Falling Into Queensland Read online

  down?”

  She decided to walk and put his offer on hold.

  “And get some sun cream,” he shouted after her, “And a hat, a proper one, not one of those golf hats. You"re too white – you"ll have ears like neon signs if you don"t cover them up. Go to the Bazaar – Des"ll take care of you. But he"s not open „til eight-thirty.”

  She walked back to the main road as Marilyn had showed her and turned towards town. The sun was already high in the sky and made her wrinkle her eyes. Tropical heat wrapped itself around her and her skin was moist.

  The road was a narrow strip of asphalt between very wide grass verges. No cars were moving. On either side, coconut palms and dark, shiny mango trees were hanging over the grass. She knew they were mango trees because the ripe orange fruits were scattered beneath them. She wanted to pick one up and try it but was afraid someone would object.

  The land on either side of the road was mostly empty and covered in shoulder high grass. Some houses sat in islands of cut grass, either old wooden Queenslanders on stumps or low modern houses built of concrete blocks. All had corrugated iron roofs, some fresh and some rusty. Most had a boat of some sort parked on a trailer in the front yard. The houses were untidy and ill cared for. There were no flower beds or fences or manicured lawns. With many more empty spaces than

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  buildings, Port Bruce was a substantial town that hardly anyone lived in. On her right she could see scrappy jungle rising behind the houses. To her left, beyond the occupied and empty blocks, a dark line of mangroves fenced off the river.

  The road undulated gently down towards the centre of town. Suddenly there were gutters and curb stones, hand built from rough hewn granite, with concrete pavements behind them. The business centre of Port Bruce stretched for two blocks with few gaps. A grand Australian corner pub welcomed visitors. The walkway was shaded by a deep upstairs veranda, with a long sign on its railings proclaiming „The Port Bruce Hotel 1887". At this time in the morning it was closed. Beyond it was the mini-market and a pharmacy, a drive-in bottle shop (closed), and a massively built neo-classical building with „The Queensland Bank" carved across its portico. A relic of better days, now boarded up.

  Across the road were the Government offices, all old-style wooden buildings on low stumps with deep, cool verandas. The Courthouse and Police Station. The Post Office. The spreading wings of the Shire Hall. An incongruous railway station containing only a hairdresser and a souvenir shop.

  At least there were people here. Around the mini-market four wheel drive utes and station-wagons were angled into the curb. Shirley watched, asking herself what sort of people lived in Port Bruce, and what they did to keep body and soul together. She was fascinated. Everyone, men and women wore shorts, some stylishly baggy, others just baggy. There were tee shirts everywhere, usually sleeveless. Everyone had a hat of some sort, with the men wearing beaten-up broad-brimmed wrecks that threw their faces into deep shadow. Flip-flop sandals for everyone, young and old. Most people were white but two old aboriginal men sitting on an office step watched impassively, and grunted something when she nodded to them.

  “G"day!” A woman was hurrying into the mini-market and had gone before Shirley could reply. Suddenly everyone was greeting her as she passed. She was shocked. Port Bruce was not London. Or even Cairns. People actually said hello to strangers on the street here. Nice.

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  Beyond the shops, a small park lay between the road and the river. Now she could look out over the brown water of the estuary. Small boats were moored off shore and lined up by the current. Nearer, just beyond the dinghies lying on the mud, two cabin cruisers had sunk and lay canted over and muddied by the tides. Along the other side of the river, a couple of kilometres away, ran a long beach. It curved out of sight and was backed with sand dunes.

  There was not much to the wharf, just a platform of heavy timbers with a small fishing boat moored. Two aboriginal women with straggly hair were fishing with hand lines. Apart from them, the place was lifeless. A yellow and brown sign warned of crocodiles in English, German and Chinese.

  Beyond the jetty, she looked out over the Coral Sea and now there was a breeze on her face. Her stomach rumbled; it was time for

  breakfast. The kiosk was set at the water"s edge beyond the wharf, a simple transportable building with its back to the land. She walked around it looking for food.

