by Sally Morgan
By the time three panels were plastered to the wall, the whole hall was also plastered with glue and bits of paisley print that had torn off and I was beginning to feel distinctly sticky and generally doubtful about the whole thing. Unfortunately, Mum wasn’t one to admit to failure. She urged me on with comments like, ‘It’s beautiful, Sally, you’re so clever with your hands,’ and ‘We’ll have the best house in the street after tonight!’
At one stage, Nan came in and, seeing us balancing on top of the crates completely obscured by the wallpaper, which had somehow flopped backwards over our heads, commented, ‘I’m livin’ in a nut- house! You two are the silliest buggers I know.’ Mum blew her top and Nan left, chuckling. She was always pleased when she upset someone.
By midnight, we’d finished the full length of the wall. There were still uneven pieces left over at either end, but we decided that they could wait until morning to be snipped off.
The following morning, Mum and I went in to admire our handiwork. Nan was already in the lounge room, pacing up and down eyeing the wallpaper, with Curly close on her heels. He was giving it the occasional lick. I think he liked the glue.
‘Come on, Nan,’ Mum coaxed, ‘it looks lovely, doesn’t it?’
Nan smiled smugly, ‘Oooh yes … you’ve got one bit going one way and the next bit going the other. You are clever, Glad.’ Then, she turned to Curly and said, ‘Come on boy, I’ll give you your milk. You don’t want to stay in here with these silly buggers.’
Nan was right, the pattern was all mixed up. Mum salvaged some pride by muttering, ‘We can say we did it that way deliberately.’
Mum continued her attempts at updating our house the following month, when Cyril came to stay.
Cyril was an elderly friend of mine whom I had met at church. Now we children were getting older, we often brought friends home to stay. Nan wasn’t happy about the situation, but Mum felt that by welcoming our friends, she was helping us keep on the straight and narrow.
Cyril was an Englishman, and he prided himself on his ability to cope with the Australian climate. During the summer, when we relished cold showers, cool drinks, shady verandahs, and even the dog had an ice cube in his milk, Cyril would be out in the midday sun, clad only in baggy shorts and lace-up shoes. Nan’s comments of ‘Come inside you silly man’ and ‘Hmmph, thinks he’s a blackfella’ went unheard as Cyril busied himself with some particularly hot, sweaty task.
‘You know what they say,’ I said to her. ‘Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun.’ I must’ve impressed her, because with a jerk, she pulled open the louvres and ordered Curly inside.
When Cyril had first arrived at our place, he’d only planned to stay overnight. He had no fixed abode, but resided anywhere he could find a friendly face and somewhere to park his van. However, the following morning, he regaled Mum and Nan with comments like, ‘I don’t know where I’ll go from here’ and ‘I’m worried about that knock in my back axle, I really shouldn’t be driving around.’ Battlers themselves, it would have been against their natures to do anything but offer him a temporary home.
Being a practical sort of man, Cyril assured Mum that it would take him no more than a few days to discover what was causing the knock in his back axle. Mum, a shrewd sort of woman, was mentally noting all the odd jobs around the house that needed a man’s attention.
Mum’s suggestion of putting a sliding flywire door in the gap in our enclosed back verandah was eagerly taken up.
Cyril hated spending money and Mum loved a bargain, so, in no time at all, a fourth-hand sliding door, profusely patchworked with bits of florist wire, and painted psychedelic blue with paint discarded at the local tip, was installed.
But a fly-free verandah had to be weighed against the difficulty we all experienced in actually getting in and out. The railings were slanted so the door would be self-closing, but the heavy jarrah frame made it a race against time to whip down the three back steps without guillotining an arm or a leg. Nan’s bruises and Curly’s whines bore testimony to Cyril’s ingenuity gone wrong.
Cyril attempted to rectify his mistake by placing a stopper inside the railing, and a weight to one side of the door to slow it down. There was no thought of repositioning the railings, the basic principle was, after all, a good one. Finally, Nan came up with the best solution. She propped the door permanently open with two red bricks, and the flies returned.
