Mother of Ten (6 page)

“That
was fun, Mum,” said Bobby.

“Yeah.
Can we do it again?” said Maxie.

 Mum’s
hands were still gripping the steering wheel even though Dad had taken over the
steering. She opened her eyes cautiously, then widened them at the sight of the
tree in front of the windscreen. Dad removed his hands from the wheel. Mum
looked across at him. He took off his beret and ran one hand through his thick
black hair then returned her glance with a bemused smile. She grinned. Then she
laughed. Her laugh was never far from the surface. As a child I did not realise
laughter could be used as a release from tension or anxiety. Dad’s smile
widened to a grin. 

“Well,”
he said. “We’d better get this old girl back on the road. I’ll get out and
crank her up.”

“We
can help, Dad,” said Bobby.

“Not
today, son,” said Dad. “You kids stay where you are.”

Bobby
and Maxie looked crestfallen but they knew better than to argue with their
father. While Dad was at the front of the car valiantly encouraging ‘the old
girl’ to kick back into life with vigorous turns of the crank handle, Mum
followed the various technical instructions he called to her. “Pull the choke
out.” “Foot on the throttle; gently.” “Push the choke in a bit.”  

“Keep
her ticking over,” he called as the car spluttered and coughed out smoke
through the exhaust. Finally, the motor kicked into life.

Bobby
and Maxie cried, “Hooray!”

Mum
slid across the seat to the passenger side. I guess she had had enough of
driving for one day. Dad slipped into the driver’s seat and looked across at
Mum.

“That’ll
be the hardest thing for you to learn; using the crank handle.”

“It
certainly doesn’t look easy.”

“It’ll
be okay once you get the hang of it, love. Besides, Bobby’s probably strong
enough to do it for you.”

“Yes.
I can do it, Mum.”

“Me
too, Mum. I can help crank it,” said Maxie.

Eventually,
with my father’s patient guidance my mother learned to drive the Erskine. She
could even manage the crank handle, but preferred Bobby or Maxie to do
it. 

I
recall several unfortunate incidents over the years when my mother was at the
wheel of the car. No one was ever injured although trees sometimes changed
shape. Dad would survey the damage and simply scratch his head in amazement as
though he thought Mum had achieved a remarkable feat in getting the car halfway
up the trunk of a tree. They laughed these mishaps off, as they did with most
calamities.

That’s
what our life was like; humorous incidents and dramatic events followed each
other closely. Though financially poor, as a family we were rich in experiences
that connected us. Everything revolved around the family. Our small two bedroom
house overflowed with children who raced in and out of doorways, climbed
through windows and up onto the roof, splashed along creek beds and ran wild
across the green paddocks of the farm gleefully dispersing sheep and rabbits.

As
our lives somersaulted on, we kids were completely oblivious to the existence
of our three half-siblings elsewhere in Australia. My mother must have yearned
to talk to someone about them. She must have wondered daily about how they were
doing.

“During
the years when my son was a baby, I used to look at other babies around his age
and wonder how he was doing and what he looked like. These thoughts still
continue today...” comments a mother whose child was taken from her at birth. (
Releasing
the Past: Mothers’ stories of their stolen babies)

I
think sometimes we must have reminded Mum of Bertie, Audrey and Noel because I
occasionally observed a fleeting look in her eyes that I did not understand at
the time, that seemed out of place in the context. Perhaps unseen ghosts from
her past life caught her unawares.

I
wonder if Mum’s habit of nurturing everything she could find resulted, at least
in part, from the loss of her first three children. She always seemed to have
some young creature in her care. In the spring she would walk around the
paddocks next door and check for lambs that needed mothering. When ewes had
multiple births, they would sometimes reject the extra lambs. Mum would gather
the orphaned lambs and the lambs of sick ewes and bottle feed them. Sometimes
she would bring a weak lamb inside and make a cosy bed for it in an old
cardboard box and keep it near the stove where it would be warm. Actually, I
think the young sheep quickly caught on that Mum was a soft touch because the
group of woolly white lambs jostling each other for her attention often
included those that did not need a surrogate mother.

On
occasion, a sick lamb might share the warmth of the stove with a box of fluffy
yellow chickens. These were my favourites. My mother kept them in an old shoe
box with holes in the lid which she placed near the stove. For chickens that
had just hatched, Mum positioned their shoebox on one of the side bricks, part
of the hearth in which the stove was set, where it was warmest.

