Autobiography of My Mother

by Meg Stewart

  The cedar sideboard in the dining room was the one from which I stole the Lent chocolates. It had a design of oak leaves and acorns carved across the back.

  Three meals a day were served in the dining room. The dining room table had so many leaves it could easily sit sixteen and there never seemed to be fewer than twelve at the table. When everyone was assembled, Annie would be summoned from the kitchen by the sound of a gong. If Annie didn’t hear the gong, Auntie Linda wildly rang a little brass bell until Annie appeared with the food.

  The tablecloth and serviettes were of white Irish linen, the serviettes kept in rings with our numbers on them, one, two, three, round the table, like a school. One of my jobs was to help set the table for Annie before each meal. I had to get the salt and pepper shakers out of the cedar sideboard, then put them back again when the meal was over. They could never be left out between meals. The dinner service was white French china. I remember Grandma sitting at the head of the table carving a roast on a large plate with a saucer on the side into which the gravy ran. I loved the gravy from roast beef and Grandma always gave me a spoonful as she was carving.

  An apparatus for making soda water called a gasogene stood on the window ledge in the dining room; because the pisé walls were so thick, the window ledges were very wide. The gasogene consisted of two circular-shaped vessels on top of each other with metallic crisscrossing; it produced a week’s supply of soda water at a time. Annie used to make delicious lemon squash from real lemons. The squash went at the bottom of the glass and then it was filled up with soda water from the gasogene.

  Auntie Lizzie made wine from the mulberries on the trees out the back. The mulberry wine was alcoholic with quite a kick to it but, in keeping with the rest of her secretiveness, Lizzie wouldn’t say how she made it.

  Leading off the dining room to the left was Kathleen’s bedroom which she shared with Mollie until Mollie entered the convent. This was the room with the painting of the lady and the lily which I had copied. I slept in Kath’s room sometimes. Kathleen divided the double bed into two with pillows down the middle. I was not on any account to roll over the pillows onto Kathleen’s side of the bed.

  Mostly, however, I slept in one of the two bedrooms off the drawing room. These bedrooms could be entered from the drawing room or from the hall and they opened onto the back verandah that ran along two sides of the house. The shop made up the third side of the house and a second dining room the fourth side, so a courtyard was formed. A narrow staircase led from the courtyard up to the storeroom.

  The kitchen was down the end of the verandah. It had wooden cupboards along the wall – the top half of the cupboards had sliding glass doors – a large wooden table on which Annie prepared the food and which she scrubbed down spotless every night with sand soap, and another table next to the black fuel stove.

  Washing up was enormous and never-ending. Annie’s hands were always red. She washed and we children helped by drying. First she had to fill the tin basin with cold water to rinse the dishes, then they were washed in water heated on the stove and put to drain on the wooden sink before we dried them.

  Every spring, the courtyard was filled with a warm, sweet smell and a mass of mauve flowers. An old wisteria vine that must have been forty feet long grew up a pole and twined the length of the verandah under the eaves. Snapdragons, columbines and other annuals grew in the garden beds.

  A swing had been put in the courtyard when my father and his sisters and brothers were children. It was shaped like a boat and two children could climb and sit facing each other as they swung; an infinite delight.

  The courtyard had wooden seats with wrought-iron ends and a white, marble-topped round table on a wrought-iron base. There was also a cage full of native finches and canaries. Linda bred canaries. She would put the birds and their nest into cages that she hung up high, near the roof. I had to climb onto a chair to see the canaries sitting on a hatch of eggs.

  On special occasions, afternoon tea was served in the garden. Often Grandma was too busy in the shop to attend, so one of the aunts would preside. Tea was poured from a tall silver pot with another little one under it to keep hot water in.

  An amazing orange tree grew in the courtyard. It was amazing because no one ever grew orange trees in Yass; they never survived the winter. My grandfather had sunk a well in the courtyard as a water supply for the house and to have extra water on hand if the shop caught fire. After he died, Grandma decided to fill the well in, being worried that young children would fall into it. One of my uncles planted an orange pip in the soil where the well had been. The courtyard was protected, no frosts reached it and so the orange tree grew.

