Love and Other U-Turns

by Louisa Deasey

  Pluto and Tara ran a pub in another town, the first place Jim pulled in off the Nullarbor, deranged as a wild dog and with thirty dollars to his name, on his first trip across to Western Australia. Pluto took an instant liking to Jim, tossing him the keys to a room upstairs, inviting him to stay ‘indefinitely’ and instantly referring to him as his ‘best mate’.

  When he’d travel away for other gigs the two would leave endless messages on his phone, checking whether or not he was okay, asking when he was coming back. Accepting him unquestioningly for who he is, they opened up their hearts and their lives to him, and even conceived their first child on the night of his gig, joking they’d name it after him, before moving to Gin-Gin, twenty kilometres away.

  I assume I will like them – the fact that they love someone I love gives us something in common. Also, to admire a free spirit like Jim means they must surely have a bit of the adventurer in them, too, or at least, no interest in ‘entrapment’ as we see it. But just as you can’t predict the outcome of any interaction of atoms, my meeting Pluto and Tara, warm and friendly as they are, only confirms to me that I desperately, achingly, miss Melbourne. And this is not my tribe, or my place.

  We arrive at their house, a farmlet located next to acres of dry land, and despite being twenty kilometres out of the nearest town, I’m just happy to be able to be indoors and away from the harsh sun. Inside, everyone is drinking, even though it’s only midday, and I feel bad that we’ve arrived empty-handed to what appears to be a party.

  Pluto gives Jim an almighty smack on the shoulder to welcome him, plonking a beer in front of him, despite Jim’s protests. Three women, including Tara, sit on the other side of the room, with the boys all milling about talking feistily about crotching sheep and other farming topics. The girls are welcoming enough, offering me a drink and smiling, but I guess I’m just not in the mood for socialising.

  As I tune in and out of the conversation, telling myself to keep an open mind and look for some common ground, one of the Bacardi-gripping girls announces to the others, ‘I don’t understand those people who spend hours on the internet, writing emails and whatnot. It’s so boring, to sit at a computer.’

  All I can think about right now is how much I want to check my email.

  ‘Trudy’s pregnant,’ whispers Jim, coming up behind me and giving me an uncommon public display of affection, which is nice.

  ‘What? The backpacker from the pub who’s sitting over there quietly? She’s only been here a month!’

  ‘Remember that competition I told you about?’

  When we’d dropped in to the pub in Southern Cross, Jim had told me about the local men in these small towns having a bet on who could bed the new bartender first.

  ‘And it’s to him –’ He points at the guy whose wife just left in a huff with their two kids.

  ‘Can we go, soon?’

  Jim stiffens and turns our hug into a sort of pat, like a mate, and laughs nervously. ‘I’ve had a few drinks, Lou. I think Pluto wants us to stay.’

  The clock ticks. Nothing changes on my exterior, but for the anger rising like an impending volcano in my stomach. Tara must sense something’s up, because she brings over her newborn baby girl, and asks if I want a cuddle. Her beautiful little girl blinks sweetly up at me, softening my dark mood somewhat and distracting me in only the way a sweet little new being can. When it’s time to hand her back, my foul mood returns, and I desperately want to be alone. Somewhere cool, dark and peaceful.

  Far from here.

  I want a bath, I want a book, an interesting movie, or at the very least – a poem. I want to listen to something that isn’t harsh, drunk or base in humour. I’m sick of pubs, and hot, bitter surroundings. And all these men, who Jim seems to love so much, but I’m finding so hard to bear.

  I recite poetry in my head like a prisoner in a chain gang, seeing Jim’s silhouette and deludedly imagining him suddenly all apologetic, with a flash of recognition, scooping me up in his arms and whisking me to safety, like he once did at the Hotel California, all those moons ago … .

  Cooling your brow as with the mystic dew

  Dropping from twilight trees …

  ‘Have you read any good books lately?’ I ask Trudy, the backpacker, attempting to engage. To my surprise she asks me if I’m into astrology, so we have an interesting discussion about how Cancerians are so motherly and keen to have children, because they’re ruled by the moon.

