Читать книгу It's Okay You're Not Married - Rosalind Dorrington ( Amelia Williams) - Страница 9

One night we got a call from Dad’s cousin, Muriel, and her husband, Albert, who lived in Sydney. They announced that they and their three children would be arriving in the next two hours or so, to stay for a three-week holiday. Dad seemed to be pleased, he hadn’t seen his cousin for years, but he was the only one who was pleased though.

Dad’s relatives had a bad habit of lobbing on the doorstep unannounced and ended up staying for months at a time. I remember an uncle Ned and an uncle Ted. One of them only had one arm and the other used to whistle all the time. They’d both settle in for lengthy stays at different times much to our disgruntlement. So, when Edith woke us at about 9.30pm and said we had to play musical beds to accommodate an entire family we were most upset to say the least. To make matters even worse the whole family were turdy toads as far as us kids were concerned.

Claire was a bit older than James Jimmy was slightly younger (about halfway between James and Edward’s age) and Raymond was a year or so younger than me. Jimmy was the only one that any of us liked. They made a regular habit of coming up each year for about five years afterwards then Muriel and Albert came on their own. Each year without fail, I’d say to Edith, ‘Tell them to bugger off, you can’t stand a bar of them, so I don’t know why you put up with them. They’re nothing but bludgers.’

But she would never admit to not liking them. She’d just suffer them in silence and be a good hostess and slave to all their beck and call.

Muriel had had a bowel operation and she had to wear a colostomy bag for years. The smell of her used to make us all want to vomit. Normally we would’ve had a great deal of sympathy for her, but she wasn’t a very nice person. What I like to describe as having the personality of a cane toad. I, of course, got up her nose by refusing to call her aunty. I maintained she was not my aunty and I had no desire to call her that.

She thought children should be seen and not heard and that naughty children should be sent to bed with their bums smacked. That was her favourite saying to me and I’d look at her in disgust

Amelia ‘Well, why don’t you give your own kids a belting then?’

Dad ‘That’ll be enough of that.’

Amelia ‘Well, it’s true, and anyway when are they going home, because she stinks?’

Aunty Lilly worked with Mum at Mt Coot-tha Kiosk and lived in the flat next door to Aunty Dot and Uncle Stan. When I was about three, she had commented to me that she’d like me to come and live with her because I was such a good little girl. I didn’t need any encouragement I immediately went into my bedroom put a couple of my panties, socks and a dress into my little cardboard school bag, walked out and told her I was ready. When Edith told me that I couldn’t go I threw myself on the floor and had a tantrum, declaring my undying love to Aunty Lilly. A few years later I overheard my father telling Edith he’d have to get rid of my beautiful blue cattle dog, Ballie just because Ballie was supposed to have bitten the postman. Ballie wouldn’t have hurt a fly and I told them so. Dad wouldn’t hear a bar of it, he’d made up his mind and Ballie had to go. I packed up all my junk and wrapped it in an old sheet and staggered down the street dragging the sheet filled with all my worldly possessions with Ballie trotting alongside. I had to stop near the paddock and sit in the gutter to catch my breath. Edith was totally oblivious to my departure and I was feeling rather pleased about my escape.

As I sat there, I planned to go to live with Aunty Lilly, I knew she’d take Ballie and me and look after us, even if she didn’t, I’d go to Aunty Dot’s place. All of a sudden, a cab came down the hill and I knew the jig was up. Mum had arrived home from work and saw me sitting there. She asked me what I was doing and I told her that I was running away to share myself with Aunty Dot and Aunty Lilly. (Wouldn’t they have been pleased?) Poor old Ballie was taken away from me and probably put to sleep and I cried my guts out.

I can’t remember a period in my life when I haven’t had at least one pet to love and care for. I remember every one of them and their idiosyncrasies but I’d be writing forever if I were to mention them all. Suffice to say they were all a major part of my growing up and still are. I unashamedly confess I have adored them all. So, imagine how many heart-breaking weeks I’ve had throughout my life, when they’ve died and either been skittled or baited by some nut case. If there aren’t any animals in Heaven I’m not going. I’d rather trust a savage animal than some humans any day.

Our local shops consisted of three grocery stores, a chemist, a butcher shop and a cake shop. An elderly man and his wife ran Cullum’s corner shop. I think Mrs Cullum may have been a Fuzzy Wuzzy, she had olive skin and very tight little black curls which was always cut very close to the scalp. They were both lovely people, but very slow in walking and their shop was always so dimly lit it was always difficult to see anything properly. That’s what gave Edward the bright idea of cheating them out of ice creams drinks and lollies without actually stealing them. Edward was a cunning little sod he got all our pennies and half pennies and painted them with silver frost. In a dimly lit shop to elderly shopkeepers who had poor eyesight they looked like one shilling and two- shilling pieces (ten and twenty cents.) Poor old buggers, they never stood a chance.

Mr Noble, the chemist next door to the Cullum’s shop, was also quite old and was renowned for his concoctions for all ailments. He had his own mixtures for whatever ailed you and you could guarantee that it would do the trick. He was a nice enough old coot and never did me any harm, but I found out many years later he molested at least two girls whom I knew very well. I can’t for the life of me understand how they allowed it to happen because apparently, he made it a regular habit. He probably knew not to try anything with me because I doubt that he’d have been able to concoct a cure for his mangled balls and massacred penis.

