My Place (4 page)

‘Sally has, for the
first
time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.' Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said, ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I … can tell the class is anxious to see your work.'

Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.

‘I … want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!'

Clutching my book in my right hand, I leant as far from Miss Roberts as possible, lest she smell my condition.

My misshapen body must have alerted her to the fact that something was wrong, because she snapped impatiently, ‘Hold the book with two hands! And put your dress down, we are not interested in seeing your pants!'

A wave of giggling swept over the class. As I patted down the full skirt of my blue cotton dress, Miss Roberts' large, sensitive nostrils flared violently, and she snorted in disgust.

Grasping me by the elbow, she hauled me back to my desk and, pointing to the offending puddle, demanded, ‘And
where
have all those handkerchiefs come from?' Flinging back the lid of my desk, she shrieked, ‘Oh no! There are more in here!' I felt so embarrassed. It was obvious she didn't know what to attack first, my pile of dirty handkerchiefs nestled near my overflowing jar of pencil shavings, my collection of hardened orange peel, or my old apple core turned brown and on the brink of mould.

Shaking her head in disbelief, she muttered, ‘You dirty, dirty
girl.' She dragged me back to the front of the class and shoved me out the door.

‘Out you go, you are not to enter this class again. You sit out there and dry off!'

I sat alone and wet on the hard jarrah bench.

My attitude towards school took an even more rapid downhill turn after that incident. I felt different from the other children in my class. They were the spick-and-span brigade, and I, the grubby offender.

Things at home weren't getting any better, either. Dad was drinking more than he was eating, he was very thin.

He had stopped even trying to get work, and was in hospital more than he was at home. Gone were the days when he used to bring fluffy baby chickens home for us to play with. There was a time when he couldn't go past a pet shop window without buying half-a-dozen little chickens for us. He still lived in his favourite blue overalls, but he never hid tiny Nestles milk chocolates in the deep pockets any more. He only hid himself, now. When he was home, he never came out of his room. The only thing he seemed interested in was the pub.

Our local pub was called the Raffles; it was situated on the banks of the Swan River and had a Mediterranean outlook. Dad was popular at the Raffles. There was a huge group of returned soldiers who drank there. It was like a club. Give Dad a few beers down the Raffles with his mates and he was soon in another world. He forgot about us and Mum, and became one of the boys.

We kids often went to the pub with Dad. While he enjoyed himself in the bar, we sat, bored and forgotten, in the car.

Summer was worst. Dad always wound the windows up and locked what doors were lockable in case anyone should try to steal us. He forbade us ever to get out the car. These precautions meant that on hot summer's nights, we nearly suffocated.

One summer's evening, I could stand it no longer. Dad had
been gone for ages, and I'd given up all hope of him returning with some bags of potato chips. Somehow, the sweet, clean smell of the Swan River managed to penetrate our glass and metal confines. Like the wisp of a cloud on a misty night, it floated around my shoulders and head, beckoning me to come.

‘Let's go play down the river,' I said suddenly. ‘Dad's not going to bring us any chips. He won't notice we've gone.'

‘We're supposed to stay in the car,' Jill said as she eyed me doubtfully. Two terms at school and she was a real stickler for convention.

‘Look Jill, there's no use hanging around hoping he'll turn up with something. He's forgotten about us again. I'm going whether you come or not.'

The thought of a paddle was too much for Billy, who leapt out with me. Jill followed, reluctantly. We wound our way quickly through the crowded carpark and down to the sandy foreshore. We splashed and laughed and built sandcastles decorated with bits of seaweed and stick.

Just as we were constructing an elaborate moat, a tall figure loomed above the beach.

‘What the bloody hell are you kids doing down here. I told you to stay in the car.' Dad advanced menacingly, and we froze.

Suddenly, I yelled, ‘Well what did ya expect us to do, sit in the car all night? You've been gone for ages
and
ya didn't give us any chips!' I stopped abruptly, my mouth wide open. Where had my sudden bravery come from? I often had vehement thoughts, but I generally kept them to myself. Now I'd done it.

