Grace Beside Me

by Sue McPherson

  When we get home and change out of our good clothes and Nan and Dad are outside looking over the garden, Pop and I sit on the verandah lounge, watching Nan talk to her roses. Puss sits in between Pop and me purring away, content.

  ‘Pop.’

  ‘Yep, Missy.’

  ‘What do you reckon about today, did you enjoy it, catching up with everyone?’

  ‘Yep, it’s been a good day. I’m happy to see the old lads, Alex, Ern and Erick. Since Billy had his stroke and Freddie and Bluey Smith had their heart attacks, well I reckon I’m pretty damn lucky to have marched. I’m pretty damn lucky to be breathing full stop, if you ask me.’

  ‘Yeah, but Pop, you were the fittest one there, you’re not going anywhere,’ I say, pushing my point. ‘You still look deadly even though you had to deal with a lot of heavy stuff.’

  ‘Yeah well, looking deadly is fine, Missy, but being dead isn’t.’

  He looks my way and he smiles. He has a long sip of water from his special big glass. He cups his big brown hands together. Dad runs up the steps into the house, breathing warm air into his hands.

  ‘Bloody cold here it is … Move over, Mac,’ he pleads before sitting next to me. ‘What’s happenin’?’

  ‘Just talking about today and telling Pop how cool he looked out there marching and playing his pipes.’

  ‘Yeah Pop, you scrubbed up alright … even if you was wearing a skirt,’ says Dad, throwing a pillow at Pop and laughing.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Sonny Boy. I told the band you will be right to play next year.’

  ‘You didn’t, did ya? … I haven’t played since New Year.’

  ‘Not my problem, son, get practising then we’ll see how deadly your legs look in tartan marching down the street in front of the lovely ladies, eh?’ We all laugh.

  ‘Did I tell you, poor Old Uncle Tully had to say he was Maori or Indian or from some other part of the world, before he was allowed to join up?’

  ‘Shameful eh, Pop?’

  ‘Yep, shameful alright … if you weren’t of “substantial European descent” you were not eligible. Mind you, when things really started to heat up, that’s when so-called “half-castes” were encouraged to enlist. There was a shortage of men and we didn’t have enough soldiers … white soldiers, that is. Yeah, weren’t enough white ones around to defend us,’ Dad says shaking his head.

  ‘True … so all of a sudden it’s OK to send in blacks to kill and be killed,’ I say, pulling off my headband.

  ‘Yeah, the government reckoned it was all justified. But you know what? The one thing I don’t think is right, is white soldiers received land from the government after the war. They called it the “soldier settlement scheme”. Old Uncle Tully got nothin’. Not even a brass razoo.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, Pop, all us cousins were talking about it last Christmas.’

  ‘It’s bullshit,’ Dad says while taking off his jumper.

  ‘I agree Dad, it’s bullshit.’

  ‘Eh,’ Dad shrieks, slapping me on the hand.

  ‘Fuzzy, I don’t like you swearing you know that, but … you’re both right. Back then it was the way and there was nothing any of us blacks could do about it.’ Pop sits silently, deep in thought before starting again.

  ‘Years later Vietnam started and I volunteered, a heap of us did. We’d had enough of the cane by then, we wanted to do something else. It was our country too, so we all thought it was the right thing to do, to volunteer. Finally I was accepted, but some white Australians weren’t overly thrilled with us joining.’

  ‘But, Pop, you’d reckon the people would’ve been happy, all you blacks enlisting to help the war effort.’ I was stroking Puss’s back.

  ‘Would’ve thought so … but then … that was the sixties, things were different then, the country was different, politics was different. We didn’t get the vote until 1967. Vietnam started in 1962.’ Pop sat up straight and stretched his back.

  ‘What was it like, Pop?’ ‘War is war, Missy. No war is worth fighting if you ask me. Things I seen, let’s just say they best be left as memories. Though I will say all who served with me – no matter what the colour of their skin, how rich they were, where in the country they came from or what football team they supported – we were all in it together, and we looked after each other. We were all Australian and that was it.’

