The Coolabah Tree

By Norman Beck

Jock and Rachael rush to Mount Isa to identify their father tragically killed in a motor accident.
Mount Isa, in the heart of the Australian Outback, is the prime backdrop for the extraordinary and harrowing events that unfold.
People’s lives come together and fall apart while they confront the consequences of their hopes and dreams and struggle to find meaning.
There are stones tossed into the pond as the ripples and waves wash out, while the coolabah tree stands as the silent enduring guardian.
An intriguing and intricate narrative into relationships, leaving the reader to anxiously anticipate the characters’ fate through the thought-provoking events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781398417014

Book preview

Sea

About the Author

Norman Beck was born and lives in Melbourne, Australia. He has travelled extensively, living and working in the UK and throughout Asia. He is married with three adult children. He has a master’s degree from Monash University and is now retired and able to devote his time to writing full time. His other passions are golfing, cycling, travelling and long-distance walking in Europe.

The Coolabah Tree is his first novel, taking more than ten years to plan and write. He is currently working on a second novel as well as a book on walking the caminos in Spain and France.

Dedication

For my daughters, Amanda, Leonie and Eliza, who inspired me to unlock the door to this novel. And for my wonderful wife, Sue, who has been my bedrock.

Copyright Information ©

Norman Beck (2021)

The right of Norman Beck to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398417007 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398417014 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9781398427716 (Audiobook)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgement

First and foremost, I want to thank my wife, Sue, for her endless love and support over our lives and while this novel took shape. Without a caring soulmate with a critical eye, this book could not have been written.

To those who read early drafts and provided feedback: my sisters, Cherie Ashton and Sandra Semken, Heather Golden and the unerring friendship of John Andrews, I owe an immense debt of gratitude.

To my friends: Paul Curtin, Robert MacDonald and Mick Noonan, who unconsciously through our discussions made this story come to life.

Finally, to my wonderful family who believed in me and steadfastly encouraged me over the journey.

Author’s Note

Within any story, there are facts, truths, realities, illusions and ghosts, both past and present.

With my sister, I did travel to Mount Isa in 2002 to identify our father, who, as a pedestrian, was struck and died crossing a street in this central Queensland town.

This incident was the catalyst for the novel. Beyond this fact, the book is a work of fiction. Characters, events and specific places described in Mount Isa are a fabrication to try and find some truths.

If I have been at all successful, hopefully, the reader will understand the realities I am trying to describe.

Also, my desire is for the reader to bring their illusions and ghosts to intermingle with my own.

Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong

Under the shade of a coolabah tree,

And he sang as he watched and waited ’till his billy boiled,

You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me.

A B (Banjo) Paterson

*

Eucalyptus coolabah is a wide-spreading tree (often wider than tall) that reaches up to 20 metres in height. The bark is box-like, persistent, dark grey, thick and furrowed on the trunk and lower branches, but smooth pale grey up the top. The leaves are dull grey-green to bluish on both sides with a curved lance shape.

It is found widely throughout Australia.

Coolibah or coolabah, the name is aloanword from the Indigenous Australian Yuwaaliyaay word, gulabaa.

Atlas of Living Australia

*

Coolabah Tree:

A serene shaded place under a gum to sit, read, have a cuppa and dream. A place to think about life away from the world’s nonsense. If with family or friends, it’s a place where open, heartfelt conversations flow.

Harold Atchison

Part 1

Mount Isa

1. Night

It was Clare who answered the phone. She was fussing in the kitchen, looking at recipes while getting ready for a family lunch the coming Sunday. Clare never played it safe when it came to these gatherings. She preferred to experiment with the meals and was making a list of what she needed from the supermarket.

