Growing Pineapples in the Outback

by Tony Kelly

  I start gathering my things. The plan is to let David have some time with Mum by himself, and for me to go home and have a shower.

  ‘Beck,’ says Tony.

  I turn around. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I think she’s going,’ he says.

  Mum breathes in noisily, then out, and then she stops.

  We hold her hands and say nothing. We look at each other, and through tears smile gently.

  ‘She waited for you,’ I say to David eventually.

  ‘Yeah,’ says David. ‘I thought she would.’

  I’ve heard stories like this over the years but have always taken them with a grain of salt. Are people really able to choose when they die? Do people really wait for certain family members to arrive before they let go? Can people in their last breathing moments hear the voices of loved ones and know who is present and who is still missing? Well, today I say yes. Today I have witnessed it.

  Tony

  David and I head over to Belinda’s for a swim. Beck has gone home, saying she’ll come later. We sit in the pool with drinks in our hands, still somewhat stunned by what we have just witnessed. Seppo and the kids join us, and we swim and move gently around each other, talking quietly. We know over these past few days we have all been part of something beautiful, and we feel touched by grace and goodness.

  Rebecca

  The phone rings again and I contemplate not answering. It has rung nonstop since I came back from the hospital. The house is finally quiet. But of course I answer.

  ‘Hello, Rebecca. It’s your aunty Veronica.’

  I pause. It takes a few moments for my brain to catch up with my ears. And then it kicks in and I don’t know if I want to laugh, cry or scream. We have waited thirty-seven years for this phone call.

  ‘Hello, Aunty Veronica.’ Suddenly I am sixteen again.

  ‘I just wanted to ring you to tell you how much I admired your mum. She was a great mother, wife and sister.’

  There’s so much I want to say. Where were you? Where were you when Michael died? Where were you when Dad died? Where were you when Mum needed you the most? But I don’t say any of these things. I take a leaf out of Mum’s book, let bygones be bygones and remain in the present.

  ‘It’s good to hear your voice,’ I say.

  ‘It’s good to hear yours too,’ she replies.

  We talk a bit more and make plans to speak again after the funeral.

  I hang up, and think about how I’d love to be able to tell Mum about that conversation.

  Tony

  ‘I’ve been in contact with the funeral home and the church and we’re set for Friday,’ Beck announces.

  We’re all here – the nieces and nephews, partners and children, David, Beck and me – gathered in the lounge room for the first of what I expect to be a number of meetings throughout the week.

  ‘We’ll need to organise an order of service, music, the wake,’ she continues. ‘Can anyone think of anything else?’

  ‘Pallbearers,’ adds David.

  ‘Yes – who wants to be a pallbearer?’ Becks asks.

  ‘Not just the boys,’ Madlyn chips in.

  ‘When can we view Grandma?’ Sam asks.

  She and the rest of the Mount Isa family were very close to Diana, and their grief is profound. Beck has to tread carefully. I fear there may be a struggle for ownership of the grief. This is fed by a lingering worry that the others have felt usurped by Beck and me. Worry that we (actually, mainly me) might be seen as coming in and replacing the nieces and nephews in their relationship with their grandmother. Blow-ins from down south, just here for a couple of years, while they’ve been here always, a constant source of company and support. I know this isn’t likely, but right now, with a funeral to organise, and grief coursing through each of us, everyone is under pressure. If things are not managed carefully, fissures could open over the next couple of days.

  ‘I think we should play Dolly Parton’s “Islands in the Stream” as the coffin leaves the church,’ Brian announces.

  Belinda agrees enthusiastically.

  I look across at Beck, and from her face I can see that she doesn’t agree. I feel anxious.

  ‘That’s a song for your funeral, not Mum’s,’ Beck teases Brian, who is a huge Dolly Parton fan. Everyone laughs and the tension breaks. Also, by saying Mum, not Grandma or Diana, Beck has subtly but clearly asserted her status. It is her mother we are burying, and ultimately she and David will call the shots.

