Tony
The first ten metres are the hardest, swimming through the duckweed to get to the open water beyond. It’s midway through summer and the duckweed is rampant; even the canoeists have been unable to stay on top of it. With its long tentacles reaching towards the sun from the murky depths, the weed tickles my belly as I skim over the top.
This is my last swim in the lake before I head south. Diana’s been dead for over a month, and in a couple of weeks I’ll be taking up the new job in Melbourne. Since the funeral and Christmas, Beck and I have settled into an easy and peaceful routine. We realise it’s the first time we’ve lived with just each other for twenty-four years. We’re revelling in it. Diana’s mark is still all through the house, but over the two years we have shaped it to our liking and it feels very comfortable.
I’m back at work but the pace is gentle, in keeping with the time of year. I plod away at fixing the verandah on the weekends and evenings. We discover the neighbours are away, and sneak into their pool for the occasional skinny-dip. The rain comes, and we drive down to the causeway and watch the flooding river flow over the road. We plant a mango in the front yard in memory of Diana, knowing we won’t be here to see it grow.
Beck isn’t returning to Melbourne with me immediately, as she has work commitments to honour and the house to prepare for sale. Also, I suspect Beck wants more time to say goodbye. I know she’s really torn about leaving. Rationally, she knows that leaving’s the only real option, but emotionally she’s not ready. I worry she never will be. The west is where Beck is from, and I’ve come to realise it’s where she’s the happiest. I worry that a return to Melbourne will lead to a slow but steady dampening of her spirits.
Today there are storms circling the lake and the water is quite rough. My legs drag and I stray off course. The line of yellow buoys that delineates the swimming area from the speedboats and jet skis isn’t getting any closer, and it feels like a slog. The childhood warning not to be in the water in an electrical storm rings in my ears as I scan the horizon. Eventually I find my rhythm and my mind starts to drift.
The last time I was out here, Diana came with us. She sat at one of the picnic tables and enjoyed the softening ambience as the hot afternoon came to a close. Who would have guessed that nine days later she would be dead?
I startle as a scratchy strand of duckweed wraps itself around my neck. My flow broken, I take a mouthful of water. It’s then I think of the mine upstream and all the pollutants in the run-off pouring into the dam with the wet. I try to reassure myself that heavy metals sink and would be safely lodged in the sludge at the bottom of the lake. David’s taunt that people release salties into the lake unsettles me even more. I pause, lift up my goggles and scan the lake. Pointless, I know; it’s the ones you don’t see that get you.
We fire up the barbecue after our swim and watch as the surrounding hills and rocks go from yellow to orange to red. There’s lightning in the distance, and the rumble of thunder rolls back across the lake.
Despite the sadness of Diana’s death, I am not bereft. Rather, I feel deeply enriched by the experience of the last two years, and I have no doubt I’ll miss this hard town, nestled against the mine. I’ll miss the heat and the house shaking from the twice-daily blasts deep underground. I’ll miss the road trains changing gears out on the highway, and the sound of air conditioners rattling through the night. I’ll miss the intimacy and the space and the focus that isolation provides.
I feel grateful to have had the opportunity to live with Diana and help her see out her life with grace and laughter. I feel deep love for Beck, who brought me to her town and who flourished under the open sky. I have a rich life, and a family I love, awaiting me in Melbourne.
Rebecca
I shed tears as the plane lifts off the runway and into the sky; they’re tears of sadness, relief and pride. Today is 5 December 2017. It is exactly one year since Mum died, and I’m leaving Mount Isa for good.
It’s a bittersweet moment. While on one hand it’s a relief to finally have the house sold, it filled me with a deep sadness to close the door at Madang Street for the last time.
I won’t hear the sounds of the doorknobs, light switches or the confounded rattling venetian blinds ever again.
I won’t spend early mornings in my soccer shorts and singlet, watering the garden and watching the lorikeets as they feast on the flowering grevillea.
I won’t sit on the front verandah and while away the evening.
I won’t stand on the back ramp and watch storms roll in from the gulf.
I won’t sit under the house and marvel at how lucky I am to have a fella who thinks that this carved-out bunker is paradise.
I won’t drive up Madang Street and at the last moment swerve to avoid Maleka.
But a new excitement awaits me. I will, finally, go back to my family and life in Melbourne. I’m looking forward to living with Tony again. We’ve rented a groovy-looking pad in Northcote, so maybe we’ll finally get to have those post-work drinks at a Spanish or Japanese bar.
Tony has spent the last twelve months living and working in Melbourne, and while we’ve had great long weekends over that time, it’s not the same as living together.
He came up a little while ago to help with the final farewell. Last weekend we opened the house and yard up for a huge garage sale. It took days to set it all up, and then further days to shift all the things we didn’t sell. I made my first foray into online selling, and sold all of Michael’s work tools, each engraved with his name. They had been in the shed for twenty-three years, avoided or ignored: too many, too hard, too sad.
The house was finally restumped. Tony, David, Belinda, Samantha and I ripped up carpet, sanded floors, and painted the entire house so it was ready for a sale. I engaged an excellent real estate agent, who immediately understood exactly what we wanted to do with the house and showcased it as a retro beauty. Mum and Dad would have been amazed, and so proud. After just six weeks on the market, we sold. I did the final negotiations from my car in Darwin, amid a raging storm.