Fortunately, Dad was as surprised as me. He stopped and stood looking down at us. His gaze took in three haphazard sandcastles, and the beginning of an elaborate irrigation system. Without another word, he ushered us quietly to the car and took us home.

The following night, I stayed home with Mum. I'd decided the chances of procuring a packet of chips were too slim. Billy and Jill insisted on going with Dad. ‘They'll be in for another boring time,' I told Mum as we waved them goodbye.

Dad was home early that night. He was furious. Apparently, Jill had become so bored she'd gone hunting for Dad in the public bar. Someone had put her up on the counter and said, ‘All right, who owns this one?' It was so unlike Jill and, in Dad's eyes, an unforgivable sin. The pub was his domain. He felt she'd shown him up in front of his mates.

My father's brothers were great drinkers too, and proud of it. The only one who seemed different was Uncle John; he was a lot younger than Dad, and we kids quite liked him. He always had a joke with us and never drank as much as the others.

Even apart from our relations, we seemed surrounded by drinking men. There wasn't one of Dad's mates who was a teetotaller. I was always amazed at how much a good man could drink. In fact, drinking seemed to be the main hobby of everyone we mixed with. Dad's mates, mostly ex-servicemen, didn't tend to bring their wives to our place. But the few women who were included could generally hold their own when it came to drink.

I remember only one occasion when Grandpa actually came to our house to help out in a practical way. There were some tall gums that grew close to the house and Dad wanted them chopped down. He said they were a fire hazard. Grandpa volunteered to help him. I sat on the back steps of the verandah and watched as they both climbed high into the trees. I was sorry to see the gums go. They were tall and beautiful and I'd seen maggies nesting in them.

‘Righto, Pop,' Dad called as he positioned his saw. ‘You get that branch on your side and I'll tackle this one here.'

‘Righto, Bill.' Grandpa was sweating like a pig and hadn't had a drink for at least half an hour.

‘Jeez, I could do with a cold one, Bill,' he muttered as he sawed away.

Suddenly, there was a crack and then a splitting noise, followed by a scream. Grandpa, and the branch he was sitting on, crashed to the ground. Dad dropped his own saw and climbed down, shouting, ‘Not the branch ya sitting on, ya stupid bastard!'

For the rest of the afternoon, Dad worked alone. Grandpa sat inside, recuperating and drinking beer. By the time Dad drove him home, he was too drunk to feel any pain.

Dad's family often came to our place for Christmas lunch. Actually, I always found the two days before Christmas more exciting. Mum and Nan cooked cakes and puddings, gave the house a real good clean, and prepared the stuffing for the chickens. I was really excited, because we only ate chicken once a year, and I loved it.

On the twenty-fourth of December, Dad would stride to the chook shed armed with the axe. He always looked really determined, and I would sit and think that maybe this year he'd do it. About ten minutes would pass, and then he'd stride back again, with a clean axe and no chooks. War had spoilt him for killing anything. He'd walk past me and hand the axe to Nan, who'd be patiently waiting on the back verandah. ‘Jeez, I can't do it Dais, you'll have to.'

It wasn't a task Nan relished. She had a special relationship with the birds and chooks we kept, but she knew we were too poor to be able to consider her finer feelings. Within a few minutes, she'd be back with two limp chooks and a bloody axe. ‘Come on Sal, time to gut.'

She'd spread newspaper over an old table we had on the back verandah, and we'd set to work. I liked pulling out the feathers, because I was keen to collect them. Jill would walk past and eye us both in disgust. Sometimes, to scare her, I'd thrust a bloodied arm in her direction, and she'd scream and run inside to Mum.

‘Aah, she's got no guts.'

‘Well these chooks have, you get on with your work and leave poor Jilly alone!'

One Christmas, Grandpa told us all about the history of his family. ‘Aah, yes,' he sighed as he downed another cold one, ‘the Milroy men have always been great gamblers and drinkers.'

I watched curiously as he brushed a tear from his eye. Give Grandpa a few beers and he'd cry over anything.

