by Tony Kelly
Bugger – there’s no option but to get a ride back to town with our broken tyres and try to get them repaired. There’s only room for one of us in the police car, so I farewell the others and squeeze into the back, next to Jessie and Clare. ‘The roadhouse closes in fifty minutes,’ says Dan. ‘We’ll have to hurry.’
‘Your wife’s Rebecca, eh?’ Smiley says, looking at me through the rear-vision mirror.
I nod yes.
‘She’s with Feral Arts,’ Smiley continues.
Over twenty years ago Rebecca ran a community arts project in Dajarra and the surrounding communities. I came along as a volunteer on one of the field trips. Smiley must have been a teenager at the time.
‘I never forget a face,’ she tells me.
We pull up at the roadhouse with ten minutes to spare, but it has the look and feel of a place closing up for the night when I slide open the front door. ‘I need a tyre fixed,’ I say desperately to the ancient proprietor, who is sitting behind the counter eating a bowl of ice cream. He glances at the clock – 8.50 pm – and then back at his bowl. He continues to spoon ice cream into his mouth. It’s a line ball whether he’ll help. He looks up as Dan comes in through the door, and I sense the balance tipping in my favour. Slowly he finishes his ice cream, then he climbs down from his stool and moves towards the workshop.
I’m flooded with relief. It’s been a long day, and Buddy and Neville are still sitting in the car with two flat tyres in the scrub forty minutes away. Not only do I have to get at least one of the two flats fixed, but I still have to get back out there and get the car moving again before we can begin the journey home.
The old man runs his hands around the tyres. After an age he looks up. ‘Both of these are shot. There’s no way they can be repaired.’ He glances at Dan, the copper. ‘I wouldn’t be allowed to, anyway. Not roadworthy.’
Knowing there’s no way I can argue with him on this point, I offer to buy a new one.
The old man tells me it’s unlikely these late-model tyres will be in stock, and the way he speaks makes me feel guilty for driving such a flash car.
I stare at the broken tyres lying on the workshop floor. I look outside and can see a row of mongrel dongas illuminated by a lone flickering fluorescent light. That’s where we’ll be spending the night.
Taking some pity on me, the old man offers to have a look in the back shed. Another age later he reappears, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps in this one.’ He points to the shed next to the workshop. ‘But first the keys.’ He disappears again.
Unhurried, he returns with keys and a torch. Upon opening the door, he shines his torch on the closest tyre. ‘This should do it.’ It’s a 285/65R17, and apparently that’s just what we need. Then he begins the excruciatingly slow process of putting the tyre on the rim. I can’t bear to watch, so I go inside the roadhouse to see if I can rustle up a couple of sandwiches to take back to the others.
I also take the opportunity to ring Beck. ‘I think we’re going to be okay,’ I tell her.
‘Good,’ says Beck. ‘Mum’s been driving me crazy. “When will the men be home?” she keeps asking.’
I laugh. ‘Tell her this man will be home after midnight. I hope.’
I can imagine Diana sitting in her green recliner, pestering Beck. At first she would have been excited for me, and curious, then as the day progressed she’d have become more and more anxious. After a lifetime in Mount Isa, she knows that being stuck in the bush in this heat is no small thing.
Finally the tyre is sorted and I follow the old man to the cash register. He perks up as I hand over $350 and starts on a conversation. ‘Where you from?’
‘Melbourne,’ I tell him.
‘Melbourne, eh? I like Melbourne. I took a drive there myself once. Went to Mildura, and from there we went south to Horsham, and from there …’
I’ve been up since 5 am, have spent the whole bloody day poking around in the scrub, it’s still hot, it’s late, and I have a car with two people in it stuck somewhere up a track god knows where. I don’t care about his Victorian road trip. Nonetheless, I take a breath and smile. This is part of the deal, I realise, the unspoken contract I entered into the moment I walked into his store. I let the story come to a natural end, then thank him for his assistance and go outside to see if my rescuers are still around.
