Thirteen---By The Banks Of The Lachlan 13
Without Prejudice
We were not welcomed into the cosy country arms of the old NSW provincial town. it was the late 50's, no TV station reception from across The Blue Mountains, the main entertainment was the radio. and even though I knew logically it didn't, I somehow thought maybe, in my child's eye, that there were men and women behind there talking and singing. At least thats what Lachlan told me, anyway. My brothers and I ran inside at set times to listen to Hopalong Cassidy, Gunsmoke, The Cisco Kid, The Jack Benny Show.
Sitting in front of the gold and black fleck material covered speakers that reverberated with the sound, the radiogram sat about two feet wide and about three feet tall. Burled shiny dark timber it sat like a T V cabinet would later, a part of the furniture, us gathered in front in pyjamas and slippers, listening avidly to the most popular shows.
" High, Ho, Silver and Away "
" Is it a bird, is it a plane ? No, it's Superman "
Mum and Heather listened to some dreary old show, Portia Faces Life, and the music of Connie Francis, Brenda Lee, the original little Miss Dynamite, Peggy Lee, Dad to Tennessee Ernie Ford, Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin. And we sang along to all of them, taught at the knee of my Musician Dad, we were our own little Glee Club, Heather would say.
Dad played a 24 string Hawaiian pedestal guitar and could stomp out The Hawaiian War Chant, Glenn Millers, " In The Mood ", Take These Chains, I Know That Someday, the list was endless, he could read music and taught us the basic chords, quavers and semi quavers, flats, sharps. He rehearsed every Sunday and we joined in. My Mother wouldn't have a bar of his playing and rarely watched him entertain.
Her no nonsense Yorkshire ways wanted him to have a " real job" which he always did, panel beating, his own business, usually. she wanted a steady wage, entertaining was frivolous to her, and yet they had met at a dance where Dad was playing in Wakefield, Yorkshire. Her family had come from the "pits" of the mining coal pits in Yorkshire, her Dad, her Brother, brother In law. Hard grafting men, covered in coal dust and gagging for a pint of best bitter at the end of their long shifts.
We were "different" and in the cities had not stood out as we did in Huntington, we were educated, had two highly intelligent, migrant parents that wanted us to do well in their adopted country. We spoke differently, we acted differently and we soon were bullied and hated because of it.
And we were poor, as poor as you can be without starving. And mum was proud, would nit take charity and didnt do all the house wifely things that other Mothers did.
She stood out like a sore thumb and we her children were either dying of embarrassment or defending her. She wasn't interested in cooking, baking, sewing or knitting. Unlike in Port Augusta we couldn't afford a "Little Woman" to make Heathers and my dresses and fluffy angora boleros. She didnt have an aboriginal girl, called Morag, as in Port Augusta, to help with the housework. She tried but failed abysmally at running up a netball uniform for Heather. It was awful, hand stitched and falling apart and Heather wore it anyway.
We had speeches from our parents about being Scottish and British, about being proud to be us, to not fail at putting our hands up in class even though we were called "know it alls " for it. We would go back in to the school the next day and face ostracism and open hostility but we had the stiff upper lips of the British and would just go day after day stoically. At least we had each other and we had the shared knowledge of one of our secrets that we carried with us, unspoken, the two boys that had been killed in Port Augusta, one our 11 year old brother.
We were not to speak of him, Alistair told us, we were not to upset Mum, so it was like Stuart, named for one of the English kings, never existed, nor his best friend John, and we buried our memories and feelings as the well behaved children we were, always polite and forever anxious. It came bubbling to the surface at times like the screaming in the night of Lachlan, but he was hushed and soothed to be quiet, we were all quiet. Hurt kids, damaged kids, who could not grieve in normal ways.
So it went inside of us buried, just like he was. In a grave that was just an iron cross. It was like my parents wanted to somehow forget. Their beautiful son who had just won a state wide prize for his writing, a road safety campaign for school children all over South Australia, a little boy of 11, doing his parents and siblings proud. It was in all the papers as was his and Johns death, only months later.. They took photos of us on the front lawn of a Teachers house, us grieving siblings. The bindi three corner prickles bit into my bare feet. I was 5. Had no idea what was happening,
We were at some house with people I barely knew and clung to my siblings as if they too could be taken in an instant. Mum and Dad weren't there. Mum had a nervous breakdown and had to be hospitalised and Dad had to make all the arrangements and be with Mum. We were alone.