Jock slouched on the sofa and dozed in front of the television. It had been a bitter and exhausting day dealing with selections for staff redundancies. It wasn’t about who deserved to stay or go, just a numbers game at the Bank. Merge one group with another and cut. Jock thought it a cynical exercise, having been through it before. Was he just jaded or getting too old? The thought ran through his mind along with mulling over whether it was time to get out himself, put his hand up for a package. Financially, it made sense. As an excuse to relax, he had drunk half a bottle of red wine since dinner, without Clare’s help. Both Jock and Clare were avoiding going to bed in the oppressive February heat. They knew the temperature and humidity would remain high overnight.

The vague domestic noises and the drone of the late-night news voices were a background muddle. Jock’s work pressures churned in his mind as he felt his sweat and the stickiness of the leather couch through his shirt and on his legs. The news stories were a jumble of out-of-control bushfires in the hills, commuter delays, power blackouts and advice on how to stay cool in the heat.

Go to bed. Else you’ll feel drained in the morning, and no more wine! Clare admonished from the kitchen.

You won’t solve your work problems sitting there. They’ll be the same tomorrow. Get up fresh, Jock heard or imagined Clare call out.

I’m relaxing.

No, you’re not, you’re avoiding and don’t get drunk, Clare exaggerated. Jock knew she was right but remained on the sofa.

It was the worst of the weather; the second day in the high thirties and the forecast predicted no relief for another two days. And it was the worst of it at work. Just let me get back to the day-to-day issues, stuff the redundancies, he thought. Tomorrow I need to tell the team who gets the chop and then let’s get through the week. Okay, one has put their hand up, but the other three will feel gutted. Jock knew the team trusted him, and sure the four selected aren’t the most productive. They’ve had too many mediocre performance ratings so this will be fairest on the group overall. But what about the families. It will hit them hard even if they guess it’s coming and they’ve been loyal to the Bank. Some staff in the team will see it as just; for some a relief that it wasn’t them, for a few, there will be bitterness. Jock appreciated the team wouldn’t blame him, although morale had tanked knowing this was coming. He rationalised it would clear the air at least. But how do you build the teams and your own enthusiasm up again? His thoughts of work ran in a loop like the news reports.

Jock’s mind drifted, there won’t be any relief until the weather breaks with the drenching late afternoon thunderstorms. Like the redundancies, just let it break. The languid humidity made all thoughts and dreams claustrophobic. They formed and churned under an oppressive layer. On these nights, whatever you do is just an excuse to exhaust yourself, hoping to fall asleep quickly and not wake at three or four in a sweat, tossing the sheets back with broken surreal dreams. Jock always kept the sheet covering half his body; he felt too vulnerable otherwise in his nakedness. Jock and Clare had never bothered with air conditioning or ceiling fans. ‘One day,’ he kept saying, although they had lived in the house for over a quarter of a century. When the children were still at home, they had the worst of it, upstairs the trapped heat was an oven. They would come down and sleep on the couches, or when they were kids, and it wasn’t a school night, they would pitch a tent in the backyard.

It took only a couple of rings, and Clare answered quickly. Strange to get a call at ten. Perhaps it was the lateness, the sudden shift in tone in her voice, or just a vague premonition brought on by the oppressive night that caused Jock to stir, grope for the remote and turn off the television. Even before he was fully awake, scoffing the last of the wine in the glass, Clare was saying in a broken voice.

Come quick. There is a nurse on the phone who wants to speak to you. Jock jumped up without even asking what nurse, where, why. He didn’t think he just reacted to get to the phone.

Hello, Jock Atchison speaking, he said, composing his thoughts. He let it hang as a question.

Is your father Harold Atchison from Coolangatta on the Gold Coast? the nurse inquired. It was Jock’s first shock. Instinctively he presumed a female voice and didn’t expect the slow deeper sound of a male.

Yes, he is. Is there anything wrong? I believe he is still on vacation, in the Channel or Gulf country out from Mount Isa. Wrong time of the year, I thought. There was some historic train journey or something he wanted to go on. Black tie gala-night. I forget what he said, but he was over the moon looking forward to it. Jock ambled to clear the wine from his head.