  ‘So things changed for the better when you all came home?’ I say.

  ‘You would’ve thought … but even though I was real close to the lads in Vietnam, when we got home, their families didn’t want anything to do with me. Some even tried to stop me marching in the parade, but my mates said if I wasn’t allowed to march they wouldn’t either. Bluey Smith’s mob were the only ones that welcomed me into their home. Their love and support is something I will always be grateful for.’

  ‘But you don’t get angry about it, Pop?’ Dad asks.

  ‘What’s the use of getting angry, son? I learnt early on, anger makes your heart weak.’

  ‘Yeah but Pop, this type of treatment was unjust.’

  I lean over and rub Pop’s arm, waiting for him to answer.

  ‘I have you all to look after, can’t be having a weak heart around here. Besides, I know some people are just followers. Them that follow don’t seem to think much for themselves. I figured once they actually thought about their actions, then they’d understand being coloured is not a sign of disease. I’m right too, because since then, many families have put their prejudices aside and now they even go out of their way to say hello, not only to me but to you and Nan and other Koories in the community.’

  ‘I know one thing, Pop.’

  ‘What’s that, Missy?’

  ‘You look handsome in your suit and medals. I reckon you’re the best lookin’ one there.’

  ‘Might be the best lookin’ one this year, next year look out for Sonny Boy … Captain Deadly the man himself.’ Dad nudges me in the side.

  Pop stands up from the lounge. ‘Yeah, I’m looking forward to seeing those pretty legs of yours. . . But don’t you forget to wear your bloomers next time, eh? Nan’s old boiler friends would collapse on the spot if they knew what was going on under that kilt of yours.’

  ‘Shame, Dad, shame.’

  Pop winks at me then yells out to Nan, ‘What you bloody doin’ to those roses, woman, talking away there like they got their own set of ears! You keep that up, Nan, I’ll have to send you off to the funny farm.’ He giggles in his big Islander voice.

  The day after ANZAC I woke up thinking about a few things. Here was Old Uncle Tully fighting for his country, trying to keep the Japanese from coming in and taking over. But here we are, it’s 2008, you go off to the cities and have a look around and you can’t help but notice how many Japanese call Australia home. There’s a big mob of them here anyway. You can go up to the Gold Coast for a holiday and there are plenty of signs written in Japanese. Can’t help but think all that fighting was a waste of time. Old diggers from both sides must shake their heads and wonder, why did they bother.

  We are friends with a deadly Japanese family, the Moriokas. They live in the city. Whenever they are in the area they pop in for a visit. They own successful restaurants around the country. The Morioka family are all gems, loving, loyal and do anything to help. We even worked out that their pop and Old Uncle Tully were fighting in the same area, around the same time. Freaky, huh?

  And that made me think about immigration and boat people. Should we allow other cultures less fortunate than us the opportunity to live in Australia? Do we have room? Do we have the right to say no to people who want to live here? My head gets so muddled and congested going round and round in circles, eventually I ask Nan and Pop what they reckon while we’re unpacking the shopping.

  ‘Pop, what do you think about people from other countries coming into Australia to live?’

  ‘Boat people, you mean?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, it’s a hard one for me, Missy.’

 
‘What are you talking about, Pop?’ Nan joins in. ‘Nothin’ hard about it. Keep the buggers out, let ’em go somewhere else, I reckon.’

  ‘Too lippy you are, old girl. Sit quiet. You can have your say in a minute. The thing is I love this country how it is. But who gave us the right to say who comes in and who doesn’t - most of us who live here have ancestors that have come in from other parts of the world, including you, Nan. It just seems a bit haughty to me that all of a sudden we believe we have the right, it’s unChristian-like. God wants all of His people to be happy. Maybe we should let them in and they can start new.’

  Nan sits up straight. Like bullets out of a machine gun, Nan shoots out the words.

  ‘UnChristian-like be buggered. God wants us to be happy alright, that’s why He gave us the gift of critical thinkin’ and the ability to learn from past mistakes, to look at our options. If God didn’t give man and woman all of those special gifts, well then, I might think you’re onto somethin’, Pop.’

