My Place (2 page)

The bullfrog and the bird, how could I have forgotten. For the whole week Dad had been in hospital, she'd talked of nothing else.

Nan encouraged me out by peeling back the layers on top of me. I lay temporarily in a tight, curled ball. The underneath of
me was warm, but, with all my coats and rugs removed, the top of me was rapidly chilling. With sudden decision, I leapt from my bed and shivered my body into an old red jumper. Then, barefoot, I followed Nan out onto the back verandah.

‘Sit still on the steps,' she told me. ‘And be very quiet.' I was used to such warnings. I knew you never heard anything special unless you were very quiet. I rubbed my feet together for warmth and tried to shrug the rest of me into my misshapen red jumper. I pulled my hands up inside my sleeves, wrapped my arms around my legs, and waited.

The early morning was Nan's favourite time of the day, when she always made some new discovery in the garden. A fat bobtail goanna, snake tracks, crickets with unusual feelers, myriads of creatures who had, for their own unique reasons, chosen our particular yard to reside in.

I wanted spring to last forever, but it never did. Summer would come soon and the grass would yellow and harden, even the carefully nurtured hospital grass wouldn't look as green. And the giant nasturtiums that crowded along our side fence and under our lemon tree would disappear. I wouldn't hunt for fairies anymore, and Nan wouldn't wake me so early or so often.

I'd heard the bullfrog yesterday, it was one of Nan's favourite creatures. She dug up a smaller, motley brown frog as well, and, after I inspected it, she buried it back safe in the earth. I shivered as an early morning breeze suddenly gusted up between my bare legs. I expected the bullfrog to be out again this morning. I gazed at the patch of dark earth where I'd last seen him. He'll come out any minute, I thought.

I felt excited, but it wasn't the thought of the bullfrog that excited me. This morning, I was waiting for the bird call. Nan called it her special bird, nobody had heard it but her. This morning, I was going to hear it, too.

‘Broak, Broak!' The noise startled me. I smiled. That was the old bullfrog telling us he was broke again. I looked up at the sky, it was a cool, hazy blue with the promise of coming warmth.

Still no bird. I squirmed impatiently. Nan poked her stick in the dirt and said, ‘It'll be here soon.' She spoke with certainty.

Suddenly, the yard filled with a high trilling sound. My eyes searched the trees. I couldn't see that bird, but his call was there. The music stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

Nan smiled at me, ‘Did you hear him? Did you hear the bird call?'

‘I heard him, Nan,' I whispered in awe.

What a magical moment it had been. I sighed. I was with Dad now, there was no room for magic in hospitals. I pressed my teeth together and, resting my chin on my chest, I peered back at Mum and Dad. They both seemed nervous. I wondered how long I'd been day-dreaming. Mum reached over and patted Dad's arm.

‘How are you feeling, dear?' She was always interested in how he was feeling.

‘How do ya bloody well think!' It was a stupid question, he never got any better.

Pelican shoulders, I thought, as I watched him hunch forward in his chair. The tops of his shoulders poked up just like a pelican's. I wondered if mine were the same. I craned my head to look. Yep. Pretty much the same; my elbows were pointy, too. Dad and I had a lot in common.

Dad's fingers began to curl and uncurl around the arms of his chair. He had slim hands for a man. I remembered someone saying once, ‘Your father's a clever lad.' Was that where I got my ability to draw from? I'd never seen Dad draw or paint, but I'd seen a letter he'd written once, it was beautiful. I knew he'd have trouble writing anything now, his hands never stopped shaking. Sometimes, I even had to light his cigarettes for him.

My gaze moved from his hands, up the long length of his arms, to his face. It dawned on me then that he'd lost more weight, and the realisation set my heart beating quickly. Dad caught my gaze; he was paler and the hollows under his cheekbones were more defined. Only the familiar hazel eyes were the same confused, wet, and watching me.

‘I'm making you something,' he said nervously. ‘I'll go and get it.' He disappeared into the ward and returned a few minutes later with a small, blue leather shoulderbag. There was maroon thonging all the way around, except for the last part of the strap, which wasn't quite finished. As he laid it quietly in my lap, Mum said brightly, ‘Isn't Daddy clever to make that for you?' I stared at the bag. Mum interrupted my thoughts with, ‘Don't you like it?'