I believe that’s right. I’m the night duty nurse at Mount Isa Hospital. Look, this is going to be a terrible shock; I’m sorry to inform you that your father has been in a serious car accident, the nurse said as calmly and as precisely as needed. He waited.

Okay, what happened, when, was my father hurt? Jock faltered, realising immediately the implications of what the nurse was saying.

I’m sorry I don’t have all the specific details. Your father was struck by a vehicle when crossing an intersection in the centre of town. I need to tell you he has traumatic head injuries. The doctors don’t believe he will survive the night. They’ve been working, via a hook-up, with a team of neurosurgeons in Brisbane. Initially, they placed your father in an induced coma. Unfortunately, they’ve determined keeping him on any life support will not help. They sent the scans through to Brisbane, and the neurosurgeons there concur. We are sorry, but there is fundamentally no brain activity and significant haemorrhaging. We have him comfortable. Regrettably, there is nothing more we can do.

Okay, I understand, Jock almost whispered. Hopefully, he’ll still be awake by the time I can get there tomorrow. Is it possible to fly him out to Townsville or Brisbane, maybe they can operate there?

I’m sorry, Mister Atchison, that’s not practical. As I said, the doctors placed him in a coma and now consider turning off all life support functions the only option. The team here and in Brisbane do not feel he can survive more than a couple of hours even with respirators and other ICU aids. Now in your father’s condition, the understanding is hearing is the last of the senses to go, the nurse continued not giving Jock any time to interrupt.

Would you like to say any last words to your father? I can put the phone up to his ear and leave you to speak privately.

Yes, of course, please. As the full realisation struck Jock. There was no thought of questioning the authenticity of the phone call or what the nurse was saying. There are shocks too sudden and utterly real. Clare hovered close by with tears trickling down her face as she sensed the gravity of the conversation. Her eyes just reading Jock with his head bowed, concentrating on the call.

It’s Dad. He’s been in a serious accident, Jock said, turning to Clare.

I know. Clare whispered.

Okay, I’m putting the phone up to your father’s ear. I’ll leave the room and will come back in five minutes. If you haven’t finished saying what you feel is necessary, I’ll leave again. Please take as long as you need.

Jock paused for what seemed an eternity; he felt dead himself, as he heard the phone put in position. He tried to clear his thoughts and prepare to say something coherent, meaningful that would sound true.

Hi, Dad, I love you. We all do. It’s not good; I know you know that. Please don’t be in any pain. You are a fantastic father. I know how much you love us. It isn’t fair with so much more for you to do in your life. Remember when Shane and I went to see Davy Crocket at the movie matinee and we couldn’t get in. You took us back that night. We had Dixie cup ice creams and Jaffa chocolate balls, ha what a treat. When we went alone on Saturday afternoons out of the shilling, we would have three pence left. We couldn’t afford an ice cream just lollies, aniseed balls, or liquorice blocks most likely. Also, remember when you took me fishing. I caught a flathead, dropped it in the bottom of the boat and the flapping thing tangled all the line. It was too small, a tiddler, and we had to toss it back. You spent the rest of the time in the rocking boat trying to unravel the line. Jock kept the monotone up, searching back for the happy memories.

Dad, don’t give up hope. If you can hear me, I guess you may have heard what the doctors and the nurses are saying. You tried to be a good father and a wonderful grandfather. I know how carefully you cared for Mum when she was ill and how lonely you were without her. Our kids adore you. Playing in your pool, how excited they always were to visit. I will be up there as soon as I can tomorrow, just hang on. We all love you. Be in peace. Jock didn’t know what else to say. He sensed he had said it all or enough. He turned to Clare cupping his hand over the mouthpiece and asked if that was okay. Clare just looked at him and nodded.

Jock, you said what you needed to say.

The night nurse came back on the line asking whether Jock wanted more time. Jock answered no he was complete. The night nurse continued consoling.

I don’t know; I think your father looks calmer. I’m not sure, but they look like tears in the corner of his eyes.

