loaded tea, and saw no more of Smithy that night.

Darkness having descended leaving only the light of the stars, that are sharp and clear in the outback, I decided on bed.

However hot the day may have been, there is always the strong possibility that at night the temperature would drop dramatically in the arid country. I wrapped myself in blankets and for the first time since my Jackie crisis, and even given my Smithy crisis, I slept well.

I woke in the morning feeling refreshed and even a trifle cheerful, until I recalled that at some stage I would have to face up to Smithy. However we might try to avoid each other, it was almost impossible for us not to come into contact.

I allowed myself a couple of slices of bacon for breakfast. The fire of the night before still had some feeble embers, so with the aid of some more brush and branches, I got it going again.

As I prepared my own meal there wafted across to me in the still morning air, a delicious aroma emanating from Smithy’s camp. She seemed to be having the same meal as I, but doing it with more refinement.

I ate my own shrivelled meal and drank a mug of tea, then contemplated my day. Smithy’s attention to details of cleanliness had made me somewhat self conscious about my own condition, but I found myself in a dilemma. My hasty and ill thought out preparations for this trip meant that I had no bowl, no bucket and therefore, no adequate means of carrying out personal ablutions.

I wrestled with the problem for a while, considering if I might pluck up the courage to face Smithy, and ask for aid. I decided on this course, and approached her camp cautiously, ready to flee if she appeared with a bar of soap in her hand.

I got to within a few metres of her tent and not seeing her, called out. Her head appeared round the opening to the hut.

“What do you want…don’t come any closer.”

“Look, I’m terribly sorry about yesterday evening, I really wasn’t trying to perve on you. I just wanted to borrow your bucket. You know…you said…”

She stepped out from the hut looking fresh and clean in her jeans and top.

“Yes, I know what I said, and I’m sorry. It’s just that…well…what can I do for you?”

“I left for this trip in a bit of a hurry, and I’ve forgotten all sorts of things, including a bucket, and I want to wash and…”

“You want to borrow mine?”

“Er…yes.”

“Got a bowl to wash in?”

“No.”

“Got soap?”

“I think so.”

“You think so! Got towels?”

“No.”

“Bit bloody useless aren’t you? I thought you geologists always organised your field trips carefully.”

“Well, we normally do, but you see, I was…well…”

“Never mind. Borrow the bucket and if you like you can use my bowl and this.”

She held out her hand which clutched a bar of soap. I stepped backwards, tripped over a rock and went down on the ground.

“God, you need a nurse to look after you. Get up and you can borrow a towel as well. Wash behind here where I was. I won’t come creeping round to look at you…”

“Look, I said I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…”

For the first time her face lit up with a smile, and in doing so I saw how she really was a very attractive woman.

“I’m just joking, Brent.”

“Oh. Well thanks very much.”

I was still very wary and stood waiting for her to make a move. She remained by the hut opening.

“I’m not your servant, you know. Just come and get the things.”

I approached her and took the soap. She handed me a bucket and said, “When you’ve got the water you can use my gas ring to heat a kettle full. I’m going off to look for specimens, so help your self to the bowl and towel.”

Getting close to her for the first time my other fetish about females came into play. I dislike women dripping with perfume or deodorant. Smithy smelt of nothing but a faint aroma of soap. Had she been quite plain to look at, her lack of artificial smells would have seduced me.

“Thanks very much,” I said. “You’ve been very kind. If there’s anything I can do for you…”

She gave a lovely tinkling little laugh and said, “I think not, Brent. I mean, you’re a bit of a walking disaster area, and you’d probably make any problem of mine worse, but thanks for the thought. I’m off now to do my specimen hunting. I’ll leave you to it.”

I felt a bit like a little boy who had just been admonished by his mother, but decided not to get upset since I was about to use her property.

I took the bucket and made my way to where the rock pool was. It was like a rock dish, and Smithy had been right. Only a little trickle of water flowed into it at one end, and spilled over at the other to dribble down to the earth below. The water was clear and unpolluted, so I filled the bucket and went back to Smithy’s camp, and using her gas, kettle, bowl, soap and towel, had my wash.

That finished I at last began my days work. Long before prospectors had gone over this region in search of something to make them money. Some had struck lucky, but these hills had yielded nothing. With this in mind I did not expect to do any better than they, so it would be a negative chapter in my thesis no doubt.

Never the less, I set to working my way slowly seeking any signs that there might be worthwhile minerals. This continued for the following days and I discovered nothing of note, except I did find a piece of soap among my gear, and didn’t need to use Smithy’s any more.

I sighted and spoke to Smithy only before we set out for the day and when we arrived back at our camps in the evening. Apart from the soap I still used her other gear, and actually washed my clothes.

