Love in the Outback

by Deb Hunt

  At eleven o’clock I rang Julie, who had hired me. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve made a terrible mistake. I shouldn’t have applied for this job. I’m the wrong person. You’ve got the wrong person!’

  ‘Calm down,’ said the lovely Julie, who never panicked about anything. ‘It just takes some getting used to.’

  ‘I’m not a numbers person, I never have been!’

  ‘You’ll cope,’ said Julie.

  ‘I don’t think so. Can you please look for someone else?’

  ‘All right, but would you just stay until the end of the week? Please?’

  ‘OK.’

  It took four years for me to leave; saying no wasn’t my strong point.

  Rachel took me on a tour of the ninth floor, through a suite of offices that were reassuringly old and untidy, while a radio played in the background. There were people opening post, inputting data and typing at speed. Bonnie was a friendly ex-New Yorker responsible for major donors and (thankfully) almost as old as I was; Nicole knew most of the donors by their first name and radiated serenity; and Jude, the database manager, revealed she had relatives who grew up in England.

  ‘Where?’ I asked.

  ‘In a small village in the West Country.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘You won’t have heard of it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Framley Coddrington.’

  On the other side of the world, in a city of several million people, I was working with someone who knew the small village in Gloucestershire where I grew up. The coincidence helped me feel more at home.

  ‘Why don’t you spend the morning reading,’ said Rachel. ‘It might help you get a feel for what we do.’ It was a generous offer when they were all clearly so busy and I felt an overwhelming urge to do a good job for the RFDS. They’d taken a chance on me, given me the escape I needed and I was determined to repay that trust.

  I took refuge in a corner of the archive room, a dusty sanctuary where the stacks held gems of historical interest, to read about the Reverend John Flynn who started it all. He embarked on his missionary work in the early 1900s, when half of all Australians – around two million people in those days – lived in rural areas, battling the harsh conditions of the Australian outback. Access to medical assistance was sporadic at best, and in most cases meant travelling huge distances at great personal cost to reach help.

  I found a dog-eared pamphlet Flynn co-wrote in 1910, The Bushman’s Companion, a slender book with a blue cardboard cover, small enough to slip into a trouser pocket. The fragile pages contained first-aid tips, extracts from scriptures and snatches of poetry. The page on snakebite was crinkled and worn, as if it had been read and re-read many times.

  Without delaying a fraction of a second, in the case of a leg or arm, put a twitch on upper arm or thigh . . . if finger, put twitch on joint against hand. Don’t chop it off. If bite is of a poisonous snake, stab in with a knife all round bite. Quarter of an inch will be deep enough. Suck for dear life. Do not swallow any blood.

  Extracts from Flynn’s magazine The Inlander made more sobering reading. I sat quietly in a corner of the dimly lit archive room and read his description of the predicament of a ten-year-old boy, with four younger siblings, who discovered his mother had died while their father was away prospecting for gold. The ten-year-old had no option but to gather the younger children together and set off to fetch help.

  He first fed the poultry, gave them water, turned the windmill off and gave each of the children a piece of bread and butter and a drink of water, taking a big drink himself to see him through the journey. He filled the water bag and got a bottle for the baby to drink from, put the baby into a go-cart and, for fear it would perish, took a young puppy with them.

  Between one thirty and 2 p.m. the sad little procession started out for the Empress mine, over five miles away, bare-footed and through sand, with the thermometer registering 110 degrees in the shade. This little band consisted of Vincent, aged ten, Robert eight, Isabel five, Arthur three and the baby, seven months old.

  The puppy was the first to knock up and had to be carried; then Arthur, whose feet were badly blistered. Vincent, with his young brother on his back, pushing the go-cart through the sand, became greatly distressed, but pushed manfully on. With the extreme heat the baby required every attention and a sip of water every few hundred yards. Vincent’s great anxiety was that the water bag would give out before they reached the Empress Mine but he brought his little expedition safely through, and they arrived at about 5 p.m., when he reported the sad news and obtained assistance.

  I was left with a sense of shame that so much of my life had been spent doing something as silly as chasing men, flitting from one job to another, always ready to give up at the first hint of trouble. I turned the page and it was as if the ghost of John Flynn was standing beside me.

  ‘Said a young man to his old minister, “It’s no use. It’s all up. I’m a damned fool!” But the gentle answer came: “No. You’ve been a fool, but you’re not a damned fool yet.” ’

  I’m not sure why I cried; maybe it was the thought that redemption might still be possible. Whatever the reason, I was glad to be sitting in that dusty archive room alone.

  *

  Towards the end of the day I phoned the real estate agent and he ran through a speech he must have made many times before. I knew as soon as he started that I didn’t get the apartment.

  ‘Forty people saw it, twenty people applied to rent it and we narrowed the field down to six,’ he said. ‘You made it to the last six,’ he added, as if that was some kind of consolation. The sense of disappointment was acute.

  ‘So why didn’t I get it? I was first in line. Doesn’t that count for anything?’

  ‘There’s always someone who’s disappointed.’

  ‘But why me? What could I have done differently?’

