Mum was always a hard worker and had plenty of drive, but, in a small way, she was also proving to be quite a successful business woman. She had been doing so well for many years working as a florist that, in 1967, with the help of a loan from her old friend Lois, she was able to buy her own florist’s business. Things were now really looking up, financially.
But I am certain Mum would have been more contented if she could have seen greater evidence that some of her own drive and ambition was rubbing off on her children.
‘You want to make something of yourself,’ Mum said to me one night when she was going on about wanting me to do well in my Leaving. She had sensed that there was more chance of me failing than passing.
I was fed up with hearing that phrase. Mum and Nan were always harping on about how us kids must make something of ourselves.
‘I’ve got no ambitions,’ I replied hopelessly. ‘I can’t see myself doing anything.’
‘You’ve got plenty of talents, you just haven’t discovered them yet.’
‘Talents? God, Mum, there are more important things than what talents you’ve got. I feel pressured by everything else.’
‘There’s no reason for dramatics. You’ve got a good life, what’s there for you to worry about?’
How could I tell her it was me, and her and Nan. The sum total of all the things that I didn’t understand about them or myself. The feeling that a very vital part of me was missing and that I’d never belong anywhere. Never resolve anything.
I suppose it wasn’t surprising that I returned to my final year in high school with a rather depressed attitude. This naturally led to a great deal of initial truanting, which both helped and hindered the inner search I seemed to have unwittingly begun on.
One lunchtime at school, I was talking about families with one of the girls in my class. When I mentioned mine and said how ordinary they were, she burst out laughing.
‘You really think your family’s normal?’
‘Course they’re normal. What’s so unusual about them?’
‘Everything! You’ve got the most abnormal family I’ve ever come across. Don’t get me wrong, I like your mother, I really do, but the way you all look at life is weird.’
My classmate continued to chuckle on and off for the rest of the lunch hour. I never asked her to explain further, I was too embarrassed.
Not long after that, I was off school with a genuine illness; a bout of the summer flu. As I lay sprawled, stomach-down, on my bed reading one of Jill’s True Romance magazines, I gradually became aware of a conversation Nan was having with the rent man on the front porch.
‘Just look at that beautiful sky and those fluffy, white clouds over there,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it wonderful, what God has made?’
I smiled at the tone of her voice, it was the one she always used when she wanted to impress religious people. Nan was a shrewd judge of character. It took only a few minutes for her to sum up a person and then to direct her conversation and behaviour accordingly.
‘Yes, Nanna, it’s wonderful. You know, I’ve lived most of my life in the country, and, now I’m in the city, I miss the birds and animals.’
‘Yes,’ interrupted Nan eagerly when she realised she was onto an influential topic. ‘And look at that black crow over there and all those maggies, God made them, too.’
Following her lead, the rent man added, ‘Yes, and the grass and trees.’
‘That’s right,’ Nan continued, ‘and here are you and I, both white, and we couldn’t do that!’
My initial reaction to Nan’s comment was one of silent, uncontrolled laughter, but within minutes, my feelings of amusement had seesawed down to one of deep sadness.
Why did she want to be white? Did she really equate being white with the power of God, or was it just a slip of the tongue? I realised, with sudden insight, that there must have been times in her life when she’d looked around and the evidence was right before her eyes. If you’re white, you can do anything.
One day, I answered a knock at the door and found two well-dressed, middle-aged ladies smiling at me benignly.
‘Is Nan in?’ they asked politely.
‘Er, no. She’s out the back. Actually, she’s busy.’
‘Oh. Well dear, we’re from the Jehovah’s Witness Church and, each week, we call here and have a little talk and a cup of tea with your Nanna. We think she’s a wonderful old lady, so generous and kind. Every week, she gives us a small donation for our church.’
‘She does?’
‘Yes. well, it’s like a donation. We give her the Watchtower and, for a very small price, we sell her copies of our other leaflets, too. She said she just loves reading them.’
‘She did?’
‘Anyway, dear, we won’t keep you.’ I think they sensed I wasn’t going to open the door any wider. ‘Will you tell Nan we called? Here are some leaflets for her to read. You can have them free this time because she’s such a wonderful old lady. Please give them to her with our love.’
‘Yes,’ I said, taking the leaflets and closing the door.
I took them out the back to where Nan was busy in the garden.
‘Nan,’ I said, as if speaking to a naughty child. ‘You haven’t been encouraging those ladies from the Jehovah’s Witness Church, have you?’