We spoke little as Smithy did not seem to invite conversation, and I noted she recoiled from even chance physical contact. I had not even dared ask her what she was looking for on her trips into the hills.

Whether one could say it was fortunate or not, had I been my “usual” self, I might have found it hard being in an isolated place yet having an attractive women close by, to have been shut out from closer contact with her. As it was, my experience with Jackie had made me wary, and I had even made a half-hearted resolve to forswear female company.

It was on the sixth day after my arrival that misfortune struck. I had finished my day’s searching and was back in camp. Smithy was usually preparing her evening meal when I arrived, but on this evening she was not there.

I began my own meal preparations, expecting to see her arrive at any moment. She did not. Darkness began to set in and still she did not arrive. Real anxiety about her took over. I knew about the danger of the declivities and I wondered. Then with the darkness gathering I could stand it no longer.

One thing I had remembered to pack was a powerful torch. Taking this, I set out to begin a search for Smithy. If she was lying somewhere injured I gave myself little chance of finding her at night, but I had to try.

Picking my way slowly over the rocks I kept calling her name then listening for a response. For two hours I tried before finally hearing a faint cry, “Brent…Brent.” I tried to locate the direction of the voice and kept calling out.

It was a moonless night, so there was only the starlight and my torch to serve as illumination and the torch battery would not last for ever.

Still calling out and listening, I went off in the wrong direction several times, her responses getting fainter. Then I found my self drawing nearer to the sound until I found my self standing on the edge of one of the declivities. In the light of the torch I saw the white face of Smithy looking up at me.

She was hunched up with one foot at an odd angle.

“I think I’ve broken my ankle, Brent.”

“Bloody hell,” I thought, “this is all we need.” How was I going to get her out of there in the middle of the night and her with a broken ankle? Even if I did, I was not sure of the direction of the camp. I would need daylight to find my way; in the meantime I could hardly leave Smithy down there. The night cold was creeping in, and she only had her jeans and light top on. Come to think of it, so had I.

“I’m going to try and come down,” I called.

“No don’t,” she called back. “That’s how I fell and broke my ankle.”

I ignored this and searched the walls of the declivity with my torch for any means of getting down.

It didn’t look as difficult as I feared. There seemed to be projections of rock scatted over the surface of the walls, so slinging my torch over my shoulder on its strap, I began to make the descent.

It was no more than five or six metres deep, but feeling for foot and hand holds in the dark was difficult. Never the less, I made it, and dropped down beside Smithy.

“How does it feel?” I asked.

“Bloody painful.”

I had done a bit of first aid so I said I would like to feel her ankle. She made no fuss about the physical contact and my quick examination suggested that she did indeed have a broken ankle. The area was badly swollen and it was obvious there was no hope of her being able to walk.

Had I been using the Geology Department’s vehicle, I would have had a two way radio available and could have radioed for help. Smithy’s vehicle also lacked this equipment, but in any case, there was the question of getting back to the camp in the dark.

I knew that I could not leave Smithy alone. She was already shivering from shock and the encroaching cold. I decided that Smithy would have to set aside her apparent dislike of physical contact, and I would have to try and keep her warm with body heat until morning.

I told her I would stay with her for the night, but we should have to cuddle up. I think she was in too much pain to care about her anti-contact feelings, so after trying to settle her foot comfortably I lay beside her drawing her close.

She curled into me like a frightened child whispering her thanks. I had little hope that she would sleep, so I began to talk to her, asking her how she came to fall, what was she looking for – anything to try and distract her from the pain and cold. Eventually to my amazement, she went to sleep.

Unable to sleep myself, my back feeling like a block of ice, I actually had beautiful protective feelings. I held her like a little one, sharing my body warmth with her as she slept. Somehow this was more intimate, more stirring than sexual contact. I wanted to hold her, to keep her from the night cold.

Finally, towards dawn, I dozed off myself.

I was awakened by Smithy stirring. She was still curled against me and my arms where round her. Her eyes were open, her face pale and drawn and her first words were like those of a helpless infant: “It hurts, Brent.”

I was still trying to work out what to do next. I could leave her and finding my way back to the camp. Drive to The Hill or the nearest place that had a telephone or two way radio and summon help. That seemed to be the common sense thing to do.

Then a thought occurred to me. Smithy had said her father ran the lease for this country, perhaps their residence was close.

“How far is your home,” I asked.

“It’s quite close,” she muttered through teeth clenched against the pain. “Only about seventy kilometres.”

“Oh my God” I thought, “’Only’!” It would take hours to get there along the track and the dirt road.”

