The Pencil Case

by Lorraine Cobcroft

  “How do you feel about the prospect of seeing them again?”

  I shrugged. “How should I feel? I’ve told you often enough that I don’t have feelings. I’m not like other people. I was trained not to feel.

  “I decided in Singapore that I wanted to see them,” I continued, wondering now at the wisdom of that decision, “but I don’t know what to expect. Don’t even know if I’ll be welcome. I thought about them now and then when I had leave from the army. Sometimes I’d think ‘Maybe I’ll go find my parents and have a holiday with them’. But I knew what a holiday with my aunt and uncle would be like. They were good to me. Their house was home. In the end, I always chose the familiar over the unknown.”

  “Bill never encouraged you to see them? Never talked about them?”

  “No. I think he thought it was best to leave the past buried and maybe it was. I guess I’m about to find out.”

  ~~~~

  34: GOING HOME

  MARCH 1974:

  A winding track thumped and jolted past a murky dam, across browned paddocks, and through a rusted gate jammed permanently open, its sagging bottom corner obscured under layers of thick red dirt. The fire–blackened walls of an iron–roofed shack came into view.

  A tired stick–woman draped in a worn cotton dress stood in the doorway. Beside her, just outside the door, a man and three boys stood in a line wearing worn but bright white shirts. The man might have stood nearly six feet tall if it weren’t for his stoop. His face was rugged and well sun–tanned, but worn down almost to the spirit. His clothes hung loosely on an overly thin frame.

  The woman had medium–length, dark hair --- unruly, a hint of auburn competing with emerging streaks of iron–grey. She raised a hand to shield questioning eyes. The man shook his head. The boys began to run forward, but she called them back.

  “They don’t know we are coming, Paul,” Fran said, concerned. “No–one told them.”

  “Ian said Rob would tell them. He would have.” I spoke without certainty.

  “I don’t think so. Look at them. They look confused, worried. They don’t know.”

  The car we followed stopped under a tree, alongside the shack, and I pulled in behind. The woman started towards Ian’s car, then hesitated. For a long moment, she stared at me. Slowly, a hesitant smile of recognition crept across her face.

  “Fred! Look, Fred! It’s our daughter–in–law, and she’s brought us our grandchildren.”

  She came at a run. As Fran stepped from the car, she raced to the passenger side door, unfolded our baby boy from Fran’s arms and hugged him tightly, soaking his shirt with her tears.

  “I never thought I’d see them. I never thought I’d see them. Oh my beautiful babies!”

  I stepped from the driver side, opened the rear door, unbuckled the child restraint and lifted my daughter from her seat. Thrusting the child over my shoulder, I walked around the car and turned to face the old man who stood silently staring, trembling, face grey. For an uncomfortable few moments, I just stood there. I sucked in a deep breath, then stepped forward to extend an open hand.

  “Hello, Dad.”

  “Just like that,” Fran remarked later. “ ‘Hello, Dad.’ As though you had known him always and were seeing him again after a brief absence. As though there was nothing at all unusual about today.”

  I would have known him anywhere. It was like looking into a special kind of mirror that aged you 30 years. The hair was much darker and straighter and the eyebrows were bushier. His complexion was darker, but the facial features were unmistakable. There could never have been any doubt. This was the man who polished my shoes so meticulously 18 years ago, the man who gave me an air rifle, the man who told me endless stories of explorers and bushmen and poets. My dad. At last, I was home.

  My mother came across to me. Tearily, wordlessly, she hugged me and kissed my cheek. I returned her embrace with a casual hug and a soft peck on the cheek. We swapped babies. She oohed and aahed over my bewildered daughter, and then, at last, she turned to say hello to Ian and Carly, and invite us all inside.

  The shack comprised three small rooms. Outside, half a rusting galvanised iron water tank rested on its side on four piles of old bricks, forming a wash tub. Under it, a pile of ashes still glowed faintly from the morning wash. A wet trail revealed where the soapy water ran away to a small vegetable patch. The tub had been refilled with clean water for the family to wash their face and hands and dip a cloth to sponge their bodies clean. Despite the primitive conditions, I noted that they were all remarkably clean and well groomed.