Nan chuckled wickedly. ‘They think I want to become a Jehovah’s Witness, Sally.’
‘I know they do. Why did you tell them you’ve been reading their magazines?’ Nan couldn’t read or write, even though she tried to disguise the fact.
‘Oh pooh, I just said that so they’d bring me some more. You got some more of their papers there?’
‘Yeah. I didn’t give them a donation, though. They said you could have them for nothing because you’re such a wonderful old lady.’ My sarcasm wasn’t lost on her.
She grinned, then said, ‘Feel them, Sally.’
‘Feel what?’
‘The papers.’
I looked, dumbfounded, at the leaflets in my hand. ‘They feel soft,’ I said.
‘That’s right!’ Nan grinned triumphantly. And then, lowering her voice, she whispered, ‘They’ll make the most marvellous toilet paper, Sally. I’ve got boxes of those magazines in my room. It’ll save your mother a lot of money!’
I had realised by now that, when it came to economy, Mum’s and Nan’s ideas were rather peculiar. I was now used to wearing men’s jumpers and shoes with the toes stuffed with newspaper. When I was little, Nan had had to make do with the same clothes year in and year out, and there were times when they had both gone without their own tea just to feed us, so I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by the intensity with which they hoarded everything under the sun.
Initially, hoarding had been a practical necessity. I understood that, but what amazed me was that as our financial situation improved, so their tendency to hoard gained momentum. Before very long, they were both avid collectoholics.
Mum and Nan had always argued, but when it came to disputes over their different stockpiles, the comments became quite pointed. Nan referred to Mum’s as broken-down junk, while Mum considered Nan’s as good for nothing. Fortunately, there was something they did both agree on, the value of tools.
When Dad was alive, he’d hoarded tools. After he died, Mum and Nan continued to hoard tools, even though there was little use for them. Nan loved tools. They gave her status, and Mum regularly contributed weird and wonderful implements to Nan’s growing collection.
One afternoon she returned from an auction with a large scythe. Nan was really excited, she commented that it was better than a lawnmower.
‘That’s a bloody stupid thing to buy her,’ I berated Mum. ‘You know her eyesight’s not too good. She might chop a leg off.’
Mum dismissed my fears with a wave of her hand, maintaining that, as Nan had used one when she was younger, it was perfectly safe. My curiosity was piqued. I tried to picture Nan as a young girl, swinging a scythe. Where would she have used a scythe, and why? I trooped out to the backyard, where Nan was busily hoeing into some long grass.
‘Hear you used one of those things when you were younger,’ I said casually.
‘Oh yes,’ she replied as she swung away. ‘Good for weeds and grass. Kept the garden neat.’
‘Whose garden?’
‘What?’
‘Whose garden?’
‘You never stop, do you. You come sneakin’ up, tryin’ to trick me. You never been interested in gardens before, Sally!’ She turned and continued to hack away. Our conversation was at an end.
At the end of first term, our Physics teacher gave the class a little talk.
‘It’s interesting,’ he said, ‘only two more terms to go and I can already tell which of you will pass or fail. And I’m not just talking about Physics. In this class, most of you will pass. Then there are a few who are borderline, and one who will definitely fail.’ He looked with pity at me. ‘I don’t know why you bother to turn up at all. You might as well throw in the towel now.’
Everyone laughed. I was really mad. Up until then, I hadn’t cared whether I passed or failed. I’ll prove you wrong, you crumb, I thought.
During second term, I made sporadic attempts at study. Once the August holidays were over, I began in earnest. I knew it wasn’t going to be an easy task. I lacked the photographic memory of my two sisters, and I was way behind in my work. As usual, Mum tried to encourage me by bringing every snack imaginable.
Instead of having a good night’s sleep before each exam, I kept myself awake by drinking strong coffee and trying to cram as much extra information into my brain as possible. By the end of my exams, I knew I’d passed English, History and Economics. I was doubtful about Chemistry and I was almost certain that I had failed Physics, Maths 1 and Maths 2.
I confided none of my fears to Mum. I figured she’d be disappointed soon enough. I needed five subjects to score my Leaving Certificate and I was confident of only three. It seemed all my hard work had been for nothing.
Mum gave me what she considered good advice for every teenager.
‘Now that you’ve finished your exams, you want to go out and let your hair down a bit.’ I knew she thought it wasn’t normal for a girl my age to be spending so many nights at home.