Cyril’s next project was the side gate. Mum had been warned continually by the local council to keep the dogs in the yard. She presented this problem to Cyril and he immediately set about producing the cheapest, most functional gate in the southern hemisphere.
For weeks, he haunted auctions, rubbish tips, junkyards and second-hand shops in search of materials. One night after tea, he unfolded a neat drawing of how he envisaged the gate would look. I peered over his shoulder at the sketch. It was large and fancy, in a word, ostentatious, and Mum loved it. Nan failed to see how he could get something like that out of the heap of metal beds and wire bases he’d stockpiled in the yard.
For the next four days, Cyril cut, welded, heated, moulded and re-welded different pieces of metal. The final production was five foot wide and five and a half foot high, and it bore no resemblance to the original drawing. Cyril proudly told Mum that he had let his innate creativity flow, altering the design as he went along.
I stood eyeing the monster in awe. I suddenly and desperately wished he’d discover what was causing the knock in his back axle and leave before Mum could ask him to do anything else.
By the time Cyril finished the gate, his stay of two to three days had stretched into six weeks, and his search for the elusive knock had led to a complete dismantling of his van, which was strewn in various stages of disassembly down our drive. It was a mystery to us how he still managed to find some part of it to sleep in.
No sooner would one mechanical problem be solved than another would begin. Cyril’s concern for his back axle passed to the exhaust system, the wheel bearings and, eventually, to the engine itself. We began to sense that it was going to be a lifetime job.
I’m happy to say that Mum bore the brunt of it. The words ‘Now you take my van …’ were now a cue for the rest of the family to melt slowly away. Mum was the only one too polite to do so. Her punishment for such courtesy was long sessions with Cyril, during which he explained the intricacies of modern motor mechanics to Mum’s mechanically feeble brain.
Nan, in particular, was getting fed up with him. Habits that had at first seemed humorous now became more and more irritating.
‘He’s digging in for the winter,’ she commented ominously to me one day.
Nan discovered that she had an intense dislike of classical music. Actually, she hadn’t known what classical music was until she met Cyril. Now, every morning, as though fired with a missionary zeal to educate, he roused us with loud bursts of ROM, POM, POM, POM! ROM, POM, POM, POM!
Nan decided that his passion must be curbed, especially before six in the morning.
Initially, she countered his attacks by turning up her transistor radio full blast. It failed to register against his stereophonic cassette with four speakers.
I suggested to Nan that she tackle Cyril directly and simply ask him to turn his music down. ‘He can only say no and I don’t think that’s likely, because he’s on our territory, so it’s only fair that he considers our wishes.’
‘You can’t do that, Sally,’ she said in a shocked voice. ‘You can’t go asking people to do things.’
It seemed we were at an impasse. Situations such as these had been resolved in the past by Mum and Nan simply wearing their opposition down and thus avoiding confrontation, but, in Cyril, they’d met their match. So, for the next few weeks, the music continued louder than ever, and Nan’s progressively more militant comments passed unnoticed.
I could see that, as far as Cyril was concerned, subtlety was a word he’d never discovered in his well-worn English dictionary, which was surpri
sing, because he often looked up long, complicated words to include in his everyday language. This habit, rather than adding to the quality of his conversation, served merely to lengthen it.
Then, one afternoon, I watched with curiosity as Nan shuffled towards Cyril’s semi-complete van. I knew she was a woman with a mission.
I listened as she gave Cyril a brief introduction into the mysteries of animal health. Then she mentioned Curly, her four-footed favourite. I glimpsed Cyril’s sympathetic nod as she described Curly’s hearing problem.
‘Well, these things happen as we get older, Nan, I’m going a bit deaf myself.’
Nan persevered, intimating that Curly was all right a few months ago. ‘Funny how it’s come on all of a sudden. I’m worried about him, Cyril, if his ears don’t get better soon, I’m afraid he won’t hear the cars when they toot at him and he’ll get run over.’
Now Cyril was a stickler for convention and he couldn’t understand why anyone would let their dog have his afternoon sleep in the middle of the road. So, consequently, he replied, ‘You know, Nan, it’s not right that he should be out at all. He’s not licensed.’