Over these twelve months I’ve finished my contract at Headspace, worked as the social work clinical lead for the Mount Isa branch of James Cook University, written my first screenplay, worked on the inaugural Mount Isa Youth Short Film Festival and finished a new play that will have a season in Melbourne next year. I’ve been busy, but in between the business I have felt Mum’s absence acutely.
In the weeks after Mum’s death, I spent hours replying to the many sympathy cards the family received. As 25 December got closer, the Christmas cards also started rolling in. I replied to each one, relaying the news of Mum’s death. This produced another series of sympathy cards and I replied to those too. When I mentioned this to my friends, they told me to leave it and do it in the new year. But I knew that was not an option. Sitting at the kitchen table each evening, I felt as though I was channelling Mum. Slowly and steadily I worked through the pile.
Just before Christmas, I harvested my first pineapple. Samantha and I made a video of the act and posted it online. It felt good to do something funny. I knew that Mum would have loved the interest it created.
Yesterday afternoon Samantha and I went to the cemetery so I could say goodbye to Mum, Dad, Michael and Grandma. I lay on the grass beside Mum’s and Dad’s graves and told them stories about the last twelve months. Some stories were happy: Samantha and Thomas’s wedding, the Easter weekend when the whole family got stuck into painting the house, the pots of healthy plants that I sold and gave away. Some stories were sad: Belinda and Seppo have moved away from town, and their marriage has ended.
Our family now has more people ‘living’ in the cemetery than in town. After almost seventy years, Samantha and Thomas are the last family members left in the Isa, and they too will soon be gone.
When Sam and I got home from the cemetery, we saw Tony having beers on the front lawn with Shawn and Cheyenne. After much angst, Tony had decided to give them our swags. They would be too expensive to ship to Melbourne, and it’s unlikely they’ll get much use from now on.
‘Wow. You sure?’ said Shawn. He was really pleased.
‘Yeah. We’d be honoured. We’ve really liked getting to know you,’ said Tony.
He’s right, we have enjoyed knowing Shawn and Cheyenne and the kids (perhaps not their animals as much), and wish them well.
Last night I went around the house and left a small plastic pineapple in a corner of every room – one last job for the Pineapple Princess. Mum would have thought it horribly kitsch, but it would have made her laugh all the same. This morning Tony and I helped the removalists get the last items onto the truck, and after a few final photographs we closed the front door for the last time.
I look through the plane window at the red earth and sparse vegetation. Though it offers very little relief, I know I’ll miss this too. These colours are part of me and I wonder how I’ll go without them, and without the endless sunlight and vitamin D.
I rest my head against Tony’s shoulder. I’m exhausted. It’s been a huge week.
Never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would feel such a tremendous tug about the decision to leave. Some days I would call Tony and say, ‘I want to stay, just one more year after this one, and then I’ll come back!’ I knew, however, that one more year would probably lead to ten more, which would eventually lead to me being the fifth family member in the cemetery.
If someone had told me three years ago that I’d feel like this, I would have told them they were mad. When we moved back here I had a task to do, and I was determined to do it as well as I could. I come from a long line of pragmatists, and when a job needs to be done, you just get on and do it. And then you leave.
Though at times over these past twelve months I have been horribly lonely, I also felt the same love for the place that I had as a kid. It just felt so good to be home.
I’ll miss so many things about this lifestyle, but most of all I’ll miss being still so close to Mum. Over these last twelve months, I have spent many an hour sitting in her big green recliner in the lounge. Sometimes I would do a crossword puzzle or listen to the radio, but mainly I’d just turn off the splitty, open the front door and sit. After weeks of trying to sell the chair, I finally gave it my Turkish friend Ozzie for her art studio. Ozzie did not get to meet Mum, but I know they would have connected. Now the recliner has a happy new home.
I also spent many afternoons lying on Mum’s bed in her room. Again, I wouldn’t do anything, I’d just lie and think. Sometimes I’d open the door to Mum’s wardrobe and smell her clothes. Eventually, I had to sort them all out. I distributed some things to the family and gave the rest to the charity shops. While I was doing it, I could almost hear Mum’s voice: ‘It’s a thankless task but someone has to do it.’
Sometimes I would open her jewellery boxes and look at her things, but mainly I’d just lie on the bed, listen to the birds and think about Mum. I would think about how content she was in her last few years. Mum got what she wanted and what she deserved. She wanted to stay in the house and she deserved to be happy and safe, and we all played a part in making that happen.
Sometimes, when I’d lie on her bed, I would hear humming – a tuneless warble – and I couldn’t help but join in.
I look through the window of the plane and can see the twinkling lights of Melbourne. I put my tray table up, dry my eyes, put on a bit of lippy and fluff up my hair. Just like Mum would have done.
I take Tony’s hand and smile. I feel excited. I’m coming home to a new house, and to friends and family. A whole new chapter awaits us.
Diana Lister
8 February 1924 – 5 December 2016