  We settle on Johnny Cash’s ‘Will the Circle Be Unbroken’.

  The following day I have a phone interview for the job. The house in Madang Street is bulging at the seams, with family coming and going. The only private place I can find is our bedroom. I sit on the bed with the air conditioner on high and the venetians rattling.

  The first question I’m asked is direct: ‘Will you take the job if offered, given the need to look after your mother-in-law?’

  ‘She died yesterday,’ I tell the panel. They’re shocked and offer to reschedule. ‘No, I’m right to proceed,’ I say.

  At that point Beck and her seventeen-year-old nephew, James, commence a loud conversation outside the bedroom door.

  ‘Do you wax your eyebrows?’ Beck asks James.

  ‘No, I get them threaded,’ James replies in a low rumble.

  ‘Do you?’ Beck is clearly surprised.

  ‘Yeah. Threading. It’s really good.’

  ‘I get mine waxed,’ Beck babbles on.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say to the panel, and get off the bed and open the door. ‘I’m in the middle of an interview!’

  Beck and James scamper down the hallway.

  By the end of the day the job is mine.

  Swimming later that evening with Beck and Georgina (who has just arrived in town for the funeral), we discuss whether I should take the job. ‘I like it here,’ I admit.

  ‘You can’t like it too much,’ Beck retorts, ‘given you’ve got yourself another job before we’ve even buried Mum!’

  Georgina is aghast that I would even consider not taking the job. She makes no effort to hide her distaste for Mount Isa. ‘You’re coming back. That’s the end of it.’

  I duck under the water, push myself off the wall and glide over to the other side. ‘You’re right,’ I tell her when I resurface.

  David has a bit too much to drink and becomes argumentative on the way home from Belinda’s. Later that night, Beck tells me how she’s feeling. ‘I’m pissed off with David,’ she says. ‘I need him sober and by my side.’

  ‘Tell him exactly that,’ I encourage her.

  She does so the next morning. ‘David, you’re funny and charming,’ she begins.

  ‘When I’m not drinking, you mean?’ he interrupts. He’s in the kitchen cooking breakfast for everyone.

  ‘Yes, when you’re sober. The aunties and uncles have always liked you the most. It gives me the shits, actually. Anyway, we’ve got a big few days ahead and we need to do this together.’

  David nods. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Can you be the driver for tonight’s barbecue?’ Beck asks. ‘Pick people up from the airport, and ferry ’em to the lake and back to the hotel?’

  ‘Sure, of course,’ he says.

  ‘That’d be great, thanks.’

  Our friend Ruth and my brother Martin arrive, along with Diana’s sister Mary and her daughter, Caroline. David shuttles everyone back and forth, charming them along the way. I see Beck start to relax.

  At the end of the night, Michael calls out to David as he’s bundling Aunty Mary into the car: ‘Next time we have a barbie, Uncle Dave, you should join us.’

  David just laughs.

  Rebecca

  The rain has made the church cool, and the funeral goes off without a hitch. Mum was always clear with me about what she wanted: fl
owers, colourful outfits and good music. If we insisted, we could show photos. ‘But go easy on the wailing,’ she’d say. The funeral is colourful and joyful and full of music, but not without some tears.

  I’m touched that many of my work colleagues and friends from Headspace come to the funeral. Most of Mum’s friends are long gone, but even so the church is full. Ash and Tara play her favourite hymns, and I swear I can hear her humming. The music is uplifting and true to Mum.

  There are a lot of speeches and readings – me, Belinda, Samantha, Brian, Tony, Georgina, Madlyn, Ashley and Jorja. Initially I thought that might be too much, but it’s perfect. We all need to speak, and our words are a combination of poignant, funny and deeply loving. The minister acknowledges Mum’s long and devoted relationship with Christianity and with this church. I had worried that the service might seem a bit cloying, but my fears are unnecessary. The minister graciously takes the lead from us and pitches his words at the same level. It is fitting that Mum should be remembered with such admiration and dignity.

