‘Ask him, Caroline, please,’ she whispers and I feel the shame rise in my cheeks.
‘My mother would like to know how long the pension takes?’
‘I can’t say. It’ll probably take a few weeks to sort it all out.’
I know that Mum will eventually have access to some of Dad’s superannuation and that Dad has made special provisions for those who are still full-time students, but right now Mum is desperate. There are bills to pay, groceries to buy, school fees to settle.
‘Mrs Egan,’ the social security worker says, smiling now as if he’s Father Christmas with a gift for a good girl. ‘You’ll get a cheque each fortnight and there will still be child endowment for any of your children under sixteen.’
As he stands to end the interview Mum turns to me, ‘Ask if we can have a cheque now.’
‘What?’
‘Ask if they can write out a cheque for me now. I know they do it. It will come out of my first pension.’
I dig deep for the courage to ask. I curse God and Dad and the cancer for the humiliation I feel.
‘Are we able to get something today?’ I feel like I’m begging as he stands and tucks Mum’s manila folder under his arm.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Thirteen
It didn’t take long before I felt welcome in Aalia’s home. Our lessons were as informal as Damrina’s but a key difference was that they happened mostly on a rug on the floor. Surrounded by bright cushions scattered for comfort, and an imposing portrait of Allah above us. Aalia enjoyed the colourful posters of the alphabet I laid out before her. We kept a scrapbook to cut and paste pictures with some of the new words she had mastered.
I think the turning point in our friendship came when she ushered me from the living room to one of the bedrooms down the hallway. There was already a group of girls and women seated in a line on a single bed, all were looking beyond me at Aalia’s eldest daughter, Falisha, who had lifted her sleeping baby from the white crib in the corner. Both mother and grandmother beamed and I thought what a wonderful moment, the universal joy of showing off a newborn to family and friends. I felt privileged to be a part of it. It reminded me of my own mother’s overwhelming joy on the arrival of her first grandson and subsequent grandchildren. This was a woman who had told me she had lots of children because she loved babies. ‘It’s when you grow up that I have a problem coping,’ she once confessed but I was young and had no idea what she meant.
The other thing my mother had in common with both Damrina and Aalia, was the value they all placed in prayer. Regardless of their religious beliefs, each valued and regarded prayer as their saviour. Whether it was to Christ the Redeemer, Allah or Mohammed, or Mary, the mother of Jesus that they turned for guidance, each found comfort in prayer. Mum always carried her Novena and rosary beads and reverently dusted the old and chipped statues around our house. Aalia told me she missed our lessons when she and her family made the journey to Mecca, where she was happy to pray for me and my husband and boys.
In the same way that I spent a good part of my childhood listening to lowered adult conversations from behind closed doors, I again found myself snooping on Mum and Dad, as they surreptitiously prepared for his death. A few weeks before he died, Dad bought Mum a new car, a flashy green Datsun hatchback – automatic, so no more gear crunching ‘riding the clutch’. He arranged for Margie to have her final year at boarding school, the same one I had attended in Ballarat. Matthew, the youngest of my brothers, was enrolled in First Form at Assumption College, the school where Paul had gone a few years before. Both Margaret and Matthew were enthusiastic and agreeable. While John and Seamus were both at Broadmeadows West Technical School Dad provided the option for them to switch to Assumption College, which they did, albeit temporarily. What foresight from my father as he lay dying? Dad’s incredible hard work and vision provided for our education, long after he was gone. He did this through an impressive superannuation scheme that delivered an income for any of his children who were under twenty-five and still studying full-time. At various times the four youngest children reaped the benefits.
After Dad died, our house, where we all thought we would live forever, didn’t feel like a home anymore. And despite Mum’s longing for a return to how things used to be, before Dad got sick, she decided it was time to move on. Maurice and Nick Gleeson had already left McIvor Street, packing up their belongings and moving into a unit of their own in Brunswick.