Dan and the crew are waiting for me in the paddy wagon, having already stowed the new wheel in the back. After I cram myself in next to Jessie and Clare again, we head back out into the night. Forty minutes later we pull up behind Neville and Buddy, who are still sitting in the car with the engine running. They greet us with broad grins.
We easily get the wheel on, and this one goes round when the accelerator is pressed. So without any more fuss, and as we eat the best-tasting sandwiches, we follow the others back onto the main road and then turn our noses towards Mount Isa.
It’s well after midnight by the time I get my first glimpse of the red light blinking on top of the lead smelter stack. The tall grey chimney that reaches two hundred and seventy metres into the sky, spewing fumes day and night, is Mount Isa’s landmark. No matter from which way you approach the town, it is this stack that comes into view first. Next is the copper smelter stack, more benign at half the height, followed by the chimney from the sulphuric acid plant, which is smaller yet again. Finally, the full bestial body of the mine itself, stretching from the south to the north along the western edge of the town, emerges out of the dark.
It’s an extraordinary monolith, and beautiful by night, when it’s lit up like a carnival ship. By day its stark industrial ugliness cannot be disguised, surrounded by dust and toxins, radiating heat and noise. The first time I saw these lights was twenty-four years ago, when I flew in to spend my first Christmas with Rebecca’s family. Then I had a ticket with a fixed return date. But this time, I realise as we creep into town in the middle of the night, I have no such ticket. This time I am here to stay.
I drop Buddy at his place and Neville back at the motel. I swing into the backyard of Madang Street and kill the engine. The house is quiet. Diana and Beck would have sat up as long as they could, eager to see me pull into the drive, eager to hear the stories, eager to know I’m okay.
Beck stirs when I crawl into bed. ‘You’re home,’ she mutters.
‘I guess I am.’
3
Humming Along
Rebecca
It’s late afternoon and Tony and I are preparing dinner. I can hear Mum humming in the shower. She came home singing from church this morning. As the afternoon wore on, it shifted to her regular hum.
Tony and I catch each other’s eye and smile. Tempting as it is to find humour in Mum’s warbles, it is such a happy and unselfconscious sound that it’s impossible not to smile. Mum is in good form.
I heard her on the phone the other day to her sister Mary.
‘It’s terrific,’ she said.
Pause.
‘Yes, Tony is an excellent cook, and Beck likes to organise everyone, but we have a lot of fun together.’
Pause.
‘We do crosswords, and quizzes, and play Upwords.’
Pause.
‘Yes, Mary, I highly recommend it – highly recommend it!’
I loved hearing Mum say that, and I have to agree. We are the three amigos. I knew we would be. We laugh a lot together. Mum and I have our own special humour, and though I know it becomes a little tiresome at times for Tony, I do catch him grinning.
One night we were sitting at the table, eating dinner. I held up a piece of roasted pumpkin on the end of my fork and said to Mum, ‘I love eating yellow and orange vegetables.’
‘That’s very interesting,’ said Mum.
‘Isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I feel like I’m eating golden goodness when I eat them.’
‘I’ve never thought of describing plain old pumpkin like tha
t!’ Mum said.
‘Once you start, you won’t be able to stop.’ I popped the piece of pumpkin into my mouth.
‘Really?’ said Mum.
‘Yes!’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, my favourites are pumpkin, carrot—’
‘Squash,’ chimed in Mum.
‘Oh yes, the often ignored yellow squash.’
‘Ignored?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Like the carrot, the squash can often be found limp and lonely in the vegetable crisper.’
‘Yes,’ said Mum.
I continued: ‘Capsicum, yellow zucchini …’
‘Sweet potato.’
‘Good one!’ I said.
Mum did a thumbs-up.
We make little games like this stretch for a good half-hour, and each time we play they become more amusing.
