112 in the shade, but there’s no shade.

The melting tar of the road danced its way off into the infinity of the heat haze. Miles in either direction, and not a sign of life, not a breath of wind to stir the dust. Too hot even for the ubiquitous magpies to be bothered scouring the sky or scrub.

“I’ve done it now,” he thought. “Who’s stupid idea was it to hitch across the Nullarbor? Stuck out in the middle of nowhere, on the hottest Christmas Day in South Australia’s memory! It’s all right for radio announcers to parrot that from the comfort of an air-conditioned studio. The reality is another matter.”

The idea had seemed a lot better from the other side of Christmas Eve, when he’d set out from Sydney. He’d always wanted to go to Perth, but somehow he’d got stuck in the Sydney rat-race for three far-too-long years. In a couple of weeks he’d be leaving without the dream achieved, and that was too much of a challenge.

So first thing Christmas Eve morning he’d caught the train out to Liverpool, and was hanging his thumb out to the traffic by seven. Things had gone incredibly well. It took only five lifts to Adelaide, and the fifth was a travelling salesman in a hurry to be home. They’d sat on a steady 80 throughout the vast wheatfields of South Australia, the horizon seldom broken by the faintest hint of a hill, and even bluegums appeared as an intrusion on the flat landscape.

It was almost the tick of midnight when they hit Adelaide, a thousand miles covered, and the dormitory of the YMCA provided a few hours sleep before he was on the road again. Christmas Day – but the almost clinical lines of the Adelaide city centre in the deserted grey morning failed to communicate to him the world’s celebration of a new birth, and he hurried to get out of the city.

The sun came up like a warrior off to battle, making short work of the early cloud before casting round for fresh victims. He was grateful that rides were frequent, if not long.

It was Port Pirie when it started to hit home. A barren place at the best of times, its main existence the great mining projects of the southern state. At midday on Christmas Day, almost hostile in the blazing heat.

Years of childhood Christmases fell on him, and he felt an urgent need to somehow recapture briefly that spirit of the past. But apparently that spirit no longer dwelt in the hearts of the Port Pirie hoteliers. None would take an unscheduled traveller for dinner, and as each turned him away the laughter from the rooms beyond cut a bit deeper.

In the end, the best he could do was a couple of cheese and tomato sandwiches from a dairy* which he caught just closing for the day. He also bought a couple of cans of juice for his pack, hoping they’d be some shield against desert thirst.

(*Corner shop) The sandwiches lasted him half a mile, and a few minutes later a cattle farmer in a battered utility picked him up. It turned out to be the shortest lift of the whole journey, though – 15 miles out, before the farmer said cheerfully, “Here’s where I head for my Christmas dinner,” and dropped him before turning off onto a dusty track that disappeared through the mulga scrub towards some low hills five miles or so away.

Too far to walk back to town in that heat, goodness knows how many miles to Port Augusta, next up the line. And passing traffic non-existent, almost. It was an hour before the next car, and the shouted “Merry Christmas” from the two youths and two girls inside was almost lost to the roar of the souped-up engine as they sped past. The dust settled again in the oven-heat stillness, and he savagely shattered a pair of cast-off beer bottles with a couple of well-aimed stones.

He fell into a semi-trance of drifting thoughts, so he had no idea how much time had passed when a low thrumming announced the approach of another vehicle. Only half-hoping, he thumbed it, breathed a thanks as it stopped 20 yards on, grabbed his pack, and jogged up to the passenger side.

Not wanting to give the driver a chance to change his mind, he hopped straight in, and tossed his pack over the back seat. “Can only help you to Port Augusta,” said the driver, and that’s when he realised with surprise it was a woman.

“You’re taking a risk, aren’t you?” he asked. “Woman drivers on their own don’t pick up hitch-hikers.”

“And neither do I,” she replied. “You can thank a flat tyre for the change in policy.” He raised his eyebrows. “I was half-way to Port Pirie when it blew. I could see a service station not far ahead, limped in there to get it changed, but the mechanic was on holiday and the attendant was only a temporary help and couldn’t fix it. He changed the wheel over for me though, and while I was waiting I went into the pub over the road for a shandy*. One of the chaps in the bar had given you a ride further back, and told me about this guy hitching to Perth that he’d picked up. When I saw you standing there, I figured from his description you must be the same person. He seemed to think you were harmless, if nuts, so I broke my rule.”

(*Beer and lemonade)

“Well I certainly appreciate the lift – it’s baking out here, and I was certainly beginning to feel like I was the one being prepared for dinner,” he said.

“I can assure you, it’s even hotter for me in my condition,” the woman remarked.

“Condition?” It took him a few moments to realise that the woman was in an advanced state of pregnancy. The surprise must have shown on his face.

“It’s okay, I’m not due till next week. Though I must admit the lousy state of these roads hasn’t made me any too comfortable. I haven’t been feeling too good since Port Pirie,” she said as she slipped the car into gear and moved off. “If I don’t improve, I might have to trust you to drive a bit,” she grinned.

They had scarcely picked up speed before a look of consternation came over her. “What on earth!” she began, and then found herself struggling with the wheel as the car veered to the shoulder of the road, bucked viciously off the macadam, ploughed into scrub and finally came to rest in a shallow ditch.

He was shaken but unhurt. “Are you okay?” he asked anxiously. “I think so,” she ventured. “What on earth happened? A blow-out?”

“Stay here, I’ll have a look,” he said, opening his door with difficulty against a mulga bush. The thorny branches scratched mercilessly as he clambered round the car. When he got to the rear the answer was obvious – a wheel hanging at a crazy angle.

“Is this the one that had the puncture?” he called out.

“Yes.”

“Then I’d say at a guess you’ve been the victim of an incompetent. He can’t have tightened the nuts properly when he put the wheel back on. I’d have a piece of him.” And he made his way round to the driver’s door. The woman didn’t answer, and he was startled to see her white-faced, clenching her teeth, hands gripping the wheel.