My Place (3 page)

I was sitting on our old velvet lounge, sharpening the pencil for school, and, just when I decided I was satisfied with its razor-sharp tip, Dad strolled in and bent down to sit on the arm of my chair. Without thinking, I stood my pencil pointy end upwards and watched as blue buttocks descended. On contact, Dad leapt up in pain and swore loudly. As he swung around, I waited for him to belt me. To my utter surprise, all he could manage to do was splutter, ‘Go to your room!'

‘Why on earth did you do it, Sally?' Mum asked as she escorted me down the passage that led from the lounge room to the bedroom I shared with Jill and Billy. I didn't really know. Curiosity about cause and effect, I guess.

I was allowed certain privileges now I was at school. The best one was being allowed to stay up later than the others and share Dad's tea. He loved seafood. He had a drinking mate with a boat, and if there was a good catch, crayfish came our way. Fleshy, white crayfish and tomato dipped in vinegar, that was Dad's favourite meal. At first, I hated the taste of vinegar, but I gradually grew accustomed to it. I was careful not to eat a lot. I knew how much Dad enjoyed crays. It was a happy time then; crays and tomato, Dad and me.

I knew some of Dad's tastes were a legacy of the war. That particular one from the time Italian partisans had sheltered him from the Germans. I knew all about the war. Dad had told me about his friends Guiseppe and Maria, and their daughter Edema. He'd taught me to sing the Communist anthem in Italian. I thought I was very clever being able to sing in another language.

We had some good times, then. Some nights, Dad would hide chocolates in the deep pockets of his overalls and we were allowed to fish them out. Sometimes, he'd laugh and joke, and when he swore, we knew he didn't really mean it.

Dad slipped in and out of our lives. He was often in hospital for periods of a few days to a month or so, and the longest he was at home at one time was about three months; usually it was a lot less. When he first came home from hospital, he would be so doped up with drugs he wasn't able to communicate much. Then, he would seem to be all right for a while, but would rapidly deteriorate. He stayed in his room, drinking heavily, and didn't mix with us at all. And soon, he was back in hospital again.

Dad was a plumber by trade, but, when he was at home, he was often out of work. Every time he returned from hospital, he had to try and find another job. Mum provided the only steady
income, with various part-time jobs, mostly cleaning.

When Dad was happy, I wished he'd never change. I wanted him to be like that forever, but there was always the war. Just when things seemed to be looking up, it would intrude and overwhelm us. The war had never ended for Dad. He lived with it day and night. It was a strange thing, because he'd told me how important it was to be free, and I knew that Australia was a free country, but Dad wasn't free. There were things in his head that wouldn't go away. Sometimes, I had the impression that if he could have got up and run away from himself, he would have.

Part of the reason I was so unhappy at school was probably because I was worrying about what was happening at home. Sometimes, I was so tired I just wanted to lay my head on my desk and sleep. I only slept well at night when Dad was in hospital; there were no arguments then.

I kept a vigil when Mum and Dad argued, so did Nan. I made a secret pact with myself. Awake, I was my parents' guardian angel; asleep, my power was gone. I was worried that, one night, something terrible might happen and I wouldn't be awake to stop it. I was convinced I was all that lay between them and a terrible chasm.

Some nights I'd try and understand what they were arguing about, but, after a while, their voices became indistinguishable from one another, merging into angry abandonment. It was then I resorted to my pillow. I pulled it down tightly over my head and tried to drown out the noise.

I was grateful Dad didn't belt Mum. Although, one night, he did push her and she fell. I'd been allowed to stay up late that night, and was squatting on the kitchen floor and peering around the door jamb to see what had happened. Mum just lay in a crumpled heap. I wondered why she didn't get up. I peered up at Dad, he was so tall he seemed to go on forever. He ran his hand back through his hair, looked down on me, and groaned. Swearing under his breath, he pushed roughly past Nan and staggered out to his room on the back verandah. I felt sorry for Dad. He hated himself.

Nan hurried into the hall and hovered over Mum. As she helped her up, she made sympathetic noises. Not words, just noises. I guess that's how I remember Nan all those early years — hovering, waiting for something to happen.

I sat on the kitchen floor for a few minutes longer, then I crept quietly into Mum's room. I pressed my back up against the cool plaster wall, and watched as Nan made a great show of tucking in the rugs around her. Nan's eyes were frightened, and her full bottom lip poked out and down. I often saw it like that. Otherwise, she wasn't one to show much emotion.

I tried to think of something to say that would make things all right, but my lips were glued together. Finally, Nan said, ‘If you haven't got anything to say, go to bed!' I fled.

The task of enrolling another member of our family in school the following year fell once again to Mum. I was pleased Jill was starting school. I felt sure I would not be so lonely with her there.

As we joined the small groups of children and parents walking to school that morning, I watched Jill curiously. She seemed neither excited nor daunted by the prospect of being away from home. I put her calmness down to ignorance, and felt sure that, once our walk led us within sight of school, Jill would break down.

‘Hasn't the school got a lovely garden, Jilly?' Mum commented as we rounded the last corner and approached the entrance.

‘Yeah, we've got roses like that.'

I narrowed my eyes and looked at her, not a tear in sight. Oh well, I thought, wait till it's time for Mum to leave, then it'll be on.

Mum deposited me at the door of my new class, then, taking Jill's hand, she said, ‘Come on, I'll show you the toilets.'