When the auctioneer slammed down the hammer for the third time and number four McIvor Street was sold for the measly sum of $22,000, I was holding onto my mother, who stood in the middle of the street, shaking and smoking.
‘It doesn’t seem like much,’ she said, her hand over her mouth to muffle the words. ‘I was hoping for a little bit more.’
‘Yeah, not a lot to show for all your hard work,’ I agreed. Once the mortgage was paid, bills settled, schoolbooks and uniforms purchased, there would be very little to spare.
The house was soon handed over to the newly arrived Turkish family, relatives of a big family that had moved into the Spiteris’ old house, across the road from the Gleesons’. Dallas was undergoing a transformation, as migrants and refugees set up in homes we had outgrown. Gone were the Johns and Toms of the street and in their place, were young Hussein and Abdrumma, introducing soccer into the street.
With the nerve-wracking auction over, Mum and I walked arm and arm back to the house, caught in our own memories, and leaving Paul and Tom to complete the paperwork. Later that night, in the cool of the evening with a bright moon hovering over our small backyard, I sat in Dad’s favourite spot by the outdoor fireplace. It was unusually cold for spring and Mum wore Dad’s heavy blue coat, staring into the flames, waiting, looking for a sign.
‘Your father would be proud of you,’ she said, flicking her cigarette butt into the ashes. ‘Proud of you all, I mean.’
I smiled, surprised to be singled out and then comforted to have it corrected.
‘Imagine him, bragging about his three sons at Assumption College,’ I said. ‘And his beautiful Margie doing so well in her final year.’
‘Margaret Mary, the actress, can you believe it? Can you imagine your father when she’s up there on the stage?’
‘It’s great. Something seems to happen for Margie when she’s acting. Remember when we were kids, she loved to sing and dance.’
‘Yes, but only for us in the house.’
‘Dad would be so proud of you, Mum. You’ve been so brave.’
‘Well, now it’s time to move on.’
Back inside the house the phone was ringing. It was a Saturday night and I hoped it was a friend calling with an invitation to go out somewhere. Even though I didn’t want to leave Mum alone, I liked to know what everyone else was up to. I wanted an invite even if I couldn’t go. Maybe it’s Craig, I thought, as I raced to reach the phone. I hadn’t thought of him since my debutante party when he partnered me and then dumped me for my girlfriend. He was my third partner, the other two finding all kinds of excuses, broken leg, even studying for exams became more important. Dad was pleased when Craig didn’t hang around too long. What was it that worried him? The reputation of his older brothers, the scar across his cheek, or perhaps the tattooed letters on his knuckles, HATE on his left hand and LOVE on his right? Still, there was something in his eyes and that crop of blonde waves that had made my heart race and clearly appealed to some of the girls.
‘That was Brother Thomas from the boys’ school,’ I said to Mum.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The boys have gone missing from school. Just Seamus and John. Matthew’s had his turn at absconding.’
‘When did they go?’
‘I don’t know, but he sounded angry. He wanted to know if they were here or if we had seen them.’
‘Do you think they’re okay?’
‘Yeah, if they’re together, they’ll be fine.’
A few hours later they were found in the
city at a bowling alley. The next day only John went back to school. Seamus, it seemed, was not cut out for academic or institutional life.
Living at home with Mum during those months after Dad’s death wasn’t easy for her, or for me. It can’t have been easy for any of us, floundering in grief but staying stoic for one another. In the first couple of months Mum appeared strong and resolute as a single parent. Then sorrow soon smothered her and she spent a lot of time being sad, tucked up in bed under her blankets or propped on a pillow, smoking and scribbling notes to help her remember birthdays and shopping lists.
After Dad died I threw myself into my work and university, both providing sanctuary for me. Getting into my journalism degree had been one of my proudest moments. While my HSC results hadn’t been world shattering, I gave everything I had to get through the journalism exam and interview – for myself and for Dad. That summer of ’79, during a break from my work at a hotel in Kew, I called home to see if the letter of offer had arrived.
