‘I’ll give Rhonda ten points for effort,’ he said, foam smeared around his mouth, ‘but that dish has got to go. We’ll never use it.’
I nodded. Our toothbrushes usually lived in the shower recess, and I wasn’t about to embrace the domestic goddess within. I surreptitiously stashed the offending dish under some tea-towels in a kitchen drawer, out of sight. But just one week later, the dish mysteriously reappeared on the bathroom vanity. Rhonda had clearly noticed its absence, located its whereabouts, and reinstated it to its rightful place of glory. I wondered what went through her mind as she rummaged through the house searching for it. I didn’t attempt to stash it elsewhere; Rhonda was sure to find it again.
After the dish incident, Rhonda promptly abandoned her campaign of domestic rehabilitation. Concerned that I had hurt her feelings, I resolved to attend the Jandowae Show that Saturday, where Carl would be exhibiting his prize-winning sponge cake.
‘Maybe I’ll see you there, Rhonda,’ I said.
‘Maybe, luv,’ she replied, and returned to her cleaning.
CHAPTER 11
The following weekend, I fulfilled my promise to attend the Jandowae Show. It was a scorcher of a Saturday morning and I was keen to get there early. Stuart was busy with machinery repairs, and by midmorning hadn’t finished the job. ‘I’ll meet you in there later,’ he transmitted from the two-way radio in his ute. Reluctantly I agreed, daunted by the prospect of attending the show alone. As I reversed out the driveway, the cotton bolls bobbed like pale fairy floss in the breeze.
I drove into town and was surprised by the number of cars queuing to enter the showground. Inside, despite the heat, punters were flocking in droves to carnival tents, produce stalls, sideshow alley games and food outlets. Several rides had been trucked in – dodgem cars and a whirling, spinning machine – and were overseen by tattooed men you wouldn’t trust your pet parrot with, let alone your children. Immediately upon arrival I sought out the produce hall, where Carl’s famous sponge was on show.
Entering the airy shed, I was dazzled by the array of farmers’ pride and joy on display, each vying for first prize in their respective categories. Canisters of grain, painstakingly washed, dried and presented in fetching country baskets; the first sheafs of wheat adorned with hand-woven ribbons; bundles of lucerne, cotton and barley, decorated with love by farmers’ wives.
As I admired a canister of red seeds, I felt a soft tap on my shoulder.
‘Hello, I’m Wilma,’ said a matronly woman in her fifties, hovering behind me. ‘We’re neighbours. Dave and me live just down the road from you. What do you think of Dave’s sorghum then?’ she asked, gesturing towards the canister I was inspecting.
‘Um, it’s a beautiful colour,’ I offered, uncertain about the criteria used to assess the quality of sorghum. In fact, I’d only just learnt what sorghum was – a summer grain crop planted in many Queensland regions, providing feed grain for the beef, dairy, pig and poultry industries.
‘I’ll say,’ Wilma agreed. ‘It’s a miracle really, with the heat we’ve had. It performs so much better than corn in marginal potassium soil.’ I nodded, feigning comprehension. She might as well have been speaking Spanish.
‘Do you want to come for dinner tomorrow night?’ Wilma asked suddenly. She tugged at her bag and retrieved a small notebook. ‘This is us,’ she said, writing the last three digits of her telephone number on a small piece of paper and thrusting it into my hand. ‘Why don’t you check with Stu and get back to me?’
‘Well, that sounds lovely …’ I said.
‘Good, then it’s set,’ Wilma smiled. ‘Tomorrow night at 7.30 pm. We’ll see you there.’ Where’s there again? But she had turned on her heel and was gone.
Wandering through the arts and crafts section, I took in a hitherto alien world of needlework, quilting, decoupage and flower arranging. I couldn’t fathom the sheer woman-hours involved. I moved on to the culinary section, seeking out Carl’s sponge cake entry. Accosted by the sight of perfectly formed scones, fluffy meringue pies, coconut-dusted lamingtons and giant Anzac biscuits, I started to ponder whether I was, in fact, only half a woman. And then there was Carl’s sponge cake, submitted with such care; hand-stencilled signage announced his entry in Division A, 17. Sponge Sandwich – jam filled – noticed. The note was pinned with mother-of-pearl clasps to the base of an antique cake stand. Admonished, I concluded I was a domestic disaster and exited the culinary section, defeated.
