by Tony Kelly
I do remember that this was the time when she started doing crosswords. In 1973 my Grade 6 teacher said, ‘Everyone should read The Pilgrim’s Progress and The Thirty-Nine Steps and do one crossword puzzle a day.’ I went home and told Mum this. She got the books from the library for me but I wasn’t particularly interested in them; I was too young. But Mum started doing a crossword every day, and she never stopped. In hindsight I can see that it’s the perfect activity for someone who is somewhat isolated.
Dad came to rely more and more upon alcohol. The more he drank, the more unavailable he became – and the more unavailable he became, the more we wanted his attention, and the more irritated he became with us, the more he drank.
There were still times when he was just regular and normal Dad, when he was funny and solid. I remember one time when I was collecting the eggs in the chook pen. Mount Isa was a very multicultural town, and lots of my friends at school were bilingual. I remember asking Dad, ‘Can you speak another language?’
‘Yep,’ he said, ‘I can speak English and foul.’
I was very pleased with this answer and told all my friends at school that my dad could speak English and Fowl. In my mind he was the ‘chook whisperer’. It wasn’t until years later that I worked out he was having a joke with me.
Dad really liked company. Every Saturday morning, no matter how drunk he’d been the night before, he would wake up early and get us all up. His favourite way to do this was to come to the bedroom door and sing the famous lines from The Barber of Seville. He had a good singing voice, had studied piano as a boy and was quite musical. He’d shake the end of the bed and bellow out, ‘Figaro, Figaro, Figaro!’ until the whole house was awake and sitting at the table with him to eat breakfast.
We’d all think that it was going to be a great weekend, but by 10 am Dad would be preparing to head out. He was a creature of habit, and we all knew his routine. We’d be silenced as he listened to the scratchings on the radio. Three-Way Turf Talk ruled. Then he’d head to the bathroom for a shave and a shower. He’d douse his hair with Vaseline Intensive Hair Tonic, and comb it into place with his white plastic comb. For my entire life Dad always had the same comb. He was very proud of his hair, and it remained black and shiny until the day he died. Then he’d get dressed. If it was summer, he’d wear walk shorts, a short-sleeved shirt and leather thongs. He only wore rubber thongs if he was watering the yard. In winter it’d be long pants and a sports jacket. He’d emerge from the bedroom and his blue eyes would be sparkling. He’d virtually skip down the hall as he prepared to head out. I suppose he could almost taste that first beer. When we were younger, David would imitate Dad’s jaunty gait and vain air, and we thought it was the funniest thing ever.
We’d watch the car back out of the driveway and then he’d be gone for the day. He’d go to the TAB, then the pub, then the track and then back to the pub. It wasn’t unusual for someone to drive Dad home after a big session. Sometimes they’d bring him up the back ramp and into the house; other times they would just lift him out of the car and drop him over the fence into the backyard.
I hated when this happened. I would feel so embarrassed and ashamed.
Then out of the blue Dad would do something that made me feel like he was the best father in the world.
In the mid 1970s I started playing Monday-night basketball with a girl called Christine. She was a new friend from school, and we were having a wow of a time on the team. We both loved basketball and played hard. At one of the games our coach kept telling us to play ‘man-on-man’. ‘Stick to your opponent,’ he ordered us. We both liked our coach and responded well to his instructions, but it drove the other team wild. They couldn’t get past us, and one of them told Christine that they were going to ‘bash her’ after the game.
The coach told us not to worry, and after the game finished we headed outside the courts to wait for Dad. The girls from the other team were out there, and when they saw us they pounced – but it was only Christine they attacked. They punched and kicked her viciously. Christine was a tenacious thing and fought back, but this only made things worse.
Suddenly I looked up and saw Dad’s Kingswood pull in. Dad leaned over the seat and flung open the back door. ‘Get in!’ he yelled.
I grabbed Christine and threw her into the back seat. Of course, as soon as the other girls saw Dad they took off. Christine clung to me and cried. It was awful, and she was embarrassed. I was terrified that Dad would be furious at us.
