Growing Pineapples in the Outback

by Tony Kelly

  After lunch, I finish the spare room, make sure the house is really tidy and wrap the ukulele I bought online for Beck.

  Standing on the back landing, I see a Qantas jet flying low along the eastern side of town, just above the range. ‘That’s her plane, I reckon,’ I call out to Diana, who is freshly showered and changed, and back in her chair. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘I’ll set the table,’ Diana announces.

  I know Diana will get out the good tablecloth and the good crockery and cutlery. She may not be a big fan of ‘a selection of salads’, but she’s pleased her baby will soon be home, and she wants to make a fuss.

  9

  Putting Down Pineapples

  Rebecca

  Lucille and I listen to music on the radio as we drive along Lygon Street towards Allie’s house. It’s a crisp autumn day and the sun streams through the car windows. I feel cosy sitting in the passenger seat, listening to the music. This is my favourite time of year in Melbourne.

  I can hear a ukulele in the song that’s playing. I pretend to hold my ukulele and practice the strumming pattern I’m trying to get the hang of. I have been watching online ukulele tutorials. I hold my index finger and thumb together. I think about my index nail hitting the string on the strum down and the pad on the top of my thumb hitting it on the way up. I practise the pattern: down, down, up, up, down, up, down.

  Ash, a musician from Mum’s church, recently gave me a very short strumming lesson. He told me to focus on moving my wrist rather than my hand when I strum, and suggested I try to relax more. I know he’s right. I am keen but impatient, and hold myself tightly when I play. For a few days after the lesson I did feel an improvement. I managed to coordinate all the parts: the strumming pattern, the notes, my wrist and the singing.

  I’ve taken to practising and playing on Friday nights. Mum and Tony sit on the verandah with me after dinner and listen as I play and sing. They’re a good audience, singing along and clapping after each effort.

  I’m currently learning ‘Don’t Pull Your Love’ by Hamilton, Joe Frank & Reynolds, an old hit from the early 1970s. I recently heard it on the radio and remembered how much I’d loved it as a kid. I looked it up online and found that the ukulele chords were quite simple. What I lack in skill I make up for in enthusiasm.

  ‘I’m amazed how quickly you’ve picked it up, Beck,’ Mum said.

  I didn’t tell her, but the thing with the uke is that you can get to a level of basic competency quite quickly. I also know that if I don’t do a bit more practice, I won’t be able to advance beyond the three songs I can currently play. Along with ‘Don’t Pull Your Love’, I’ve been plucking out ‘Over the Rainbow’, a uke classic, and – especially for Mum – ‘It’s Only a Paper Moon’.

  I had thought about bringing the uke with me on this trip so I could keep practising, but decided against it. I’m only in Melbourne for a few days and thought it’d be a bit gammon to bring it along. I have to confess that I liked the idea of accessorising with it. I’ve always wanted to experience the particular cool that comes with carrying an instrument through an airport.

  Lucille looks over and asks me what I’m doing. I tell her that I’m practising strumming on my air ukulele.

  ‘Haven’t you and Dad joined a uke group?’ she asks.

  ‘Handbells group,’ I say.

  ‘Oh yeah, that’s right. Is that like town criers?’

  I shake my head and laugh. ‘The bells are shaped like the ones the town crier uses except there are heaps of them, from small to large, and they correlate to the notes on the piano. You lay them out on the table in the same order as the keys, with white on one line and black placed above them, and when you have to play a note you pick up the corresponding bell.’

  ‘Do you just play one note?’

  ‘Usually each player has a few bells that they play throughout a piece of music. You pick one up and ring it, then put it down and then get another one. Sometimes you have to have a bell in each hand and get ready to ring and then change.’

  ‘Sounds hectic,’ says Lucille.

  ‘It is!’

  ‘Have you played a gig yet?’ she asks.

  ‘Yep. We played two songs at the recent eisteddfod.’

  ‘Did you win?’

  ‘Yep, first prize in the community group section. You should have seen Grandma – she was so proud.’

  ‘Classic!’ says Lucille.

  I neglect to add that we were the only entrants in our category. Some details just ruin a good story.

