My Place (14 page)

Mum came and stood in the doorway of my bedroom and eyed me sympathetically. Nan came up behind her and held up a fistful of freshly cut onions, just to annoy me. ‘Here they come, Sally,' she growled, ‘I'm bringing them in!'

‘MUM!' I screamed.

‘Well, perhaps you should leave it for now, Nan,' Mum suggested, tactfully. ‘Put those ones in the bathroom.'

For the next few days, my room remained onion-free. But then one day, as I lay on my bed, a strong oniony smell came wafting through. I checked my windowsill, nothing there. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small, curved, white object jutting over the top of my wardrobe. I grabbed the broom from the kitchen and knocked them down.

I ranted and raved at Nan over this latest intrusion, but she just chuckled and continued to puff on her cigarette.

The following week, she resorted to tucking the onions in the
same drawer in which I kept my underpants. Even Mum thought that was funny. ‘You wait until she tucks onions in your corsets,' I grumbled, ‘then you won't be laughing.'

‘Keep your voice down, Sally,' Mum said, horrified. ‘She might hear you. Don't go giving her any more ideas!'

Our battle remained unresolved for the next few weeks, until Nan discovered a product called Medic, which had a very strong, hospital-type odour. It came in a small, blue spray can and was specifically for use with people suffering from colds and flu.

‘What a marvellous clean smell that has, Glad,' Nan commented as Mum sprayed a small amount in the kitchen.

‘I thought you might like it,' Mum smiled. ‘That's why I bought it, you know what that smoker's cough of yours is like. This will help you breathe.'

‘Aah, that's good, Glad,' said Nan as she inhaled deeply. ‘I can feel it clearing my lungs.' Nan thumped her chest with her fist. ‘By gee, I feel good now, that's a good medicine. Smells like it's got some of the old cures in it, it's not often you get a medicine like that these days.'

From then on, my room smelled of Medic. My clothes and my rugs smelled of Medic. Nan sprayed Medic down the toilet and in the bathroom. The whole house smelled of Medic. I disliked the smell, but I wouldn't have dared utter one word of criticism. Medic was better than onions.

By the time I turned fourteen and was in second year high school, I was becoming more and more aware that I was different to the other kids at school. I had little in common with the girls in my class. Even Steph was changing. She no longer raced me to the top of the tree in her yard and she thought my frequent absences from school were something to be ashamed of.

Jill was in high school now and, as I expected, was having no difficulty at all in fitting in. Sometimes, I desperately wished I could be more like her. Everything seemed to be so hard for me.

Even little Helen had taken to school like a duck to water. She began primary school that year.

‘Maybe she'll be the doctor then,' I said sarcastically.

‘Yes, perhaps you're right,' Mum replied thoughtfully. ‘I'm sure you'll all do well, once you set your minds to it.'

‘Yeah, but setting your mind to it, that's the hard part.'

‘You could do anything, if you really wanted to.'

‘But that's just it, Mum, I don't want to.'

When I looked at other people, I realised how abnormal I was, or at least, that's how I felt. None of my brothers and sisters seemed to be tormented by the things that tormented me. I really felt as though I just couldn't understand the world any more. It was horrible being a teenager.

Part of the reason why I hated school was the regimentation. I hated routine. I wanted to do something exciting and different all the time. I really couldn't see the point in learning about subjects I wasn't interested in. I had no long-term goals and my only short-term one was to leave school as soon as I could.

I found that the only way to cope was to truant as much as possible. Being away from school gave me time to think and relieved the pressure. I always felt better inside after I truanted.

I was starting to become an expert in ways to miss school. One way was to deliberately miss the school bus that pulled up in front of our local library. I would walk to the stop with Jill, then, when she was talking to her friends, I would nick off and hide behind the library building. After the bus had pulled in, collected its passengers and left, I would reappear and walk happily home. My excuse to Mum was that the bus was too crowded to fit me on. For some reason, she either believed me or just accepted it.

