Читать книгу It's Okay You're Not Married - Rosalind Dorrington ( Amelia Williams) - Страница 4

I was born on a Tuesday in the summer of the early 1940’s, the youngest of three children to Rob and Edith. Rob and Edith were the average middle-class odd couple. Rob a butcher by trade was an honest strict no nonsense man who expected perfection from all of his family. Edith, on the other hand, was always quietly spoken and although she’d never admit it, she allowed herself to be a doormat.

By the time World War Two broke out in 1939, they had been married four years with a son James aged three. Rob didn’t hesitate joining the army and on completion of his training, twelve months had passed before he finally boarded the Queen Mary in Sydney on Friday13th December 1940. He arrived in Cairo on Monday 10th March 1941, and Edith had given birth to another son, Edward, in February 1941. Fortunately, Rob was only away two years, unfortunately he had been sent home medically unfit with a depressed fracture of the skull. Reading his diaries, he had been a driver in the Supply Corps and was on call twenty-four hours a day to get the supplies through and help out whenever and wherever he was needed.

On Monday 22^nd June1942, he had volunteered to help put a fire out on board the ship The Royal Emblem, which had been bombed by heavy artillery. The fire was so intense that it was impossible to douse and the order was given to drop the hoses and abandon ship. Rob hadn’t heard the order and when the other men dropped the hoses the force of the water gushing through forced him down a coal hatch. He awoke in the Alexandria hospital unable to move the left side of his body. The medical staff had given him little chance of survival, but after five months of rehabilitation he was finally sent back to Australia.

James and Edward were about as opposite as any siblings could be. James was seven when I was born and because of the age difference I looked up to him as my hero. He never seemed to do anything wrong, he was funny, witty, charming, good-looking and an all-round good kid.

Edward on the other hand was gangling, awkward, and unsure of himself and always the butt end of my cruel jokes. He being almost three years older than me, had a distinct advantage strength-wise, not that this really helped him. Let’s face it, I was daddy’s little princess and whatever I said was law.

The earliest recollection I have was standing on the front veranda trying desperately to pick a raw peanut out of my nostril. As there wasn't anyone else around, I must have been the guilty party to pushing it up there in the first place. I heard my mother yell in a shriek, ‘Amelia don’t pick your nose, you dirty little girl.’ Knowing my temperament as it is now, I feel sure if I had been able to talk, I would have undoubtedly said something like ‘I'm not picking my nose, you silly old fowl, I'm bloody dying.’ I remember it seemed like an eternity before she realised what I was doing. Mummy told me I would have only been about eighteen months at the time, but my mother’s memory was not totally reliable she’s the only mother in history who could forget what day of the week her only daughter was born. For years I went through life believing I was born on a Monday, only to find out through a television show that it was in fact a Tuesday. If you tried telling this fact to Edith, I guarantee she would argue with you until the cows came home. At times I felt sure I was adopted, perhaps it's only wishful thinking on my part.

I was born with a deformity of my left hand and because of this I was literally given the run of the house no matter what I said or did, much to Edward’s disgust and horror. Edith would invariably justify my indiscretions by stating, ‘Amelia has only got four fingers on her left hand.’ I can still see Edward’s face seething with rage as I poked faces at him whilst I waved my left hand in his face. In actual fact my entire left arm is deformed it’s shorter by approximately two and a half centimetres and is at least two centimetres smaller in circumference around the wrist. No one has ever been able to explain it other than to say it was a quirk of nature. My personal theory is: the deformity is a direct result of my father’s depressed fracture of the skull which left a weakness down his left side. My middle finger is missing and my index and ring fingers are joined at the knuckle. Both fingers are webbed together up to the second joint making it impossible for me to move either finger singularly.

Somehow, I managed to survive my preschool years unscathed. Well almost.

