When the Singing Stops by Di Morrissey

Author:Di Morrissey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan Australia
Published: 2009-08-28T04:00:00+00:00

The bottles of beer were cold enough and four times the price in Georgetown, but no one argued. They joined the pork-knockers under the shelter and exchanged greetings. The men, young and old, dark-skinned and unshaven, smiled at them but there was a wariness that was not encouraging.

John explained they’d climbed up and the men nodded. ‘We do it if we have to. Most times we fly up. Strip’s back there.’ They pointed to a distant cleared stretch of dirt.

‘So you look for diamonds up here?’ asked Viti. ‘Are there lots in the river?’ Her sweet naivete was disarming. John and Ann knew the men didn’t discuss their finds—even with each other. Buyers and agents flew in to buy from the pork-knockers. Some of the men preferred to sell their finds down in Georgetown. But there they ran the risk of blowing their profit on the city’s nightlife. There was little to spend their money on up here except rum, beer and card games.

Madi was intrigued and began asking how they went about dredging and what the diamonds looked like. ‘I mean, are they hard to see, like gold?’ She remembered a gold-panning weekend with her parents at Hill End in New South Wales, which had been very frustrating to an eleven-year-old. Matthew had found the only little nugget.

One of the young men laughed. ‘Dey sparkle with fire, girl. No mistake dem.’

‘Could I see one?’

The man responded to Madi’s eager gaze and bubbling enthusiasm. He reached into his shoe and drew out from his sock a blue and white Vicks VapoRub inhalation tube.

‘Christ, I haven’t seen one of them for years. My granny was always making me push one up my nose when I got stuffed up,’ laughed John.

‘We have it in Australia too. But it comes in a jar, greasy stuff you had to rub on your chest,’ said Connor.

The young man unscrewed the plastic top and shook the contents into the palm of his hand.

A coarse sprinkling of rough stones showed many colours, each glinting with a hint of the fire and light within.

They pored over the diamonds in fascination and then one of the other men produced a balled sock from his hip pocket and showed his cache. In minutes they were all talking and the pork-knockers, long deprived of an outside audience, attempted to outdo each other with their stories. Another round of beers and the men began discussing the pros and cons of the democratic government. Connor glanced at Madi as the death of Ernesto St Kitt was mentioned.

‘We hear it on de radio. Man, dat how dis country bein’ run, mebbe de bosses didn’t throw him in de river, but, man, dat be a murder for sure. He was making speeches ’bout helping de man in de street and helpin’ git dis country going straight. I don’ believe dat fella a druggie. My sister know he’s wife. Dey a good family.’

The other pork-knockers nodded in agreement.

‘De city can be a bad scene, man. Up here, you only got de bushmasters and your neighbour to knock yo on de head,’ joked another.

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