  Inside, the floor was neatly swept and bore no trace of food scraps. A kettle gurgled and popped on one side of a huge, old, black stove. On the other side of the room, a battered gauze–doored dresser displayed a scant collection of scratched enamel mugs and chipped china plates. The large wooden table in the centre of the room was white and lined from scrubbing. Around it stood four unmatched straight–backed wooden chairs, two with props bandaged to one leg. On the hearth stood a three–legged stool, its seat shiny from wear and its legs revealing great gaping patches of raw timber between layers of peeling green paint.

  There were no windows, only hessian–covered holes in the walls with telltale stains below where the water trickled down when the rain came in. At either end of the kitchen, a hessian sack hung across an opening in a pathetic failed attempt to provide privacy to the bunk rooms beyond.

  Pity vied with contempt as I puzzled the lack of basic comforts. Dad was an innovator. I pondered the probability that money for materials was in short supply, but I realised, years later, that Dad was already, at that time, a sick man.

  In one room, double bunks with ragged broken springs lined both walls. In the other, two double beds stood side by side, with barely enough room to squeeze between. No wardrobe or dresser was visible. The shack was devoid of comfortable seating, but somehow, it seemed to radiate a special kind of warmth.

  Fran surveyed the scene. What’s she thinking now? This world was so different from the one she knew and yet, in the strangest ways, it was so similar. She returned my gaze with a warm smile. Later, she remarked that she had felt an unaccountable sense of belonging.

  My mother and father. How should I address them? I had called Fred ‘Dad’, but using their titles somehow felt wrong. These people were strangers. I took my cue from Fran, whose use of those titles seemed so natural and easy.

  Leaning against the sideboard, sipping tea from a chipped enamel cup and munching homemade biscuits from an enamel serving platter in the centre of the table, I asked three younger brothers about school and football. I asked my father about his work.

  “Ian told me you can’t shear any more, Dad. Do you still go out droving? Do you still have horses and dogs?”

  The old man’s nervousness abated slowly. His hands steadied and his colour improved. Once or twice, I saw the hint of a grin; that familiar laconic half–smile that showed itself more in the twinkling of the eyes than the upturning of thin lips or the dimpling of the chin.

  His voice was deep, but soft. He answered questions tersely, like me, using no more words than necessary to address the question and appear reasonably polite. Volunteer nothing. It wasn’t unfriendliness or disinterest. We just didn’t see the need for detailed conversation. With people I was close to, I often conversed without either party speaking, or with half–finished sentences that made no sense to an outside observer. I found I could do that now with Dad. There was an instant connection.

  Neither of us spoke of the past. Later, Ian thanked me for not uttering a word of accusation or recrimination. No reminders of the pain of our parting 18 years before, or our long separation. I said nothing of the life I led as a child. “What good would it do?” I replied when Fran commented. “There’s been quite enough hurt already.”

  I wanted desperately to know why we were parted, but I never asked. In all the time we spent together, on that day and more than a hundred others, neither of us uttered a word abo
ut the awful events that separated us. I acted the part of the loving son returning home after a brief absence, as though I had left there to join the army or to work in another town. As though nothing was unusual. I was just another of Fred’s many sons.

  We stayed only a short while. Mum handed Carly a tin of cakes and a pie. “To help feed everyone,” she said. I saw Fran glance at the big old wood stove and the primitive collection of kitchenware and I knew she marvelled that Mum could make pies and cakes in such conditions.

  Mum kissed and hugged Fran and told her to call her Elsie. She hugged the children, then she put her arms around me and kissed my cheek and said, “See you later, son”. I gave her a quick, soft hug, shook hands with my dad again, and said “See you at the wedding”. I slid into the car, started the engine, and drove back in an uneasy, confused silence.

