by Kim Hodges
On the mornings after one of those nights, my mother’s tongue-lashings were without boundaries or restraint. We heard it all for the next couple of days—breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and all the times in between. The comments rang loud in my ears. They gave me more pieces of the jigsaw of my father’s upbringing.
“You belong in the gutter just like your family,” she would snarl at him. Or, slightly more kindly if self-righteously “I dragged you out of the gutter and you know it.”
She was referring to his earlier life, in the time before I was born. Once, intent on being really cruel, she played her master card “You’re no better than the rest of them—get back to the gutter where you belong, you alcoholic.” His eyes lowered and he didn’t respond.
I knew that once my mother’s rage had set in that any self-control had dissipated, but she had gone too far with this comment. I had to stand up for him. My father never fought back with words, “In one ear and out the other one,” he told us kids, as he smiled.
“That’s enough mum,” I said.
That was not the only time I intervened. The repercussions were potentially devastating for me as her retaliation could be harsh. “You always take his side,” or “You don’t care about me,” or “Keep out of it”, she would hurl at me with her eyes glaring. “You think you’re too good for us,” was her ultimate attack on me. I should have taken the silent option. I cringed every time she referred to the gutter and my father. My disdain for my mother grew. My father did not choose his upbringing. No child chooses its parents.
Years later I wondered why my father had not retaliated and stood up to my mother. Was it because he believed these words to be true? Did he hope not to infuriate her further? Or had he trained himself to ignore it. I will never really know for sure. Perhaps the verbal lashings that my mother gave him were mild compared to abuse that he may have suffered during his childhood. I assumed so. I also wondered why my mother hated my father going to the pub. Was it because she was the allocated Minster of Finance in our family and had to make the money stretch from fortnight to fortnight? Or did she believe that a father should be home with his family? Maybe she simply loathed alcohol. Again, I am unsure.
chapter nine
THE FREEDOM OF RUNNING
I was twelve years old when my father told us that the spare block had been sold to another family. That block had provided endless pleasure for four years. From that day on, our play intensified. With only six more weeks to play there, play we did. We utilised every centimetre of ground and counted down the days. I felt fine when the last day arrived. A voice inside me was telling me I should behave differently, more like a teenager, be less tomboyish, but I didn’t ever really know what that meant. Our parents requested that we not set foot on the block that now belonged to another family. We obeyed, to avoid what would have been severe repercussions. It had sold for a handsome profit, much to my parents delight. I had heard whispers of about five hundred dollars. The money was used to carpet the back room. In winter, temperatures often reached below zero, so the new carpet helped to warm our home in those chilly months. That carpet also bought my parents a sense of achievement. The no-shoes rule inside continued. Bed socks knitted by my mother were worn every night, with our dressing gowns, which were done up after our shower. My parents never wasted any money on buying extravagant items, like holidays, or turning the gas heater on if it was not absolutely necessary. Practical and sensible things were bought with any spare money.
Our play with the neighbourhood kids moved onto our quiet street, or to building cubby houses in the bush, and playing on the school basketball court. Our recreational choices felt limited and repetitive, feeding my passion for running. I ran with a pack of townie kids, my father and Mr Cunnings. We ran on the common land, over hills, jumping cattle grips, straddling fences to chase kangaroos and attempting to pluck a feather out of the tail of an emu as a part of the course. Training runs consisted of bush running, the golf course circuit, and the aerodrome run. This last run was on an unused sand airstrip that was three kilometres long. It was for strength training. With every step, your foot would sink deep into the soft sand. You had to work twice as hard to lift your foot out ready for another step. I was self-disciplined, driven, and very competitive—and apparently had natural running ability. As an eldest child, I was also hard on myself. I loved to win. I was the sport crazy tomboy who loved to run. My brothers participated in other sports.
