Love in the Outback

by Deb Hunt

  CC has topped it.

  On a short trip to Darwin for work we extended our stay for a couple of days and took an afternoon walk beside a marina. I noticed a man with a weathered face and sunburnt arms sitting alone in a bar, nursing a glass of beer, and I pointed him out to CC. ‘He looks sad,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe his wife has died,’ CC replied. ‘Maybe they used to come here for a drink and now he comes back each day, knowing she’ll never turn up. If I lost you, I would lay a place for you at dinner every night,’ he said quietly. It was one of those unexpected flashes of emotion that sometimes surfaced when I least expected it.

  Is that when I fell in love with CC? Who knows? I don’t know that I ever did really fall in love, but I do know I love him. The looks, the smiles, the caresses, the laughter, the spread sheets and the cooked breakfasts, the swimming and the Sunday roasts, have all added up. The sum total of the past four years has led somewhere completely unexpected. Love has never involved friendship for me. Fire, yes: burning, raging fire that eventually burnt itself out. Love was dangerous, illicit, scary, unsettling, threatening, passionate and something to be avoided. I don’t know if I have ever loved someone in a way that stood any real chance of lasting. I kept expecting love to turn up like a lightning flash; I didn’t realise it could melt your heart like a blanket of snow disappearing on the first warm day of spring.

  My dear old dad died last year and I went back to England for the funeral, leaving CC in Broken Hill with Maggie and a workload that couldn’t be put off. I was planning to read the eulogy but as the day approached, I wobbled, worried I would burst into tears and ruin it. CC supported me from a different time zone and another continent. ‘You have a job to do,’ he said on the phone. ‘Do the job and make your dad proud.’ Just before the funeral he sent me a text message. I love you. I am standing next to you. My strength is your strength. You will stand tall. And I did.

  I’ve been in Broken Hill almost four years now and another winter is drawing to a close. Sitting on the sofa with CC, rugged up, log fire lit, glass of sauvignon blanc in hand, I think of that quote from Shakespeare: ‘There is a tide in the affairs of man, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.’ I can’t remember the rest, something about life being spent in the shallows if you don’t seize the moment. I’ve been puddling around in the shallow end for long enough. It’s time to jump.

  I love an Aussie bloke who can’t spell, whose main interest is sport, whose idea of a gourmet meal is steak and peas, followed by yoghurt mixed with a liberal helping of protein powder, and whose dress sense is . . . getting better. When he wears jeans and a pale blue shirt he looks gorgeous, with his silver grey hair and tall, slim frame. Other women glance at him as we walk along.

  We make an odd sort of couple here in Broken Hill, with a dwindling clutch of chooks and Maggie, the domesticated dingo: Captain Considerate, the carnivorous, share-trading, sports-mad liberal and Miss Prissy Knickers, ex-stalker, left-wing, tree-hugging vegetarian.

  It must be love.

  epilogue

  The humidity is at eighty per cent, the back of my neck is burning and the sand feels gritty under my fingers. It’s two days after Christmas and we’re lying on Shark Beach, surrounded by a sprawl of excitable Sydneysiders.

  CC looks as alarmed as I feel at the sensory overload of brightly coloured beach towels, red-and-white-striped sun umbrellas, swaying shelters, deck chairs, runners, joggers, walkers, swimmers and sunbathers. Fragments of humanity fill the beach, surrounding us with a jigsaw of pregnant stomachs, long legs, dimpled cellulite, crawling babies, bikinis, seagulls, six-packs, bald heads, tight shorts, trendy underpants, tattoos, body piercings, teenagers, grannies, beer bellies, sunburnt arms, pale legs and naked children.

  There’s a game of cricket underway behind us, the fielders positioned between picnic blankets spread on the grass under the trees and somehow, implausibly, two people are playing ping-pong in front of us, standing waist deep in the water. Beyond the shark netting, passenger ferries plough through the choppy waves, overtaking yachts and pleasure cruisers, avoiding windsurfers and dinghies. Children laugh, gulls screech, seaplanes take off from nearby Rose Bay and the occasional A380 roars into the blue sky above us, two small specks lying side by side on a small patch of warm sand.

  The sign at the entrance to Nielsen Park said ‘No dogs’. It’s just as well we didn’t bring Maggie – even if she had been allowed in she wouldn’t have enjoyed the frenetic activity on this beach. We took her for a walk through Birchgrove Oval yesterday, venturing along the wooden jetty that reaches into the harbour, and the shifting patterns of light on the surface of so much water spooked her. She pricked up her ears, turned around and trotted smartly back to the park. So we left her at home today.

  Home? Yes, home. You see, just as the final chapter of this book was being written CC heard his job was moving to Sydney. After decades in Broken Hill the corporate office of the Royal Flying Doctor Service South Eastern Section was relocating, and CC had to move with it. So we packed up our belongings, loaded Maggie into the back of the car and drove twelve hundred kilometres towards the coast to our new home in Sydney.

