Growing Pineapples in the Outback

by Tony Kelly

  It’s impossible not to smile.

  ‘People earn more now, but I reckon it was better when we didn’t earn as much and had more community.’

  ‘Me too, Bruce, me too!’

  Bruce gives me his wide smile. ‘Can’t believe I’m talking to ya!’ he says. ‘I remember when you were on TV.’

  ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘Nineteen seventy-seven, A Way with Words.’

  ‘Debatin’ show, wasn’t it?’

  I nod.

  ‘I liked that show,’ says Bruce. ‘Your team was the winning one, ay?’

  I nod. I am amazed he has remembered this.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d ever come back here,’ says Bruce.

  ‘I’m looking after Mum,’ I tell him.

  ‘Still live in the same house near the park?’ he asks.

  ‘Yep,’ I say.

  ‘Your mum must be old as now, ay?’

  ‘Ninety-two,’ I say.

  ‘Ninety-two! Fuck, that’s old, ay!’

  I smile and nod.

  ‘Anyway, I gotta go. I got the missus waiting in the car and she’ll crack the shits if she knows I’m wasting me time in here yarning on.’ Bruce laughs, so I do too. He reaches out his hand and we shake. He’s still grinning from ear to ear. ‘Good to see ya!’ he says.

  ‘You too,’ I say.

  ‘True, you haven’t changed one bit, not one little bit. I’d recognise you anywhere!’ Bruce gives me one last wave and leaves.

  The pharmacist hands me the medication and asks, ‘How’s your mum?’

  For the briefest of moments I wonder what to say. Do I tell her that some nights Mum isn’t good at all, and Tony and I go to bed wondering if she’ll make it through the night, only to be woken by the sound of her humming in the morning?

  Or do I tell her that some days I come home from work and find Mum slumped in her chair, and have to sit her up and give her water and sponge her down with a damp cold washer until she becomes lucid again?

  Or do I tell her that sometimes Mum loses control of her bowels, and I find traces of faeces on her clothes and bed linen, and have to organise her to have extra showers?

  I don’t. I say everything is fine and give her a smile. And it’s true. Mum is fine; we’re all fine. There’s nothing more we can say.

  I swing out of the car park and head north to the big bridge. I think about Bruce – I still can’t place him. I ring my brother Dave.

  ‘What’s he look like?’ Dave asks.

  ‘He’s as tall as he is wide,’ I say, and Dave laughs. ‘He has a sister called Karen,’ I go on. ‘Apparently she’s still a bitch.’

  Dave laughs again. He can’t place Bruce or Karen, and he tells me I should check with Mum. ‘She’ll know for sure.’

  I agree.

  ‘How is Mum?’ Dave asks.

  ‘She’s good. Waiting for me at home to watch Letters and Numbers.’

  ‘Youse are doing a good job, you and Tony, a real good job,’ Dave says. ‘You know that, hey?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say.

  ‘I gotta go. Gotta get a crane hooked up and get it back to Mackay. Talk to ya on the weekend. Love ya.’

  ‘Love ya too,’ I say, but I think he’s already hung up.

  I tear up Madang Street, see Maleka and give her a last-minute swerve. I wouldn’t say that I’ve begun to like Maleka, but my current bonhomie has made me far more compassionate towards her. We have, of late, developed a more convivial relationship. She’s stopped barking every time she sees me, and occasionally even comes into our yard for a sit in the shade.

  My latest issue with Shawn and Cheyenne are their chooks. They are completely free range, and dig up my seedlings and destroy the small gardens that we have set up under the frangipani trees. Rather than screaming at Maleka, I currently spend a portion of each day chasing the chooks out of our yard with the broom. The young couple who live on the other side of us tell us that they often come home and find the chooks having a dip in their pool.

  I pull into the backyard and notice Tony is not home yet. I was hoping he’d get back in time to watch Letters and Numbers with us. He’s not as much of a fan as I am, but he’s alert and fast and it makes the competitive nature of the show all the more enjoyable. It’s a fun thing for us to do together.

  I look at my watch as I rush up the back ramp. Twenty-seven minutes past five. ‘Quick,’ I say to Mum, ‘stand up so I can move your chair.’

