by Tony Kelly
By about 9 am the temperature hits the mid-thirties, so I put the swampy on and change the angle of all the louvres. By midday, with the temperature hovering around thirty-nine degrees, I succumb again despite my personal politics, shut all the doors, louvres, venetians and curtains, turn off the swampy and put the splitty on in the lounge room.
We leave it going until 5 pm, by which time I can no longer stand being cooped up in the house, so I turn the splitty off, open every door, window, curtain and blind and turn the swampy back on. By about 10 pm we reverse the whole system and whack the splitty back on. It’s exhausting!
My niece Samantha installed the splitties into this house with her brother-in-law Seppo (a fellow sparkie). Mum loves telling everyone that her grandchildren installed them. I think they may have had some assistance from a friend who was a fridgie and another tradie, but in Mum’s eyes this is irrelevant as it was her grandchildren who did the bulk of the work.
I find the way that Mum praises the grandchildren very interesting. When I was growing up, my parents barely praised me. This was not out of malice or a lack of attention, but more a sign of the era. There was a definite sense that praising children too much led to vanity and big-headedness.
I remember when Dad picked me up from the school dance in 1979. I was sixteen and in Year 12. One event at the dance was the crowning of ‘Mr and Miss Mount Isa State High School’. I had been nominated for this award, and had spent the last few months raising money, and going to interviews and functions with the various ‘dignitaries’ from town: the members of the committee who would bestow the crowns.
I jumped into the Kingswood and slammed the door.
‘Who won?’ Dad asked.
‘I did,’ I said.
‘No, you didn’t!’ said Dad.
‘Yes, I did!’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah!’
‘Must have been pretty slim pickings!’
Dad and I both laughed. This was his way of saying ‘well done’, and I didn’t feel any sensitivity about his comment.
‘What did ya win?’ he asked.
‘Twenty-dollar vouchers from the chemist and the bookshop.’
‘Good prizes,’ he commented.
‘Yep.’
When we got home, Dad announced to Mum: ‘She won!’
‘Really?’ said Mum.
‘Yep,’ I said.
‘Goodness me!’
This was said like the news was a shock. Again, I took no umbrage.
Mum made a cup of tea and we had a piece of fruitcake and talked about the evening. At no point did anyone actually say congratulations. My parents didn’t say congratulations – they did congratulations. Late-night tea, cake and conversation were the praise.
I hear the sound of the bus at the front of the house and go out to help with the shopping. Reg and Nicole carry Mum’s bags from the bus and put them on the verandah for me. I carry it all inside and plonk it on the table and kitchen benches.
‘Turn the splitty on, Beck,’ says Mum as she collapses into her chair. ‘Must be over forty degrees out there now.’
I shut the house up, turn the splitty on and unpack the shopping bags. I am slowly introducing Mum to not using plastic bags. I take out a bunch of bananas that she has put in a plastic bag and think about saying something but let it go.
She’s had a good trip into town but is exhausted. I give her a glass of water and make a cup of tea. She sits in her chair and watches me put the shopping away. ‘You’re so fast,’ she says.
I just smile.
‘It used to take me all day to put the shopping away,’ she adds.
Tony comes home and we make lunch and do a crossword together. Mum is very good at crosswords, but as a threesome we are formidable.
We have some time to kill before going to the doctor. Mum asks me to read an article to her from the latest Monthly magazine. Whenever I read to her I use my best ‘speech and drama’ voice. Today it’s an article about the economic growth of the United States compared to that of Australia. ‘And surprisingly,’ I read, ‘the deputy assistant ambassador to the United States released this economic statement just after a highly contentious press conference in which he stated his emphatic support for polyamory, revealing that he and his wife had often had relations with multiple partners.’
I pause and watch Mum’s face. Her eyes widen and her jaw drops. She looks at me and it tests my acting chops not to crack up. I hold this for a moment and then burst out laughing. Mum laughs too, but then says, ‘Stop being so ridiculous and finish the article.’
