Love in the Outback

by Deb Hunt

  It didn’t look so hip and happening now. A short walk across the tarmac brought us to a sleepy terminal with a single check-in desk, a snack bar and an unmanned car-rental counter. The blue electric bug zapper on the ceiling was working overtime. Bags from the hold were loaded onto a cart, driven a few metres to the terminal and left outside for passengers to drift across and help themselves.

  I collected my case and walked the few metres to an adjacent hangar, Head Office of the Royal Flying Doctor Service, South Eastern Section. I entered through the visitor centre and looked around. I’d spent most of the past three weeks researching the history of the RFDS for an upcoming issue of the newsletter. All the information I needed for the anniversary issue – history, timeline, quotations, every type of aircraft they’d ever flown, contents of the medical chest, pioneering surgical instruments, dental equipment – was all here. I could have saved myself hours of painstaking research if only Queen Bee, as I had mentally dubbed the Janis Joplin lookalike marketing manager, had told me about it.

  The hangar was disappointingly empty. I had pictured noise and energy, planes revving their engines, doctors and nurses racing to jump on board a plane before it climbed into the skies on a dangerous yet daring rescue mission to swoop into the desert, land on a patch of barren earth and scoop up a child bitten by a king brown. I was hoping for a cross between Heathrow Terminal 4 and Grey’s Anatomy. Maybe I’d watched too many episodes of the original RFDS TV series. I consoled myself by thinking that the ‘swoop and scoop’ must have been going on right at that moment somewhere out in the bush.

  There was a relaxed, laid-back atmosphere in the hangar, with a radio playing in the background and groups of engineers bent over dismantled engines. I wandered unchallenged until a petite woman with blonde hair and twinkly eyes spotted me and led me to the main office. Barb introduced me to her boss, the CEO, and I tried not to stare. The accident must have been a bad one. His face had been reconstructed, his hands too. I could see where his fingers had fused together and new knuckles had been put in. The scar tissue ran under the sleeve of his shirt on both hands and I wondered how far up his arms it went.

  Barb ran through the itinerary she’d organised for the next few days then she handed me a map of Broken Hill and the keys to a car. ‘You can use one of the base vehicles parked by the chain link fence,’ she said. ‘If you’ll follow me into town, I’ll show you where you’re staying.’

  ‘What are you wearing tonight?’ I asked. In my role as PR co-ordinator I was attending the Broken Hill Women’s Auxiliary Ball that night. I was hoping I might sit at Barb’s table.

  ‘Didn’t they tell you?’ she said. ‘I can’t be there tonight, but whatever you wear will be fine,’ she added, leading me out to the car park. ‘It’s always a good night, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’

  I wasn’t so sure. Gardening gloves and rubber boots were more my style than high heels and a ball gown.

  Mid-afternoon heat bounced off the bitumen as I scanned the car park, squinting towards a line of cars parked under a shade cloth. I pointed the keys, pressed the unlock button and a Toyota Landcruiser lit up. Pretty soon I was bouncing along the road from the airport into town, feeling like a bus driver, tooling the streets of Broken Hill to get my bearings. You wouldn’t tool the streets in a Ford Focus, or a Mitsubishi Mirage, but perched above the suspension in a Toyota Landcruiser I was definitely tooling. And loving it.

  Barb made sure I had everything I needed then she left me to explore. This was a mining town, no doubt about it. The streets I explored were named after metals and minerals – Argent, Silver, Bromide, Cobalt, Oxide, Tin, Bismuth, Silica. Overshadowing them all was a giant slagheap, the tailings left from decades of mining. I drove up to have a look and a fearsome hot wind skittered and sheared along the rocks, wrenching the car door from my hand as I opened it.

  Head down, buffeted by the wind, I made my way to the Miners Memorial, a quiet place paying tribute to the hundreds of men and boys (some as young as twelve) who lost their lives in the late 1800s and early 1900s, poisoned by lead or killed in explosions and rock falls.

  In cheerful contrast to the sombre grey moonscape and the Miner’s Memorial was an outsize bench painted the colour of a London bus. I looked around. No one was watching. Why not?

