The Blue Mountains slide by my window. Great orange and blond sandstone cuttings rise up and down as I go by. In between, my view is filled with temperate eucalyptus forests, gray-greens broken by vivid wattle and banksia flowers and the deep blues of nameless waterways.
I’m sitting in the crowded economy section of the XPT service going between Sydney, where I live, and my hometown of Canberra. It's the start of the Christmas holidays and every seat in the car is occupied. Next to me is a wheezy widowed grandmother, being slowly rocked to sleep by the train’s movement. Two blue rinsed ladies sit behind us, tittering and complaining about the heat and air conditioning. Four noisy teenage boys sit in front of us. They’ve turned their seats around to face each other. They’re all wearing clothes and expressions filled with pretend attitude, and are drinking beer and making crude jokes. Normally, they wouldn’t get away with this behaviour, but they’re forgiven because apparently it is the season to be jolly.
Across the aisle sit two pretty girls, who are encouraging the boys by ignoring them. The boys' switch back and forth between seats like magpies on power lines, taking turns eyeballing the girls as if they are roadkill. One of the girls is a blond, the other a redhead.
For the first ten minutes of the journey, I surreptitiously looked at the redhead while making idle chatter with the woman next to me. My paternal grandmother was a redhead. In some complex Oedipal way, I’ve always had a strong attraction to them. I looked until she caught me. I smiled at her, hoping for some contact, but she turned and whispered to her companion. The blond leaned forward to get a good look at me. She screwed up her nose and whispered something to the redhead. They both laughed. I felt a flush of embarrassment and turned my concentration to looking out the window.
Breaking away from this reminiscence, I notice the landscape has changed. Gone are the valleys and peaks of the Blue Mountains passage. Instead there are vast paddocks of tinder-dry grass, broken by fence lines and the occasional stand of wind-barrier conifers. Green spots of growth around dams and ribbons of green alongside creeks and rivers glisten healthily. The riverbeds remind me of giant joins in a cosmic jigsaw puzzle. There’s an indefinable magic to the countryside, which fills me with a dizzy sensation. My stomach feels alive with butterflies and my eyes pull in and out of focus, like I’ve just walked out of a dark room into bright sunlight. It feels like Christmas did when I was a child.
I let my imagination take over, filling my head with greeting card impressions of Christmas in the Northern Hemisphere. I see great pines, drooping under the weight of silver and gold-mirrored decorations and blinking with hundreds of coloured lights. The base of the tree is hidden behind a wall of brightly wrapped presents, richly coloured with green and red paper and bound in expensive purple and white ribbons, which trail to the floor. I see families gathered around tables crowded with honey hued turkey, hams and roasts, aromatic trimmings, roasted vegetables and puddings, filling their plates with more food than they can eat. After, the adults drink port and rum toddies, burping tastes of the meal into the backs of their hands while they catch up. Children stare out the window at white landscapes, wishing they could be outside playing.
Some things are the same on both sides of the world. The adults long for childhood, so they can play games and laugh without recrimination. The children long to be grown-ups so they can drink the things that make the adults slur their words and giggle like teenagers.
I recall my family celebrations as a child. Christmas Day was unbridled noise and barely contained hysteria. We’d get up very early, begging and pleading Mum and Dad out of bed because we couldn’t open any presents until they were up. We’d make them cups of badly brewed tea and drag them out into the living room. The tree would be crowded with amateurly wrapped presents, gifts from the five children to each other and our parents. Mum’s presents were always beautifully wrapped, the paper swirling with motifs like Santa on his sleigh pulled by kangaroos or traditional green and red striped paper with gold trimming. Every present had little cards with our names on them. She would wrap all our presents except hers from Dad. He would always get her a special card as well, usually with a rose on the front and a sentimental message inside. It was his words she valued most, though. He’d thank her for another wonderful year together and tell her how much he still loved her. I still feel a pang inside when I remember the look she’d give him as she read the card.
As adults, my family gets together for lunch. My brothers and sisters have families of their own now, so our early morning ritual is likely repeated in their homes by my nephews and nieces. Mum still spends the previous day or two preparing roasts and trifles. The ‘formal’ dining room is set up, with a red and green tablecloth, the same one every year, the good silverware, and bon-bons separating each setting. We’d sit down, trading good-natured insults across the top of an incredible amount of food.