  In the kitchen, Tara is peeling potatoes with her baby under her arm. I step in to help her, trying to still the growing growl at Jim for bringing me here, trapping me here, when I really want to go. I argue with myself, trying to be grateful for their hospitality and wondering if anyone would notice if I went and lay down in the car, when I can hear Pluto talking about their dog, saying it hasn’t been exercised in a couple of days.

  ‘Um, can I take him for a walk?’ Pluto throws me a leash, shaking his head like I’m mad, and I set off with the beautiful, wild, crazy animal which tries to throw itself in front of every car that appears.

  We walk up roads past paddocks glistening with yellow straw in the sun, and I assess my life over the past few months. I don’t know if it’s the lack of alone time, the beer, the sun, the dirt, or how far I am from everything that I’ve ever known, but I start to cry. I wail to the sky, and the dog starts to howl alongside me, looking up with the whites of his eyes loyally, innocently, joining in my pain.

  By the time we get back, I feel slightly better. I go and pat the horses, and Pluto comes up beside me to tell me about their differing personalities. He is up to about beer number fifteen now, but seems barely even tipsy.

  Eventually, the sun sets, and I can tell Jim is in no state to drive. Pluto has forced six beers into him by now, and he’s all open and gentle, gentler even than he usually is. I look at him and instead of seeing beauty in his way of going with the flow, it just looks weak.

  It might sound strange, but this is the first time, in all our travels, that I see Jim as a separate being, with different needs, goals and perceptions to me. It comes with a jarring sensation, like I’ve never seen him before.

  Oh, nice one dickhead! How the hell did you get around Australia not knowing how to fix a carburettor!

  They’re shaking their heads like he’s the most stupid man in the world, and he just – lets them. Jim would never arc up at someone picking on him. He likes this role of the clown. As long as they’re laughing, he’s okay. But God, I wish he would snap right now. Their insults make me angry. I just wish he would assert himself!

  For so long I’ve been in a lovesick daze seeing us as one and whole, together. Until now, I just trusted that we would always grow tired of places at the same time. It’s happened up until now. But he’s not going anywhere – he’s perfectly happy standing there, playing town clown so the guys can beef themselves up in his presence. If I want to leave I’m going to have to figure out how to do it on my own.

  I’m questioning the entire reason I threw everything away to come out here, in this middle-of-nowhere place, after months of macho company which has taught me – what? That way too many Australian men think binge drinking is a perfectly fine hobby? That as laid-back and friendly as outback Australians are, they can behave like primitive beasts? When I set out on this journey, I was determined to prove my misconceptions of this Australia wrong. But this afternoon has only managed to magnify our differences.

  It wrenches me in two. I don’t want this to be true. I don’t want to be the only one who wants to reconcile roughness with a bit of elegance, swearing with gentility, the beauty of the landscape with a similar open-mindedness about life. I thought Jim understood that. But I think he has a much stronger fortitude for the ugliness and paradoxes than me.

  I feel stuck, bored, frustrated, and to make matters worse, I can’t even call Sally or my sister for some desperately needed perspective, because there’s no phone coverage in this damned place.

  Back at the house, the party is in
full swing by now, and despite their friendliness and generosity, I just want to leave. But I can’t, Jim is drunk, it’s late now and there will be kangaroos on the road. I storm outside and accidentally touch an electric fence, which jolts me so hard I can’t breathe for a few minutes.

  ‘AAAAAAEEEEE!’

  Jim, a little shocked at my noise, starts to laugh, which is all the encouragement I need to cry. He comes over to me, but he’s still laughing, patting me and looking back to the blokes. Am I imagining this, or is he treating me like a fella? I feel sick. This is as far from the romantic reason I’m with him as it gets.

  ‘I have to go back to Fremantle,’ I say angrily.

  ‘But –’

  ‘I’LL DRIVE, I’ll dodge kangaROOS, I don’t care, but I HAVE to get out of here.’

  He laughs nervously, looking over my shoulder at the men who are probably saying, Jimbo’s missus is spittin’ the dummy out there! or something just as tacky. Something which puts me in a box and labels me ‘missus’ and what I’m feeling as ‘spitting the dummy’ when it’s so much more. I’m so much more. Just like they are!