A favourite running haunt was the council-owned bushland that featured shrubs, logs, rocks and rugger tracks throughout. Mr Cunnings always put up a reward for the kid who could pluck a feather out of the tail of an emu on a run through that bush. We had to separate into two or three groups and go in differing directions. We waited in position, always in sight of the emu, for the instruction from Mr Cunnings. Once he said “go” we had to run at full speed. One group would run directly behind the emu and the other groups would be on both sides, just ahead of the emu. The emu would take off when it sensed the first stomping of footsteps toward it. Then another two groups would run diagonally at the emu. Many times I felt that the feather was within my reach. I may have even touched a feather. But no-one ever got to pluck an emu feather. The anticipation and the chase were wildly exhilarating.
If we spotted a kangaroo, we waved to Mr Cunnings, who pointed to the positions and put up two or three fingers, indicating the number of kids in that group. We then ran to our positions and again waited for the command. “Go,” he shouted and we all ran after the kangaroo. It took flight, using its powerful tail to bounce off the ground and increase its speed. We would chase it for a few minutes and inevitably it would end up cornered by a fence. As we approached, the kangaroo would become startled, and prepare for a giant leap over the fence, or stop dead in a sitting position, surrounded by runners, surveying us and planning an escape. “Be careful,” Mr Cunnings would warn us. After a few seconds, the kangaroo might panic and take off, jumping between us. The chase would be on again. We would race through the bush at top speed, desperately trying to keep up with the kangaroo. Some of us kept up for a few hundred metres, but the kangaroo always got away again. I enjoyed running side by side with the animal, watching the thick tail take the weight of its body, the skilful negotiation of the bush, the shifting of body weight and skilled placement of strong hind legs and tail. This agile animal was made for the bush. I never once saw a kangaroo hit a tree, or misjudge positioning its paws on the ground. I always got the closest to the kangaroo. We would chat about any close encounters in the car on the way home. If I caught Anthony’s eye he would be smiling at me in the back seat of the car. I was Mr Cunnings’ star athlete, the kid with raw ability, determination and the instinct to win every time my foot was on the starting line at a training session, or in a race. I suspect these are traits that you are born with, but which also need to be nurtured along the way.
*
Just before my fifteenth birthday, my father took two days off work so that we could travel by car to Sydney for the State Public School Track and Field Championships. I, the regional Central-West under-fourteens, 800 metre champion, was competing at state level. As I walked into the stadium, my eyes opened wider and I forgot to blink. The red tartan athletics track stood before me. On the television, I had seen a tartan track, but I had never stepped on to one. Towering overhead was a huge stadium. Judges, officials and timekeepers were busily setting up, in their matching clothes that further underlined the formal nature of this event. I darted off to the toilet. I suffered diarrhoea from nerves at events, if the competition was tough, and I had to excel to win. My stomach would stay tight until the final race was over. We claimed a seat in the grandstand, and then walked over to the warm up area.
The other athletes all looked like city kids, with flash tracksuits and warm-up shoes, spiked shoes in small zippered bags, and coaches who carried their water bottles. The coaches were warming up their athletes and talking them up. I felt so self-conscious, a freckle-faced to
mboy and a country bumpkin. My father was my entourage. No other kids or teachers were in attendance from my school or region. I felt a second bout of diarrhoea bursting. I ran off to the toilet again before returning to the warm up area. My green cotton tracksuit stood out because the elastic around my ankle rode up too high. I suddenly felt too tall, thanks to the tracksuit pants that stopped short of my ankle. The city athletes did not have tracksuits with elasticised ankles. My father’s dress sense never changed: brown shorts; brown shirt; joggers and a cap. He always had a smile too, as a proud father in the big city.
“You can run faster than most of these kids. That’s what counts,” he said, knowing that I had been examining the athletes’ tracksuits and accessories.
“I need to use the toilet again. Meet you back in the grandstand,” I replied.