Thank you for caring. I’ll get the first flight up to do whatever. If Dad doesn’t make it, I presume someone needs to identify the body. I’m guessing it’s still a formality. Have you contacted others in the family, or should I?

No, we’ve got through to your sisters, one is waiting on the other line to speak to your father. But we can’t get your brother Shane.

Getting him may be difficult, we’ll try in the morning. Look, thank you for what you have done. I’m extremely grateful that you rang and let me speak. I do appreciate it. I know my sisters will be in shock, but they will be very grateful as well.

It’s okay, the least I could do. Strange, I feel these moments truly help everyone. There is a direct flight out of Brisbane around ten if you can make it, you’ll be here a little after midday.

Thanks, I’ll try and catch it if there’s a seat. Jock hung up.

To Clare, Jock looked drained, seeing him older, thinner and slightly stooped as he turned and hugged her tightly. He didn’t say a word and had that distant tense gaze in his eyes, holding in what he was thinking. Any haziness from the heat and red wine had left on the first words from the nurse, though Jock felt numb. He wasn’t sure what he sensed beyond the shock. Were his feelings of loss, relief, or freedom? He searched, and if asked, he couldn’t explain. The emotions were too complicated though he understood it wasn’t grief.

Clare knew Jock’s feelings intrinsically after thirty-five years of marriage and knew now wasn’t the time to say anything while she felt a distance in his embrace. She pushed back slightly and took over. It was her role, the one she accepted and felt comfortable with, knowing she was helping, the executive assistant either at work, around the home, or for the family.

Go to bed, take the mobile, speak to your sisters, I’ll organise flights.

Better make the stay for two nights just in case. I can extend it if need be.

After missed calls and engaged lines, Jock spoke to both his sisters. Little Sis, Rachael, insisted on joining Jock. Her husband would drive her to catch the same connecting flight out of Brisbane. Big Sis had commitments and couldn’t leave. Besides, it didn’t make sense for everyone to go. She would stay and take over informing the broader family and friends. Both had spoken to their father also. None of them wanted to discuss what each had said. The calls between them were perfunctory, about needed plans. Out of shock and disbelief there was little emotion.

It’s better if we don’t let too many know until we call from the hospital, Jock suggested.

He knew his sisters would follow his lead. Jock couldn’t reach his older brother, Shane, off the grid again, so he left messages and a text. As a way of saying, enough, Jock put the phone on silent even though he knew it would vibrate on the bedside table if someone tried to ring. Clare did bring the home phone in for Jock to answer a call from a Senior Constable Donaldson, who officially informed him of his father’s accident and death. They arranged to meet at Mount Isa hospital the next day, around two.

After finishing with the bookings, Clare came into the bedroom. Jock was lying on his back, naked with only the top sheet covering him from the waist down. His arms were crossed over his chest while he stared at the ceiling. The light from the full moon seeped into the humid stillness, and she could make out the concentrated strain on his face. To relieve his tension, she decided to make light of it.

You look like death itself the way you’re lying there.

Jock gave a slight smile.

Yep. I’m practising.

Well, don’t over-train, okay, she quipped as she undressed and tossed her clothes on the dressing chair.

I have you on the ten-thirty flight out of Brisbane and a seven-thirty out of here. It’s tight, but you’ll make it. We managed to get you the seat next to Rachael, just meet her in the Brisbane flight lounge. We’ll need to leave home at six. Try and get some sleep.

I can sleep on the flights, Jock answered wearily.

Clare also naked got into bed and laid on her back. She pulled the sheet further up over the two of them. They moved to hold hands under the cover, and Jock sighed. He gave a gentle squeeze of her hand to let her know he was okay.

Do you know I didn’t even get his name, Jock opened.

Who, the nurse?