I still don’t have any secure paid work in Mount Isa, but have plenty on with all my Melbourne projects. I’m going to choir and keeping up my exercise, but I would like to meet a few people. Tony’s work is going well, and although we both have our questioning moments we know that what we are experiencing here is very special. The girls are happy and well in Melbourne, though we suspect that our house has a permanent listing on a couch-surfing website.
The weather has shifted at last. The long hot summer was enervating, but the coolness of winter has lifted our spirits. The mornings and evenings are crisp, and the days warm and sunny. I love it and have been doing daily walks along the Leichhardt River. Seppo has given me a bike that he fixed up, and I’m having a great time riding around in the late afternoon and early evening. Tony and I are spending long periods of time in the garden; we’ve established veggie and herb patches, and the native shrubs that we planted earlier in the year are finally flowering. We’ve all noticed an increase in birds to the garden. Most days we spot rosellas, lorikeets, miners and butcherbirds. Mum can’t see the birds anymore but listens for their song.
My phone pings and I pick it up. It’s a text from Belinda:
The boys have just texted. They have left Cloncurry and the bus will get into the Isa in about an hour. C u soon!
I text back:
Thanks!
I tell Tony and he looks at the clock. ‘I’ll have the cake in the oven in the next twenty minutes,’ he says, ‘and then you can get the bread in.’
I nod and go back to crushing garlic. We both know that time is tight so we need to keep focused.
Mum has no idea that her Toowoomba grandsons, Michael and Brian, are on the bus that will soon arrive in Mount Isa. They, along with Belinda, Samantha, Madlyn, Ashley and Jorja, are all coming over tonight for a surprise dinner. Mum thinks it’s a regular Sunday-night dinner with just Tony and me.
This afternoon she asked me, ‘What’s Tony planning for dinner?’
Over the past five months, Mum has made it quite clear that she prefers Tony’s cooking to mine. Most people do. She’s happy enough to eat my food, but often starts conversations about meals with statements like this. Initially it irritated me, but I’ve stopped being bothered because I too prefer it when Tony cooks. He’s a far more interesting chef and goes to more trouble to vary our meals, whereas I have a handful of tried and tested ones and roll them out week after week. Tony also takes the time to engage Mum in conversations about meal preparation, and involves her in the kitchen when he can. I get flustered when she’s in the kitchen as I often interpret her advice as criticism.
Mum and Tony have an easy relationship full stop. This was not always the case. When Mum first met Tony, we had only recently got back together after a break-up. We were in our mid-twenties, and I, due to naivety or self-consciousness, had displayed an offhand ambivalence towards him. I didn’t realise how completely in love I was until he called it off. Like many daughters, I went crying to my mumma and she propped me up.
When we got back together, Tony had to work hard to win Mum’s approval. But he did, as he does with most people. He has a natural ease and gentle self-confidence, which means that people feel comfortable with him. He’s non-judgemental and engages with people with a real sense of equality. Of course, like most people, he has an intolerance of dickhead behaviour, but overall he’s always willing to accept people as they are. Over the years, in moments when I’ve lacked confidence, I’ve felt that all my friends end up liking Tony more than they like me.
Mum and Tony have been good friends for years now, but I did wonder how it would work out for all three of us living under the same roof for an indefinite period of time. Now, as I watch him drink his beer and prepare food for tonight’s dinner, I realise there was no need to worry.
Mum lights up whenever Tony comes home at lunchtime and settles at the table with a new crossword. When he’s away, she asks, ‘When is Tony coming back?’ When I drive her to church, she asks, ‘Is Tony picking me up?’ In fact, I’m starting to wonder if she, too, likes him more than she likes me!
‘I’m cooking tonight,’ I told her.
‘Oh,’ Mum said, and although I know she’d deny it, I definitely saw the slight disapproving twitch that she does with her nose when she isn’t happy about something.
I considered telling her about our plan for pasta with pesto made from basil fresh from our garden, or the big pot of Napoli sauce that we made while she was at church, or the flourless orange cake that Tony has planned for dessert, but I felt that would give the surprise away.
‘What are you making?’ she asked.
