by R. B. Baxter
Chapter 3 - Oh, the Shame
The small town of Barclay nestles comfortably in the foothills of a large tableland that runs through the centre of New South Wales. Situated at the end of a valley, the town looks out over a verdant ocean of rolling hills dotted here and there with thick corridors of trees.
A cool, green river meanders casually around the eastern edge of the town. It dallies for a short while in a series of small billabongs before ambling lazily off to the ocean some thirty-kilometres distant.
Standing on the high side of town and looking east you’ll see that this glorious valley empties out onto a patchwork-quilted plain that stretches all the way to the coast. It is truly one of the most beautiful views in the whole country. If you catch it at dawn as the mist lies softly over the plain like a thick bunny-rug and the sun paints the whole scene with that special, crisp, golden hue of loveliness it reserves for early risers—well, the sight just takes your breath away.
With a population of some five thousand people Barclay is considered by many to be one of the most beautiful and picturesque small towns in the country. The residents certainly think so. We count ourselves among the luckiest people on the planet for having the wisdom and good fortune to live here.
Surrounded as we are in Barclay by so much beauty and serenity it is fair to say that the suicide rate in the town is low. In fact, to the best of local recollection, it’s nonexistent. You could plod through every bit of the town’s well-documented history and you’d be hard-pressed to find mention of someone who upon deciding they couldn’t take it anymore, had callously disregarded the dazzling dawning sun and the gorgeous bunny-rug of morning mist that lay atop the verdant landscape, and promptly blown their brains out.
No, it had never happened.
But that was quiet possibly about to change.
I awoke feeling ridiculously fit and well. For a second or two that fact didn’t bother me in the slightest because even though my body had clawed its way into consciousness my brain was doing what it did every morning when I first woke up; it was being pathetically slow on the uptake.
I was just wondering why I had decided to sleep the wrong way round in my bed last night when my feet touched the cold wet portion of my mattress and I was instantly transported to the events of the evening before. I groaned in anguish as a wave of humiliation crashed down on me, wrenching at my guts and making me feel like throwing up. It all came rushing back and the shame and embarrassment almost killed me on the spot.
Mrs Simpson had seen my willy. She, and her 'Walk for Health' group, had seen me in the nuddy. Six pairs of the biggest never-miss-anything eyes attached to the most enormous have-you-heard-the-latest mouths ... oh, it was no good. I knew I was dead.
This was exactly the sort of thing that travelled well via the back fence and I knew it would be all over town by breakfast time. Pointless to go on living really. Might as well go into town when the shops open, buy a gun, and end it all right there and then on the footpath. That would be best, surely. I mean, no twelve-year old had ever suffered such humiliation before and lived to talk about it. Why should I be any different?
I went into the bathroom and studying myself in the mirror, performed a comprehensive system check. I searched for any sign of a sore throat or headache. I poked and prodded, praying for an aching joint or two. But it was no good. I was completely hale and hearty. God! It was so depressing!
I was just trying to come to terms with the fact that I had no choice but to go to school and face the Archbishop as well as deal with any fallout from last night’s shenanigans when Mum called me for breakfast. I slumped against the bathroom wall. I was certain my mother would have heard all about it by now. Old Mrs Simpson takes her gossiping seriously and believes in an early start especially when the topic is fresh and there’s a reputation or two to tarnish before the day is out.
I trudged up the hallway searching for an excuse to counter whatever verbal attack Mum would launch at me when I entered the kitchen but I was having no luck at all. Nothing would come to me. Regardless of how slowly I walked I could not think of a single thing.
The kitchen smelt of toast and coffee and I had no sooner entered and looked around than Mum was pushing me into a seat and plopping a bowl of hot porridge on the table in front of me.
“Get that into you and don’t mess about this morning. Remember, it’s an important day today.” She pushed back the remnants of my fringe and gave me a quick peck on the forehead. Her smile turned to a frown when she noticed my lack of eyebrows and my heart froze for a second. Then she smiled sadly and looked into my eyes.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to light the heater for you last night, love, but I’m afraid things are a bit tight at the moment. I have no choice. I have to work.” She gave me another quick peck on the forehead and tousled my hair. “You understand don’t you?”
