Love...Under Different Skies (6 page)

I haven’t as yet thought of a good enough reason for us to leave tomorrow, one that will not mortally offend our hosts, but I’m hoping that one will spring to mind as I sit here, enjoying the slightly less stifling heat afforded to me by being outside. This does mean I can hear the koala bears snorging their way across the garden even more loudly, but it’s a small price to pay for not having sweaty teeth.

Mind you, as I look out across the ramshackle expanse of grounds to the rear of the house, I can see a disconcerting lump sitting square in the middle of the grass. In the dim light of a moonless sky, the lump could be any one of a number of things. Most of them with teeth.

The chances are it’s just one of a number of thick tree branches dotted around the place—I can see three of them just off to my left near the veranda as I type—but it could equally be a ravenous crocodile or thirty-three-foot snake just waiting for me to make the wrong move.

Intellectually I know that neither is that likely. I’ve been staring at the lump for a good few minutes now, and it hasn’t budged. If it were alive, it would have surely shown some signs of movement by now, wouldn’t it?

This is one of the less attractive aspects of trading the British Isles for the sunny climes of Australia. If the disconcerting lump were sitting in the middle of an English garden, I could be fairly sure it was either (a) a large sleeping badger, (b) a bin liner dragged out of the wheelie bin by one of the local foxes, (c) somebody very drunk and lost on their way home from the pub, or (d) a large dead badger. None of these would present much of a danger to me. Here in Australia, though, I can be damn well sure that if the lump is not a thick tree branch, then it probably has the capacity to deny me my continued existence on this planet in a heartbeat.

There’s part of me that wants to retire—slowly—to the relative safety of our bedroom. The thing is we’re going to be in this country for a long time, so I have to get used to the local flora and fauna, no matter how scary it may or may not be. I can’t run away in terror at the first sign of anything that may look even remotely reptilian. Living with dangerous creatures is just one part of living in this beautiful country, so I’d better get used to—

Oh fuck me, it moved.

It’s twenty minutes later. My arsehole has stopped twitching. It’s now hotter than the surface of the sun in the bedroom thanks to the fact I’ve closed the double doors, but better that than being eaten to bits by whatever that thing is out there. I’ll take a sleepless night over having no intestines any day of the week, thank you so very much.

LAURA’S DIARY

Thursday, January 12

While I have to confess that I’m glad Jamie got us out of Grant and Ellie’s and back into the Brisbane Metro hotel, I do wish he’d gone about it in a way that hadn’t made me out to be clinically insane. The problem with my husband is that he has no appreciation of the term
overkill
. He’ll have what amounts to a pretty good plan of action, and then he’ll ruin it by overdoing it when things don’t go according to plan.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, Mum.

First came the car.

“Did you sleep well?” Ellie asks brightly from the kitchen as the three of us shuffle in for breakfast. I’ve had less than three hours of sleep, Jamie only got two thanks to the run-in with his crocodile (which turned out to be a tree branch once the sun had come up), and Poppy now sports a bite the size of a golf ball in the middle of her head.

“Yes,” I lie through my teeth in a manner so British it’s quite pathetic.

“Lovely bed,” Jamie adds.

“Itchy!” is all Poppy can contribute.

“That looks like a nasty bite you got there, Poppy,” Grant says from where he’s making porridge at the kitchen counter. He goes over to a cupboard in the back wall and produces what looks like a jam jar full of liquidised frogs.

“Er, what’s that?” I ask.

“Mozzie remedy, Laura,” Grant replies. “My dad came up with it back when he was a ranger in the bush.”

Grant puts two fingers in the concoction, making a splurging noise as he does so. He bends down to address Poppy, who is now staring at his sludgy fingers like they’ve just transformed into lit sticks of dynamite. “Hold still there, Poppy,” Grant tells her and wipes the strange solution across her forehead.

Poppy’s face crumples briefly before she hesitantly opens both eyes again and looks up at me. “Tingles,” she says.

“Is it making the bite better, honey?” I ask.

Poppy thinks about this for a second before giving one emphatic nod of the head. “Yes Mummy.”

“There you go!” Grant hollers. “Home remedies are always better than the rubbish you get at the pharmo.”

That may be so, but pharmacy medicine doesn’t tend to leave you looking like the Incredible Hulk has just sneezed on you. Poppy seems quite happy, though. The sludge is above her nose, after all, so she can’t detect the aroma of decaying vegetable matter.

“Thanks,” I say to Grant, but I’m not sure I mean it.

“No worries. You Newmans want some brekko?”

I trust he means breakfast. “Yes please.”

Just don’t offer me anything from an old jam jar and we should be fine.

Breakfast turns out to be very pleasant. Grant rustles up some very tasty omelettes, and by the time I’ve finished my second cup of coffee I’m feeling almost human. Even Jamie is looking quite perky, though he has had four cups of coffee by the time he finishes his omelette. This will no doubt leave him needing the toilet every fifteen minutes, but at least he’s got a smile on his face.