  Mum stands and I move her chair so it faces the television. ‘I’ve made a pot of tea,’ she tells me.

  ‘Great!’ I grab two cups and pour the tea. I turn on the TV and we’re right on time. I plonk onto the couch as the opening tune, ticking clock and visuals appear. I take a sip and think, ‘This is living!’

  Mum and I both play well in the first round. Mum makes a seven-letter word and I solve the numbers game. We both have our strong areas, and we both play with competitive determination. We like doing well. Just before the ad break, the host gives the clue for the first word mix: ‘What can housework and airlines both have in common? The clue is COST DIME.’

  I mute the TV so we don’t have to listen to the ads.

  ‘Cost dime,’ says Mum. She writes the words in the air with her finger.

  ‘Housework and airlines,’ I say.

  ‘Cos, dos, time, tic, stime, dom,’ says Mum.

  ‘Domestic!’ I say.

  ‘Good one!’ says Mum.

  We are on a roll tonight.

  ‘Who would you invite over for a dinner party,’ I ask Mum. ‘Richard, David or Lily?’ They’re the hosts of the show.

  ‘Who else would be at the dinner?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Tony, you and me. As well as either Richard, David or Lily, you could have two others so there are six at the table.’

  ‘Yes. The table is good for six. I’ll use the Noritake,’ says Mum.

  ‘Nice,’ I say. ‘And we can use the linen tablecloth you bought in New York with the six matching serviettes.’

  ‘It’ll all need ironing!’ says Mum. She sounds almost panicked.

  ‘I’ll get started now!’ I say, and make to jump up. I turn and look at Mum and we both crack up.

  ‘Who would you invite?’ I ask again, once I’ve stopped laughing.

  ‘All of them,’ she says. ‘With us and them, we’d have the perfect six at the table.’

  ‘I agree,’ I say.

  Mum drinks her tea and we sit in silence, waiting for our show to come back on. I think about an Andrew Denton interview Mum and I watched years ago. The guest was a well-known Australian writer. She was funny, intelligent and animated. She had a broad mouth and excellent teeth. Denton didn’t need to do much in the way of talking as she chattered liberally and fulsomely. I was quite taken by her. At the end of the show, I said to Mum, ‘Wasn’t she wonderful?’

  Mum just gave a simple nod.

  Undeterred, I gushed on. ‘I’d love to meet her. Don’t you think she’d be fun to have at a dinner party?’

  Mum thought about this and then replied, ‘I do think that one might find her to be rather socially tiresome.’

  Even in my state of excitement I could see just how right Mum was, and just how funny her statement was. What a genteel way to describe someone who takes up all the airtime.

  The second part of the show begins and I turn the sound back on. Mum is on fire. She gets another seven-letter word and then a six-letter word.

  Tony comes home midway through the show. Mum and I both smile at him but he knows we won’t talk until the ad break. He knows the routine so does not take offence. He sits at the kitchen table and reads the newspaper.

  I look across at him and can see that he’s tired. Tomorrow he has tennis, and on the weekend we’re going to Melbourne together for a few days to pack up our house and move our things into stora
ge. It’s going to be a huge job, but I also think it’ll be the change of scenery that Tony needs.

  The credits roll and that’s our show for another night.

  ‘What’s the plan for dinner?’ asks Mum.

  ‘I thought I might heat up the pies we made on the weekend, Diana,’ Tony says, ‘and have them with mashed potato and steamed green beans.’

  ‘That sounds nice,’ Mum says. ‘I’ll do the potatoes while you water the garden.’

  Tony and I go outside. We stand on the back ramp and look at the sunset. The sky is glowing red and pink.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ says Tony.

  ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘You don’t get this down in Melbourne, do ya?’

  Tony smiles but says nothing.

  We spend the next hour watering. I love being outside, and quite like hand-watering but we’ve got too much grass. We water every second day, the grass grows, and every three weeks we pay someone to come and mow it. The grass looks nice but we only sit on one small part of it. I feel like it’s a waste of water, time and money.