Mum
loved birds of any kind and delighted in watching the tiny blue wrens, robin
red breasts and little grey thrushes that often flew into her garden. If she found
a bird with a broken leg or wing she would try to nurse it back to health. She
taught us to distinguish one bird from the other, especially the difference
between a sparrow and a starling. In those days we had slingshots. Mum did not
want us to mistakenly shoot sparrows thinking they were starlings. The only
birds she would allow us to shoot at were starlings because they were pests.
She usually had a pet bird, sometimes a canary and at other times a blue
budgerigar. It seems to me the budgies were always called Bluey. As far as I
can remember, Mum did not give the new budgies new names.

She
also loved dogs and most other animals. However, one creature Mum did not show
much affection for was the snake. She was afraid of them, as were most people
in Australia at that time. ‘The only good snake is a dead snake’ was a mantra
often heard. Snakes in the bush were part of our lives and Dad had taught us
not to touch, catch or try to kill them. We came across snakes several times
when we were gathering wood for the fire. I recall one occasion when we saw a
black snake curled up under a log.

“Stand
still,” said Dad, keeping his eyes on the reptile while holding one arm out to
block Bobby, Maxie and me from moving forward.

He
slowly reached up to his fedora hat which sometimes replaced the well worn navy
beret, took it off and carefully lowered it before finally letting it fall to
the ground between him and the snake.

We
stood perfectly still and quiet behind Dad. I used my father’s legs as a shield
while my brothers held their bodies slightly to the side so that they could see
the snake.

“Move
backwards slowly,” said Dad.

I
kept my eyes closed as we inched backwards. My heart was pounding.

“It’s
moving,” hissed Bobby.

I
gripped my father’s trouser leg.

“It’s
gonna get us,” said Maxie.

“Shh,”
said Dad.

When
Dad stopped moving backward, we all stopped. I tried to shut my eyes even
tighter as I imagined the snake’s gleaming black body slithering towards us. I
couldn’t understand why we had stopped moving. I wanted to run - very fast.

“It’s
gone,” said Maxie.

I
didn’t open my eyes. I did not trust my brothers. Maxie might be playing a
trick on me.

“All
right,” said Dad. “You can relax now.”

I
opened my eyes at last. Bobby made to move toward Dad’s hat but Dad put a
restraining hand on him.

“Careful,”
he said.

He
picked up a long branch and poked at the hat, lifting it up and reeling it in
like a fish on a line.

“Come
on,” said Dad. “We have enough wood for now.”

We
carefully gathered up our bundles of dry sticks that Mum called morning wood,
probably because she used it to light the fire in the morning, and returned
home.

Snakes
in the bush were one thing. Having snakes around the house was a different
matter altogether. Any of us kids could easily be bitten, either by
accidentally treading on a snake or because of our own foolishness. Besides,
snakes had been known to venture into people’s houses. So when my brothers
discovered a nest of slim, silver baby snakes under the wooden platform at the
end of the veranda on which the rainwater tank stood, Dad had to do something.
I watched the writhing bundle of hatchlings with revulsion. From the look on my
mother’s face, she apparently felt the same. She gathered all of us up onto the
veranda. Bobby and Maxie protested but she was firm.

“Let
your father handle it,” she said.

Dad
pushed his hat back and scratched his head.

“I
can get rid of these hatchlings easily enough,” he said. “I’m worried there
might be an adult around somewhere.”

He
used a long pole to lift the loose timber and rocks under the water tank,
keeping his distance lest a snake dart out and strike at him. Eventually he
satisfied himself that there were no adult snakes hiding anywhere.

“All
right, Bobby and Max, you can come and help me now,” said Dad.

My
brothers were down from the veranda like a shot.

“Keep
your eyes peeled and yell if you see an adult snake,” he said.

He
then used a shovel to drag the bundle of baby snakes from under the tank stand
out into the open where he could kill them. By now the full realisation of what
had to happen to the hatchlings must have hit Mum.

“Dad,”
she said, before my father even had a chance to raise the shovel to strike.

He
looked at her.

“They’re
only babies,” she said.

He
shook his head.

“We
can’t leave them, Mum. It’s too dangerous.”

She
didn’t say anything else but held his eyes. Something passed between them.
Finally, Dad nodded.

“Max,”
he said. “Go and fetch me a hessian bag from the shed. Bobby, keep your eyes
peeled for that snake.”

So,
while Mum took the rest of us inside the house, Dad, with help from my
brothers, bagged the baby snakes. Later, he took the squirming bag out into the
bush.

I
don’t remember seeing my father kill any snakes but my brothers did. They
recounted one slaying with emphasis on the gruesome details.

“Dad
just whacked it on the head with the shovel,” said Bobby.

“Hard,”
said Maxie. “He whacked it hard.”

“Yeah,
its tail was flicking around like crazy.”

“You
shoulda seen it. Dad just kept whacking ‘til it was dead.”

“Dead
as a doornail.”