‘Yes, it’s here,’ Margie said. ‘Do you want me to open it?’
‘No, I can wait until I get home.’
‘Okay.’
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Maybe you should open it now.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yep.’ I waited on the phone at the bar, watching the bistro customers enter and leave through the swinging doors.
‘You’re in, Cally, you’re in. Journalism RMIT.’
Getting in, it seemed, was the easy part. Fitting in was even more difficult. On my very first day I thought I would die of shame. ‘She’s from Broadmeadows,’ one of the ‘in’ girls whose father worked at a major newspaper, whispered the news like a state secret to her ‘buddy’ who glanced over at me and giggled. I blushed then felt the blood drain as tears of humiliation threatened to surface. They were right. Mum was right. I was too full of myself. Who was I kidding? I didn’t belong there. I vowed never to open my mouth, never to give them a chance to judge and condemn. Some of the boys were kinder. There was Robert, looking lost in Broadmeadows and turning heads in his Mercedes, who picked me up for a date. He went on to become an international media mogul. Thank God for the generosity and friendship of the Brighton and Benalla girls, Bunty and Terri, who helped me through those lonely early months of my degree, and ‘Tess’ remains a close friend today.
As I got more used to Dad not being around to spin ideas with, and as the due date of my first major assignment drew closer, I decided to speak up at university and seek help from my lecturers. Les Carlyon was my favourite lecturer, everyone’s favourite, with his casual, no fuss, approach to teaching journalism and writing. His classes involved dissecting the day’s newspaper and identifying good reporting, average and bad reporting.
‘Write about what you know,’ he told us. I’d heard it before – write what you care about, what matters to you. So, I decided to write the story I’d been thinking about for some time, the story of my friends, Maurice and Nick Gleeson. I wanted to write about their trips overseas, the work they did, their academic and sporting achievements. But more truthfully, I wanted to know what made them tick. What was it that made them resilient in the grip of one tragedy after another? What could be better than a feature article on these trailblazers for the International Year of the Disabled?
When the Gleeson brothers returned to Dallas to visit their dad, I cornered them, set up the interviews and dragged their stories from them. It wasn’t easy. Eventually I won their trust. Their boarding school friend and adopted brother Michael Sadhu was part of the story too. Their faces and stories soon appeared all over every Leader newspaper across Melbourne, and of course our local paper, The Broadmeadows Observer, where I had, by then, secured my cadetship. Even Mum was chuffed and, to my amazement, she stuck a copy of the article on the fridge door.
Fourteen
After Aalia’s trip to Mecca, our time together was almost over and I took a break from the home tutoring and my trips to Dallas.
My husband and I were working hard improving our farm on the outskirts of Geelong. My three boys were busier than ever with school and sport activities and we were gradually expanding our cattle herd.
One morning, a few months after we’d settled in, we heard the cattle truck pull up in the driveway, the sound of hungry young calves taking over from the engine. James, William and Daniel positioned themselves around the fences as Jon steered the cattle into their yards. Twelve of them, jigsaws of black and white and big melting brown eyes; two of them with patchwork faces. They could be twins.
I marvelled at the ease the boys had around them as I stood way back out of the way. Over time I would surprise myself and everyone else when I found the courage to help Jon deliver a calf. But for now, I took my cues from my boys, impressed with how quickly they took to their new responsibilities in feeding and caring for the poddy calves, only six weeks old. Daniel, our youngest son, was the first up each morning to check on the new arrivals, mixing up the milk powder with water and gently pushing the calves into their stalls.
‘Hurry up, Sloth,’ he said to the smallest of them, encouraging him to suck on the milk from the teat. I would do the morning shift with him while the older boys, Will and James, took the afternoon one, after school and before sport.
‘Mum, watch Greedy,’ Daniel called to me. ‘Hold him back. He’s trying to get into Dopey’s milk.’ I think it was Jon who started naming them, so we could be sure each of the calves was well-nourished. At least I knew which one Daniel was referring to as I pushed him back towards his empty bucket.