  ~~~~

  35: A FATHER’S LOVE

  MARCH 1974

  The clock over the courthouse entrance read 14 minutes to three when our little group assembled on the wide footpath to await the arrival of the bride. Dad stood proud in his worn, dark–grey suit and starched white shirt. He wrapped his arm about Mum and beamed admiringly at her. She was dressed in a smartly tailored purple satin suit --- made by her, we learnt later, on an old treadle sewing machine with tools limited to a pair of scissors, needle, thread and just two pins.

  Fran remarked that she was stunningly beautiful. Later, she admitted wondering how she might have formed that impression of an anorexic woman with wispy, untamed hair, hard, wrinkled skin and a gummy smile that showed a scattering of misshapen nicotine–stained teeth. But when you looked at her, you felt always compelled to focus on her eyes. You could look right through those eyes into the depths of her soul.

  She won a beauty pageant once, or so the rumour went. Somewhere in the archives of photographs held by Dad’s relations --- no–one in the family ever met any of hers --- there was a picture of a stunning, magnificent young woman. I secured it after her death. It now hangs on the family photo gallery wall in our sitting room. The woman in that photo is the woman I remember as my mother. The eyes and a familiar gentle voice were all that was left of her now.

  Rob and Valerie had opted to marry in the village, rather than in the nearby regional centre, and I was relieved that Dad and I would not be forced to enter the big stone courthouse we recalled with such horror. Over the past few weeks, I had finally told Fran of the events of that awful day in 1956, and just a little about the life that followed.

  The courthouse in the little bush town was a quaint, unpretentious white weatherboard structure with a galvanized iron roof on which the rain often sang so loudly that proceedings inside could not continue until the weather improved. The bride was fashionably late… five minutes. Dressed in a simple street frock and low–heeled shoes, she broke with tradition by entering on the arm of her groom. We had caught Rob reluctantly and clumsily trying to fasten his tie as he stepped from car to pavement to join Val, looking more than slightly affected by alcohol and pretty damn stoked at the prospect of claiming Val as his wife.

  The registry office was too small for the gathering accompanying bride and groom, so Fran and I hovered uncomfortably just outside the door, near enough to hear most of the proceedings, but not close enough to hear the bride’s nervous whisper and the groom’s stumbling recitation of promises. Ian stood beside Rob as best man, similarly casually attired and looking equally uncomfortable, his tie crooked, his neck and face ruddy from a hasty dash from the pub on the corner, where he’d stopped off to ply Rob with a generous dose of liquid fortification.

  With the exception of her mum, a stout German woman with a stentorian voice and heavy accent, Val was unaccompanied by family. Ian’s wife, Carly, stood beside her as maid of honour. None of my younger brothers and sisters were invited to attend, although they joined us later at the reception.

  When the ceremony was done we all migrated to the bowling club --- a similarly unpretentious timber building set between two manicured lawns, with most of its seating on a long, wide veranda covered with shabby green Perspex. We dined on sandwiches, salads and trifle, and large hollowed–out cob loaves filled with savoury dips, with broken lumps of bread on the side for dipping. Blokes gravitated to the bar and spent the entire evening perched on high stools exercising their elbows with 10 ounce weights, while the women gathered around tables outside.

  A large group of townsfolk joined in the festivities. In this town, celebrations were open to all without specific invitation, and in any case, it would have been impossible to exclude those who exercised their usual right of use of the facilities. There was no formal booking or allocated function room. Uninvited guests weren’t a problem, though, because everyone threw in for the catering and we all paid our own way at the bar.

  As we entered the reception hall, Mum migrated towards me. Reaching my side, she took my hand. “My son,” she whispered in an ecstatic tone. “My wonderful eldest son.” She hardly released my hand or left my side for the duration of the celebration. Over and over she introduced me as “My eldest son”. Surprise was evident on many faces, and some were brash enough to ask, “Where have you been hiding him?” or “I thought Ian was your eldest? Where has Paul been all these years?” Others opened their mouths to speak, but were cut off with her enthusiastic “Don’t you think he’s handsome?”, “Isn’t he charming?” or “And did you meet his beautiful wife and my two gorgeous grandchildren?”

