by Tony Kelly
‘She’s a good little helper,’ the woman says.
I smiled shyly. I liked the flattery but already knew that it was not the done thing to bask in praise.
Mum agreed. They talked some more and then we said goodbye.
The woman said, ‘You can drop in any time, Rebecca, and help me with the housework.’
I smiled but didn’t say anything. I knew I wouldn’t be back. I wasn’t interested in her housework jobs: too boring and no tea break.
As Mum and I walked home, I said, ‘I wasn’t really going to walk to Grandma’s.’
‘I know,’ Mum said.
‘I was just going to walk around the block.’
Again Mum said, ‘I know.’ It never crossed my mind to ask how she knew where I was.
When I got home I was allowed to have another glass of cordial and a biscuit. I was pretty happy about that. My visit to the woman’s house was never mentioned again.
Years later, Mum told me that the woman had called in to a radio station, saying there was a little lost girl called Rebecca, with blonde hair, found roaming the streets in Soldiers Hill. Mum’s neighbour heard this and came over and told Mum.
‘But I wasn’t lost,’ I said to Mum.
‘I know,’ she said.
I did eventually get to spend time with my grandma, and though I knew I was not her favourite grandchild we were good mates. I loved visiting her when she moved to Cloncurry and became manager of the CWA hostel. There was something curious and mysterious about her that I could never quite put my finger on. She was very much her own person, but also had an old-fashioned formality about her. She had olive skin, an aquiline nose and long hair that she wore in a chignon at the back of her head. I was fair, burnt easily and had wispy blonde hair that was never going to be pulled into anything other than a scrawny pigtail.
I went to my first high school dance when I was twelve and in Year 8. All week we had watched preparations being made. The dance was going to happen on the school tennis courts, and large sheets of hessian were hung across the tall wire fences to create a private space. The tennis nets and umpires’ seats were removed, and party lights were strung around the courts. A huge PA system was trucked in.
On Friday night the courts were packed. It felt like every kid at school had turned up. The dance went off – there was smoking and kissing and fighting and sneaky drinking. I had never seen anything like it. My friends and I spent most of our time hiding up the back, just watching the antics. The PA pumped out all the latest hits, and although it was overwhelming it was also exhilarating.
Grandma was at our house when David and I got home from the dance. ‘How was the orchestra?’ she asked.
This question reduced David and me to hysterics. We laughed so much we couldn’t speak.
‘You are both rude and very silly,’ said Grandma, sucking on one of her many Alpine cigarettes. As a teenager, I stole these cigarettes from her and smoked them down the creek with my friends. I hated the taste, but thoroughly enjoyed the naughtiness of it.
Like Mum, Grandma loved the bush. My favourite trips into the bush as a kid were in Cloncurry with Grandma. We’d pick her up from the CWA hostel and head down the riverbed for a picnic. Grandma would always stick her head out the window of the car and say, ‘Can you smell the gidgee?’
I would stick my head out and inhale deeply, but I was never sure what I was trying to smell. Grandma and Mum could also smell when a storm was coming. As I grew up, I eventually got the sense of these smells as well.
Down at the creek, Dad would make a fire, boil the billy and make tea. Mum would slice the fruitcake and get out a tin of homemade biscuits. Sometimes we would stay until after sunset. I loved this time. Mum and Grandma would talk about books and recite poetry. The evening shadows and the light of the fire gave me confidence, and I too would recite.
My favourite poem when I was twelve was an extract from ‘Ballad of the Mari Lwyd’ by Vernon Watkins. This poem is very long but my speech and drama teacher had given me a section of it to learn as an example of rhythm and onomatopoeia.
The poem is based on an old Welsh custom that was supposed to bring good luck. A party of people, usually men, would accompany a person disguised as a horse and go from house to house. At each house they would knock on the door, call out and sing in the hope of being let in. If they were let in, they would be rewarded with food and drink, and would sing a bit more before going on to another house.