As I gathered up some eggs to take to Aalia for one last visit, I thought, as I often did those days, how lucky I was.
With a copy of my newspaper feature under my arm, I left my Gemini parked in the steep driveway and headed towards the entrance of my old boarding school. I walked to the window at the front of the office building and asked for my sister.
‘Margaret Egan, please come to reception,’ the girl’s voice rang through the PA system into the stillness of the cold winter’s afternoon. As I scanned the familiar setting I noticed the lack of life around the school grounds. The girls were either hidden away studying or gossiping in someone’s crowded cubicle, sharing a chocolate bar.
The statue of St Martin, the one Moylo and Deano decorated on muck-up day at the end of my own HSC year, was still there in the courtyard of the main building.
It felt strange for me to be back at my old school, where memories of those ten months flooded back. I could have worked harder, made my father prouder, but I realise now it wasn’t just about the education. I feel grateful for the lasting friendships I made at ‘Micks in the Sticks’. Girls came from all over Victoria and some from overseas, and just a few, like me, were from Melbourne. I met Janine and ‘Wally’ from Horsham, Ro from Nagambie, Jane from Jeparit, Fiona from Apollo Bay, Kathryn and Linda from Shepparton, and others from places I’d never heard of: Gabrielle from Dookie, Cathleen from Apsley, Janet from Nar Nar Goon and Kate from Colbinabbin. Others were local day students like Patricia, Carmel and Mary Rose. Some I have lost touch with but were a wonderful part of my time at St Martin’s, including Geraldine from Gardenvale, Rita from Ferntree Gully and Diane from Simpson. But there wasn’t one other girl from Broadmeadows. The closest was a Year Eleven boarder, Rosie, from Brunswick, who had an older sister who was a journalist. I grilled her for details of how to secure a break in the career I intended to pursue.
Margie greeted me at the front reception. As she pushed back those familiar brown curls from her pale face I saw the dark circles under her eyes. Usually a vibrant green but with weariness they looked a dull grey. She looked pretty when she smiled, perfect white teeth that Dad had invested in with braces. Like clones of our mother, neither of us wore make-up, saving it for special occasions.
‘How’s it going?’ I asked as I hugged her.
‘Okay, I guess. A few essays to write and a test for Australian history this week.’
Margie looked past me; stared out to
the forest that surrounded the school, hidden away in one of the coldest places in Victoria.
‘Want to get out for a while? Head into a cafe or hit the shops? Need anything in town?’
‘Sure, sounds good.’
I made a mental note to send her some money. Images of the pile of unpaid bills on Mum’s bedside table before me. Still I knew it was important for her to have some money when the boarders all took off for Friday afternoon in Ballarat. At least she wouldn’t waste it on cigarettes like me.
‘Coffee?’ Asked the waitress after we had decided on a table by an open fire at the back of the small cafe in the town’s main street. Fireplaces and heaters were essential in Ballarat to thaw the grand but cold buildings, reminiscent of the Gold Rush days.
‘Hot chocolate, please,’ Margie said. ‘Want to share some cake?’
She picked away at the sponge cake, sliced the icing from the top and spooned small mouthfuls into her mouth; always such a finicky eater.
‘How’s Mum?’
‘Not too bad,’ I lied. I didn’t want to worry her.
‘I guess it’s hard for you being the only one at home with her.’
‘Sometimes. But Seamus has decided to leave the boarding house and come home, not sure what John will do.’
‘What about Matthew?’
‘He’ll stay until the end of the year and then decide.’
‘I miss Dad.’ Tears gathered in her eyes.
‘Me too.’
‘I miss you all,’ she said and looked away.
‘I know,’ I nodded, handing her a tissue, as I pushed my own sorrow out of my head, out of the way. Time to be a strong big sister.
‘This is the best place for you, Margie. You can study here, it’s your last year and it’s important for you to do well. You don’t have to worry about anything else while you are here. You just need to get through the year.’
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