‘People who make these big decisions are doing it for the love of Australia and its environment, to protect our flora and fauna. It’s ironic really. Indigenous Australians used to be classified in Parliament as being part of the Flora and Fauna Act. Back then Nan and Pop were not even considered human, can you believe that? So, given my heritage, Toad, I can say, some non-Indigenous Australians should also be included on the wanted list. Not only because they tried to wipe us out, but because they brought with them sugar, flour, tobacco, disease and alcohol. Yep, Toad, I understand, and for that I reckon we are connected and you should be freed,’ I said, tipping him out in the dry cane. ‘This is your lucky day, Toad, you are now free to bugger off, breed and enjoy the life you deserve.’ He continued to sit and do … nothing.
‘Next time you hear my cousins, make yourself scarce because believe me, they will be searching. And what they have planned for you is not good.’
After breakfast, my five cousins and I walked down to the old tub to pick up Toad. The night before they’d all worked very hard constructing a large slingshot made out of a motorbike tyre tube, wire, rope and wood. This elaborate piece of engineering was capable of shooting the enemy off into the abyss at a speed even Buzz Lightyear would have trouble dealing with. When we looked into the empty tub there were moans, groans and choice words all around.
‘Ohhhhhh … where’s the toad?’
‘Shit, who took the toad?’
‘No one did, you wanker, the bastard was that big he probably jumped out himself.’
‘Well, who decided to put him in here?’
‘You did, you wanker.’
‘Well, how come you didn’t say somethin’?’
‘Because you know fuckin’ everything. No one can tell you different.’
‘Fuck, this is bullshit.’
‘Well, next time, don’t go being so bossy.’
‘Next time grow some gurras, say somethin’ if you don’t agree.’
‘Next time you won’t have any gurras because I’ll make sure they’re tied in a knot and shoved up your hairy black arse.’
‘He don’t have hairs yet.’
‘Hairy or not, he’s still a wanker.’
‘Don’t worry, next time I’ll find me own toad, you can all piss off.’
Of course, I moaned and groaned alongside them.
Maud
By late August our little town was totally in winter. Nan calls this time of the year ‘cold and cosy’. You can walk outside of a morning and your feet will make crunching noises on the frosty grass. When I was younger I used to get all rugged up then go out and run around the yard, busy making tracks in the grass. I’m too old for that now.
As soon as it’s too cold to wear a mooie, Pop will go to the spare room and look under the double bed for the winter box. The box once carried Batlow apples, now it holds a huge collection of handmade beanies. Over the years Nan has knitted for hours and hours, creating colourful headwear for Pop. Most recently Nan has also knitted a heap for the Mullins boys and all the lads Pop and her visit at the local prison farm. Pop has about twenty beanies in the winter box. His favourite has a purple and green background with orange frangipanis knitted in bunches around the bottom near the ribbing. I can’t imagine any man at the footy or the pub wearing a beanie like it, but Pop reckons it reflects who he is, his culture and his native home.
Nan sits in her favourite chair in the living room content on knitting while watching the telly or listening to ABC radio. When it gets really cold Nan sits in the kitchen in front of Maud, our slow combustion stove, with the oven door open so more hot air is pushed out to help warm her and Puss, who loves it when Nan knits. She will happily sit on Nan’s lap slowly kneading the wool with her paws and purring. Walking into our house on a cool day makes me happy, the smells of home baking, the warmth and having family close is a sweet kind of wonderful.
Most people living in Laurie have a slow combustion stove fuelled by hardwood found a few Ks out of town. All through the day you can see chimneys everywhere around us huffing and puffing smoke. In the winter months the old stove is a real godsend. Unfortunately, when the months heat up, Maud still heats the house. Not only is she used for cooking, but she also heats our hot water. It’s not rocket science, if we don’t have Maud fired up, we don’t have hot water.
Maud has been with Nan and Pop since the beginning. The Kennedys bought it for Nan and Pop as a wedding present over forty years ago. Nan worked for the Kennedys out at their family property. Totally loaded they are. Anyway, old Mrs Kennedy thought Nan was real special because she could read proper, speak proper and look after a proper house with a proper family. That was how Mrs Kennedy saw it; Nan saw it different.