Nan was getting pretty fed up by this stage, so she said gruffly, ‘Never mind about his licence, what about his ears?’
‘Well, why don’t I take him up the vet for you?’ Poor Cyril, he was trying, but he’d missed the point again.
‘A vet,’ Nan exploded almost immediately. ‘Curly doesn’t need a vet! I know what’s wrong with him, it’s your music. Rom, pom, pom, pom every morning. Curly can’t take it, he’s only little. He’s not even drinking his milk.’
As Nan’s tirade continued, Cyril’s ruddy face grew ruddier and ruddier. To top it all off, Curly, sensing that he was being discussed, came and stood next to Nan’s bare legs, peering up at Cyril through the mound of black hair that hung over his eyes. That was enough for Cyril. He retreated slowly backwards, up two steps and inside his van. Nan smiled, thanked him and shuffled back down the drive with Curly at her heels. ‘Aah, you’re a good dog, you can have your milk now.’
That evening, as soon as Nan retired to bed, Cyril began recounting the story of their conversation to Mum. He’d nearly finished, when it suddenly dawned on him that Mum was not responding in her usual gregarious manner. Normally, she laughed at anything, even at things other people didn’t consider funny. Mum possessed the kind of laugh that began as an infectious giggle but, in moments, was a full-blown roar. Minutes of silent chewing passed.
Finally, Mum placed her knife and fork in the centre of her plate and said seriously, ‘How kind of you, Cyril, to play that beautiful music of yours softly from now on. I’ve been worried about Curly’s ears for a while now myself, perhaps they’ll improve with time.’
It took six months before Cyril’s van was almost completely restored. One very warm morning he was busy working on the engine in the front of our yard. Nan had been in and out, taking him glasses of cold water to keep him going. ‘I don’t want to have a mad Englishman on my hands,’ she confided. Cyril had a bald patch on the top of his head and Nan was worried about the sun affecting his brain.
At lunchtime, Nan stormed into my room and interrupted my day-dreaming by saying crossly, ‘Will you look what he’s done? You go out and tell him off, Sally. You tell him we don’t want any of that business around this house!’
‘What are you talking about, Nan?’
‘It’s still there,’ she muttered, peering through my bedroom curtains.
‘What’s still there?’ I said as I moved up behind her. All I could see was the van and Cyril’s hot, sweaty, half-naked body.
‘Will you just look where he’s put his shirt, look!’ Cyril’s shirt was spread out neatly across the rosebush in the front of our yard. ‘It’s disgusting,’ Nan said as she continued to eye him through the curtains. ‘Does he think that’s a clothes line? Puttin’ his dirty old shirt where everyone can see. You mark my words, Sally, the neighbours’ll think there’s blackfellas living here!’
Nan turned and stormed out the front. I heard a ripping noise as she tore Cyril’s shirt from the rosebush. Then, she stormed back inside, leaving Cyril gazing after her, his mouth wide open.
He left the following week.
A new career
Mum was both surprised and pleased when I began university in February. But while I phrased my new academic ambition in terms of I never want to work again, Mum took it to mean I was, at last, getting somewhere in the world.
I found university to my liking. I was amazed that none of the lecturers checked to see whether you turned up or not. Even missing tutorials wasn’t a deadly sin. I spent many long afternoons in the library, reading books totally unrelated to my course. Then there were hours in the coffee shop discussing the meaning of life, and days stretched out in the sun under the giant palms that dotted the campus thinking about what a wonderful climate we had.
Jill was more conscientious than me. It was probably just as well we weren’t both doing Arts, because I would have led her astray. She was enjoying studying Law and she’d made some new friends.
I was studying on a Repatriation scholarship and while there was never any money left over, my needs were small. I’d never been one to indulge in following all the fashion trends, and apart from my bus fares and lunches, I had few expenses.