  ‘It was the landlord’s decision,’ he said. Ignoring the irritation I could hear in his voice, I pressed on. ‘How did the landlord decide? What was his decision based on?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’d have to ask the landlord that.’

  ‘Can I speak to the landlord?’

  ‘No, you can only deal through the agency.’

  ‘So why didn’t I get the apartment?’

  We went round and round in circles but he wouldn’t be drawn. In the end I was forced to accept that no amount of pleading or arguing would get me that beautiful apartment overlooking Birchgrove Oval, just as no amount of obsessive pursuit will ever get me a man who doesn’t want to be with me.

  ‘Think positive,’ said Kate when I broke the news to her that night. ‘There’ll be another one and at least now you’ve got all your references in place, ready to pounce when the next one comes up.’

  Her response was simple, straightforward and adult. Let it go, it wasn’t meant to be. It was behaviour I needed to emulate.

  *

  By the end of the first week I had established a routine of catching the bus to work and the ferry back. The terminal at Darling Harbour was a five-minute walk from the office and the salty breeze of an open deck was a great way to end the day. From the terminal at East Balmain the 442 offered an easy climb up Darling Street but I badly needed the exercise so I walked instead, feeling the sun on my face, strolling past open doorways as the heady scent of gardenia drifted in the warm autumn air. Pavement cafes crowded with chattering diners lined the restaurant strip on Darling Street but I preferred to walk in silence so I cut behind St Andrew’s church, welcoming the cool shade offered by towering gum trees.

  Finding somewhere to live wasn’t easy and thoughts of A3 were never far from my mind. What was he doing? How was he feeling? Would he really go through with the wedding? Did he ever think about me? I tried to banish such pointless thoughts and concentrate on the task of finding a flat. News reports suggested vacancy rates h
ad dropped to one per cent, tenants were offering twelve months rent up-front and tiny Balmain apartments advertised at $400 a week were fetching $450. Every Saturday morning I joined dozens of people chasing the same short supply, armed with copies of documents in case I could push my way to the front and sign on the spot. I saw shoeboxes with floor areas no bigger than a single garage advertised at $400 a week; a two-bedroom terrace for $720 a week, the living room barely large enough for a sofa and the bedrooms so small it was a choice of what to include – a bed or a wardrobe. You wanted both? Forget it. I trudged away.

  Three weeks later I was ready to give up on Balmain, convinced I would never be able to afford to live there, when I spotted a miniscule two-bedroom terrace advertised at $500 a week. It had no pictures of the inside so it was bound to be a hovel, especially at that price. Kate bucked me up.

  ‘It’s just around the corner,’ she said. ‘We’ll go together.’

  The woman standing at the front door was heavily pregnant and we assumed that she was waiting outside to leave room for people to get in. I’d never seen such a skinny house.

  ‘Not many people have turned up,’ she said, wistfully.

  We smiled and walked in, down a narrow corridor that ran past a small study on the left. The corridor opened onto a slim living room in the centre of the house; beyond that was a sunroom. Standing at the window we could see glimpses of Mort Bay and the skyscrapers of the city beyond. Kate pinched me and I said nothing. From the living room, one set of stairs led up, another down, so we explored upstairs, finding an open-plan double bedroom with attic windows on one side and a picture window on the other, offering unobstructed views across the water. I spotted the Harbour Bridge and now I was the one pinching Kate.

  Downstairs was a subterranean dining room painted bright red, another step down brought us to the kitchen and bathroom, down again to a laundry and finally, at the bottom of yet another flight of steps, was a small, sunny patio.

  The house was dark, damp and musty. Plaster bubbled off the walls, the bathroom taps were peeling, the kitchen cabinets were warped and the linoleum on the floor was cracked. I felt like I’d stepped into the Armistead Maupin novel series, Tales of the City. It was perfect, the kind of place I could picture myself in, mixing a mint julep.

  ‘There’s got to be a mistake,’ whispered Kate, dashing my hopes. ‘They must have the price wrong.’

  We climbed back upstairs and found a young couple deep in conversation with the pregnant woman.

  ‘I wanted to meet potential renters myself, that’s why I didn’t go through an agent,’ she said. Another couple was waiting in line to speak to her, no doubt ready to paint themselves as the perfect couple ready and able to look after her gorgeous home.

  ‘Excuse me, could I just confirm how much the rent is?’ I asked politely.

  ‘Five hundred dollars a week.’

  Kate and I huddled outside to confer. ‘How can it be that price? It’s lovely,’ I hissed.

  ‘She must be a Balmain Basket Weaver.’

  ‘A what?’

  Kate explained about the flaky creative types who get drawn to the inner west. That’s me! I wanted to shout. I’m a flaky creative type, only I’ve never had the courage to admit it, and the owner could be my new best friend if I could just get close enough to buddy up to her. Kate’s not flaky at all and I didn’t want to alarm her (nor did I really want to trade my BF for a BBW, even if it did get me the house) so I said nothing.

  ‘We need a plan,’ Kate said.

  ‘I know. Follow her home, camp on the doorstep and refuse to leave until she agrees I can have the house.’

  There was a pause and the look on Kate’s face made me back-pedal from the stalker approach.

