Growing Pineapples in the Outback

by Tony Kelly

  A little over two years ago, Kyle Coleman, seventeen, and James Coleman, twenty-one – not related but friends and work colleagues – came out here camping, shooting and drinking. Only James made it back. No one has seen Kyle since, nor have any traces of his remains been discovered.

  The two had loaded up James’s ute with grog and guns and headed for an overnight camping trip along the Gregory River, three hundred kilometres away. Due to heavy rain they couldn’t get through to the river, and turned instead into Undilla Station. The manager gave them permission to camp but advised they wouldn’t get past the first creek crossing. The manager was the last person – other than James – to see Kyle alive. From this point on, the story gets very muddy, much like the rain-soaked dirt tracks the young men went down.

  James returned alone to Mount Isa that night or early the next morning. He told the police they had hung around the station for a while, drinking and shooting cans with a .303 rifle, before returning to Mount Isa. In his statement, James said they drank the rest of the alcohol at his house, and then he went inside to go to the toilet and when he came out Kyle was gone. Four days later, James hanged himself in the back shed of his parents’ house.

  I was able to tell the story in detail as the coroner’s findings had only just been released, and I had read the report with morbid fascination. The coroner found that Kyle was shot by James on Undilla Station, and that James burnt Kyle’s belongings, including his swag and his backpack, which contained his watch and his timesheet book. She found that James Coleman was deliberately untruthful when he said that he and Kyle had returned to Mount Isa together. Despite this, she found that they had been good friends when they left to go camping, and there was no evidence of animosity or a falling-out between them, or that James had any motive to harm Kyle. The coroner concluded that there was no evidence to infer the death was anything other than accidental.

  As we drive along, I wonder what had happened out here. Was it merely a drunken accident or did they have a fight? Was James jealous of Kyle’s friendship with his girlfriend? Was there an unrequited attraction of one to the other? Did they argue about the car Kyle was buying from James, or something to do with work? I think of Kyle’s parents, who’ll never know what happened to their son, and of James’s parents, who not only have the sadness of their son’s death but also the guilt and shame of knowing he lied and died by his own hand, taking all the answers with him. I look out the window and imagine Kyle’s bones lying somewhere out here. Scattered by animals among the low hills, rocks and dry creek beds, or perhaps shoved down an old mine shaft.

  We bounce along the dirt road, lost in our thoughts.

  Back in Mount Isa, the camping trip and the family visit recede from my mind. I’m offered an interview for a senior native title job in the Torres Strait. I decline the interview for all the reasons I turned down the Cape York job, but not without first indulging a fantasy of laid-back island living, eating fresh seafood and snorkelling in crystal-clear waters.

  I also interview for an Indigenous family violence legal job in Mount Isa. I like the people who interview me, and I’m attracted to the idea of travelling the circuit, flying in and out of remote communities, appearing in local courts. But at the end of the interview we discuss money, and the salary doesn’t come close to what I’m currently on so I withdraw my application. I put my head down and get on with my job.

  I’m home for lunch with Diana. Beck is at work. Diana toys with her lunch and stands to make her way back to the recliner. She is suddenly immobilised, the colour drains from her face and her eyes roll back. I move forwards but I’m too late, and Diana crumples to the floor.

  I immediately remember the time this happened with Beck alone, when Diana couldn’t get back to her feet. Then Beck had been forced to call an ambulance. Diana tries to get up. I tell her to wait and bring a chair close by. Together, with her climbing on the chair and me lifting, she manages to get on her feet and I escort her to the recliner. I make her a cup of tea.

  ‘Do you think you need to go to the hospital?’ I ask.

  Diana shakes her head. ‘No, I’ll be fine.’

  I text Bernice and I tell her what’s happened, and that I’ll spend the rest of the day working from home. She tells me she’s got it covered and to let me know if I need anything.

  I also text Beck. First I describe what happened, then:

  No need to come home. She’s fine.

  Beck replies:

  You sure?

  Me:

  Yep.

  Beck:

  She’s sort of shutting down, isn’t she?

  Me:

  Yep.

  Beck:

  Not a bad way to go, I suppose. Peaceful.

  Me:

  Yep.

  Beck:

  Is that all you’ve got to say?

  Me:

  Yep.

  Beck:

  You almost seem pleased!

  Me:

  Yep.

  Beck:

  Ha. See you when I get home.

  Me:

  Yep!

  13

  From Far Away

  Rebecca

  I’m walking past my desk at Headspace when I notice my phone flashing. It’s on silent so there is no sound. I can see it’s Lucille calling via Facebook. I’ve never had a phone call via Facebook before, and am momentarily surprised. At the same time, I register that Lucille, who is studying in the Netherlands, rarely calls unless we’ve arranged a time. Something must be wrong.

  ‘Lu?’

  I hear a gulped inward breath, and know that it’s the sound of a sob being sucked back. She finds air and pushes out one word: ‘Mum—’ And then her voice gives way to tears and static, but with that one word I know that her relationship is over.

