CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Loose Ends
November - December 2001
On Thursday, I took a chair and my camera into the front yard to gauge the best vantage point to capture the house and mountains beyond. When I was happy, I took photos and marked the spot, no easy task when the ground was littered with twigs and bark. With Peter in Longreach, I had the perfect opportunity to work uninterrupted but I dithered. Instead of working on the painting, I spent my time ‘chatting’ with Liz on the computer. Although a fantastic innovation, Instant Messenger was a trap. It was also an excuse because part of me wasn’t sure I could do the old house justice. Peter bought it in Cairns, literally cut it in half with a chainsaw, and had it carted to his block on a rise facing the Kennedy Highway, between Mareeba and a little town called Walkamin. Once there, he climbed the gum tree at the front to gauge the best height for it. That house was his retirement project, something to do when he no longer had anything else to do. As a Libra, Peter was a typical air sign in that he couldn’t sit still for five minutes. I could understand why Mum resorted to tying him to the clothesline on laundry days. The only reason he built in underneath was because the kids rebelled. When I asked Kylie why they lived in “Mareeba” and not “Walkamin”, she said incredulously: “Have you seen Walkamin? If you had, you wouldn’t ask.”
In between housework and chatting with Liz, I was texting Petula, sometimes several times a day. She had gone to Indy (a car race at Surfer’s Paradise on the Gold Coast) with Mark, his brother and Rose, but it wasn’t what she hoped. The weekend broke the spell Rose had on her and forced her to remember why she had had nothing to do with her for years. She told me she also got a message. I was to “Listen”. Put on a blindfold, she texted, and just listen to the sounds of nature. Whenever I did, more often than not, even sitting on the back verandah, all I heard was the roar of traffic from the highway. Still, I knew she was right, just as Vi had been. This was a time for me to reflect on who I was, not if I would go back to Steve, but who I would be when I went back.
One afternoon, I had a long heart-to-heart chat with Kylie about her mother. I never knew the half of it. It was such a shame. Roslyn was clearly unbalanced. Many miscarriages and a lost infant can take a huge toll on anyone. It was what Peter preferred to believe. On Saturday, with Peter due back the following day, I drew the preliminary sketch, but with no ruler, I had trouble getting lines straight. It was the one thing I had omitted to pack and I couldn’t find one anywhere. It was extremely hot sitting in the front yard under the blazing sun, but at least I had an outline to work from. On Sunday, Peter nearly sprung me. He was supposed to arrive mid-afternoon, but I heard the tell-tale sound of his utility just after 10am. Thankfully, that gave me time to replace his canvas with the blank one. The first thing he said when he walked past was: “I won’t look”. He was in good spirits, but then I have never really known him to be any other way. In fact, his pet saying was “Shit Happens”. He must have had his down times, though, especially when Roslyn left, but he kept it together for the kids’ sake. They came home from school one afternoon to find the house they were then living in stripped. She even took the money in their bank accounts.
There was a lot of love in that old Queenslander. I could feel it from the highway. The entrance to his property was marked by two white-painted truck tyres. We were looking for them in 1997, only Peter’s weren’t the only ones. Thankfully, the others didn’t have an old white house that had seen better days. I always loved the style of the Queenslander with its airy verandahs. That was probably why it was the setting of a short story I wrote in the early 1980s called The House on Crescent Avenue. Peter's house may have had similar front steps to Crescent House, but his was nowhere near as grand. Enticing, though they looked, those steps weren’t used because Peter hadn’t got around to securing them. That’s what made Steve’s carrying me up and down them so remarkable after I broke my ankle. Despite the risk, he deemed it riskier to take me down the narrower internal staircase. Over the years, many a party was held in that old house to celebrate teenage milestones. It didn’t matter how many turned up, there was plenty of floor space to sleep on.
On the second Thursday in November, Kay took me to see the sights of Atherton. I was amazed at how similar she and Peter were, like two peas in a pod. I had heard of twin souls, but I never really appreciated the term until the time I spent in the north. Peter even wanted to buy Kay’s house when it was on the market but she beat him to it. I could understand why. It had breathtaking views of the Tablelands. Atherton, I discovered to my joy, was a gem. It had a fantastic crystal shop, and the health food shop was better than any I had seen in Brisbane. At an art supplies shop, I was able to get the paints I needed and some decent brushes. I happily turned in my roll of film for processing at a chemist shop knowing Kay would collect my photos when ready. From those photos I would paint Peter’s house for there was no way I was sitting in the hot sun with that endless stream of cars and trucks zooming past behind me.
