THE GREAT
BANANA OATH
For a
while it became something of a ritual. Saturday morning in the back yard, five
kids and Jean, assembled under the banana palm, looking up.
Her and
Mike found it in the local nursery, a row of them in pots, on ‘Special’, each
standing about knee high, already with at least one luscious green sweep of a
leaf, the promise of an exotic palm in waiting. But Mike had to ask.
“Who the
hell plants a Queensland banana palm in South Aus!?”
The
nurseryman nodded his head, as if ‘another smartarse’, smiled a little.
“We got
them in to – they’re mainly for – y’know – ornamental purposes...”. Mike looked
dubious. “They grow fast…”, the bloke added, but Mike just had to get in
another shot.
“Will
they grow bananas?”
Jean
knows Mike isn’t trying to do male one-up-ness – well, not much anyway – just his
always thing about getting their money’s worth. And fair enough, they were still
struggling to put the house – their first – on its feet. Sorting out the
backyard had been a low priority, and still was. But Jean needed something
green. Living plant green.
“Well … you
never know … ”, the guy went on, but assured them it’d grow, and grow fast, and
yep, be ornamental.
But even
to Jean he sounded just a touch keen to get rid of an experiment that wasn’t
working, maybe seemed like a good idea at the time. Bananas. In hot dry Adelaide
back yards. But – going cheap, it’d be something sort of soft and green and
tropical – godknows their backyard needed anything it could get in the way of
decoration.
Jean
planted it not far from the back door, near the tap, and alongside the high
metal fence that kept the Primary School on the other side of it at bay, hoping
a bit of reflected heat might help. Make if feel like Queensland.
Every
morning on the way to work Mike would stop and check for progress. And he had
to admit, it was hanging on. And looking exotic. But – “No bananas yet…”, he’d
toss off, then crank up the FJ Holden panel van – their ninety-five dollar special
from the ‘Still Going’ lot of the wreckers – and head out to his job in the
servo workshop that he was hating more each day.
Money was
still short – their second mortgage would be hurting deeply for years – but at
least they’d scraped in. For now. The bit of extra from Mike’s modest speed
equipment work in his shed at night, making knock-off lowering kits and floor
shifts and extractor manifolds for the rev-heads that hung around the servo, it
kept them going.
But he
still wouldn’t think about Jean finding something part-time. Kevin only in
Grade Two and Erin still a year off starting, they both believed that kids needed
their mums to be home. Besides, everyone in the estate was struggling. And Jean
was the world’s best money manager, a row of untouchable tins in the cupboard
marked ‘Bank’, ‘HP’ (the new 14 inch TV, their only luxury), ‘Health Ins’,
‘Council Rates’, ‘Gas & Elec’, and ‘Car Reg’. It was a running joke how
they had to save up for the occasional Saturday night block of chocolate.
They’d
married with nothing. Less than nothing. It was 1959 and Mike was 20 and Jean
was 16 and a baby on the way and all they had between them was a couple of
sticks of donated furniture, ten quid that Mike’s grandfather had chipped in, a
thirty year old Austin Seven with a broken engine, and two rooms rented from Jean’s
grandmother. And Mike’s then crap job fixing office equipment.
Jean’s
mother was glad to see at least one of her kids off her hands, but Mike’s
mother had a shitty on for several years, as if she was sure the golden son
could’ve done better. And most people only gave them six months anyway. But
quitting wasn’t their style. And they’d hung onto their ideal of Husband
Earns Money, Wife Runs Life. They’d both come from patchy childhoods, so were determined
to do better than was done to them. Be sober. Be frugal. Buy their own home. Raise
good kids. Kids who had what they needed to be happy. Happy enough.
It was five
years before they could scrape together enough to make it happen. We’ll, sort
of half happen. The builder was a speculator, but decent with it, took up a
chunk of the old Tolley vineyards out at Modbury and roughed together a
cul-de-sac estate of ten three-bed, no-frills houses, then offered a
part-rent-and-part-deposit scheme for a year, to help the battlers get to Playford’s
compulsory home deposit. They moved in with sheets at the windows, stubborn
grape vine stubs in the yard, rope clothesline on a prop, and no made roads to
begin with. Mike got bogged twenty feet from the house in the first week.