The ritual would start when Dad sits at the head of the table and asks, “Who said grace last year?” We all look at each other, trying to figure out who it had been. Usually, my brother James would jump in and say ‘I did,’ although he hadn’t. Dad would then nominate someone to say it and the table would go quiet.
‘Bless us, Lord, and these, your gifts, which we are about to receive, through Christ, Our Lord, Amen.’ Everybody says ‘Amen’ together. It’s our only existing concession to the religious nature of the holidays. The meal then gets under way, the noise of cracking bon-bons and laughter at silly party favours and worn out jokes filling the house until everyone has their mouths full, paper crowns rustling from the wind of a ceiling fan above our heads. A tradition of tossing empty bon-bon wrappers and used paper napkins into said fan starts as soon as the main course is finished. We all duck and dodge paper missiles, laughing like children, even Mum and Dad.
I let the train motion lull me to sleep with these memories. My head is pressed against the window, the noise of the train buzzing through my skull and down my spine. I wake just before arriving in Canberra. The old lady beside me is asleep, dribbling a little out of the side of her mouth and gently snoring. As the train arrives at the Kingston depot, she wakes up and for a few moments looks disorientated. She wipes her mouth with a delicate hanky she has dug out of her handbag. I excuse myself past her, wish her all the best and grab my bag and guitar case from the storage area. As train door opens, I charge off through the station, out into the Canberra heat. I know there probably won’t be any taxis at the rank, so I want to be first in line because I’m impatient to get home. Fortunately, there is a cab waiting. As I walk across to the rank, the heat makes it hard for me to breathe properly and my throat hurts when I swallow. I pull open the door to a waiting cab, and, in contrast, the conditioned coolness of its interior gives me goosebumps and the air chills my sore throat and lungs.
I tell the cabby where I’m going and as we near the CBD, I look out the window for any subtle changes to the landscape of my hometown. There are none but I wasn’t really expecting any. Canberra changes so slowly it's hard to notice. At this time of the year can be quite depressing in its drabness. Dry, tired trees line the roads, alongside gray government buildings and black carparks. At a distance, rising heat distorts the city view, which makes it look almost attractive. As we get closer, it only looks hot.
The cabby asks if I’m from Canberra and I say yes. He asks what I do for a living. I say I’m a musician. It’s not really the truth, but it’s close enough. I play guitar and write songs, mostly for myself. I’ve given up thinking I can make a living from music, but I don’t want anyone else to know this just yet. I just don’t have the time for people to feel sorry for me. I want to sound exotic, so I invent a bit of a story to back up it up.
‘I’ve just finished an EP with the band. We’re hoping to get a distribution deal, but it’s hard at the moment because everybody is on holidays.’ He nods as if he understands. I elaborate, telling him that we’ve got a number of gigs lined up and ‘people’ interested in us.
‘What’s the band called?’ When I give him a name, he says, ‘I’ve heard of you guys,’ then names a few different venues where he thinks he might have seen us. I tell him we’ve never played those venues. I know he’s lying because he’s an amateur and his face gives him away.
To cover his lie, he becomes animated and he explains he used to be a drummer. I look at his fingers as they clench the steering wheel. They are stubby pieces of flesh and bone, stained with nicotine and grease. He starts tapping along to a cheesy Christmas rock song on the radio, as if to prove he can keep a beat. I look at his face. It’s marked more by hard drinking than creative pursuits.
‘Why did you quit playing?’ I look at his profile.
‘We’ve all got to grow up sometime,' he replies. He sounds jealous of my life. I ask him how old he is and he turns out to be five years younger than I am.
‘I guess I’ll never grow up if it means never playing again.’ I watch him think about my reply. I’m sure he thinks I’ve insulted him in some way. His brow furrows as he concentrates on the road. He is putty in my hands. I can shape any past or future for myself and he‘ll believe me. I tell him I’m twenty-four. He slowly nods. I know he’s secretly thinking I have a lot to learn. I look out the window and we ride in uncomfortable silence to my parent's house. I pay the fare and wish him a merry Christmas. He doesn’t reply.