I change out of my shorts and singlet and put on a dress in preparation for Mum’s trip to the doctor.
‘That looks nice,’ she says. ‘You should dress like that more often.’
I wonder at what age mothers stop commenting on their children’s clothes, but say nothing.
I get Mum into the car and off to her appointment. As we drive we discuss plans for dinner. ‘You could make that nice spinach and feta pie,’ says Mum.
‘You could help me,’ I say.
Mum pauses, then says, ‘We can make that nice spinach and feta pie.’
We laugh and get on with the rest of our day.
2
Bushed
Tony
‘How many spares you carryin’, Tony?’ Buddy asks as we drive south out of town in the pre-dawn gloom.
There are termite mounds dotted in among the scrub. A trend over the last couple of years has been to drape old clothes over the mounds – a white shirt here, a red skirt there. In the half-light I can almost imagine them as people farewelling us on our expedition. I think of Burke and Wills embarking on their ill-fated mission, which passed not far to the east of here, over one hundred and fifty years ago. The streets of Melbourne had been lined with thousands of well-wishers as their cavalcade of camels, horses and wagons slowly edged north out of town. I worry that the termite mounds might be some kind of omen – perhaps our mission, though more modest, is similarly fated.
‘One,’ I reply quizzically.
Buddy’s a local traditional owner, and he’s agreed to take me, the new native title lawyer in town, and my colleague Neville out bush to see some cultural sites. He shakes his head. ‘There’s no way we can leave the road with only one spare.’ He directs me to turn around. ‘We’ll get mine. This is a five lugger, isn’t it?’
I remain puzzled.
‘Five bolts on the drum that slot into the wheel,’ he explains. ‘Some have four or six, but I’m sure this is a fiver, like mine.’
I take his word for it and turn around. We grab two (five-lug) spares from Buddy’s fifteen-year-old LandCruiser ute and start out again.
Beck and I have been in Mount Isa only a short time, and already I’m heading out bush. When she threw out the possibility of moving here, I immediately thought of trips like this. Out on country with elders, looking at sites and talking tactics. Now here I am – it’s happening – but we’re not off to an auspicious start.
The sun is just peaking up over the scraggly Selwyn Range when we turn off the bitumen onto Ardmore Station. Buddy has a big day planned visiting various sites across his country. The women in his family told him he shouldn’t be taking us, as they are women’s sites. But Buddy disagrees. I’m not sure if he disagrees that they are women’s sites or that he shouldn’t be taking us. For him, it’s important that Neville and I film him talking about his country and plotting important places on the GPS, if ever his family is going to get a native title claim up.
We turn off the road and onto a dirt track that cuts east across the spinifex plain. We go through a couple of gates and past a bore, and then pull up at a granite outcrop. ‘You only bring a woman here if you’re planning on piccaninnies, if you know what I mean,’ Buddy says.
There’s one large rock with a ridge around its
bottom edge sitting on top of another, even bigger rock. It looks like a penis; there’s no mistaking Buddy’s meaning. I suspect this is a women’s site.
Buddy then directs us towards the distant hills. We pass an old mining lease with burnt-out trucks and empty beer bottles strewn across the red rocky ground. There isn’t a scrap of vegetation. It’s not even 9 am and it’s already very hot. The picture’s bleak: a field of failed dreams and hard living. Eventually we come to a dense gidgee thicket. Buddy tells me that gidgee wood burns for days. It also stakes your tyres, I realise, as the front passenger tyre deflates the moment we hit the thicket.
We get out of the car and inspect the tyre. It’s completely flat. Buddy moves into the shade and watches as Neville and I work out what to do. Buddy’s changed enough tyres in his day, and has clearly decided it’s time for us city boys to get hot and sweaty. The ground burns my skin and sweat drips into my eyes as I dig out under the axle and slide the jack in. LandCruiser tyres are almost twice the size of normal car tyres. Getting the flat one off is easy enough, but Neville and I, with our skinny arms, struggle to get the spare on. ‘If you get the angle right, one person should be able to do that on their own,’ Buddy offers from the shade. I catch Neville’s eye and smile. After a couple of goes we succeed and, after wiping off the dust and the sweat, we recommence our journey.