I smiled gamely, brave little trooper that I was, and she patted my cheek and hurried back to see to the kettle that was whistling on the stove.
Guilt savaged me severely and what little appetite I had deserted me. I felt rotten that my singed eyebrows and fringe had made Mum feel bad but I was also relieved. She obviously didn’t know anything yet. I wondered why? It wasn’t like Mrs Simpson to get off to such a late start.
The answer came to me in the form of a cough from outside. As soon as I heard it I knew straight away. Dad! He must be on a late start at work today. I leaned over and hitching the curtain back from the window, looked outside. Yep. There he was on the back veranda leaning on the balcony. Dressed in only trousers and a singlet he was impervious to the crisp cold air as he stood there smoking a cigarette.
Relief cascaded through me and I breathed a silent prayer of thanks. Dad hadn't even dressed for work yet so I knew that Mrs Simpson would not be dropping by until after we kids had left for school. Mrs Simpson’s devotion to gossiping and slander irritated my father. He had no time at all for her back-fence-waffle as he called it. He hated her and her gossiping friends and referred to them collectively as The Vultures. He said on many occasions that they had done more to ruin some perfectly good marriages with their rumours and innuendo than had the actions of the people involved.
Because our house was on the prow of a hill Dad was clearly visible from just about anywhere in the neighbourhood as he stood out there. But he was especially visible from the Simpson house which was in the gully just below. A small glimmer of hope peeked over the bleak horizon of my morning. Things suddenly looked a little better and with my appetite miraculously restored, I attacked my brekkie with gusto.
Because of Dad’s undisguised loathing of her, Mrs Simpson was scared to death of him and would stay well clear of our place if he was likely to be home. In earlier times, before she had picked up on how Dad felt about her, she would drop by before he was even out of the shower. He would come out to breakfast and see her sitting at our dining table, hands around a half-empty teacup, talking a mile-a-minute about some poor bugger who had no hope at all of defending himself.
Dad would frown and look dangerous. Then he’d mutter rude things about stupid old busy-bodies and horrible harridans which embarrassed Mum no end. It didn’t take long for Mrs Simpson to realise that as far as Dad was concerned, she was about as welcome in our house as a dog’s fart. On the other hand Mum was always nice to Mrs Simpson even though she didn’t like a lot of what she had to say. But that was typical of Mum. She was the sort of person who would give anybody in the world the time of day and a cup of tea to go with it whereas Dad would not suffer fools gladly.
But even Dad’s presence could not put Mrs Simpson off completely. Like all good purveyors of rumour and innuendo she was persistent. Normally she would wait until Dad had left for the day but sometimes the news was so juicy and fresh the urge to gossip would push her to strike when the smallest opportunity presented itself. She would lay in wait, sweating on these opportunities.
Mum was well aware of Mrs Simpson’s devotion to her vocation but
even she was surprised one morning to hear a shuffling of feet outside the backyard dunny as she sat there on the loo. Thinking it was one of us kids, Mum was about to yell out that she wouldn’t be much longer when she heard the customary clearing of the throat and the, “Now then Margaret...” which preluded any of Mrs Simpson’s gossip sessions.
When she got over the shock Mum found this hilarious and just about fell on the floor with silent laughter. She said later that she’d been in exactly the right place when Mrs Simpson had first spoken because it made Mum laugh so hard she would have peed herself if she had been anywhere else.
These weird little backyard visits from Mrs Simpson while Dad was still in the house took place a couple of times and may well have continued had he not finally caught her.
One morning he went out onto the back veranda to shout out to Mum and tell her that he was leaving for work when he noticed Mrs Simpson’s big bum sticking out from behind the corner of the fibro dunny. He knew immediately what was going on and roared on top of his voice:
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
We kids ran to the window as soon as we heard Dad’s yell and looked out in time to see Mrs Simpson jump like an epileptic cat. She shot a horrified look at Dad who was already moving down the back steps. Her only avenue of escape was up the side of the house via the driveway but that would mean going past Dad and there was no way she was going to do that. Instead we saw her do something that had us rolling on the floor with laughter.