Outside the produce hall, I was confronted by a ‘Guess the Bull’s Weight’ competition. A giant mass of bovine flesh was incarcerated in a rusted cage, nostrils flaring. With a surge of concern, I stood staring at the bull: there was something piteous about the creature.
‘Yer takin’ a long time to decide,’ drawled the attendant. ‘What’s yer guess?’ I fished a two-dollar coin from my pocket and passed it to him.
‘Four hundred kilos,’ I announced, stabbing wildly at a figure. The attendant threw back his head and laughed outright.
‘Might as well’ve chucked your two bucks down the shitter, luv,’ he chuckled. ‘Yer only out by about 300 kilos.’
Chastened, I wandered off towards the sound of dogs barking. In contrast to the bull’s suspended animation, the dog-jumping competition was a blur of movement. I watched in amazement as all manner of working dogs – mostly kelpies, sheepdogs and blue heelers – attempted to scale ever higher targets. Dogs would dash full pelt at a tower of planks stacked on the back of a ute, only to falter, slip or simply run out of steam ten centimetres from the top. ‘Ohhhhhh,’ the crowd would collectively sigh as a dog slunk back to its owner, eyes downcast and tail between its legs. I gasped as an agile blue heeler plunged backwards, paws in the air, after failing to clear a two-metre height. ‘It’s all right,’ declared a male voice behind me, ‘the dogs love this sort of competition.’
I turned to see a man standing behind me who looked like the Lone Ranger. His wide-legged pants and tasselled long-sleeved shirt had been starched and ironed with military-style precision. His white Akubra sported a black leather trim and his clean-shaven jaw jutted with youthful confidence. ‘I’m Shane, judge of the rodeo,’ he grinned, extending his hand. ‘You seem a bit scared for the dogs. But they enjoy it, y’know. Just like bulls love rodeo.’ I smiled back, with little enthusiasm. You mean the bulls relish the electric jigger that makes them buck? Oh bollocks, Shane. I considered where this conversation might go. What on earth could a Buddhist-leaning vegetarian have in common with a rodeo judge?
I resisted the urge to bolt back to the arts and crafts display.
‘How long have you been involved in rodeo, Shane?’ I asked instead.
‘Since I was a little tacker,’ he said. ‘And I’ve always loved it. It’s just you against the beast.’
I couldn’t restrain myself. ‘But what about all the animal injuries and deaths in rodeo?’
Shane peered at me, puzzled.
‘But us cowboys really love our animals,’ he assured me. ‘Those bulls get treated real special, with a special diet, special lodgings. It’s more likely the humans that come a cropper.’ Shane glanced at his watch. ‘Damn!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m due back at the rodeo ring in ten minutes. Why don’t you come over and see for yourself? The heats are on until six o’clock.’
‘I’ll do that,’ I said.
Several hours later Stuart joined me, clearly fatigued.
‘Sorry it took me so long. I had to reset the heads on the picker,’ he said. I wasn’t sure what that entailed, but I reached out and massaged the back of his neck in sympathy.
‘You look tired,’ I said.
‘Not so tired I can’t eat three steak sandwiches,’ he replied. ‘Come on, let’s have a bite to eat and get some real bush culture.’
We made our way to the rodeo ring, stopping off to buy our snacks. My ice-cream began to melt as we picked our way around the ring, trying to find a seat. Finally, we squeezed into a tiny vacant space in the grandstand.
T
he crowd started cat-calling as soon as the stalls flew open. There was something utterly demented about a 70-kilogram man lowering himself onto an 850-kilogram angry bull. Competitors were allocated a bull by ballot and challenged to endure its bucking for more than eight seconds, one hand strapped tightly to the bull’s back.
‘Isn’t it terribly dangerous?’ I asked.
‘Yeah,’ Stuart said. ‘Riders get punctured lungs, broken bones, that sort of thing. But rodeo’s bush culture, Fi. It showcases the skills cattlemen have needed over the years.’
The spectacle was riveting; I guiltily recalled the anti-rodeo RSPCA literature I’d reviewed from the comfort of my Sydney office. Animal rights activists drew attention to the distress and injury caused to animals during just this kind of event. It couldn’t be justified as entertainment, they asserted.
