Lisa Wright – Writer

As I stood in the shower that evening and soaped my legs, I felt the blisters, running from where my shorts had ended and stopped at my sock tan line. My skin was starting to itch but I gently rubbed my legs with the palms of my hands, so as not to split the blisters. As I towelled down my arms, the bumps had started appearing on my chest and soon, my neck was angry and inflamed.

As my lips began to swell, I ran into the kitchen and said, ‘Somethings not right’. My husband stepped back from me alarmed, ‘Your face looks like the moon!’. Keys were grabbed and tires squealed as we drove to emergency.

This was not the story I was hoping to tell about our move to the country. A year before, I had visions in my head of long table lunches, white linen the dress code, a banquet of local produce and friends marvelling at our success of being one with the earth. Maybe a braying donkey and of course, chickens. Lovely fat, feathered girls waddling amongst our feet as we tipped back icy cold white wine. Bliss. I wanted to find my bliss.

In my twenties, I had loved being a city girl. The feel of the high heels with brand new pantyhose, the posing nonchalantly at busy train stations, the Friday night drinks in bars with the usual suspects from IT. I felt too cool as I rushed to the office, takeaway coffee cup in hand, raisin toast buttery in a paper bag. It wasn’t so much the work I enjoyed as it was part of being in the city.

City life didn’t last forever, and life in the suburbs beckoned with small children and deadlines changed to school pick up times and my email was soon full of flour-free baking ideas for school fetes. A new existence but not the life we were destined to live forever. It would be gone in a blink so ‘enjoy it while it lasts’ we reminded ourselves when the monotony made us droop.

My partner-in-crime came home with an idea; a move to the country. Not too far but far enough that we would have some land. The now pre-teen boys would build forts with sticks, no more gaming consoles for them. We would evolve by going backwards. A house with a farm of one hundred mango trees. He would keep his normal job and busy himself with sheds and fences on the weekends. I would become a farmer of mangoes; never mind that I hated the things. The only mango I liked was mixed with tequila into a daiquiri. We would do this thing. We would be the envy of all.  

The orchard research seemed to be abundant and direct. Add water, sunshine, heat, fertilizer, and the fruit would appear. Armed with my manuals, I nodded to experts while they chuckled at my excitement. I’m sure they were wondering if I would give up in the first year or possibly make it to my second. I was going to prove them wrong. I believed there was nothing I couldn’t do. I took their advice and with my multitude of buckets began spreading the goodness of potassium and nitrates, hoping for nightly rain.

Spring came and the flowers started to pop. Every tree in turn came to life with stems of fluffy flowers. They were sticky to the touch and the leaves gave off the aroma of fruit. These poor, old trees had never had it so good. The man who had planted them gave the mangoes to his grandchildren to pick and sell by the side of the road for ice cream money. These trees had never known a day of nutrition in their life, and they were thanking me in pale yellow flowers and soon small green balls of victory.

By Christmas Eve, we had fruit ready to be picked and I made endless trips around the backyard with my stylish fruit picking stick in hand and the mower trailer to hold the green and yellow mangoes. The spurt of sap that sprayed from the stems as I released them from the branches, it soon speckled my legs and arms. Queensland’s hot days did not allow for long sleeves and trousers. I smelt of sunshine and hard work. As the days wore on, the mangoes kept coming. Hundreds of them were piled up in the shed’s cold room. We will ripen soon, they whispered.

This is where the story should end. All bliss and sunshine. It was to be our happily ever after. We had it all. But we didn’t and it wasn’t the end at all.

The morning of that shower, as I had closed the door to the mango filled cold room, I had run my hand over my aching forearms, and felt the tiny blisters, so clever in their uniform lines. Must be sunburn, I’d reflected, but itchy, and so sore.

We drove to the emergency department of the local hospital. The staff took one look at me and ushered me straight through the doors, no waiting time needed, the moon face woman needed help. A bed was provided, and needles were given as I told them about my legs and my arms.

They looked at me sympathetically and said, ‘Mangoes. You probably are allergic to mangoes. The sap is like acid’. I knew then that I had been rejected. Rejected by this farm life I thought I wanted. My body was crying with a toxin, trying to let it out through the blisters. The trees knew me at first sight and knew I didn’t belong. I was no farmer.

So years later, I sit on the back veranda, looking over the unfertilized trees, watching the occasional fruit lay on the ground for the well-fed cockatoos. The kids have grown up and forts were never their thing anyway, so the sticks are carefully placed in a firepit to be lit and watched while we sip wine. As I work from home and get my takeaway coffee from a place up the road, I wonder about my fantasy of long table lunches and chickens under our feet as we served our local produce for friends. My naiveness made me cover my eyes and cringe when I remember.

The farm told me exactly who I was. I was a city girl who was allowed to live in the country, as long as I didn’t pretend to be anyone I wasn’t.