Innocence Revisited

by Cathy Kezelman

  I wonder if Daddy is sick; Maybe that’s the reason he’s home early. I wonder whether someone’s come to help him; maybe it’s the doctor. Daddy’s been sick a lot lately. I creep towards the noise but a rustling sound behind me makes me freeze. I turn around as Cherry scampers in. She jumps up and licks my leg but I shoosh her away. The moaning keeps getting louder. Some of it sounds like Daddy, then not, but then some of it does again. I peek into the lounge room; Daddy’s sitting in the middle of the floor with his legs tucked up under his chin and he’s rocking back and forth like he’s in a rocking chair except he isn’t. Daddy’s half crying and half moaning all by himself. I squat down next to him and put my hand on his shoulder so he’ll know it’s me.

  ‘What’s wrong, Daddy?’I ask, searching his eyes for an answer.

  Daddy’s eyes look weird; they’re not focusing and he looks through me instead of at me. I hate when Daddy looks through me as though I’m a pane of glass.

  ‘Daddy, it’s me. It’s your princess!’

  Daddy tries to say something but I can’t make it out. ‘Sorry Daddy. Can you say that again?’

  He doesn’t. I try to put my arms around him, but before I can he cries out. It’s a primal cry like an animal in pain and it freaks me out. I jump back. I think my jumping scares Daddy, because he starts sobbing. As he’s sobbing I don’t know what to do. I hate Daddy being upset.

  I bend down and try to put my arms around Daddy but he pushes me away.

  ‘Look, just look what they’ve done!’ Daddy cries, turning around towards me, his finger pointing across the room. At long last he’s looking at me, but his eyes look tortured. They’re set deep in a face screwed up within a tight ball of distress.

  I look over to where Daddy’s pointing and my jaw drops open.

  ‘Oh my God, Daddy!’ I exclaim as I stare in horror at the shattered remains of my father’s prized record collection, strewn across the floor in front of the place where the record cabinet once stood.

  ‘Daddy, what happened?’

  Off to one side I spy the sorry remains of what was once the cabinet, in a tangle of wires and gramophone bits. A splintered cabinet door lies marooned at the end of the trail of black vinyl.

  ‘Come on now Daddy, it’s OK. We can buy some new records, you’ll see.’

  Daddy continues to whine like a cat that’s taken bait without ingesting enough to finish itself off.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy it’s okay. We can buy some more records. We really can!’

  I try to cheer Daddy up but nothing I say helps at all.

  I’ve never been so excited to see my mother as when she barrels in, laden with groceries, twenty minutes after me. I’m crouched beside Daddy, stroking his hand; he’s still mumbling incoherently. My mother drops the bags out of her hand and rushes over.

  ‘Cyril, what happened? Tell me what happened?

  My mother kneels down next to my father and talks to him as calmly as my mother ever does anything. Daddy is moaning continuously as she speaks to him.

  ‘Come on Cyril let’s get you to your chair!’ My mother feeds her arm through my father’s arm and tries to pull him to his feet.

  He doesn’t budge. She calls me over to give her a hand; it’s no easy task. My father’s a dead weight.

  ‘Daddy, come on now, Daddy. It’ll be okay. You’ll see.’ We deposit Daddy back in his chair.

  My mother, calm in an emergency but agitated most other times, sifts through the rubble and finds two records which are still intact. The records provide a magic potion for my father; a walking corpse now springs out of his chair and snatches the records out of my mother’s hands. Daddy returns to his chair, and sits there whimpering, his booty clutched to his chest.

  ‘Come on Baba. Let’s fix this up!’ We drag the cabinet back to its spot and right it, minus the door. We place the gramophone back on top of the cabinet, realign its dismembered parts and hope for the best.

  ‘Baba, stay with your father, will you? I’m going to call the police!’

  ‘Let’s play one of your records, Daddy.’ I suggest, praying that our repairs will hold.

  I put my hand out to take one of the survivors, but Daddy won’t part with it.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy, come on now! You’ll enjoy hearing some music, you’ll see. Please give me one. You can keep the other one!’