  At least at his gigs there is something to look at, listen to, a variety of people to talk to. But here – in this farmlet in the middle of nowhere, a drive to even get into the tiny town with nothing to buy, do, see or read except a barren landscape, disconnected from everything – I am totally trapped. Get me out of here!

  ‘You can’t leave!’ the men say indignantly. ‘The girls are cooking a roast!’ Another beer hits Jim’s shoulder, and guilt at ruining his reputation as easy-going pulls at my damn Piscean heart-strings and we stay.

  ‘This was my biggest fear, Jim, when I got rid of my car to move into yours. Don’t you remember that?’ I say to him as soon as we’re alone.

  ‘I know Lou, but we’re here now. Nothing bad has actually happened. Getting angry isn’t going to change anything. It will just make you feel worse in the morning.’

  We sleep in the spare room and, as always happens after I’ve become so fed up I can’t breathe, my period comes, gushing. I have no idea where my supplies have gone in my frenzied packing from The Rose. They’re probably below his clown shoes somewhere, covered in dirt. Jim, redeeming himself a little with concern, rushes to search the car and I do what I can with his towel to prevent leaving murderous stains on their bed sheets. I feel like an absolute derelict. By the morning, I’m utterly humiliated, exhausted and anxious, and I just want to leave.

  ‘Babe, I’m okay to drive,’ says Jim, heading to the driver’s seat.

  ‘NO,’ I insist. I need to feel – at least some semblance of control again.

  Everything about the driver’s seat is him. My legs don’t reach the pedals, I have to adjust the rearvision mirror. When I use all the energy I can muster to reverse I feel a sudden crunch hit the side.

  Just to top off the perfect twenty-four hours, I’ve just backed into Pluto and Tara’s car.

  Oh, shit.

  I pull out my wallet in the dark, fishing for a hundred-dollar note, all I have in there. I run back inside and pin it under the sugar bowl on the kitchen bench.

  I’m so sorry. Ring me when you get a quote.

  It isn’t until we get to a paved road that I exhale.

  23

  Wicked winds and

  missing Kremes

  ‘Don’t waste the day in anger, Lou. Check it out. That sky – just look at that sky.’

  WE DRIVE IN SILENCE, JIM letting me take the helm even after my misguided reversal. I play a Beth Orton CD three times in a row before I can talk.

  ‘Where do we have to go next?’

  The words I choose are telling. You put me here. I’m powerless. I have no say in any of this. You are ruining my life.

  ‘Well, I’ve got that gig in Esperance tomorrow night.’

  I refuse to stay with any more ‘friends’, since the last deviation, so I say, ‘I know we’re bordering on broke, but there’s a reason not everyone stays at other people’s houses around the country. Sometimes you just need a break!’

  For the long haul from Corrigin down south to Esperance, my heart isn’t the blank slate it should be for such scenery. Instead of paying attention to the experience, my anxieties over phone and internet coverage, as well as the louder and louder questions in my head about where I should be based, start clouding every encounter I have with strangers. I don’t even notice the landscape anymore. I just see my worries.

  ‘Don’t waste the day in anger, Lou. Check it out. That sky – just look at that sky.’

  He’s right, I know. Life is too short. For beating myself up over a bent fender. For beating him up over having a few drinks with some ocker men. For beating them up for being the way they are. For losing the day to this foul mood.

  My mood lifts by an eighth of a microgram when I spot a service station along the gravel road out of town. Survival flicks back into gear. Coffee, bank balance, phone recharge card.

  The petrol station attendant takes so long to make my coffee I want to tip the rack which should be holding newspapers on her head. ‘Thanks,’ I say curtly, flinging my coins across the counter. I stomp back to the car and burn my tongue on the first sip.

  ‘You’ll love Esperance, Lou. Guy who runs the pub is really friendly. Loved my act and had me stay for two weeks last time. They’ll let us stay when we get there, for sure. The pub’s right on the beach, too.’

  I nod. Friends have told me about Esperance. Some of the most incredible coastline in West Australia. City of sea-lions. And a biosphere of fertility tagged The Sweet Spot by Aboriginal people, which is on the way. But because of what’s pulling and tugging at Jim’s and my heart, we don’t even notice the difference in the air through the biosphere, and when we pull over to get some food from the supermarket I find myself whingeing about the shopkeeper in the car.