  The burial also goes smoothly. The night before, Georgina and Ruth drove around town picking frangipani flowers from neighbourhood trees. We put them into plastic bags and popped them in the freezer. This morning we transferred them to an esky and then to baskets, and they’ve stayed perfectly in shape. Everyone takes a handful and throws the flowers into the grave. David speaks at the gravesite, and his words are gentle and moving.

  After the funeral we go to the wake and drink ‘pine ale’, Mum’s favourite mocktail, made from a combination of pineapple juice and ginger ale. We eat small sandwiches and little pastries. A few people have a beer or a wine but it’s all very laid-back.

  Throughout it all, I keep thinking: Mum would have loved this!

  Tony

  The day after the funeral, I attend the pipeline authorisation meeting. Over a hundred people are there. Many have come from the coast or from the across the border in the Northern Territory. The pipeline company executives make their pitch and leave. I advise on the deal we have negotiated. Representatives from the key families give their opinions, and the deal is debated back and forth. It doesn’t seem that many people have any problems with the deal, but the agreement nearly comes unstuck when we turn to how the financial component will be distributed. Finally, everyone consents to place the funds in trust and allow for a full consultation process in the new year. The anxious pipeline execs are invited back in and the agreement is signed.

  I’m buoyed by the success of the meeting, and by the emotion of the past week. Aunty Doris, one of the senior elders, comes up to thank me. She remembers Diana from the Barkly Hotel the week before. She takes my arm and tells me what a lovely woman my mother-in-law was.

  ‘Rebecca’s your wife?’ she continues. I nod yes. ‘What beautiful blue eyes she has.’

  I agree.

  ‘Give her my condolences.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Home with the family.’

  ‘That’s where you need to be.’ Doris dismisses me with a wave of her hand.

  Rebecca

  By Saturday lunchtime, most people have headed back out of town. My nephew James decides to stay on in Mount Isa for a few days with us. I am really pleased.

  In the late afternoon all the nieces and nephews come over and we have drinks and snacks under the frangipani trees. I still can’t quite believe that Mum isn’t with us, and keep popping my head into her bedroom to check if she’s there or not.

  I feel as though I have barely slept for over a week, and that – combined with a tad too much wine – results in me toppling off my chair and into the garden bed below the trees. I scream as I go down.

  ‘Oh my god!’ screams Belinda, but hers is not a scream of fright but of hilarity. ‘Aunty,’ she says, ‘what are you doing down there?’

  ‘Help me up!’ I cry.

  ‘Your dress!’ says Samantha. ‘Your dress!’

  I look down and can see that my dress has come right up and is showing my underpants.

  The nieces and nephews are in hysterics.

  ‘Aunty’s lost it!’ says Michael.

  ‘Taxi!’ calls Brian.

  Eventually, two of them pull me up out of the garden bed and plonk me back on my chair. It is the comical moment we’ve all been looking for. The new family matriarch has had her debut moment in the garden bed!

  Tony comes home from his meeting and joins us in the yard until eventually the others leave.

  We sit on the verandah and have a much-needed cup of tea. We are both so tired, but everything feels calm.

  Tony and I decide that he will take the new job back in Melbourne. I’ll stay in Mount Isa and manage the restumping of the house and finish my other jobs. I’ll also sort through the contents of the house, and then we’ll put it on the market. We suspect all this might take four to six months. Also, I’ve recently accepted a new contract at the Mount Isa campus of James Cook University, and I still have work at Headspace. It all feels very doable.

  Tony goes inside and puts on some music. When he comes back out, we raise our cups to Mum and the past two years. We have done it. We have given to Mum what she had spent her entire lifetime giving to others.

  The next song comes on. It is Leonard Cohen, ‘Dance Me to the End of Love’. Tony and I hold hands, go inside and dance.