With the federal election looming, talk soon turned to politics and we agreed to disagree. From Kay’s perspective, ALP Premier, Peter Beattie, was the best Queensland had had. Not from mine, he wasn’t, and especially not while he was determined to mould himself on Joh Bjelke-Petersen. My own brother was a Bob Katter supporter. Maybe he was right for the people of Kennedy, but I had no time for him. During one debate with Kay over Premier Beattie, I learned she knew the real man, not the “media tart” he happily portrayed. They had gone to school together, and when her husband found himself unjustly accused of a gross dereliction of duty, she sought out his help. I loved the way Kay told the story. Security guards refused to allow Peter entry with his thonged feet, and paint-spotted shorts and shirt. It took the intervention of the man himself.
On Election Day, Peter took me to see Kylie and her fiancé’s block of land before heading to Cairns where he had a meeting to attend. Kylie and Dean had been together for years although he was some years older than her. Their one stint apart proved to them they were right for each other, despite the age difference. That’s the way I felt about Steve. We were right for each other. When given the choice of walking with me, with all that entailed, or walking without me, he chose to walk with me. The test, of course, would come when I returned with the windchimes and other trinkets I bought in Cairns whilst waiting for Peter. It was the first time I had experienced Cairns for the perspective of the tourist. I couldn’t see what Steve had against the place.
Other than Howard’s Liberal-National Party government being returned, Sunday was a great day because I finished Peter’s painting. On Monday, I gave it two coats of sealant and on Tuesday, Kylie smuggled it out of the house to deliver it to Kay, who took it to be framed. On Tuesday evening, Kylie asked for another reading as it had been two weeks since her last. In the last reading, about whether she should accept a position with the school dental program, the cards advised her she should and that something would come up in two weeks which would be help her understand why. Something had happened at work that day to convince her she had made the right decision. She had been torn between what was best for her, and loyalty to the people who gave her a job when she needed one.
Wednesday November 14th was Steve’s fifty-first birthday, but he didn’t have to be alone. Peter had to fly to Brisbane for a meeting so Steve picked him up from the airport and they shared a few ‘coldies’. The next day, before the news broke that Qantas had sacked 2,000 staff, Peter said former Ansett pilots and hostesses, blatantly wearing Ansett uniforms, flew his Qantas flight home. That was a red flag to a bull. Obviously, with so many former Ansett staff jobless, Qantas thought they could play mind games. On Friday, Steve rang to tell me to keep an eye on the news as a Qantas strike was looming. He was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get home. He said he was happy to drive up and get me if need be. Peter didn’t think it would come to anything and told me all I needed to know about flying. He was right.
At the end of my fourth week, the strangest thing happened when I was chatting with Liz. I had the sense I was grieving for our lost friendship, despite it being stronger than ever. On Saturday, Peter and Dean left early to lay the pipe work at the block, and while they were busy with that, Kylie took me into town. But first, she took me on a tour of the housing estate so I could get an idea of what her place would look like when finished. She was so happy. It was a joy to see. I did another reading for her on Sunday. Life looks good. I was feeling really happy until Petula called. Neville’s been blackmailing her by saying he won’t have the girls if she doesn’t do what he wants. The house had been sold, leaving little else he could use as leverage. It was beyond pathetic.
On Monday, I woke feeling strangely restless. By midday, the feeling was still with me. Liz helped me understand I may have been picking up on Steve’s irrational fear of flying. Perhaps she was right. Years before, I had won a mystery flight for two. It wasn’t taken because of Steve. In 1997, before he discovered the front passenger seat went all the way back, we discussed my flying back while he drove. Even then, he was terrified of the prospect of me being up there where he couldn’t protect me. If it wasn’t so smothering, it would be nice. Our talk of flying had her suggest I marry my maiden and married names and use “Warbird” as a registered business name accompanied by an drawing of a phoenix rising above the ashes of its past. It was a great idea until I mentioned it to Peter. A warbird, I discovered, is a name given to certain World War II aircraft. He told me the US air force built a base to defend Australia from the Japanese not far from his place. It was later turned into a museum and adventure flight centre.
Petula called several times throughout the day on Tuesday. Neville had changed his tune and was demanding the girls during the week. She said that was so he could have free weekends with his girlfriend. He told her if she doesn’t agree he will have the girls for two weeks per year during school holidays only. The man was an absolute menace. In a past life she was told he was a Roman Catholic priest and she was his lover. When he’d had his fill of her, he tossed her aside like an old rag. Nothing much had changed there.
Good news came on Wednesday when Steve told me he returned to his on-again, off-again job. On my last night with Peter, I presented him with his painting. He loved it. He said it was the best thing I could have given him. I knew I owed it all to Steve because I wouldn’t have thought to do it.