Another thought; if I got to the road, I might flag a passing truck, they all carried two-way radios these days. But often did trucks pass along that road?

Whatever I did it meant leaving Smithy where she was. She had not eaten since breakfast the day before, unless she had carried something into the hills for lunch. She might have been carrying a bottle of water, but there was no sign of it.

The sun was up, and while we were still in shadow down in the declivity, before long it would be blasting down on her. I would at least have to go back to the camp, get some food and water for her, return with it, and then go back to the camp again.

I decided I would make a dash towards The Hill.

I asked Smithy where the nearest habitation was in the direction of The Hill.

“There’s nothing until you get to within twenty kilometres of The Hill,” she replied.

“Bugger it,” I thought.

“Look, Smithy, I’ve got to leave you to go and get help, and…”

Suddenly she clasped me tighter. “Don’t leave me Brent. Don’t leave me here alone…please…”

“Smithy, I’ve got…” I stopped in mid sentence. What I hadn’t noticed before and should have done, was that the declivity at the far end sloped up to the higher level ground. If I could get Smithy up that slope we might have some chance of getting her to the camp. From there, using one of the vehicles, we could get to help.

“Do you think you could get up that slope?” I asked.

She looked out through pain narrowed eye lids at the slope. “If you could crawl,” I encouraged.

She said nothing, but struggling to get on to her hands and knees, she began to edge toward the slope.

I had to hand it to her she was a girl with guts. She made it about two thirds of the way up the slope where it suddenly steepened.

“I can’t go any further,” she whispered.

I once more weighed up the situation. If I could assist her…manage to just get her out of the declivity.

“If I help you, Smithy…try and support you…”

“I just can’t.”

I was feeling desperate. My only recourse seemed to be to leave her and make the dash for help. Then I decided on one last attempt to get her out.

“If you could get on my back I might be able to carry you out.”

“You couldn’t.”

“For God’s sake, Smithy, let’s at least give it a try.”

I knelt down in a position where I thought she might be able to scramble onto my back. After a couple of minutes of struggling she was on, clinging to me, her arms over my shoulders. So I began the climb, the last three metres, to the top.

Several times a felt myself slipping back and tore my hands as I grasped at rocky projections, but we finally made it.

Smithy slipped off my back and I lay gasping and sweating from the exertion. I looked back to the bottom of the declivity and saw the torch and her hammer lying there, but I could not be bothered to go and get them.

I was trying to work out the direction of the camp because in my night time search I had probably gone round in circles.

Smithy seemed to sense my difficulty and said, pointing, “It’s over there.”

Having got her to the relatively level ground, I could not leave Smithy exposed to the sun. I would have to try and get her back to the camp.

“Do you think you could manage to move if I supported you on the side of your injured ankle?” I asked.

“I’ll try,” she answered.

Looking at her, hungry, thirsty racked with pain and exhausted, I gave us very little chance. Still she tried.

We were on a smooth section of rock that extended for about a hundred metres, before the going became really rough. We made it with me supporting her, to the end of the smooth going, but a few metres into the rough, and she could go no further.

I resorted to the previous expedient of getting her on to my back, and began a staggering progress in the direction Smithy had indicated. As I battled on, a vision of old western movies kept popping into my head.

The hero, perhaps a cavalry officer, finds himself in some desert like place accompanied by the “heroine.” Somehow they have lost their horses and are being pursued by hordes of bloody thirsty “Injuns.” As they run the heroine, naturally, falls, twists her ankle, and is unable to proceed. The hero sweeps her up into his arms and walks about a hundred miles carrying her like that to the fort.

The “Injuns,” always about the hundred yards behind the fleeing couple, and riding horses at full pelt, never catch up with their victims. Still carrying the heroine, and with no sign of fatigue, the hero strides in through the gates of the fort. The gates are closed; the “Injuns” come hurtling up to them.

A few shots from the fort and a thousand “Injuns” drop dead, the remainder fleeing, to be pursued by a detachment of cavalry officered usually by the rather nice but soft looking guy usually played by some poor English actor who needs the money.

Hero is in love with heroine. She promises to give up serving as a prostitute in saloons, and become a respectable officer’s wife. They ride together into the sunset through the place where the “Injuns” had been slain, but whose bodies have miraculously been cleared away.

The Colonel in charge of the fort looks after the departing couple, and sagely comments, “The only good injun is a dead injun.”

Scene fades. House lights up.

“Don’t how that fellow carried the girl like that all that distance,” I thought. I was gasping and sweating as I stumbled and staggered along. Fortunately Smithy knew these hills, and guided me by the shortest and easiest route to the camp.