Two Generations

by Anne Connor

  He regularly left his calling card in various guises. Once, he used one of our timber dining chairs as a sawhorse. He sawed right through its seat, taking a decent piece off its corner.

  I was beyond proud the day I captained our school’s criss-cross team to victory at the sports’ carnival. After the winner’s presentation, I ran to my parents watching in the crowd with my blue ribbon with gold ‘First’, pinned to my sports’ tunic. Mum did her best to smile, but my father’s expression was blank. I couldn’t fathom the look on his face. It appeared I’d disappointed or annoyed him.

  Yet I had won.

  There was no enthusiasm, no celebration from either of my parents.

  ‘The starter gun is too loud, it’s giving me a headache,’ he said. ‘We’re leaving.’ He pushed a coin into my hand. ‘Buy yourself an ice-cream on the way home.’ Then my parents turned and walked away leaving me alone in the crowd surrounded by other kids’ parents who were making a fuss of their children who hadn’t come anywhere near first.

  His dark mood remained during the evening.

  My uncle, aunt and two of their friends visited. We weren’t

  expecting them. They were in the neighbourhood so thought they’d pop in. Mum was pleased to see them and ushered the group into the kitchen. She pushed her hair back behind her ears and took off her apron. She left the room to change from her slippers into her day shoes and apply a smidge of lipstick.

  Back in the kitchen, Mum picked up the kettle and began to fill it at the sink. ‘Cup of tea, anyone?’ she asked.

  ‘Too right,’ my aunt replied.

  Mum made an attempt to tidy the kitchen as best she could while boiling water and placing cups and saucers on the kitchen table. She wiped crumbs off the benches and told my sister and me to move the newspapers off the kitchen chairs so the guests could sit. She reached up and took one of her best plates from the top cupboard and opened a packet of Chocolate Royals. My father and the guests sat around the kitchen table. My brothers, sister and I hovered behind the chairs waiting to pounce on the chocolate-covered biscuits when it was our turn. One of the guests – a stranger to us – pulled out a small packet of Craven As from his suit-coat pocket. He tapped the bottom of the soft pack on the table and three cigarettes popped up. He placed his lips on the tip of the highest cigarette then drew it out of the pack. From another pocket, he pulled out a silver cigarette lighter and flicked his thumb over its top causing it to flip open. He flicked his thumb again and a tall dancing flame appeared.

  My father leaned forward so his face was inches from the guest. He looked him in the eye and said, ‘No smoking in the kitchen. If you want to smoke, go outside.’

  Everyone stopped talking and stared at the cigarette hanging in the man’s mouth. My father was straight-faced and his delivery firm. There was no saying no to him. His word was law in his home. The visitor took the cigarette out of his mouth, placed it back in the soft pack and slipped the Craven As into his pocket.

  Uncomfortable silence hung in the air until my mother walked over to the table. Her shoes made a squeaking sound on the linoleum. She set the plate of biscuits in the middle of the table, put her hand on my father’s shoulder, smiled and said, ‘Chocolate Royal anyone?’

  Later that night, Mum visited my bedroom. ‘I’ve just come to say goodnight, love.’ She sat on the side of my bed, stroked my hair, picked up my blue ‘First’ ribbon from my side table and rubbed it between her fingers. ‘It’s nice and shiny. How are you after your big win today?’

  ‘Good,’ I said. But inside I wanted to cry and didn’t know why. ‘Good,’ I said again.

  ‘You did well, love, I was proud of you today. God bless.’ Mum kissed my forehead. She walked over to the door and placed her hand on the light switch. She turned, looked at me as if she wanted to say something, waited a while, then said. ‘Night love.’ She flicked the switch and the room turned dark. I reached for my ribbon on the side table and slipped it under my pillow.

  Jock’s war scars weren’t always evident to the family. He often played the clown and tap-danced in the kitchen with a funny look on his face. Or he played the ‘bones’, a musical instrument similar to playing the spoons – an Irish tradition. Except, he used animal bones dyed black; each one was approximately four to six inches long. He had two pairs and he’d hold a bone either side of his middle fingers and move both hands in circles, knocking them together and making a clacking sound.