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| Pete's Paradise |
On November 24th, my last Saturday in the north, Peter took me to Cairns airport. On the way, he asked me to imagine the Kuranda Range stripped of virtually every tree, for that’s what it looked like several years earlier when a cyclone tore through the Tablelands. It was impossible for me to imagine such a sight. Despite Steve’s reservations, I had a great flight home and when I saw him my heart skipped a beat. Vi was right. We really did love each other. When we got home he poured me a glass of wine and just held me for the longest time. It was so good to be home.
At the library on Monday, I got a rambling email from Liz. She was very upset with her Arizona clairvoyant friend for telling her she had no future with Andrew, that he was incapable of commitment, and that she would end up alone. She also said he was not to be trusted. She said he was a weak, insipid man browbeaten by his wife. She warned her not to travel to New Jersey. Liz asked me to ask Tamara to do a reading for her. She said she would email a recent photo of him in a day or two. As I read, and re-read what she copied and pasted from Dee’s emails to her, that strange feeling of sadness washed over me again like a giant wave. What was the matter with me? How could I be grieving for a friendship as solid as ours? I did share a lot of Dee’s thoughts, and I had told Liz, maybe not in so many words, but I had told her she should pull back until he makes a decision on his marriage. I told her it was pointless taking on a man who could not, or would not, commit to her one hundred percent. She made excuses for him until he did something to make her sit up and take notice. One of those things involved her privacy. He abused his position with the government department he worked in to look up her personal history and made the mistake of saying things she knew she never told him. Still, I knew it had made no real difference.
On Thursday, I took Glenys’ painting to Leigh’s place. She was thrilled with it and knew Glenys would be, too. We chatted for about an hour before she rang Glenys to see if she would like to have lunch with us. When she walked through the door, the first thing she saw was her washtub, mounted at the correct angle on a chair. She shrieked with delight, saying it was exactly what she wanted, that she knew I would know what she wanted. When she asked me how much it was, I fell silent. I had no idea. I hadn’t considered that part of the process. Finally, I asked her to pay what she thought it was worth. She said she thought it was worth thousands but she didn’t have that much. I accepted her payment gratefully.
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| Glenys' Farm |
Tamara got a new job on the last day in November. The same day George Harrison passed into Spirit, at 6.30pm Queensland time. I couldn’t stem the flood of tears for he was not only still my favourite Beatle, he was a deeply spiritual man who had made a real difference in the world. He would be greatly missed. Like millions the world over, I was saddened to hear of John Lennon’s death, especially the means of his death, but George. Vale, George. Rest in Peace.
On Sunday December 2nd, I collected Tianni and Tamara and took them to Wilston where a family gathering was underway to celebrate my Aunt Irene and Uncle Ray’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. Years earlier, at another reunion in the same place, the hall of my old school, I was happy to reconnect to Frances and Anne. Kristen couldn’t go as she was working. When Steve tried to talk me out of going I hoped he wasn’t slipping back to his controlling ways. He never was one for family gatherings, probably because of his own family. All the same, Heather didn’t seem to have a problem. It was a festering wound he needed to heal before it killed him. An elderly man at the table we were sitting at asked me who I was. When I told him, he started talking about “that house Ernie Warman bought actually belonged to Ray’s family before.” It was news to me, as it was to others at the table. After leaving Wilston, we stopped at Heather’s place so Tamara could read for her daughter, Leonie. Whilst there, she picked up a framed wedding photo of Heather’s eldest son, Jasen and his bride, Mandy. She told Heather the marriage wouldn’t last for she ‘saw’ the photo being torn in two. It came as a shock to Heather because they were so much in love. Sadly, time has proven her correct.
On Monday, Petula called. She told me she and Mark went to Lismore after Indy. It was a nice place, she said. She felt they might move there one day. She also felt there was a little corner shop she could transform into an art and craft centre. She didn’t find it, nor did she ever move to Lismore. On Tuesday, Gladys’ granddaughter rang for Tamara’s number. She wanted a reading. The same afternoon, Che dropped by after work to give me Jen’s copy of Louise L. Hay’s book You Can Heal Your Life. The following Monday Roberta rang, but I couldn’t talk long as I had to get a bus into town for an appointment. On the way home, I stopped at Chermside library to check my emails. Liz asked if I could do a reading for one of her tenants. When Roberta called back we talked for hours. She wanted a reading with Jason McDonald, but had a three month wait so I suggested she go to Kedron-Wavell RSL where he was putting on another show. When she didn’t get a message I suggested she see Sarina, who I felt she was better than Jason anyhow. He was too busy aping John Edward to notice he was losing his connection to Spirit.