  She was on a wide, sheltered terrace perched over the river and running the length of the cafe. Empty tables and chairs lined its outer edge. Delightful smells were coming from the serving hatch. Shirley"s mouth was watering.

  “Hi – what you like?” A cheerful brown Asian girl was looking at her from the steam of the kitchen. “Breakfas"? You like English, Thai or Indonesia?”

  “Indonesian?” she asked in confusion.

  “Yes – nasi goreng frie" rice and egg. Very good… I think you like.”

  Shirley took her coffee and sat at one of the tables. It was a simple thick slab of varnished timber, rich and brown. Tropical hardwood, she supposed. She turned to rest both elbows on the railing and look out over the water. It was very pleasant here. Warm but not too sticky, enough breeze off the sea to ripple the water. The wharf to one side, quiet but for the restless creaking of the moored fishing boat, and the low chatter of the two aboriginals. To the other side, the river bank road continued as a rough track with coconut palms holding it back from the water. It was very restful.

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  Two days ago – no – three days ago she had been in London. London at its October best; wet, windy, cold and miserable with the prospect of another two months before the weather would turn into anything sensible. The night before that she had been with Rupert in their favourite Greek restaurant. Now a glow began to seep through her as she celebrated sitting outside dressed in tee shirt and a summer skirt, waiting for her breakfast next to a big, slow tropical river.

  “Here you are.” The girl stood beside her with a big plate of fried rice topped with an egg. It smelt fat and spicy. She set the plate down and went to sit on the other side of the table.

  “So – you touris"? Not many touris" come now – too much rain, too much hot. My name Lulu. And you?”

  “Shirley,” she said and, unwrapping her spoon and fork from its paper napkin, started on the rice.

  “Hey – you like ketchup? Chilli sauce?” Lulu jumped up to bring two plastic bottles. “This one little bit hot. Australians no like hot. „Cept my husband – he like very hot. I teach him hot food, he teach me English.” She smiled. “Here, you try small bit. I think you like.”

  The sauce was sharp and sweet together. It suited the rice. Shirley explored her plate. Along with scraps of vegetables, there were prawns, and chicken, and squares of bacon. It tasted good and she ate hungrily.

  Lulu chuckled. “I think you very hungry girl.”

  Shirley had been silent, concentrating on eating. Now she was embarrassed at her rudeness. “Er – you"re not very busy.”

  “No – not now. Early morning we always busy. People eat and go fishing,” she gestured out to sea, “Now all quiet „til they come back. „Cept in dry season. Then too much touris" and we always busy. Now is good time. Can rest and talk. You like Por" Bruce?”

  “Yes. Yes – it looks really nice. I"m from England so this looks - I don"t know – it looks fantastic. Wonderful.”

  Lulu was happy. “I like also. When I come here, I very sad. No have family, no have friends, only John – he my husband. But now I have business, friends, my family coming for visiting. Por" Bruce is a good place.”

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  Lulu sold her some insect repellent and a tube of sun cream. She even rubbed the cream on the back of Shirley"s neck and shoulders. “You cover up good, huh? You very, very white and you start go red already. You put cream all the time, right? Two hou
rs, more cream. And come back, right? We finish fif" o"clock. I cook you fish and ginger. Fresh barramundi – you like!”

  The Bazaar was not far back up the road, a drab shed with white-painted corrugated iron walls. The windows were small and dirty but through the open door Shirley could see crowded racks of clothes. Inside, it was bigger than it seemed and twice as crowded. There was barely room to pass between the racks to reach the lines of furniture and white goods further back. There was no one at the sales counter by the door. She stood for a while and examined the many glossy fishing lures on the wall opposite. Some of them were as big as the fish she had seen pulled from canals in England, but these were only bait. There was an attention bell and she gave it a gentle tinkle.