  His dry sense of humour made us laugh. While he was the master of his own house and a disciplinarian, there were times when he was kind and gentle. He had unfathomable patience when helping me with long division at the kitchen table until I was so tired he’d tell me in a soft voice, ‘Time for bed. We’ll try again tomorrow night.’

  As a young child, I had bouts of tonsillitis and a series of abscesses in both eardrums. When ill, it was Dad I wanted. He was the tonic.

  When pain interfered with my sleep, he rocked me in his arms singing in a low voice, Bing Crosby’s version of ‘Beautiful Dreamer’.

  But I didn’t remember this for years.

  One spring day, I was showing my ten-year-old daughter how to bake a cake. I thought it an excellent opportunity to listen to a new CD of Roy Orbison’s greatest hits. Perfect background music while mother and daughter baked together. Knowing most of the words to the more well-known songs, ‘Pretty Woman’, ‘Crying’, ‘She Wears My Ring’, I sang along while I showed my budding cook how to crack eggs without dropping shells into the mixture, and how to measure the sugar, flour and milk.

  My daughter was greasing the cake tin while I creamed the butter and sugar when the first few bars of the next track came on. I stopped whisking. It must have been over thirty years since I’d heard ‘Beautiful Dreamer’. Then Orbison began the lyrics, his melancholic voice gracing them with the emotion they deserved. Transported back to being rocked in my father’s arms I dropped onto the kitchen chair and sobbed. The sense of grief and heartbreak consumed me. Why such an emotional charge? Was my response to hearing ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ nurtured by my father’s own emotional charge when he sang this song to me – not another melody or lullaby? Was I his beautiful dreamer? How was it for him to see his baby girl so ill and in pain and not be able to do something to ease her suffering? Did this bring up memories of when he couldn’t help others he cared for? Bridget? Horry? Joe?

  My daughter was shocked. She walked over to me, carrying the half-greased cake tin. When I tried to explain to her what this song meant to me, she began to cry. ‘It’s not fair. I didn’t get to meet my grandfather.’

  That night, I couldn’t sleep with the tune of ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ playing in my head and the emotions of the day swirling around my body. A tsunami of tears sat behind my eyes; my stomach had that dull nausea I’ve come to know as a sign of grief. I tiptoed to the kitchen to make myself a Milo and wished my father was still alive, so I could have had an adult conversation with him. So I could tell him what my research had turned up. I played the chat in my mind. If he had been alive I imagine our conversation would have gone like this.

  The kitchen light was on and Dad was sitting at the table nursing a mug of tea. He looked lost in thought. I wasn’t sure whether I was intruding. ‘How about a bit of company, Dad?’ I said, closing the sliding door behind me, making sure it didn’t thud.

  ‘Yes pet, come in. What are you doing up so late?’

  ‘I could ask you the same.’

  ‘Have trouble sleeping these days. Thoughts take hold.’

  ‘A penny for them?’ I asked. He smiled. I moved quietly around the kitchen, as being awake in the middle of night dictates. One part of me was measuring Milo and warming milk in the saucepan. Another was assessing my father’s mood. A habit learned long ago. But this night, he appeared relaxed and open. I wasn’t sure whether it was tiredness or that magical time of night when people’s defences haven’t yet stood to full attention.

  Here goes, I thought. ‘Dad, can I ask you something?�
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  ‘Depends what it is.’

  ‘It’s about your time in the war.’

  ‘Maybe not, then.’

  ‘It must have been terrible. I’m interested to know how it was for you.’

  ‘How was what for me?’

  ‘Dad, you know what I mean. When your gun discharged shooting Joe Forrester?’ He looked up, surprised. His jaw dropped, causing a small gap to show between his lips.

  ‘What do you know of Joe Forrester?’

  ‘I’m a writer, Dad. I research things. It’s part of my job.’

  ‘Why do you want to know? It’s a long time ago. Better leave the past alone.’

  ‘Because it’s part of you and I’m part of you, so it’s part of me too in a way.’

  ‘I hope not, pet. I don’t want you knowing anything about that. It’s a scourge, and I’ve done my best to try and forget it. Why do you want me to dredge it up again?’