‘A proper pain in the arse, that’s all that old bitch was, although Fuzzy, I’m very grateful for the stove. Pop and I couldn’t afford nothin’ that fancy back then.’
Like all things Nan has acquired or bought, Maud is a good-looking piece of metal, flash and showroom clean. One time Dad came home on holidays and bought Nan a new gas stove.
‘It’s a beaudy, Mum, it’s top of the range. No more choppin’ wood. You won’t know yourselves.’
‘I don’t need no new stove, Sonny. I got me a gooden already.’
‘Mum, I know Maud’s good … but this one’s newer.’
‘I don’t want new.’
‘Yeah you do, ya just don’t know it yet, that’s all.’
‘I’m not stinkin’ stupid, Sonny, I bloody well know if I wants somethin’ or not. Get rid of it, ’cause I don’t like the look of it. I don’t like the smell of it, I don’t like it.’
‘You haven’t used it yet.’
‘Get rid of it, I don’t like it,’ says Nan before turning around, her back now facing Sonny.
It looked sterile and compact, half the size of Maud. The oven was small and the doors were snappy, making it feel a bit devilish. Nan, being very superstitious, didn’t want old Maud to know about her new competition so she threw a bedspread over it and waited on the guys from Pacey’s Electrical to come and get rid of it.
‘Fuzzy, if my old Maud cracks the shits and messes up my sponges I’m gonna be kickin’ your bloody dad all the way down to the oval and back.’
‘I reckon I’ll help you, Nan. God only knows what he was thinking.’
‘Yeah, I’m buggered if I know, either.’
Special Girl Esther
When Mr Steiner was still alive, there was one thing I will always remember. Every year on the eighteenth of September, Mr Steiner brought down from the top of his wardrobe an old brown suitcase, the same as my dad used when he went to school. The eighteenth of September was significant to the Steiners because this was when Mr Steiner’s twin sister Ranni was killed.
The Steiners always wait for my cousins and me to be sitting down around the table before they open the case. We have to be quiet and still. There is Robbie, Jess, Roma, Ben, Bully, Trinny, Faith, Min, me and Special Girl Esther. All ten of us kids can’t wait for the case to be opened, even though we have seen its contents every year since we were wee bairns.
Mr and Mrs Steiner are little people, not Snow White’s dwarves little, just short. Mr Steiner walks with a limp, something to do with escaping from German soldiers. He has a white beard and blue eyes. His hands are blemish free, short, strong and nimble. Mrs Steiner has a gap in her front teeth that us kids reckon could hold a dollar coin. Robbie disagrees, ten cents is his guess. She also has a sweet little nose just right for a nose ring.
There’s one thing I’ve worked out while sitting around waiting for the case to be opened, boys are pathetic when they’re young. Robbie, Ben and Bully are always fart-arsin’ around. They pull Trinny’s hair, make stupid faces at Faith, and do gross noises behind Min. The rest of us sit quietly and look daggers at the boys. Special Girl Esther hums a pretty tune and patiently waits. Finally Roma has had enough, she kicks Bully in the shins under the table away from adult scrutiny.
‘Ow … who
did that?’ Bully yells while holding his leg.
All of us girls smile at each other but nobody bothers to answers his question. There will be some type of payback down the track that’s for sure. Roma doesn’t mind, she can hold her own.
Finally we get our shit together, the boys stop fidgeting and talking, and Mr Steiner opens the case.
Old things locked away have a certain smell.
‘Better get tissues for Bully and Esther girl. Them two’ll be snortin’ and sneezing out snot all over us soon. Who’s got the tissues?’ yells Min, before covering her nose and mouth with her hands. Mrs Steiner walks over to the table, takes two white, perfectly ironed handkerchiefs out of her apron pocket and hands them to Bully and Esther.
With the case open, we watch Mr Steiner’s short fingers carefully pick up, hold, and turn each item. It is so involved and special it could easily be part of a church service. I imagine archaeologists would have honoured artefacts from Tutankhamen’s tomb in the same way.