‘In the early days, we were quite well off. Had a business in Albany, coffee palace it was. By jeez, you could make a few bob then with all the bastards that were comin' into the country. As soon as the sailing ships docked, all the owners of the boardinghouses, pubs, you name it, would rush down to the harbour to try and capture the trade. “Come to my place”, one of them would call. “A free drink with every feed and a lolly for the little-uns,” another might shout. “Double helpings of pud for all the men. Anything you want, we got!” Aah, the company was rough and ready, but business was booming. They all made a fortune, every last one. All except your great-grandfather, he never got past the pub halfway down the main street!'

I suppose it's not surprising that I developed a keen interest in drinking and smoking at a young age. I was adept at rolling Dad's cigarettes and then passing them to him to light. I could pour a glass of beer with no head on it in a few seconds. Dad encouraged me to sip from his glass, Mum protested in vain. If she complained about the same thing too often, Dad would go out of his way to annoy her. He was a rebellious man.

Fortunately, it wasn't long before the taste of beer sickened me. I thought it tasted just the way I imagined urine to taste. And the fact that I'd heard some of Dad's mates refer to it as ‘The Piss' only deepened my impression. I decided that that was one tradition I wasn't going to maintain.

The day Uncle Frank entered our lives, I felt I'd found a kindred spirit. He just blew in out of nowhere one day and Dad was very pleased to see him.

‘Oh God,' Mum groaned as she eyed the brown paper bag tucked snugly under Frank's muscly arm. ‘That's all Bill needs, more grog.'

I could tell by the gleam in Dad's eyes that, contrary to Mum's opinion, he thought it was exactly what he needed. Mum gave them both The Silent Treatment. She was sick of us mixing with drinking men.

‘You kids go out the back and play,' she commanded as Dad and Frank plonked themselves on the front porch. ‘He's got the most dreadful language,' Mum whispered to Nan, ‘I don't want the children hearing talk like that.'

My ears instantly pricked up. What dreadful language?

‘Out you go, Sally,' Mum repeated.

‘Okay, okay, I'm going,' I sighed as I nipped down the back verandah steps. It took only a few seconds for me to run around to the front of the house, where I happily joined the drinking men on the porch.

Within a few minutes, Frank had me totally fascinated. He used so many words I'd never heard before, and they all sounded exciting. I'd have given anything to be able to talk like Frank.

‘Young lady,' said Frank as he drained his glass, ‘do ya know this bastard saved my life during the war?'

‘Jeez, give it a rest, Frank,' Dad groaned.

I leaned forward, eagerly, in the hope that Frank would continue.

Suddenly, Mum popped her head around the front door. ‘Sally, you come inside right now!' I gave her a grin and turned back to face Frank. ‘Sally,' she whispered in a more determined way, ‘come inside.'

Dad hated in when Mum began whispering from the doorway. He knew she kept her voice down because of the neighbours, so he said loudly, ‘She's all bloody right!' Dad didn't give a damn what the neighbours thought. Mum admitted defeat and disappeared back behind the door.

‘Aah yes, your father's a silly bastard, doesn't like me telling this story. I'm gunna tell you!' Frank pointed his brown, calloused finger towards me.

‘We were both poor bastards stuck on a POW transport bound for the camps, Italian job she was, when
Boom!
a bloody Pommy sub got us right up the Mediterranean! Jesus bloody Christ. I'll never forget that one. Anyhow, we stayed afloat and beached on the Greek coast. I couldn't move. I was wounded in the chest. I
thought I'd cashed in me chips. Then ya know what happened?'

‘No, what?' I whispered.

‘This son-of-a-bitch,' he jerked his thumb towards Dad, ‘heaved me over his shoulder, dragged me up to the top deck and got me to shore. Christ-All-Bloody-Mighty. I was no lightweight then, either. I made bloody sure I got a look at his face before I passed out. I wasn't going to forget a bastard like that in a hurry.' Frank threw back his tight, curly head and roared laughing.