I soon discovered that I was the only athlete in my races without spike running shoes. Purchasing spike shoes for this race was considered, but never came to fruition. My mother had told me that they could not afford spikes and I accepted it without protest. Besides, I only needed to wear spikes a couple of times a year. Nervously I returned to the warm up area and prepared for the race. My long legs strode out; I came second in my heat. I was elated and so was my father. I had made the final that was to be held later in the afternoon. A packed lunch and drinks of water were used to replenish my energy after my nervous visits to the toilet, but without success. As the 800 metre final time ticked closer, I was beside myself with nerves. The rain came down lightly as I removed my tracksuit and handed it to my father. “You know the warm-up routine. Off you go. I’ll meet you down there in ten minutes,” my father stated, exactly half an hour before my final, the very same words as before my heat. I jogged, stretched, did fast short sprints and more stretching. I avoided all eye contact with the other athletes. My father was standing at the warm up area fence.
“Just do your best.” His last words of advice never changed over the years. I nodded and handed him my tracksuit jacket.
“This is the final call for the girls’ under-fifteen 800 metres final,” formally spoke the announcer. In the marshalling area, I stretched, ran on the spot and continued to avoid eye contact, still searching for another runner wearing joggers. I only found shoes with spikes.
As I lined up at the starting point of the race course for the 800 metres final, I deliberately did not look at the girls either side of me. Too unsettling. My stomach muscles circled my waist like a boa constrictor, but I knew that in another five minutes time that it would dissipate. That gave me a sense of relief, as the rain came down harder. I wondered if the track was slippery. I hoped my joggers had enough grip for this wet tartan track. I got into my starting position and the mantra of “I can win this, I can win this,” took over my mind, and my body became strong, tall and agile. My mind focused on winning, only winning.
“On your mark, get set, BANG!” The gun fired.
I slipped over at the start of the race, but I got back up and rejoined the pack. The leaders had gained a small break after my slippery start. My mind was full of the determination to win and my body’s actions followed. I had to pace myself, so I kept in fourth position and saved my “kick” for the last two hundred metres. The kick meant accelerating the pace up a notch or two. Mr Cunnings and I had practiced and talked about race tactics every day for the two weeks leading up to this race. I passed one of the girls on the 400-metre mark and was determined to catch the two leaders. Around the bend, closer and closer, I narrowed the gap to the second runner. The first runner was only slightly ahead of second. I entered the final straight and caught the second runner. I had evened with her. She kicked her pace up and I tried to match her. I gave it my all and plunged at the finishing line with the second and first runner. It was a photo finish. I came third, a bronze medal. I was filled with disappointment, but only for a moment. I shook hands with the two girls. The podium caught my eye and elation replaced my disappointment. I would get to stand on it. It was like an Olympic podium. I smiled as I walked over to my father.
“Well done sissy. You did so well. Third, a bronze medal!” he beamed and patted my shoulder.
Yes, I had won a bronze medal in the State Schools Championships, at fourteen years of age, with no spikes in my shoes after slipping over at the start. We walked to the grandstand. My stomach was relaxed, ready for a reward of a meat pie and lemonade. Exhausted from the race and my nervousness, I was relieved it was all over. An hour later the medal was presented. I brushed my hair, took off my short-legged tracksuit and skipped down to the podium. My father stood there with the family camera ready to take the photo, waiting for the moment. As I leaned down to receive the medal around my neck, I noticed him take a couple of photos. This was the only time I ever saw him use a camera. The photos captured the biggest smile ever on my face. As I walked over to my father afterward, he admired the medal.
“This is the proudest moment in my life,” he smiled at me. I felt I had satisfied him as well.
On the drive back home to Coolah my father relived the glory of the race. “You know I reckon you could have come close to winning it if you hadn’t slipped over at the beginning. I’m sorry we couldn’t buy you spikes,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter about the spikes. I’m okay with it,” I replied and meant it.
Only a few months after I won the State bronze medal, I announced my retirement from running at fifteen and a half years of age. The daily training regime over four years had tired me out. Running kilometres and kilometres, one foot after another—my body needed a break. Mr Cunnings flagged the idea of more competitions for me, which meant more travelling, training, diarrhoea and tight stomachs, and expense for my parents. I kept running, but I was at a crossroads. My heart was not in it anymore. I agonised over my decision to retire early. But I did. I wanted more time to do well at school and I felt I needed to learn to have more fun. I also felt that I should grow up and behave more like a teenager, rather than a tomboy, but I was unsure what this actually meant. Getting out of Coolah, and travelling overseas possibly.
