by Sally Morgan
Dad laughed when he told Mum what the sister had said. Only a dream, I thought. I was just a kid, and I knew it wasn’t a dream.
When Dad got really bad, and Mum and Nan feared the worst, our only way out was a midnight flit to Aunty Grace’s house. Other nights, the five of us were shut up in one room, and, sometimes, Mum put Helen and David, the babies of the family, to bed in the back of the van. I was so envious. I complained strongly to Mum, ‘It’s not fair! They have all the adventures. Why can’t I sleep in the van?’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Sally, you don’t understand.’ She was right. I never realised that if we had to leave the house suddenly, the babies would be the most difficult to wake up.
Aunty Grace was a civilian widow who lived at the back of us. Nan had knocked out six pickets in the back fence so we could easily run from our yard to hers.
It often puzzled me that we only needed a sanctuary at night. I associated Dad’s bad fits with the darkness and never realised that, by dusk, he’d be so tanked up with booze and drugs as to be just about completely irrational.
Many times, we were quietly woken in the dark and bundled off to Grace’s house.
‘Sally … wake up. Get out of bed, but be very quiet.’
‘Aw, not again, Nan.’ It had been a bad two weeks.
‘Your mother’s waiting in the yard, you go out there while I wake Billy and Jill.’
I walked quickly through the kitchen, scuttled across the verandah and into the shadows, where Mum was standing with the babies.
Mum was rocking Helen to stop her from crying and David was leaning against her legs, half asleep. I shook his shoulder. ‘Not yet, wake up, we’ll be going soon.’ Nan shuffled down the steps with Billy and Jill, and we were on our way.
‘No talking, you kids,’ Mum said, ‘and stay close.’
We followed the line of shadows to the rear of our yard. Just as we neared the gap in the back picket fence, Dad flung open the door of his sleep out and staggered onto the verandah, yelling abuse.
Oh no, I thought, he knows we’re leaving, he’s gunna come and get us! We all crouched down and hid behind some bushes. ‘Stay low and be very quiet,’ Mum whispered. I prayed Helen wouldn’t cry. I hardly breathed. I was sure Dad would hear me if I did. I would feel terrible if my breathing led him to where we were all hiding. I remembered all the stories Dad had told me about the camps he’d been in. Horse’s Head Soup. They’d had Horse’s Head Soup, fur and all. The men fought over the eye because it was the only bit of meat. I was shivering, I didn’t know whether it was from nerves or cold. I remembered then that the Germans had stripped Dad naked and forced him to stand for hours in the snow. His feet were always cold, that must be why.
My heart was pounding. I suddenly understood what it had been like for Dad and his friends; they’d felt just the way I was feeling now. Alone, and very, very frightened.
For some reason, Dad stopped yelling and swearing; he peered out into the darkness of the yard, and then he turned and shuffled back to his room.
‘Now, kids,’ Mum said. We didn’t need to be told twice. With unusual speed, Billy, Jill and I darted through the gap to safety.
Within seconds, we were all grouped around Grace’s wood stove, cooking toast and waiting for our cup of tea. I felt safe, now. Had I really been so terrified only a moment ago? It was a different world.
We never stayed at Aunty Grace’s long, just until Dad was back on an even keel. Prior to our return, I would be sent to negotiate with him. ‘He’ll listen to you,’ they said. I don’t think he ever did.
After my mother had bedded my brothers and sisters down on the floor of Grace’s lounge, Nan walked me to the gap in the picket fence. After that, I was on my own. One night, I told Nan I didn’t want to go, but she replied, ‘You must, there’s no one else.’
If I was really worried, she stood in the gap and watched me until I reached the back verandah. She didn’t have to stand there long, fear of the dark usually made my progress rapid.
My father’s room was the sleep out, and his light burnt all hours. I think he disliked the dark as much as me.
Our house seemed particularly menacing. It was surrounded by all kinds of eerie shadows, and I wondered if I’d find something horrible when I got there. I didn’t, there was only Dad sitting on his hard, narrow bed, surrounded by empties. He always knew when I had come, quietly opening his bedroom door when he heard the creak on the back verandah.