There were a few minor problems. Like the time I got my grubby little mitts onto all of my mother’s jewellery including a particularly pretty butterfly brooch which was mummy’s favourite. I recall her saying over and over with a nervous urgency, ‘Show mummy where you put the pretty rings and brooches, darling. I promise you mummy won't smack you.’ Boy was I ever conned. I led her down the back stairs and very proudly pointed to the drain where the laundry water went. My mother fell to her knees and tried in vain to plunge her entire arm into the pipe. After a few minutes of fruitless digging she pulled her hand from the drain and planted it several times around my buttocks and legs. I bellowed like a wounded bull and issued my favourite threat, ‘I'm going to tell my father.’ That evening on hearing of my dastardly deed daddy reprimanded mummy for leaving the cupboard unlocked enabling me to get at the jewellery. I was of course, rewarded with being sung to sleep by daddy as per usual, with my favourite song.

There Once Was A Frog.

There once was a frog and a wooing he would go,

With another little frog he knew.

He happened to stray in a field one day,

Where a wee little mushroom grew.

Said he what a fine little home you would make,

Providing your shelter free.

If only you would grow in the night,

I'll bring my bride to see.

So, grow, grow, grow little mushroom grow,

Somebody needs you so.

I will call again tomorrow morn, said he,

And if you've grown bigger, then you'll suit, me.

So, grow, grow, grow little mushroom grow.

There was also the time I raided Mummy’s cupboards where I discovered the tin of lovely chocolates that she kept hidden under her petticoats and panties. I ate up like there was no tomorrow. Oh, chocolate was wonderful. I didn't have to worry about being caught mummy and daddy were in the kitchen with Uncle Simon Uncle Jacob and Aunty Amelia, (daddy’s two brothers and Uncle Jacob’s wife). Mummy was obviously aware of the deafening sounds of silence and came in to investigate. Ha, you’re too late I thought, I’ve eaten the lot there's not one chocolate left in the tin. Do you think she wasn’t upset? She was near hysterics and yelled top note, ‘Rob, quickly, she’s eaten the Laxettes.’

‘Jesus.’ daddy yelled as he swooped me up and ran through the house.

For the next two hours of my life I was head down in an empty bath whilst they all took turns thrusting their fists down my throat in an effort to retrieve their precious chocolates. The miserable buggers, I couldn't for the life of me work out why they didn't just go to the shop and buy some more.

On another occasion, I recall going to tennis with mummy. I distinctly remember this particular day because I was given the honour of choosing the cake from the cake shop window to take to tennis for morning tea. Mummy pushed me along in my striped canvas stroller and I felt very important. Tennis was always a fun day and most of the ladies were nice. One big lady in particular whom I had to call Aunty Celia used to throw the ball for me to catch. I liked her because she seemed a nice, happy lady.

Mummy asked ‘Which cake will I get darling?’ They all looked so beautiful but the one with the wavy chocolate and white icing was definitely the best. I pointed to the most beautiful cake I had ever seen. What a magic moment, I had made the most important decision of my entire life. Boy oh boy. I couldn't wait until morning teatime. It seemed like an eternity before they finally served morning tea and I was so hungry.

We had walked all the way over the two big hills. Well, I admit I was sitting in my pram, but I watched the ground as mummy pushed me there. Mummy and Aunty Celia hit the ball for a long time and when I awoke, they said we were going to have a cuppa. I put my little hand up high when Aunty Celia asked ‘Would you like some cake Amelia’?

I couldn't believe my eyes when I was handed this horrible looking cake in a bit of paper, it had yellow icing and what I suspected was fly poo-poo embedded into the yellow goo. God, I hated Aunty Celia, no wonder she was so fat and ugly, she ate little children’s special cake and didn’t even give them a taste of it the rotten old bag.’

I was about two years old and I recall sitting on the grass in the backyard. My grandfather had built a chicken coop and he kept chickens and ducks, so there was always a plentiful supply of fresh eggs. Mummy was hanging the washing on the line and she had let the duck and her ducklings out to have a wander around the yard.