  Lucille turns onto Argyle Street and parks. Before getting out of the car, she asks, ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘A bit,’ I say, ‘but it’s more excitement than nerves. How about you?’

  ‘Same.’

  We get out of the car and cross the street. Lucille knocks on the door and we stand and wait. I step back and look up at the house. It’s an old but beautiful terrace, and appears to be in very good condition. I’m a bit surprised, as I’d thought that share houses in Carlton were next to extinct.

  A young woman opens the door and invites us in. She smiles and tells us Allie is out the back. We walk down the hall, past bikes, boxes and other bits and pieces, through the galley-style kitchen and out to the back area. There are some old chairs and couches, neglected-looking plants, milk crates serving as tables, and overflowing ashtrays. I am immediately propelled back thirty years to the share houses I lived in.

  Allie jumps up to greet us. ‘Beck!’ she says, and wraps her arms around me in a bear hug. She greets Lucille with the same warmth. ‘Love your dress,’ she says to me.

  ‘Thank you! It was my mum’s.’

  ‘Oh wow, that’s so cool!’

  I smile and nod. It is cool. I have found a few favourite dresses of Mum’s from the 1970s and have started to wear them. Most are ones she made. Today’s number is a light grey polished-cotton three-panelled shift. It has yellow and orange flowers on it and a small collar that ties at the front with a bow.

  ‘I can’t believe we can both wear the same dresses,’ Mum had exclaimed. ‘I thought I was a very different shape from you at the same age.’

  I understand what she’s saying: Mum always thought she was fat. As a young woman Mum had been very slight, but as she aged her shape changed and she didn’t like it. She was someone who placed an inordinate amount of importance on size and shape. She held a view – often unspoken, but obvious in the things she said and did – that being slim was more appealing in every sense. To her, being larger-bodied meant you were greedy, lazy and lacking in self-care.

  As she got bigger, Mum fought with her body. She berated herself, and often restricted food and then overate. It was difficult because she was an excellent cook and loved good food. For years she went to Weight Watchers. Initially she would lose weight, but then she’d put it all back on, plus more. Back then no one spoke about one’s relationships with body, food or behaviour. It was all very superficial.

  The thing Mum hated most at Weight Watchers was the ‘pig pen’. If it were discovered, at the weekly weigh-in, that you had put on weight, you would be put into the pig pen. It was an actual toddlers’ playpen, and all the women inside the pen had to repeat: ‘Piggy, piggy, piggy me, eating all that I can see.’ On weigh-in days Mum would starve herself, go to Weight Watchers, do the weigh-in and then rush home after the meeting and tuck into the contents of the fridge.

  ‘Did you have to go into the pig pen tonight, Mum?’ we’d ask when she got home.

  Thankfully, as she moved into her seventies, she stopped the battle and found comfort in her body, and was able to accept it and relax.

  Allie puts out her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Ready?’

  Lucille and I nod.

  ‘Okay, let’s go upstairs,’ she says.

  Allie indicates for Lucille and me to sit. Lucille sits on the bed, kic
ks her boots off and stretches out. She chats with Allie as she gets things ready. They talk about friends they have in common, and laugh about this and that.

  I’m not sure where to sit and so remain standing. I look around the room. It’s airy and sparsely furnished. The window is open and I can see the roof outside. There are a couple of empty beer bottles and an ashtray propped up against one of the beams. I imagine climbing through the window onto the roof and watching the sun set over the city.

  Allie sits on a stool and pushes a chair out from the desk for me. ‘So you’re first?’ she says to me, as she pulls on a pair of black latex gloves.

  I look at Lu and she nods, so I nod.

  Allie smiles and takes a small plastic bag from the desk and opens it. She takes out a stencil of a pineapple and gives it to me to look at. It’s about five centimetres long and two wide. Lucille’s boyfriend Max has drawn it from a suggestion I gave him. I like it. I nod and hand it back.

  My arm lies along the armrest of my chair. Allie presses the tattoo stencil onto the underside of my lower right arm. She fills a small plastic cup with dark blue ink, puts a blob of moisturiser on the bottom of the cup and then sticks it to my lower arm. She takes a long, sharp needle out of a sterilised pack and dabs it in the ink.