Sitting quietly without helping is painful. It actually hurts. We gaze at the treasures in front of us. There is money from Poland, France and Germany. Interesting notes which have a word like ‘Zloty’ printed on them. Some are shaped in squares. Coins with an eagle and the swastika are prodded and turned.
‘Achoo … achoo,’ sneezes Bully. There are letters in writing none of us can understand. The handwriting is so beautiful, gliding across the page like a firefly before a Queensland storm. Three little wind-up cars made of tin and a small train carriage choof, choof across to Robbie and Bully on the other side of the table. A fine-looking set of binoculars, so you can see the opera or ballet, are made from pearls and gold. This is my favourite.
A leather pouch the size of a matchbox holds three gold crosses, all in various sizes. Trinny carefully handles a beautiful pocket watch that she says is surprisingly heavy. Faith tests two pairs of reading glasses but concludes they are for someone who can’t see the words, the page or even the paper the words are printed on. A lovely hair clip with small blue and pink flowers engraved and painted takes Jess’s fancy. There are cotton reels, black and white photos of people working, cooking and celebrating. A funny-looking pen, short and stumpy, catches Benny’s eye, and finally a handmade doll named Milka, which Mr Steiner says means ‘divine’ or ‘queen’ in Hebrew. Her body is made of calico, worn now and grubby. She wears a pinafore made from material printed with once colourful flowers, now faded with a brownish tinge. Her eyes, nose, mouth and ears have been lovingly sewn in place. And written in black ink, now barely recognisable on the side of her leg, are the words, Ranni Steiner, Auschwitz. Aunt Nell and Pop told us about this awful place. I know when we are older they will probably tell us more, that’s generally how my family explains the heavy stuff. I still can’t believe Ranni died in there. It’s bullshit, I had nightmares about it for weeks. Nan, she always gets teary when Auschwitz is mentioned.
Milka looks a little worse for wear, but given her history and her story, we all agree she is the most precious object. Special Girl Esther loves Milka. Every time the suitcase is opened, Special Girl Esther glows like an angel sent from heaven.
After Mr Steiner passed over and on Esther’s thirteenth birthday, Mrs Steiner handed Milka over as a gift, wrapped in pink and gold tissue paper with a gold ribbon. Milka could not have been given to a more deserving friend. Tears of gratitude rolled down Special Girl Esther’s beautiful copper cheeks.
Many people who know Esther agree the girl is different. Some say Esther is a few pennies short. Others believe she’s got hearing and speech problems, hence she doesn’t like to be included in a conversation. The truth is, Esther is just Esther.
Special Girl Esther is Aunt Nell’s granddaughter. Her mum, Jannie, and dad, Rick, are lovely, supportive and proud Koories. Jannie works as a nurse and Rick is a fireman. They have four children and they live in Canberra. Their youngest is Esther. She could have easily been called Beautiful Girl Esther. Her hair is brown, long and wavy. Her skin glows healthy copper. Esther has big dark eyes and lashes so long you just about need a comb to stop tangles. Her lips are full and pink. Her teeth are white but not perfectly straight. Fingers long and slender are mirrored in her legs. They seem to go forever.
Esther and I have always been close. She’s one of those people you just click with. It doesn’t matter what others see her as. I understand and love her.
Special Girl Esther has what Aunt Nell calls an intellectual disability. Sometimes it just takes a bit more time for her brain to start working. This doesn’t mean she can’t answer a question, it just means she needs a bit more time. Generally speaking Esther can be very intelligent; she’s just a little slow in sorting out what has been asked of her. On a good day, Special Girl Esther can easily outshine her cousins in a game of Scrabble. She can’t spell for quids but she knows lots of words. Her memory is amazing. Esther and Pop always play as one, and if Tui’s around, she will also join Team Esther.
A man by the name of Professor Bob flies up to see her every year. P Bob asks lots of questions and writes down lots of notes. He works at the Sydney University. When he visits he always brings a gift. One time he gave Special Girl Esther a music box which plays ‘Clair de Lune’. It was made in Switzerland. It’s beautiful. Whenever we visit, Esther and I sit with the music box between us. Special Girl Esther will open the lid. Nobody speaks, we just listen … How easy it is to float along with each note, rising and falling, thinking of nothing else but the sweet gentle melody of the music. P Bob doesn’t know it, but the music box is a gift shared between the two of us.
