Up Until Now

by Petrea King

  No one would notice me slipping away, as everyone was preoccupied with the final chores of their day. Jean would be inside the house stoking the Aga and preparing the beginnings of the evening meal—if Maggie allowed her. Sarah would be settling the goats and their kids in their pens with fresh hay; they would acknowledge her ministrations with nudges and high throaty murmurings. Peter would likely be in the shed wiping his creased, oil-drenched hands on a rag that could barely absorb another drop, after tinkering with some machinery. The final tasks of another day on the land.

  I would haul myself up to sit on the thin but sturdy support beam across the top of the water trough.

  The jangling of the sheep dogs’ chains, their occasional barks and the cracking of a bone as they ate drifted to my ears, along with the familiar and comforting sound of the squeaky spring on the verandah’s gauze door when it swung closed after Maggie’s chores were done. Galahs, cockatoos, currawongs and magpies shrieked, whistled, sang or chortled in the dying rays of the sun as they sought a final morsel or jostled for roosting spots in the mighty she-oaks down by the creek. Piping plovers jealously guarded their nesting spots, their haunting call piercing the dusk. The gaggling of the geese would settle as they nested in their usual spot on its grassy banks. The galahs, my favourites, swooped and screeched like crazed delinquents, while in the distance the melancholy caw of a crow sounded, so evocative of the Australian bush.

  In between the birds’ ruckus, the shroud of evening silence soaked into the deepening folds of the darkening landscape.

  Though it hadn’t been at full torrent for many months due to the drought, the pristine creek that ran between the homestead and the front gate could turn from a joyous babble to a raging torrent in the space of a few hours, cutting us off from town. Sometimes this would happen when rain had fallen high in the ranges towards Willow Tree while not a drop would have fallen at Kilmarnock.

  Up behind the water trough stood the grapefruit tree. Even in the drought, this generous tree’s branches required support so as not to break beneath the weight of its golden, thirst-quenching orbs. The slow leak in the tank behind the trough no doubt helped the tree produce such abundance. These were the grapefruits we took with us when mustering. Nothing was more refreshing than to peel away the skin to reveal the cool, juicy tartness within. My mouth still waters at the thought.

  From where I perched, my gaze was always drawn to the soft, rounded hills on the far side of the valley, first turning pink and then a deep plum as the shadows lengthened and the air cooled. That pinkish plum is such a singularly Australian colour born of the fading sunlight, the dust, the vegetation, the marvellous lazy landscape.

  While sitting above the water trough, I’d ponder questions about life and existence. ‘Does Merriwa exist if I can’t see it?’ ‘Does anything exist if I am not there to witness it?’ ‘What purpose is there to our endeavours?’ ‘What makes for a meaningful life?’ Given my experience of seeing everything as energy held by some awesome beneficent power, along with my out-of-body experiences in hospital, these questions came naturally to me, though I felt no pressure to find immediate answers. It was enough to contemplate the deeper mystery of my own and others’ existence, the motivations behind our words and actions, the beliefs we collect, the meaning we ascribe to our daily trivialities as well as the larger, looming, more consequential matters of our existence.

  There are so many ways to live a life. I wondered if life fundamentally involved a simple choice to align ourselves either with fear of the other or with love and compassion for the other. Which would I choose? And if I was to choose love, why was I so fearful of ‘the other’?

  I’d wait for the evening star and, even then, find it hard to pull myself away from my immersion in the peace, solitude and my reverie. When I contemplated the night sky, I felt incredibly insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but also profoundly significant in my life and grateful to even ponder the questions of my existence. I was acutely aware of my surroundings both immediate and more cosmic. I relished the mystery of my existence; my body, a collection of stardust infused with awareness. Here I sat upon a water trough at Kilmarnock, in New South Wales, in a country we called Australia, surrounded by oceans, which encircled all continents on this beautiful blue-green jewel of a planet as it floated through space in a prescribed pathway within the larger cosmos of the Milky Way and its planets, suns and stars. How extraordinary it is to have a human life. Is it only human beings who contemplate the source of their own existence? Mine felt like both nothing and everything.

