Girl on the Edge

by Kim Hodges

  If the eldest brother had struggled with his beans, or a child had filled up before dinner and could not manage their meal, then there was a last chance to do so when our father left the table to watch the news. We would look up at our mother and whisper, “I can’t finish it.” In one quick motion she would pick up our plate and scrape the remaining vegetables onto her own plate. My mother always ate leftovers from our plates in a flash. We would whisper, “Thank you,” aware that if my father had known, then dessert would not be an option. The eldest brother became a master at delaying so that my mother could finish off the mountain beans. The youngest, like me, ate everything. My mother could catch glimpses of the news while she was working in the kitchen after dinner, rinsing and stacking dishes in preparation for the wash up. One parent washed up and two kids dried up. After the first round of cleaning was complete, we would all regroup at the table for desert. That might be homemade cake, apple pie, bread and butter pudding, sago, the list was large, but it would be served with cream or homemade custard. Occasionally, ice cream and flavouring was substituted for a homemade dessert. This was a real treat. A blind eye was turned to the licking of the dessert bowl. I never went to sleep on an empty stomach, but at night I would sometimes wonder about children from poor countries who did go to bed hungry.

  *

  Another occasional family treat was to go to the local swimming pool and swim on a Friday evening. My mother would visit the fish and chip shop and return with a feast wrapped in a sheet of thin white paper and a few layers of newspaper. It contained chips, fish, scallops (battered potatoes not the seafood variety) and fried pineapple rings, which were a favourite for two of my brothers. We ate and ate, until a layer of fat coated our mouths. It was junk food heaven. Once everyone had finished eating we all had to wait. My father would look at the pool clock, add thirty minutes and tell us that we were not allowed back in the pool until the clock had reached that time. If one of us complained, he would say, “If you go swimming before the thirty minutes is up you’ll get a cramp and sink to the bottom of the pool and never come back up”. We would play a running game up the back of the pool area when we were waiting for the clock. “Can we go in now?” We asked over and over again until we were allowed in.

  *

  There was one other exception to the dinner routine. About twice a year we would all dress up to go out for a Chinese meal. The preparation for dinner was the same though. Our father would warn us that if we misbehaved, he would walk us to the car and we would sit there until the rest of the family had finished their meals. We knew he was serious, so we only pushed the boundaries a little by pulling a few faces and rattling our knives and forks. Our father always followed through with threats. Going to the restaurant was more than just eating dinner out and “Giving your mother a night off,” as my father put it. I knew from a young age that it was also about being seen out for dinner with well-behaved, well-dressed and well-groomed children. My parents’ reputation was on the line. The next day down the main street of Coolah, the gossip probably flowed that we had been seen out for dinner last night and that the children had looked really clean, were smartly dressed and had been well behaved. Our mother viewed cleanliness and smartness as essential of our entire family when we were in the public domain. She knew precisely how gossip worked in the township. I too, learnt how gossip worked very early on.

  Even today, my mother continues to mash potato for her and my father. I wonder if it is a habit, routine or does she really like potato? Is it an art form to her, to keep on perfecting the mashing of potatoes each time? Or is a meal not complete without mashed potato? After I left home, I never cooked mashed potato for myself. I cooked anything but mashed potato. After all of the other children had also left home, my mother’s night off from cooking was a ten-dollar meal at the local club. As an adult, I joined my mother and father for such a meal. When given the choice of salad and chips, or mashed potato and vegetables, my mother always chooses the mashed potato and vegetables. On one of my visits to her I finally queried her about this choice. She responded “I just love mashed potato—a meal isn’t complete without mashed potato.”

  chapter seven

  MY EXTENDED FAMILY

  In comparison to my father’s relatives in Sydney, I felt better off, even rich. Our yearly visits, I sensed, were an obligation that my parents felt that they had to fulfil. But for me, these visits were intriguing and full of wonder. My eyes would be wide open, ears pricked up and my senses on high alert as I focused on the differences between them and us. I was fourteen years old on this particular visit and it remains vivid in my mind because it was the last time that I saw my grandmother alive. If I had known that would be the case, then I might have asked her more than one question. In retrospect, my nerves might have gotten the better of me, or my mother’s glare might have forced me to keep quiet, so I might still have only asked the single standard question.