For the next five hours we poke around the backcountry, looking at geological formations and art sites. Faded yellow and brown ochre suns and snakes predominate. Each site has special significance to Buddy, and as the day progresses his stories get more and more elaborate. We’re learning that Buddy likes an audience.
We come to a muddy waterhole at the base of some granite cliffs. Cattle have been in to drink and there’s manure all over the ground; the water has a greenish tinge. I usually require very little encouragement to swim in any body of water, hot or cold, but there is nothing remotely enticing about this foul waterhole. We climb over the rocks to the base of the cliff and look at a series of ochre squiggles, standing in the blistering heat as Buddy tells us how he has tried to get money to protect these sites. As each year goes by, he says, the art fades more and more.
Neville and I patiently listen and film Buddy talking and pointing, and diligently plot the GPS points with the phone, but as soon as Buddy’s done we race back to the air-conditioned vehicle.
‘How you finding the heat, boys?’ Buddy asks with a grin as he climbs into the car, having ambled back slowly.
No problem, we tell him.
By midafternoon I’m tired, and thinking we ought to start heading home. As if he can read my mind, Buddy directs us back towards the main road. But within a few moments he looks to the sun. ‘Still plenty of time,’ he says, then looks to the left. ‘Turn here.’ He flicks his hand but I don’t see anything and keep driving. ‘Stop the car – you missed it.’
I stop the car, put it in reverse and ease back along the track.
‘Here!’ Buddy points to two faint tyre tracks veering off to the left. I’m stunned by how well Buddy knows his way around what to me is largely indistinguishable country.
We follow the track as it winds through the scrub and up and down dry creek beds for miles. I’m ever conscious that we’re getting further and further away from the main road. After an age we come across an eroded segment of track with deep wheel ruts. Worried that the car will bottom out, I try to drive along the top of the ruts, but in so doing break the seal on the wall of the front left tyre, the spare, and down it goes. I glance at the thermometer on the dash: forty-three degrees.
Without saying a word, we hop out of the car. Neville and I, knowing our roles, begin the hot process of loosening the wheel nuts, jacking up the front, taking off the flat tyre and replacing it with one of Buddy’s spares. It goes on easily, and I rejoice that we had turned around and collected them.
We climb back into the car, and Neville, now behind the wheel, puts it into drive and eases his foot down on the accelerator. The car doesn’t move. I jump out and check the tyre: all seems good. Neville tries again but it still doesn’t move. It quickly dawns on us that Buddy’s old LandCruiser tyres, being thinner than the factory-fitted ones on this late-model vehicle, are incompatible with the braking system. Although they have the correct number of lugs and fit well, they won’t go round. We are stuck.
Neville reaches for the satellite phone. He punches in the phone number for the station manager, which Buddy knows by heart. Nothing. We try the Dajarra police; nothing. My legs start to shake. Trying to maintain my composure, I read the satellite phone manual and realise we need to put in the country and area codes first. Dutifully we dial the numbers, but all we get is a recorded message: ‘Your call could not be connected; please check the number and try again.’
We consider our options. It’s too far to walk out, and way too hot. It’ll be dark in four or five hours so it looks like we’ll have to spend the night in the car. At least we have plenty of water. Neville and I look at each other gloomily.
I reread the manual carefully. Abandoning the cool of the vehicle, I get out, move away to avoid interference, make sure the aerial’s pointing directly up and continue to try the numbers. After half a dozen attempts I get onto the station manager’s wife, but by the time we can explain our location the line goes dead. I wait a couple of minutes and try again. This goes on for another twenty minutes until I get a long enough connection for Buddy to describe where we are. She says her husband is out mustering but she’ll get onto the police.