‘Are you coming, Sally?' Jill asked.

‘Naah, saw 'em last year. Ask Mum to show ya the boys' toilets, I've never been in there.'

‘Don't be stupid, Sally, Jilly doesn't want to see the boys' toilets.'

‘Yes I do!'

I watched as, a few minutes later, Jill emerged from her tour of the toilets.

‘What do I do now?' she asked as she trotted up the verandah to me.

‘Aah, ya have to wait for the bell. That's your class down there. Go and sit with Mum on the step, she'll be with you till the bell goes, but she won't be here all day.'

‘Okay.' I scanned her face. Poor kid, I thought, it hasn't sunk in yet.

Jill walked back and plopped down on the verandah step. I watched as Mum smiled at her in exactly the same way she'd smiled at me the previous year. Jill grinned back. Mum had actually convinced her she was going to like school. She was so gullible, sometimes.

Within a few minutes, the bell was ringing loudly. Mum waved and began moving off. I was shocked when Jill calmly took her place in the queue that was forming at the front of her class.

Just before Mum disappeared completely from sight, I saw her cast an anxious glance towards the Grade One line. Now, Jill, now! I thought. It was the perfect moment. For some reason, Jill sensed my interest, and turned and waved happily to me. I groaned in despair. She was obviously dumber than I'd suspected. ‘Mum's going now!' I called out, but she was too busy chatting to the boy in front of her to reply.

I watched with a mixture of envy and surprise as she continued talking to the other children. They were all strangers to her, and yet she seemed to fit in, somehow. I knew then that, when it came to school, Jill and I would never agree.

My daydreaming was suddenly interrupted by a deep, grumbly voice calling, ‘You girl, you with the long plaits, come here and pay attention.' I felt so embarrassed. I'd been so busy watching Jill that I'd failed to notice my classmates had also formed a line.

My new teacher began slowly walking down the line, carefully inspecting each of her forty charges. ‘Don't slouch. Stomach in, chest out, chin up!' She tapped my chin lightly with her wooden ruler. I attempted to follow her instructions, but found myself leaning so far backwards, I nearly fell over.

We moved quietly into class and the presence of each one of us was duly recorded in the roll book. When that was finished, our teacher drew herself up to her full flat-chested height of five foot eleven inches and said, ‘I … am Miss Roberts.' Apart from her pause after the word ‘I', she spoke quickly and very, very clearly.

‘Now children, I … am going to hand out some reading books. You will all remain as quiet as mice while
I
'm doing this. Then we will check to make sure you have all brought the things you were supposed to bring.'

I smiled to myself, it wasn't going to be so terrible after all, my new book was on its way.

I waited expectantly as Miss Roberts walked first down one row and then another. By the time she finally reached my desk, I was practically brimming over with excitement. She placed my book on my desk, and I couldn't help groaning out loud. It seemed that Dick, Dora, Nip and Fluff had somehow managed to graduate to Grade Two.

In a way, I felt sorry for them. None of them lived near a swamp, and there was no mention of wild birds, snakes or goannas. All they ever did was visit the toy shop and play ball with Nip. I resigned myself to another year of boredom.

There was no comparison between Miss Roberts and my Grade One teacher. If Mum had felt awkward about approaching Miss Glazberg, she was positively terrified when it came to Miss Roberts.

‘Has Miss Roberts ever been in the army, Mum?' I asked her one afternoon.

‘What a strange question, whatever makes you ask that?'

‘Well, sometimes she acts like a man.'

‘When?'

‘When we line up for school. She won't let us in the class unless we're all straight and stiff. She pokes you in the stomach and says, “Stomach in, chest out, eyes forward”. Dad told me they do that to you in the army.'

Mum laughed, it was obvious she thought I was exaggerating
again. However, the following week, she confided to me over tea that it seemed Miss Roberts had, indeed, been in the women's army. One of the cleaners at the school had told her. I found this information very interesting. Dad often talked about the army. He'd been too much of a nonconformist to take naturally to army life. Now, I understood how he felt. I didn't like being told what to do either.

From then on, whenever I marched into class, I would silently sing an old army ditty Dad had taught me.

I'm in the army now

I went to milk a cow

the cow let-off and I took off

I'm out of the army now!

Jill, Billy and I loved rude songs. We often marched around the yard singing that one. Billy beat on his old tin drum and Jill and I pretended to blow army trumpets. I could play reveille, too. By placing a piece of paper tightly over a comb and blowing on it, I could produce a high-pitched, farty sort of sound that I could then manipulate into a recognisable tune. I learnt to play many tunes on the comb, but reveille was my favourite.

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.

Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts' attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.

Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You've wet ya pa-ants, you've wet ya pa-ants!'

‘I have not,' I denied hotly, ‘it's just water under my chair.'

‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you've dumped all those hankies on it?' She had me there.

By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.

Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘
Quiet
please!' She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said, ‘I … have an announcement to make.'

We were very impressed with Miss Roberts' use of the word ‘I'. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.

‘I … have finished marking your test papers.' There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts' reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.

‘I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.' She always rolled her R's when she said Rodney. You'd think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true. Rodney could do nothing right.

‘Rrrodney,' she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m
not
b-u-m!'

Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts' look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He'd been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.

‘Now,' she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?' Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my nondescript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.' I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.