  ‘I think I have become an anti-lawnist,’ I say to Tony.

  ‘Is that a word?’ he asks.

  ‘It should be,’ I say.

  ‘Do you think we should concrete everything?’

  ‘Yeah, concrete it or plant it out with edible plants or natives or water-efficient plants, but just get rid of all the wasted grass.’

  Tony goes to the shed and comes back with the crowbar. ‘Where do you want me to dig the new holes?’ he asks.

  We walk around the backyard and look at spots where we’ll put more plants. Tony starts to dig the holes and I continue to water.

  After a while I can smell the pies heating up in the oven and feel hungry. I’m looking forward to dinner. I see the neighbour’s chooks scratching around under the trees, and pick them up and put them over the fence. I watch them scurry back to their coop. We still have the crossword to finish from the weekend paper, there’s ice cream for dessert, and after dinner I’ll play a game of Upwords with Mum.

  When we finally get into bed, I tell Tony about my conversation with Bruce. With the excitement of Letters and Numbers and watering and Upwords and ice cream, I had forgotten to tell him.

  Tony laughs. ‘Did you ask Diana if she knew who Bruce was?’

  ‘Nah,’ I say.

  ‘Why not?’ asks Tony.

  ‘I couldn’t be bovvered,’ I say.

  Tony laughs and turns out the light.

  12

  Trying to Escape

  Tony

  The sun edges over the western horizon as the small Rex airlines plane eases into the sky and turns its nose northeast, towards Cairns. I’m heading for a job interview. When I applied a couple of weeks earlier, both Beck and I had been open to the possibility. I’d fly back once a month for a long weekend, and Beck would also come to Cairns once a month, which would mean we’d be apart for no longer than two weeks at any one time. Beck likes Cairns, and maybe after Diana died we could live there for a while before returning to Melbourne. The job would be hugely interesting, working on native title business up and down the Cape.

  The western sky has gone from yellow to red, and the shades of blue in the sky above are graded from a thin washed-out blue, through a rich navy, to a star-inflected purplish black. I try to imagine doing this flight on a monthly basis – FIFO in reverse, heading away from the mining town for work, not to it. There’s a romantic appeal. I conjure up a sun-filled bungalow in Cairns, set amid a tropical garden and raised off the ground to capture the breeze from the Coral Sea. I would put myself on small planes darting up and down the Cape, meeting with the traditional owners and drawing maps in the dirt. I allow the fantasy to meander as we fly through the darkening sky, accompanied by the steady hum of the engines.

  We land, and as I wander through the almost empty terminal towards the taxi rank, I realise with absolute clarity that the plan will never work. I don’t want this lonely life. The feeling is compounded over the next couple of hours as I check into my hotel and walk the streets looking for food. It’s Monday night and the streets are even emptier than the airport. Eventually I find a Thai place that’s open, and order pad thai with fresh chillies to take back to my room. Rebecca, Diana and our cosy little Madang Street world seem so far away.

  The next morning, despite my building misgivings, I bring my A game to the interview, which lasts nearly two hours. I know the job will be mine by the time I leave. When the boss, Peter, rings and offers me the job a couple of days later, I’m caught in a bind. The job appeals to me greatly. I really connected with Peter and the two traditional owners who interviewed me. I know the job will be interesting, and I want out of my current job. I play for time and tell Peter I’ll give him an answer after the weekend. I’m not sure what I’m hoping for, but perhaps something will happen in the intervening days that will somehow make taking the job the only sensible option. Perhaps we can make the maths work, and the frequency of my trips back to Mount Isa and Beck’s trips to Cairns will make the time apart less consequential. Perhaps Beck will decide that she and her mum will follow, and we’ll all live in Cairns happily until Diana dies. Perhaps I’ll conclude that it’s truly impossible for me to continue where I am and that I have no other option.

  But I know none of these is likely. I also know that I could push and Beck would give her endorsement and try to make it work. But that feels like me getting my own way, a repeat of previous big decisions where my needs edged out Beck’s.

  And when it comes down to it, I like our Mount Isa world. I don’t want to dismantle what we’ve got and what we’ve committed to. Furthermore, I don’t want to triangulate our centres of gravity by adding Cairns to Melbourne and Mount Isa. I’m sure I can manage the tensions with head office.

