Mother of Ten

by J. B. Rowley

  He finishes the letter as follows:

  Anyway, I should be on Tuesday’s train but as yet I am not sure. See you soon, Myrtle, and it can’t be soon enough for me. I miss you too much. All my love. See you, Myrtle. From George. XXXXXXXX

  In his next letter he wrote:

  Dear Myrtle,

  I am still here. There has been a mistake made. I can’t go today after all. Dr Paul said I could and Dr Standish said I can’t and it looks like Dr Standish must have won because I am still here. I could not write until late because I was kept waiting until three o’clock in the afternoon. I don’t know if you got a telegram or not, but you were supposed to - about 9 o’clock this morning. Anyway, I am not sure what to do with this Social Services cheque. If I sign it and it gets lost in the mail, it’s an open cheque. I don’t know why they are keeping me. I’m alright. All I am doing is taking tablets. I reckon I could do this at home, I’m sure. However, the head doctor has just examined me so maybe that will decide them. It shouldn’t be much longer - would like to get it back to you - this cheque, I mean.

  Sorry, Myrtle, I couldn’t get home today but it was out of my hands. I have been sitting around all day in my clothes and I still haven’t got an answer. They thought I might catch the seven o’clock train but it doesn’t look like it now. Anyhow, I will just have to leave it to them, I suppose. I haven’t much choice in the matter it seems. I was always unlucky. Have you got any money to carry on a couple more days or not? If not, I’ll just have to take the risk and send this cheque.

  Two or three went out today. I don’t know why they did not let me go today when they said they were going to. It mucks everyone up. So I won’t bother to ask them anymore. What’s the use when they give you the wrong date? I could have blown the place up.

  Anyway, keep going if you can, Myrtle, and don’t worry, I won’t be long, I hope. So long, Myrtle. Write straight back. All my love. George. XXX

  Dad was not released from hospital until five days later on September 30. However, his stay at home was brief. He was admitted to the local hospital in Orbost two months later. By this time he and Mum must have realised that he would not live for much longer. It was common knowledge in Orbost that if a seriously ill person was sent home from a Melbourne hospital and was not yet well they had been sent home to spend their last days with their family.

  It was uncanny to see Dad quiet and listless. He did not eat much although Mum tried her best to tempt him with his favourite dishes. We had to be very quiet in the house and Mum sent us outside to play much of the time. As the weeks passed we saw less of him because he spent a lot of time sleeping.

  How Mum managed to find the time and money to give us kids a ‘normal’ Christmas that year I do not know, but she did. Bobby and Maxie had left home by this time to find work in other places but there were still five of us, the youngest being four-year-old Peter. Dad usually got our Christmas tree from the bush. He would chop off a branch of the Cherry Ballard, a cypress-like tree with soft green branches that reminded me of a willow tree. The small red berries of this native cherry were gathered for eating by the Aboriginal people who loved their sharp taste. I don’t remember who got our Christmas tree that year but we had a lovely one. It stood in the bay window. Mum kept us busy for days making decorations from coloured paper to put on the tree.

  “Let’s make it look extra special to give your father a surprise on Christmas morning,” she said.

  On Christmas Eve she got us to bed early as she always did by telling us that we had to be fast asleep before Santa arrived. He would know if we were awake and he would not enter the house with the presents. Even though I had serious doubts about the existence of Santa Claus, I went along with the subterfuge as I always did. It was part of the excitement and the ritual. That night I heard the rustling of wrapping paper as I lay in my bed pretending to be asleep. Mum might have had some presents already wrapped but she probably spent hours wrapping presents for us that night.

  I awoke in the morning to the sounds of Georgie and Kevin fighting with each other; each accusing the other of trying to open the brightly wrapped parcels. They always fought with each other on Christmas morning. It was reassuring to hear this sign of normality.

  When we were all out of bed, we opened up our presents with the usual noisy frenzy. Dad, pale and thin, reminded me of Pop as he sat quietly watching us. When Mum tried to tell us to be quiet he shook his head.

