Ladder of Success

Squiz Squires removed a straw hat, wiped his forehead with a dusty sleeve and briefly observed a blur of pink and grey wings as a flock of galahs changed location. He was bored, overheated and quietly shat-off with manning the creaking hand-winch at the top of the mineshaft. When tasks had been allocated in the car this morning, there’d been no democracy.

“Nah, you’re too fat, Squiz. You’d break the rope ladder, and… yah wouldn’t fit in the tunnel anyway. Nah, you stay up top and wind the bucket up and down. We’ll swing the picks in the tunnel and fill your bucket. OK.”

It had been a statement, not a question. Under his breath, Squiz had suggested where Steve and Curl could shove their miners’ picks. They had a valid point about his size.

The old Nine-Mile diggings had captured the imaginations of the three coastal blokes. Curl’s uncle Murt had suggested they explore his prospecting block out at Lightning Ridge in western NSW.

“Chip away at the end of the short right-hand tunnel that extends outward from the bottom of the shaft,” he’d suggested. “Tunnel's only about five feet high so you’ll be working on your knees.”

Uncle Murt hadn’t found much colour there himself. There’d been plenty of potch, but he’d fired up the young blokes’ interest. Living with the arses out of their pants, his offer felt like jackpots lining up on poker machine wheels.

“Opals are skitterish little buggers,” he’d teased, “and they tend to skip away as you approach. But the next blow with your miners’ pick against that tunnel wall could be the one… the one that unearths the dream – a rich seam of colour. Maybe even black opal, the most precious.”

Ah… that tantalising word “next.”  Next swing of the pick…  next roll of the dice…  next is the bait that lures all gamblers.

The shout from 30 feet below the lunar-like landscape alerted Squiz. The bucket was full. He recommenced the thankless task of winching the diggings up the narrow shaft, unhitching the bucket and scattering the contents onto the mullock heap nearby. He wound the bucket back down to Steve and Curl, then raked through the new bucketload eager to realise his dreams. Nothing. More grey potch, no colour. Bugger!

 “Gettin’ bored shitless up here. Me arms are throbbin’. An’ I’m meltin’ in the sun!” he shouted down the mouth of the shaft. There was a brief silence, a muffled comment and a snigger.

“Arr fer Chrissake will yer stop complainin’, Squiz. Mining ain’t fer sissies. An’ if yer melt in the sun, well… we’ll stick wicks in yer and sell ya as a giant candle. Shoulda left ya back in Newcastle ya bloody weaner.” There were more underground snickers.

It stung. Squiz would usually wear their fat jibes, but this one tore crudely into his flesh and lodged with a barb. It couldn’t be unsaid. He didn’t reply. At their next shout, Squiz dutifully wound up the bucket of diggings and scattered them on the mullock heap. Instead of returning the bucket down the shaft, he began quietly hauling up the rope ladder which Curl and Steve had used to clamber down the shaft. It was their only means of exit. From the corner of his eye, Curl noticed the ladder disappearing up the shaft. Shit! He dropped his pick and scrambled desperately along the low tunnel to grab at the ropey bottom rung. He was a moment too late. Might as well have been a week too late. They were trapped.

An explosion of distressed shouting blasted up the shaft.

“What the bloody hell ya doin’ Squiz? This ain’t funny. Drop the ladder back down, now! If somethin’ happened to ya we’d be stuck down here? We ‘d die ya’ bloody fool,” Curl’s agitated voice boomed.

“Shit! C’mon, Squiz, it’s remote out here. If you passed out or died or somethin’… nobody would ever find us! Drop the ladder ya’ bloody idiot!” Steve was apoplectic. His stint in prison as a younger man had gifted him with an abiding fear of incarceration.

For a few minutes, Squiz let them stew. Remaining silent to their pleadings, he sorted through the new bucketload of diggings.

“Oi, ya still up there Squiz? C’mon … drop the ladder down!”

There was a tumble of cascading rope against the rough wall of the shaft. Curl and Steve narrowly avoided being struck in their upturned faces.

“Ok. I’ve dropped it down,” Squiz advised.

The rope ladder landed in a crumpled heap at their feet. Both ends lay in the tangle of rope.

“You fucking idiot Squiz. You’ve untied the top end! How the fuck are we gonna get out now?” Steve was spitting venom. He checked the phone in his pocket. No reception.

There were stifled snorts of laughter above them.

“Aw, sorry ‘bout that. I’ll wind down the bucket and youse can stuff the ladder in. I’ll bring it up and try again. Stand clear,” Squiz advised self-importantly as though conducting a rescue for the State Emergency Services. With the ladder re-secured at the top, Squiz’s head appeared at the opening.

“Youse ready for the ladder down there now?”

“Course we’re bloodywell ready. Lower it. Get us outta here!”

Peering down the narrow shaft, he cupped a hand over his ear. “Didn’t hear ya say please.”

From the bowel of the shaft there was a muffled curse and an anxious “please” before the rope ladder was ever so slowly lowered to the two agitated diggers.

 When the second body scrambled out of the shaft and collapsed prostrate onto the parched diggings, sucking for air, Squiz nonchalantly reached into the pocket of his dusty jeans.

“Whaddya make of this then boys? Lotta red in it. Was in the last bucketload.”

Apart from enriching the blokes, the seven-carat black opal would undoubtedly save Squiz from a severe beating.