Parker - The long goodbye

Remember when thistles danced on fairy wingsand we could ride on rainbows?

For my mother with love and for my father too.

Contents

There is little recognition that the death of a parent is a major milestone in adult life, and the death of an elderly parent is somehow seen as even less important: its normative, expected. But it doesnt matter how old they arehow old you areit is the parent of your youth and childhood memories lying in that casket; a curtain is being closed on more than one lifetime of hopes and dreams and love.

These memories are closest to my heart. I let them be my guide

P.J. Parker, 2016

October 2012

Dial tone.

Good evening. Charters Towers Psychology.

I need to talk to someone but Im concerned about confidentiality.

Our files are strictly confidential

Im talking about a crime.

Youre concerned about mandatory reporting?

Silence, speak for me.

We have to report if someone is in danger, at riskor if its a crime of a sexual nature.

No! No! No! Not guilty! Can I make an appointment?

Just one thing Timely caution. If our records were to be subpoenaed by a judge

Fuck. Hang up!

So, here I am, dead mouthpiece in my hand, dead mouthpiece in my head

I look above the kindling flame, and am unnerved to find my eyes regarding me from the mirror above the hearth. It seems strangely fitting, this outline of a disembodied head communing with vacant air: Your mother is dead

From somewhere far away, the hall clock is doling out more hours, but I have slipped between heartbeats into a silence and a stillness inexpressible. In every lick of flame, ghosts are clamouring to be heard: a child feeding gidgee to an old wood stove, climbing a splintered staircase, playing hopscotch on a garden path of coloured stones fragments of memory that have led me to this point and place in time my mother is dead, my father killed her.

1968

Sunday morning.

The breakfast rush is on.

The doors opened at six thirty so Mum can catch the rodeo boys.

The ringers from Dotswood Station and The Star have come in for the Easter rodeo; the cafe is loud with voices, tramp of boots and Slim Dusty.

Mum is busy at her fully fired-up griller; its a shining square of stainless steel, lit by yard-long burners. The old wood stove is bubbling tubs of fat, and a four-ring gas burner is simmering Mums secret-recipe spaghetti sauce she got from Vince the Italian bloke, who used to own the cafe.

Caroline appears at the curtained entrance. Two steak-chips, two sausage, one bacon, two scrambled, one poached.

Thats the last of the sausages, love, Mum calls over her shoulder. Were out.

Caroline is a lanky, fair-haired girl. Shes one of Mums best girls. She pins her order above the sandwich table. Mum wont read it. My mum remembers everything: today shell cook up a hundred meals, some with none of this, some with double that.

Caroline dodges three young men come to the curtain. Cowboy hats in hand, their belts sport big shiny buckles with bucking bulls and broncos, and their boots are carved with wild mustangs too. The ringers all come out to the kitchen to say gday to Mum.

Gday, Mum.

Gday, Bernie. Mum doesnt look up from her griller. My mums cracking eggs into silver rings with one hand, other hand flipping bacon.

Bernie grins. Howd ya know it was me?

Mum shoulders sweat from her face. Steak, nine eggs sunny-side up? Could only be you, Bernie, she says, squishing sausages till they split and sizzle.

The Mosman boys think theyre Mums favourites. And I suppose the Mosman brothers are special: Tony, first to ride Powder Puff to time; Bernie, master of the bullock ride; and young Jimmys got his heart set on being Australian Buckjump Champion one day.

Jimmy sees me gawking, winks.

I dip my head. I pretend I didnt see him. Im sitting at the back door of the kitchen. Im on the step that leads to the storerooms: our new home, just for now. Just for now means until Dad helps some men build our real new house. Just for now, I got two metal buckets at my feet. In one, the waters muddy brown with spud dirt; the others nearly full with potatoes. Just for now, Im peeling spuds for Mums lunch rush.

The Mosman boys are in the way when Helen comes running. Helens the prettiest girl Ive ever seen. Shes a half-caste, and one of Mums best girls. Mums known Helens family forever. When my mum was little, her name was Olive Chapman. Little Ollie Chapman lived far out in the bush and had a black cook and black maids from the Gugu-Badhun tribe, and her only friends were piccaninnies.

Helens carrying a tray of used crockery, but the wash-up table is a jumble of egg-smeared plates, tea-stained cups and coffee-pots.

Jimmy takes the tray, slides it under the table where the floor is cluttered too.

Helen pins her order, says, Two steak, bacon-egg, mince burger to go.

My mum wont read it. My mum remembers everything.

The shelves are almost empty. Usually, youd find columns of white dinner plates and bread-and-butter plates up there. And on the top shelf, cups and saucers and two-cup, four-cup, six-cup tea- and coffee-pots; only the eight-cup teapot is up there now.

I leave the potato bucket for the wash-up sinks.

Mum lifts fat-dripping bacon off the griller. Wriggle yourself!

Mums talking to the new girl. Shes fourteen. Shes on trial. New girls buttering toast and bringing the plates to Mum. New girls got mascara leaking down her face. If she wants to be one of Mums girls, shell have to wash her hair. And wear a longer skirt. My dad doesnt like miniskirtsor mascarabut Mums good with bad girls. People say my mum can turn a bad girl into a good girl overnight.

I scrape T-bones into metal bins full to overflowing, pounce on a piece of pork sausage, wipe off tomato saucePuss doesnt like tomato sauceand put it with my stash I got hidden under the sinks.

More wood for the stove, love, Mum says to me.

I go out the back to the woodheap and pick a block of gidgeeone big enough to burn for a long time and small enough to fit in the stove door.

Fire stoked, I take a quick peek through the kitchen curtain.

Slim Dustys telling how its lonesome at night, when wild dingoes call

Out there are seven tables with plastic tablecloths, and one long one. Opposite the lolly counter are four booths with red vinyl seats. In the afternoons, long-haired louts and layabouts sit at those booths. They stick wads of chewy under the tables, and stand around the jukebox drinking Bodgies Blood, puffing Marlboros and playing Viva Las Vegas and All You Need Is Love, while teeny-bopper tarts in miniskirts tap ash from Alpine and Kool, and smile at the mirrored wall pretending Dusty Springfield: You dont have to say you love me

Wish I was Dusty Springfield.

Today, the booths are full of ringers and cowboys three deep at the counter and Slim singing about a pub thats got no beer. Mums other best girl is out there. Her name is Helen too. This Helen is blonde. Shes taking takeaway orders and whizzing milkshakes in metal tumblers.

My dad is in the front. Mr Fred Bagnall, in dress shirt and shorts and long socks, is skewering chickens on the rotisserie at the front counter because Mum says the smell of roasting chicken always gets em in.

My big sisters gonna baste the birds with melted butter. Her name is Robyn and shes just turned seventeen. Robyns pretending she doesnt know shes being gawked at by all the rodeo boys.