  We set out, as usual, to visit my father’s relatives in Liverpool, in Sydney’s western suburbs. Liverpool back then was a very poor suburb, compared to West Ryde where one of my mother’s sisters and her family lived. Liverpool was overflowing with Department of Housing units. It had a high crime rate. The poverty of the residents was evident in their dwellings. Tensions within a diverse ethnic mix were always bubbling. As my mother navigated along Parramatta Road, onto the Hume highway, my father drove our Ford Falcon with precision, sticking within the white-painted lines and never exceeding the speed limit. He was not scared of the police, but of my mother’s shrieking and hysteria when the gauge went a fraction past the legal limit. From the passenger side, she would shift her eyes to the right, look at the odometer and confront the driver, all without moving her head. My three brothers, then aged six, eight and twelve years of age, all sat up neat as pins, in lightly chequered collared shirts, with their hair brushed. I was in a dress and sandals, gazing out the window. I inquisitively scanned the cars zooming by, the busy people and the streets of Sydney. I hoped that this visit would provide me with a piece of a jigsaw. My father’s family was a puzzle. Only a couple of pieces had been placed on the table so far.

  “I will not be having a drink there,” my mother announced, as she did every time we visited my father’s relatives.

  “Why not, Mum?” I asked, already knowing the response.

  “I will not drink out of one of their mugs—they’re too filthy. I might catch something,” she said, in between watching the road and examining the map.

  “You won’t catch anything,” my father said.

  “Well I just had a coffee before I left my sister’s,” she said.

  “It is up to you, Princess,” he said.

  My parents stopped at a bakery and bought cakes to share with my father’s relatives. I was sure this was so that my mother could avoid their food offerings at morning teatime. My mind was made up. I was going to have a drink, if I was asked, to be polite. We found the right turn off and circled a few apartment blocks. The red bricks and medium density housing all blended into sameness. Tensions escalated. My mother’s frustration was evident in her verbal attacks on the driver, the relatives (whom we were yet to visit) and other drivers. Finally the abuse was hurtled at Sydney, “This shithole of a city.” Sydney could not defend itself and neither could my father. He was concentrating hard on staying within the white lines. The other drivers could only guess what she was saying, by watching her mouth move through the car windows. That was lucky. “You dickhead!” was a common insult.

  All of the kids smiled at each other, we had heard it all before, my mother cutting loose and becoming out of control—what would otherwise be known as being verbally abusive. No-one ever did pull her up on it. We just nodded and smiled gleefully at each other. This was our way of communicating, as her language became more colourful and outrageous, including words that we were discouraged from using. Restraint and consideration were out of her reach once she was in this state. We waited for her to lose it, on any car trip longer than on
e hour. A boring car trip turned into a memorable one due to her outlandish behaviour. We kids accepted it and liked it.

  Between outbursts of verbal abuse, my mother glanced at the map and somehow directed us to the right street number. No-one was ever tempted to say anything to my mother about her inappropriate behaviour. There was no use. She would respond with more outrageous abuse directed at anyone who dared to comment. It was so personal and hurtful that it could cripple you in a moment. I never wanted to risk that again. Our family was very good at accepting her abuse, not talking about it, and moving on like nothing had happened—brilliant at it. She looked relieved and pointed at number fifty-six. We parked outside. “All of you kids must be on your best behaviour,” said my father. Although this brick block looked like all the other red brick blocks in the street, it was the one my father’s relatives resided in. There was no lift, so we walked up to the third floor, while my mother commented on the dirty staircases.

  We knocked, “It’s open, come in.” said my grandmother.

  We greeted each other with hugs and smiles and were asked to sit down.