  ‘No, we’ve had a break in and I want to speak to someone in authority, now!’ My mother’s voice sounds from the kitchen as I gingerly direct the needle onto the first track. His Master’s Voice cooperates with a scratchy Beethoven’s 5th. Daddy leans forward and smiles. I can’t imagine why he’s smiling.

  Three detectives bail up within the hour. Two of them paint powder on our windowsills and doorframes. The other interviews us and takes photos of the crime scene, as he calls it. He even questions the neighbours, but all told, the detectives don’t find any evidence of a break-in - certainly none that they share with me. The detectives inform my mother that they’ll get back when they find some clues. As far as I’m aware they never do come back.

  The next day Daddy isn’t well enough to go to work. He’s sitting in his chair when I leave and he’s still in the same pyjamas when I get back home. I don’t think he’s moved; he certainly looks as though he hasn’t. Daddy doesn’t look at all well; he looks peaky and quite pale and his eyes definitely don’t look right. I ask him what’s wrong, but he doesn’t answer. His whole body seems to be trembling while his right leg is jiggling way more than is usual; even for him. I speak softly because I don’t want to scare him any more than he is already. Eventually he says a few words, and when he does, he talks about a ‘conspiracy’. I don’t know the word, ‘conspiracy’ and I don’t want to upset Daddy by asking him what it means. He looks way too upset already. When he nods off I go over to the bookshelves and pull out our Pears Encyclopaedia - ‘Conspiracy: act of conspiring (good or bad).’ Daddy’s conspiracy sounded ‘bad’ to me.

  Decades later, when I was searching through my mother’s place I found evidence of a conspiracy against my father, a bad one. I found lots of letters at my mother’s house - most of them written between family members on holidays. One bundle; however, was different. That bundle contained letters which I believe indicated that a conspiracy had been mounted against my father. Each of the letters in that bundle lay in its original envelope; all had been addressed to my father and postmarked 1965.

  Each letter was handwritten and signed by a different person. I didn’t recognise any of the signed names but the content of all of those letters was scurrilous. I was appalled and couldn’t fathom how anyone could accuse my father of the transgressions outlined within, transgressions such as him falsifying his teaching credentials. Outrageous! After reading the letters I had no doubt that during 1965, there was a conspiracy against my father.

  The good news was that I also found some letters of support. Even though there weren’t as many of those as there were of the nasty sort, as least some people were on my father’s side, apart from me. I was always on Daddy’s side.

  Cf: James Craig. Mary Craig.

  Dear Cyril,

  Just a short note to tell you that your solicitor welcomed with open arms the witnesses’ statement that I put in his hands. He is going to see a couple of them to persuade them to amplify their statements a little, especially as one; Mrs J has some comments to make on this week’s happenings. I’m very glad that you’ve been able to bring a couple of Redcliffe witnesses in addition to the four you have here. Your case seems quite complete. But I agree with you that it is better to move slowly and have a solid case to present to the Education Department and a statement to corroborate your writ before you move.

  It is indeed a great pity that these people lacked the manhood to admit their mistake years ago. We might yet find all our work unnecessary, but we are dealing with incredibly foolish and stubborn people.

  Yours sincerely,

  J. Davenport.

  The letters explained some of the things ha
ppening during that fateful year. I didn’t find any letters which talked about the time my father’s records were trashed, but there was one which showed that a Mr R Jamieson had broken into our house on at least one occasion.

  ‘I, your leaving results are pathetic just like you. And you call yourself a teacher. You couldn’t even teach a fish how to swim. Get out of teaching now while you have the chance. You heard what the headmaster said. Give up now. If you don’t I’ll have to make you stop. I know where you live. You shouldn’t leave the back door unlocked. The other day, I slipped in and you didn’t notice the difference. I’ve got you worried now, haven’t I? By the way, did you find my note? You see. I am telling the truth. I was there. Oh, and by the way, I had your key copied. You shouldn’t leave it lying around because now I can break in whenever I want.’