Poppy’s frog poultice has gone yellow around the edges and now smells like the centre of London, but she’s not scratching at the bite so we’ll take that as a win.

“What are you guys up to today?” Ellie asks from over her cup of ginseng.

“We’re buying a car!” Jamie says with unconcealed joy. Men, for some reason, always find car hunting an enjoyable pursuit. They may sulk and moan their way around the shopping mall on a Saturday afternoon before Christmas, but you stick a copy of
Auto Trader
in their hands and tell them to find something with less than sixty on the clock for under four grand and they’re in hog heaven.

“Ah right,” Ellie says. “Good luck with that.”

“Don’t buy a Mitsubishi,” Grant warns. “I’ve had two of them and neither even got as far as three hundred thousand kilometres.”

Three hundred thousand kilometres?

That’s how far it is to the moon isn’t it? Back home we’re lucky if the car gets to its first service without rusting into a heap by the side of the road.

“What would you suggest?” Jamie enquires.

“Get a Holden,” Grant tells him. “They’ll do you half a mil no problem.”

Half a million kilometres? Does this man think I’m commuting to Paris every day?

“I was kind of thinking of getting a ute,” Jamie adds. This is a new word he has picked up since we arrived here.
Ute
is short for utility vehicle—or in simple terms, a flatbed truck. Only not like the big old rusty things we’re used to. Out here they turn their utes into Day-Glo green monstrosities with lowered sports wheels and blacked-out windows.

“We’re not getting one of those,” I intone from over the last of my omelette. “I have to drive the bloody thing a lot more than you Jamie, and there’s no way I’m buying one of those clown cars.”

This makes Grant laugh his head off. Jamie sneers and gets up to make more coffee.

I knew this would be an issue. Until Jamie finds work, I will be the one using the car 90 percent of the time, so it really should be something I’m happy with. Jamie knows this on an intellectual level, but on the more visceral, emotional side of things he’s just a typical little boy and wants to buy something very fast, stupidly powerful, and epically noisy that will prove to the world he has a large penis. I’m all for bolstering his self-esteem, but not if it means potentially crashing the car if I sneeze, hit the accelerator involuntarily, or slam into the nearest gum tree.

The doorbell rings. It’s a rendition of “Waltzing Matilda” in a high-pitched chime. If there’s one thing Australians don’t appear to be worried about it’s coming across as too Australian.

“Morning all!” Brett says enthusiastically when Grant lets him in.

“Good on ya, Brett. How you going?” Grant asks, in an equally robust voice.

“Good-lookin’ day out there, Brett,” Ellie adds.

“Sure is!” Brett replies.

Have I pointed out it’s only just seven thirty in the morning on a Sunday?

How are these people so fucking
jovial
? My eyes are still crusted
with sleep dust, Jamie’s complexion can best be described as thousand-
wash grey, and even Poppy—who should be young and sprightly enough to be up there with her Australian hosts—is frowning and poking at her sludgy head while taking a long draught of warm milk from her sippy cup.

“Morning Newmans!” Brett shouts at us from across the lounge diner. “Ready to go car hunting, then?”

“Will anywhere be open?” Jamie asks incredulously.

“Oh, yeah, for sure. No point in hanging around on a day like today, eh?”

And right there’s the reason for all the early morning jocularity. These people live in a country where you actually
want
to get up early in the morning just because it’s so flaming beautiful outside. Sunday morning weather in the UK usually consists of drizzle and an overriding sense of disappointment, and can be dealt with only by the swift movement of a duvet over your head.

It takes the Newman family another half an hour to assemble themselves into a presentable state.

Brett whiles away the time with Grant and Ellie, talking about the vitally important matters of the day, the issues that Australia as a nation holds close to its heart, and the things that define their lives above all else. The Australian cricket team is three wickets up as it goes into the third test against the West Indies, while in other matters, the bastard cane toads have been sighted just outside Broome for the first time.

Brett almost seems disappointed when I say we’re ready to leave. Once an Aussie gets stuck into a conversation about something they’re passionate about, pulling them out of it makes yanking barnacles off the bottom of a boat seem like child’s play.

Grant and Ellie bid us farewell from the porch. I have to confess to a small shudder of pleasure as we get into Brett’s air-conditioned car and drive away from the decidedly non-air-conditioned house we’ve just endured a sticky night in. The air-con is set at maximum, thanks to the fact that it’s positively
baking
outside, even at eight o’clock.

“Is it always this hot?” I ask Brett.

“Nah. This is way up there, Laura. They’re saying we’ll hit forty degrees today.”

Forty degrees?
That’s a hundred in fahrenheit isn’t it? You can boil an egg in that can’t you?

“What are they saying it’ll drop to tonight?” Jamie asks quickly. I know what he’s thinking.

“Not much lower than ninety, mate,” Brett tells him.