  ‘I don’t want to cause you pain, Dad. That’s the last thing I want. I thought it might help to speak about it, to share it with someone. Someone who loves you, who thinks you’re the bee’s knees and won’t judge you. You’re marvellous the way you’ve been able to live a respectful and rich life. Many couldn’t, you know that. Many didn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Plenty of veterans who experienced an awful event the way you did, deserted their families when they came back. And plenty of those who stayed, drank and were violent to their wives and children. I don’t remember you ever being like that. I think that’s admirable. It shows such strength of character, such honour.’

  He placed his mug on the table and walked to the window with his back to me. He was silent for a long time. I sipped my Milo. Then he turned around. He looked defeated and so sad I wanted to bite back my words.

  ‘It’s hellish. They don’t go away, these feelings of guilt. I was never forgiven, you know. Anger boils up so fast; it can be triggered in a second by a sound, a smell, a look. It feels like whatever’s happening is aimed just to upset me. That’s why I try to keep control of everything, that way I’m ready if something goes awry, I can cope with it.’ He leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again he looked me in the eye. I don’t know when he ever had before. ‘It’s exhausting, love. I try to stay in control of everything, everyone around me, just so I don’t explode. I’ve exploded with Mum and you kids too, many times. But if I don’t have control over things, this rage escapes before I can catch it. I hate myself for it. I hate myself for killing Joe. The guilt of being alive when he’s dead is with me every waking moment.’

  ‘I can’t imagine …’

  He moved his face closer to mine and again looked me in the eye. ‘Don’t imagine,’ he said in a tense voice, almost a whisper. ‘I don’t want you to imagine. I don’t want you to go anywhere near this. I don’t even want us to talk of this. It’s my pain, my guilt, not yours. It’s none of your business.’

  I looked into my cup. ‘When I researched your records, it shows that Lieutenant Broom was issued with an AA40 charge. The army found him guilty of neglect in relation to the death of Joe Forrester.’ I met his gaze. ‘Did you know that? Maybe it wasn’t your fault after all. Wasn’t Broom supposed to have checked guns at the inspection of arms? Shouldn’t he have seen the bullet lodged in the gun? Wasn’t it his responsibility? I’ve read about the Owen and heard other veterans say it was a faulty piece of equipment and often misfired. It’s feasible it wasn’t your fault at all.’

  ‘I killed Joe, love. I took an innocent man’s life – a mate!’

  ‘But Dad, that doesn’t make you a bad man. It makes you a victim of the war too – a living victim, suffering through no fault of your own.’

  He didn’t speak for a long time. He just stared at the tabletop. Had I gone too far? I was thinking of going back to bed, but as I began to get up he started talking again, and his voice had softened.

  ‘I lost my bearings and was set adrift. I lost who I was; I became someone different, yet I was supposed to be the person I was before. When I came back everyone treated me as the before-Jock. But that before-Jock died alongside Joe. I was a different man after the shooting. I didn’t know who I was and kept searching for the before-Jock so I could fit in. But I didn’t fit in. I don’t fit in. I never rest, always on alert, always managing this rumbling inside me.’

  He wiped his eyes. He was weeping. My father was weeping.

  As I watched him, I thought of how it had been for me as a child, oblivious to the reasons behind his withdrawal and distance, his frequent outbursts. Now it was obvious to me he was trying to deal with his internal world, but back then, I interpreted it as his lack of interest, his disappointment in me. I think his battle to control his anger prompted me to keep my feelings to myself too. He was always somewhere out of reach, hijacked by the past and too preoccupied to notice my feelings, my world. So my feelings, my world became unimportant.

  My heart felt full that he should have expressed his feelings to me. There was nothing more to say to one another, and we sat in silence, in the kitchen, in the early hours of the morning. Neither one of us wanted to move, to break the spell. I don’t know how long it was before I heard the faint chirping of a bird – the beginning of the morning chorus.

  ‘I think the sun’s coming up,’ Dad said.

  My first overseas trip was with my mother, father and sister. We sailed on the Sitmar cruise ship, the Castel Felice. This was Dad’s first return to the United Kingdom in four decades. He looked proud and happy taking his wife and his two attractive daughters back to his roots. It was to be his only trip. Within three years, he had died. He had one sister left in England, who hadn’t immigrated and he was looking forward to seeing her and meeting her family.