  Far in the distance, maybe 2 or more kilometres away as the crow flies, the first wisp of smoke curled out of the neighbours’ chimney while a light flickered on. They too were completing their day and retreating to the warmth of house and hearth. Did they ponder such questions? Was I alone in my wonderings? The books I devoured addressed many of my concerns and—because of the great blessing they were to me in my lonesome ponderings—I knew these to be age-old questions that many before me had also considered. Reading other people’s answers was important and instructive, but I yearned to experience the truth of their answers; to know the truth in my bones. I knew peace would remain elusive while I only added more knowledge to my beliefs. I yearned for the experience of oneness, the interconnectedness of all life, which I had been blessed to know in my childhood. Before, and since then, I had collected a host of beliefs that left me feeling inadequate, flawed, ashamed and unacceptable. The knowledge of the interconnectedness of life and the experience of feeling separate and imperfect were diametrically opposed, but that was my daily reality.

  In the gathering dusk, I listened and watched, a voyeur of life unfolding in the twilight, the space between the busyness of the day and the deep rest of the night. Jean would have collected vegetables ripe for picking for our evening meal. A bucket or two of still-warm goat’s milk, duly delivered by Sarah, would now stand in the cool room in the scullery. The distant horizon faded into darkness and the quality of the air noticeably changed. The cacophony of birdsong subsided with only the occasional squawk or shriek piercing the quiet, and I would pick my way carefully down the hill to join life once more in the homestead.

  ***

  These periods in the country not only strengthened and healed my body, but they also nourished my soul in special ways. I treasured my independence, which the Evanses fostered and encouraged. And I was away from Brenden, whose depression was overtaking him. While much in my life didn’t make sense, nature did. Living in its presence and working alongside people who saw me as just a kid was profoundly healing. Nature was more predictable than people—it moved in rhythms and cycles I could trust, even though the drought brought harsh lessons in loss.

  I had plenty of amusing experiences at Kilmarnock too. My surgeon probably wouldn’t have encouraged many of the activities I engaged in, but I knew when I had really stretched the boundaries of what was sensible—not always by intent!

  Late one day, when the goats were eager to get to their stalls where fresh hay awaited them, I was opening the race—a swinging gate—for them to pass through. Being on crutches made me a little slow and clumsy, so the first goat ducked her head and pushed between my legs before I could get out of her way. Once her head was through, she decided it was safe to stand up and lifted me straight off the ground.

  I was facing towards her tail, so I grabbed it as she took off in surprise with the unexpected weight upon her back. My crutches went flying, which only startled her more, and we were a jumble of legs, plasters and callipers as she bucked around the sheep yard, finally dumping me in a pile of poo. I laughed myself silly and was both sorry and relieved that no one had witnessed the spectacle.

  Incidents like this didn’t put me off developing more independence. Sometimes I travelled out to Merriwa on the rail motor from Muswellbrook, having arrived by the New England train. Merriwa was the last stop, and the rail motor delivered not only passengers but also the mail, packages, mechanical spare parts
and supplies. People were kind and helpful to me, as managing a suitcase along with crutches wasn’t possible. But for the most part, these journeys increased my autonomy, and I was grateful that my parents allowed me such freedom.

  On my return home, I sometimes wrote heart-breaking letters to Jean, beseeching her to let me live in the country because city life didn’t make sense to me.

  I didn’t want to put up with the craziness of people piled on top of each other in tiny cubicles for homes while they didn’t even know their neighbours’ names. I didn’t understand how people could spend a lifetime shuffling bits of paper from one side of the desk to the other. People seemed so willing to settle for such a mediocre life—a huge judgement on my part, but indicative of how strongly I felt that what the world seemed to value was pointless.

  It was a heartache for Jean to receive these tear-stained letters, as she understood my unhappiness but wasn’t able to offer what I yearned for: a life away from most people, living on the land, surrounded by animals.