‘Look, Mum, will you give it a rest?’ I yelled. I’d had a short fuse since my exams. ‘I just want to sit here and be left in peace!’
Poor Mum, she now had within her family two extremes. On the one hand, there was me attending prayer meetings, and on the other, there were Jill and Bill who, like normal teenagers, spent their weekends raging about Perth. Bill had just completed his Junior Certificate exams.
Every Saturday night, they returned home as drunk as skunks. And they always managed to convince Mum that their vomiting was due to food poisoning, not booze. I just used to look at Mum sadly. I knew deep down she couldn’t really believe it was food poisoning. It was just that she didn’t want to face the possibility that one of us might turn out like Dad.
I was becoming very worried about my soon-to-be-published Leaving results. The results were printed every year in the West Australian and I thought this was terrible because it meant your shame was made public. Sometimes, other people knew even before you whether you’d failed or not. I could cope with the public exposure myself, but what about Mum? She’d always boasted to the neighbours about how bright all her children were. It would be a real slap in the face if they should see her eldest daughter’s name in print with a string of fails after it.
There was only one thing to do, disappear. I volunteered to help out at some church camps for young children, it meant I would be away when the results came out.
Camp proved an interesting experience for me. I’d always enjoyed the company of small children. I had a group of ten to look after, and two of the girls were Aboriginal. They talked to me about their lives at home and what part of the country their mums and dads had come from. I seemed to have a natural affinity with them. That wasn’t to say that I didn’t get on well with the others, but I felt that I had a special insight into the Aboriginal girls.
A few days before the results were due to come out, Mum rang to see how I was and to ask what bus I was coming home on.
‘I’m not coming,’ I told her firmly. ‘They’re short of helpers here so I’m staying on.’
‘Don’t you want to read your results in the paper?’
‘I’m in Rockingham, Mum, not Africa, they get the paper down here, too.’
‘Sally,’ she said suspiciously, ‘you’re not staying away because you think you’ve failed?’
‘Oh, what’s to become of you?’ Mum wailed.
‘Don’t go weepy on me, Mum,’ I implored, ‘I might have passed.’
We both hung up at the same time. Make a liar out of me, God, I prayed. Mum deserves some success in life.
My prayer was answered, because the day the results came out, I received a long, mushy telegram from Mum, extolling my superior intelligence and patting me on the back for passing five subjects. By the time I returned from camp, she had convinced herself that I’d go to university and become a doctor.
She was very disappointed in my decision to never study again. I told her I was sick of people telling me what to do with my life. I wanted to work and earn some money. I wanted to be independent.
‘But Sally,’ she protested, ‘you’re the first one in our family to have gone this far. Why can’t you go to university? What about becoming a doctor or a vet? When you were little, you loved looking after sick animals.’ I opened my mouth to protest, but Mum cut me off with, ‘Now I know you were always worried about having to treat a sick snake, but I’m sure that’d be rare and you could always sedate them.’.
‘Mum,’ I groaned. ‘I don’t give a damn about sick snakes. I just don’t want to do any more study.’
‘So you’ve come all this way for nothing? You’re too stubborn for your own good. You’ll regret it one day, you mark my words.’
‘Oh stop complaining, you’re lucky I lasted this long. Aren’t you pleased you’ll be having a bit of extra money coming in?’
‘I never worried about the money. All that work,’ Mum bemoaned.
Shortly after that, I began attending Saturday afternoon basketball matches. Not to play, just to watch. By then, as a result of camp, I’d made some good friends with girls from other churches. When their games were finished, we’d stroll down and watch the boys’ basketball.
For a while, I’d been hearing about a girl who attended a church a few suburbs from mine who was supposed to have a great personality and sense of humour. I was keen to meet her. Firstly, because I hadn’t met many girls with a great sense of humour, and secondly, because I’d come in on quite a few conversations about this girl that had ended in, ‘Yeah, but she’s got a great personality’ or, ‘Yeah, but she’s nice, isn’t she?’ I wondered what was wrong with her.
When we finally met, I understood. I can’t remember her name, but she was a very dark Aboriginal girl. We became friends and I enjoyed her company on Saturday afternoons.
One day, she told me she was leaving.
‘What do you mean, leaving?’ I asked. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going back to live with my people.’
‘Your people?’ I was so dumb.
‘Yes. I’m going back to live with them. I want to help them if I can.’
I was really sorry I wouldn’t be seeing her any more. And I wondered who her people were and why they needed help. What was wrong with them? I was too embarrassed to ask.