  “It’s all right, Mum,” he said. “It’s Christmas.”

  Although I did not realise it at the time, the unspoken message was ‘It’s my last Christmas with them’. He would have known by then that he was unlikely to see another year out.

  When the excitement was over, Mum shooed the younger kids outside to play.

  “And don’t make too much noise,” she called after them. “Your father needs to have a rest before dinner.”

  While Dad was sleeping and the kids were playing, I helped Mum in the kitchen. As in most Australian homes at the time, we always had a heavy, cooked meal for Christmas lunch no matter what the weather. It was a meal more suited for a Northern Hemisphere winter than a hot Australian summer but it was a tradition brought over from Britain in the early days of colonisation. So, like other Australian mothers of the time, Mum sweltered for hours in a hot kitchen with the wood stove well stoked and a hot oven ready.

  Our main course of turkey, chicken, roast vegetables and peas was followed by plum pudding with cream and jelly. Mum always made the traditional plum pudding in a cloth with sixpences inside and had it ready and hanging several weeks before Christmas. We all loved plum pudding and yelled with delight when we found a sixpence in the piece on our plate. Christmas dinner that year was the same raucous event as it always was. We blew whistle streamers, nudged and shouted at each other, fought over our sixpences and ate every morsel that was put in front of us. Dad sat in his usual place at the head of the table and carved the turkey and the chicken. He smiled at us from time to time but he was mostly quiet and sometimes seemed to have trouble breathing. He ate very little and Mum helped him back to bed before we had finished our jelly and ice cream.

  The next day the ambulance came and took Dad back to Orbost Hospital. Mum visited him at every opportunity which was usually two or three times a day. He was in and out of the hospital during January 1965. Each time he came home he looked less like my father.

  On Thursday 28 January when Mum went to visit Dad at the hospital, she stayed there all afternoon coming home only to see to our evening meal before returning to the hospital. She did not come back until later in the evening.

  I recall my mother arriving home from the hospital and standing for a long time in the doorway looking across at us kids in the lounge room. We were absorbed in a television show and barely noticed her presence.

  After a few moments, she spoke. “Your father died tonight.”

  We heard her heavy step along the hall to the room they had shared. Not knowing how to react or what to say, we sat in silence in front of the television. Mum was alone in her room that night.

  Chapter 19

  Our summer that year was dry and hot. Fierce bushfires burned all around Orbost and a heavy drift of smoke covered East Gippsland. Lightning strikes started new fires in the tinder dry forests until all of Gippsland was ravaged by fire. Conditions were so severe that the train line was closed for a period and, for the first time since the 1959 fires, all timber activities in the Orbost district were shut down for a short period of time. Homes and shops were destroyed, thousands of stock perished, almost 10 000 hectares of grassland and over 200 000 hectares of bushland were burnt. The fires burned throughout February until mid March when rain finally arrived. The devastation would have been even worse had it not been for hundreds of fire-fighters and support volunteers who fought to control the fires and protect life and property.

  While farmers, timber workers and householders were coping with heartbreaking losses as a result of the fires, Mum was coming to ter
ms with the loss that had long been looming in her life. The death of Dad left her shattered. He had been the lynchpin, the driving force of our family. I feel sure his death also left Mum emotionally vulnerable. Her ‘false self’ had been supported by his presence. The role of George’s wife was central to this other self and had enabled her to start her life again. Her fragility, coupled with her grief, must have put her in a state of despair, perhaps even depression. With all her family far away in Albury, she had no-one to offer her emotional support.

  In a small community like Orbost there were many people offering practical assistance but she did not have a close friend or relative on whose shoulder she could cry; someone who might give her the strength to climb out of what was doubtless a dark and solitary place. We, her children, were all too young to understand what she was going through. Not only that, but our focus was on ourselves. Knowing my mother, I think that is the way she preferred it. She would not want us to bear her burden, or have adult troubles intrude on our innocence or our carefree existence.