Even
my father could not overcome the calamity that arrived in 1958. Because of my
habit of eavesdropping on my parents, I was the first of the kids to know about
it.

One
night when I was supposed to be in bed I was crouched underneath the half open
window of the kitchen, part of which was now converted to my bedroom after all
the meals for the day were done with. I had an excellent vantage point for
listening. On the other side of the window, my parents sat on the veranda
playing cards in the light of the kerosene lantern. This was a favourite past
time of theirs and they taught us kids to play games like Euchre and Five
Hundred. But when their labours were done and the kids were all finally in bed,
they enjoyed some time together. This particular night I heard my mother
quizzing my father about his uncharacteristic tiredness. He then admitted to
other symptoms of possible illness.

“There’s
blood,” he said, “when I go to the toilet.”

There
was a short silence before my mother responded.

“Well,
you’d better get yourself off to the doctor, hadn’t you?”

My
father, who was usually the one to give Mum strength, would not have admitted
his symptoms to her like that unless he sensed something was seriously wrong.

“The
sooner they find out what it is, the sooner they’ll be able to treat you.
You’re as strong as an ox. You’ll be better in no time,” she said.

“I
hope so, love.” His tone was serious.

Later
that week, my father went to the doctor who gave him a thorough examination and
took a blood sample to be sent to Melbourne for testing. My parents then had to
wait for the results of the tests.

When
the results arrived, the doctor telephoned our house. It was one of those lazy
days that uncurl slowly like a koala waking from a deep sleep. My mother was in
the yard feeding the chooks. The boys were off somewhere playing. I was sitting
on the verandah step minding two-year-old Irene. A gentle sun warmed our
bodies.  The day’s tranquillity was terminated by a shrill ringing from
inside the house.

The
phone had been installed when Pop became ill. My father, with a little help
from my grandmother, Olive, managed to scrape up the money needed. It was a
heavy black contraption which scared the daylights out of me. My parents did
not use the phone on a regular basis because of the expense. It was primarily
for my grandmother to call Dad if she needed him. 

The
sound of the black Bakelite monster echoed through the house. I got up and went
into the kitchen where the telephone sat, squat and fat on an old dresser. I
stared at the instrument but it was no longer ringing. As I turned to go back
outside, it blasted its tune again. I jumped in startled surprise and fear
before running out onto the veranda. In the distance, I could see my mother
scooping food scraps from her ballooned apron and scattering them around near
the chook house. A flock of pecking hens surrounded her.  I called out.

“Muu...um!
Muu...um!”

Her
head turned toward the house. Another shrill ring came from inside. I called
again with more urgency in my voice.

“Muu...um!”

She
called back. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s
ringing! It’s ringing, Mum.”

She
laughed.  “Pick it up then. Quick, love. I’ll be right there.”

Mum
emptied her apron, brushed the remaining scraps from it and hurried toward the
house. I went back into the kitchen and tentatively reached for the black
handset, hesitating before placing my hand on it, afraid the loud shrill sound
would blast from it again. Then I pounced on it and quickly picked it up and
held it to my ear, the way my father had showed me when he had demonstrated how
to use it. I listened and waited. Nothing. I pressed it harder up against my
ear straining to hear. Suddenly a booming male voice crackled through the
handset and frightened me.

“Hello?”
the voice said.

I
dropped the handset and ran from the room, colliding with my mother as she
hurried along the veranda and into the kitchen to the telephone.

The
doctor explained he had the results of the blood tests and would like to see
Dad to discuss them. Mum could glean no clues from his friendly but
professional tone.

The
day Dad came back from town after seeing the doctor he announced that he had to
go to Melbourne for more tests.

“They
seem to think I might have some sort of blood disorder,” he said. “I told the
doc there was nothing wrong with my blood; good blood. Rowley blood, I told
him. But he wasn’t having it; thinks it might be serious. They want me to
report to the Alfred Hospital next Friday.”

Mum
did not know what to say.

“Could
be a virus,” she said.

“Yeah,”
Dad smiled ruefully. “That’s what the doctor said. It could be just a virus;
some sort of new virus upsetting the balance of blood cells, or something like
that.”

Mum
smiled hopefully.

Dad
decided to drive down to Melbourne on the day of his appointment at the Alfred
Hospital, setting off around two in the morning. We all went. It was too far
for Dad to drive on his own as he was not well, although he protested that he
was ‘perfectly all right’.  Mum could not go with him unless we went too.
They packed us into the back of the truck and set off. Dad had rigged up a
makeshift canopy over the tray at the back to make a mobile bedroom, with
blankets and pillows from our beds. Mum nursed my sister Irene on her lap in
the cabin.