I was trapped. I mumbled a reluctant yes, and let my gaze slip from the bag to the large expanse of green grass nearby. I wanted to run and fling myself on the grass. I wanted to bury my face so Dad couldn't see. I wanted to shout,
‘No!
I don't think Daddy's clever.
Anyone
could have made this bag.
He
doesn't think it's clever either!'

By the time I turned back, Mum and Dad were both looking off into the distance.

‘Can we go now, Mummy?' I started guiltily. Had I really said that? My eyes widened as I waited for their reaction. Then I noticed that they weren't even looking at me, they were both staring at the grass. I breathed a slow, undetectable sigh of relief. The last time I had voiced that question out loud, Mum had been cross and embarrassed, Dad silent. He was silent now. Such sad, sad eyes.

The visitors' bell rang unexpectedly. I wanted to leap up. Instead, I forced myself to sit still. I knew Mum wouldn't like it if I appeared too eager. Finally, Mum rose, and while she gave Dad a cheery goodbye, I slowly prised myself from my chair. The backs of my legs must have looked like a crosswalk, I could feel the indentations the hard slats had made in my skin.

As we walked into the ward, the men called out.

‘What? Leaving already?'

‘You weren't here for long, little girl.'

The Old Solider with the Fantail smiled. He still held the lollies in his hand. They all made a great show of waving goodbye, and just as we passed through The Doors and into the empty corridor, a voice called, ‘We'll be waiting for you next time, little girl.'

Strong, cool air blew through the window all the way home in the bus. I kept thinking, can a person be wrinkled inside? I had never heard adults talk about such a thing, but that's how I felt, as though my insides needed ironing. I pushed my face into the wind and felt it roar up my nostrils and down into my throat. With cold ruthlessness, it sought out and captured my reluctant inside wrinkles, and flung them onto the passing road. I closed my eyes, relaxed and breathed out. And then, in a flash, I saw Dad's face. Those sad, silent eyes. I hadn't fooled him. He'd known what I'd been thinking.

Dad came home for a while a couple of weeks after that, and then, in the following January, 1957, Mum turned up on the doorstep with another baby. Her fourth. I was really cross with her. She showed me the white bundle and said, ‘Isn't that a wonderful birthday present, Sally, to have your own little brother born on the same day as you?' I was disgusted. Fancy getting that for your birthday. And I couldn't understand Dad's attitude at all. He actually seemed pleased David had arrived!

Mum chattered cheerfully as she led me down the bitumen path, through the main entrance to the grey weatherboard and asbestos buildings. One look and I was convinced that, like The Hospital, it was a place dedicated to taking the spirit out of life.

After touring the toilets, we sat down on the bottom step of the verandah. I was certain Mum would never leave me in such a dreadful place, so I sat patiently, waiting for her to take me home.

‘Have you got your sandwich?' she asked nervously when she realised I was staring at her.

‘Yeah.'

‘And a clean hankie?'

I nodded.

‘What about your toiletbag?'

‘I've got it.'

‘Oh.' Mum paused. Then, looking off into the distance, she said brightly, ‘I'm sure you're going to love it here.'

Alarm bells. I knew that tone of voice, it was the one she always used whenever she spoke about Dad getting better. I knew there was no hope.

‘You're gunna leave me here, aren't ya?'

Mum smiled guiltily. ‘You'll love it here. Look at all the kids the same age as you. You'll make friends. All children have to go to school someday. You're growing up.'

‘So what?'

‘So, when you turn six, you have to go to school, that's the law. I couldn't keep you home, even if I wanted to. Now don't be silly, Sally, I'll stay with you till the bell goes.'

‘What bell?'

‘Oh … they ring a bell when it's time for you to line up to go into your class. And later on, they ring a bell when it's time for you to leave.'

‘So I'm gunna spend all day listenin' for bells?'

‘Sally,' Mum reasoned in an exasperated kind of way, ‘don't be like that. You'll learn here, and they'll teach you how to add up. You love stories, don't you? They'll tell you stories.'