What I loved was the sound of the words and the rhythm. The word midnight is used as a recurring refrain. My teacher encouraged me to enunciate clearly, but also quickly to create the sense of a galloping horse. I loved it.
In the light of the fire I recited this poem for my family. I thought it was a pretty normal thing to do until my cousin mocked me in the shadows by repeatedly saying, ‘Midnight, midnight, midnight, midnight …’ I guess I was fair game. I was innocent and very much in love with the magic of words, and I wore that love on my sleeve. When you’re twelve, that’s asking for trouble. I was also right on the cusp of adolescence, and developing a teenage self-consciousness and acute sensitivity. My cousin’s teasing literally stopped me in my tracks. I wouldn’t recite poetry aloud again until I was an adult.
As we begin our descent to Mount Isa, I can see the famous smelter stacks looming on the horizon. These are the signposts of the town, and everyone who lives here has a story about how and when they first saw the stacks. For many years there was a popular T-shirt with a picture of the stacks in a car’s rear-view mirror with the words ‘The Best View of Mount Isa’.
The flight into ‘the Isa’ is quite spectacular. Depending on which way you fly in, you either get an incredible view of the landscape or of the mine. Regardless of your feelings about the scar that the mine creates across the side of the town, it’s impossible not to be struck by its size and complexity. This huge industrial monolith stretches for a couple of kilometres across the western side of town, and the tunnels in the area go for miles. The mine is like a city within itself, and although I’m not a fan of the mining industry, the magnitude of the place is impressive.
As a kid, I assumed that all towns had a mine. I remember being surprised on a childhood holiday at the Gold Coast. I kept looking around for some form of industry, and more specifically a mine. I couldn’t fathom that a place could operate without a mine. What did people do for jobs?
When you leave the outskirts of Mount Isa, you don’t see another town for a good hour or so until you hit Mary Kathleen; drive a bit further through the bush and you hit Cloncurry; then you go through the scrub again and find yourself in Julia Creek. The boundaries are clear – but on the Gold Coast it felt like one elongated place. Broadbeach ran into Mermaid Beach, which ran into Miami Beach, and so on. How did people know where they came from? How did they know who was part of their mob? I found these things very perplexing, and was always relieved to get back to Mount Isa, the mine and the clear boundaries that marked out our town.
I left home when I was seventeen and moved away from the bush. First I was an exchange student for a year in the United States, and when I returned I moved to Brisbane to go to university. Over the years, I lived in Brisbane, Boonah, Woodridge, Darwin, Daylesford, Melbourne – and now I’ve come back to Mount Isa.
Before I came back, I think my love of the bush had become more romantic nostalgia than fact. At times it saddens me to think how urban I’ve become. But then out of the blue something would happen that would remind me of my roots.
I remember a family lunch in February 2010. I was listening to a conversation between my brother-in-law Paul and his friend Brian. They were discussing a friend of theirs.
‘I heard he’s in Paris,’ Brian said.
‘What’s he doing?’ asked Paul.
‘Apparently he’s doing a lot of fencing,’ says Brian.
I was very surprised to hear th
is. I’ve been to Paris a couple of times, I think to myself, and I’ve never seen anyone doing any fencing. In fact, I can’t recall ever seeing any fences in Paris … ‘He’s doing fencing?’ I asked incredulously.
Yes, they told me.
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘In Paris?’
‘Fencing originated in France,’ Paul said.
I was even more surprised to hear this – I had no idea. This conversation was strange but also quite illuminating.
Paul continued: ‘Lots of the terms used in fencing are French.’
‘What, like ratchet?’ I asked, miming someone tightening a fence wire.
‘No,’ Paul said, ‘like engarde and épée.’ He mimes holding out a fencing foil.
The penny dropped. They meant the fine art of fencing! I burst out laughing. As hip and urban as I think I am, I will always think that fencing means a bale of wire, utes and post-hole diggers!
The air steward announces that it’s time to put up my tray table, put my seat into the upright position and prepare for landing. I do all these things but hold on to my diary. I want to add something more before I land. I feel there must be something I need to attend to before the year takes off, and I want to make sure I note it down.