  I walk past my desk and out into the corridor. I need to find somewhere private to talk. I can hear Lucille crying and at the same time trying to catch her breath and speak.

  ‘Don’t speak,’ I say. ‘Just breathe.’

  I quickly scan the doors of the counselling rooms and see they are all occupied. I open the door to the medical examination room: it’s empty. I go inside and shut the door. I look for a chair but there isn’t one. I contemplate climbing up on the medical examination table but that feels like a step too far, even for me.

  I lean against the wall and keep talking to Lu. ‘In, two, three, hold, two, three, four, out, two, three, four, five …’

  She knows what to do. We have done this before.

  As Lucille works on her breathing, I tell her softly, ‘This is normal; what you are feeling is normal; you’ve done nothing wrong. Don’t try to speak, just follow your breathing; soon we will talk.’ I sense that she is nodding.

  Slowly her breathing calms. As it does, her sobs turn to gentle tears. I look at the world clock on my phone and realise it is 8 am in the Netherlands. She doesn’t have good wi-fi in her apartment so I wonder where she is.

  I wait until her tears ease, and then ask, ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the uni campus.’ She has ridden her bike from her apartment, and has found a corner in a building where she can access the free wi-fi. ‘I just got out of bed and came here,’ she says.

  ‘In your trackie dacks?’ I ask.

  She cries again, and in between the sobs I hear her laugh as she describes how she looks. This is a good sign.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘I look terrible. I haven’t washed my face or combed my hair.’

  She tells me that the text was waiting for her when she woke up. It confirmed the end of their relationship. She knew it was coming; she had wondered who would do it first. Though she’s in love, she knows it’s not a good relationship and understands that the only real solution is for it to end. But untangling and letting go is never easy. Someone had to do it and now it is done.

>   It’s been a relationship that enjoyed a blissful period, but over many months spiralled into a place of confusion, pain and dislike for them both. It’s been on again and off again, and all of us have been through the highs and lows with Lu. They have both behaved, at times, poorly, but also respectfully. Though I don’t say it, I’m relieved it’s over.

  I have nothing against her beau. In fact, my feelings are quite the opposite – I am very fond of him, and Tony and I have both talked about how we will miss him, though we both knew it had to and would end. He is a beautiful young man but I could sense the writing was on the wall when we were all together in Japan; his moodiness and fragility and her eagerness to please and vulnerability created a fundamental inequality that not even love could save.

  Standing in the medical exam room, I look at the rows of boxes of latex gloves, speculums, condoms and lube. I contemplate telling Lucille where I am and what I’m surrounded by, as I know it will amuse her, but decide against it. I can hear her trying to gulp back the tears so that she can talk.

  ‘I want to come home!’ she sobs.

  I tell her not to make any decisions right now; that she does not need to understand everything. ‘Just allow the tears to come.’ I tell her that she took a risk, a risk with love, and that is something to be proud of. Some people go through life never feeling brave enough to take that risk.

  I tell her no one is to blame and no one is innocent, and that she will get over this. She should take as long as she needs, and know that I am here for her.

  The door to the room opens. I jerk my head up and see one of my colleagues standing there. ‘I thought you’d gone home,’ she says.

  I put my hand over the phone and quickly tell her what I’m doing. She nods knowingly, smiles and tells me that everyone’s leaving, and asks if I can lock up the building when I’m finished. She asks me if I’m okay. I smile and nod, and for the millionth time think how lucky I am to have this job and these people.

  I go back to the phone. We talk about what Lu is going to do today. She has plans, and I feel relieved that she’s busy. I encourage her to steer clear of drinking too much and using social media. This elicits a wry laugh.

  She asks me what I’m going to do with my day, and I tell her I’m about to go home from work. She laughs again and tells me she had no idea what time it was when she rang, but that she just had to.

  ‘I know!’ I laugh.

  We talk pleasantries and her breathing steadies even more. I make a point of being upbeat, of keeping my energy up, of not saying anything that could trigger a fresh bout of tears.

  ‘How’s Grandma?’ she asks.

  I don’t have the heart to tell her about the recent fainting episode in Woolworths, or the sprained ankle, or that she needs to get a wheelie walker and that she is very resistant, or how she seems now to have more bad days than good. I don’t want to give her any more reason to think about coming home.

  ‘She’s good,’ I say.

  ‘That’s good,’ Lu says.

  She says she needs go. I say yes. She says, ‘I love you,’ and is gone.

  I punch the numbers into the alarm code at Headspace, pull the door shut behind me and jiggle the handle to make sure it’s locked. As I step outside I’m hit by a blast of hot air. I look up and squint. The sun stills seems far too high in the sky for this hour of the day.

  I realise that I haven’t left the building all afternoon, and had completely forgotten how bloody hot it is out here. I long to step out of my work building or the house and be hit by a cool change, but that won’t happen until about April next year.

  I stand outside and think about what I’ll do now. I should just get in the car and go home but I feel agitated and I don’t want to. Not even the lure of Letters and Numbers excites me.

  I rarely say this, but today I want to be in Melbourne.