The front
yard soon looked respectable enough, a kikuyu lawn made from runners scabbed
out of ten different rellie’s places, then stuck a chunk of willow in the
middle, ripped from off one down the local creek, which quickly went feral as
at the time they didn’t realise they’d planted it right on top of the septic
tank. But hey, at least the front yard was done. Like a public announcement.
So to
Jean the banana palm for the back yard was more a quiet statement of long term intentions
than just a plant.
It didn’t
do much for a while, except stand there knee high and looking lonely,
attracting left-handed comments from Mike, like it was some frail reject that
would never earn a place in that landscape of their dreams. But he said it
kindly enough, already understanding that Jean was becoming defensive.
Protective.
But then
it began to flourish. Grew like a weed before their eyes. Grew as if the damn thing
thought it was in Queensland, extravagant green fronds unfolding like sails at
sea, and still the only thing looking at all beautiful in their stubbly back
yard. It soon became an object of wonder and speculation, especially amongst
the local kids, who were there most weekends.
Jean and
Mike’s place had become some natural gathering ground, that just evolved, although
probably helped along by neighbours who were only too happy for the break. But
the most regular were the three Cooper kids from next door, their two eldest
about the same ages as Kevin and Erin, and their third always dragging along at
the rear of everything. The five of them made a motley crew. Jean would often
stump up cordial and biscuits.
Then it turned
into a bit of a Saturday morning thing for them, to check out the banana palm,
see if any more of those showy big leaves had unfolded, as it became more and
more resplendent, and taller, till it was eventually peering over the six foot
galvo fence. It was just a little awe-inspiring. And no-one was more surprised
to see this than Mike. Mike of little faith. Mike who hadn’t reckoned on Jean’s
mighty green thumbs. Jean who loved to grow stuff. Kids and plants.
Her green
thumbs were already a family legend.
In their
old Housing Trust rental maisonette – back in Hell Boulevard – one day she
needed a stick to hold up her tomato plant, so grabbed a length of something at
hand and stuck it in the ground and tied the bush to it with a broken shoe
lace. Ten days later the stick sprouted leaves. Mike never tires of telling
people that one. Jean the Green Thumb Legend.
The
banana palm was about eight feet tall when it produced flowers. Weird pale yellowy
things in a single cluster under one frond’s armpit.
Mike
pulled into the drive late one Saturday morning, grimy overalls bundled under
his arm, his paid week done. He looked tired and hungry. Jean and the motley
crew were standing underneath, looking up, and he joined them, gazing up the
palm. Jean couldn’t resist drawing the kids further in to the unfolding
mystery.
“They
… might gunna be … “, and paused for effect, “… bananas!”, she confided. There
was a collective in-breath of awe.
“We’re
gunna have BANANAS!” the eldest Cooper kid said. Mike smiled a bit at the “we”
but still looked sceptical. “Hmmm – WE ’ll see, eh?”
It took a
few weeks, but grow they did. Unmistakably a suggestion of something happening,
now with hints of a purple bit hanging off, looking like a thing from outer
space. And as the green bits surely began to turn yellow, the Saturday morning
inspection took on the flavour of ritual for Jean and her crew of
banana-admirers.
Even Mike
was quietly impressed, and one morning went as far as commenting to her in
passing – “Yep, you’re on the money I reckon – bananas all round soon…”, which
found Jean a few days later, on her own, looking up, counting. Seven. Checked
again, definitely only seven. At that Saturday morning’s gathering, she lined
up the motley crew. Five faces, waiting.
“Right –
there’s something important we need to understand.” Five faces, focused.
“There’s only going to be seven bananas…”, and she let that sink in. “Seven,
okay? – that means one for each of you, and one for me and one for Mike.” They
all nodded. “But if any of the other kids in the street know, they might feel
left out. Okay?” They all nodded again. “Have any of you told any of them?”
They all shook their heads, not at all convincingly.
