respite

I walk in the door from the airport close to one in the morning. The dog and cat caper round, the dog hungry for a late dinner. I unpack my Brisbane bags, write an angry email to someone wanting to pull an article in the newsletter I sent off on Sunday, get to sleep close to three.

I wake at five thirty, start thinking about the day ahead; the main event is getting me to Beechworth. But before the drive I have calls to make, housework to do, anything to shrug off the past two days in Brisbane. My first load of washing is whirling round just after six.

I call my father. He usually picks up because my mother is in the garden; at this hour she’s still asleep. I ask about his health. “Not bad for an old feller.” It’s taken a long time to admit to being old. He wouldn’t do it at 78, but at 87 he’s no longer in denial.

Despite being not bad, he says he’s got a busted knee, a broken rib. The second fall, the rib, gets him to the doctor. Finally the knee, done two weeks ago, gets looked at. I encourage him to get an OT from the local community health service to come talk to him about falls. He says they’re not falls, but trips, not about dizziness or balance, but poor eyesight—he can’t see changes of level.

I exasperate, tell him a fall is a fall is a fall, regardless of cause. I get stern too, tell him not to be pig-headed as we blokes can be about our health. I don’t cut much ice.

Robert and I have been playing phone tag. He and Natalie own my good woman’s and my new house till 12 December. I call again, leave another message. He calls half an hour later and we try to find a date to meet to talk about their continued tenancy while they build next door, and for us to come and measure rooms, gaps, heights.

I hop on a local bus to the car hire place, return in a silver Tiida, transfer my boxes from the Jazz. I peg out a second load of washing, cut up and bin branches cut off the carport roof the other day, haul garbage bins up to the roadside. The dog waits for a walk he’s not going to get. The cat pings around the garden, shoots up trees.

Just after one I’m on the road. The car’s been in the sun. I roll down the windows, stick Paul Kelly’s greatest in the CD player, crank up the volume. Victoria is still as green as five bastards, mid-week traffic sparse. My mood heads north along with Paul and the Tiida. I gun the vehicle along the twisty Merton-Euroa Road over the Strathbogies.

The freeway is less fun, not so scenic. I sing with Cher, arrive Beechworth just before five, pootle round town to find my accommodation; I forget to get the street name. It’s a century-old priory, polished staircases, mysterious passages. I’m in a miner’s cottage out the back, a world away from the Bermuda Triangle of the Beenleigh Yatala Motor Inn.

Rock on.