Mike Dixon

next to it.
He must have looked a comical sight when he descended
the stairs in a broad-brimmed hat, sunglasses and bright-
blue underpants of the ultra-brief sort.
A wolf whistle greeted him.
„G‟day! Gorgeous!‟
David raised his hat and smiled in her direction.
She was aged in her early forties.
„Can I get you a cuppa?‟
„Not yet, thanks. I‟m going to take a shower. There‟s half
of North Australia under my fingernails and in my hair.‟
„Second on the right,‟
She pointed down the corridor.
„You‟ll need to take off the shades or you‟ll get lost.‟
The shower was little more than a slab of cement below a
plastic bucket with holes in the bottom. David stripped off
and turned on the tap. The bucket filled and he basked be-
neath a pleasantly warm flow that got warmer and warmer –
then scalding hot.
He jumped back.
„Don‟t they have bore water where you come from?‟
She had a cup of tea in one hand and a bottle of shampoo
in the other.
„You‟ll need this.‟ She handed him the shampoo. „You
can‟t get a good lather with soap. The water‟s full of miner-
als.‟
David squeezed shampoo over his hair and rubbed it into
his scalp. She sat down, sipped her tea and watched his
every move.
Her name was Noelene. They‟d met the day before and
she‟d spent the evening with him while her husband, Daryl,
played with his computer. She was a tall, lanky woman with
long straight hair and leathery skin that looked like it had
been hung out in the sun and dried. Her tight-fitting jeans