Cocklebiddy - Robert Halsey

It was hot. Dancing waves shimmered in the distance and the haze was filled with broken images of the timeless land, brown and red and dotted with thousands of grey-green wilting bush that was all the vegetation the country was able to support. The Eyre Highway rose and fell like a black ribbon over undulating surface till it straightened itself out and lay like a tired snake, of mythic proportions, stretched out exhausted as it ran fading into the distance.

Scotty was driving over to Adelaide in his early vintage model Holden to try and bring Bevvy back to Coolbellup. There had been a falling out during a drunken session in their rental ramshackle unit. When Scotty came to his senses some months later he decided that he had some serious issues to sort out. Debbie had to get back into his life. He knew where she’d be holed out in Adelaide. He hoped she would still be there although she hadn’t bothered to answer his calls.
You could neve be sure what you’d come across once you were out on the Nullabor. He’d driven trucks over a couple of times when he drove for New Farmers Association and he’d seen some remarkable sights but nothing prepared him for what came his way some ten km before he’d hit Cocklebiddy. A red uncovered dirt track had been running parallel to the Eyre Highway after it had cropped up from nowhere as far as he could remember. Now and again these ghost trails have a way of cropping up and you wondered who had made it and when and why. Usually you’d see dust devils or sort of tumbleweed or desert briar come bowling along till the wind died that drove it. Nothing else ever used them these days as far as he knew. Until this day. And then he saw something that made him wonder whether he should laugh out loud or make the sign of the cross solemnly. Or perhaps both.

A black and ancient model hearse drove along the red dirt track churning up a cloud of red dust in its wake. It was driven by a gelled down blond driver, a callow youth of sorts who peered out of the windshield from behind thick-lensed spectacles. It followed in the wake of an undertaker who looked very properly dressed in black from head to toe, black top hat and all. He mopped his face in a large red handkerchief from time to time. Scotty knew he’d be drenched in perspiration under his undertaker’s dress. He thought the man had to be seriously mad. And that went for the idiot behind the wheel. In the hearse was the coffin, covered with gum tree branches and what once had been purple desert rosemary and lavender flowers.

Scotty pulled over to the side a few metres ahead and waited for them to draw abreast and then he got out of his car and rested against it. He pulled out a half-smoked cigarette and lit it.

“What youse got there, matey?” he called out.
The undertaker ignored the question. He had heard, all right, unless he was deaf as well as daft. Looking straight ahead as before, he proceeded with the greatest dignity. Only the callow youth behind the wheel of the hearse looked sideways and tore his eyes back to the front, gritting his teeth.

“Where yerrz gonna dump the poor sod?” asked Scotty.

His earnest question was also treated with disdain.

“ See yerz, you dumb bastard! Make sure you bury him deep or the dingoes will get him,” farewelled Scotty, with this piece of unsolicited advice.

He got back into the car and drove alongside the hearse a while longer till his thirst reminded him that Cocklebiddy was not all that far off so he gunned the engine and tore off down the Highway with a wild whooping.

If you haven’t been to Cocklebiddy it’s just a place on the map. It is concealed from the rest of the civilized world that is unaware of its obscurity and that goes for many Australians, as well. Cocklebiddy probably cherishes its concealment from the rest of the world. All around it are treeless expanses of shrubs, truly nullus aborum, which means “No trees.” Shades of brown, red, ochre and a tinge of greyish-green where shrubs and bushes eke out a precarious existence.

Into this hell of a desert some poor, dear departed was going to be deposited, just where Scotty was never able to discover. He went back and forth to meet up with the funeral party but it had just disappeared from the face pf the earth. The scrawny, sweaty tawny-haired bloke with a sad squint who ran the pub in Cocklebiddy grinned knowingly. He wasn’t going to fall for that trick. He’d heard stories like that before. Like Spacelab falling out of the sky somewhere in the outback. He gave Scotty a beer on the house for sheer audacity and inventiveness. Scotty was glad enough to down the amber life-giver and went outside one more time slowly, his eyes peering closely into every likely spot. He finally gave it up, starting to worry about his beginning to see things. Anyway, it was time to move on. The succession of ridges ahead of him waited patiently. Twenty wheeler trucks bearing the legends of various multinational and national companies ran up and down the highway. Scotty wondered if anyone of those drivers might have come across the cortege and what the drivers would have done.