Mr and Mrs Alley (I now believe thinking back that their name was in all probability was spelt Ali as they too had olive skin) were the owners of the second grocery shop. They were also very nice people and Mum would often give me one shilling (ten cents) to get a bag of broken biscuits from them. Honest to God the brown paper bag would be approximately nine inches deep and six inches (twenty-two centimetres and fifteen centimetres) wide and the bickies would be overflowing.

Directly next door was Harry Steven’s Butcher shop where Dad had worked for a number of years. Harry’s first wife had died less than thirty minutes before I was born and this apparently had given me star status in Harry’s eyes. He’d often say to Edith, when one person departs this world there’s always another person to take their place and as far as he was concerned, I was his wife’s replacement. Whenever I went into the butcher shop I was always treated with the utmost kindness from the old man.

Across the road was Griffith’s corner store. It was the 1940s version of a supermarket whereby you could get your own groceries off the shelf and pay as you left. Not everyone liked going in there, they preferred the shopkeeper to serve you at the counter and get the groceries for you. I liked going in there to buy the foot-long American bubble gum and the giant size liquorice straps. Edward would often ring Griffith’s store

Edward ‘Is that Mr Griffiths?’

Mr Griffiths ‘Yes’

Edward ‘Are you on the tramline?’

Mr Griffiths ‘Yes’

Edward ‘Well you’d better get off because there’s a tram coming.’ He’d hang up and roll around the floor screaming with laughter. Another trick of Edward’s was to ring the taxi company about eleven o’clock on a Saturday night after coming out of the pictures. He’d order six cabs in a Chinese accent for Mr Who-Flung-Dung and company at the Chinese Association. He and Joey would then hide and watch the cabs pull up honking their horns outside the Chinese Association.

One Saturday morning Edward was all dressed up in his scout’s uniform ready to go to a special meeting. He had been eating oranges all morning and he came to the fence and was talking to Hannah and me as we sat on her front steps. He was drinking a pint of milk and generally making a big pig of himself and I told him so. He lifted his fingers in a pretend gun and shot me as he belched a very loud burp. I challenged him to do it again and he said, ‘I’ll go one better than that.’ He pointed his gun fingers at me again and lifted his leg and farted. There was no noise but he had a very startled look on his face and yelled, ‘Oh no, I’ve just shit myself.’ The yellow diarrhoea poured down his legs into the tops of his green and gold scout’s socks. Hannah and I nearly fell down the stairs as we screamed with laughter with Edward last seen running upstairs bellowing like a wounded bull.

One Christmas school holidays we were in the house by ourselves whilst Edith went Christmas shopping. Edward had been left in charge to look after me. That was like leaving Hagar the Horrible in charge of Attila the Hun. Edward was about thirteen and I was about ten. I had been quietly minding my own business colouring in and one of my pencils broke. I got Dad’s butcher’s knife from the kitchen drawer and proceeded to sharpen the pencil. If he had’ve asked me properly I would’ve given it to him, but he hadn’t he had demanded it

Edward ‘Give me the knife I want to use it.’

Amelia ‘No, I’m using it first.’

He grabbed for my arm to twist it to make me drop the knife, but instead I moved away and I pointed the knife at him

Amelia ‘Take one step closer and I’ll cut your balls off.’

He panicked and grabbed the blade and I pulled it back. The knife slashed into the fleshy part of his right hand between the thumb and the index finger and the blood spurted everywhere. The pair of us nearly died of shock. I had no idea what to do. The first thing I could think of was to get a bucket of water and get him to put his hand into it. I ran around getting towels and cleaning the blood off his hand, but as soon as I’d mop it more blood would spurt out. Edith came home minutes later and she nearly had heart failure. Edward was rushed to the doctor and he received several stitches in the wound, the doctor told him that he was a hair’s breadth off cutting the tendon and that he could’ve gotten lock jaw. The top of his index finger is permanently bent downward at the first knuckle joint because of the wound.

Another day I was listening to some records on the radiogram and Edward came into the lounge room and turned it off, it wasn’t because it was loud, he just didn’t like me enjoying myself. I started to swear at him and he told me to stop swearing or he’d tell Edith. I pushed him and he shoved me back onto the lounge chair which made me swear even more. He went off his rocker grabbing me by the throat and started to choke me. I punched him and bit his arm as hard as I could and he let go. I ran to Edith’s sewing table and got the scissors and went downstairs to where his gold Malvern Star racing bike was. He’d saved and saved for that bike by selling papers and doing odd jobs and it was his pride and joy. I got the tubes out of the tyres and cut them in half. Not content with that, I walked one and a half miles to the police station and reported his attempt to murder me. The police drove me home in the side basher of the bike and by that time Edith was home. Edward told them that I was swearing for no reason and that he had put his hand over my mouth to stop me swearing and that he hadn’t tried to choke me at all. The cop reprimanded me, Edith gave me a hiding and Edward was as happy as a pig in shit. Well for about an hour or so until he discovered his precious bike.

