Bogan Place was a unique address. We reluctantly moved there from a small country town when I was a skinny nine-year-old. Dad loved the quiet, small country living, and the close-knit community, particularly after the war. I think he got used to the communal life during those hard, arduous war years. Dad always reckoned the country folk were kind, friendly, talkative, caring people.
Mum didn’t!
Mum missed the city life, wanted an electric fridge, and a stove that didn’t use wood. “It’s nearly the 60’s,” Mum would grumble. Besides, there were more work opportunities for Dad in the big smoke, Mum contended. Dad wasn’t convinced but eventually relented. Subsequently, we moved into the bright lights of Christchurch in December 1959 where we took up residence in our new rented house, provided to the low-income masses by a sympathetic New Zealand socialist Government.
It was a small, timber-framed house with a grey tiled roof, in a less blessed or socially challenged, neighbourhood, as they say these days. It had three small bedrooms, a lounge-eating area and a tiny kitchen, one single toilet and a separate bathroom with a bath, no shower. The great thing about being the recipient of this semi-permanent rental arrangement was that you could do pretty well whatever you wanted with the property without fear of reprisal or removal. The first of many improvements Dad made was to install a shower.
Mum was excited.
So with all the Kiwi ingenuity he could muster, and his old wooden toolbox, Dad set about planning his first official improvement to modernise our home, and place it a cut above the others in the area. Copious pieces of paper were conscripted, and eventually a technical drawing was produced. With great skill Dad attached a piece of bright copper pipe, which he liberated from the neighbour’s yard, to the tap, with large dollops of solder from his plumber’s kit. Measurements were accurately marked on the wall with his number 9 builder’s pencil. He then screwed the pipe in a vertical position to the appropriate height on the bathroom wall. Lots of brackets and screws littered the wall to ensure the integrity of the new addition.
After much deliberation, Dad cut off the end of Mum’s favourite watering can and taped it to the end of the pipe. This was despite her best efforts to rescue the doomed gardening utensil. The DIY shower didn’t look pretty, but it worked. “A bit like other stuff around the house,” Mum murmured. The project was completed, and Dad proudly asked for any questions and or comments?
Mum just stared and said “Unbelievable.”
Dad was delighted.
The problem with this custom addition was that Dad was four foot eleven inches, and Mum wasn’t. She was six foot one inch and we four children were all catching up, rapidly. Subsequently, everyone else had to stoop over to get his or her head under the shower.
“Ahhh, luxury,” Dad proudly proclaimed. We were the envy of the neighbourhood, particularly the shorter people.
Dad came from a large family, eight boys and two girls. He was a nice guy in spite of being small, big-eared and slightly Scottish. My Dad was a very friendly person. He happily invited people over for tea and was disappointed to see them go.
Mum wasn’t.
He was also a hopeless fix it sort of guy. Subsequently, while unsuspecting guests were quietly sipping their cuppa in the lounge, or surveying his sweet potatoes growing curiously in the back garden, you could usually find Dad under the bonnet of their car with a screwdriver or spanner. See, Dad felt the uncontrolled urge to make improvements before our unsuspecting guests could say “There’s nothing wrong with my bloody car.” He was the only person I’d ever met to take a screwdriver to a wedding, or funeral, “Just in case” he’d say. “Just in case what!” my Mum would often reply.
Mum, on the other hand, was a bit more socially select and disliked most people.
They tended to irritate her.
“Peasants,” she would mutter in her uneducated drawl. She also hated the peaceful, serene countryside at our last address, full of wide-open spaces. She particularly disliked large rugged farmers and their short fat wives. Mum yearned for the big city. I guess she just didn’t like country life. She was, in spite of that, a stay at home wife and mother, a lofty position of low rank, as she would often remind us.
Near the top of Mum’s list of most hates were pets, she loathed them, which posed a serious problem, considering we had so many pets over the years. This included various cats, budgies, magpies, and one particular chicken called Cecil. Unfortunately for the pets, it was Mum’s task to ensure that they all got fed regularly.
The cats were named after Mum’s favourite drinks; Sherry, Whiskey, and Brandy. So, it was with great hilarity we often heard Mum shouting out Sherry, Whiskey, and Brandy each day from the back door while banging a tin bowl full of cat food. Not sure what the neighbours thought.
It didn’t help that Whiskey, in particular, loved hiding behind the couch and attacking Mum when she least expected it. “That blasted Whiskey,” Mum would scream at the top of her voice. Then she would then chase the cat around the lounge, and finally out of the house with the broom yelling “Whiskey, get out of the house.” Really not sure what the neighbours thought.
The budgies were always called Bourbon and Coke; naturally, they were bought in pairs.
Mum and Dad named us four kids after special people or events.
May was the first of the two girls, the next was June, born the following year. I was next and named after some mysterious gentleman Mum knew called Archibald, then Stuart, who was named after the Stuart Tank which Dad proudly drove through the Egyptian desert during the Second World War while staring at a rather large map and asking ‘Where the hell are we?’ Odd, since Stuart is good with maps.
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