As we are still short-handed at the hostel, I've been doing the meals on wheels run some days. Naturally, because it's Meekatharra, it's not like any meals on wheels you may have encountered in the city. It's more like TimeSavers On Wheels. I drive a tiny white van; I'm sure it's exactly what Alexander McCall had in mind when he wrote the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency books.
It turns out Raelene's backup staffing plan is to go to the Ministry of Justice office and, like the good old days of Australian colonial history, round up a few female convicts who need to "do their hours" (local term for community service). Seeing as how you barely even get a slap on the wrist here for setting fire to cars & trees, I assume that people doing community service have done something serious, like axe murdering their entire extended family or eating a grandparent. So my delivery companion is Maxine, because she knows where everyone lives (god forbid anyone should provide a written list of names & addresses for the deliveries, it's things like "Yer just take it to Wingo's place, round the corner from Pop's, no not Pop Wingo, his place is the third house on the left from Darla's, but he might be at Ron's so check there first").
Maxine's arms are lined from wrist to elbow with rows and rows of deep self-harm scars; it's so sad to look at. But she's been able to share a joke or two with me and occasionally offers a smile. She is allowed to see her kids once every three months; one is a baby, the oldest is about six. God knows what horrendous story lies behind it all. She shyly waves off the good-natured teasing she gets from the aboriginal community as we drive around. "Are they teasing you about doing your community hours?" I ask. "Yer," she says with a little smile. She tells me who's related to who as we drive around. The aboriginal houses are slum pits, but people are friendly enough if I initiate a wave or a hello.
Everyone knows our little van and waves as we blunder around town trying to locate the people we are delivering to, taking short cuts through washed out back laneways, sweat pouring down our faces because the air conditioner doesn't work. In addition to meals, we also deliver monthly medication packs; our clients are pretty much an equal mix of aboriginal and white people, mostly elderly but a couple of younger ones who are ill or disabled. One of my favourites is old Ron, who lives in a tiny open lean-to in his beautiful lush back garden, surrounded by wisteria and bougainvillea vines. There's just enough room for his bed, side table and telly in his jungle cave. Today I heard him call out "Oi! Me warshin!" from among the vines - turns out we also provide a laundry service.
Then there's old Mabel, a tough stringy old thing - I drop her off at the shops, then go round an hour later to take her & her groceries home again. She has her husband's name, Don Somethingorother, tattooed really badly on the inside of her left forearm - it looks like someone drunk scrawled it on with a big texta.
Each day we keep an eye out for Maxine's little blue car. It appears to have a busy life of its own, appearing in odd places around town independently of Maxine. Today it was bogged in an empty lot. Last week it looked like it was roosting among some peppercorn trees at one of the Wingo family houses; sometimes it's just snoozing at the side of the road. Maxine doesn't know how it gets around and just laughs when she sees it.
I often pass Gary's truck workshop, where from what I can see they stand around looking at things lying on the ground most of the day. I give them a toot on the horn and call out "Meals On Wheels! Free sandwiches for old guys! Anyone need a kero bath?" Gary put the new engine in the van so he likes to linger with endless questions about its rev top-outs and clutch action, then tell me about how the new air filter for the grader is for a 902 grader and not the 876. These are easy conversations for me because all I have to say are things like "Gosh!", "No!" and "Really?".
I get home around three o'clock and by the time I've done dishes & stock market stuff I have Smokey, the dogs and Gary all milling aimlessly around the kitchen wanting to be fed. If Gary's been in the grader all day his back is stuffed and he has to lie on the bed while I stand over him & crack his spine back into shape with my foot. Work clothes into the wash, sandwiches made for the next day, eggs collected, shopping and chores list written out for Gary, Star Trek until we pass out in the air conditioning.
No comments:
Post a Comment