  Nobody says anything so Nan takes it as an opportunity to continue.

  ‘My God, He wants His people to be happy and to behave. If you don’t behave well you can piss off.’

  ‘Who says they aren’t going to behave, woman? You make the assumption everyone that comes across in a boat is bad.’

  Nan’s still going. She’s not backing down.

  ‘No, Pop, what I’m saying is, if these people can afford to come here in a beat-up old boat – and let’s face it they pay a fair bit of money to do this – I want to know how come they don’t come in like the rest of ’em? The Martins and the Furfeys all had to have the correct paperwork and come in proper. When these other ones arrive through the back door, of course I can’t help thinkin’ that they have somethin’ to hide. They must have done somethin’ wrong.

  ‘The thing with you, Pop, is you reckon you’re all high and mighty. But me, I’ve been goin’ to church just as long as you. I know me scriptures, me “Our father”, me “Hail Marys” and I bloody well know God doesn’t want boat people comin’ into my country by the back door.’

  ‘What if you were them? You lived in a country full of killing, unemployment, sickness and poverty. Wouldn’t you do all in your power to get your family into a safer environment?’ Pop is leaning across the kitchen table, frustrated.

  ‘That there question is hyperthetic, Pop. None of us have to shit in a bucket here while some other bugger is gettin’ shot at outside. My family, they already live in a safe environment. We have food in the cupboard, clean clothes, runnin’ water, electricity, a good church down the road and a government that is capable of support and stability. I don’t want boat people comin’ in changin’ what’s already here and workin’. If you lie with dogs long enough expect to get fleas is all I’m sayin’.’

  ‘Poor old dog is not your worry then, is it? Nothing a good wash and dose of Frontline wouldn’t fix,’ says Pop, happy with himself.

  ‘If the dog is willin’, a good wash and a measure of flea killer will fix the fleas alright. That’s if the mongrel doesn’t bite your fuckin’ hand off before you’re finished helpin’ him,’ says Nan, walking across to the sink to fill the kettle.

  ‘Bloody woman, once you get something stuck in your old head, that’s it … You’ve got a problem and you need to make peace with it.’

  ‘I don’t ’ave a problem Pop, the case is closed far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘You do have a problem, and it’s called fear. Look at you woman, you let that fear come and take over. It’s nipping at your good sense. You’re scared of change my old girl … that’s what your problem is.’

  Nan turns off the tap and places the kettle on the sink. She looks out the window, gently rubs her arms and takes a deep breath. The clock ticks, a car drives past. Another deep breath.

  ‘Mmm … Might need to think a bit more,’ Nan says before placing the kettle on the stove, ‘you might ’ave a point.’

  So there you go, I’m still none the wiser. Nan believes sitting on the fence is a cop-out, and she might be right. ‘Fuzzy,’ she says, ‘you can’t have one foot either side of the fence if it’s made from barbed wire.’

  Loose Tooth

  Thankfully, Nan’s spooky prediction hadn’t yet seen the light of day. A weight the size of a twenty-tonne truck was lifted from my shoulders the minute the calendar changed. Part of me figured that it was all was over and that there was no need to worry. But the other part of me continued to watch and listen. I guess it’s something like when a dog’s been mistreated. Every time anybody comes close, it stands uneasy but still eager and happy for a pat, not really sure if it’s going to get a kick in the guts or some affection. That’s what it’s like for me, wary but still eager to enjoy and experience what is around. But even so, my senses are sharp, just in case there is the possible kick in the guts.