  We live in beautiful Birchgrove now, my favourite suburb, in a lovely house with a wrought iron balcony and a spreading frangipani tree in the back yard. I have close friends living nearby and Kate and James live just around the corner. Of course the irony is that I miss Broken Hill. I miss the space, the silence and the quiet sense of community I found there.

  Opening the lid of one of the boxes soon after we arrived, I discovered a small spider, no bigger than my little fingernail, with a tell-tale red stripe along its back. Far from filling me with dread, the sight of that tiny redback brought a warm glow of nostalgia for the outback community I grew to love.

  Maggie will take a while to get used to living in Sydney, as we all will, so CC and I have made a pact. If we can’t settle, we’ll pack up the car, ship our belongings and drive back over the Blue Mountains. We’ll follow the wide Mitchell Highway through Bathurst, Orange and Dubbo, turn left at Nyngan and keep going for another six hours until we reach the hot and dusty place we once felt privileged to call home.

  I was raised in the picturesque English village of Framley Coddrington. As a child I spent many a wet afternoon devouring fairytales at our local library. The dream of a handsome prince riding to the rescue burnt into my psyche.

  I’m Mum’s second daughter, born after Wendy and before Elizabeth and Rachel. My sisters all married boyfriends they met at school. They enjoyed the sweet innocence of young love while I pursued unsuitable older men. We’re pictured here at a cousin’s wedding in 1970, when I was twelve.

  At fourteen I insisted on taking part in the Bristol Bordeaux Student Exchange then spent a month in France crippled by shyness. I barely spoke a word of French to my fellow student, pictured here at the start of her month in England. Her English improved massively.

  After a series of short-term flings in my twenties and thirties, I gave up chasing men and threw myself into work as a writer and part-time actor. On stage I could cry at the drop of a hat; off stage I battened down the hatches and let no one in.

  Mum and Dad were engaged within three weeks of meeting and they remained happily married for forty-eight years. They had a great sense of humour and a playful approach to life, something I failed to emulate for a long time.

  The prospect of leaving England in mid-winter and heading back to the sunshine of Sydney was very appealing.

  Courtesy of Allan Coker

  Me with the Royal Flying Doctor Service (RFDS) marketing team in Sydney. I couldn’t have been more nervous applying for the job with the RFDS. I pledged to myself that if I got the job I would stop stalking and start living.

  With my long-time friend Kate at Hyams Beach. Kate spent many hours mopping up my tears and listening to tales of woe about men. As a trained family therap
ist she always dispensed wise advice, which I frequently chose to ignore. Kate and her family welcomed me into their home when I first arrived in Sydney.

  Courtesy of Bishnu Rai

  It took me a long while to stop obsessing over men and appreciate the true value of girlfriends like Kate. We’re pictured here on Wendy Moore’s ‘Colourful Journey’ in Nepal.

  Courtesy of Allan Coker

  Friendly blokes with beer and big hats were a feature of most pubs we visited on the Flying Doctor Outback Car Trek, the biggest annual fundraiser for the RFDS. I spent ten days in the company of three hundred men, working hard and having fun. This was taken at the Crakow Pub.

  Courtesy of Michael Faulkner

  The only things that kept the surfing dudes warm were their wigs, especially on early mornings when it was a chilly six degrees. They were laughing by the time we got to Queensland and the sun finally came out.

  The unwritten rule of the Trek was that if you started in costume, you stayed in costume. For these two that meant wearing pyjamas all day, every day. Some of the participants had a lot of fun. And some were clearly bonkers.

  When the super-fit CC said ‘would you like to come cycling?’, the answer should have been no. I wasn’t expecting an off-road expedition into the desert at seven a.m. on a Sunday morning. CC is pictured fourth from right, next to his equally fit bestie, David. I’m the sweaty lump second from left.

  Jenny and Keith Treloar host a regular RFDS clinic on their Wiawera property near Broken Hill. They’re pictured here at celebrations in the hangar to mark the 85th anniversary of RFDS. Left to right: Trish Treloar, RFDS SE President John Milhinch, Jenny Treloar, me, Keith Treloar and John Treloar.

  Courtesy of Allan Coker

  Captain Considerate wasn’t my type, not remotely. There wasn’t one thing about him that made me think, ah yes, he’s the type of man I normally go for, and for that I will be forever grateful.

  I didn’t know him then but Captain Considerate clearly cut a dash in his 1970s RFDS pilot’s uniform. Left to right: the Hon Tom Lewis Premier of NSW and President of RFDS SE Section, Chief Pilot Captain Kevin Wiggins, CC and Captain Arthur Day.

  Me in Bali while on holiday with CC. Because he wasn’t my type I could relax and enjoy myself without wondering if CC was Mr Right. We didn’t fight, split up or run out of conversation while we were away.. We just had a lot of fun. On our return to Australia I convinced myself the relationship could never work.

  When I moved to Broken Hill I thought free-range chooks in the back garden would help me feel at home, in an elegant House & Garden sort of way. How wrong I was. This is a rare moment when the chooks appear to be pecking contentedly at the lawn, when in reality they were planning their next assault on the vegetable patch.