‘But what about the animals?’ I asked.
‘Some of these bulls have bigger profiles than their riders,’ he replied. ‘There was one bull named Chainsaw: only nine people managed to ride him in his ten-year rodeo career. He was a real bucking bull; he’d leap into the air and do this big diagonal twist. You should’ve seen his swagger whenever he threw a rider.’
I flinched as a particularly frenzied bull leapt around the stadium. Its confident rider leant back and hitched his boots up onto the shoulders of the beast – apparently gaining more points for his effort. The crowd cheered and whistled in appreciation.
‘What do people like about watching this?’ I whispered.
‘Stop watching it, then.’ He chuckled, taking a quick snap of my horrified profile with his digital camera.
Months later, I’d look back at that photo and laugh. In it, I sat cringing – one hand partially covering my eyes, the other covered in melted ice-cream – in a sea of locals whooping with delight. It graphically conveyed how out of place I felt in those early weeks of my new life in Jandowae.
The following morning, in the pre-dawn chill, I was plagued by a nightmare involving a giant black python slithering unseen beneath my bed. I awoke with a start, wailing, ‘I need more light! I need more light!’ Heart palpitating, I reached for Stuart, but the bed was empty. He had already risen for the day; I could hear the faint whirring of a tractor engine in the distance. I rolled out of bed and pulled on my running shoes. A sunrise run would help banish the night shadows.
Jogging was fast becoming a daily pastime. There was something about the quality of the light in Jandowae which increasingly enticed me outdoors. When cycling around Australia six years previously, I’d detested the abrasive light of Queensland. Back then, as road trains roared past me with ‘Sunshine State’ emblazoned on their number plates, I’d squinted against the unbearable glare radiating off parched fields.
But Jandowae was introducing me to another kind of Queensland light. A soft light adorning an autumn morning, the muted haze of a late afternoon. The crystalline vapour of early evenings, turning the eucalypt foothills of the Bunya Mountains a warm, muddy chocolate. This was a light that could inspire art – it begged to be painted in watercolour. Not renowned for any artistic flair, I embraced the light by running. I inhaled its beauty with every breath.
‘Hi there,’ called Stu, as I returned from my run. ‘Wilma Wynnum telephoned for you earlier. She wanted to confirm dinner. I gather we’re going up there tonight?’
‘That’s right. I forgot to tell you, sorry. I’ll call her back,’ I said, reaching for the telephone. I dialled the digits scrawled on her note. She answered within two rings.
‘Hi Wilma, it’s Fiona,’ I said.
‘Well hello there! Dave and I are so looking forward to dinner tonight,’ she chirped, ‘but Becky tells me you’re a veg-o-tarian. So I thought I’d roast a chicken. Is that all right?’ I winced, preparing for another discussion about my finicky eating habits.
‘I’m afraid I don’t eat chicken,’ I said. A crestfallen silence ensued.
‘But I thought it was just red meat you didn’t eat?’ said Wilma.
‘It’s animals generally,’ I replied, ‘but I love anything with vegetables, cheese, eggs or tofu.’
Wilma paused. ‘What’s tarfoo?’ she asked. I gave a halfhearted explanation about soybean derivatives used as meat replacements.
‘Oh, so it tastes like chicken, does it?’ she asked.
‘Exactly,’ I said, deflecting the conversation. ‘Please don’t go to any trouble, I’d be happy with salad.’ With her menu plan in disarray, Wilma promptly ended the phone call.
Later that evening, as we approached our neighbours’ property in Stuart’s ute, bright spotlights illuminated their rustic homestead against the cavernous night sky. The long driveway bordered an enormous field of sorghum, all sagging and brown.
‘What’s wrong with that crop?’ I asked.
‘Didn’t make it through the drought,’ replied Stu. ‘Wasn’t enough rain early in the season. Dave did well in two of his fields, but ran out of water for the rest.’ Stuart wound down his window and looked at the plants.
‘He’ll just have to plough them back into the soil and hope for a better season next year,’ he observed. ‘Plenty of farmers doing that at the moment.’
