Innocence Revisited

by Cathy Kezelman

  I gathered all of the photos I had together and spread them out on the lounge room floor, selected the few singletons I wanted to keep and returned to the albums to pore through for final choices. Sitting alone in my mother’s lounge room I flipped open the chocolate brown one and stopped and stared at a portrait of a man I was assured was my father. I recognised his face but there was not a lot else that I could remember; his hugs and kisses; how I sat perched on his knee; the tenderness of his touch; none of these, nor the timbre of his voice. Such details didn’t come readily. Feelings arose within me, but vanished before I could hold onto the sensations or cherish them.

  I flipped the page and a family of four stared back; two parents, a boy and a girl. It resembled the family I once had. That family camped in a tent that reminded me of our lean-to. That family went to the beach. The little boy and girl from that family wore swimsuits and played with buckets and spades and built sandcastles. There were birthday parties with games and laughter, and rumbles with a dog which looked just like Cherry. Ballet lessons, tennis competitions. It looked like a happy family. Maybe I did have a happy childhood after all, but if my childhood was happy, why couldn’t I remember it?

  I stopped on another page with a single photo of my parents on their wedding day. The newlyweds were posing by a shiny black Humber, which they had hired for the occasion. My father looked dashing in a dark suit; his hair and shoes gleamed. My mother looked resplendent in a fox fur coat with collar, paws and matching hat. My father was beaming. I don’t recall him looking so happy. Ever.

  I flipped through a sequence of baby shots of my brother and after those, a photo of me with a family friend, a doctor friend of my mother’s from Sydney. My mother had met the doctor and his wife soon after she’d arrived in Australia for the first time. I hadn’t thought about the doctor in years. In the photo I looked about thirteen and was standing awkwardly beside the doctor. He had his arm around me and I didn’t seem to like it. Looking at the photo made me uneasy, so I didn’t focus on it for long.

  I spent several hours on my mother’s lounge room floor, gathering the photos I wanted to keep. I took my selection home, had the photos copied and replaced the originals the next time I was able to visit my mother’s place undetected. Meanwhile back at home I proceeded to arrange the early years of my life as best I could. When the deed was done I lay back, basking in the sense of what I had achieved. I was forty-five years old and finally owned a photo album which was filled with my photos!

  I looked through my photos a lot in the months that followed. It was as if staring at them might spin some magic and bring the images to life, and if the images came to life they might divulge some of their secrets. Sadly there was no magic, but the photos did provide me with a context within which to reconstruct more of my past.

  Within months I was able to picture Redcliffe, the suburb in which I grew up - a forgettable settlement of red sands and windswept beaches, the house my parents built, and the corner block on which it stood. The houses on either side, the backyard in which we played and the dirt roads around our home. At some point in my childhood the dirt roads disappeared and were replaced by bitumen, and the vacant lots morphed into homes with gardens and fences and washing lines. It was the bush area across the road that was special though, as a child it had been home to my many adventures.

  Redcliffe lies on the shores of Moreton Bay, 40 kms north of Brisbane in Queensland. My parents settled on the Moreton Bay Peninsula when Simon was a few months old. In those days the Peninsula was a haven for old-timers, many of whom were related; if not by blood, by indiscretion. Redcliffe was the quintessential country town in which everyone knew everyone else’s business. Rumours spread like wildfire and no-one could really be trusted.

  When they first arrived, my parents rented the upper level of a ramshackle duplex in a place called Margate. I came home there from hospital, three years after the rest of the family had taken up residence. I was said to be a bonnie baby who was hard to soothe. In fact, I screamed so much that my mother would stick my pram, with me inside it, down the end of the yard. That way she wouldn’t have to hear me. By all reports, being ignored didn’t shut me up; it made me scream louder. Sometimes, my mother told me, I screamed so hard that I lost my voice and became an exponent of baby mime. I can picture myself: legs kicking furiously, arms thrashing like windmills, face flushed scarlet vermilion with my mouth opened wide like the megaphone I aspired to be. No-one, it seems, came if I hollered.