Another night with the mosquitoes and grunting koalas in the kind of temperature that can kill off pensioners? I sink down into the car seat, close my eyes, and try to concentrate on the glorious cold air pumping from the dashboard vent in front of me.

We arrive at the car showroom. I say showroom, but it’s actually a parking lot the size of a football stadium with one small building at the back. The Australians definitely take their cue from their American cousins when it comes to selling used cars. A honking-great sign held up with thick scaffolding towers over the whole enterprise. B
USHY
’
S
M
OTORS:
T
HE CHEAPEST HIGH-QUALITY CARS IN
W
YNNUM
! it screams at the world in bright pink letters on a black background. I have to look away before it sets off a tension headache.

Row upon row of cars in varying states of repair are lined up in front of us as Brett pulls up to the kerb.

“Loads to choose from here, Newmans,” he says and grins.

I look out across the hundreds of cars, and then up at the scorching sun. This is likely to take all day.

“Woo-hoo!” Jamie exclaims and pumps his fist. The sight of so many potential automotive purchases has called to the small boy deep within him, and he’s jiggling on his seat with excitement.

Did I say all day? I possibly meant all month.

“I’ll just go and get some petrol while you guys have a look about,” Brett says.

“Okay,” I say in resignation and take in the look of barely contained glee on my husband’s face. There’s no getting around it, I’m just going to have to walk around a baking hot parking lot with two small children by my side for the next hour or so. At least I can shut Poppy up with sweets.

Brett roars away, leaving us by the side of the road. My eyelids have already started to sweat.

“Come on!” Jamie cries and beetles his way off between two large grey sedans like a man possessed.

Poppy gives me a look from under her broad floppy hat. “Daddy’s silly,” she says.

“You’re not wrong Pops,” I reply, watching him poke his head into the cabin of the nearest Day-Glo green ute. “Daddy’s very silly.”

The following thirty minutes can be summed up simply by my responses to Jamie’s suggested purchases:

“No, Jamie, it’s too large.”

“No, Jamie, it’s got two seats. Where’s Poppy going to sit?”

“No, Jamie, the wheels look like they should be on a tractor.”

“No, Jamie, it has flames down the side. I’m not driving anything with flames down the side.”

“No, Jamie, it has flames and skulls down the side…didn’t you hear what I said about the other one?”

“Yes, Jamie, it does look very sporty, but it’s also done over five hundred thousand kilometres and will probably fall apart the minute I apply the brakes.”

“No, Jamie, that’s a monster truck.”

“No, Jamie, that’s still the same monster truck.”

“Jamie, if you don’t shut up about the monster truck, I’m going to shove your head up the exhaust pipe.”

Then a miracle happens.

“What about this one?” he suggests.

I turn with the words
no, Jamie
ready to tumble forth from my lips—and bring myself up short.

The car is called a Magna and is a large, standard-looking white four-door. It shines cheerfully in the hot Queensland sun. It has no flames down the side, does not feature tyres bigger than Poppy, looks roomy inside, and—according to the notice on the windscreen—has only done a hundred thousand kilometres. It’s also inside the relatively modest budget the Worongabba Chocolate Company has allowed for the car’s purchase. It’s still a monstrously large contraption, but it’s by far and away the most sensible car Jamie has found thus far.

My husband suddenly looks crestfallen. “It’s a Mitsubishi,” he says dejectedly. “Grant said not to buy a Mitsubishi.”

“Grant also wears hemp clothes and enjoys Rummikub, Jamie. Let’s get the manager over here and have a chat.”

“Ah, the Mitso? That’s a nice motor. Only came in yesterday,” says Bushy the manager. Used car salesmen in the UK usually dress to impress. About the only people Bushy is likely to impress are surfers, students, and the homeless. “I’ll grab the keys, and you can fire her up.”

Jamie leaps into the car. “Look Laura, it’s got an MP3 connection in the stereo!”

Oh fantastic.

That’s that, then. It won’t matter if the car belches out black smoke and drives like a shopping cart, Jamie has spotted a piece of technology that makes him squeal like a little girl. If we don’t buy this car now, I’ll never hear the end of it.

For her part, Poppy has flopped onto the backseat, glad to be off her feet and out of the sun. The satisfied way in which she’s crashed out on the soft, springy seat suggests she’s happy with the choice her father has made as well. I sigh and await the return of Bushy with my new car keys.

“Here you go,” he says and hands them to Jamie through the window.

With an expectant smile on his face, Jamie inserts the key and turns it. What sounds like an entire pride of lions humping a grizzly bear breaks the relative peace and quiet of the parking lot. Jamie laughs. It’s such an honest and heartfelt show of genuine happiness that I find myself joining in despite myself.

“Why the hell is it so loud?” I holler at Bushy as Jamie guns the accelerator again.

“Sports exhaust!” he replies at the top of his voice.

“On a car like this?”

“Welcome to Australia!” Bushy says and waggles his eyebrows with a chuckle.

“Can we—”

Brruuummmm
.