by Sally Morgan
The factory
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.
I was sitting on our old velvet lounge, sharpening the pencil for school, and, just when I decided I was satisfied with its razor-sharp tip, Dad strolled in and bent down to sit on the arm of my chair. Without thinking, I stood my pencil pointy end upwards and watched as blue buttocks descended. On contact, Dad leapt up in pain and swore loudly. As he swung around, I waited for him to belt me. To my utter surprise, all he could manage to do was splutter, ‘Go to your room!’
‘Why on earth did you do it, Sally?’ Mum asked as she escorted me down the passage that led from the lounge room to the bedroom I shared with Jill and Billy. I didn’t really know. Curiosity about cause and effect, I guess.
I was allowed certain privileges now I was at school. The best one was being allowed to stay up later than the others and share Dad’s tea. He loved seafood. He had a drinking mate with a boat, and if there was a good catch, crayfish came our way. Fleshy, white crayfish and tomato dipped in vinegar, that was Dad’s favourite meal. At first, I hated the taste of vinegar, but I gradually grew accustomed to it. I was careful not to eat a lot. I knew how much Dad enjoyed crays. It was a happy time then; crays and tomato, Dad and me.
I knew some of Dad’s tastes were a legacy of the war. That particular one from the time Ital
ian partisans had sheltered him from the Germans. I knew all about the war. Dad had told me about his friends Guiseppe and Maria, and their daughter Edema. He’d taught me to sing the Communist anthem in Italian. I thought I was very clever being able to sing in another language.
We had some good times, then. Some nights, Dad would hide chocolates in the deep pockets of his overalls and we were allowed to fish them out. Sometimes, he’d laugh and joke, and when he swore, we knew he didn’t really mean it.
Dad slipped in and out of our lives. He was often in hospital for periods of a few days to a month or so, and the longest he was at home at one time was about three months; usually it was a lot less. When he first came home from hospital, he would be so doped up with drugs he wasn’t able to communicate much. Then, he would seem to be all right for a while, but would rapidly deteriorate. He stayed in his room, drinking heavily, and didn’t mix with us at all. And soon, he was back in hospital again.
Dad was a plumber by trade, but, when he was at home, he was often out of work. Every time he returned from hospital, he had to try and find another job. Mum provided the only steady income, with various part-time jobs, mostly cleaning.
When Dad was happy, I wished he’d never change. I wanted him to be like that forever, but there was always the war. Just when things seemed to be looking up, it would intrude and overwhelm us. The war had never ended for Dad. He lived with it day and night. It was a strange thing, because he’d told me how important it was to be free, and I knew that Australia was a free country, but Dad wasn’t free. There were things in his head that wouldn’t go away. Sometimes, I had the impression that if he could have got up and run away from himself, he would have.
Part of the reason I was so unhappy at school was probably because I was worrying about what was happening at home. Sometimes, I was so tired I just wanted to lay my head on my desk and sleep. I only slept well at night when Dad was in hospital; there were no arguments then.
I kept a vigil when Mum and Dad argued, so did Nan. I made a secret pact with myself. Awake, I was my parents’ guardian angel; asleep, my power was gone. I was worried that, one night, something terrible might happen and I wouldn’t be awake to stop it. I was convinced I was all that lay between them and a terrible chasm.
Some nights I’d try and understand what they were arguing about, but, after a while, their voices became indistinguishable from one another, merging into angry abandonment. It was then I resorted to my pillow. I pulled it down tightly over my head and tried to drown out the noise.
I was grateful Dad didn’t belt Mum. Although, one night, he did push her and she fell. I’d been allowed to stay up late that night, and was squatting on the kitchen floor and peering around the door jamb to see what had happened. Mum just lay in a crumpled heap. I wondered why she didn’t get up. I peered up at Dad, he was so tall he seemed to go on forever. He ran his hand back through his hair, looked down on me, and groaned. Swearing under his breath, he pushed roughly past Nan and staggered out to his room on the back verandah. I felt sorry for Dad. He hated himself.
Nan hurried into the hall and hovered over Mum. As she helped her up, she made sympathetic noises. Not words, just noises. I guess that’s how I remember Nan all those early years — hovering, waiting for something to happen.
I sat on the kitchen floor for a few minutes longer, then I crept quietly into Mum’s room. I pressed my back up against the cool plaster wall, and watched as Nan made a great show of tucking in the rugs around her. Nan’s eyes were frightened, and her full bottom lip poked out and down. I often saw it like that. Otherwise, she wasn’t one to show much emotion.
I tried to think of something to say that would make things all right, but my lips were glued together. Finally, Nan said, ‘If you haven’t got anything to say, go to bed!’ I fled.
I’m in the army now
The task of enrolling another member of our family in school the following year fell once again to Mum. I was pleased Jill was starting school. I felt sure I would not be so lonely with her there.
As we joined the small groups of children and parents walking to school that morning, I watched Jill curiously. She seemed neither excited nor daunted by the prospect of being away from home. I put her calmness down to ignorance, and felt sure that, once our walk led us within sight of school, Jill would break down.