Mrs Simpson lit out across the yard like her bum was on fire darting quick little glances over her shoulder at Dad as she went. Then she began to climb the fence!
We couldn’t believe it and neither could Dad. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared. This fence was six-feet high and would have presented a problem to just about anyone. But Mrs Simpson, all of five-foot-two on tip-toes, had hold of the top of the palings with her scarlet tipped talons and was trying desperately to hitch her right leg up and over the top of it. She was not doing well. We kids, experienced fence climbers that we were, could have told her that she needed to hoist herself up first before swinging her leg over but we were too engrossed in the scene unfolding before us to worry about enlightening her.
Mrs Simpson, her weight supported by the death grip she had on the top of the palings, lay back on a forty-five degree angle and threw her right foot repeatedly in a serious of pathetic little kicks in the general direction of the top of the fence. Her foot was falling a good three-feet shy of its intended target every time.
Without breaking tempo she looked back over her shoulder at Dad standing there at the bottom of the steps watching her. A look of desperation flickered across her face and shutting her eyes tight she turned back to the task at hand and doubled her effort. Her right foot scrabbled and rattled against the palings still a good three-feet or so below the top of the fence and she began to sag as exhaustion started becoming a factor.
Then Dad began moving towards her.
We kids, who up until this point had been a hopeless giggling mess fighting and pushing for the best view of the proceedings, became absolutely silent as we watched in morbid fascination waiting to see what Dad would do.
Mrs Simpson glanced back over her shoulder again and seeing Dad moving her way, let out a whimper. She turned back to the fence and attacked it with even more vigour but it was to no avail. She was not going anywhere.
Dad strolled up slowly until he was right behind her whereupon he stopped and, placing his hands on his hips, studied her closely.
Mrs Simpson pretended he wasn’t there and actually tried harder still to get her leg over the top of the fence. She had added a little bobbing hop to her repartee and her right foot was almost a blur now as it pumped desperately up and down still well below the top of the palings. She was fading fast and it was obvious to all that she had no hope of ever climbing this fence. Suddenly Dad bent down and getting his hands right underneath her, heaved her up.
With a squeak, Mrs Simpson rose high in the air. Her right foot suddenly found itself over the top of the fence right where she had wanted it to be. It took only the slightest twist in Dad’s action to have the rest of her over the fence as well and she fell down on the other side in a jumble of arms and legs. In no time at all she was on her feet and without saying a word or stopping to brush herself off, she scuttled up the driveway of the neighbour’s house and out into the road.
Dad watched her go. Then he turned and dusting his hands together as though he had just taken out the garbage, strolled back across the yard to the back steps. He was smiling and it was plain to see that he had enjoyed himself immensely.
Later on though, Mum gave him heaps saying that Mrs Simpson was not a young woman any more and that Dad might have hurt her badly and wasn’t it a good thing she was wearing slacks and he should think himself lucky if she doesn’t sue.
Dad took all this good-naturedly and conceded that he may have been a bit hasty and that it might not have hurt to be a bit more patient and neighbourly. But when Mum suggested he apologise you could tell that even she knew she had pushed too hard.
Dad went ballistic and in the voice he kept for just such occasions bellowed that he would apologise only when the Pope said Easter Mass clad in just a jock-strap and sandshoes and not before. Then he turned and stormed out of the house and took himself off to work.
We kids didn’t understand what he had meant by that but we knew it was funny because Mum laughed for ten minutes afterwards. And we laughed right along with her.
I turned back to my breakfast. Dad’s presence had brought me a temporary reprieve but I knew there was no staving off the inevitable. By the end of the day anybody with two ears and the time to stand and listen would hear about the display of living art I’d put on in my bedroom window the night before and there was absolutely nothing I could do about that. But for this morning at least I was trouble-free. I knew enough to go ahead and enjoy my breakfast while I could. After all, my life would probably be painted an entirely different hue by the time I got home this afternoon.