Not entirely convinced she knows exactly where we are, or that the police will be able to respond to our mayday, we sit and wait. I put in a call to our colleague Kylie back in Mount Isa, and when I eventually get through I ask her to ring Rebecca. I know she and Diana will be starting to get worried. I’m beginning to realise that going out bush in this part of the world, especially at this time of year, is a big deal, and when you don’t return on time people get worried. People get stuck out here and die.
We have plenty of fuel so we leave the engine running and sit in the air conditioning. It’s still murderously hot outside and the flies are thick. We try jokes and some music, but Neville and I are too tense to embrace either. Buddy seems relaxed. He’s been stuck out here a number of times and seems prepared to sit and wait, and even to walk out if no one comes. We keep looking to the west to see if a car is coming. After an hour and a half Neville reckons he can see the dust cloud from a car in the distance but nothing comes of it. We continue to wait.
‘Why’d ya move here?’ Buddy asks.
‘To look after my mother-in-law,’ I tell him. He asks me her name. ‘Diana Lister. Her husband, my father-in-law Ted, worked in the assay office at the mine.’ I also tell him about Beck’s brothers, Michael and David, who worked on and off in the mine for many years. Buddy says their names are familiar.
We continue to talk about family, and I know Buddy’s trying to place me. This is common out here. Everyone must fit in somehow, somewhere. I’ve seen Beck do it with her mum. Beck would mention someone she bumped into at the shops. Diana would probe until she got enough information to place the person. Sometimes it would take only five minutes, sometimes it would be an intermittent conversation over a number of days, until eventually Diana would announce it was so-and-so’s aunty, and that she moved to Townsville years ago.
I suddenly remember that Beck’s cousins grew up in Dajarra, the town Buddy’s from. ‘Do you know the Wrights?’ I ask. ‘Beck’s aunty married a Wright. I think they ran the fuel depot in Dajarra.’
Buddy nods. ‘Yep, they did.’ Finally I’m contextualised.
‘We were also ready for a change,’ I add. ‘We’d been living in Melbourne for nearly a decade. Our daughters are old enough to look after themselves and we were keen for an adventure.’
‘Well, you certainly got that,’ Neville chips in.
‘This is not quite what I had in mind.’<
br />
We return to silence.
What I don’t tell them is that it’s time for me to give something back to Beck. While I’m a very engaged dad and worked part-time when the kids were little to give Beck more opportunity to work and develop her career, she ultimately carried the greater burden in the career sacrifices she made for our family. Any time we were making decisions about jobs and places to live, we endeavoured to act honestly and with each other’s interests at heart, but often it felt like the big decisions favoured my interests and my career. Moving to Mount Isa, at Beck’s behest, gave me an opportunity to restore the balance.
I gaze out the window. The light is getting softer, making the orange of the dirt and the green of the spinifex richer. I wind down the window, thinking it will be cool, but hot air and flies rush in. I look up at the sky and notice some rain clouds gathering over the hills. ‘Do you think it’ll rain?’ I ask Buddy.
‘No, this won’t ’mount to nothin’. We’ve missed the rain this year.’
We go back to waiting in silence.
Eventually, I see in the rear-vision mirror the glint of a police car coming through the scrub in the last of the light. The three of us scramble out of the vehicle as it pulls up. Out jumps a young police officer in shorts and singlet. ‘Hello, I’m Dan,’ he says with a big grin. Pointing to a woman in a cowboy hat and T-shirt emblazoned with an Aboriginal flag, he adds, ‘This is Smiley.’ Buddy knows Smiley. She’s one of the women in his family who advised against the trip. They smile wryly at each other, but family business is not going to be aired in front of strangers.
Two more people emerge from the four-wheel drive twin-cab paddy wagon: Jessie and Clare, teacher’s aides from the school, who’ve come along for the ride. Clearly we’re the biggest thing to happen in the area for some time. Smiley tells us she has thrown a couple of spares in the back, hoping they’ll fit.
‘Five luggers?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘Six.’