  Epilogue

  Tony

  The first ten metres are the hardest, swimming through the duckweed to get to the open water beyond. It’s midway through summer and the duckweed is rampant; even the canoeists have been unable to stay on top of it. With its long tentacles reaching towards the sun from the murky depths, the weed tickles my belly as I skim over the top.

  This is my last swim in the lake before I head south. Diana’s been dead for over a month, and in a couple of weeks I’ll be taking up the new job in Melbourne. Since the funeral and Christmas, Beck and I have settled into an easy and peaceful routine. We realise it’s the first time we’ve lived with just each other for twenty-four years. We’re revelling in it. Diana’s mark is still all through the house, but over the two years we have shaped it to our liking and it feels very comfortable.

  I’m back at work but the pace is gentle, in keeping with the time of year. I plod away at fixing the verandah on the weekends and evenings. We discover the neighbours are away, and sneak into their pool for the occasional skinny-dip. The rain comes, and we drive down to the causeway and watch the flooding river flow over the road. We plant a mango in the front yard in memory of Diana, knowing we won’t be here to see it grow.

  Beck isn’t returning to Melbourne with me immediately, as she has work commitments to honour and the house to prepare for sale. Also, I suspect Beck wants more time to say goodbye. I know she’s really torn about leaving. Rationally, she knows that leaving’s the only real option, but emotionally she’s not ready. I worry she never will be. The west is where Beck is from, and I’ve come to realise it’s where she’s the happiest. I worry that a return to Melbourne will lead to a slow but steady dampening of her spirits.

  Today there are storms circling the lake and the water is quite rough. My legs drag and I stray off course. The line of yellow buoys that delineates the swimming area from the speedboats and jet skis isn’t getting any closer, and it feels like a slog. The childhood warning not to be in the water in an electrical storm rings in my ears as I scan the horizon. Eventually I find my rhythm and my mind starts to drift.

  The last time I was out here, Diana came with us. She sat at one of the picnic tables and enjoyed the softening ambience as the hot afternoon came to a close. Who would have guessed that nine days later she would be dead?

  I startle as a scratchy strand of duckweed wraps itself around my neck. My flow broken, I take a mouthful of water. It’s then I think of the mine upstream and all the pollutants in the run-off pouring into the da
m with the wet. I try to reassure myself that heavy metals sink and would be safely lodged in the sludge at the bottom of the lake. David’s taunt that people release salties into the lake unsettles me even more. I pause, lift up my goggles and scan the lake. Pointless, I know; it’s the ones you don’t see that get you.

  We fire up the barbecue after our swim and watch as the surrounding hills and rocks go from yellow to orange to red. There’s lightning in the distance, and the rumble of thunder rolls back across the lake.

  Despite the sadness of Diana’s death, I am not bereft. Rather, I feel deeply enriched by the experience of the last two years, and I have no doubt I’ll miss this hard town, nestled against the mine. I’ll miss the heat and the house shaking from the twice-daily blasts deep underground. I’ll miss the road trains changing gears out on the highway, and the sound of air conditioners rattling through the night. I’ll miss the intimacy and the space and the focus that isolation provides.

  I feel grateful to have had the opportunity to live with Diana and help her see out her life with grace and laughter. I feel deep love for Beck, who brought me to her town and who flourished under the open sky. I have a rich life, and a family I love, awaiting me in Melbourne.

  Rebecca

  I shed tears as the plane lifts off the runway and into the sky; they’re tears of sadness, relief and pride. Today is 5 December 2017. It is exactly one year since Mum died, and I’m leaving Mount Isa for good.

  It’s a bittersweet moment. While on one hand it’s a relief to finally have the house sold, it filled me with a deep sadness to close the door at Madang Street for the last time.

  I won’t hear the sounds of the doorknobs, light switches or the confounded rattling venetian blinds ever again.

  I won’t spend early mornings in my soccer shorts and singlet, watering the garden and watching the lorikeets as they feast on the flowering grevillea.