  On full-moon summer nights I used to sit out in the courtyard reading. The stars and the moon were bright in the country anyway, but moonlight seemed to specially congregate in the protected square of the courtyard. I would read a whole book by moonlight some nights.

  A long passageway led from the courtyard through to the laundries and past the mangle where I once caught my hand, a painful experience, and on past the big bathroom with the oversized tub to the outside toilet. Chamber pots were kept under the beds during the night. In the morning Annie had to empty them all into the slop bucket, then lug the bucket down to the outside toilet; the passageway ended in the back yard that ran down to a creek.

  All summer long, the back yard was full of pungent-smelling yellow broom and the gnarled, dark-stemmed Isabella grapevine, its fresh green leaves twining everywhere, was covered with smallish black grapes that had a blue bloom on them. Whenever I smell yellow broom, I think of Isabella grapes.

  A persimmon tree grew in the back yard. The luscious orange fruits squirted over my face when I bit into them and I’d lick up the stray orange drops from my chin with my tongue.

  I loved climbing the mulberry tree when the mulberries were ripe; somehow the fruit managed to stain not just my teeth, but my arms, my legs and even my clothes. The mulberry tree was also good for feeding silkworms, fat white grubs I kept in a box, waiting patiently until they turned into cocoons that could be spun into real silk.

  In the netted fowl run lived a turkey gobbler, a ferocious bird that fascinated and terrified me at the same time. I would edge up to watch the turkey spread its wings like a peacock, then flee from the awful, gobbling noise that suddenly issued from its swelling throat, with the flaps of red, coarse skin hanging off, as if its neck was inside out. Besides, if I lingered too long, the turkey would peck.

  At the bottom of the back yard, on the other side of the fence, lived a woman and her brother. The woman was not quite right in the head, everyone said. Her days were spent endlessly raking up leaves. She wasn’t gardening; there was no garden, their yard was a wilderness. If I sneaked along the fence I could hear her talking to herself. Sometimes she had a scythe and was cutting the grass. One day I crept as close as I could to hear what she was saying. As she swung furiously at the grass, she was singing to herself, ‘Old Mother Coen and her college-bred brats.’

  The food was one of the things I liked best about The House. I thought it was much better at Grandma’s than at home. Annie did a lot of the cooking, but on special occasions Grandma either supervised or cooked herself.

  There was always a huge soup tureen on the stove, which held broth made with everything. The beef soup was particularly good. It was made from shins of beef, which the butcher saved specially for Grandma.

  Auntie Lizzie made French pastry; it was the only thing she ever cooked. I used to beg her for the recipe, but it was another of Lizzie’s secrets. I think it came out of The Goulburn Cookery Book. After the pastry was made it was placed in the safe on the verandah to cool; there was never a refrigerator in The House. Then it was taken out, rolled, folded up and put back in the safe again before being shaped into small and large tartlets or cheese straws with cayenne pepper sprinkled on them. Lizzie’s pastries were delicious.

  At Christmas time, Grandma made cakes and puddings which she sent to members of t
he family. The mixture was stirred in the tin baths used for washing children. Grandma made her puddings twelve at a time. The baker put them in his oven for her after the bread was done, as the bakery was only a few doors down the street.

  Grandma also made trifle at Christmas, New Year, Easter and any other celebrations. I haven’t tasted trifle like it since. The sponge cake was kept until it reached the right degree of staleness, then soaked overnight in sherry. Next morning, a layer of apricot jam was spread over it. A thick, creamy custard made with eggs and a peach leaf for flavour was cooked in a double boiler; when it had cooled the custard was poured over the cake.

  Brilliant red and green jelly for the top of the trifle was prepared next. I had the job of peeling the Jordan almonds. They had been allowed to stand in hot water first, so the skins came off easily. Whipped cream covered the custard and the jelly was placed in a pattern over the top of that. The almonds, cut in half lengthways, were put all over the whipped cream and jelly.