  ‘It won’t hurt for the first few minutes,’ she tells me.

  I nod.

  ‘But after that it probably will.’

  I nod again.

  Allie begins. She’s right – the first few pricks don’t hurt. ‘Is this your first tatt?’ she asks.

  I nod.

  ‘Does Grandma know?’ asks Lu from the bed.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Really?’ she asks.

  I nod.

  ‘Ooh!’ she laughs. ‘Bad Mom!’ she says, putting on an American accent.

  I laugh too.

  ‘What will she say?’ asks Lu.

  ‘She always says, “I loathe tattoos,”’ I say, imitating my mother’s voice.

  Lu laughs. ‘But all the Mount Isa grandkids have them. Isn’t she used to them by now?’

  ‘Yeah, but you know, it’s sort of become her thing to shake her head at tatts. “Makes you look like you’ve been involved in some kind of illegal activity.”’

  We all laugh.

  After the first few minutes, my arm does start to hurt. I focus on my breathing. I watch Allie’s steady hands move down my arm as she inks the outline of the pineapple.

  ‘Why now?’ she asks.

  It’s a good question and I think for a moment.

  ‘I feel as though I’ve reached an age where I’m completely comfortable with who I am,’ I say at last. ‘I told the girls years ago that we would get matching tatts, so here we are!’

  ‘And Georgie?’ Allie asks.

  ‘She was a bit naughty,’ I say.

  ‘Like you, Mum,’ Lucille breaks in.

  I laugh. ‘She got hers done on her wrist in a bar in New York without us.’

  Lu sticks up for her sister: ‘She says she didn’t realise we were all going to get them done together!’

  I smile and nod. We both know Georgie got it done first because she is impetuous, but it’s no big deal. If I was in a bar in New York and there was a tattoo artist there who was charging five dollars a go, then I’d be thinking, ‘What will I get done?’ too.

  Allie continues to work the needle across my arm. Each jab is like a purposeful pinprick – you notice it, but it’s nothing to be alarmed by. Allie is a ‘stick and poke’ tattoo artist. This means she does all her tattoos by hand. She doesn’t use a tattoo gun.

  I look down. She’s finished the outline of the pineapple.

  ‘Looks good, hey?’ she asks.

  I smile and nod.

  Allie starts working on the inside detail. ‘Do you grow pineapples where you live in Queensland?’ she asks.

  ‘I do,’ I say, ‘but it’s not the norm. Pineapples grow better in places like Cairns, where it’s hot and wet, but I’m managing to keep mine alive in Mount Isa.’

  ‘How many do you have now?’ asks Lu.

  Initially I had three growing in pots and a few in the cycad garden beside the back steps. But now I’ve started to plant more at the end of the backyard. ‘I’ve lost count,’ I say.

  ‘How long before they fruit?’ asks Allie.

  ‘About five years.’

  ‘Five years!’ says Allie. ‘And are you going to stay there until they do?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I shrug.

  Lu raises her eyebrows but says nothing.

  ‘But we’re not getting the pineapple as a tatt because I grow them,’ I say to Allie.

  ‘Mum’s the Pineapple Princess,’ says Lu.

  Allie looks at me questioningly.

  I shrug and smile. ‘She was a comedy character I used to do in Daylesford in my late thirties. She was a provincial and slightly faded glamorous Queenslander, who was crowned the Pineapple Princess at a fictitious festival in Bundaberg in the late 1970s.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ says Allie.

  ‘Her claims to fame were her open mind, excellent common sense and the ability to prepare the Pineapple Princess dish live on stage while drinking a few shots of rum and singing “Beautiful Queensland”.’

  ‘What’s the Pineapple Princess dish?’ asks Allie.

  ‘Well, Allie, it’s actually a bit of a party pleaser! Chunks of cheese and cabana are stuck on a toothpick and topped off with a glacé cherry. The loaded toothpicks are then stuck into the diamond pattern on the pineapple, and the whole ensemble becomes a stunning table centrepiece. The beauty of the dish is its versatility – perfect for the cocktail hour, afternoon barbecue or when guests turn up unannounced.’