  My grandmother, Ethel, my half-aunty, Stanice, and my three male half cousins, Ricky, Jimmy and Rodney all lived in this three-bedroom Department of Housing unit. At every visit, my cousins sat smiling at us. They blended into the piles of mess beside the armchairs and the small dining room table. At times, the piles were as tall as the chairs. On this visit, I gazed at my grandmother, really examining her. I sensed that she had dressed up for the visit and was on her best behaviour. Her lipstick extended beyond her lips to include some of her skin around her mouth. The foundation and eye shadow were thickly applied to her face, so thickly that I could see where the foundation finished and her skin started. Her hair seemed artificially curled and roughly brushed. She had a nice collared frock on, like a cheap townie, and sandals and a necklace. One of the teeth on the right side of her mouth was missing. I could see the gap, as she smiled at her son, between inhalations of cigarette smoke. My half- aunty looked exactly the same as her mother, but a younger version. She wore thick foundation and eye shadow and her lipstick was similarly applied beyond the lips. Both were smiling hard. I thought that they were trying to present as respectable people, but they knew that our worlds differed greatly. My grandmother and my half-aunty reminded me of the carnie people who came to Coolah for the annual rodeo.

  A cat appeared from a bedroom, approached a bowl with newspaper underneath it, near the kitchen and ate some food. It then licked its tummy and its bum, looked up and started to strut towards me. My body froze. I could only feel my breath going in and out. All I could think of was whether the cat had been wormed. If it jumped on my lap a worm might wriggle out of its bum onto me. My mother’s obsessiveness about worming her family and our family pets had created a fear in me that any animal, one day past the three-monthly worming, must surely be riddled with worms. Animals gave kids worms. This she had planted into our consciousness. The cat looked at me, turned its head and jumped up onto my half auntie’s lap, settling into a ball. I watched my halfauntie move her cigarette into her other hand, inhale, stroke the cat and put the smile back on her face. I was relived it went to her. We had a cat and a dog, but pets “belonged outside” only.

  My father accepted an instant coffee and I a glass of water, thereby delighting my grandmother. My brothers sat there copying my mother. They were apparently not thirsty.

  “How are things going?” my father asked his half-sister and mother.

  “Good, very good Stan,” both stated and at the same time, each of them also placed a cigarette between their lips.

  “How old are you all now?” my grandmother asked us kids. We replied.

  “How is school going?” my half-aunty asked us as one. We replied.

  “How is school for you three lads?” My father asked my three half-cousins, Rick, Jimmy and Rodney.

  They didn’t answer and the silence grew taller and taller. This was an opportunity to ask my question. “How is your health going?” was the only question I found the courage to ask my grandmother.

  “Not too bad. Everything is good at the moment,” she said nodding, smiling and exposing the gap in her teeth.

  I wondered if the smoke made its way through the gap in her teeth before it left her mouth, or if it came straight out of her mouth. Little did I know then that “good” actually meant that the voices in her head had ceased, her crazy thoughts had subsided, and the pull that she felt to commit suicide was now at a distance. Further, that her medication had stabilised and that living independently rather than in a mental institution was an accomplishment. I was unaware too, that she was having some relief from her debilitating illness, diagnosed as schizophrenia. By asking my mother questions, soon after this visit, I discovered the minor details of the situation. Decades later my father filled in some major details.

  On that occasion, we then all ate the bakery treats, proudly bought by my mother, and afterward walked to a local park with a basketball court. My father took a basketball out of our car boot and refereed while the cousins and we children played a game. There were smiles on our faces and laughter all round. I noticed my mother awkwardly sitting on a bench with her in-laws, engaging in conversation to fill in time until our basketball game ended. After that, we all shook hands with our cousins, and later walked back to the car and exchanged goodbyes and hugs.

  “I’ll phone you in a month’s time,” my father said to his mother.

  “Don’t leave it too long, son, will you,” I heard her say.

  We piled into our family car, they waved us off and we headed back to West Ryde. My predications came true about my mother’s reaction to this visit.

  “Bloody filthy they are!” she said, and “What a disgrace they are!”

