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About eight years ago some mutual friends put Darl and me in touch, thinking we’d be a good match. We’d talked on the phone a bit, but hadn’t found the time to meet in person. I lived in Busselton, Western Australia, and she lived about a 30-minute drive away.
Then on St Paddy’s Day my mates and I invited some friends around to the Star hotel, which was what we called our share house at the time. It was a bit of a bachelor pad with a bar set-up, and I made some really bad mojitos. But when Darl arrived, they improved a lot – she knew what she was doing behind the bar.
Darl ticked all the boxes, but what I liked about her most was her honesty. She was easy to talk to and she was capable too, the sort of person who would get in and do things rather than stand around talking about them.
Bec is her real name but I’ve called her “Darl” ever since we met. It was just a pet name, but then all my mates started calling her that too. Now it’s stuck. We were clearly attracted to each other, but I eased into things because Darl had a young daughter, Arrebella, who was about eight at the time. Some nights I’d make them dinner and then leave the two girls to it. I didn’t want to rush in.
Those early years were pretty wholesome: cooking, gardening, playing music. About a year in, we moved into a place of our own.
Darl works harder than anyone I know. She’s in real estate now, but four years ago she started helping me with my music career. I have keratoconus, an eye condition where the cornea thins and bulges over time, distorting my vision. Technology isn’t my strong suit, so Darl looks after the online stuff and drives me to most gigs.
About two years ago, we came up to Perth to record my album Tone River. But on the day I was meant to go into the studio, I woke up at 4am and couldn’t see out of my right eye.
I knew straight away what had happened. Years earlier, my left eye had ruptured on the side and damaged my peripheral vision. This time it was my right eye and the rupture was right in the middle. My vision was cloudy, like looking through shower glass. And the pain was excruciating – it went into my head and shoulders, and my temple lit up like it was on fire.
Darl got up with me. She made me a coffee while I tried to get my head around it. When we called my specialist, there wasn’t much he could do beyond pain relief. Because my condition is so advanced, there aren’t many options for me. I’ve had to learn how to live with what I’ve lost.
It was pretty scary. She had been there when my left eye ruptured too, so we talked about how I got through that: slowing down, doing things differently, working out new techniques. I was lucky she was there.
I still didn’t feel like I could walk into a studio and record an album like that. But we had five people organised and already sunk thousands of dollars. Darl talked me into it: if I needed help with anything, she was there. And she said, where better to be than with all your friends, playing music?
When we arrived at the studio, the boys saw the eye patch and knew I needed them. That’s when there were tears. I was standing there with my friends, but I couldn’t properly see their faces. That was hard.
But once we started playing, something shifted. My eyes are usually closed when I play anyway. The pain was still there but it would have hurt just as much sitting at home thinking about it. At lunchtime I said, “Get us a 10-pack,” and the whisky came out too. We had some good laughs and somehow got most of the record down in one day.
Since my right eye ruptured, I need a bit more help, especially with gigs and driving. I can still get around all right – I don’t need a stick or anything – but if Darl can’t help me with a gig, I have to get someone else to. But I’m getting my independence back in everything else.
That day made me more solid in what Darl and I have. We care for each other and we trust each other. If I’m building something, she’ll be there with the bloody hammer. Whatever happens further down the track, we’ll be in it together.
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