Growing Pineapples in the Outback

by Tony Kelly

  The three of us spend a couple of days there, talking to people about how they are linked to country just across the border back in Queensland. Native title is a long-winded business, and these people have been talking about it for years to various lawyers and anthropologists, but despite their frustrations and initial distrust, by the end of our last day there’s a large crowd sitting around us under the shade of the basketball court, talking freely about their connections to country.

  We decide to detour via Urandangie on the way back to Mount Isa. We call in at the pub for a lemon squash, and then make our way to Marmanya, a small outstation on the edge of town. Marmanya was set up as a model community back in the early 1990s, with architecturally designed state-of-the-art houses. Over time it fell into severe disrepair, and the corporation established to run it became defunct and failed to pay rates for years.

  When I first moved to Mount Isa, there was a strong desire by many in the community to get the place up and running again, but negotiations with the titles office and the council have stalled. This hasn’t stopped one family from moving back in, and repairing some of the houses and planting a garden. I’m heartened by the agency and industry this family has displayed, not waiting for the turgid bureaucratic wheels to roll.

  I drop the consultants at their motel and head home. Beck and Diana are watching Letters and Numbers. I dump my gear and, it being an even day, go outside with a beer in hand and water the garden. The trip has been interesting and profoundly satisfying. I feel the best I have in weeks.

  11

  This is Living

  Rebecca

  At lunch Mum asks, ‘Did you pick up my medication?’

  ‘Nah, I couldn’t be bovvered,’ I say.

  Mum laughs, and says with a nasal drawl, ‘Yeah, couldn’t be bovvered.’

  We both giggle. This is one of our favourite little expressions.

  Years ago I was facilitating a series of drama workshops for a group of young women in Wynnum, in Brisbane. One week, only half the women turned up. I was surprised, as the workshops had, up until then, been very well attended.

  ‘Where are the others today?’ I asked one of the women.

  ‘I was talkin’ to ’em,’ she said, ‘and they said they couldn’t be bovvered comin’.’

  I laughed. ‘Fair enough!’

  I totally got it – some days you just can’t be bothered! And there’s no point in lying or calling it anything else. Apathy deserves its time in the sun. I’d told Mum what the young woman had said and she’d loved it.

  ‘I did try to go to the chemist before coming home for lunch,’ I tell Mum, ‘but downtown was so crowded and I couldn’t get a park.’

  ‘The grey nomads are in town for Mardi Gras and the rodeo,’ Mum says. ‘I saw all the campervans when I was on the bus.’

  ‘Yep,’ I say, ‘the town is awash with grey nomads and ringers.’

  ‘Seen any buckle bunnies?’ says Mum.

  ‘Oh, Mum, don’t say that!’ I say.

  ‘Why not?’ she asks. ‘Tony calls you one.’

  I cringe a bit. ‘He’s being ironic!’ I protest.

  Mum is right – Tony does call me a buckle bunny. I have a wardrobe full of western clothes – shirts, belts, hats, boots – and I love a bit of rodeo sparkle on my belt buckles and jeans. I’m definitely a try-hard cowgirl, but I am not a buckle bunny.

  ‘It’s a derogatory term,’ I tell Mum. ‘It’s used as a slur to describe women who supposedly hang around rodeo grounds trying to pick up rodeo champions. They usually wear tiny denim cut-off shorts with big belts, western shirts tied at the front, high-heeled boots and lots of sparkle and bling.’

  ‘Are you going to wear that on the Mardi Gras float?’ Mum asks.

  ‘No, of course not! We’re all wearing our Headspace work shirts!’

  ‘That’s not much fun,’ says Mum.

  She’s right – it’s not much fun. I had hoped we might be wearing costumes, or at least dressing up, but ultimately I don’t mind what I have to wear. In all the years I have been associated with Mount Isa I’ve never been on a Mardi Gras float, so I’m pretty stoked to be getting a chance at last.

  The Mardi Gras is an annual Mount Isa night-time community parade. It marks the start of the three-day rodeo. Anyone can enter a float, and people go to great lengths to decorate them. There’s good prize money up for grabs for the best efforts. It’s a lively event. Everyone comes out in their hats and chequered shirts and lines the main streets to watch. There’s food, drink and live music, and after the parade people wander down to the rodeo grounds to watch the bull riding championships or head to Fred Brophy’s boxing tent.

  When I was a kid, Mum always made me a new cowgirl outfit for Mardi Gras and rodeo, and we all got new hats. We’d go out to the rodeo grounds as a family, watch the events and go on the rides in sideshow alley. It was one of the few events that Dad didn’t drink at. David would always go in the calf-riding event, which was pretty exciting.

  I love the energy the rodeo brings to town, but I hate the cruelty to the animals. As a kid, I hated seeing horses break their legs. A horse would fall and someone would come into the main arena with a gun and shoot it. A crane with a harness would then be rolled out and the horse would be carted away. I remember being terrified watching the bronco events for fear that a horse would get injured. I still hate the way animals are treated in rodeos – the use of spurs, flank straps and electronic prodders. I love events like the barrel races that show the skill of both human and horse. I’d be happy with a rodeo of just that, but I know I’d be laughed out of town if I suggested it. The rodeo is a huge tourist attraction and plays a big role in maintaining Mount Isa’s reputation as a frontier settlement. But for many locals the events are irrelevant and it’s just an excuse for a three-day piss-up.