  The concrete breeze blocks piled at the side of the bench wobbled as I stepped on them.

  What do you think you’re doing?

  Having fun, PK, you should try it some time.

  I pushed the hair out of my eyes, tucked it behind my ears to stop it being whipped into a tangled frenzy, grabbed the red timber slats and hauled myself up, laughing at how ridiculous I must have looked, clambering over the four-metre-high structure. It was an ungainly ascent but what a view. I could see the whole town from up there, right to the edge of the desert that closed in on all sides. I could see Mario’s Palace Hotel, with its wide verandas and ornate wrought-iron balustrades, where they filmed The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, and the equally impressive post office. Argent Street had a surprising number of beautiful buildings that must have taken years to construct.

  It was easy to imagine Broken Hill in its early days when settlers put down roots and civic-minded citizens would have set up local councils and started building a community in this remote, out-of-the-way place. Just as easy to imagine scores of pioneering prospectors and lawless gunslingers strutting down the main streets, rich beyond their wildest imaginings.

  I climbed off the bench, dusted myself down and drove on. Boarded-up shops and derelict houses on the edge of town, some even closer to the centre, suggested the locals had been doing it tough. The town had a solid, settled appearance but it looked like the glory days were long gone. Broken Hill felt like a town holding its breath, and not just because of the heat.

  *

  The Miss Australia Runner-Up was guest of honour at the Broken Hill Women’s Auxiliary Ball, accompanied by Miss Australia ‘Made it to the Final’. The two beauties went gliding around the civic centre in exquisite gowns dripping with jewels; I hadn’t realised how grand the ball would be. My little black dress looked out of place among the full-length gowns and tuxedos, and I tugged at the hem, desperate to cover my fat knees. All that did was expose more cleavage. I covered my cleavage in a shawl and made polite conversation with the person sitting next to me, secretly wishing I was at home in front of the television with a bottle of wine instead. There must have been 450 people there and they all seemed to know one another.

  ‘Do you live locally?’ I asked.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Did you come far?’

  ‘Few hours’ drive.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  The man on my left named a place I’d never heard of.

  ‘I don’t think I know where that is.’ I probably sounded snooty; nerves make me come over all British.

  ‘It’s a station.’

  ‘A station? I thought you said you drove?’

  The man I was attempting to have a conversation with looked bored.

  ‘A station is what we call a farm.’

  Ah. I see. ‘And how big is your farm? Sorry, station.’

  ‘About 400 by 300.’

  ‘Kilometres?’

  He nodded. Geography and maths have never been my strong point but that sounded bigger than Devon and Cornwall, with maybe a bit of Somerset and Dorset thrown in.

  I left the table as the conversation turned to light aircraft and motorbikes, and wandered across to watch the auction of a live pig.

  ‘Who’ll give me $600? In the corner, yes, you sir. Do I hear $700? And $800, thank you. The man on my left, $900.’

  Quickfire bidding sent the total well beyond $1000 and, as soon as the hammer fell, the winning bidder donated the pig back to the RFDS.

  ‘Here we go again. Who’ll give me $500? How about $550? . . .’


  ‘Enjoying yourself?’

  The battle-scarred CEO appeared beside me, in dinner jacket and bow tie.

  ‘Yes!’ I had to shout above the noise of a band that had started up.

  ‘What are your plans for the weekend?’

  ‘Not sure. Probably explore town some more, drive around a bit.’

  ‘A few of us go cycling on a Sunday. You’re welcome to join us.’

  It had been years since I’d ridden a bicycle. I had fond memories of the occasional weekend spent cycling in the Cotswolds, freewheeling along country lanes with my good friends, Helen and Louise. I pictured a scenic ride on the outskirts of Broken Hill, meandering through the desert. The CEO looked to be in his early sixties so I figured a Sunday afternoon ride wouldn’t be too taxing. It might even be fun and fun was what I’d been asking for.

  ‘Thank you, I’d love to.’

  He gave me his address. ‘I’ll lend you a bicycle,’ he said. ‘We leave at 7 am.’

  That didn’t sound quite so laid-back but I was keen to make a good impression, so I wrote down his address and made arrangements to meet the following day.