‘Vegetarian sausages,’ I replied.
This time she made no attempt to hide it: the twitch of her nose was accompanied by a disapproving flare of the nostrils.
‘What are vegetarian sausages made of?’ she asked.
‘Sawdust,’ I replied.
Mum has eaten vegetarian sausages with my family and me for over twenty years, and she’s always asked this same question. Initially I used to run through the list of ingredients on the back of the packet, but these days I offer a deadpan response.
‘No, really,’ she said. ‘What are they made of?’
‘Sawdust,’ I repeated.
‘Really?’
‘Of course not! They’re made of TVP.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Textured vegetable protein. You know that!’
Mum nodded. After a short pause, she asked, ‘And what’s that made of?’
‘Sawdust!’ I said.
We both burst out laughing.
‘What will you serve them with?’ she asked.
‘Mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli.’
‘Make sure you steam the broccoli for long enough. Your broccoli is always undercooked.’ Her nose twitches again.
Mum would never say something like this to Tony, and his broccoli is always al dente.
Mum’s humming ratchets up a couple of notches. I recognise the hymn. It’s one that Ash and Tara, local musicians who attend the same church as Mum, play regularly. Mum often comes home from church humming it. She sometimes gets quite demonstrative, clapping and waving her hands from side to side. It’s an upbeat hymn reminiscent of the perky Christian rock numbers that Mum took a shine to in the late 1970s and ’80s. Think ‘Rock My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham’ and you’re on the right track.
Mum taught Sunday school on and off for years, and she would buy cassettes of children’s hymns for her charges. She’d sometimes play them at home, but none of us took to them. We were all too old and into our own music. We had records, Countdown and concerts.
Paul belonged to a mail-order record club and every week something new would arrive: Uriah Heep, Led Zeppelin, King Crimson. I pretended to like these records but they were a bit beyond me. I was into the bands I saw on Countdown and heard on the rare occasions we were allowed to turn the radio dial from the ABC onto the local commercial station.
I
n my first year of high school I noticed that everyone wrote the names of the bands they liked on their pencil cases. I thought this was a very daring thing to do, so in a bold moment emblazoned my red plastic pencil case with all my favourite band names. I recently found this pencil case in one of my clean-ups and was horrified to see that I had spelt Abba incorrectly. There it was in thick black pen: ABAB. I was obviously not the sharpest pencil in the case.
My first concert was in 1971. It was a matinee performance with Jamie Redfern at the Irish Club. I wore light blue gabardine hotpants with a blue floral voile blouse that Mum had made. I teamed these with knee-high white socks and black patent-leather party shoes. Not very rock and roll!
On stage, Jamie told a joke: ‘What’s green and runs through the woods? Moldy-locks.’
I was star-struck. Here was a live performer who could sing and tell jokes.
By 1976 I’d seen Hush, the Ted Mulry Gang and Sherbet at the Mount Isa Civic Centre. Daryl Braithwaite even held my best friend’s hand when he sang ‘You’re My World’.
So by the time Mum got into Christian rock songs, I’d well and truly moved on.
The family members who did love the cassettes she bought were Belinda, Brian, Michael and Samantha. From the early 1990s until quite recently, Mum had had the four grandchildren, and eventually the great-grandchildren too, over every Sunday for either lunch or dinner. When the grandchildren were kids Mum would play the tapes for them after lunch, and they would sing and dance around the lounge room.
Mum was beautiful with them. She loved children, especially these children, and also music and dancing. Her grandkids did too. I don’t know if they knew what the lyrics meant, but Mum always gave them her complete attention and they loved it. The joy of being a grandparent. Even now, when they get together, the grandkids often break out into an energetic version of one of the songs they learnt as children.
Mum’s father was an Anglican minister, and the church has always been a constant in her life. Mum took as all to church as children, and we all got confirmed, but none of us remained connected to religion. Mum never expected anything, and there was no pressure for us to participate. Religion and church were very much her things.