  One day when Daddy gets back from work he seems particularly upset.

  ‘Daddy, what’s wrong? You, you look awful. Come on Daddy, come and sit down.’ I lead Daddy over to his chair and sit him down.

  ‘Daddy, just stay there. I’ll go and get your slippers.’

  ‘Daddy, would you like a drink of water?’ Daddy is shaking.

  ‘Here, Daddy. Drink it. Here you are. Now Daddy, what happened? Tell me what happened? What’s wrong Daddy?’

  It takes a while till Daddy can tell me what’s troubling him but the gist of it, is that there there’d been a break-in at school. Someone had taken some of Daddy’s things out of the staffroom; curiously it was only his things which were stolen. A couple of weeks earlier vandals had taken a chisel to Daddy’s car in the school car park; that time his car was the only one to be targeted. How unlucky was Daddy!

  ‘Now do you understand lassie? It’s a conspiracy!’

  Brighton Rd,

  Sandgate

  23rd March, 1965

  I,

  So you lock your car now and your house and of course as you can see, I expected that and had this little note ready for you.

  So you managed to tell your lies to those fools at the CIB and they swallowed them, but you don’t expect us to swallow them and not the boys at school either. They’ve had you as laughing stock for a year now and they wouldn’t want to give that fun up, would they? Even if you weren’t a liar, that wouldn’t make any difference. But of course you are a hopeless liar and they all know it.

  Those lies you told the CIB cooked your goose and you’d better keep your house locked. I was there the other night and know how to get in next time.

  R Jamieson

  When I read through those letters I wished that I could recall more about 1965 but I couldn’t. The cutting I unearthed from a newspaper, called Truth told me a little more.

  TEACHER HIT BY POISON PENMAN

  Detectives in Brisbane are investigating the claims of a public schoolmaster that his life is being made a misery by a poison-pen writer.

  The schoolmaster, Mr Cyril I, is married with two children. He said he was continually harassed by mystery letter writers who have strongly inferred that harm may come to him and his family.

  For no apparent reason the writer has mocked, denounced and threatened Mr I since he began teaching at the Grammar School last year.

  ‘I can’t understand them. There must be something wrong with them. I have racked my brain to find out who is responsible for these brutal and terrifying letters. At first I regarded them as a joke but not anymore. The police are doing their best. I just hope that they are successful.

  I wouldn’t have a clue as to who the writers are. I have never made an enemy in my life.’

  It’s Saturday morning. My mother has powered through the dregs of the weekly routine by the time I emerge from my bedroom at around 9 am. Several loads of washing drip from the concentric wires of the Hills hoist, the kitchen bench gleams and the floors are clear of clutter.

  Daddy’s chair is empty and I can’t find him anywhere. I race around, searching in all of his regular hiding spots. There are no signs of a struggle, but I fear the worst. What if the enemy has broken into our house and taken Daddy hostage?

  ‘Come on now, Baba. There’s nothing to get upset about! Your father needs a rest, that’s all.’

  ‘B… but where is he?’ I snivel.

  ‘I’ve told you, Baba. He’s having a rest.’

  ‘I want to see him. I want to see Daddy!’

  ‘No Baba. You can’t. Your father’s gone and children aren’t allowed there. It’s for his own good, you’ll see. He needs a rest and he doesn’t need the likes of you and your brother bothering him. Besides he should only be away for a few months.’

  I’m twelve years old. My Daddy means the world to me. I don’t ever want my Daddy to go anywhere and certainly not without saying goodbye. I wish that I’d had the chance to tell him how much I lovehim. I hope he knows that, but I’m worried that he may forget. I’m also worried about how he’s going to manage; I’m always looking after him. Who will look after him when I’m not there? How will he manage without me? Who will make sure he’s safe? What about the people who are picking on him? What if they hurt him? What then?