We reached the end of the gravel driveway and pulled up alongside an elaborate rockery featuring hand-painted garden gnomes engaged in all manner of cheery activity. A tennis court, its net weathered and drooping, offered a hint of better, more sociable days before the drought.
As Stuart cut the engine, three blue heeler cattle dogs raced out of the shadows, barking at our windows. I cowered in the passenger seat while Stuart swung open his door, placed two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Responding immediately, the blue heelers flopped at Stu’s feet, belly up and tails wagging. For all their relaxed affability, they still kept a vigilant eye upon me, The Stranger, as I climbed out of the car.
The front door swung open and Wilma and Dave emerged. ‘Don’t mind the dogs,’ called Dave, all combed and scrubbed and wearing a blue-and-red chequered shirt. Wilma was clad in an apron and oven mitts. She waved at us in great round arcs, like a ground controller directing a jumbo jet to its terminal.
‘Hello!’ she called excitedly. ‘I’d better get back inside, or the ’taties will burn!’ The aroma of freshly applied hair spray hung in the air as she disappeared into the kitchen.
‘Come in,’ said Dave, ushering us towards the lounge room. We were barely seated before Wilma re-emerged, carrying a bulging photo album.
‘Dave will take you through this,’ she announced.
Assisted by Dave’s commentary, we spent the next half hour poring over important family snaps. There was son Larry’s TAFE graduation, daughter Thelma’s prize-winning painting at the Jandowae Show, grandson Ronald’s role as a shepherd in the Christmas pageant, and nephew Tom’s engagement to Christy. Dave turned the pages of the album like a priest with the Holy Book. Although he had scoured his hands and fingernails, telltale grease in the creases of his palms betrayed his labour in the fields.
‘And here’s my mum,’ he said, pointing to an image of a kindlylooking elderly woman, propped up on a daybed on the verandah.
‘She looks happy,’ I said, noticing her lively eyes.
‘Yeah, but three months after this was taken, she’d passed on,’ Dave said, wiping the corner of his eye with his flannelette cuff. ‘They tried to operate, but the cancer was everywhere.’ I nodded quietly, unaccustomed to sharing such intimacies – the love and loss of family life – so soon after meeting.
‘Come up to the table,’ Wilma commanded, placing a steaming casserole dish next to a stack of oven-fried potatoes and a bread basket. ‘That’s yours,’ she said to me, gesturing to a gigantic dish of roast vegetables. ‘All home-grown.’ An array of pumpkin, sweet potato, beetroot and cauliflower beckoned, drizzled with a cheese and parsley sauce. This was going to be the best meal I’d had all week.
We bowed our heads to say grace. The last time I’d said grace before dinner was in Indonesia,
I recalled, where religion permeated daily life.
As we started our meals, Dave waved a brown bottle at me. ‘Ginger beer?’ he asked.
Craving a glass of pinot, I nodded politely. Dinner conversation ranged across local subjects, including inter-generational grievances played out across boundary fences, water disputes and rumours of gold deposits beneath neighbours’ paddocks. While such subjects were new to me, they weren’t totally inaccessible; at least I managed to ask sensible questions. Unsurprisingly, the lack of rain was a recurring theme.
‘I s’pose you must think Jandowae’s dreadfully ugly,’ said Wilma, passing me a bread roll. ‘But it looks real nice after rain.’
‘I’m sure it does,’ I replied. ‘But I think it’s beautiful, even without rain.’
Dave regarded me impassively. ‘Nothing beautiful about the drought, luv,’ he said. ‘Those crops you drove past on the way in, they break yer heart.’
I flushed, embarrassed by my insensitivity. I certainly hadn’t meant to trivialise the impact of the drought.
‘Yes,’ I responded, attempting to make amends, ‘it must be so difficult for you, watching your crops die.’
A moody silence settled over the table. Stuart made an ever-so-subtle shaking movement with his head; I’d evidently trampled over ‘no-go’ territory. I stared into my ginger beer.
‘But you’ve got some decent looking crops in those back paddocks, Dave,’ observed Stu, attempting to salvage the conversation.
‘Yeah, but the agronomist reckons we might get an outbreak of whitefly this season,’ said Dave, despondent. ‘And that’d be a bloody disaster, on top of the drought.’
Despite my previous faux pas, I summoned the courage to ask another question.
Love in the Age of Drought Page 12
