Alice safari

Page 1

M I C HAEL S M AL L, W RITER MONDAY, 7 FEBRUARY 2011

ALICE SAFARI The coach shuddered over never-ending runnels and shoals of a fine, rust-red dust. Past splotches of spinifex, past acacia trees, past mulga. Podgy Desmond Smythe, scouting inquisitively, the solitary passenger still awake, peered through the creased, airing underwear dancing from the curtain runner. The youngster prodded the somnolent creature next to him, whose legs were trussed up against the reclining seat in front, her mouth gaping, the neck jerked scrawny by the judders of the outback trail. ‘Mum! Mum! Wake up!’ We’re passing an abo compound. I want to take a photo.’ ‘Oh, not now, Desmond Peter. We shall have plenty of time later. Besides, I doubt if I have a twenty cent piece on me.’ Her half-closed eyes could scarce believe the ramshackle tin humpies littering the gibber. ‘Look at that grizzly, old abo over there, Mum. He might only want ten cents. I’ll ask Keith to stop.’ ‘You’ll do no such thing! The captain has a rigid schedule to follow. Sit still and try to catch up on your sleep, darling.’ ‘Oh, pretty please.’ ‘Just pipe down.’ Afternoon slumbers were brusquely disturbed by the coach-captain, whose tobaccohusked voice rasped the microphone. ‘Folks, you’re s’posed to be admiring the bush, which must be difficult with the curtains closed. Maybe it don’t matter. The last time a train came through here Adam was rucking for Jerusalem. We’re now approaching the Alice Artorium, so I’ll tell you one of me little stories, shall I? This establishment


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