  Allie laughs.

  ‘In Daylesford people started to call me the Pineapple Princess, and then the pineapple gifts started. Initially it was a few items here and there – a tea towel, a set of earrings – but soon it spread to everyone in my life. I have heaps of pineapple things that people have given me – clothes, pictures, towels, jewellery, art, crockery, lamps, ornaments, socks, underwear … it’s incredible how many pineapple items there are out there.’

  ‘And now a piney tatt,’ adds Lu.

  ‘Yep,’ I laugh.

  ‘So that means Lu and Georgie are Pineapple Princesses by birthright?’ Allie asks.

  ‘Absolutely!’

  We laugh, and then the room goes quiet. Allie’s head is very close to my arm. I can see the pulse in her temples and the hair follicles on the top of her head and the side of her face. I wonder whether it would hurt to pluck out one of those hairs. Mum gets me to pluck the stray hairs from her chin and eyebrows. They are quite fine, but she winces with each pulled hair. Sometimes I’m careless with the tweezers and catch small bits of skin in the pincers and yank that away too. This causes Mum to yelp. She’s on blood-thinning medication so there’s often a lot of blood, even though the accidental snips are tiny.

  As well as plucking, I do Mum’s manicures and pedicures. She used to go to a chiropodist to get her feet done, and the granddaughters have at times also had to do it, but she’s now handed the honour to me. I don’t mind. I like feet.

  Grooming night has become a bit of an event. We do it when Tony is not there. First, I do Mum’s plucking, and then we set up for the pedicure. A few years ago one of the granddaughters gave Mum a home pedicure spa tub. It’s a small basin that you fill with water, then you turn on a switch and the water heats up. I add bath salts, and when it’s warm enough Mum puts her feet in. Then I turn on the small jets. Mum always closes her eyes and leans back.

  After the spa I dry her feet and use a pumice stone to remove the softened dry skin. Then I begin on her toenails. I’ve discovered that, as we get older, the toenail almost seems to grow into the skin. I use a blunt instrument to get any dirt out from u
nder the toenail, and to lift it up slightly so I can get the clippers in position. Occasionally, I’ve snipped Mum’s skin. I hate it when I do this. When I’ve finished clipping, I massage her feet and cover them in soft socks.

  What I would really like to do is give Mum a full massage. She loves me rubbing moisturiser into her hands, arms, legs and face.

  ‘We should book you in for a massage, Mum,’ I said one time.

  ‘No thanks,’ she replied.

  ‘You’d love it!’

  ‘I’m not taking my clothes off for a stranger.’

  ‘They’re not strangers – they’re just friends you haven’t met yet!’

  Mum snorted.

  ‘When Georgina and Lucille were little, I would massage them on the kitchen table,’ I told her.

  ‘I’m not getting up on the table!’ said Mum.

  ‘But I’ve already hired a hoist,’ I joked. ‘And I’ve told them you’ll be naked.’

  Mum looked at me, eyes and mouth agog, and then burst out laughing.

  Allie has completed the front part of the tattoo, and has started on the diamond shapes that make up the body of the pineapple. ‘How long are you going to stay in the Isa for, Beck?’ she asks.

  Lucille rolls over on the bed and looks at me. ‘Yeah, Mum, how long are you going to stay in the Isa?’

  ‘As long as it takes,’ I say.

  ‘As long as it takes for your mum to die?’ Allie asks.

  I nod.

  ‘So it could be soon or it could be years?’ she says.

  I nod.

  ‘You must like it,’ she says.

  ‘I do,’ I say.

  ‘What do you like best?’ she asks.

  This is another good question. ‘I like caring for Mum, and I like the big wide-open sky. I like the colour of the earth, and even though it is a big, dirty mining town, I know it like the back of my hand and it’s always felt like home. I like that.’

  ‘I get that,’ she says.

  I look over at Lucille. She nods and smiles. The girls get it too. They know they are deeply loved, and that they’re our number one people, but Mum and the Mount Isa family are right up there too.