Yeah, the nurse. Life is strange; you think there is some order that it won’t change. You get into a routine; you go about living, just dealing with the everyday issues. Not giving any thought to how suddenly it can change. Sure, the routine can be crap and stressful, most is just drudge, but we all plan to make it enjoyable and see it as fulfilling. We navigate to avoid the worst as best we can. It’s the random things that either irritate or shock us out of our complacency; a flat tyre, a pulled muscle so we can’t exercise, illness, death. We want life to be neat, ordered, nice, comfortable, and most importantly safe. Underneath it isn’t like that. We innately know this, and we don’t want to live in fear, thinking about what might happen. Well, at least I try not to think of those things, Jock was musing.

I’m fascinated by news stories about people charged for an offence; assault, murder, embezzlement to pay for a gambling habit, corruption, or whatever. How these tragedies play out in their lives and the family and friends that surround them. Say a mass shooting and how that ripples out and touches so many. They’re stones thrown into the pond. It’s not just death, maybe a high-profile person disgraced in the public eye and sent to prison. It could be anything. How lives can turn abruptly. How the ripples wash out.

Wasn’t that a saying from your mum? Be careful of the stones you throw into the pond because you never know the ripples, Clare added, understanding what Jock meant.

And luck plays a huge part. Old doctor Morris, he would be long dead now. He always reminded my mother when we went for a check-up, how he didn’t think I would survive more than two hours; breech birth, the cord around my neck, or something. I don’t think Mum even knew the full story. He only told her a few days after my birth when he was certain I’d live. Anytime I saw him, I would get a sweet. Even as a young kid, I could tell he liked me or maybe just professional pride in that I survived. Jock paused, Clare knew he wanted to keep talking and wasn’t ready for sleep.

I know your family didn’t go to him. His surgery was on top of the hill going toward Cheltenham. The rooms were pale cream and green with green linoleum like they had in hospitals in those days. Originally it was one of the old farm homesteads before they built the rail line turning Cheltenham into a suburb. It had lofty ceilings, you felt a chill in the solid masonry and an echo every time someone walked or spoke. But it was the smell I remember most. Ether or a strange antiseptic, its scent was sweet but not floral. It must have been what they used in those days to sterilise things. Doctor Morris always looked like he was rushing. Like the old comic Groucho Marx, he walked bent forward at the hips as if he would fall over if he didn’t keep moving. Even in his rooms, he’d lean on a putter, using it as a cane. You would be called in to his room and would need to stop at the door while he finished putting golf balls into a tin bucket. It was always the same; the chromed, black tubed, cold stethoscope on the chest, the wooden paddle on the tongue plus the chromed light that looked like a small funnel stuck in the ear. At the end of the consultation, you usually would get a course of penicillin or some foul-tasting medicine. Mumps, chickenpox, measles all those childhood diseases, at least there was a polio vaccine. I expect all kids got the same treatment. The rooms have been converted back into a beautiful home again with spacious gardens all around, hydrangeas, gardenias and hibiscus. There are wonderful weeping cherry and fruit trees in the lawns, Jock said reminiscing of his childhood.

Old doctor Morris was one of the last to do home visits. Of course, I didn’t know him that well; I was a kid, and he was our doctor back when they were revered. The ultimate authority, never to be questioned. He seemed a gentle, happy old man. Once at school, when I cut myself on the root of a tree, he stitched up the wound. I still have the scar on my leg.

All those people who came to the street are gone now. First, it was the nightman when they put in the sewer; nobody missed him. Then they sealed the streets, and the baker stopped delivering the bread. Others in the street got it delivered, it must have cost more because we never did. Then the milkman stopped though I was older, maybe fourteen. I used to get up at five to help him. Eventually, the paperboy stopped. Now, all we have is a phantom who drives around in his car. The newspapers are bound in cling wrap that he tosses out of his window. There must be a skill in it getting them over the roof. I’m not even sure you can get a locum if you’re sick. Kids don’t play in the street anymore, only cars speed up and down. No, that life has gone, or I’ve just got old. Now another part of our life has gone. All our parents; Dad was the last.