  Nor did they when I didn’t.

  My mother recounted how Mr Timms, an old timer living down below would alert her to my distress.

  ‘Hey luv, your baby’s cryin’ real bad down there in the yard.’

  ‘Yes I know, Mr Timms. That’s why I put her there and I’d thank you to mind your own business.’

  My mother changed, fed and put me down to sleep according to a strict four hourly feeding schedule as was prescribed in those days. It would seem that my mother followed either that schedule, or her own, but rarely mine.

  She had other demands on her time and many of those demands came from my brother, Simon. Simon had captured my mother’s heart long before I arrived on the scene. Three and a half years older, he had not only arrived first, but arrived a boy; obliged to replace the boy brother my mother had lost during the war. Given the considerable expectations placed upon him, it was to his benefit and fortune that Simon was smart. In Kindergarten he was labelled a genius. He then skipped Grade 1 topped Grade 2 and maintained his academic superiority to the end of high school.

  Yet all was not lost. I was a cute little girl who could twist her Daddy around her little finger. My Daddy called me his princess and told me that I was special and I sure felt special when I was with him. So the balance of our little family was established. I was my father’s princess and Simon, my mother’s genius son.

  My parents worked hard to make ends meet and times weren’t easy especially when my mother didn’t work. Consequently our physical needs were adequately addressed, but never indulged. We always had plenty of food, though much of it was of questionable quality. Mutton, mince and lumps of ox tongue were standard fare and then there was my mother’s cabbage soup. She’d boil the cabbage in a huge pot and make enough to last all week. And the smell… oh how I hated that smell! We’d be forced to eat it until the last leaf had been devoured and that could mean facing it several times a day. Nothing edible was ever thrown out, even when it was on the turn.

  Bread in particular was treated with a quasi-sacred respect and never considered too stale. When bread grew so hard that we couldn’t bite it, my mother would douse it with milk, stick it into our wood-fired oven for five minutes and serve it back up. Lashings of butter and homemade jam helped it slide down!

  Our clothes were mostly hand-me-downs. This arrangement favoured Simon because they came from a cousin, Lee who was older than Simon, male and corpulent. Simon got to wear the cast-offs first, and was therefore dressed reasonably well. I on the other hand wasn’t so lucky. I got Simon’s hand-me-downs and so for most of my childhood I looked like a threadbare walking tent; a pup tent when I was little and a lean-to as I grew older. Just as well that I seemed not to mind how I looked. For most of my childhood, the less attractive I felt, the better it suited me.

  Looking rough and ready assured me membership in our local gang who were all boys apart from me. I was one of the youngest of the crew, traipsing barefoot behind Simon and the others from the moment I could toddle. Cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, tree houses, waterholes and caves, sticks and water - our bush provided all the best building blocks for child’s play and all manner of adventure. Best of all, we kids had one another.

  Some of my childhood was happy. I was sure of it.

  chapter 7

  My mother lived close to my marital home in the eastern suburbs of Sydney. My mother, brother and I moved into her two storey semi, the year after my father died and she has lived there ever since. In the early years of my the
rapy and in those prior, I would pop in to see my mother weekly, and speak with her every second day. I felt close to my mother and very protective of her. When she felt miserable I’d spring into action and seek ways to lift her mood. Her wellbeing and happiness had always been my responsibility and one of my foremost concerns since childhood.

  Whenever I saw my mother we’d chat amicably, but rarely discuss anything personal. Over the years I’d identified the topics I could safely broach with her and earmarked those better avoided. My mother had a short fuse and as children we developed ways to avoid bearing the brunt of her anger. It wasn’t always possible. Sometimes she would explode regardless, but we did what we could to maintain the peace, even as adults.