  Pauline was staying with us one Christmas. When Annie went to bring in the trifle for dessert, commotion came from the kitchen. Someone, Annie said, had eaten the jelly off the top of the trifle. I can’t remember if Pauline confessed voluntarily or if Annie forced it out of her, but a lengthy scene with copious tears followed in the kitchen after dinner.

  Grandma worked in the store every day except Sunday. She loved holding court there, sitting up in the dress materials department with her crocheting. Grandma’s crocheting was never out of her hands.

  Linda did tatting, making little lace edgings to go around handkerchiefs and collars. Lizzie didn’t sew. She preferred tending her chrysanthemums.

  Lizzie liked arranging flowers. Everywhere in the house, particularly on the sideboard dressers, Lizzie filled vases with little mixed bunches of flowers. I would have liked to help her, but she insisted on arranging the flowers herself, taking half the day to do it. That was Lizzie’s contribution to the housework.

  I feel I ought to pay special tribute to Annie. She worked very hard for very little money, loved my grandmother and the family and thought The House was her home.

  Annie’s mother died when she was little. Her father kept the two boys but put Annie and her two sisters in an orphanage run by nuns. Although he married again, he left his daughters there. Grandma, who always knew all the nuns, got Annie from this convent.

  Annie and I were fast friends before I came to live at Grandma’s. When I broke my wrist, she came to see me with a threepenny bag of halfpenny lollies. It contained a jelly mouse dipped in chocolate and covered in hundreds and thousands, a crocodile made of tough pale lemon marshmallow, and a liquorice stick. Annie loved sweets as much as I did. It was the beginning of a great bond between us. Together we sneaked lumps of sugar, almonds and fancy biscuits. Annie would save me the cake dish after she made the cake for afternoon tea. When I came to live at The House I adopted Annie, in a way. I had no idea I was going to live with my grandmother for so long. I never stopped missing my mother and loved getting her letters, but Annie became my new, everlasting friend.

  I particularly missed my mother at night in my small, den-like room. As soon as I was in bed and Annie took the candle away, the nightmares began. Strange faces appeared and wouldn’t stay still; the eyes grew bigger and rolled in their sockets, lips swelled back from the teeth, enveloping the whole face and noses grew longer and longer. I would scream out and Annie would come and comfort me.

  I spent a great deal of time with Annie in the kitchen. She sang as she did the dishes and I used to dry up for her. Annie had a large repertoire of sad songs.

  Put your head on my shoulder, Daddy, and turn my face to the west,

  It’s just the hour the sun goes down, the hour that mother loved best.

  I wept through this song about the widowed father and his child; I relished the pathos of every line.

  ‘Just for the sake of society, baby was left all alone,’ another of Annie’s songs began. Baby played with matches while the careless parents danced the night away at a ball and house and baby were burnt to a cinder.

  Annie had jet-black, woolly hair of which she was very proud. The mass of tight curls was her crowning glory; if you pulled one out it snapped back into place.

  Annie’s real name was Hannah Harriet Allmon, which everyone pronounced ‘Allman’. We used to tease her by calling her ’Annah ’Arriet Hallman, at which she laughed as much as we did. A favourite joke was to ask Annie what her name was. ‘Allmon,’ she would say. ‘All man and no woman,’ and would go into peals of laughter.

  Annie cared for anyone who was sick in The House. When I had whooping cough and I coughed all night, I was banished from the rest of the house to sleep by Annie’s side. She stayed up looking after me and giving me medicine.

  Annie was seventeen when she started working for Grandma; I think this was at Grandma’s Randwick residence. Shortly afterwards she came to The House at Yass. She would have been in her early twenties when I first knew her. Annie did a tremendous amount, I don’t know how she got through it all. She was a maid of all work, or, rather, a slave. Linda and Lizzie were meant to help her, which meant that they flicked a feather duster around and arranged flowers. Annie did the real work.