Nan explains Esther’s early days, and how her mum Jannie got post-natal depression. ‘When Esther was a baby she was slow in developin’ skills many of you kids would normally fly through. Like learnin’ to suck on a bottle, eatin’, usin’ a knife and fork, learnin’ to crawl then walk all came slow to Esther. Her mum and dad were tired. Your Aunt Nell stayed with the family and helped out when she could. But with the added workload of Esther and three other children under seven to take care of, cracks started. Poor Jannie, Esther’s mum, finally broke.’
Eventually it was Nan and Aunt Nell who made change. Nan went to bed early one night, about seven. In the morning she went straight to the phone and rang Aunt.
‘Nell.’
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Till.’
‘Oh, you Till … What’s wrong?’
‘I had a dream.’
‘Yeah, so did Martin Luther King, don’t mean he had to ring me … it’s … four-thirty in the mornin’,’ Aunt said, yawning.
‘I know how to help Jannie. I reckon Esther needs to spend time with you.’
‘Esther should stay with you?’ Aunt said, sounding half asleep.
‘No, with you. Open ya ears, Nell, Esther … should … spend time with you.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I was told in a dream, I said … I got a message from Mum.’
‘Was she sittin’ on the river bank?’
‘Yeah, she was … How do you know?’
‘Well I’ll be buggered … same thing happened to me two nights ago … I’ll never get used to this freaky shit.’
‘It’s not freaky. It’s good to have a bit of heavenly help. And it’s always lovely to see Mum.’
‘I don’t mind seein’ her, Till. It’s knowin’ she’s been dead for the last forty years, that’s me problem,’ said Aunt, tired and angry. Aunt has never agreed with Nan’s connections with the other side. She reckons Nan needs a good ‘smokin’ over’.
‘Tilly, my sista, you’re walkin’ hand in hand with the devil ’imself,’ she once said, pointing her crooked finger at Nan who was busy cleaning the microwave. Which is funny in a way because Nan was the one who broke her sister’s finger when she slammed it in the door of an old Blitz when they were wee girls. None of us know if it was intentional. Nan won’t say, the cheeky bugger.
‘So what we gonna do? We either take her advice or we
don’t.’
‘S’pose we better listen then, don’t want her throwin’ lightnin’ bolts at us for not payin’ attention.’
‘That’s why I’m ringin’.’
‘OK, then I reckon we’ll give it a try. But one thing, Till . . .’
‘What?’
‘I want you to go to confession on Sund’y.’
‘What for?’
‘Because, Till, speakin’ to the dead is not proper and it’s not normal.’
‘But Father John’s Irish.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ Aunt said, with confusion in her voice.
‘The Irish are always seein’, talkin’ and playin’ cards with the dead. Father John wouldn’t care if I was talkin’ to you, Elvis or Abraham Lincoln.’
‘You’re probably right … we’re all doomed then, aren’t we?’
‘Don’t worry, if it’s gonna keep ya bloomers on I’ll go to confession.’
‘And next time you’re speakin’ to the dead tell ’em to keep out of my sleepin’ time. They can talk to you whenever they wants to. But leave me out of it, fuckin’ freaky it is.’
That was it, Esther moved in with her nan, my Aunt Nell. Esther was only going to stay for a couple of weeks. This would give her mum and dad time to rest and recoup. Guess what? She’s still living with Aunt in Uranquinty today. She’s been living there for eleven years. The decision to stay put was ‘the natural thing to do’, apparently. That’s what they all say anyway. And not once have I heard anything negative from Aunt Nell, Jannie, Rick or Esther. Some find it strange but if they bothered to have a good look they would see everyone involved is happy and content.
Esther is still close to her mum and dad, sisters and brother. They all speak over the phone twice a week. Holidays are mostly with her family in Canberra. Aunt Nell is happy. She has someone she can talk to, someone to help her around the house and someone close she can care for. Special Girl Esther is doing really well, learning to cook, sew and knit just like her nan.
Grace Beside Me Page 11