I took up my usual position on the end of his bed and dangled my feet back and forth. The grey blanket I sat on was rough, and I plucked at it nervously.
Dad sat with his shoulders hunched. His hair, greased with Californian Poppy, curled forward, one persistent lock dropping over his brow and partly obscuring three deep parallel wrinkles. They weren’t a sign of age, he had a clear sort of face apart from them. They reminded me of marks left in damp dirt after Nan had dug her spade in.
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask, who dug your wrinkles, Dad? I knew it would make him cry. When Dad smiled, his eyes crinkled at the corners. It was nice. He wasn’t smiling now, just waiting.
‘Dad, we’ll all come back if you’ll be good,’ I stated matter-offactly. I’d inherited none of Mum’s natural diplomacy, but I sensed that Dad hated being alone, so I started from there. He responded with his usual brief, wry smile, and then gave me his usual answer, ‘I’ll let you all come back as long as your grandmother doesn’t.’ He had a thing about Nanna.
‘You know we won’t come back without her, Dad,’ I said firmly. We both knew Mum would never agree. How would she cope with him on her own? And anyway, where would Nan go?
Dad ran his hand through his hair. It was a characteristic gesture; he was thinking. Reaching behind his back and down the side of his bed, he pulled out three unopened packets of potato chips. Slowly, he placed them one by one in my lap. I could feel the pointed corner of one pack sticking through the cotton of my thin summer dress and into my thigh. Suddenly my mouth was full of water.
‘You can have them all,’ he said quietly, ‘if … you stay with me.’
Dad looked at me and I looked at the chips. They were a rare treat. I swallowed the water in my mouth and reluctantly handed them back. We both understood it was a bribe. I was surprised Dad was trying to bribe me, I knew that he knew it was wrong.
‘I always thought you liked your mother better than me.’ He didn’t really mean it, it was just another ploy to get me to stay. Deep down, he understood my decision. Reaching up, he opened the door and I walked out onto the verandah. Click! went the lock and I was alone.
I walked towards the outside door and stopped. Maybe if I waited for a while, he would call me back. Maybe he would say, ‘Here, Sally, have some chips, anyway.’ There was no harm in waiting. I squatted on the bare verandah, time seemed to pass so slowly. I shuddered, the air was getting cooler and damper.
Some sixth sense must have told him I was still there because his bedroom door suddenly opened and light streamed out, illuminating my small hunched figure. Towering over me, Dad yelled, ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing here, GET GOING!’ and he pointed in the direction of Aunty Grace’s house.
I shot down the three back steps and sped along the track that cut through our grass. With unexpected nimbleness, I leapt through the gap in the back picket fence and, in no time at all, arrived panting at the door of Aunty Grace’s laundry.
Mum and Nan always questioned me in detail about what Dad said. It was never any different, he always said the same thing. They’d nod their heads seriously, as though everything I said was of great importance.
Once I’d finished telling them what he’d said, they’d then ask me how he seemed. I found that a difficult question to answer, because Dad was more aggressive towards them than he was towards me.
Eventually, I’d go to bed, and the following day, we generally returned home. I guess Dad slept it off.
There was only one occasion when Dad intruded in
to our sanctuary. We were sitting in Grace’s kitchen, eating chip sandwiches, when he appeared unexpectedly in the doorway. No one had heard him come, he could move quietly when he wanted to.
We were all stunned. No one was sure what was going to happen. For some reason. Dad didn’t seem to know what to do either. He looked at all of us in a desperate kind of way, then he fixed his gaze on Mum. I heard him mumble something indistinct, but Mum didn’t reply. She just stood there, holding the teapot. It was like she was frozen. I think it was her lack of response that forced him to turn to me.
‘All right, Sally, which one of us do you love the most? Choose which one of us you want to live with, your mother or me.’
I was as shocked as Mum. I wanted to shout, ‘Don’t do this to me, I’m only a kid!’ but nothing came out. I had trouble getting my mouth to work in those days.
Dad stayed a few seconds longer, then, in a resigned tone, he muttered, ‘I knew you’d choose her,’ and left as quickly as he’d come.