But we went on...............we were Scots and Brits, after all.
We were not welcomed into the cosy country arms of the old NSW provincial town. it was the late 50's, no TV station reception from across The Blue Mountains, the main entertainment was the radio. and even though I knew logically it didn't, I somehow thought maybe, in my child's eye, that there were men and women behind there talking and singing. At least thats what Lachlan told me, anyway. My brothers and I ran inside at set times to listen to Hopalong Cassidy, Gunsmoke, The Cisco Kid, The Jack Benny Show.
Sitting in front of the gold and black fleck material covered speakers that reverberated with the sound, the radiogram sat about two feet wide and about three feet tall. Burled shiny dark timber it sat like a T V cabinet would later, a part of the furniture, us gathered in front in pyjamas and slippers, listening avidly to the most popular shows.
" High, Ho, Silver and Away "
" Is it a bird, is it a plane ? No, it's Superman "
Mum and Heather listened to some dreary old show, Portia Faces Life, and the music of Connie Francis, Brenda Lee, the original little Miss Dynamite, Peggy Lee, Dad to Tennessee Ernie Ford, Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin. And we sang along to all of them, taught at the knee of my Musician Dad, we were our own little Glee Club, Heather would say.
Dad played a 24 string Hawaiian pedestal guitar and could stomp out The Hawaiian War Chant, Glenn Millers, " In The Mood ", Take These Chains, I Know That Someday, the list was endless, he could read music and taught us the basic chords, quavers and semi quavers, flats, sharps. He rehearsed every Sunday and we joined in. My Mother wouldn't have a bar of his playing and rarely watched him entertain.
Her no nonsense Yorkshire ways wanted him to have a " real job" which he always did, panel beating, his own business, usually. she wanted a steady wage, entertaining was frivolous to her, and yet they had met at a dance where Dad was playing in Wakefield, Yorkshire. Her family had come from the "pits" of the mining coal pits in Yorkshire, her Dad, her Brother, brother In law. Hard grafting men, covered in coal dust and gagging for a pint of best bitter at the end of their long shifts.
We were "different" and in the cities had not stood out as we did in Huntington, we were educated, had two highly intelligent, migrant parents that wanted us to do well in their adopted country. We spoke differently, we acted differently and we soon were bullied and hated because of it.
And we were poor, as poor as you can be without starving. And mum was proud, would nit take charity and didnt do all the house wifely things that other Mothers did.
She stood out like a sore thumb and we her children were either dying of embarrassment or defending her. She wasn't interested in cooking, baking, sewing or knitting. Unlike in Port Augusta we couldn't afford a "Little Woman" to make Heathers and my dresses and fluffy angora boleros. She didnt have an aboriginal girl, called Morag, as in Port Augusta, to help with the housework. She tried but failed abysmally at running up a netball uniform for Heather. It was awful, hand stitched and falling apart and Heather wore it anyway.
We had speeches from our parents about being Scottish and British, about being proud to be us, to not fail at putting our hands up in class even though we were called "know it alls " for it. We would go back in to the school the next day and face ostracism and open hostility but we had the stiff upper lips of the British and would just go day after day stoically. At least we had each other and we had the shared knowledge of one of our secrets that we carried with us, unspoken, the two boys that had been killed in Port Augusta, one our 11 year old brother.
We were not to speak of him, Alistair told us, we were not to upset Mum, so it was like Stuart, named for one of the English kings, never existed, nor his best friend John, and we buried our memories and feelings as the well behaved children we were, always polite and forever anxious. It came bubbling to the surface at times like the screaming in the night of Lachlan, but he was hushed and soothed to be quiet, we were all quiet. Hurt kids, damaged kids, who could not grieve in normal ways.
So it went inside of us buried, just like he was. In a grave that was just an iron cross. It was like my parents wanted to somehow forget. Their beautiful son who had just won a state wide prize for his writing, a road safety campaign for school children all over South Australia, a little boy of 11, doing his parents and siblings proud. It was in all the papers as was his and Johns death, only months later.. They took photos of us on the front lawn of a Teachers house, us grieving siblings. The bindi three corner prickles bit into my bare feet. I was 5. Had no idea what was happening,
We were at some house with people I barely knew and clung to my siblings as if they too could be taken in an instant. Mum and Dad weren't there. Mum had a nervous breakdown and had to be hospitalised and Dad had to make all the arrangements and be with Mum. We were alone.
But we went on...............we were Scots and Brits, after all.