  ‘Did you see how slow she was? How could one person move so slowly?’

  ‘Lou, she was just talking to the guy in front of you. Who cares?’

  A cow walks in front of the road and we slow to a crawl, and I find myself so enraged at the hold-up that I’m shaking my head.

  Jim’s trying to turn it around, laughing, as usual. ‘Lou, you’re angry at a cow?’

  When we stop in Hopetoun, Jim says he’ll go for a half-hour walk while I check my emails from the takeaway shop. I feel envious, that he gets to put exercise first. But I’ve left everything too late. I still have no phone coverage, and even a few hours could mean I’ve missed a gig. Everything traps me in this mood.

  Jim has nothing but one gig booked in Perth, in five days, and with his usual blasé approach to covering expanses of hundreds of kilometres in a day, decides we might as well see the rest of the south of the state while we’re here. I’m waiting to hear back on various pitches I had the sense to send in Fremantle. It’s getting down to the line.

  Sure enough, my sense of urgency hadn’t been unfounded. There’s an email waiting, from my editor at the newspaper:

  Louisa, I’ve left you three messages. Can you call me when you have a moment? I need to talk to you about some more columns …

  My heart beats, quickening. Money. Work. My saviours. I run to the car, drive it to Jim, honking.

  ‘JIM! Can we go now? And do you know if there’s Vodafone reception in ESPERANCE?’

  When we get to Esperance, the air is strangely silent, except for the wind, blowing gales that would have sent Dorothy to Oz. We find out later that dead birds have been falling from the sky.

  It’s not a good sign.

  Five minutes before we get to Esperance, my phone beeps with coverage. Sure enough, there’s three messages from Cindy, the editor, along with another one from a sub-editor for another magazine left the day before, checking some facts.

  ‘There’s the pub ther –’

  ‘Babe, can you just pull over? I need a coffee and I need to make a phone call.’

  No longer interested in making nice with the publican, I suggest Jim
goes to say hello while I head to a little plastic café on the edge of the street.

  ‘Hi – Cindy – It’s Louisa here.’’

  ‘Ah Louisa! Is this a good time?’

  A gale-force wind has kicked up outside and I scuttle to cower in the least flappy edge of the café. A table blows over, dropping plastic flowers on the linoleum. The shop assistant looks angrily at me, like I’m responsible.

  ‘Yes! Yes it’s great!’ I say, too eagerly.

  ‘Ah, well I was just calling to see if you were interested in doing some more columns for us, as well as the fashion ones. These ones pay a little better but the emphasis is on checking facts and getting good promotional shots. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in?’

  The columns are to be about Melbourne events – dance, art, culture, theatre. Just the sorts of activities I adore. Or – I would – if I was there.

  ‘Yes that sounds great.’

  ‘Oh good. I’ll forward you some suggestions, but do you think you could turn around the first by, say, tomorrow? And we need an extra fashion column this week too.’

  My answer is ‘yes’ to everything, especially after the morning’s costly bingle.

  ‘Thanks Cindy. Thanks for thinking of me.’ I’m hanging on by a thread, and she just keeps giving me lifelines.

  Jim comes and slumps beside me in the café. ‘They didn’t remember who I was. Not looking good, Lou.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The guy who booked me doesn’t work there anymore. We just drove six hundred kilometres for nothing. Might just stay the one night, hey?’

  Back we hop into the Mazda, which by this time was feeling more like a cage to me than a vehicle. I just want to get out, bunker down in a room with my pen and paper and get my columns sorted. But the wind is getting choppier and choppier, buffeting the car. We drive past the sea, foamy waves smashing about and ancient-looking pines leaning with the force of the gale. The only backpacking lodge that has rooms is giant and overlooking the sea. We get a room and unload the car, and Jim disappears for another walk.

  Safely in a room with a door I can close, I find more emails from my editor, one sent just twenty minutes ago. ‘Louisa I need you to file 150 words on a look from the fashion festival. Can you get it to me by 5 o’clock?’ That’s twenty minutes away. I press reply, and start madly typing in designer names and googling photos from the fashion festival. I file the story, too hurried to even play music on my laptop, tapping away in the silent room. Satisfied that particular bomb has not exploded, I relax into the next job a bit more.