That night, I found myself feeling sorry for Dad. He was so lost. I blamed myself for being too young.
A change
It was halfway through the second term of my fourth year at school that I suddenly discovered a friend. Our teacher began reading stories about Winnie the Pooh every Wednesday. From then on, I was never sick on Wednesdays. In a way, discovering Pooh was my salvation. He made me feel more normal. I suppose I saw something of myself in him.
Pooh lived in a world of his own and he believed in magic, the same as me. He wasn’t particularly good at anything, but everyone loved him, anyway. I was fascinated by the way he could make an adventure out of anything, even tracks in the snow. And while Pooh was obsessed with honey, I was obsessed with drawing.
When I couldn’t find any paper or pencils, I would fish small pieces of charcoal from the fire, and tear strips off the paperbark tree in our yard and draw on that. I drew in the sand, on the footpath, the road, even on the walls when Mum wasn’t looking. One day, a neighbour gave me a batch of oil paints left over from a stint in prison. I felt like a real artist.
My drawings were very personal. I hated anyone watching me draw. I didn’t even like people seeing my drawings when they were finished. I drew for myself, not anyone else. One day, Mum asked me why I always drew sad things. I hadn’t realised until then that my drawings were sad. I was shocked to see my feelings glaring up at me from the page. I became even more secretive about anything I drew after that.
Dad never took any interest in my drawings, he was completely enveloped in his own world. He never went to the pub now, we were too poor to be able to afford the petrol. There was never any money for toys, clothes, furniture, barely enough for food, but always plenty for Dad’s beer. Everything valuable had been hocked.
One day, Dad was so desperate that he raided our moneyboxes. I’ll never forget our dismay when Jill and I found our little tin moneyboxes had been opened with a can-opener and all our hard-won threepenny bits removed. What was even more upsetting was that he’d opened them at the bottom, and then placed them back on the shelf as though they’d never been tampered with. We kept putting our money in and he kept taking it out. ‘Who knows how long we’ve been supplying him!’ I complained to Mum. I felt really hurt: if Dad had asked me, I’d have given him the contents, willingly.
As usual, Mum saw the funny side of things.
‘How can you think it’s funny?’ I demanded. ‘It was a rotten trick!’
‘Can’t you see the funny side? It was such a childish thing to do.’
I knew what she meant, but I didn’t think it was funny. He was just like a child sometimes. He never mended anything around the house, or took any responsibility. I felt very disappointed in him.
Dad hated being poor, and I could forgive him for that, because I hated it myself. He loved the luxuries working-class people couldn’t afford. If he had been able to, he would have given us anything. Instead, his craving for beer and his illness left us with nothing. I knew that Mum and Dad had had dreams once. It wasn’t supposed to have turned out like this.
That year, Dad’s love of luxuries really broke our budget, but it also gave us the status of being the first family in our street to have television.
As he carried it in, an awkward-looking square on four pointy legs, and tried to manoeuvre it through the front door, we all rushed at him excitedly. ‘Get out the bloody way, you kids,’ he yelled as he staggered into the hall. Televisions were heavy in those days. A few more lunges and the hallowed object was finally set down next to the power point in the lounge room.
We lined up in awe behind Dad, waiting for our first glimpse of this modern-day miracle. We were disappointed. All we saw was white flecks darting across a grey screen, all we heard was a buzzing noise. While Mum pressed the power point, Dad fiddled with the knob marked vertical hold. It was only after they’d both banged the set several times that Dad realised the rental people had forgotten to leave the aerial.
We all went racing out the front, hoping the ute that had delivered our television set was still parked in the drive. ‘Jesus Bloody Christ!’ Dad swore as he gazed up the long length of empty road. I shrugged my shoulders in disappointment and went inside.
The aerial arrived the following day, but it never made the difference I imagined it would. Grey, human-like figures became discernible and their conversations with one another audible, but they didn’t impress me. I had the feeling they weren’t quite sure of whatever it was they were supposed to be doing.
In July, we had a surprise visit. We were all playing happily outside when Mum called us in. There was an urgency in her voice. What’s going on, I thought. We don’t do midnight flits during the day. I peeped into Dad’s room on the way through. He was lying down, reading an old paper.