  The big message didn’t see the light of day but of course Nan was still on the money when it came to predicting the future. The month of June had been a funny old month. There was no rain, well, not real rain anyway. On the eighteenth, dark grey storm clouds pushed their way across the sky. They teased us for hours, moaning and groaning about the big rain storm they intended to deliver but a few sprinkles here and there was all we got. The pathway out to the front gate was wet with rain one minute but dry again twenty minutes later. You could see Nan’s new rose buds getting ready to lift their sweet faces up to the sky ready to catch the downpour, but like I said the clouds teased, and the baby Icebergs received little comfort from the clouds above. Nan understood their distress so she filled an old Milo tin from the tank beside the shed and gave them a good drink. Nan’s a funny bugger, every time she does this she talks away to them smiling and talking, sometimes listening or pausing for a reply. You know these are the things that make my life with Nan and Pop special. Sure they are a little odd at times but when I look out and see Nan doing things like this, well, it just automatically puts a smile on my face.

  I came home from school weeks later and saw Nan and Mrs M talking over a cuppa in the kitchen.

  ‘Good afternoon, Fuzzy, how was school today?’ said Mrs M.

  ‘Hi, Mrs M, yep school was as good as it gets. Hi Nan.’ I popped a kiss on her warm brown cheek. I took my bag through to my room and changed into my worn blue tracky dacks and my dad’s old footy jumper. I walked back into the kitchen to put my lunch box into the sink and looked for something to eat; as usual I was starving after a busy day at school. It was a good day because it was Nan’s baking day. Over the years and for as long as I can remember, Wednesday brought with it beautiful, mouth-watering, sweet smells of Anzac bickies, chocolate cake, cream puffs, homemade bread and Chelsea buns, melting moments, choc chip cookies, carrot cake with cream cheese icing, Madeira cake, which is Pop’s favourite, chocolate crackles, Dad’s favourite, and caramel chocolate slice, my favourite.

  Today, we had the pick of the bunch, vanilla slice, delicious and creamy. Everyone loves Nan’s vanilla slice. Mrs M was also a fantastic cook, but now that she was on her own, making delicious treats seemed to be a waste of time, except on Nan’s birthday, Christmas or for the church fete.

  Mrs M was always good company for Nan so Wednesday catch-up for a cuppa and a bit of a chat became a nice indulgence for the two of them.

  Today, in between eating vanilla slice, Mrs M told us all about her recent trip to Tasmania.

  ‘Oh Tasmania, what a lovely part of the world that little dot of an island is. I didn’t expect it to be so lovely. I understand why the greenies are always down that way.’ Mrs M stirred sugar into her second cup of tea.

  Pop walked into the room after spending the afternoon out in the shed. He looked around for something to eat and finally his eyes found the vanilla slice.

  ‘Hi Missy, how was school?’ Pop said, blowing me a kiss across the table. He grabbed a plate with his big callused hands. ‘A bit of trouble going on down there, Mrs M,’ Pop placed a piece of the slice on his plate.

  Mrs M took a sip of te
a. ‘Trouble, what trouble?’ she said frowning.

  ‘Gunns, the pulp mill,’ Pop says.

  ‘Oh, Gunns,’ Mrs M almost moans. ‘Yes, but hopefully they can put an end to it. We stopped the Franklin, surely we can stop this stinking old mill.’

  ‘Mrs M, I had no idea you were a greenie?’ I coughed in surprise.

  ‘Well, old age changes a person, Fuzzy, sometimes you just have to look outside the square to see what really is going on and whom the going on is affecting.’ Mrs M sat up in her seat, back straight, looking sure of herself.

  ‘They want to build it in the Tamar Valley, don’t they?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but people don’t want it. They believe it will mess up the ocean and the beaches … and they are lovely beaches.’

  ‘Well, they still need funding.’ Pop placed the last piece of slice into his mouth. ‘There’s a few sides to this Gunns story. What do you think, Nan?’

  ‘Just thought I’d listen a bit, see if you knew what you were yabberin’ on about,’ Nan said cheerfully.

  ‘The thing is, there are people down there who make a living from timber, like tree fellers, truck drivers and mill hands. For some people that’s their livelihood and it’s all they know.’

  ‘But what about the environment, Pop? It’s absolutely stunning, pristine, very beautiful.’

  ‘I know where you’re coming from, Mrs M, but I’m just trying to see it from all angles, that’s all … So what do you think, Nan?’ Pop was looking for something else to eat.