  My mother reaction during the car ride home, to the state of the unit and to the inside cat, was so predictable: verbal, expressive, condescending and judgmental. She topped it off with, “Laws need to be created against having animals in units. Why should people have pets when they can’t even look after them-bloody-selves properly?” And so on—she didn’t hold back.

  The visits to Liverpool made me feel rich, because we owned a car, while they were carless and used public transport. We owned our own home, but they lived in government housing. We had a separate kitchen, dining room and lounge room. They had an all-in-one room, which was the messiest one I had ever seen. My mother was spotless and tidy. Our Sydney relatives looked messy, untidy and dishevelled. My parents grew vegetables in their yard, but my relatives had no grass of their own. My mother cooked homemade meals every night and I assumed my relatives rarely did. My parents did not smoke. My relatives chain-smoked during our visits. My slender, well-dressed parents were in contrast to the protruding tummies of my relatives, which I linked to a diet rich in hot chips, Pluto pups, Chiko rolls and sweets. The differences were many.

  So I saw that our family had so much more of everything in our lives, compared to my father’s family. My father’s family was without choice and without many of the basic items I took for granted. This fundamental difference between the two branches of our family filled the messy room. I sensed it, I felt it but I did not speak about it. I just carried that feeling into the car on the way back to my auntie’s house.

  *

  By contrast, sometimes I had felt slightly poorer than my mother’s relatives, but only slightly. My mother had five siblings, who had produced eleven nieces and nephews between them. Some of these relatives were located on the coast and other went inland for employment or promotion opportunities and one sister relocated to Sydney. My mother had been born in a small coastal town, which she yearned to return to after residing in Coolah. With six mouths to feed we were the largest family in my mother’s clan. As a result we struggled a little more than those families. In the school holidays, our family crammed into our grandmother’s modest two-bedroom home. We slept on the floor or the veranda sleep-outs. Another two kids slept on mattresses
rolled out on the floor of the tiny lounge room that were packed up by my father methodically every morning and remade each night. Renting a holiday place was not an option for my parents, but some relatives did so. Two relatives even owned a modest holiday unit, further differentiating us from them.

  My grandmother’s home was much smaller than ours. She and her husband had raised six siblings in this modest home. My mother told me that she and her two sisters had shared a double bed when they were growing up. In her teenage years, my mother had walked up the road to her grandmother’s Department of Housing unit to sleep there in the spare bed that beckoned her. My mother had called in every morning to check up on her grandmother on the way to school. She was rewarded with lollies. I imagine the one-on-one would have been comforting to my mother. My grandfather had worked for the Department of Forestry, cutting down timber, earning a basic working-class income. Five out of their six children sided with the Australian Labor Party, supporting workers’ rights and job protection. My mother’s sister, who had married a man who was on the land, had jumped the fence to support the National Party, pledging for farmers rights.

  My mother’s relatives all owned their own homes and cars, and held onto stable jobs. They cooked homemade food and their kids all completed their public schooling. My mother’s relatives maintained a steady middle-class lifestyle, in comfortable homes. However, they never took trips overseas or considered sending their kids to private schools, which were values similar to those held in our immediate family. One exception was my mother’s oldest sister who married, and had a child with, a man who owned an acreage and horses—what we would have called a grazier in Coolah. This differentiated her from the rest of my mother’s family. This particular aunty greatly varied her behaviour in her husband’s presence. It was blatantly obvious that my relatives simply accepted it. As a child, I tried to make sense of it but was unable to. She was naturally loud and laughed often. She was full of opinions and judgments and engaged in gossip with her extended family. In her husband’s company, she adopted a persona that was demure and subdued, speaking less and projecting an air of superiority. I could never make sense of it. I pondered how it could be that a woman’s behaviour varied so much based on a husband’s presence? How could a woman do this? I knew the facts of her situation, but I could not grasp the link to what had enabled her sense of superiority. It reminded me of the graziers and townies in Coolah. Why would a person do this?