  Simon became secretive. In fact he had become so adept at keeping secrets that he regularly hid any and all information that had the potential to elicit our mother’s disapproval. Whenever he came to visit her, he displayed only those aspects of his personality of which she approved. That meant hiding some of the most significant parts of his life, a denial of self which would come at a cost. Simon had learnt that it was preferable to leave some things unsaid the hard way; screaming rows, disapproving silences and threats of being disowned had taught my brother the practical wisdom of revealing himself to his mother only sparingly.

  For years I’d been the family peacemaker. It was a role I’d adopted in early childhood and carried into adulthood. I too had learnt not to discuss certain issues with my mother and only ever articulated an alternate stance when making a point was crucial to my peace of mind. I had learnt that my mother’s point of view prevailed, regardless. It was definitely better to keep the peace.

  Therapy brought enhanced insight and with it an awareness of how much I’d silenced myself over the years. Of how rarely I’d expressed my views to my mother or even been able to identify what they were. At forty-five I started to challenge my mother’s views, like an adolescent seeking independence, and she was far from impressed!

  ‘Baba, I don’t know why you are asking me these questions. There are secrets which are just for the three of us, you, me and Simey and they need to stay between us and no-one else.’

  Most people would ask a person making a statement like the one my mother made to elaborate. I didn’t because I was still learning how to challenge her. As I gained more insight I not only challenged her, but realised that her conversations no longer needed to represent absolute truth. They were her opinions and not mine. My job was to formulate opinions of my own and stick to them. As I sought to change the patterns of a lifetime, I questioned my mother further.

  ‘Mum, I’m having some trouble remembering things, from when I was little.’

  ‘Yes Baba. Your poor memory upsets me terribly. Your mother has a wonderful memory. I can’t imagine what’s wrong with yours! Sometimes I think you’re making it up!’ My mother was shouting at me. I hated it when my mother shouted.

  ‘No Mum. I really can’t remember.’

  ‘Well it makes me angry. I just don’t know what’s wrong with you! I can remember everything about my childhood like it was yesterday.’

  ‘Well it’s very har…’

  ‘Baba, you had a happy childhood and everything was done for the children! Isn’t that enough? Daddy and I never went out together, you know. So you’d never be alone.’

  ‘Yes, Mum. I’ve heard that before but I want to know more. I want to be able to remember for myself.’

  ‘And Baba, your father loved you very much. You know that don’t you? He adored you!’

  It was strange hearing my mother talk about my father. The topic of my father had been taboo for such a long time.

  Prior to my memories returning I’d rarely thought about my father, let alone chosen to speak about him. Previously, on the occasions a friend had inquired about him, I would feel distinctly uncomfortable and snap back a brutally blunt, ‘He’s dead.’ And if the friend had dared ask anything else I would respond so abrasively that the questioning would abruptly stop.

  I only dared question my mother directly about my childhood a couple of times, and neither time reaped any reward. As anticipated, she would be defensive at first, quickly become irritated and soon after, enraged. My mother resented my questioning and scoffed at the therapy which had spawned it. She was a firm believer that the past is the past and didn’t believe in delving into issues. She subscribed to the theory that doing so only stirred things up unnecessarily. My mother reiterated this conviction frequently, and routinely reminded me that only those too weak to deal with their issues would ever consider going to a therapist.

  I was seeing my psychologist and was fully engaged in my therapy. As the process challenged my belief system, I began to change. My mother, in the meantime, held onto her rigid views. The resulting tension between us shook the foundations of our relationship and drove a wedge between us. New insights meant that I could not remain the silent, compliant daughter I had been. The shift was difficult for my mother to handle. She preferred the ‘old me’ and told me so in no uncertain terms. But try as she might to hold onto the old me, I was not prepared to be the daughter she wanted ever again. My journey had become a journey to find my ‘self ‘; a self that I was no longer prepared to deny for anyone. Especially her.