But one morning, Jill decided she and her friends would truant also. I wasn't keen to help. There were too many of them and they'd never done it before. However, Jill was eager for me to show everyone the ropes, so I agreed.

Five of us hid behind the library that morning, and when the bus pulled in, we all had a chuckle. However, our smiling faces
soon changed to dismay when, instead of driving off, the bus remained parked at our stop. We were soon joined by an older girl, who had walked up to where we were hiding and said crossly, ‘You might as well come out. The driver is not going to leave without you.'

Jill's friends were so embarrassed. Trying to truant was the most adventurous thing they had ever done. They were all petrified the story would get back to their parents. At least I didn't have that worry. Reluctantly, we all walked back down to the bus, accompanied by the boos, jeers and laughter of the forty teenagers already seated.

‘You all ought to be ashamed of yourselves,' the driver growled as we hopped on. ‘I'll be checking behind there every morning from now on.'

As we drove to school, I sighed and looked out the window at the passing bush. That was the trouble when amateurs were involved, you always got caught. I decided that, from then on, I'd only take Jill with me.

It was also reasonably easy to leave school during recess and lunch-time. Our school was enclosed by bush on three sides. Keeping my eye on the teacher on playground duty, I would slowly edge my way towards the bush. Once I was really close, I would turn and run, then squat down behind a tree and wait to see if anyone was coming after me. If the coast was clear, I'd walk the three miles home, sticking to the cover of the bush and away from busy Manning Road. Pretty soon, a few other students caught on to the same idea. Sometimes, we'd come across one another in the bush, grin guiltily, and then press on, pretending we hadn't seen each other. Now and then Jill came with me, but, in her opinion, the joy of missing school wasn't worth the long walk home.

One time, Jill talked me into allowing her best friend, Robin, to accompany us. I thought this was a bit risky, because Robin's father was the mathematics teacher. Sure enough, the head happened to be driving along Manning Road that morning,
spotted us in the bush, picked us up and took us back to school. Poor Robin copped the worst. ‘You, of all girls,' he scolded her. ‘We expect it of the Milroys, but not of girls of your calibre.'

The school began enforcing stricter rules in an attempt to reduce the high rate of truancy by some of its students. Mum had been threatened with the Truant Officer many times. To her, this was as bad as having a policeman call. So she began to try and make us stay at school all day.

She was in a difficult situation because, while she wanted us to have a good education and to get on in the world, she was also sympathetic to our claims of being bored, tired or unhappy. Also, I knew it wasn't that fact that we truanted so much that upset her, but that now and then we got caught. Getting caught inevitably brought us to the personal attention of the school staff, which also meant that, in some way, she lost face in their eyes. Like most people, I suppose, Mum liked other people, especially those who were educated, to think well of her.

She was particularly upset after one visit to our Head. He had shown her three different sets of handwriting, all purporting to be hers, and all excusing either Jill or me from a morning or afternoon at school. ‘You've got to get yourselves organised,' she told us crossly, ‘if you're going to forge notes from me, at least do it in the same style.'

The longer I stayed at school, the more difficult I became and the more reluctant Mum became to support my truanting. She was tired of the Head and the Guidance Officer ringing her up. I sympathised with her. I was sick of visiting the Guidance Officer myself. I felt very much on the defensive in these meetings, because I knew they were based on the premise that there was something wrong with me. In my view, that was totally unfounded. Consequently, my interviews with the Guidance Officer tended to be fairly short, mainly due to my lack of response. Mum was finally advised to allow me to leave school early and let me become a shop assistant.

However, one day, Mum actually encouraged Jill and me to
miss school. There was a wonderful sale on and she said that, if we could manage to sneak off in the afternoon, she would buy us some clothes.

The day of the sale also happened to be Sports Day, which gave me a brilliant idea. Jill and I were playing softball that afternoon and we had a friend who was a really good hitter. We arranged for Dawn to belt a beauty out over the embankment. Jill and I made sure we were both fielding in that area and when the ball flew over, we dived eagerly after it. Racing down the embankment, we grabbed the ball, flung it back, then headed for Mum's car, which was parked in the street nearby.