  ***

  I didn’t always stay with Jean between surgeries. One time I was with my beloved Granny, staying in a holiday shack on the tranquil shores of Currimundi Lake in Queensland. The shack—called Kembalak, an Indonesian word meaning ‘return’—was a simple structure with everything you could possibly need for a gentle life. We spent our days reading, fishing and cooking mud crabs or fish over the fire outside, transfixed by the dance and hiss of the flames and relishing each other’s company. There’s simply nothing on earth quite like staring into the mysteries of an open fire and giving it the odd poke with a stick.

  Granny and I loved the companionable silence of fishing. Our vessel was an old but sturdy timber rowboat with faded and peeling blue paint on its sides. We happily spent hours together on the lake, listening to the gentle slap of the waves against the boat, feeling the heat of the sun on our skin. I loathed wearing hats, but without one I’d have been burned to a crisp, and Granny insisted on my wearing it anyway.

  Out in the boat, I felt a persistent tug on my fishing line. This wasn’t the spasmodic darting of an alarmed fish. I carefully pulled on the line as my heavy catch surfaced inch by inch. Finally, over the side came the biggest mud crab we had ever seen, angrily snapping its formidable claws at us as it ran up and down, imprisoned in the bottom of the boat.

  With a burst of adrenaline, Granny and I scrambled unceremoniously out of our vessel. Clinging to opposite edges, we laughed helplessly until the crab found its way out and returned to the quiet of the deep to recover from the indignity of capture.

  Granny was frantic because I had one leg in plaster and the other in a calliper—should I let go, she knew, I would surely sink to the bottom of the lake. But neither of us could stop laughing. We wet ourselves with the hilarity, which didn’t matter given we were up to our necks in water.

  It took some time, but once our laughter subsided, and after several failed attempts that propelled me into the air as her weight tipped the boat’s balance, reducing us to even more hilarity, Granny finally hauled herself in and set about dragging me up and over the edge. She held me close as we lay in the rowboat with the hot sun drying us, feeling such happiness and relief to be safe in each other’s arms.

  CHAPTER 5

  Putting one foot in front of the other

  At the end of the surgeries, and when I’d mastered walking without crutches, Geoff thought it sensible for me to train as a secretary. I still walked with a peculiar gait, not only because of all the surgeries but also due to early osteoarthritis in my knees. But I finally felt I could begin some sort of adult life, and learning secretarial skills seemed as good a place to start as any. I completed the course at Gore Hill Technical College and then worked in my parents’ publishing business.

  During this time, Brenden was in and out of treatments and hospitals, while Ross was finishing his university education. I’d grown distant from my brothers during my long hospitalisations and my stays at Kilmarnock or with Granny. Ross was preoccupied with his studies, and Brenden was dealing with his own challenges. He endured electroconvulsive therapy, and it broke my heart to know what was being done to him. I was failing miserably in helping him. When he entered St John of God Hospital at Richmond, he became a zombie, overweight and absent because of the heavy medication. I shared with him some of the books that had given me strength, and while he sometimes read them, he always seemed relentlessly determined to follow his own path.

  Rae and I talked about the unfolding nightmare with Brenden, including his treatment plans. We also wondered about the spiritual significance of what was happening to him and whether his psychological issues were biochemical or spiritual. Was he living out some karmic consequence that we could only guess at? Brenden had oceans of compassion for people and animals but not a great deal for himself. Like me, Rae loved him deeply and was willing to do anything to help him. She stoically put one foot in front of the other, and I knew all about doing that too, quite literally. Without a doubt, having two children with health issues was heartbreaking for Rae, but most of us don’t discover how resilient we are until we encounter a major challenge or tragedy in our lives. My mother has an indomitable spirit, although—or because—it was sorely tested by Geoff, Brenden and me.

  ***

  I’ve always been grateful that I learned to type, as it has stood me in great stead over the years, but I knew my life wouldn’t be fulfilled through secretarial duties. I felt alien among the other girls in the class: they seemed to walk and talk with all the confidence in the world, which I still so sorely lacked in social situations.