  *

  ‘Haven’t you got any cycling shorts?’

  I was dressed in sensible trousers and a sleeveless t-shirt with a cardigan tied around my waist in case it got cold. I thought my cycling attire was stylish and entirely suitable, and standing on the CEO’s doorstep at ten to seven on that Sunday morning I felt irritation rise. Funnily enough, I thought, no, I don’t have any cycling shorts because I hadn’t planned to go cycling on my day off. I wasn’t at my best that morning; I’d downed half a bottle of wine when I got back from the ball and I was nursing a hangover.

  He’s the CEO, don’t be rude.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t,’ I said meekly.

  ‘I’ve got a spare pair,’ he said, disappearing into the back of the house. He came back carrying a small square of black fabric.

  ‘Try those. You’ll need them.’

  The man had the legs of a greyhound and the torso of an underfed whippet. He handed me the small cycling shorts, the sort of thing you’d wear to the gym, only shorter and tighter, with a padded bum. I popped into the bathroom and did my best to squeeze into them. It looked like I’d stuffed a nappy down a pair of pants already a couple of sizes too small. Suddenly my cycling attire wasn’t quite so stylish.

  ‘They’re a bit tight,’ I shouted. I’d lost weight since I arrived in Australia but I was still more of a labrador than a chihuahua.

  ‘They’re meant to be snug; don’t worry, they’ll stretch.’

  I came out of the bathroom and he squinted at me.

  ‘They’ll do,’ he said. ‘We’ll just go and pick up David. He lives up the road.’

  Outside he introduced me to a bicycle with twenty-one gears and gallantly made sure the saddle was the right height, and then he leapt onto the saddle of his expensive-looking machine and pedalled off, as sprightly as a man twenty years younger. I did my best to keep up.

  As I struggled up the first rise I contemplated the name of the town I was staying in. Broken Hill. Not Broken Flat or Broken Level: Broken Hill. It hadn’t occurred to me before, I suppose because I was in a car. Now I was on a bike, watching the CEO’s tight little arse disappear into the distance, up a bloody great big hill. It took a long time to catch up but he waited.

  ‘Having trouble with the gears?’

  I didn’t answer, partly because I didn’t trust myself to and partly because I couldn’t breathe. Was he taking the piss? I was suddenly afraid he might be and I wondered if this was a regular thing. How many other gullible females had worn these shorts? By the time we got to David’s house I was feeling sick. David took one look at me and shook his head.

  ‘You can’t wear that top,’ he said.

  ‘He’s right. I should have given you a different top.’

  David was head of the University Department of Rural Health and they were clearly mates, two of a kind: sun-tanned, lean sportsmen, not an ounce of fat between them. I wondered if they were in on the joke together.

  ‘If you fall off, you’ll scrape the skin on your arms wearing that,’ said David.

  Why would I fall off? I had no intention of falling off but there was no point protesting. I felt outnumbered so I waited as David rummaged around indoors then reappeared, triumphantly handing me an XXXL lycra cycling top, the sort they wear on the Tour de France. It was a lurid mix of orange and blue, ‘Broken Hill Mountain Bike Club’ plastered across it. Mountains? No one said anything about mountains.

  ‘Here, try that on,’ he said.

  It was far too early on a Sunday morning to be anything other than compliant so I ducked into yet another stranger’s bathroom, dragged the baggy top over the too-tight nappy and waddled back outside.

  ‘That’ll do. Let’s go pick up the students. They live on the other side of town.’

  Students? No one had said anything about students either. By the time we got to where the students lived (and, what a surprise, they were are all wearing trendy cargo pants and skimpy tops; you wouldn’t catch them wearing nappies and lycra) I had peaked. My legs were shaking, my heart was racing, my stomach was churning and I badly needed to vomit or empty my bowels.

  ‘You go ahead,’ I said. ‘I’ll catch up.’

  I locked myself into a student toilet and dropped my head between my knees, trying not to be sick. I didn’t want to go cycling, I had a hangover. I wanted to lie down on the side of the road in the scorching desert and let a massive eagle chew my head off. Anything rather than go cycling.