  My mother loved going overseas and headed off whenever she could afford it. As luck would have it she was leaving on a six-week overseas trip soon after I’d decided that it wasn’t worth asking her any more questions. Her time away provided me with the perfect opportunity to explore aspects of my past which she was loath to share. Still playing the dutiful daughter I drove her to the airport, but this time, after a farewell drink in the lounge, I headed straight back to her place.

  My mother held onto all sorts of paraphernalia just in case it would become useful. As a result, her house was packed with memorabilia which others would have ditched eons earlier. As I searched for clues, my mother’s idiosyncrasies were actually working in my favour for once.

  I embarked on a thorough search of the three storeys of my mother’s house, including the basement. I spent a good couple of days on the ground floor, checking inside cupboards and drawers and suitcases. I didn’t find much of interest because the ground floor of her house was largely concerned with the details of everyday life.

  In an upstairs bedroom, inside a wardrobe, under a pile of naphthalene-impregnated woollies, I uncovered an ancient leather handbag. Inside it I found a curious stash of parental memorabilia. Some items dated from the thirties and forties and included my mother’s ID and a ticket for her passage to Australia. There was an old wallet of my father’s; still holding pay slips, receipts and his passport photo. How handsome he’d once been! There was a stack of sympathy cards from 1968, the year my father died. I didn’t recognise many of names signed at the bottom of the cards but I found solace in the sentiments they expressed.

  I discovered one card from the doctor whose photo I’d found and it had a hand-written note inside it. In the note the doctor invited us to go and stay with him over Christmas; the Christmas after my father died. Reading the note upset me rather like his photo had. I didn’t understand why, but swiftly packed it away and put the doctor to the back of my mind. I finished reading the cards and popped them back inside the handbag, covered the handbag with the naphthalene woollies and headed under the house.

  My mother’s basement was divided into four sections. The first was a cluttered laundry. The second harboured the largest stash of obsolete household gadgets, out-of-date products, jars and bottles in the Southern Hemisphere. I found Simon’s chemistry set there, complete with corroded jars, and test tubes discoloured by the sludge of spent reactions. Simon had fancied himself as a ‘mad scientist’ and used to conduct his experiments in the basement. His speciality was baking gunpowder in my mother’s oven, which in turn fuelled a series of rocket launches from the backyard. I’d help him test his rockets out, whenever he’d let me, fetching the matches, keeping a lookout for our mother, grabbing the
hose in an emergency and refilling the holes the rockets made in the grass when they burrowed underground by mistake.

  Section three was pitch-black, with pipes and cables snaking across the dirt floor. Despite hooking up a bulb I still risked life and limb, negotiating my way around. Stacks of assorted suitcases, metal trunks, cardboard boxes and containers lay blanketed under layers of hessian, carpet and plastic to protect the antiquated from ageing further. Ferreting through these items took several visits and unremitting determination.

  Despite several generations of silverfish having supped on the items, a smorgasbord of bits and pieces remained intact; letters, poems and short stories, sketchpads full of my father’s drawings and innumerable musical scores that he’d composed.

  I picked up an innocuous-looking exercise book and dusted it off. Inside it were pages of verse which used a perplexing array of constructs and stilted Shakespearian language. Another exercise book contained essays in which sentences lay angled across the pages and extra words were jotted throughout the margins. In addition, scrawled comments punctuated the text while key words were repeatedly underlined. I didn’t know what to make of what I read. While much of his writing confused me, the music syllabus I found was delightful - his passion for music filled every page. I adored the way my father introduced composers as if they were old friends, how he had personified each instrument and brought musical eras and styles long passed, to life.

  Through these remnants of my father’s passions, I got in touch with the sensitivity he had displayed in his life. I stroked his work and held it close, embracing it and embracing him. Thirty years after my father died I was finally mourning him, and that process continued for months. It was weird; I felt as though he’d only just died, but then I was still mourning Angie. The problem now, was that I was grieving two deaths simultaneously.