But Dad did not miss a beat. He just drove steadily to Christine’s house. ‘You okay, Christine?’ he asked.
‘Yep,’ she said – and then, between tears, ‘Sorry about that, Mr Lister. Those girls started it, not me.’
‘I know,’ Dad said. ‘Some people fight on Friday night at the pub, and it seems like some fight on Monday night at basketball too.’
Christine smiled. When we got to her house, Dad asked if she wanted him to come in and talk to her parents. But she didn’t. We sat in the car and watched her go in. I climbed into the front seat and we drove in silence for a bit.
‘You okay?’ Dad finally asked.
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘Tough game,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ I said, and looked across at Dad. He smiled and I smiled too.
At that moment I felt safe and protected. Dad had saved the day. He’d got us out of the situation and had not made a big deal of it. I had been scared that he might have wanted to go and speak to the coach or have a go at the girls who attacked us, but he got it – he knew that all he needed to do was look after Christine and me. And he did.
Fortunately, Dad’s worst behaviour did stop by the time I was in my mid-teens. By then he was in his late fifties and had started to slow down all round. Also, by then we had begun to confront him when he behaved badly.
‘You can’t wear that top!’ he said to me one night.
I was dressed to go to the pictures and was wearing a top with thin spaghetti straps. ‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Put a shirt on over the top of it.’
‘No!’
‘It’s too revealing,’ he snapped.
‘It’s the fashion! Just cos you’re a “wrinkly” doesn’t mean that I can’t wear what I want,’ I argued.
‘Get a shirt or I won’t drive you.’
‘I wear this top every Saturday afternoon but you’re too drunk to notice then, aren’t you?’
‘Watch what you say!’
‘Or what?’ I screamed. ‘You’ll hit me?’ I raced to my room and slammed the door.
I was scared. I knew Dad wouldn’t hit me. He had never placed a finger on me. My brothers hadn’t been so lucky but I was his ‘golden girl’, and I’d reached an age where I knew this and pushed the boundaries all the time. I was scared he wouldn’t let me go to the pictures or would refuse to drive me. I had a boyfriend and had plans to meet him, and I didn’t want anything to get in the way of that.
Mum followed me, and I cried, ‘Why is he like that?’
‘You have to remember that your father hasn’t had much contact with teenage girls since before the war,’ Mum said. I couldn’t help but smile at that.
‘Put a shirt on. You can take it off when you get to the pictures and put it in your bag.’
I did as she said, got in the car and Dad drove me into town. Not a word was said, and there was Dad waiting to pick me up at 11 pm after the picture finished.
Like many women of her generation, Mum never spoke about or complained about any of the things that had gone on in our family. While on some level this capacity for stoic resilience is an asset, it can also set up patterns of behaviour that lead to emotional shutdown. Mum rarely let on that she wasn’t coping.
When I was a teenager, she told me she had been to the doctor for her insomnia and had cried when he asked her how she was feeling. When she told me this, I was both t
oo immature and too surprised to respond with anything akin to empathy. The doctor offered her Valium but she didn’t take it. I remained mute and offered nothing.
Mum did start to emerge again during this time, though. She joined a few groups and started to volunteer as a tutor of English as a second language. She didn’t do a course but got numerous books from the library and used her skills as a teacher to figure out what to do. She loved this work. Every week students of different nationalities would come to the house and Mum would conduct lessons at the kitchen table. Many of these students were isolated and lonely in Mount Isa, and Mum provided a motherly presence for them. There were frequent gifts of food, which we all loved.
In Darwin, in 1977, Michael met a young Jordanian woman called Julie. She too was on the run, escaping a traditional family back in Sydney. Later that same year their first son, Michael Pancho, was born. Tragically, while backing out of the driveway, Michael accidentally ran over his son and killed him. Michael Pancho was just shy of twelve months old. Four more children were born from this relationship, but by the time the last baby, Samantha, arrived, Michael was himself a full-blown alcoholic.