*
In my mid-twenties, when I reflected back on my retirement from Mr Cunnings’ training regime, I concluded that Mr Cunnings’ running regime had been excessive. Coaches in Sydney and the literature on sports science and psychology suggested that kids should train for three or four days a week at most, to ensure that their bodies have time to grow. A rest day between each training day was needed to avoid burnout. We had trained seven days a week and at fifteen years of age I had burned out. Mr Cunnings achieved excellent results on the track, but his athletes rarely trained beyond the age of sixteen years old. They all became burned out or had acquired injuries. On my visits back to Coolah, my parents always asked me to visit Mr Cunnings and his wife, out of respect. I always went with my father. We would accept a cup of tea. “How’ve you been going, mate?” was Mr Cunning’s lead. I would tell him about my studies and part-time jobs, my career, and that I was still running to keep fit, even if I was not running. He always told me, “Running is in your blood.” We never talked about anything else.
Recently, I have also wondered if running helped me or hindered me after my big ordeal. In some ways it helped me to manage my symptoms, keep them under the radar, suppressed, not interfering with my life in my twenties, but still festering. Maybe running also hindered me. It had filled in any spare time, keeping me too busy to face up to that awful and debilitating year of my life. My running regime kept me busy, active and distracted therefore it fuelled my ability to ignore my past. A pattern formed out of the self-discipline and solitude of running. It suited my disposition and I found comfort in it. Eventually I could not ignore the big ordeal bubbling just below the surface. I still have a love-hate relationship with recreational running that remains unresolved. In my thirties and forties I have continued to run, or to “shuffle” as I now call it, after my life stabilised and the big ordeal was put to rest. Running is still in my blood and it always will be.
chapter ten
A WINDOW INTO GRAZIER LIVES
When I turned thirteen years of age, I commenced babysitting. Good townie teenage girls babysat. Bad townie teenage girls drank alcohol and had boyfriends. I was led to believe that this demarcation existed. Our phone rang most Friday and Saturday nights for years, as an array of grazier families requested my services. I liked children, could engage on their level and was very responsible. Babysitting enabled me to build up resources for my great escape. I was earning extra money to fund my dream of travelling overseas. I diligently banked and saved every cent of my babysitting money. I kept a secret logbook record of my earnings for years and it represented a key to my dreams. I slept the night at homesteads and was driven back to Coolah the next morning. The graziers’ homesteads were often twenty to thirty kilometres out of town. The children and I were always fast asleep on the parents’ return from a party or function.
As a babysitter I was a spectator to the blue-bloods’ lives. The world of graziers and their properties had mostly been foreign to me, except for Genevieve’s family, until I started to babysit. Then I saw another way of life, not one that I aspired to, but simply a different way. I noticed differences in every aspect of our lives. The first difference I noticed was the size of the grazier homesteads compared to our small home. The larger homesteads were old and had been restored, with many rooms. High ceilings and very long corridors created a sense of grandeur, along with the large verandas that wrapped around these houses. Their children had their own bedrooms, and there was always more than one bathroom and toilet. I realised that the grazier homesteads had been handed down through families, and that inheritance helped to maintain family names. Usually, the eldest sons inherited the homestead and the surrounding property. Grazier homesteads mostly had formal dining rooms, which housed furniture with a matching finish, bold paint on the wall, a dresser full of vases and ornaments and wine glasses of varying sizes. Often, as a mother showed me around, she specifically stipulated that no children were allowed in the formal dining room. I would nod, as we stood there, the walls echoing, as she instructed me, “Do not let them touch or break anything, no running around the table and best manners at all times.” Later in the night I would often revisit those dining rooms, to satisfy my curiosity. I would stand with my eyes wide open, mentally noting the room’s content, as the children slept and their parents were out. Our home did not have wine glasses, nice ornaments or vases.