  ‘Are the buckle bunnies like groupies?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I think cowgirls or Rodeo Queen entrants is probably the term you’re looking for, Mum.’

  ‘No,’ says Mum, ‘the term I was looking for was definitely buckle bunny!’

  I laugh and go back to my lunch.

  ‘Did you ever want to be a Rodeo Queen entrant?’ Mum asks.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘You were Miss Mount Isa High School,’ she says.

  I say nothing.

  ‘Seems like a natural trajectory,’ Mum presses.

  ‘I didn’t want to be a Rodeo Queen, Mum!’

  ‘You could have been driven down the main street draped across the front of a new Holden,’ she says, ‘wearing an evening gown.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t want to be a Rodeo Queen!’

  ‘What about the Charity Queen?’

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘You like doing good in the community. You could have raised money for Headcase.’

  ‘It’s Headspace, Mum, Headspace!’

  ‘Oh yes, Headspace.’

  ‘It didn’t exist back then.’

  ‘That’s a pity. You could have made a lot of money for them. The queens raise a lot of money for charity.’

  Some days I wonder if Mum’s medication is making her too happy.

  ‘Your grandmother used to ride in rodeos,’ Mum says.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When she was young. She was an excellent rider, and loved the rodeo events.’

  ‘Why have you never told me this before?’

  ‘I only thought of it now.’

  I look at Mum and realise that her response is genuine. Our family have been to hundreds of rodeos, and this is the first time I’ve ever heard this fact about my grandmother. Life with Mum sometimes feels like a slow-reveal soap opera. With each episode another piece of information is revealed, allowing the characters to become a fraction more rounded.

&
nbsp; ‘Was she ever a Rodeo Queen?’ I ask.

  ‘Not that I know of!’

  ‘A buckle bunny?’

  Mum laughs. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’

  We finish our lunch and have a quick game of cribbage.

  As I leave to go back to work, Mum says, ‘Don’t forget my medication.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I say. ‘I’ll go straight after work.’

  ‘You better make it fast otherwise you’ll miss Letters and Numbers,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll be home in time. You better have the kettle on!’

  ‘If I can be bovvered,’ Mum says.

  ‘What did your mum make for lunch today?’ Jacquie, my boss at Headspace, asks when I return to the office.

  ‘Vegetable and barley soup,’ I reply.

  ‘Yum!’ she says.

  ‘And I had fruitcake and a cup of tea for dessert.’

  ‘I want that lunch!’ she laughs. Some of the other staff in the office hear our conversation and laugh too.

  ‘How’s your mum?’ asks Christina.

  Christina is a colleague at work. We’ve become friends. She has an elderly father, and while he doesn’t live with her in Mount Isa, she’s acutely aware of all the vulnerabilities that come with old age. She often enquires about Mum.

  ‘Perky,’ I say.

  Christina laughs. ‘Any more falls?’

  I nod. ‘I was sitting down at Dinky’s on Saturday afternoon, having a chat on the phone to a friend in Melbourne, and I heard a thud upstairs. My friend heard it too. I said goodbye really quickly, raced upstairs and found Mum on the kitchen floor.’

  ‘Did you have to get the ambulance again?’

  I shake my head. ‘I thought I was going to have to. It took me ages to get her up. She doesn’t have much strength in her arms or legs, and I’m not quite strong enough to lift her by myself. I did eventually get her up and into her chair, checked her for lumps, bumps or cuts and then gave her a bowl of ginger pudding and custard. Pretty soon she was right as rain!’

  Christina laughs. ‘Good thing you were home, though.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How’s Tony?’

  ‘Good,’ I say.

  ‘That’s good. You two are doing such a great job,’ she says.

  I smile and say thanks, then head to my desk.

  I’d like to tell Christina the truth. Things are not good with Tony, but I know he doesn’t want me to talk about it. I’ve barely even spoken about it with Mum. She knows something is up and has asked me if Tony is okay, but I don’t want to discuss it with her. I think if she knew she would fret and worry that Tony felt trapped because of her.

  Tony was not himself on the weekend.

  ‘Can you dig me some more big holes out the back, Tone?’ I had asked. I wanted to buy a few more native plants and get them in while the weather was cool.

  ‘Why are you buying more plants?’ he asked in return.

  ‘To plant,’ I said. ‘Why else would I be buying plants?’

  I thought this was quite humorous, but Tony didn’t smile.

  ‘I think we’ve put enough plants in,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t.’

  Tony didn’t say anything.

  ‘I want to plant the back out more,’ I continued.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So it looks better, so it attracts more birds, so it’s not an ugly dustbowl.’

  Still Tony said nothing.

  ‘Do you think I’m spending too much money on plants?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he replied.

  ‘Do you want me to dig the holes?’

  ‘I can do it.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘The plants take so much time to look after.’