“So then
… it’s time to take … The Great Banana Oath!” Five faces, mouths now slightly
agape as they looked to each other, back to Jean. “Everyone put their hands on
their hearts…”, and she put hers there, and one by one they followed, checking
each other.
“Right,
now say after me … I swear … come on, all of you … I swear…”, and five solemn
faces parroted off together – “I swear” – “…to never tell…” – “to never tell” –
“…another living soul…” – “another living soul” – “…about my special
bananas…” – “about my special bananas” – “…and if I do…” – “and if I do”
– “…I give up the right…” – “I give up the right” – “…to my share…” – “to my
share” – “…so help me God.” – “so help me God.”
They
looked to each other, seriously impressed, hands still on hearts. “Okay, that’s
it…”, and they relaxed, but had trouble finding something to do with their
swearing hand for a second, “…but remember, the Oath, no blabbing…”, but they
all started talking at once, and soon it was just the Saturday morning back
yard again, noisy, active, Mike’s junk from behind the shed once more becoming
a pirate raft, adrift in a weedy sea.
Jean had
no idea how well The Oath held up, but as the ripening weeks went by the
Saturday motley crew continued to be the only ones to assemble under the palm,
but now it seemed to be no more than a quick check, as if to hover too long
might invite curiosity from the outside world, maybe spies. They’d become
conspirators.
One
Friday night Jean and Mike decided it was time. All seven had become perfect
‘Lady Finger’ bananas, small and yellow and full of tropical promise. “You did
well”, Mike said. “You’d better pick them tomorrow, time to find out I’d reckon…”,
but he didn’t say what they were both thinking, what if, and five dashed hopes,
seven dashed hopes even.
That
Saturday morning Jean waited as long as she could, but Mike was clearly stuck
with some late drama in the workshop, and missed out on the ceremony. With five
sets of eyes looking up, full of anticipation and involvement, Jean set the
step ladder, climbed up, and with a “Du-DAH!”, cut the bunch free, held it out
like a trophy. There was a collective “Ahhh” from below, like awe. At the sight
of all those trusting faces, Jean’s heart sank, just a little.
“Now
remember, we don’t actually know … we aren’t in Queensland kids, so … if … don’t
be…”, but just couldn’t find the words. Not that they were listening. It was
time for total faith in the Gods of Kids and Bananas.
She
picked each of them off, laid them on a waiting plate. Seven. In a row. There
was a touch of magic in the air. Magic and apprehension. She picked up one,
thought about it, then held it out in front of those five (oh God, so innocent)
waiting faces. She decided then it should be sink or swim together.
“Right,
we’re all in this aren’t we, so each take your banana, and we’ll all peel them
together, and then we’ll all try them together, okay?”, and five hands grabbed
one, and they copied Jean, held them out like Olympic torches.
“Right,
ready? – peel!”, and everyone wrestled with their tops, until all but the
youngest Cooper had a banana bouquet in their hand, so Jean quickly swapped
with her, peeled it down. Everyone waited, the anticipation zinging in the air.
“It’s
time”, Jean announced, mentally crossed her fingers, took a bite, and chewed
solemnly. It was the sweetest banana she’d ever tasted in her life.
Excruciatingly perfect. She nodded, eyes suitably wide, but “Mmmmm…”, was all
she said, and five other bananas began to disappear, to extravagant noises that
bordered on an excess of ecstasy, like it was a contest.
That
night Mike’s was waiting for him at the tea table, and Jean could see he’d
forgotten all about it, but quickly made a production of it, peeled slowly,
Kevin and Erin hanging on his every action. He bit down, chewed thoughtfully,
then pointed at it in his hand.
“This …
has got to be …”, and he let that hang there while he took another bite, “…THE
best banana … I ever tasted!”, and the kids were smiling like the whole thing
had been their idea in the first place.
The
motley crew had banana bragging rights in the estate for – whooo, at least a
week – but then, as these things do, the whole saga faded, and all that
remained was the palm itself, tall and proud and very Queensland-y, and while
it never again had a crop of anything, it was still there five years later, when
the family moved on in their uncertain climb up the real estate ladder.
© T. R. Edmonds 2024
<<<<< >>>>>