Dad’s dog Betty is barking and jumping around spastically behind the back fence. She is a blue heeler cross. I don’t know what she’s crossed with but she reminds me of one a horror movie demon dog. She is solid as rock and very quick. She could have been a killer. Instead she was pressed into service as my folks alarm system and she’s been spoilt rotten ever since. A few months ago, someone jumped the back fence and took some things from Dad’s shed. Betty slept through the whole incident. She hasn’t a gram of violence in her. As I go through the gate and around to the back verandah, she sniffs my bag and guitar case, identifies me and wags her tail so hard her whole body moves.
I look at the backyard as I head to the door. It’s freshly mowed, with clippings raked into neat piles ready for Dad to pick up with his wheelbarrow. I open the backdoor and the smell of Mum’s plum pudding jumps me. Every year, Mum makes a "plum duff", as she calls them. She wraps the mixture in linen and boils it on a big pot on the stove. Then she hangs it over the laundry tub. A beautiful sweet scent fills the house and doesn’t go away until well after the pudding has been eaten. This is the smell of Christmas for me. This and bushfires.
My parents are sitting at the breakfast bar. Dad looks hot from mowing and is sitting in front of a ham and tomato sandwich and a cup of black tea. There’s a mark across his forehead from his hat and beads of sweat are running down the side of his balding head. He’s wearing a ratty old singlet Mum periodically threatens to throw out but never does. Mum is sitting next to him, with a similar sandwich and a cup of white tea. She’s dyed her hair recently. I can tell because there are stains around the fringe of her hairline. They both smile as I walk into the kitchen. They are still very much in love with each other. I envy them. They will probably die within six months of each other.
I go around to them. Dad stands and sticks out his hand. I take it and pull him to me for a hug. He smells of sweat and soap and honest work. He asks if I’ve lost weight. I squeeze him harder before I let him go but don’t answer his question. I just raise my eyebrows at him. Mum is still sitting down. I hug her from behind, leaning around to kiss her cheek. She asks how the trip was and I shrug and tell her it was fine. She asks if I’m hungry and, although I’m not, I say yes. She starts to get up, saying she'll make me a sandwich too. She likes doing these things because it’s her way of saying she loves me. I let her fuss over the sandwich, asking for extra things just to show her I appreciate what she’s doing.
Later, Dad and I go into the backyard. He shows me a new garden bed he’s put in, which is crowded with lettuce and radish plants, and with neat rows of beans and sweet peas. It lines up along side two other beds full of pumpkin, spinach, corn, cabbage and silverbeet. All three are covered with fine cheesecloth, to keep out birds and moths. It makes me think of snow again. I shiver in the heat. I help pick up the grass cuttings and we put them on top of the worm farm he has in a glasshouse in the back corner of the yard. When he lifts the rubber mat covering them, the dirt comes to life with juicy, fat, pink earthworms. He reaches into them, pulling out a handful. His hand looks like a medusa’s head, writhing and wriggling with life. He tells me he can make good money from these worms as he waves his hand in my face. I smile, make pleasantly agreeable noises and feel his contentment surround me. He puts his dirty hand on my shoulder as we walk back outside.
Mum calls from the back door. ‘Would you boys like a beer?’ Dad looks at me and I nod. Without replying, we head down to the house. Mum brings out a couple of stubbies and puts them on the barbecue table. The bottles sweat and look refreshing. I go inside and grab my tobacco and lighter. Dad has already opened his beer and takes a big swallow as I sit down opposite him. I take out a paper and start rolling a cigarette. I like this ritual because it’s time consuming and means I don’t smoke as much.
Dad watches me as I roll. ‘How long have you been doing that?’
‘A little while. It’s a lot cheaper than tailor-mades.’ He nods, knowing I’m only justifying it to myself.
‘It reminds me of my Dad,’ he says. ‘He used to roll his own as well.’ I look up as he speaks and I can see him, as a child, watching his father as he goes through a similar ritual. Dad rarely speaks of his father. I often wonder why. Dad continues, ‘I used to try and roll them for him but I never could get the hang of it.’ I feel him watching my hands as I finish rolling.