My clever, handsome but damaged brother didn’t ever recover. In October 1994, on what would have been his first son’s eighteenth birthday, he brought it all to an end and took his own life.
Within hours of learning that Michael was dead, I went into labour, and Lucille was born the next day. I was unable to get to Mount Isa for the funeral, but the day after Mum arrived in Brisbane to help me with seventeen-month-old Georgina and newborn Lucille. Tony and I were living in a share house with our dear friend Ruth. The house bulged at the seams with both life and death. Mum insisted on spending time every afternoon writing thankyou cards to people who had sent sympathy cards. Mum sat at the table and wrote and wept. It was awful. I told her she didn’t need to write the cards immediately – she could wait weeks if she wanted, or even months or years. But Mum insisted there was an expected timeframe with these things, so she wrote and I wiped her tears.
How Mum ever finds anything to hum about amazes me. But hum she does. And I am so happy to be part of creating a household where, despite all her grief, she feels happy, and her humming survives.
I hear Mum get out of the shower and go into her bedroom. I need to get a move on with dinner, because if she comes into the kitchen and sees the mound of food we have prepared she’ll wonder what on earth is going on. Although she doesn’t know it, she’s the star attraction of tonight’s dinner.
Mum recently spent time in hospital after a heart attack. It was a sobering time for all of us as we faced the reality that her health was deteriorating. But from the way she described her five days in intensive care, it was as good as a holiday. It took us a while to leave on discharge day, as she had to say her goodbyes to all the ICU staff.
My nieces and I have often had a giggle about how formal Mum can be when thanking people. ‘Thank you for your kindness,’ she always says. We love saying this to each other, with tongue-in-cheek ceremony, as we hand each other a large glass of wine or an open stubbie.
But Mum really did want to thank everyone, believing they had given her care and treatment way beyond what their jobs required. She had connected with everyone – she knew where they came from, how long they had lived in Mount Isa and how they came to work in health care.
Within days she was back with her gang of buddies at church, and they all commented that she had never looked better. Each time I looked in the mirror, by contrast, I thought I had never looked worse. The tension of the week, my neglected work, along with the fact that I was smack-bang in the middle of menopause, had caused my insomnia to return, and the strain showed on my face.
I finish preparing the garlic bread and get it into the oven. Mum comes into the kitchen, and I’m surprised to see that she’s dressed in her winter nightie, dressing gown, socks and slippers. I know she will be horrified when the family arrive and find her in her ‘jarmies’. I also know she won’t have the energy to get changed into other clothes for dinner. ‘Don’t you think it’s a little early to get into your leisure suit?’ I joke.
‘I’ve recently had a heart attack,’ she says, ‘and I can wear my pyjamas at any time of the day if I choose.’
She moves to her chair and sits down without noticing the food preparation going on in the kitchen. I text Belinda:
Mum’s in her pyjamas. She doesn’t have a clue!
A reply comes instantly:
LOL!!!
But I’m actually worried:
What should we do?
Belinda isn’t bothered at all:
Nothing! She’ll be fine
What feels like minutes later, the family arrive and pour into the house. Mum is thrilled to see everyone, but especially Michael and Brian. She can’t believe they’ve come all this way to see her. ‘One last visit to the old girl before she shuffles off,’ she jokes.
We all laugh, but on some level that’s exactly what this is.
The boys shower her with hugs and kisses. They are affectionate men and feel a deep love for their grandma. Mum glows.
I’ve always felt that it was the grandchildren who dragged Mum into the modern age of childrearing, where it’s acceptable to kiss one another and say ‘I love you’. I don’t remember anyone’s parents doing that when I was growing up, and mine certainly never did. I never talked about things like this with my friends, either. It wasn’t until I left home and started to study that I realised the impact that love has on growth and development.