I picked up two or three of the beautiful yellow, fluffy ducklings and had them sitting on my lap, I turned to pick up another one and I glimpsed a black and white thing from the corner of my eye. The next thing I remember was feeling an excruciating surge of pain on the right side of my face and I heard the mother duck quacking.

The pain on my face caused me to screech in absolute agony and terror. Mum came running as fast as she could, yelling at the duck to shoo out of the way. The mother duck had pecked at my right eye in an attempt to get me away from the ducklings. I was very lucky I didn't lose the sight out of my right eye if not the eye itself. Its bill had actually missed my eye but it had grabbed the soft flesh just below the eye and had broken the skin. For the following week I was as good as blind because my eye was completely closed and as black as the ace of spades and as large as one of the eggs the duck had laid.

I was all of three the day I happily skipped along the road alongside my mother, as she held my hand, she kept telling me how much fun I was going to have. I was blissfully ignorant of the torturous barbaric ritual this woman was leading me to. I never did like Doctor Crouch. He was mean, old, fat and ugly so I was more than a bit surprised when he greeted us at the door of this great big house with all the beds in it. I was even more surprised when Mummy undressed me and put my new frilly jammies on me, it wasn’t bedtime. It wasn't even dark and I hadn’t even had my breakfast.

Amelia ‘I don’t want that black thing on my face, it stinks, where’s my father, I’m going to tell my father on you and he’ll get the police.’

Dr Crouch ‘Amelia wake up, it’s all over.’

I wanted to scream but my throat felt as if it had been ripped out through my mouth, I glared around the room and there was that traitorous woman who called herself my Mother. Mother she didn’t even know the meaning of the word what sort of person would allow their child to undergo such torture?

Doctor Crouch stood at my bedside smiling down at me as if he liked me, I stared back at him and gave him my famous go and drop-dead look. He bent forward and tickled me under the chin and said, ‘You’ll be a bit sore for a little while but you’ll be able to have some ice cream and jelly for tea.’ I smiled a whimsical smile as I lifted my head off the pillow then I chundered great globs of half congealed blood all over his lily-white coat. As my head hit the pillow, I closed my eyes and waited for death to overtake my body. I drifted into a heavenly haze with the soothing satisfaction that divine justice had been done.

I was about four, and I was quite a cute-looking chubby little girl who looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. I’d like to show you the photos to prove it but I can’t so you’ll just have to take my word for it. I was an absolute little bitch for never wanting my photo taken. Mummy would pamper, cajole and plead with me to smile for the camera, but the more she pleaded the more determined I became that I wouldn’t.

There were a number of snaps of me dressed beautifully with my hair in ringlets and ribbons and wearing a crocheted dress. In each photo I have my arms folded across my chest with the worst scowl on my face. I can recall snarling ‘NO. I won’t. I don’t want to, and you can’t make me if I don’t want to.’ But mummy had a secret weapon of reversing the situation turning me from a defiant little devil to a blubbering mess. Almost every week, she’d say to me ‘I’m going to die one day and then you’ll be sorry.’

I detested her saying that to me and for years I constantly worried myself sick that she might die soon. We always had to call our parent’s friends by the title aunty and uncle. We had no qualms about that, but we only had three real aunts and four uncles. ‘Aunt’ Peggy took me into town to the pictures and bought me a little Golden Book. I can even remember that I wore my dark green, velvet dress with the inlay of beautiful lace on the front of the bodice. People stopped and told Aunt Peggy and myself how lovely I looked. On returning me home, Aunt Peggy told Edith that I had been a perfect angel and she promised that she’d take me out again one day. She never did though and she never stopped calling me brat face, that’s a name I detest to this very day. Funnily enough, I don’t ever recall being naughty in her presence so my reputation must’ve preceded me. If I ever hear a child being called a brat, I usually stop them and say, ‘Please don’t call him/her that, they may grow up resenting you.’

Believe me, I get some very strange looks.