Five--- By The Banks Of The Lachlan 5
Without Prejudice
We didn't know how ill our Mother was until she was older. An overactive thyroid kept the latent depressive illness going and raised up the terrible things that had happened to her in the war. We didnt know she was mentally ill, just highly strung, which gave me visions of nerves strung out like wires on a piano, ready to snap.
I can't remember her ever acting mental or weird. She didnt like company that much except Dad and us kids. She was insular and cold at times and my Sister was to state later in time that it would have been good to have a Mum that hugged and kissed, put her arm around us and said she was proud of us. She was not demonstrative like that.
More the type of Mother that expected the best from us, her kids and sometimes went to Hospital, we were never told why. Or she would run off and we had to go looking for her. When we moved to the small country town on the other side of the Blue Mountains, Huntington, she returned once to Newport in Sydney, a distance of several hundred miles and she had no idea how she arrived there. Neither did we.
She stood quietly under the washing line in the back yard, wearing a pretty cotton waisted dress of green and blue, her big blue eyes reflective, and greeted Dad with a quietness that was strange to us. We were used to her talking a million miles an hour, always on the go and forever restless and nervy. She was not in the least shocked that we had driven all that way to find her, or that Dad knew where to find her.
Nothing was said, as ever, another secret, something else hidden and we were starting to get used to it. They spoke in Pig Latin, my parents, so that important adult conversations were not understood by us kids, but we had worked it out, anyway, and kept our own secret about knowing.
She was so beautiful to me, my Mum, curly dark hair, always worn short, brilliant blue eyes that shone in a permanently tanned face. When she put her coral lipstick on, her eyes became even more blue, slim figure, largeish bust, great legs. She wore cocktail dresses and sometimes smoked with a cigarette holder, looking all glamour and English at the same time.
She was a terrible cook, an indifferent housekeeper, couldn't sew, loved the test cricket and Wimbledon and would abandon us to our own devices when either was on, but she was a Genius. The line of genius and madness so very close together, and when she grew agitated only Dad could calm her. She gave me a copy of Catch 22 when I was just 11, told me to read it, I would enjoy it. I did.
She stood out like a sore thumb in the genteel C.W.A. Ladies of Huntington but couldn't have cared less, she never cared what others thought of her, was assertive and a feminist before feminism came roaring in to being in the 70's.
This was the quiet and seemingly innocent fifties, Bill Hayley was Rocking Around The Clock, a spider was made from ice cream and coke and was coldly delicious, chicken was only served on high days and holidays and the radio was our only source of entertainment.Elvis had begun swivelling his hips and all of the girls wanted to be Sabrina, Jayne Mansfield or Marilyn Monroe.
We didn't know how ill our Mother was until she was older. An overactive thyroid kept the latent depressive illness going and raised up the terrible things that had happened to her in the war. We didnt know she was mentally ill, just highly strung, which gave me visions of nerves strung out like wires on a piano, ready to snap.
I can't remember her ever acting mental or weird. She didnt like company that much except Dad and us kids. She was insular and cold at times and my Sister was to state later in time that it would have been good to have a Mum that hugged and kissed, put her arm around us and said she was proud of us. She was not demonstrative like that.
More the type of Mother that expected the best from us, her kids and sometimes went to Hospital, we were never told why. Or she would run off and we had to go looking for her. When we moved to the small country town on the other side of the Blue Mountains, Huntington, she returned once to Newport in Sydney, a distance of several hundred miles and she had no idea how she arrived there. Neither did we.
She stood quietly under the washing line in the back yard, wearing a pretty cotton waisted dress of green and blue, her big blue eyes reflective, and greeted Dad with a quietness that was strange to us. We were used to her talking a million miles an hour, always on the go and forever restless and nervy. She was not in the least shocked that we had driven all that way to find her, or that Dad knew where to find her.
Nothing was said, as ever, another secret, something else hidden and we were starting to get used to it. They spoke in Pig Latin, my parents, so that important adult conversations were not understood by us kids, but we had worked it out, anyway, and kept our own secret about knowing.
She was so beautiful to me, my Mum, curly dark hair, always worn short, brilliant blue eyes that shone in a permanently tanned face. When she put her coral lipstick on, her eyes became even more blue, slim figure, largeish bust, great legs. She wore cocktail dresses and sometimes smoked with a cigarette holder, looking all glamour and English at the same time.
She was a terrible cook, an indifferent housekeeper, couldn't sew, loved the test cricket and Wimbledon and would abandon us to our own devices when either was on, but she was a Genius. The line of genius and madness so very close together, and when she grew agitated only Dad could calm her. She gave me a copy of Catch 22 when I was just 11, told me to read it, I would enjoy it. I did.
She stood out like a sore thumb in the genteel C.W.A. Ladies of Huntington but couldn't have cared less, she never cared what others thought of her, was assertive and a feminist before feminism came roaring in to being in the 70's.
This was the quiet and seemingly innocent fifties, Bill Hayley was Rocking Around The Clock, a spider was made from ice cream and coke and was coldly delicious, chicken was only served on high days and holidays and the radio was our only source of entertainment.Elvis had begun swivelling his hips and all of the girls wanted to be Sabrina, Jayne Mansfield or Marilyn Monroe.