The following Monday, Mum was called to the Head's office once again, and Jill and I with her. After speaking to Mum privately, we were called in.

‘This is a most serious matter, girls,' the Head said sternly, ‘I have even considered calling the police in.'

We were stunned. He ordered us to sit down. I sneaked a look at Mum, but she was staring at the opposite wall.

‘Now,' he continued, ‘I've had a talk with your mother and I appreciate that she has a difficult task raising you without the help of a husband, so I'm prepared to be lenient this time. You're the eldest, Sally, I know I can count on you to be responsible. If you will tell me the name of the young man who picked you and your sister up, nothing more will be said.'

I could feel my eyes grow suddenly large in my face. My mouth began to quiver at the corner and my stomach rippled. But I managed to murmur that I had nothing to say.

The Headmistress was then called in and gave Jill and I a talk on how easy it was to besmirch our reputations.

Ten minutes later, Mum was on her way home and we were back in class. I felt quite proud of myself. The Head had applied considerable pressure, and I hadn't cracked. Just like my dad in the war. He'd been questioned by the Gestapo about his friends and he hadn't let them down. Well, I hadn't let Mum down either. And boy, was she relieved.

Mum had slowly built up a collection of stuffed animals, reptiles and birds. Her favourites were two long snakeskins, one of which still had the head and fangs intact, though a trifle flattened. Then there were an Irish pheasant, an echidna, a turtle, an eagle, eight frogs playing different musical instruments and numerous crocodiles of varying shapes and sizes.

Mum was passionately interested in the world of nature, and avidly watched any television program dealing with cruelty to animals. She would sit in her favourite chair by the fireside and, between sobs, decry the brutality of man. The fact that, while she did this, she was surrounded by a small, but growing, collection of glassy-eyed, taxidermied creatures never bothered her. Her passion was for the dead as well as the living.

One evening as she sat engrossed in a program about the extinction of the Tasmanian tiger, I crept slowly around the darkened room. Mum failed to notice my movements, because she always insisted on watching television with the light turned off. She reckoned it made it more like the movies. By the time I returned to my own chair, I had managed to turn the faces of her entire collection towards her. When the Tasmanian tiger disappeared for good, Mum was feeling quite emotional. Consequently, when I suddenly turned on the light, pointed to the other occupants of the room and said, ‘Mum, LOOK!' she completely broke down. The slight of all those glazed, accusing eyes was just too much, she fled to the kitchen.

After a good sob, she returned ready to berate me. By this time, I'd taken up residence in her fireside chair and was engrossed in a quiz show. She confronted me with, ‘Sally, you sod of a kid, don't ever do that to …' then, noticing that her entire collection was now standing in a small group, warming themselves by the fire, she paused in her tirade and asked, ‘What are they doing there?'

‘Poor things are cold,' I replied with a straight face. She was too big a woman not to see the humour of the situation. Between bursts of ‘You're terrible,' she giggled uncontrollably.

Mum seemed to like owning peculiar things, so none of us was surprised when, one day, she turned up with a stray dog that she had rescued from being run over on a busy city street. To everyone else he looked like a shaggy, black mongrel, but in Mum's eyes, Curly, as she had named him, bore a close resemblance to a rare Bedlington terrier she'd read about in
Pix
magazine.

Mum received support for her views from an unexpected quarter; our neighbour. He commented to Mum that Curly was a rare sight. Mum had mistaken this comment for a compliment. The next time she was conversing with our neighbour, she brought up the subject of Curly again.

‘Unusual, isn't he?' she said smugly.

‘You got a prize one there, Glad,' nodded our neighbour in agreement, ‘it's not every day you can pick up a dog that looks like a cross between a toilet brush and a pipe cleaner!'

Mum was terribly upset, but when she told us what happened, we all burst out laughing. I agreed with our neighbour. I had genuine doubts about what Mum maintained was Curly's fine pedigree. I tried to point out to her how close set his little black eyes were, and how his only pursuits were of the basest nature.