I’m fifty-eight with let’s say thirty, hopefully, forty more years left to go. Who knows? That’s assuming a car doesn’t run me down. Against two hours, it’s been a lucky innings. Mum would always say Jock is the lucky one; he will always do well and land on his feet. As if I had a star following me in life. Others got Pisces or Sagittarius, where I got Luck. But I’ve believed it. I could never understand why she said it apart from me surviving more than the two hours. Perhaps she was grateful I didn’t die like the first one. When she said those words, there was a sense of regret or sadness to them, as if she never had the good fortune in life, or was it just me feeling, what? Guilt? It was like I didn’t deserve to get it all. I suppose you could say I’ve become successful and of course I’ve worked hard and I’m grateful for it all. However, it’s been mainly luck and a belief I should work hard to live up to the chance I was blessed with. I’ve always detested the view some people our age have: ‘We deserve everything we’ve got, we’ve worked hard all our lives for it, others haven’t.’ That attitude of superior entitlement that comes from the fear of losing what they have. What about the person who gets cancer or the disabled who needs to struggle down the street every day in some wretchedly poor city to beg? No, most work extremely hard with their struggles, and they don’t deserve the hand they’ve been dealt, any more than I deserve the luck I was handed. It is all primarily luck, and you need to be grateful. That is the word that has followed me, ‘luck’. I’m rambling, I know. Jock stopped talking, thinking how grateful he was for his life.

And the name that stuck, Jock, they always thought you’d be the runt that’s what your mum said and why you got Jock for a jockey. Your mum would say you got a late growth spurt and shot up into a string bean, not a six-footer but neither the jockey. Both felt the tension going as Jock mused over the past. Neither saw it as odd that the conversation was not about Jock’s father or the accident.

Yes, what we said before. The saying from your mum. She was right about thinking of consequences. I always remember it; ‘throw a stone into a pond and you never know where the ripples will wash.’ Let’s sleep, we need to be up early. It’s just us now, Clare said softly.

Sure. Jock continued to stare at the ceiling as Clare turned on her side.

Jock thought about his parents and knew he could have said more on the phone to his father, but the words failed. How do you express all your feelings, the words you want to say, and the words that should be spoken in those five minutes to a dead person? How do you sum up a life together beyond banalities? No one prepares you for this. Some words should be said sooner, whispered over a lifetime. Not at the end with a phone held up to an ear. These were the words never spoken between the two of them. Jock wondered what others would say in this situation. He pondered over what his children would say to him if it was him lying there, dead. Jock wasn’t sure of the answers.

He wasn’t ashamed of his thoughts. He knew now wasn’t the time to tell Clare that he didn’t feel the same pain he had felt when his mother died. The loss, the empty pit, beyond a vacancy that he knew was; forever lost love.

2. Harold

Harold Atchison, lying in Emergency, had clouded and scattered thoughts. They swirled in the fog and, with a jolt, suddenly cleared. I need to get to the hotel, for the end of tour meal, I’m late, a good steak, a beer, then visit the mine, the earthen heat. Harold Atchison slurred his remembering of those last moments while the jagged thoughts kept recurring, building on each other. He knew he was dying or was already dead. Nothing existed to fight it, no will, none of the old stubbornness and determination. Gone were the feelings of love and regret. Nothing but scattered static of random memories. He felt no fear, only a vacant peace outside of his senses, beyond acceptance. He was floating away from feelings as his thoughts returned to Betty, his wife.

A spark, he remembered driving the family to the top of Arthurs Seat one afternoon after a day at Dromana Beach. From the outlook, he pointed back along the curve of the bay to where their house stood, forty kilometres or more. The children delighted and exhausted by the day stood amazed at the distance. Betty was pouring tea from a thermos. Those times of innocence when the children were young and carefree were what made the struggles worthwhile and kept us going.

Another flicker and he was struggling up the bold crags of Arthurs Seat out of Edinburgh. Harold had retired, and they were on their grand European trip. In the gentle mizzle thinking how lucky and blessed Betty and he were; for what? Their