Just then, a tall, middle-aged lady, with hair the colour and shape of macaroni, emerged from the first classroom in the block.

‘May I have your attention please?' she said loudly. Everyone immediately stopped talking. ‘My name is Miss Glazberg.'

From my vantage point on the bottom step, I peered up slowly at her long, thick legs and under her full skirt. Mum tapped me on the shoulder and made me turn around. She thought I was curious about far too many things.

‘The bell will be going shortly,' the tall lady informed the mothers, ‘and when that happens I want you to instruct your children to line up in a straight line on the bitumen playground. I hope you heard that too, children, I will be checking to see who is the straightest. And I would appreciate it if the mothers would all move off quickly and quietly after the children have lined up. That way, I will have plenty of time to settle them down and get to know them.'

I glared at Mum.

‘I'll come with you to the line,' she whispered.

The bell rang suddenly, loudly, terrifyingly. I clutched Mum's arm.

Slowly, she led me to where the other children were beginning to gather. She removed my hands from her arm but I grabbed onto the skirt of her dress. Some of the other mothers began moving off as instructed, waving as they went. One little boy in
front of me started to cry. Suddenly I wanted to cry, too.

‘Come now, we can't have this,' said Miss Glazberg as she freed Mum's dress from my clutches. I kept my eyes down and grabbed onto another part of Mum.

‘I have to go now, dear,' Mum said desperately.

Miss Glazberg wrenched my fingers from around Mum's thigh and said, ‘Say goodbye to your mother.' It was too late, Mum had turned and fled to the safety of the verandah.

‘
Mum!
' I screamed as she hobbled off. ‘
Come back!
'

Despite the urgings of Miss Glazberg to follow the rest of the children inside, I stood firmly rooted to the bitumen playground, screaming and clutching for security my spotted, plastic toiletbag and a Vegemite sandwich.

By the beginning of second term at school, I had learnt to read, and was the best reader in my class. Reading opened up new horizons for me, but it also created a hunger that school couldn't satisfy. Miss Glazberg could see no reason for me to have a new book when the rest of the children in my class were still struggling with the old one. Every day I endured the same old adventures of Nip and Fluff, and every day I found my eyes drawn to the back of the class where a small library was kept.

I pestered Mum so much about my reading that she finally dug up the courage to ask my teacher if I could have a new book. It was very brave of her. I felt quite proud, I knew she hated approaching my teacher about anything.

‘I'm sorry, darling,' Mum told me that night, ‘your teacher said you'll be getting a new book in Grade Two.'

There weren't many books at our house, but there were plenty of old newspapers, and I started trying to read those. One day, I found Dad's plumbing manuals in a box in the laundry. I could work out some of the pictures, but the words were too difficult.

Towards the end of second term, Miss Glazberg told us there was going to be a night when all the parents came to school and looked at our work. Then, instead of our usual sheets of butcher's
paper, she passed out clean, white rectangles that were flat on one side and shiny on the other. I gazed in awe at my paper, it was beautiful, and crying out for a beautiful picture.

‘Now children, I want you all to do your very best. It has to be a picture of your mother and your father, and only the very best ones will be chosen for display on Parents' Night.'

There was no doubt in my mind that mine would be one of the chosen few. With great concentration and determination, I pored over my page, crayoning and detailing my parents. I kept my arm over my work so no one could copy. Suddenly, a hand tapped my shoulder and Miss Glazberg said, ‘Let me see yours, Sally.' I sat back in my chair.

‘Ooh, goodness me!' she muttered as she patted her heart. ‘Oh, my goodness me. On no, dear, not like that. Definitely not like that!'

Before I could stop her, she picked up my page and walked quickly to her desk. I watched in dismay as my big-bosomed, large-nippled mother and well-equipped father disappeared with a scrunch into her personal bin. I was hurt and embarrassed, the children around me snickered. It hadn't occurred to me you were meant to draw them with clothes on.

By the beginning of third term, I had developed an active dislike of school. I was bored and lonely. Even though the other children talked to me, I found it difficult to respond.

Dad didn't seem to be very interested in my schooling, either. He never asked me how I was going or whether I had any problems. In fact, the closest contact Dad had with my education was a brutal encounter with my black print pencil.