  Somehow, Mum managed to put aside her grief and loneliness and resume her role as mother; ensuring we were clean and fed and clothed and got to school on time each day. She made sure our routine was pretty much the same as before. Although her commitment to her family never wavered, Mum did withdraw after my father died. She did not have the emotional energy or perhaps even the physical stamina to maintain the same level of engagement with her kids and her home. This disengagement had started during the last months of my father’s illness. It was as though she had entered a state of emotional numbness.

  It must have seemed like an answer to a prayer when Cathy, a local Salvation Army member, appeared on our doorstop with her broad smile and arms open wide. Generous in body and generous in spirit, Cathy offered friendship and support to Myrtle when she needed it most. Cathy is a local Aboriginal woman, a Kurnai woman. The Kurnai are the first people of the Gippsland area. In the 1960s some of the Aboriginal people lived in the township and there were also Aboriginal camps along the Snowy River near Orbost. At that time, many people in Australia, including people in Orbost, did not accept the Aboriginal people as equals; a legacy of the attitude and ignorance of the early English colonists who viewed all peoples who were not ‘civilised’ as less than human. However, there were Australians like my mother and father, who accepted people as equal human beings regardless of race, status or colour. I am grateful for that attitude legacy from my parents.

  With succour and encouragement from Cathy, Myrtle gradually emerged from her grief. The two friends made regular trips between Orbost and Lakes Entrance, a distance of sixty kilometres, selling copies of the Salvation Army’s magazine The War Cry. Mum would wander through the men’s bar, rattling her money box at the drinkers, smiling and joking and charming them into buying copies. Those who pleaded lack of funds were quickly silenced with Myrtle’s rejoinder.

  “If you can afford to buy a beer, you can afford to buy a War Cry.”

  Sometimes Myrtle would be in the driver’s seat on these trips, much to the apprehension of Cathy’s sons because Myrtle’s driving skills had not improved over the years. The boys rode in the back often covering their eyes with their hands as gum trees loomed close or appeared effortlessly and mysteriously in front of the car.

  Initially, Myrtle’s involvement with The Salvation Army was probably a distraction from her grief, her financial worries and the difficulties she faced in having to manage the family alone. Although Bobby and Maxie had left school and were now working, Myrtle still had five of us to feed, clothe and put through school. It had always been important to her that her kids ‘got a good education’ and she wasn’t about to let anything get in the way of that. However, she had debts to pay such as ambulance costs, other medical expenses and rates arrears. Child Endowment payments amounted to 10-15 shillings per week per child and her only other income was the War Widows’ Pension. Even with generous assistance from the community she was not able to financially support herself and her children.

  It would not have been an easy decision for her to make but she eventually sold the house in Salisbury Street. By 1969 she had moved into a Housing Commission house (public housing). A typical Housing Commission home at that time was a simple fibro house on cement blocks. Mum lived in Ralston Court, Orbost in an estate accommodating low income families.

  By this time, Bobby, Maxie and I had left home to explore new horizons but Mum still had the twins, now teenagers, plus Irene and Peter living at home. With the help of kind individuals, her own determination and resourcefulness, she managed to take good care of all her children. Not only that, she sometimes looked after other mothers’ babies when circumstances were difficult for them, such as when a mother was in hospital having another child, or simply when a mother found life with several children too difficult. She would also ‘harbour’ youths who had nowhere to live, offering them a place to sleep in an old caravan in her backyard as well as providing them with meals. There was always food available at her house for anyone who needed it.

  As time went by, Myrtle became more and more involved with the Salvation Army where she found a supportive community and perhaps an escape from the pressures of her home life. She accepted the role of Sunday School teacher and was much loved by the children in her classes. Her Sunday School students and the neighbourhood kids were always welcome at her home. They were constantly visiting her, playing in her yard, enjoying the cakes she baked for them or simply sitting on the floor watching television with her.