  How could anyone resist? Part-beagle with pick-me-please eyes, long legs and the softest coat, I fell in love with the adorable Benson before we’d even left the RSPCA car park. I was alone in thinking Benson was the ideal dog.

  Maggie arrived looking scruffy and in need of a bath. The first time she got in the car, I sat in the back seat with her and I was terrified she might try to rip my arm off. Winding the window down transformed her from a potential killer into a family pet.

  Courtesy of Lynne Gall

  Members of the RFDS Women’s Auxiliary taught me the value of community, commitment and dedication to a cause. I have the greatest admiration for these women, some of whom have been producing these fundraising puddings annually for almost fifty years. Left to right: Cynthia Langford, Julie Horsburgh, Jo Hayes, me and June Files.

  Towards the end of the second week every available space was taken up with racks of calico-wrapped puddings hung up to dry. The drying room was already full – this is the overspill.

  Me and my gorgeous sisters at my nephew’s wedding. Wendy, Elizabeth and Rachel all live within a few miles of the village where we grew up. They are all in long-term committed relationships, hold down regular jobs and have raised happy, well-adjusted children. Spot the difference.

  Thank God for girlfriends. On my fiftieth birthday, Kate and Andrea arrived with a bottle of champagne and they whisked me off in a water taxi for lunch at Ripples in Chowder Bay. I floated through the day in a sunny haze of friendship and laughter. It was a perfect day but for one missing ingredient.

  Courtesy of Royal Flying Doctor Service

  HRH Crown Princess Mary of Denmark met her prince in a pub opposite the Sydney marketing office of the RFDS. She’s pictured here with mine, arriving in Broken Hill to launch a new breast care service for the RFDS.

  Courtesy of Lynne Gall

  It wasn’t all dust and flies, far from it. The annual RFDS Women’s Auxiliary Dinner Dance in Broken Hill was a chance for everyone to frock up.

  I was just as happy in a swag; I gave up the nightlife of the Sydney Theatre scene and the buzz of Balmain restaurants to spend evenings in a creek bed, barbecuing steak and eggs over a fire built from the fallen branches of a Coolabah tree.

  You can stand at the edge of Broken Hill and see nothing but desert. I was scared of such solitude until I learnt to embrace the natural beauty of the Australian outback.

  Courtesy of Ben Friis O’Toole

  My entirely unexpected mate was completely the wrong man for me, or so I thought. The isolation of our desert home meant quitting wasn’t an option, and after a shaky start I realised just how beautiful Broken Hill was, and how right CC was for me.

  acknowledgements

  I am enormously grateful to Pippa and Laura at Curtis Brown for believing I could write this book, to Ingrid Ohlsson at Macmillan who astonished me by commissioning it and to editor Sam Sainsbury, whose insightful comments helped guide and shape the story. Deonie Fiford’s thoughtful editing made a huge improvement to the original manuscript and I also thank Kate and Lisa for their helpful feedback and eagle-eyed proofreading.

  A three-week residency at Varuna gave me a glimmer of hope that I might one day manage to write a book and I also want to thank Rae Luckie for a series of inspirational workshops at Broken Hill library. The Bristol Writers group kick-started my desire to write and residential workshops at the Arvon Foundation in England reinforced it.

  I’d like to thank the people I met in Broken Hill who so generously welcomed me into the community and all the dedicated staff who work for the RFDS, some of whom I’m now privileged to call friends.

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my three sisters, Wendy, Elizabeth and Rachel, and their partners, Jef, Don and Ray (aka George), for their constant love and encouragement. I also want to thank my nieces and nephews, Charlotte, Emma, Thomas, Jessica and Daniel, for showing me how easy love can be.

  To all my girlfriends in England and Australia, especially Kate, Helen, Louise, Cathy and Andrea, who have patiently suffered through what must have seemed at times like a never-ending series of crises over men (which of course it was). Your loving friendship has been and remains a source of abiding strength and joy. And thank you to all the As for what you tried to teach me. It was my failing, not yours.

  Writing this memoir has been a deeply personal exercise and I have inevitably intruded into the lives of others. I thank those who allowed me to include their names in this book and I apologise to those I was unable to track down. I trust the innocent have been suitably protected by name changes.

  My greatest thanks go to CC, who stands by my side with loving patience and unswerving kindness. His support and encouragement kept me going as this manuscript progressed.

  Thank you CC, for showing me the true meaning of love and for allowing me to share our story.

  About Deb Hunt

  Deb Hunt was born in England, where she worked as a librarian, teacher, event manager, PR executive, actress and journalist. She self-published her first book, Dream Wheeler, in 2013. She has worked with S
hakespeare in the Park in London, Australian House & Garden magazine in Sydney and with the Royal Flying Doctor Service. She has lived in France, Spain, Saudi Arabia, London, Broken Hill and a small village in Gloucestershire. Deb now lives in Sydney with her partner and their dog.

  Some of the people in this book have had their names changed to protect their identities.

  First published 2014 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000

  Copyright © Deb Hunt 2014

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.