  A man bustled in from the back of the store. He was short and red-faced, with a full head of white hair “You"d be John Collin"s girl, right?” He smiled and reached out his hand. “There"s something of him in

  you… I"m Des.”

  “Shirley – but everyone seems to know who I am already.”

  “Probably. This is Port Bruce. Are you liking it here?”

  “Yes – it"s so different. I"m from London.”

  “Bit of a shock, eh? I"ve never been to London. I"d probably lose myself first off. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

  She bought a simple straw hat. It was going to interfere with her ponytail but Des cut a hole in it so her hair could stick out at the back and be off her neck.

  “There,” he said, “That"s the job. You"d better be careful with the sun – you"re as white as a sheet. Keep your hat on and you might not end up with a red nose. What"re you doing today? Do you fish?”

  “No. At least, I"ve never tried. But I"ve got to go to the cemetery today. And then to Uncle John"s house. Do you know where it is?”

  “Out of town, but not too far. You"ve got wheels?”

  “No. I thought I"d take a taxi or something.”

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  Des smiled. “Well, it"d have to be „or something". I could rent you a bicycle, if you like. I keep a few for the tourists. That"d be good for you because old Johnno"s house is way down a little path and you could ride a bike down there. Most of the way, anyway.”

  It was too hot and sticky to cycle, but walking was scarcely better. “And flowers,” she thought out loud, “Where do I get some flowers?”

  “Flowers? Oh, of course. For old John. Right – rent the bike and the flowers are free.”

  She pedalled slowly out of town with a large bunch of yellow and white African daisies in her hand. While she had been adjusting her saddle, Des had cut them from the garden of his cottage behind the shop. A nice gesture and she appreciated it.

  Uncle John"s grave was no longer new. In the four months since he died, runners of grass were already fighting with weeds to cover the bare earth. A small square of plywood nailed to a stake said simply John Collins 1936-2003 in felt-tip. It should say more, she thought. I"ll get a stone, and I"ll ask his friends what to put on it.

  She had only seen him once, when she was a little girl. He had come to London to see his sister and his niece. She remembered him as tall with black hair and a loud voice. She had showed him the way to the park and he had held her hand as they walked.

  She laid her flowers amongst the weeds and wheeled her bike away.

  She had about two kilometres to go, accordingly to Des"s directions. It was difficult cycling in the heat and she was soon dripping with sweat. Too soon, she dropped off the blacktop onto the dirt road. Riding over the corrugations and small holes was uncomfortable but she struggled on. A four wheel drive appeared ahead of her, a dark spot drawing a cloud of dust behind it. It roared past without slowing and for a moment she was riding blind and choking. Bastard! Doesn"t he know what it"s like out here?

  The air slowly cleared and she could look around herself again. The road edges were rough and untidy, and through its covering of dust, the jungle was reaching out tendrils to repossess its lost space. It lookedthick and tangled, an alien world. She could not see into it; the roadside plants sealed it off.

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  Her turn off came long after she had expected it. An incongruous sign – Hobson Road – pointed down a narrow track in the direction of the river. It looked used, but not heavily. A strip of rough grass separated two wheel ruts and she wobbled uncomfortably down one of them. The jungle was very close around her.

  Ahead on her right was a break in the jungle wall. Here a wire fence confined lines of dark green trees standing in lush grass. Mangos. They filled the trees and lay on the ground. The fence was broken by an entrance and drive way, and far away she could s ee a roof through the trees. The jungle closed in again and the road continued, until it ended abruptly in a turning circle. Another driveway ran off to the west but that was not what she was looking for. Carrying straight on towards the river, a footpath disappeared into the bushes.

  Shirley dived into the shadows and cycled on. The unkempt grass started snatching at her ankles and branches were coming too near, so she got off and walked. Mosquitoes immediately pounced on her and she had to stop and spray herself. She was hot, sweaty and itching. Suddenly the tropics did not seem so wonderful. Although the trees were low and stunted here, there was no wind at all. The still air rang with insect buzzing. It was not a welcoming place. She pushed on as quickly as she could.