When we reached the hall, I stopped dead in my tracks. Mum grinned at me and said, ‘Well, say hello, these are your cousins.’ As usual, my mouth had difficulty working. The small group of dark children stared at me. They seemed shy, too. I felt such an idiot.
Just then, a very tall, dark man walked down and patted me on the head. He had the biggest smile I’d ever seen. ‘This is Arthur,’ Mum said proudly, ‘he’s Nanna’s brother.’ I stared at him in shock. I didn’t know she had a brother.
Arthur returned to the lounge room and us kids all sat on the floor, giggling behind our hands and staring at one another. Mum slipped into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I glimpsed her going into Dad’s room. Then she returned, finished off the tea and dug out some biscuits. I helped pass them around.
Mum said, very brightly, to Arthur, ‘He’s asleep. Perhaps he’ll wake up before you leave.’ I knew she was lying, but I didn’t understand why. Sleep never came easily to Dad.
After a while, they all left. I was surprised to hear Arthur speak English. I thought maybe he could speak English and Indian, whereas the kids probably only spoke Indian.
I don’t remember ever seeing them again while I was a child, but the image of their smiling faces lodged deep in my memory. I often wondered about them. I wanted them to teach me Indian. I never said anything to Mum. I knew, instinctively, that if I asked about them, she wouldn’t tell me anything.
Dad seemed to be getting sicker and sicker. By the time September came around, he had been in hospital more than he’d been home. At least he managed to return for Jill’s birthday towards the end of September.
Mum asked a special favour of him that day. She wanted him to stay in his room while the party was on. It was the first party Jill had ever asked her friends to, and Mum didn’t want Dad to spoil it by walking around, drunk. To my surprise, he actually agreed.
It was halfway through a round of Queenie, Queenie, Who’s Got The Ball that Dad appeared, a bottle and glass in his right hand. I watched as he casually seated himself on the front porch and poured a glass of beer. After a couple of drinks, he began to call out and make comments about the game we were playing. Mum suddenly appeared behind him in the hall and be
gan to whisper crossly, ‘Bill, come inside, you’re making a fool of yourself, the neighbours will hear you.’ As Mum’s whispers became more urgent, so Dad refilled his glass more often, he delighted in taking the mickey out of Mum.
One morning a few weeks later, Dad emerged from his room early, we were just finishing breakfast. All the previous week, he’d been in hospital, so we were surprised by the cheery look on his face. Nan hovered near the table, intent on hurrying us along. She knew we’d seize on any pretext to miss school.
‘Come on, you kids, you’ll be late,’ she grumbled when she noticed our eating had slowed to a halt.
‘Aw, let then stay home, Dais,’ Dad said. ‘I’ll look after them.’ Had I heard right? I froze halfway through my last slice of toast and jam, it wasn’t like Dad to interfere with anything to do with us. I’d heard him call Nan Dais before. It was his way of charming her.
Nan was as surprised as me. She flicked her dirty tea towel towards us and muttered in her grumpiest voice, ‘They have to go to school, Bill, they can’t stay home.’ I sensed that she was unsure of herself, and beneath her lowered lashes, she eyed Dad shrewdly.
‘Well, let little Billy stay then, Dais,’ Dad coaxed. I smiled, he’d called her Dais again, how could she resist?
‘All right,’ Nan relented, ‘just Billy. Now, off you girls go!’
Billy waved at us smugly. Jill and I grumbled as we dressed. Nan had always favoured the boys in our family, and now Dad was doing the same.
By lunchtime, we’d forgotten all about Billy. Jill and I had been taken off normal classwork to help paint curtains for the school’s Parents’ Night, which was held at the end of each year. We were halfway through drawing a black swan family when the headmaster came down and told us we could go home early. We were puzzled, but very pleased to be leaving before the other kids.
Nan wasn’t happy when she saw us shuffling up the footpath.
‘What are you kids doing here? They were supposed to keep you late at school.’
We just shrugged our shoulders, neither Jill nor I had the faintest idea what she was talking about.
