The Savage. Part 4 of 8.

By and large Bob had kept the greenery in check. Even now, some sixty-five years later the evidence was all about Merle: the dusty slope below the veranda, the sparse shrubs down the sides and the heavily pruned frangipanis at the front. But she had succeeded in one thing. She had planted and saved the mango tree. Now it dominated one side of the back yard, its roots lifting and toppling the old stone BBQ.

Merle kicked one of the mangoes at her feet. It rolled across the wonky boards, under the railing and dropped. It landed with a thud in the dirt and rolled down to the dilapidated chicken run. The slope was bordered by spindly grevillea and bottlebrush. None of them were big. Bob never allowed them to grow as nature intended. It was only with his physical and mental decline that they had been allowed to shoot above a metre high. But then came the long drought so they remained thin and grey and the Buffalo grass crackled under foot.

The old Bradshaw place was a contrast. It was green down there were the neighbour’s plants had their roots in the spring water that had only recently dried up. The Bradshaw’s had long since moved but the cottage remained, as did the overgrown old chicken run. Bananas and Pawpaws grew rank in the chicken shit and pumpkin and passionfruit vines scrambled over the wire and tin. Some of the mangoes her husband had rolled down the slope had germinated there and a couple of mango saplings struggled above the vines.

It was 65 years old, its trunk the size of a beer barrel.

Merle smiled at the sight. Yes. She was glad she had fought to keep the mango tree. Now it was the only plant of any size in their garden. It was 65 years old, its trunk the size of a beer barrel; and not one of those dinky metal kegs, but a good old wooden barrel. Bob had been dead against the tree and Merle had fought for it. She remembered.

Bob’s sister had brought the plant with her from Bowen in 1950. Merle was pregnant with her first born and her sister-in-law had come to help out and to welcome her new little relative. She had brought the plant as a gift. She had planted the seed in a big Golden Circle pineapple juice tin. It was two months old when she left for Brisbane. Then she nursed the plant between her feet and watered it during the monstrous, stop-start two day train journey south. Bob and Merle met her at the station. It was summer. No kaki this time. Just screaming sweaty school kids and the smell of mangoes and pineapples in the freight wagons.

Bob thanked his sister for the plant but he neglected to put it in the ground. When Merle asked him about it he warned her about the affect it would have. He told her how big and messy it would become; how what was fine in a vast north Queensland yard would never do on a city block. But Merle knew now that Bob didn’t tell her the truth: he didn’t tell her about his fire lines and the closed in feeling.

To be continued: Next time, Merle defeats her husband as he tries to murder the tree she had planted and loved.