In spite of all the things that went on in our family, I never doubted that I was loved. But the idea that your parents would say it to you or express outward signs of affection when other people were around was a ‘shame job’. I remember being mortified when Dad grabbed me in a huge bear hug at the airport in 1980 as I was leaving Mount Isa to go overseas as an exchange student. He’d had a few ‘sherbets’ at the bar beforehand, and just as I was about to walk out onto the tarmac, he rushed forwards with a show of emotion and affection. I didn’t know what was happening. The incident was captured on camera; for years afterwards I always felt a rush of self-consciousness when I looked at the photo.
Like many grandmothers, though, Mum embraced her grandchildren with unconditional love. Consequently, the grandkids feel completely comfortable talking about anything, either with or in front of their grandma.
‘I got the results of my pap smear,’ one of them says.
‘Oh yeah? How’d you go? Pass the potato salad, please,’ another replies.
‘Yeah, all good.’
‘I’m getting a new tattoo,’ another grandchild says. ‘It’s going to be an eagle with spread wings, and it’ll have your name in the middle of it, Grandma.’
‘What, you’re getting “Grandma” tattooed on your arm?’ says Mum.
‘No – Diana! That’s your name, isn’t it!’
They all laugh.
‘Well, the only thing I ask is that you spell it correctly.’
This reduces the grandchildren to hysterics.
The dinner goes off without a hitch. We cram around the table and everyone tucks heartily into the feast.
At some point the phones and cameras come out and the photos begin. In each one we place Mum in the middle, resplendent in her blue polyester fleece dressing gown, and we gather around her and take pictures. Someone starts to sing, and before we know it we’re all belting out one of Mum’s favourite call-and-response songs.
‘I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart!’
‘Where?’
‘Down in my heart!’
‘Where?’
‘Down in my heart!’
‘I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart, down in my heart to stay!’
Mum sings, claps and smiles, and the fact that she is part of a dinner party in her pyjamas
and dressing gown is irrelevant. She is our queen bee and we are all happy to be, in this moment, buzzing and humming around her.
4
A Tight Little Unit
Tony
‘Closed for winter,’ reads the sign out the front of the pool.
‘You’re kidding,’ I say to myself. Yes, there is an early-morning chill in the air but the sun is out and the mercury will rise to the mid-twenties today. This is not winter. A high of thirteen degrees and raining, that’s winter. Plus, the pool’s heated. I’d just got used to the soup-like twenty-nine degrees that the pool manager likes to keep the water temperature at, a good few degrees warmer than any pool in Melbourne. One time I asked him why he kept it so hot. ‘No one will come if I don’t,’ he replied. I guess no one will come if the fucking pool’s closed.
I’m a swimmer. Always have been. The story goes that before I was born my older siblings were promised a pool once the youngest could swim. After nine babies, I imagine doubt was growing that the pool would ever be built. Once it was clear that I was the last, a concerted effort was made to teach me to swim. Throughout the summer of 1964–65, I spent a lot of time at the Norwood pool in Adelaide, being coached by my very motivated siblings. It wasn’t long before I was declared proficient and the digging commenced.
In more recent years I’ve become enamoured with open-water swimming, and have increasingly enjoyed (if that’s the right word) swimming all year round, including through Melbourne winters in Port Phillip Bay. When Beck suggested we move to Mount Isa, I lamented that the nearest open water was the crocodile-infested mudflats and mangroves of the Gulf of Carpentaria, five hours to the north.
Until now, Beck and I had been making do with the pool. Despite the heat, it is underutilised and we often each have a lane to ourselves. The pool is on the western edge of town, adjacent to the mine, and as I swim down the lane each time I swing my head to take a breath I see the lead stack looming ominously overhead. In the evening, with the light of the setting sun refracted through the dust and fumes of the mine, it’s quite beautiful, but it’s hard not to imagine the toxic particles drifting down and landing on the surface of the pool. The official line is that the prevailing easterly winds blow the pollution to the west, away from the town. The theory goes that when the wind changes an alarm sounds and the smelter is shut down to prevent the lead blowing over town, but on some days as I race down the pool, sucking in the air, I can taste the fumes in the back of my mouth and wonder how diligent the mine managers are.
