CHAPTER 19

I Outdo My Mum

It is winter and I’ve got chilblains on my ears. I always pick them until they bleed, which annoys Mum. The same with my scabby knees. ‘For goodness’ sake, stop picking,’ she says. ‘Leave them alone. Don’t you have a handkerchief?’ When I produce my grotty snotrag, she’s sorry she mentioned it.

When I get home from playing down the creek with Laurie, Mum’s not home and the house is locked. She’ll say she’s gone shopping, but I know she’s at the pub and might not get home for hours. I don’t have a key to the house because Mum worries I would be naughty and make a mess if I were there alone. It’s been raining all day, I’m soaked. I imagine my friend Laurie across the street being welcomed into a warm kitchen. They’ve got a slow-combustion stove at his dump and his mum will give him a cup of hot cocoa with something to eat.

I could have gone back to Laurie’s place of course, but that would have made Mum cross. I always tried to do what Mum wanted. To be good for her. If I was good, maybe she would love me. Like my nana did. She always told me to be a good boy for Mum and it was the same at Sunday school. ‘Remember,’ they’d say. ‘Always be good for your mother. She really loves you. She gave you life. She’s your best friend.’ (After God.)

I was scared of my mother, particularly if she’d been drinking. Sometimes she’d be okay. She might even bring home fish ’n’ chips. But more often she would be in a rage. ‘Can’t you do anything right?’ she’d say, her eyes blazing. ‘You’ll get a good clip over the ears if you’re not careful.’

She had a good swing my mum. At her best she could knock me off my feet. Once when she’d made my nose bleed, she roused on me for getting blood all over my clothes. I’d be crying and she’d warn me, ‘Stop snivelling or I’ll give you something to really cry about.’ Sometimes she would grab me around the throat and shake me so hard I thought my head might come off. Her eyes would be crazy and her breath stunk of beer. ‘I’ll kill you if you’re not careful.’ I’d beg her not to, and then hate myself for giving in. Because of the war I knew about torture and how you would be considered a coward if you gave in, even when it really hurt. I did not doubt her threat to kill. My mother’s violent streak was awesome. She would say, ‘I wish you’d never been born!’ I would think the same thing myself, but I never dared answer back. I would just try to be brave. We had a war to win.

As I grew older, I was able to outrun her. I had to count on the doors being open, but I knew that if I were a full pace ahead of her once we reached the front yard, I would escape. Mum considered it undignified for the neighbours to see her chasing me down the street, although she didn’t mind yelling: ‘Just wait until you get home. I’ll give it to you then.’

I’d sneak under the house where I had built my cubby. It was only a couple of potato sacks, but the floor of the house was so close to the ground only a little kid like me could squeeze in and Mum couldn’t reach me. I was too embarrassed to tell Laurie about my cubby or that Mum locked me out of the house. There was nothing to do in the cubby, but it was safe and that meant a lot to me. Mum got to know where I was hiding; she probably heard me whimpering under the floor. She made an effort to dislodge me using the long wooden handle on our garden rake. But I wouldn’t budge. There was too much at stake and besides, Mum couldn’t persevere very long in such cramped quarters. She said she had claustrophobia. But the longer I knew her, the more convinced I became that she just liked the big word.

Mum admired education, which she saw as an opportunity to be superior. She was, in fact, a snob, which is no mean feat when you are poor, uneducated and living in a modest dump in West Brunswick. Expensive-looking clothes are good for snobs. They make you look smart and Mum is good at being fashionable. She drags me up and down Melbourne’s little lanes by the hour looking for gloves to match her handbag. And I know we’ll still have to find the matching shoes.

Mum said claustrophobia meant she was scared of being in small places and that was why she wanted to be cremated. She was scared of waking in a coffin with crawly things. She’d shudder when she’d say that, and wrinkle her nose. I’d support her with a little smile and a knowing nod of my head. Sometimes she’d smile back.