‘Hasn’t the school got a lovely garden, Jilly?’ Mum commented as we rounded the last corner and approached the entrance.
‘Yeah, we’ve got roses like that.’
I narrowed my eyes and looked at her, not a tear in sight. Oh well, I thought, wait till it’s time for Mum to leave, then it’ll be on.
Mum deposited me at the door of my new class, then, taking Jill’s hand, she said, ‘Come on, I’ll show you the toilets.’
‘Are you coming, Sally?’ Jill asked.
‘Naah, saw ’em last year. Ask Mum to show ya the boys’ toilets, I’ve never been in there.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Sally, Jilly doesn’t want to see the boys’ toilets.’
‘Yes I do!’
I watched as, a few minutes later, Jill emerged from her tour of the toilets.
‘What do I do now?’ she asked as she trotted up the verandah to me.
‘Aah, ya have to wait for the bell. That’s your class down there. Go and sit with Mum on the step, she’ll be with you till the bell goes, but she won’t be here all day.’
‘Okay.’ I scanned her face. Poor kid, I thought, it hasn’t sunk in yet.
Jill walked back and plopped down on the verandah step. I watched as Mum smiled at her in exactly the same way she’d smiled at me the previous year. Jill grinned back. Mum had actually convinced her she was going to like school. She was so gullible, sometimes.
Within a few minutes, the bell was ringing loudly. Mum waved and began moving off. I was shocked when Jill calmly took her place in the queue that was forming at the front of her class.
Just before Mum disappeared completely from sight, I saw her cast an anxious glance towards the Grade One line. Now, Jill, now! I thought. It was the perfect moment. For some reason, Jill sensed my interest, and turned and waved happily to me. I groaned in despair. She was obviously dumber than I’d suspected. ‘Mum’s going now!’ I called out, but she was too busy chatting to the boy in front of her to reply.
I watched with a mixture of envy and surprise as she continued talking to the other children. They were all strangers to her, and yet she seemed to fit in, somehow. I knew then that, when it came to school, Jill and I would never agree.
My daydreaming was suddenly interrupted by a deep, grumbly voice calling, ‘You girl, you with the long plaits, come here and pay attention.’ I felt so embarrassed. I’d been so busy watching Jill that I’d failed to notice my classmates had also formed a line.
My new teacher began slowly walking down the line, carefully inspecting each of her forty charges. ‘Don’t slouch. Stomach in, chest out, chin up!’ She tapped my chin lightly with her wooden ruler. I attempted to follow her instructions, but found myself leaning so far backwards, I nearly fell over.
We moved quietly into class and the presence of each one of us was duly recorded in the roll book. When that was finished, our teacher drew herself up to her full flat-chested height of five foot eleven inches and said, ‘I … am Miss Roberts.’ Apart from her pause after the word ‘I’, she spoke quickly and very, very clearly.
‘Now children, I … am going to hand out some reading books. You will all remain as quiet as mice while I’m doing this. Then we will check to make sure you have all brought the things you were supposed to bring.’
I smiled to myself, it wasn’t going to be so terrible after all, my new book was on its way.
I waited expectantly as Miss Roberts walked first down one row and then another. By the time she finally reached my desk, I was practically brimming over with excitement. She placed my book on my desk, and I couldn’t help groaning out loud. It seemed that Dick, Dora, Nip and Fluff had some
how managed to graduate to Grade Two.
In a way, I felt sorry for them. None of them lived near a swamp, and there was no mention of wild birds, snakes or goannas. All they ever did was visit the toy shop and play ball with Nip. I resigned myself to another year of boredom.
There was no comparison between Miss Roberts and my Grade One teacher. If Mum had felt awkward about approaching Miss Glazberg, she was positively terrified when it came to Miss Roberts.
‘Has Miss Roberts ever been in the army, Mum?’ I asked her one afternoon.
‘What a strange question, whatever makes you ask that?’
‘Well, sometimes she acts like a man.’
‘When?’
‘When we line up for school. She won’t let us in the class unless we’re all straight and stiff. She pokes you in the stomach and says, “Stomach in, chest out, eyes forward”. Dad told me they do that to you in the army.’
Mum laughed, it was obvious she thought I was exaggerating again. However, the following week, she confided to me over tea that it seemed Miss Roberts had, indeed, been in the women’s army. One of the cleaners at the school had told her. I found this information very interesting. Dad often talked about the army. He’d been too much of a nonconformist to take naturally to army life. Now, I understood how he felt. I didn’t like being told what to do either.
From then on, whenever I marched into class, I would silently sing an old army ditty Dad had taught me.
I’m in the army now
I went to milk a cow
the cow let-off and I took off
I’m out of the army now!
Jill, Billy and I loved rude songs. We often marched around the yard singing that one. Billy beat on his old tin drum and Jill and I pretended to blow army trumpets. I could play reveille, too. By placing a piece of paper tightly over a comb and blowing on it, I could produce a high-pitched, farty sort of sound that I could then manipulate into a recognisable tune. I learnt to play many tunes on the comb, but reveille was my favourite.