  We had to take a deportment and make-up class, and as I limped around the room I felt awkward and different. Some of the girls tittered, thinking it funny that I should even try. When the deportment teacher asked the girls what you had to do first when applying eye make-up, they chorused, ‘Open your mouth.’ Again, I felt alien—this was obviously common knowledge to everyone but me, because I lacked worldly experience. I was pitifully self-conscious about this and a thousand other trivialities.

  After such a long confinement in hospital, I felt that nursing would suit my disposition more than being a secretary. It might not have been the wisest choice, given the amount of walking it required, but I was very familiar with hospital culture and well understood the needs of patients. I returned to Gore Hill Tech to complete the Nurses Entrance Exam and started my training at a nearby hospital.

  I treasured this opportunity to give loving care to people who were sick or in pain. I understood their need for dignity and privacy, and I did my best to serve them well. When I drew the curtain around a patient, they were sealed within its confines, and I’d always have a pocket full of safety pins to ensure their privacy.

  I took very much to heart what we were taught and lapped up the facts about anatomy and physiology. I studied far more than was necessary, for the sheer enjoyment of learning about the miraculous and intricate ways in which our bodies functioned.

  I became increasingly interested in the body’s innate healing power, fascinated by what might hinder or speed a person’s recovery. If my femur had healed in a more timely manner, I would have had to return to school—and yet, the idea had seemed emotionally and psychologically impossible to me. I knew I’d probably slowed the healing of my femur through dispensing with much of my food, but I also wondered whether I had engineered my body not to heal during those long months in traction.

  I found myself intrigued by the slower and more gentle approach of herbal medicine. I was a frequent visitor to Rosemary Hemphill’s herb garden just outside Sydney, near Dural; this amazing garden was marked by little signs indicating each herb’s medicinal uses. I read everything I could find on herbal remedies, along with hydrotherapy, homeopathy, massage, fasting and what comprised a healthy diet.

  The more I read of the old philosophers and European naturopaths, the more I became interested in harnessing lifestyle choices as part of managing the osteoarthritis that still bro
ught me pain and, along with the changes in alignment, caused me to limp.

  At seventeen, I became a vegetarian and began a regular twice-daily practice of meditation. I knew from my reading that the mind is a powerful ally if harnessed, and I knew equally that the stories we tell ourselves have an impact on our bodies. The word ‘psychoneuroimmunology’ hadn’t yet been invented, but I was certain that my mind had influenced both the non-healing and then the rapid healing of my femur after that particularly long hospitalisation. Beliefs are powerful, as they motivate our behaviours—if I’d believed what my doctor had said about my femur never healing, I may not have tried to get out of bed and walk.

  ***

  We were taught in nursing school that the last faculty of an unconscious person is their hearing, and I was particularly mindful of a patient who’d been unconscious for several months. Mrs Granville had been in a car crash, and while her body appeared to have healed, she hadn’t regained consciousness. She was often my patient for my scheduled shift, and I chattered away to her while I washed her face or body, or generally cared for her. I would tell her about what I loved, my favourite music, what the weather was like, and any other titbit that would pass our time together pleasantly.

  I’d also tell her about what I got up to on my days off. I would frequently visit Kilmarnock and, if I had a longer period off duty, I would head to Nyngan or Bourke. I loved the spaciousness, the lack of people, and the vast and magical landscape. The people I did meet were characters who didn’t indulge in pretences.

  One day, on a drive out towards Louth, I picked up an older man pushing his motorbike. It had run out of petrol, so I drove him to his home some distance away, where we sat on kerosene tins while he insisted on making me billy tea on the open fire outside his primitive hut. We chatted about our love of the bush as we poked at the smouldering fire. When the time came to take him and his full petrol tin back to his bike, he insisted I take the carcass of half a hogget back with me to the Nyngan caravan park where I had pitched my tiny tent. Vegetarianism was beyond his comprehension and he wouldn’t take no for an answer to his generous gift. He had killed the hogget the day before, and it was hanging in the meat room, a simple gauze-covered cubicle outside his tin and wattle-daubed hut.