‘Why don’t you talk about him much, Dad?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve got other things to talk about, I guess.’ Dad looks through me at some past regrets. He takes another long swig on his beer. ‘You know those things killed him, don’t you?’ He nods at the cigarette in my hand.
‘No, I didn’t,’ I reply. I look down at the cigarette, wondering what makes me smoke. I decide I still enjoy it. ‘What did he die from?’
‘Cancer. Lung cancer.’ I can tell Dad really doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. I look away at the clouds as he swallows down more beer. I hear his chair scrape on the tiles as he gets up.
‘Do you want another?’ I look up and he waves his empty bottle at me. I look down at mine. The label has started to peel back from moisture. I haven’t had a sip yet. I pick it up and drain almost half of it. The beer hurts as it goes down. I swallow and nod my head. Dad walks inside. I hear the fridge open and close and then I hear Mum ask him something. I put the cigarette into my pouch, unsmoked. I haven’t told anyone yet, but I think that Dad and his retired policeman instincts have a feeling about something.
He comes back out, Mum trailing along behind with a worried look on her face. This is a legacy of raising five children. The only emotions I've been able to read in her face over the years are anger, worry and love. And worry has been her staple. I would love to be able to say something, anything to make her worried look disappear. But I'd have to lie and she would know. Dad sensed something and he’s told Mum. All my plans on how to tell them dissolve. A great lump of emotion explodes in my chest. If I were standing, I probably would have fainted. As it is, I try to smile at them. I fail miserably.
Dad sits next to me. ‘What’s wrong?’ I open my mouth to tell him, surprising myself when I let out a great sob. He puts his arm around me, squeezing my shoulder as I cry. He gives me a handkerchief and I wipe my eyes, still surprised by my emotion. My parents have always brought out the severest emotional reactions in me. It’s probably because they’ve always provided completely unconditional support and love thus reducing every emotion to its basest form.
Mum is sitting opposite me. I want to be strong and tell her I'll be all right, but anything I say from now on will only cause her more worry. This thought encourages a fresh bout of tears, despite my resolve to remain calm. Mum goes out in sympathy. I reach across the table, take her hand in mine and quietly say, "It's not as though I'm dying." Damn, first lie. I try to amend the lie. "I mean cancer treatment these days is leaps and bounds ahead of what it used to be." Mum questions me with a look. "I've been having some pain in my chest and it turns out I've got a few spots on my lungs. I had a biopsy a week or so ago and the results aren't very good." The results were actually terrible, but they didn't need to know the gory details. "I start chemotherapy early in the New Year and my doctor is hoping to catch it in time." Mum turned white. Dad is looking away in the distance.
I look down at the cigarette in my hand. Now would probably not be a good time to light it up, but I do anyway. I draw back on it, which brings on a typical coughing fit, considering it's my first for the day. Dad suddenly stands up, causing his chair to tip over and slap the concrete. I raise both my hands, trying to tell them to stay calm. Dad turns angry. "Look at what those bloody things have done to you, boy. And you're still bloody smoking them." Dad only calls me 'boy' when he's really angry and concerned. Yet they have to know the truth and only I can tell them. It's probably very hard to accept that there is a chance you might outlive your own child.
"Listen to me, both of you. Smoking might have kick-started something in my genes either of you passed to me. Mum, your parents both died of cancer-related illnesses. Dad, your father died of cancer. I mean all of us kids have a bloody good chance of contracting some sort of cancer. So don't start blaming one particular thing, okay?"
“It's just not right, matey. If you’ve got this, this disease in you, then those bloody things,” he points to the burning cigarette in my hand, “are only going to make you worse.”
I get up from the table and walk to the verandah’s edge. I lean against the railing and draw on the cigarette. This time I don’t cough. “Dad, you have to understand, the damage is done. Nothing is going to make it any worse than it already is and if I go out it will be because of what of already done to myself, not what I’m doing now.” I try not to sound too resigned to my fate, but a sudden feeling in me makes me realise I’m probably kidding myself. I try to make light of this. “Besides, you only live once, so I may as well enjoy my time doing the things I want to do.”
Dad slumps back in his chair, tears running down his face. He’s trying to forgive his past by changing my future. I know it’s too late. Lung cancer - I wonder if it’s the only thing I have in common with my Grandfather?