With a year of experience of caring for Mum under my belt, I feel ready for what the next twelve months will bring. But I’m also keen to do something more with and for Mum. I know I will maintain all the day-to-day things, but I keep wondering if there’s something else I should be doing.
For a while now I’ve been thinking that maybe I should make some recordings of Mum telling stories. There are still so many things I don’t know about my family, and I wonder whether the best way to do this would be by recording an oral history. I’ve worked on projects like that before, and in fact have recently received funding to do a series of interviews for a new play that I’m writing about suicide.
Mum is often reluctant to talk about things from the past, but maybe if I present it to her as a way of documenting our family history she might be more inclined. I’m not sure, but I make a note of it in my diary.
April 1979. I was sixteen and hanging out with my cousin Bronwyn at her house. It was a school night and I was still wearing my uniform. I loved spending time at this house. It was cool and calm, and I loved my aunty Veronica, uncle Vince and my cousins. We’d all grown up together, and they’d have seen the best and the worst of my family.
Veronica was one of those people who laughs a lot. Vince, who escaped Czechoslovakia during World War II, was creative, and was the first person I knew who did stencilling. He had made beautiful artworks on the walls of their house, and on fabric that he made into curtains and cushion covers. This intrigued me. My dad didn’t make art or use the sewing machine!
Mum and Veronica were sisters, and were very close. When we were little we all spent lots of time together on the weekends, at the swimming pool or the dam or out bush having picnics.
We were all much older now, but Bronwyn and I still sought each other out for friendship. She had spent the last few years at boarding school, but was now back home in Mount Isa. I liked having her around. We didn’t live in each other’s pocket, but we had an ease that came from familiarity.
It was a hot night and we were all crowded around the lounge room air conditioner. My aunty Mary from Rockhampton and my uncle Hilary from Brisbane were also visiting. My brother Paul was home from university.
Grandma, who had left Cloncurry by now and was living in one of the semi-independent units of the aged care facility in Mount Isa, had had a stroke and was in hospital. She couldn’t go back to her unit as she needed daily nursing, and this wasn’t provided by the facility. Mum and her siblings were discussing what needed to happen for Grandma, where she would live and who would look after her.
Suddenly voices were raised and Aunty Veronica spoke loudly and sharply to her siblings. I caught a fraction of what was being said and wanted to hear more, but Paul grabbed my arm and shuffled Bronwyn and me out of the room. He told us to go into the back room and watch TV. I could hear the raised voices but couldn’t make anything out.
A short time later my brother returned and told me we were going. We left quickly; no one said goodbye. Mum, Paul, Aunty Mary and I got into the Kingswood and Paul drove us home. No one spoke. It was strange, but I knew enough of the ways of my family to say nothing.
When we got home, Mum and Aunty Mary went into my parents’ room and shut the door. No one in my family ever shut doors. All discussion, arguments and fights were held in the lounge room or the kitchen. I’d slammed doors on my parents but they never hid what was being discussed. No doubt they’d had many discussions after I was asleep, but at sixteen I was only aware of what happened in my waking world. And in that world all doors were open.
The days drifted on, and as per usual no one spoke about what had happened at my cousins’ house. Grandma came out of hospital and came to live with us. She was partially paralysed and needed twenty-four-hour care. She had lost a lot of her language skills, and Mum spent hours playing Scrabble with her as a way to encourage her to think and speak. The Blue Nurses came every few days and helped with showering and toileting, but mainly it was Mum, Dad and his sister Eileen who did the work.
Thirty-seven years have now passed. Grandma has been dead for thirty-five of those, but my aunty Veronica and uncle Vince have not seen or spoken to my family since that night in their house. Over the years I’ve tried to get Mum to tell me what happened but she won’t. I tried with Aunty Mary too, but she just said, ‘Sometimes things are better left as water under the bridge.’ I thought that was mixing metaphors, but I didn’t say it. I pleaded but Mum and her sister were adamant. The past was past.