  She did not know how far she had gone on the footpath and had an unreasonable desire to turn round and get back to the road, but retreat was not a real choice. She had come this far and would not fall at the last fence. All the same, she was relieved to see a rusty roof at the end of thepath. Uncle John"s house at last.

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  Falling into Queensland

  Chapter 2

  The path came to an abrupt end at the edge of the mangroves. The way ahead lay over a duckboard walkway of grey weathered planks. There was nothing to lean her bicycle against so she wheeled it carefully forward. She was soon more than a metre above the dark grey mud and all around her the mangroves stood on their upside down roots. The swamp surface was alive with activity. Little crabs scuttled from burrow to burrow or stood guard in their entrances. They had one small claw and one coloured brilliant red that had grown out of all proportion until it was nearly as big as their body. They stared at her and beckoned threateningly with this grotesque claw.

  Sharing the muddy surface were small fish with frog"s eyes perched high on their heads. They rested on their bellies and used their front fins to skip themselves from puddle to puddle. The insect noise was even louder here and the mosquitoes whined around her head. She hurried on over the rickety planks.

  The duckboard way was not straight and she had lost sight of dry land by the time she reached Uncle John"s house. It stood on stilts in an area cleared of mangroves with the river glinting beyond. It was a cabin of unpainted clapboard, two small windows with a front door between them. The roof, dull zinc with some rust streaks, was low and reached out to give a narrow veranda that ran the length of the house. She fumbled in her pocket to find the key the lawyer in Cairns had given her. She leant her bicycle against the wall and searched for the keyhole.

  There was no keyhole in the door. Just grey, weathered timber with short rust streaks running down from each nail. She was stupefied; how could there be no keyhole? This must be the right house; she could not be in the wrong place.

  The handle turned and the door was pulled open. An old man stood there. He was short, with thinned white hair neatly swept back. He worea long-sleeved white shirt and shorts. His thin shins were wrapped in long white socks and he was wearing white shoes. He was the strangest person Shirley had seen so far.

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  He looked her up and down for a long minute and smiled. “You must be Shirley!”

  “How – yes. Shirley,” she said foolishly.

  He held out a wrinkled hand. “Welcome to Johnno"
s. I"m Walter.

  Come in.”

  She allowed herself to be led inside. There was just one sparse room, and that had only three walls. On her left there was a kitchen area with a small table. Along the wall stood a sink counter and shelves, curtained off in red chintz. A single gas cooking ring stood beside the sink. A bachelor kitchen, for someone who took no joy in cooking.

  To her right was an incongruous double bed draped with a mosquito net. It had painted bedside cabinets on either side. Perhaps Uncle John had not slept alone. She would have to ask around, once she knew people a little better. She might even have an auntie of sorts. Her musing disappeared when she saw the missing wall in front of her. The fourth side of the cabin just was not present. Unable to resist, she stepped through onto the wide veranda and stood transfixed by the river beyond.

  It was wonderful. Wide and dark, with the sun flaring off its ripples. And empty. A wall of palms was growing out of the water on the other side and in the distance behind them, blue-green mountains baked under fluffy clouds.

  “It"s fantastic…”

  “Yes – it is rather good, isn"t it?” said Walter, and it struck her that he was English. “Sit down – would you like a coffee?” There were two slatted wooden armchairs looking out over the river.

  She started towards the chairs but turned back. “Do you live…?” She did not know how to ask him how he fitted into the picture.

  “Do I live here? No, no. Not me. I live there and I park it where ever I like.” He was pointing to the edge of the veranda. “How do you like your coffee?”

  “Er – white, no sugar,” she said, but all her attention was on Walter"s house. It was moored up against the veranda and, as the tide was low, its roof was a little below the house floor level. She went closer to look. It was a square boxy cabin on a double pontoon. About three metres by five, she supposed, with a narrow fenced walkway on both sides. At one