  Mum handled all the awkward questions with calm confidence. “Paul joined the army when he was only 15,” she said to some, and “Paul and his wife live a long way away,” to others. Something in her tone or expression seemed to warn against further inquiry. Although folks might reasonably wonder why they hadn’t met me on a previous visit, either the answers, or her demeanour as she gave them, seemed to shut down conversation on that topic. She would squeeze my hand and beam proudly at me, proceeding with a brief commentary on the ceremony of the day, or asking the inquirer what she thought of the bride’s attire.

  Once, when I pulled away briefly to retire to the gents room, she commanded me to come right back and told me firmly that now she had found me again, she intended never to let me out of her sight.

  Fran said later that after I’d gone, she sought her out and told her how happy she was to have such a beautiful daughter–in–law and how fortunate it was I had a good woman to love and care for me.

  “She told me she didn’t look after you as well as she should have,” Fran said, her eyes misting. “She said it was such a relief to see you cared for and happy. She said it so matter–of–factly, but when the words were out, her face twisted with pain and she stared at the floor.”

  I didn’t reply, but I knew that my expression spoke volumes. I struggled to tolerate my mother’s pretences. Eighteen years and no attempt to make contact. Someone was to blame for me being taken away and it sure wasn’t my father’s fault.

  “I said I was sure she did her best,” Fran was saying. “I told her babies don’t come with a ‘How to be a Mum’ manual. There were tears in her eyes when she answered. She said how good it was to have you back and I could have no idea how much she missed you. The days go on. You do what you have to do. You get through, somehow, but she said she cried herself to sleep every night since you were taken.”

  “She never tried to get us back.”

  “I asked her why, Paul. I wanted to swallow my tongue after I said it. How could I be so insensitive? But she didn’t seem to mind the question at all. Do you know what she said?”

  I shrugged, unsure whether I wanted to hear how my mother had replied. “She said, ‘Many times. Fred walked over 70 miles, once, to the Home we thought they were in, but they told him the kids weren’t there. Social workers visited, and we told them we wanted the kids back. We asked them what we had to do, but they just told us the kids were better off away. In the end, I decided perhaps they were. You’ve seen how we live. What did we have to offer them?’ ”


  Love. A sense of belonging. An identity. A feeling of worthiness.

  Fran was still rattling on. “It must have been so hard for her, Paul. I can’t begin to imagine how any woman could cope with losing a child, but what matters is that her son has come home. And it’s clear she couldn’t be happier.”

  I didn’t answer. My head swam with questions I would never ask, and accusations and recriminations I would never utter. She had her son back, but her son was a man who no longer had any need for a mother --- a man besieged with doubts that she had ever really been a mother, because she had failed to protect me. I struggled to suppress an awful sense of having suffered the ultimate betrayal, and yet I wanted desperately to love her.

  #

  We visited my family again a month later. Fred was still noticeably uncomfortable in my presence and nothing we could say or do seemed to put him at ease. Three months later, I brought him up to stay with us for two weeks, hoping we could get to know each other better. He was a delight to have around the house. The kids adored him, but his nervousness around me didn’t abate.

  We talked, drank beer and even went to the pub together. Fred met my friends and engaged in casual conversation with them, but when we returned home, he retired with no more than a polite goodnight and a haunted look that suggested he was afraid of me, and would rather be anywhere else but in my home.

  The third evening Fred was there, I had a band rehearsal scheduled. Fran was struggling with dinner dishes and demanding children, and concerned about my father’s obvious discomfort. I shouted at her that I couldn’t find a clean shirt to wear and stormed into the kitchen yelling at her that I was going to be late for the rehearsal.