  ‘I’ll look after them. You don’t have to,’ I said.

  At first Tony didn’t reply, then finally he said, ‘I feel like you want to plant and grow more things and put down deeper roots, and I just don’t know if I’m able to stay here.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  I could think of nothing more to say. I wrapped my arms around his lean frame and burrowed into his familiarity.

  It’s true. I can feel myself putting down more and deeper roots.

  Recently I said to my friend Jude, ‘I feel so great. I think it must be all the sunlight and vitamin D out here. Releases all the endorphins.’

  ‘It might be that you’re living with and caring for your mum,’ she said. ‘That sort of loving has got to be good for the endorphins too.’

  For a moment I did not speak. Jude’s comment created an electrical charge and I knew she was right. Looking after Mum and creating this life out here has made me feel deeply content.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I agree.’

  I had thought that taking the job at Headspace might cause strain at home but it’s actually been the opposite. It’s done us all the world of good. It’s opened up other things for the three of us to talk about. Mum loves hearing about my work and the various projects and events that are happening through Headspace.

  I don’t think I wanted to acknowledge it, but I was isolated last year, and unsure how to fix it. Now I have work and people who are becoming friends, and my world has expanded.

  But for Tony it’s been the opposite. Over the last few months he has looked at jobs in a variety of places, and each time I’ve been supportive and open to what that might look like. At one point he contemplated a move to Cairns. The plan was that he would go and I would stay here, but at the last moment I told him I just couldn’t do it. We’d made the move out here together, and I couldn’t imagine it being just Mum and me. Of course we’d both be fine, but we’d both be worse off for it. I do want to dig more holes and plant more trees, but I don’t want to do it without Tony. I don’t know what the solution is.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon doing research for my mental health project, and supervising my two social work students. It’s been a number of years since I have supervised students and I’m enjoying it. I’ve never held any academic aspirations but I like working with students while they learn how to put their academic knowledge into practice. I feel like I’m ‘back on the tools’, and I love it.

  I leave work on the dot of 5 pm and drive to the pharmacy. I hope there’s no queue, and that Mum’s medications are ready. I’m keen to get home; I know Mum will be waiting for me. I head inside, and before I can even check out the queue situation I see a man coming towards me. He’s grinning from ear to ear. Oh no, I think.

  ‘Becca Lister!’ he calls out.

  I smile and he strides up to me. I stretch my hand out before he gets close enough to hug me; he has the look of a hugger.

  ‘Hey!’ I say, all upbeat and perky.

  ‘You look exactly the same!’ he says. ‘I’d recognise you anywhere!’

  I just smile.

  ‘Don’t ya remember me?’ he asks. His smile is so broad that I don’t have the heart to tell him the truth. I tilt my head and narrow my eyes, and hope that I’m giving the impression of someone trying to conjure up when they last saw their good old pal.

  ‘Grade 1, Barkly Highway Primary School!’ he says.

  You’ve got to be joking, I think. I stand with my mouth agape, unable to think of anything to say.

  ‘Bruce!’ he says. ‘Bruce Barlow!’

  ‘Bruce, right, of course!’ I say.

  ‘Remember me sister, Karen?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah!’ I say, but of course I have no idea who she is either.

  ‘She’s still a bitch,’ he says.

  I can’t think of anything to say to this, but it doesn’t matter. Bruce has the conversation in hand.

  ‘I seen you were back in town,’ he says.

  I nod and smile.

  ‘I seen ya down Kmart,
and then in the paper for Headspace and that.’

  I nod and smile.

  ‘We didn’t have nothing like that when we was kids, ay?’

  ‘Nope,’ I say. I feel very proud that I have been able to get one word out.

  ‘I miss the good old days but,’ he says. ‘Whole town has changed now, ay?’

  Even though he says this with a rising intonation, I know it’s really a statement and not a question. I’m relieved that I don’t have to answer.

  ‘Everyone is just here for the coin now, ay?’ he says.

  I nod.

  ‘Not like the good old days when we was kids and everyone knew everyone. Now I come down the street and see no one I know.’

  I nod.

  ‘I blame the twelve-hour rosters,’ he goes on. ‘No one can do nothin’ ’cept work. It’s bullshit, ay?’

  I just keep nodding and smiling. I don’t feel the same nostalgia that Bruce clearly feels, but I agree that twelve-hour rotating shifts are not conducive to building community. People are either on four-day or seven-day rosters, which makes it hard to maintain regular commitments to any other community activities.

  ‘And don’t get me started on them bloody fly-in, fly-out bastards.’

  No chance of that, I think.

  ‘No one cares about the town no more. All they care about is that bloody stinking smoke coming out of the stack,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s an environmental nightmare.’

  ‘A what?’ Bruce asks.

  ‘Oh … you know, the pollution.’

  My voice fades away. Bruce cocks his head and asks, ‘Are you a greenie?’

  I pause. For a moment I wonder if I should tell him about the traces of lead from the smelter that have been found as far west as Broome. But I don’t have to worry as Bruce just barrels on. ‘Good on ya,’ he says. ‘I’d be a greenie too if I didn’t have to put food on the table.’