  Her friendship with Cathy remained strong. Apart from their church commitments, they enjoyed social activities together like swimming, walking and riding their bikes. Having fun with Cathy must have reminded Myrtle of happier times in Albury when, as young women, she and her cousins shared similar activities. I am sure her friendship with Cathy also contributed significantly toward her improved emotional strength.

  Myrtle’s social life gradually extended to the wider community within the Salvation Army. As her grieving subsided, her vivacious personality returned attracting the attentions of a male member of the church community. He had the same name as my father. Myrtle and the new George became close friends. She was not interested in anything more than friendship but, although their relationship was platonic, the new George remained by her side.

  He must have been a source of strength for her at a time when she had a great deal to cope with. My brother, Kevin, for instance, despite being on medication to curb his epileptic seizures still sometimes suffered violent fits which worried Mum. The other children were often hard to control and Mum had difficulty disciplining them and struggled with their fluctuating moods. Dad had usually been the one to administer punishments for misdeeds but now Mum had to be the stern father as well as the nurturing mother.

  Myrtle’s friendship with George lasted several years. At one point marriage was mentioned, but soon after that George made the mistake of trying to help Myrtle discipline her kids. When, on one of my trips home from Melbourne, I asked Mum why George was not around anymore her mouth set in a determined line.

  “Hhmpf! Telling me what to do with my kids! No-one comes between me and my kids,” was her short answer.

  Poor George probably had the best of intentions but he could not have known that her children would be an especially sensitive area. Any hint of outside intervention would have jarred like a drill on an exposed nerve. Although their closeness ended, Myrtle and George remained friends.

  Throughout the 1970s, Myrtle continued to divide her time between home and the Salvation Army. She managed to steer the remainder of her children through their teenage years and into adulthood providing for them remarkably well given her circumstances. By this time I was living in Sydney where I met Dennis Barnes: a young man from England whom I later married. Dennis’ parents had also migrated from England and were living in Melbourne with Dennis’ brother, Brian, and sister, Anita.

  In February 1971, I decided that Orbost would be a great hal
fway destination for Dennis and me to meet up with his parents who could meet my mother at the same time. Orbost was around seven hours by car from Sydney and four to five hours from Melbourne. Unfortunately, that was the year that the Snowy River, which floods on a regular basis along the rich alluvial river flats at Orbost, burst its banks in a spectacular way to create the worst floods on record.

  A wall of water swamped the flats and swept everything in its path out to sea including sheep and cattle. Giant gum trees thirty metres tall were torn out by their roots and rolled along by the water. The Princes Highway Bridge over the Snowy River was destroyed. Consequently, like other visitors to the area, my new in-laws were stranded and could not return to Melbourne. Eventually, they were able to manoeuvre a way out of the area via a circuitous and perilous route and get back on the road to Melbourne.

  For me, the floods were a welcome distraction because I was not comfortable about my husband and his family meeting Mum. Although I would not have acknowledged it or admitted it at the time, I realise now that I was ashamed of my mother’s Housing Commission home and embarrassed by her lack of attention to housekeeping chores. I regret that I did not use the eyes of maturity to see instead, a woman and mother worthy of the highest respect.

  The 1980s brought Mum joy as well as more tragedy. The joy arrived in the form of grandchildren. My sister Irene was by now in a relationship and in 1982 she gave birth to a girl. Mum was as excited about Sally’s arrival as Irene was. That was the start of a strong, loving relationship between granddaughter and grandmother. Mum always had time to look after Sally, to encourage her development by reading to her, talking to her and playing with her.

  Fourteen months after the birth of Sally tragedy struck when my brother, Kevin, was killed in a road accident in September 1983. When I arrived home for his funeral I was shocked to see the despair in Mum’s face. In her eyes I saw raw vulnerability and a desperate plea for comfort; a look that still haunts me today. She had always been stoic in times of difficulties but it was as if this was one blow too many.