I found travelling to university in winter terrible. I hated the cold. I had to catch two buses and they rarely connected in time for me to transfer immediately from one to the other. On really wet, stormy days, I stayed at home. I would sit in front of the fire all day, watch television, and read my latest book from the library. Nan always brought me in a huge lunch.
It amazed me that, after all those years, she was still trying to fatten me up. I and my brother David were her only failures.
The only day she didn’t make my lunch was rent day. She was always too busy bustling around preparing the rent man’s morning tea to bother with me then. One morning, she was being particularly fussy. It was a new rent man’s first visit and I knew Nan wanted to impress him.
Soon, she was sitting on the front porch having a cup of tea with him. They took extra long that morning. I assumed it was because Nan was spending time buttering him up. When she returned inside, the large plate of biscuits she’d laid out was completely empty.
‘Goodness me, he must have liked that lot.’
Nan smiled. It was a triumph. ‘He loved them. That poor man was so hungry, he ate the lot! He asked me what brand they were, said he wanted to buy some for his own place, but I didn’t know.’ Nan shoved a paper and pencil into my hands. ‘Write down the name for me. The empty packet’s over there on the bench.’
I walked over to the cluttered benchtop and began rummaging through the various items jumbled on top. ‘There’s nothing here, Nan.’
‘Hmph! Your eyesight’s worse than mine. Look, just near the teapot.’
‘What? This one?’ I leant weakly against the side of the bench.
‘What are you laughing for?’
With an unsteady hand, I held the empty packet as close as I could to her face. Her mouth dropped open in shock as her gaze took in the half-torn picture of a fox terrier.
‘No supper for Curly tonight, Nan,’ I choked.
Over the next few months, the fact that Nan’s eyesight was failing became obvious. Sometimes, she mistook the salt for the sugar or the deodorant for the fly spray. While we complained, Mum was prepared to tolerate all these little mistakes, until, one evening, Nan made a fatal error.
It was Friday night and, as usual, Mum had collapsed on the lounge in front of the TV. She preferred sleeping on the lounge to her own bed, maintaining that television was both relaxing and good company. She was completely covered in several layers of a tartan rug, only her frizzy mop of black, curly hair protruded.
It was way past teatime when Nan entered, carrying a quivering mass of dog food. It was a brown jellied concoction made up of bits of liver and other less recognisable ch
unks of dubious origin. I watched curiously as Nan paused in the doorway and peered intently into the semi-darkness. Her squinting eyes paused for a moment on me. I don’t know whether she actually registered my presence, or saw me merely when she turned and, halting abruptly, stared hard at the lounge. She leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing in concentration, and then, following two quick strides towards the lounge, she croaked in exasperation, ‘There you are, Curly, you stupid dog, didn’t you hear me calling you?’
I suppose I should have said something, however, my sense of humour got the better of me.
‘Now come on, Curly,’ Nan growled, ‘it’s no use pretending you’re not there.’ She moved closer and held out the bowl. ‘Come on, eat up. I’m not standing here all night!’ Nan shoved the food deeper into what she was convinced was Curly’s black, furry face.
I watched, entranced, as, prodded into consciousness, the tartan mass that was Mum slowly began to move. Nan, sensing that Curly was at last responding, said, ‘Good boy. Good dog. Come and eat it up!’
With one wild fling, Mum emerged. Her frizzy, black hair was covered with small chunks of jellied meat.
‘Glad?’ croaked Nan in disbelief.
‘You stupid bloody woman,’ Mum spluttered, ‘what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!’
I burst into laughter and Nan, realising she’d made a terrible mistake, made a hurried exit.
It was only after Mum had shampooed her hair and settled back on the lounge with a hot cup of tea that she was able to laugh.
Three sharp barks at the front door then let us all know that the recalcitrant Curly was outside and eager to come in. I opened the door and he pattered in, whining, a sure sign that he was hungry. Nan poked her head around the kitchen doorway and whispered, ‘Is that Curly, Sally?’
‘I think so,’ I laughed, ‘unless Mum barks, too.’
Nan chuckled, then said, ‘Come on, Curly, you naughty boy. Where have you been? Glad nearly got your tea!’