Over the years, Bronwyn and I have circled in and out of each other’s lives. We both know that we like each other, and we both want something from each other, but we also know that the past can be painful. I have beautiful memories of her playing the piano. She would play ‘Little Boxes’ for me, and I would skip around the lounge singing the words. It’s been years since I’ve heard her play.
We’ve both tried hard to make our relationship work, but there’s always an elephant in the corner – the hurt of our parents, the unspoken silence between our mothers. Bronwyn and I don’t talk about it either. I want to, but perhaps I am more like my mother than I’m prepared to admit. Perhaps I too am uncomfortable with confronting past hurts, so am also prepared to let it go.
The plane starts to circle the town, and I can see our house in Soldiers Hill. Slowly we descend to the airport on the outskirts of town. It’s just after 7 pm and I know Tony will be waiting for me.
I leave the plane and walk across the tarmac towards the arrivals area. Although it’s early evening, it is still murderously hot but I don’t care. I can see Tony grinning broadly through the glass doors. I wave and rush towards him.
Tony wraps me in a huge hug. The last few months have been hard on him, I know. He hasn’t complained but he’s had to do lot of the caring of Mum by himself as I’ve had so many trips away. He takes it all in his stride but I know he has missed me, and at times has been lonely and bored. While I was in Japan he sent me an email telling me about a story he was thinking of writing about a man who is abandoned by his wife and has to remain caring for his mother-in-law. We both agree it would make a great story, but that it would be just that – a story. I ain’t going anywhere!
Mum shuffles to the back door as the car pulls into the driveway. As I open the car door she steps out onto the back landing. ‘Hello, daughter!’ she calls.
‘Hello, mother!’ I laugh.
I look up and see that Mum has a huge smile across her face. She is wearing her special muu-muu and her hair looks freshly combed. This is a good sign. I get my suitcase and head up the back ramp. Mum waits at the top and gives me a huge hug. I go inside and take my suitcase to the bedroom. Everything looks
so neat and clean, and the air conditioner hums gently. It feels so different from when we arrived twelve months ago.
We sit down to dinner, and Mum runs through a list of questions: ‘How was Luci? Was it cold? Did it rain? Did you only eat Japanese food? Did you see cherry blossoms? How were the trains?’ Mum has always loved travel, and is a great person to chat with after a trip. Lots of people barely acknowledge that you’ve been away but Mum always wants all the details.
I pull out the gifts I’ve brought home. Most of them are food. Mum tries the matcha chocolate and the matcha mochi, and after a few samples announces that she does not like either. She does, however, like the various flavours of KitKat and other chocolate goodies. I give her some beautiful writing paper and tell her about the stationery shop we visited in Tokyo. Tony gets duty-free whisky, chocolate and socks.
After dinner, though I am exhausted, I play a welcome home game of Upwords with Mum. She slaughters me and is very pleased with herself. I am almost delirious with tiredness so I don’t mind at all.
At last I get into bed. Tony reaches down under the bed and pulls out a large wrapped parcel and hands it to me.
‘What’s this?’ I ask.
‘Something you’ve talked about for ages,’ he says.
I can’t for the life of me think what it is. I sit in bed and pull the paper off. Tony watches me, looking excited.
As I rip the paper, I can see the curve of a zip. I take off more paper and see an instrument bag. Inside is a ukulele.
‘You’ve been talking about learning to play something for years,’ Tony says. ‘Now’s the time.’
I take the ukulele out and look at it.
‘Do you like it?’ he asks.
I nod and smile and give it a few strums. ‘Thank you.’
‘I thought you could find songs that Diana likes and play them for her,’ he says.
I smile. ‘Yeah, I like the sound of that.’
It’s true that I’ve been talking for years about playing something again. As a teenager I mucked around on the guitar, but I lost interest when the going got tough. Dad had always wanted me to learn to play the piano but for some reason I turned my back on it. It is now one of my biggest regrets.