  Every morning at six, she got up and lit the old black fuel stove in the kitchen. She put the big black kettles on to boil so she could make morning tea and she filled the fountain, the large drum with the small tap in front that kept hot water on the stove during the day. She took a cup of tea in to my grandmother before carrying a tray of cups and saucers round to the various other residents of The House. She didn’t just make a cup of tea; with it were very thin slices of bread and butter.

  Then she cooked breakfast, which also had to be carried on trays from the kitchen along the verandah to the dining room. After breakfast the table had to be cleared and the washing up done.

  The bedrooms were next. Annie emptied the chamber pots into a bucket and filled the china water jugs that stood on the marble-topped stands.

  The rest of her day consisted of dusting and sweeping, bringing in the wood, cooking dinner in the middle of the day, washing up, running messages, making a cake for afternoon tea, going to the butcher’s, getting tea, washing up again. Visitors helped with the washing up and children ran messages for her.

  Every night, she scrubbed the wooden tables in the kitchen; once a week she whitewashed the hearth. Once a week, too, she did the ironing with flat irons kept on the stove.

  When she had washed up after tea, Annie went down the street to visit friends, but was back at The House by ten to make supper. Then she read or sewed until past midnight. She boasted that she never went to bed one day and got up the next like other people; she always went to bed on the same day as she got up.

  Annie referred to Grandma, the aunts or the rest of the family as ‘them’. She and I spent a deal of our time in the kitchen criticising ‘them’.

  We also gossiped about the town. Annie knew every piece of news or snippet of scandal around. She finished off every story with the injunction, ‘But don’t tell them’.

  Despite the criticism, Annie was devoted to the family and in awe of most of ‘them’. She was particularly devoted to my grandmother and Kathleen; Kathleen used to say Annie had replaced their own little sister, Annie, who died of diphtheria. Annie didn’t like the aunts so much, because they tried to put her down.

  Annie had odd tastes in food. ‘I haven’t eaten a vegetable in my life,’ she used to say proudly. ‘Only tomatoes.’ This was true; she didn’t eat green vegetables, but she loved fruit of any kind. She ate no meat except chicken off the breast. Annie’s diet for nearly eighty years consisted of bread and butter, tea, cake and lollies, mainly chocolate. She was very healthy. Only once did she spend a day in bed, after she had been to the dentist to have all her teeth out. The next day she was up and back at work.

  Dad’s brother, Uncle Barney, a doctor, sometimes lived at The House. Barney had been lecturing in medici
ne at Sydney University and demonstrating anatomy to the students until a widowed lady became enamoured of him and pursued him voraciously, even going to his lectures. Eventually he gave in and their engagement was announced.

  His impending marriage, however, was too much for Barney; he had a nervous breakdown which left him mildly dotty, though not objectionable in any way. He spent a lot of time with the Aborigines at ‘the blacks’ camp’ where he was very popular. He sat around talking to the Aborigines all day, wrote out prescriptions for any pills they needed. He was always an excellent diagnostician.

  Barney proposed to Annie while he was getting over his breakdown. He rushed into her bedroom and asked her to marry him, but Annie refused.

  ‘We’re not in the same station, Doctor Coen,’ she said.

  Barney was also fond of gardening; he had a vegetable garden at the back of The House. We had a favourite family story about the time my mother visited Barney and found him in his garden, fanning the lettuces to keep them cool.

  As soon as I arrived at The House, Barney grabbed me and took me right down the back yard past the grapevine.

  ‘What does two and two make?’ Barney stared earnestly into my face. Barney had asked everyone in town this question. ‘Four,’ I answered, as they all did.

  ‘Wrong,’ said Barney, ‘you’ve forgotten the Blessed Virgin. Two and two and the Blessed Virgin makes five.’ No one ever gave Barney the answer he wanted.

  Barney dragged Paddy Maguire out of Mass to ask him if he could see the Blessed Virgin in a bush at the back of the church. Paddy Maguire drank too much and he stuttered.