  On Saturdays I usually play tennis, but I don’t want to play on the day they take my Daddy away. I stay in my pyjamas with Teddy, in my room, crying instead. Around five o’clock I creep into the lounge and turn on the TV. Lying on the floor, with the TV droning I miss him dreadfully. I do one last check; maybe he’s hiding somewhere. I check his chair first, but Daddy isn’t sitting in it. He isn’t behind the settee, or in the garage, or flicking through his books, or jotting down notes.

  Daddy has gone. Abracadabra. Kalakazam.

  Make your Daddy disappear if you can.

  Lo and behold - there’s no Daddy to be seen.

  But it’s okay because Daddy just needs a rest. That’s all - a rest!

  I only learnt the truth about my father’s rest while I was searching for answers to my forgotten childhood in my late forties. I was starting to remember the period of time my father went away and asked my mother about it. She told me that she had sent my father to hospital, once or maybe twice, she couldn’t remember precisely. But she did recall that one night she had awoken to my father’s hands around her throat. She wasn’t clear if that incident had actually happened, or whether it was a dream. Either way, my father’s attack on her, real or imagined, was the reason he was sent away for his rest.

  chapter 22

  Daddy is coming home today. I’ve missed him; he’s been gone for months and we haven’t spoken much about him since he left.

  ‘Mum, can I go with you to pick Daddy up? Please?’

  ‘No Baba. Stay here with your brother and be good!’

  I try to be good but it’s hard because Simon’s being a real pain. He keeps picking fights and I don’t like it when he does that. I don’t ever want to fight with my brother, and especially not today, the day that Daddy’s coming home. But I understand why Simon’s being painful; he’s worried about what state our father will be in when he gets back. I am too.

  ‘They’re here!’ I announce letting go of the curtains I’ve been looking out from behind.

  I bolt down the front stairs and catch my mother leading my father back up from the front garden.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy!’ I run towards my father with open arms, keenly poised to give him a great big hug.

  My mother blocks my way, ‘Baba, I thought that I’d made myself clear. Leave your father alone! Can’t you see that he needs a rest?’

  I’m not game to say what’s on my mind - Why does Daddy need to rest after months of being away having a rest?

  I brush my hand against Daddy’s cheek as he shuffles past.

  ‘Baba, that’s enough!’ My mother’s angry, but I don’t care; I have the information I wanted. Daddy’s cheek feels warm; he’s not dead.

  I stand aside as my mother tugs Daddy up the last step and in through the front door. Daddy spots his chair from the doorway and upon seeing it, has a spurt of energy. Straightening up, he shakes my mo
ther off, and makes a teetering beeline towards his chair. His slippers, three months more worn than when he left for his rest, lead the charge. I keep my distance as Daddy reclaims his throne; I don’t want my mother to be any angrier than she already is.

  My excitement at having Daddy back home is short-lived because the Daddy who returns home is not the one I’ve dreamt of having back. This one sits in his chair without reacting to anything going on around him. Sometimes he sits immobilised for hours at a stretch, and then from one minute to the next he comes alive, and races around the house, doing strange things which I can’t explain. And Daddy looks weird; his skin has taken on the greenish hue of fresh puke, and he’s lost a lot of weight, so much so that his clothes are falling off him. I hate looking too closely because he looks creepy. Most of the time I avoid looking at him front on, except at dinner. I have to look at Daddy at dinner because my spot in the nook is directly opposite his and the nook’s squashy. In the nook he’s always in full view.

  At dinnertime Daddy makes strange smacking noises with his tongue and mouth and he dribbles half-chewed food out of the side of his green mouth. And the bits tumble onto his chin, and fall from his chin onto his dressing gown and I hate that. I hate every second of it. Every night I sit and pray that Daddy will finish dinner quickly, but he never does, because everything he does when he’s half dead is painfully slow, until he wakes up again.

  *

  ‘Lassie, over here. They can’t see us here. Quick!’

  At first I can’t find Daddy; I can only hear him. Then I spot him crouched behind the settee. My father has no end of hiding places for me to find. I scan the room from my spot crouched beside him, but I can’t see anyone else; I’m not as good at finding the enemy as I am at finding my father.