Dad
knew the way well. We had made many trips to the Alfred Hospital before with my
brother Kevin (one of the twins) who had epilepsy and suffered with sudden and
severe convulsions.

I’ll
never forget the first time I saw him having a fit. He lay on the kitchen
floor, his head yanked back by an invisible force. His thin body jerked up and
down as though in response to sudden electrical shocks. Legs kicked. Arms
flailed. Eyes rolled upward. Lips turned blue. His breathing sounded like a
dentist’s suction hose.  White froth spilled out of his open mouth.

My
mother ran to him and tried to hold his head still. “Get me a pillow,” she
yelled, “and a blanket.” 

We
all stood around gaping, my three other brothers and me.

“Quickly,”
yelled my mother. Panic warped her voice to an unrecognisable screech.

I
ran as fast as my eight-year-old legs could carry me, grabbed a blanket and
pillow from my parents’ bed, ran back and dropped them on the floor next to
Mum. She deftly slipped the pillow under my brother’s head and draped the
blanket over him. All the while, his body continued to jerk like a crazy,
robotic machine.

When
he was quiet, my mother carried him to his bed and made sure he was warm. He
slept for hours afterward.

Mum
had become very efficient in handling Kevin’s sudden seizures. On instructions
from the doctor, she always had a soft wooden peg handy to place in his mouth
lest he start to swallow his tongue. He had such an angelic face, it was weird
and frightening to see it distorted and grotesque during his fits.

Our
journey to Melbourne was not easy. Much of the road was bumpy and the springs
in the truck’s seat that were threatening to push through the upholstery would
have made the trip uncomfortable for my parents. Added to this discomfort was
the noise coming from the back where their non-angelic kids were not sleeping.
Dad made regular stops to reprimand us. Each time he stopped, he was bombarded
with complaints.

“Maxie
keeps rolling over onto my blanket.”

“She
keeps moving around and waking everyone up.” (‘She’ was the way my brothers
referred to me when they were annoyed with me – which was most of the time.)

“Bobby
snores.”

“Kevin
lets off poot poots,” said Georgie.

Kevin
giggled.

“And
they stink,” added Georgie.

When
Dad had finally had enough of the frequent stopping to adjudicate our squabbles
he used his sternest tone to threaten us.

“One
more peep,” he said, shining the torch on us. “One more peep out of any of you
and I’ll have the strap around your legs.”

This
was met with subdued silence from inside the back of the truck.

“Do
you hear me?” he roared.

None
of us spoke. With eyes on the belt around his waist, we nodded our heads,
intimidated by his tone and his threat.

“Now
lie down, all of you.”

We
obeyed meekly.

“And
I don’t care who is bumping into who. You can’t expect to be sleeping in the
back of a truck and not have someone bumping into you. It’s not the Ritz you
know.”

He
waited until we all settled back with our blankets curled around our thin
bodies, eyes closed feigning deep and peaceful sleep. His anger, which was
exaggerated for optimum effect, subsided as quickly as it had come. When he was
satisfied we had settled, he pulled the canopy down and tied the ropes. We
heard his footsteps returning to the cabin, heard the door open and bang shut.
Then the truck began to move again.

It
was shortly after dawn when we reached the outskirts of the city. Dad pulled
the truck over to the side of the road and cut the engine. I heard my mother’s
voice, groggy from slumber.

“Get
some sleep,” she urged. “I’ve been sleeping most of the way. I’m fine now. I’ll
keep an eye on the kids.”

He
slept in the driver’s seat stretching out his long legs as best he could. There
was no sound from the back; my brothers were all asleep. The bush was quiet
except for an occasional rustle in the undergrowth. I peeped through a hole in
the canopy and could just make out the outline of dark trees. Hours passed
while I watched the darkness of night merging into morning light as my mother
must have done. Once, Mum quietly eased herself out of the cabin and crept
stealthily around to the back to peek through the gaps in the canopy to check
on us. She would have seen me apparently fast asleep.

When
shafts of light streaked through the trees and kookaburras and magpies called
through the leaves, Mum woke Dad. I heard his boots scrunching the twigs and
leaves underneath as he strode into the trees to relieve himself. When he
returned, he opened up the canopy and we all headed for the trees while Dad
cranked the truck back to life. Once we were all safely back in the truck, the
last leg of our journey began.

I
cannot remember what we did while Dad was in the hospital. I assume poor Mum
tried to keep us occupied and under control in the park across the road. No
doubt she had sandwiches and thermos flasks of water.

On
the way home, I remember Dad saying to Mum, “They don’t know what’s wrong with
me, love.”

He
sounded as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Mum said
nothing.

There
were to be more trips to the Alfred Hospital and many more tests before my
father’s illness was diagnosed.