On Tuesday, I knew I had to make an appointment to see my doctor to get a referral to the Wesley for my next mammogram. At my last appointment he told me if a close relative has been diagnosed with breast cancer, he could write a referral for me to have my X-rays cheaper. Both my mother’s sister, Irene, and my father’s sister had been diagnosed with the disease by that stage. Both responded well to treatment. The trouble was I kept putting it off. When at the shops to get bread one day I got a message to stop in to the clinic and make the appointment. I knew it was my mother so I dug my heels in. Didn’t I get an earful! The receptionist gave me the strangest look when I asked if I could make an appointment. “You can go straight in, if you like. He’s just had a cancellation.” It was so funny. I laughed all the way home. “Yes, Mum. Whatever you say, Mum”
When I got home I found Tamara’s ‘photo reading’ of Andrew in the mailbox. It was not only very detailed, it pulled no punches. As I typed it up, verbatim; I couldn’t help but wonder what Liz would make of it. Tamara’s words were not too dissimilar to Dee’s or mine. Yes, there was a soul connection. Yes, it was very strong. Yes, there was the chance they could share a magical relationship, but it all came down to whether he was willing to master lessons from the past. Was he willing to leave his wife? Her reply came through almost immediately. She hadn’t had time to read it properly so I knew she skipped over things she didn’t want to know about and focused on those she did. I was to tell Tamara how good she was.
On Wednesday, I met Heather for coffee. It was really nice to be where we once were. We had a real connection. I was positive we were sisters in another life. She shared my sister, Anne’s, birthday but was more sister to me than Anne ever would or could be. That evening, Kristen rang to give me feedback on a reading I had given her some time ago. She said everything came to pass, even to the day. I was “spooky”, she said. On December 15th, I took Tamara to Heather’s place for a reading night where she learned a valuable lesson, one I was still struggling to master. The agreed readings were to be for thirty minutes at a cost of $20. The first lady’s reading dragged on for over an hour, but she only paid only $20. As a result, Tamara felt she had to take the same from the others, regardless of how long she read for. Heather made her night by giving her $40. But she shouldn’t have had to.
The following Tuesday, I got a Christmas card from Glenda, who I worked with in the laundry. She told me Roslyn, one of the cleaners we worked with, had died. She had apparently been suffering from cancer for years, only it wasn’t discovered until it was too late. Glenda told me she had met up with Vonnie, one of the nursing aides, at a reunion for past staff at another house they both worked at. Roslyn was one of the reasons I got so angry with Sandra. She treated her with absolute contempt. Once, poor Roslyn was at one end of the corridor and Sandra was at the other. Instead of walking to her or asking Roslyn to come down, she hurled abuse at her for all to hear. One of the nurses told me she lodged a complaint about it, but nothing was done. However, Roslyn was not without fault, either. She was one of the worst whingers. Whenever she had the chance to speak up, she wouldn’t. No wonder she was riddled with cancer. It ate her up from the inside out. I found the timing of this interesting from another perspective. The following day I ran into Vonnie at Chermside library. She told me Barbara or Sandra couldn’t even spare half an hour to represent the staff at Roslyn’s funeral. When I got home I rang Jo. She said it was all true. Roslyn had left work shortly before her death. She was in denial until the end. It was so sad.
On Sunday December 23rd, after attending meditation at the Self-Realization Fellowship, Shelley and I sat in the armchairs chatting away when I kept seeing a hand in front of me. There was a hand in the room, a lone alabaster bookend Petula had found with the load one day. She said she heard my name when she touched it so I bought it and used it to hold up books in my small bookcase. When I had enough books to fill the shelf, I placed it, palm facing the room, on top of the bookcase as a decorative feature. Because of that hand, I decided it must be important so I went with it. I asked Spirit what I was to do with the image of the hand in my mind. The answer came immediately. I was to do a painting for Shelley as a gift, that she would know what it represented.
We had our usual family Christmas and Boxing Day celebrations on a scorching hot summer day. Long ago, in the lead-up to another scorching hot Christmas Day, I put my foot down when Steve searched butcher shops seeking the perfect leg of veal for his Christmas Roast. When most everyone else was having seafood platters or barbecues with salad, I had to toil away in the kitchen. I can’t remember when it was I refused to swelter through one more Christmas lunch, but I won, and without much drama. Perhaps, common sense prevailed. I am sure it must have been an intrinsic longing for something traditional, a time when families gather and are civil to each other. Poor Steve, he never had many of those.
On New Year’s Eve, Steve won $100 on an Instant Scratch-It ticket, the most he had ever won. Although we needed the money, we donated a quarter of it to the New South Wales bush-fire appeal. Queenslanders may have sweltered through one of the worst heat waves in years, but parts of New South Wales burned. At the same time parts of Victoria were dealing with freezing rains. Dorothea Mackellar[1] got it right when she wrote her poem, My Country.
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