  ‘Or maybe . . .’

  ‘Wait until the other couples have gone, then go back in,’ said Kate. ‘Tell her you’ll sign a two-year lease, offer her more money and get her to sign on the spot if you can.’

  ‘But I was only planning to stay until the end of the year.’

  ‘Don’t worry, if that happens you’ll find someone else to take the lease on.’

  I may be drawn to creative types but at that precise moment I was so glad Kate wasn’t a Balmain Basket Weaver. She’s a strategic thinker, organised, clear-sighted and a demon negotiator. I should have paid more attention when we were at university instead of chasing men. I could have learnt a thing or two from her.

  I lurked on the street corner to count the number of people leaving and slipped back in when the coast was clear. The owner was in the sunroom, sitting on the couch making notes.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, I just thought I may as well give you my references now.’

  I handed the sheaf of papers over and she gave me a tired smile as she glanced through them.

  ‘Oh, the Royal Flying Doctor Service?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, hoping I looked like a doctor. ‘I love your house,’ I added meekly.

  ‘Do you? Would you be happy to sign a two-year lease?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Would you mind if we had builders in for a short while? We want to lay new flagstones on the patio.’

  ‘That wouldn’t bother me.’

  ‘And we thought of building a deck out towards the water.’ She waved her hand towards the sunroom. ‘It might improve on the views.’

  She had my absolute, undivided attention.

  ‘Not a problem,’ I said.

  ‘I suppose it would be good to have a single person living here, instead of a couple. Less wear and tear,’ she mused.

  I said nothing about the dinner parties I hoped to throw, or the lodger I might have to get in order to pay the rent and instead I burst into tears, unexpectedly, like a true-blue Balmain Basket Weaver.

  ‘I love this house,’ I sobbed. ‘I really want to live here.’

  She melted and gave me a big smile. ‘Do you? I’d like you to live here too.’

  I dried my eyes. ‘Would you like me to sign now?’

  ‘I just need to check with my husband,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it will be fine, though. I’ll call you on Monday.’

  I tore back to Kate’s house and we spent the next twenty minutes discussing strategy over a coffee.

  ‘Should I call? Offer to pay more?’

  ‘No. See what happens on Monday.’

  ‘What, just wait?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do nothing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  *

  For someone like me, doing nothing was a near-impossible ask. Over the weekend I swung from elation to despair, from hope to self-pity, agonising over the frustration of having to step back and let the universe take over. The weather reflected my mood, with relentless, soaking rain that overflowed gutters, poured through gaps in closed windows and thundered onto concrete pavements, only for the sun to break through and drench the world with dazzling colour moments later.

  More rain on Monday morning seemed an ominous sign and the bus was crowded with passengers emitting puffs of steam. I didn’t want to seem unpatriotic; I knew Australia’s dams needed filling and the crops needed watering and we were all being urged to think about saving the country’s precious water resources but I sat on that bus and I wished it would STOP RAINING FOR FIVE MINUTES. If I wasn’t going to get that sodding house, at least let the bloody sun come out, I thought miserably, slumped into a soggy mess of steaming self-pity, rain dripping from the umbrella jammed between my knees.

  When I got to work the phone rang.

  ‘We’d like to offer you the house.’

  I choked back tears of gratitude and arranged to send a deposit. So let’s hear it for Balmain Basket Weavers and Best Friends! Thanks to Kate’s wise counsel and her wait-and-see strategy, I was going to be living in a quirky terrace in Birchgrove, with friends just around the corner. What�
��s more, having done the sums I realised I could scrape by without getting a lodger as long as I went everywhere by public transport. Or got a bicycle. And stopped drinking.

  chapter six

  The tarmac shimmered in bright sunlight and I offered a silent thank you to the gods as Friday lunchtime’s Rex flight from Sydney taxied towards the terminal in Broken Hill. The propellers fell silent, the plane door swung open and heat rushed in.

  It was mid-April and I’d been in Australia just six weeks. Work had been frantic since Rachel had left and oddly I wasn’t complaining; it helped distract me from thinking about A3’s impending wedding. We’d stayed in touch since I left, just the odd email now and then: How are you? Fine thanks, how are you? Nothing deep and meaningful, just enough to keep hope alive. And that was the problem. I’d nurtured hope for so long that the acute sense of loss I felt now threatened to overwhelm me. How silly that losing something I didn’t ever have should have caused me such grief. But there it was, that old familiar sadness, settling in like a weather pattern of looming depression. What an irrational thing love is. I had to put A3 out of my mind and move on.

  I had flown to Broken Hill to oversee a photo shoot for the annual report. All I knew about the place (from a quick Google search) was that Charles Sturt – the first European to pass through – thought it the most desolate land he’d ever seen. Having viewed it from the air, I had to agree. The town was surrounded by scrub and red earth and was seemingly empty for miles around. Menindee Lakes were out there somewhere but I must have been sitting on the wrong side of the plane because all I saw was a barren landscape. What Sturt missed was a lucrative seam of silver, lead and zinc that led to an explosion of growth; after its eventual discovery it took just eight years for Broken Hill to become the third largest city in New South Wales.