In the early part of the fifties Friday nights in the Long household was spent sitting around in the lounge room listening to the fights on the radio. Dad would bring home a huge tin of roasted peanuts and we’d hoe into them as if we hadn’t eaten in weeks. On some Sundays, Uncle Stan would come around and quite often he’d bring big Sam Burmester a fairly famous wrestler who was a family friend. Usually other friends would turn up and before long there’d be a party in full swing. Other Sundays, Dad would bundle us into the car and we’d head off to Jimboomba pub approximately thirty-five miles (fifty-five kilometres) south-west of Brisbane. There was no Sunday trading in the pubs in those days, except the country pubs. Pub patrons had to be bona-fide travellers and would have to have driven at least one hundred miles (one hundred and seventy kilometres) before they could be served. Dad used to give his correct name, but he’d tell them he’d driven from the Sunshine Coast so as to gain entrance and allowed to have his beloved amber nectar of the Gods as he called it. Uncle Stan was a barber by trade but he should’ve been a comedian. He would give the hotelier a bodgie name such as Charlie Killfoppingbird or Charlie Honeystick and tell them he was an Englishman on holidays. He looked a bit like Leslie Phillips from the Carry On movies. Of course the staff got to know them as regular customers but Uncle Stan would still sign himself in under a bodgie name. I used to love going to the Jimboomba pub, I was always assured of having plenty of soft drinks and bags of Smith’s crisps. Edith would often play the old piano there and everyone would gather around and have a sing-along. One Sunday the cops came in to check the registry book to make sure all the patrons were bona-fide travellers. Uncle Stan dived under the table which had a heavy tablecloth over it. The cops had a look around the lounge where we were all sitting and came up to our table. Dad stood up to address the cops and in doing so moved away from the table. He had a lit cigarette in his hand which he was smoking and I noticed smoke billowing up from under the table. I darted my eyes back and forth signalling to Dad that Uncle Stan was still smoking. Dad immediately placed his cigarette in the ashtray for it to burn down and thus giving a reason for smoke to be billowing from the table. After the cops had gone, I was rewarded with a packet of Fantales from Dad and a box of Jaffas from Uncle Stan for being such a smart kid. Driving home from the Jimboomba pub was always a little bit risky even though there was no such thing as random breath testing in those days. I’d always be on the lookout for anything that resembled a carload of police. One particular occasion Dad was going exceptionally fast and I said to him, ‘If you go a bit faster, Dad, we’ll all be able to get the best beds in the hospital.’ Edith looked at me in total disbelief her eyes were as big as saucers because I’d had the audacity to say something like that. She closed her eyes and waited for Dad to go off the brain. Instead he laughed and said, ‘You’re absolutely right, little darlin.’ He slowed down to a sedate thirty-five miles per hour (sixty kilometres).

We always enjoyed our long drives no matter where we went and we’d all sing at top note. No drive was complete without at least one rendition of Carolina in the Morning, Am I Blue, Five Foot Two and many more. On the Sundays we didn’t have the parties or go to Jimboomba or BBQ’s, Dad would take Edith and me to Fortitude Valley to a Chinese restaurant for dinner. The proprietors knew us extremely well and didn’t even wait to take my order. Within minutes of being seated my entree was served, half a dozen fresh oysters in the shell followed by a small serving of curried prawns and rice and a small serve of fried rice. It’s still one of my favourite meals.

I was about two and I was walking down George Street with my parents. I apparently wanted something and Dad said I couldn’t have it so I threw a tantrum. I can’t remember the belting he gave me but Edith assures me it was a ‘good’ one. When I was about eleven, we were on one of our many Sunday outings to the country with all of Dad’s friends and their families. There were at least ten carloads of people and we’d go to a farmyard with acres of land and a running creek. I’m not exactly sure where we were, but I have an idea it was out at Upper Brookfield. In those days the area was classified as way out in the sticks but now it’s almost an inner suburb. We’d have a BBQ and everyone would bring a plate of food and the men would chip in and buy a keg of beer and soft drinks. I had been sitting in a deck chair on the slope of the creek embankment dozing off to sleep in the sun. Jack Hillier the barman from the Regatta Hotel who was renowned for always being drunk came up behind me and pushed me down the side of the embankment. I rolled right down skinning my hands and knees and nearly ended up in the water. He laughed at me and sat down in the deck chair I was absolutely livid. I got up raced over to him and said, ‘You drunken old bastard’ I grabbed the few hairs on his head and reefed them all out. Dad found a tree branch that was about an inch thick and took me over near the car and hit me at least ten times on my backside and legs. The welts were bright red and raised to such an extent if they weren’t so sore too touch you could’ve pinched the flesh between your thumb and forefinger. I couldn’t sit down properly and Edith had to pack all the towels together for me to prop myself onto for the drive home. She also applied heaps of ice to try and get the swelling down. I couldn’t go to school for three days because of the pain, it took me years to forgive my father for that belting and he lost my respect for a long time because of it too. I know I deserved a hiding on many other occasions but not that time. I think what made it more unacceptable was that he hit me in defence of a drunken old sot.