  On Monday evening after work I call Peter. ‘I can’t take the job,’ I tell him. ‘I’m disappointed.’

  ‘I am too,’ he replies.

  ‘It just won’t work with the family. But thank you.’

  ‘I understand. We’ll find someone else. Good luck,’ he tells me.

  ‘You too.’ I hang up.

  I take myself outside to water the garden. The sun is setting and the hills are aglow. Relief courses through me.

  I put my head down at work and get on with it. Despite the fence topped with barbed wire that runs around the office, Bernice and I try to make the place as welcoming as possible to the various native title holders in the district. The local mob are the Kalkadoon, but in the area surrounding are the Pitta Pitta, Mitakoodi, Yulina, Bularnu, Waluwarra and Wangkangujuru, just to name a few. And many of them have made their homes in Mount Isa and are actively involved in managing their native title interests.

  From time to time some will drop in on the pretext of getting the details of a forthcoming meeting or signing a form of some sort, but I know they really just want a chat. I often make a cup of tea and we sit out under the carport in the heat so they can smoke. I love listening to their stories of growing up on the stations. Many of the older generation were born on one of the stations in the area, such as Roxborough, Glenormiston and Headingly. Many of them were kids when they moved to Dajarra, the biggest town in the area at the time, and the focal point for the stock routes that ran from the west. Cattle were driven there and then put on trains bound for the east coast. The families followed the cattle and work, and sent their kids to school in town. Eventually, as trucks took over from trains, and more mines opened up, Mount Isa became the bigger town, and over time many families moved here. This and the granting of equal pay to Aboriginal stockmen in 1968 led to an exodus from the bush. The pastoralists were only prepared to employ white people, and closed down the Aboriginal camps. The dispossession which had commenced a hundred years earlier was now complete.

  Today Lance has called in. He does so a lot, and this time I’m busy preparing documents f
or a meeting and so I give him short shrift. ‘I gotta get this document finished, Lance. What can I do for you?’

  ‘All I need’s the phone.’

  ‘No worries,’ I tell him.

  He rings the works supervisor for the Boulia Shire Council and lines up a walk. This involves surveying an area where the council plans to do some work – widen a road, put in a drain, extract gravel – to ensure that no cultural heritage will be damaged.

  Lance hangs up and gives me a nod. ‘Gotta do a walk at Headingly. Taking me nephew along.’ He leaves happy, knowing that in a couple of days he’ll be back out on country and getting paid for it.

  Georgina and Lucille and my eldest sister, Anne, come to town to visit, and also to go camping at Boodjamulla (Lawn Hill) National Park. Diana’s little house bulges. I can see that Diana is shy around Anne, and retreats into her green chair and into herself. I know this upsets Beck and puts her on edge. She wants everyone to see the fun, smart and welcoming side of Diana, not this closed-off one. But Anne is very kind and capable socially, and is not easily deterred. Soon she has Diana back at the kitchen table, playing Upwords.

  It’s fantastic to have the girls here – it’s the first occasion since we’ve been living here. This time with them is very important for us, but I realise when they arrive that it’s also very important for them. It’s easy for me to think that our move up here is having no impact on them. Beck and I both left home at seventeen. Our girls are in their early twenties, so what’s the big deal? I don’t think I’m prepared to admit that kids leaving home at the time of their choosing and circling back to the family home, which is static and known, is very different to our situation, where the parents have left the kids behind, thereby turning the natural order on its head.

  With the nieces lined up to call in on Diana daily, and a solemn promise from Diana to wear her alarm, we load up the big four-wheel drive and take off for Lawn Hill. We travel west on the Barkly Highway for an hour, then turn north towards the Gregory River. An hour later we cross a cattle grid and I notice a sign: Undilla Station. I turn to Beck. ‘Remember that poster when we first came to town about the kid who went missing?’ Beck nods. ‘This is the place where he was last seen.’ Anne, Georgina and Luci in the back seat prick up their ears and I tell them the story, as much as I know it.