  I want to be on my bike and riding home through the Edinburgh Gardens. I want to feel the cool air on my face as I ride through the park and see people hanging out with their dogs, skateboards and beers.

  I want to meet a friend on Lygon Street, have a cheap pasta meal and then go and see a play at La Mama.

  I want to go home to my own house, run a bath, pour a glass of wine, drink it in the bath and not think about anything or anyone.

  I want to call a friend and talk about love and life and children and heartache and the best solutions for maintaining one’s dignity when the chips are down.

  I want to cook dahl, brown rice and steamed greens, and eat it in bed while I read a book or watch something on my computer.

  I want to be anywhere but here.

  I stand on the footpath and think. I could go home and get my togs and go to the pool, but I know myself well enough to realise that once I get home I won’t leave again.

  I could drive out to the lake and go for a walk, but I would feel mean doing that without Mum or Tony. I could go and visit my nieces or ring my friend Majella and see if she wants to come and have a drink. But I’m too agitated, and a drink is the last thing I need.

  I walk up the street and go to the newsagent. This is the only shop here that’s open after 5.30 pm. I know the fella who owns it – we went to school together. I feel comfortable here. I pick up a bag of lollies and tell myself they’re for Mum, but I know I will eat them all myself, on the sly, in the car. I select a few postcards that I’ll probably never send. I pick up a magazine about gardening and decide to get it too.

  I pay for my things and walk to my car. I get in, start driving and before I even realise it I’m heading up the Barkly Highway towards home. This reminds me of Dad. As kids, we used to say that his Kingswood could travel on autopilot. He could be blind drunk but still the car would make it home safely. I hated that he drove when he was drunk and used to pray that the police would pull him over, but it never happened.

  Sometimes, when he couldn’t face Mum or us kids, he would go to his sister’s house in the next street. We would ride past on our bikes and see his car parked out the front, but we knew not to go in. Aunty Eileen was pretty straight up and down and never seemed too perturbed by him; she would let him sleep it off at her place before sending him home.

  Sometimes he would be so drunk that he would open the car door, fall out and then crawl up the back steps.

  I remember one very hot Saturday afternoon. We heard the Kingswood come around the corner. We all went to the kitchen widow and watched Dad manoeuvre the car through the gate. It’s quite narrow, and how Dad managed was a pretty good indicator of how drunk he was.

  He drove very slowly; this was not good. Mum said nothing but we all felt the energy change.

  The car stalled about fifteen metres from the house. We watched as the driver’s door opened and Dad fell out, landing on the dirt driveway. We all looked at each other, but said nothing. Eventually, we moved away from the window and more or less forgot that Dad was down there. He was never home on a Saturday afternoon so it was all much of a muchness.

  A couple of hours later Mum said to Paul, ‘It’s very hot out there – go and check on your father.’

  I didn’t go outside with Paul, but watched from the back door. I wanted to help but knew that Mum would be annoyed if I did. Although I was a child, I knew what was happening: this was political. Mum was furious with Dad and wanted to punish him. She knew she needed to look after him but she also wanted him to suffer.

  Paul went downstairs, looked at Dad and then went under the house. He came back with two star pickets, a tarp and some rope, and made a beautiful awning over the car door to cover Dad. Now he was in full shade.

  Paul, too, understood the politics of the situation. If he brought Dad into the house he would probably wake up and start drinking again. This would make Mum angry. But he knew that he needed to protect Dad as much as he could. I assume Paul gave Dad some water from the hose, too.

  At about
six o’clock Dad woke and slowly came upstairs. He had a shower, ate something and then went to bed. Paul packed up the temporary shelter and parked the car under the house. Nobody said anything further about it.

  I see Maleka sitting in her regular spot in the middle of the road, and blast the horn at her. As usual she doesn’t move, and I have to swerve around her.

  I pull slowly into the driveway and see Tony in the backyard doing the hand-watering. I tell him what has happened. We both stand without speaking, and watch him fill up the oasis that we have made around the fruit trees.

  I go inside and am surprised to see Mum in the kitchen. I ask her what she’s doing and she says brightly, ‘I’m peeling tatties, Kathleen!’

  I can’t help but laugh. She offers to make me a cup of tea. She’s in fine fettle, and with that my malaise shifts.

  I put the tatties on the stove and we take our tea out to the verandah.

  ‘How was your rehab class?’ I ask.

  ‘Awesome!’ Mum says.

  I laugh. ‘Did you say that to the staff at the hospital?’

  ‘I did,’ she says.

  ‘And what did they say?’ I ask.

  ‘They laughed!’ says Mum.

  I think of the expression ‘the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree’. Mum and I both love making people laugh. It’s not so much that we want other people to think we’re funny; it’s the joy we get from seeing other people laugh.

  ‘What else did you do, besides making people laugh?’ I ask.

  ‘I moved things from one box to another, stood up and sat down, lay on the bed and showed them that I could sit up unaided, and walked through a sort of stepping maze.’

  ‘Sound great,’ I say.

  ‘It all sounds a bit silly, but when I’m there and doing the exercises it all makes complete sense,’ she says.