  *

  I stayed in the toilet long enough to make sure they’d gone, then I wiped the sweat from my face and ventured out to find them all still there, dozens of super-fit cyclists, casually leaning on their handlebars, chatting, waiting. I was about to pike out and admit defeat when a woman my age arrived. She looked fit, but not that fit, so I dragged my bike over and begged her to stay at the back of the pack with me.

  The real cyclists whizzed off into the bush following a bumpy dirt track but Maureen and I stuck to the bitumen, and if we hadn’t kept moving we might have quite literally stuck to it, because even this early in the day it must have been in the mid-thirties.

  Moments later we reached the edge of town and I forgot all about my aching muscles. I was in the outback, the real Australian outback, and far from being empty and barren it was full of life. We cycled past balls of tangled scrub, the kind that blows across the screen in American westerns, and kangaroos kept pace with us until they got bored and put on a spurt of speed that made it look like we were standing still. Wedge-tailed eagles gliding the thermals soared overhead and emus clustered at the side of the road in feathery six-foot clumps, their improbable spindle-thin legs sticking out below their fat bodies. Maureen and I cycled past, staying well back so as not to disturb them. The emus stared and there was a moment’s silence, a dithering hesitation before panic set in. The emus dashed into the road, bumping into each other as they ran and, before either of us could react, a lump of feathers with floppy legs was running straight for us, feet slapping the hot tarmac. We swerved and somehow managed to stay on our bikes.

  Distant hills of scorched red earth folded over the horizon and the clear blue sky stretched in a seemingly endless arc above us. We covered about twenty kilometres all up – not much, I know, but my bum was going to ache for a week, even with the padded shorts.

  The CEO invited me in for a coffee at the end of the ride and I peeled off his now sweaty shorts and allowed my constricted cellulite to spread into comfy cargo pants. He made me laugh, recounting how he’d swerved to avoid a kangaroo and fallen headfirst into a bush and I felt oddly at home in his kitchen, morning papers strewn across the table. I wondered where his wife was. There had to be a wife; the house was immaculate. I could see plastic flowers on the dining roo
m table, perched in the exact centre of a white lace doily. Maybe he was gay? We lingered over a second cup of coffee and I decided his wife must be away. That would explain why he seemed so lonely.

  chapter seven

  ‘Do you want to sit up front?’

  I was strapped into the back of a Beechcraft King Air, cargo door closed, propellers turning and Shane (why are pilots always called Shane or Otto, not Bob or Ben?) looked back at me, peering over the top of his aviators. In spite of his regulation RFDS flight suit and peaked cap, the immaculately attired Captain Shane Brooks barely looked old enough to drive a car, never mind fly a plane.

  It had been a desert cold start to the day, chilly enough for engineers in the hangar to be wearing beanies and jumpers as I hurried through to join the seven-thirty clinic flight to Ivanhoe. The strip of light at the edge of the runway had shifted from the colour of sun-ripened nectarines to palest china blue.

  ‘Well?’

  Two months earlier, I’d been weeping my way through an English winter, waiting for love to land in my lap. Now I was being invited to sit in the jump seat of a Beechcraft King Air, owned and operated by the RFDS of Australia. Did I want to? You betcha, Baby Face!

  Before Miss PK could intervene, I unclipped my shoulder harness and lap belt and moved to the front of the seven-seat plane. I clambered into an alarmingly small space next to Shane, trying not to knock any instruments as I squeezed my thighs into a snug fur-covered seat.

  He handed me a headset. ‘Here, put this on. And don’t touch any buttons.’

  I hadn’t planned to, but once he’d mentioned it, it was like saying don’t think about elephants. I stared at a bank of dials, buttons, knobs and levers, all of which were crying out to be flicked, twiddled, turned and pushed.

  I suppressed a jittery impulse to reach out and press a button that carried my exact initials and jammed my wayward hands under my thighs. Shane looked back at Jacqueline, a child and family health nurse combing her hair at the back of the plane, and she gave him the thumbs up. I think that meant she’d shut the door. Shane looked out the window, checked the runway was clear (this was Broken Hill – you can forget air traffic control) then he pushed the throttle forwards.