  The trip back to England was the happiest I’d seen him. He appeared relaxed and open. On the ship, he was a different father to the one at home. Was it because he was in a liminal space again? We had real conversations. Not many but enough. He had the inclination or emotional space to listen and engage in discussion.

  My mother was also more peaceful and I remember her looking attractive. As is the case with shipboard life, evenings were a time of dressing up, of glamour. My parents attended a few events and it was the first time I had seen them dancing together. I noticed them walking arm in arm and holding hands. It’s hard to imagine your parents being romantic, but I think this trip was a time of rekindling intimacy lost in the day-to-day rhythm of raising five children in a small house. With the luxury of no work, meals cooked and domestic chores taken care of, it looked to me as if my parents’ relationship blossomed.

  A couple of days out of New Zealand, Dad and I were leaning on the ship’s railing, at ease in one another’s company. The top of our arms touched just a little. It was sunny and we were looking over the ocean. We chatted about people we had met on the voyage. A sudden, loud gushing noise from a hole in the ship’s side surprised us both. Sewage and garbage spewed into the ocean. Brown and grey muck spurted into the silky blue water causing it to turn a murky grey. A flock of seagulls came from nowhere squawking their delight at a ready-made meal. We talked of the environment. I asked him about the future, if every ship did this. He showed interest in my questions. We took turns in thinking of ideas of how to disperse the garbage without polluting the ocean. I can’t remember what they were now, but the memory of the two of us resting on the railing is vivid.

  He was relaxed on this holiday, possibly reliving old memories before his time at war. When we arrived in the United Kingdom, people made a fuss of him and us. I believe he found pleasure in the familiarity of places, accents, dialects, sights and sounds.

  While travelling on the ship and staying at hotels in the United Kingdom, I began to notice educated and interesting people gravitating towards my father. He reciprocated by being charming and engaging in pleasant and interesting conversations. This was a different man from home, where he could be disinterested, rude and
detached when people tried to make conversation. I saw my father in a different light. I realised then that he was astute. This was a side of him I hadn’t seen before. Possibly, this trait of his personality had always been there and I hadn’t seen it. As a teenager, I began to take notice.

  When we returned to Melbourne, we both fell back into old patterns. I took up with my old friends and wanted more freedom and independence, and spent as much time as I could away from my parents. My father returned to his moody, disengaged self. Within a year, I had left home and within three years he had died.

  I don’t know how long he suffered. But it became evident there was something wrong years before he died. He held the top of his right arm and took to wearing a faux brown leather glove during the winter. He said keeping his hand warm helped. It was apparent to anyone who saw him, he was in pain. During Melbourne’s freezing winters, his face was grey and tense. When he walked, he held his gloved hand up in front of his chest. No amount of Aspro helped relieve the mysterious ache in his right arm.

  Both Bess and Jock were avid readers and keen library book borrowers. As far back as I can remember there was a doorstopper of a Webster’s Dictionary on the bookshelf at home. The five-inch- plus thick Webster’s New Twentieth Century Dictionary of the English Language Unabridged Second Edition 1960 now rests in the library of my home. It has a full-page picture of Noah Webster, LLD.

  Sniffing the tome takes me back to our lounge room in Preston. In addition, Jock bought a set of Encyclopaedia Britannica from a door-to-door salesman. The Webster’s Dictionary and the Encyclopaedia always held a sense of wonderment and strangeness for me. I enjoyed turning the pages and looking at mysterious words, trying to work out what they meant. As Jock sat in his chair next to the bookcase, he often flicked through pages of either the dictionary or encyclopaedia, stopping to read when something took his interest. I wonder whether he searched for an understanding of the way he’d felt since his return to civilian life. Was he looking for answers to his sadness, depression and rage? Reasons as to why his right arm ached day and night? Did he think it a coincidence, or in his heart did he know the pain he carried was feasibly a manifestation of something else? Psychologists say mysterious pain in the body can be the transference of guilt. This rings true to me in Jock’s case.