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Scooby

My mother’s first job in Australia was at the ABC in Ripponlea back in 1972. She worked at the canteen where she served meals, made cups of tea, and cleared tables. My mother often took me to work so she could keep an eye on me. Naturally, I was bored and began chatting to the staff when they came down for their break. It was there that I met Leigh, a young university student doing a work placement over the summer holidays. She took a liking to me, and we spoke about many things that summer, including our love of dogs. Leigh lived with her parents in Ferntree Gully and owned a kelpie.

‘Kelpies are Australian dogs. They’re the best,’ she said. ‘Would you like to come and meet him?’

‘Would I ever!’ I said

‘I’ll have a talk to your mum. Maybe you could come over this weekend to meet him,’ she suggested.

Leigh kept her word and arrived the following Saturday to collect me in her Mini Minor. My parents hadn’t owned a car since I was five and I felt grown up and important sitting in the front seat. At that time, I had seen very little of Melbourne and only knew the places in my immediate environment, places I could walk to easily. We drove for what seemed like hours, down straight roads and through endless suburbs. Finally, we came to a house up on a hill. The driveway was steep and treeless. A sleek brown kelpie ran to meet us, barking and nipping at the wheels. When Leigh stepped out of the car, he could barely be contained. His tail wagged his whole body. This dog was loyal, smart and a whole lot of fun. I wanted a dog just like him.

Leigh and I hatched a plan to get a rescue pup.

‘I won’t be allowed to keep it, Leigh’

‘Leave it to me, I’ll talk to your mum.’

I wasn’t so sure. ‘What if she says no?’

She laughed. ’I’m pretty good at convincing people.’

Leigh worked her magic on my mother, and I was finally allowed to go with her to the Lort Smith animal home in North Melbourne. We drove from the ABC during one of her long breaks. Going in the car with Leigh always felt like an adventure. We drove down St Kilda Road all the way into the city, then past Queen Victoria markets and up Flemington Rd. Everything was so new to me. The modern office blocks on St Kilda Rd, Flinders Street station with its open mouth reminding me of the entrance to Luna Park on the St Kilda Esplanade and the smells wafting from Victoria markets were all new sights and sensations. I could have driven around town with Leigh for hours, but I was anxious to get my new pup.

When we finally arrived, we were taken to where dogs were kept in what looked like large cages. The sound of dogs barking, whining, and howling echoed along the concrete walls. The result was a cacophony of misery. Walking along, I felt as if I were a warden in a prison, just like I had seen on our black and white television set. It was a depressing scene to witness. Dogs came to the front of their cages and pleaded with us for their freedom. I found it hard to meet their gaze. And then there was the foul odour of too many dogs in a confined space. It smelled like wet dog, excrement, and fear. It may have been cleaned regularly but the smell crept into every corner and was impossible to eradicate.

Finally, we came to an enclosure teeming with tiny black and tan pups. The warden with the key opened the gate and we were let in.

‘Go and choose one,’ Leigh said. ’Take your time and choose the one you like best.’

There were about ten puppies in the enclosure. It was feeding time. The pups all ran towards the trough and the strong ones pushed the weaker ones aside. One small pup with a protruding belly was trying to get to the food but was not strong enough to muscle in. It looked sad and forlorn. My heart went out to that pup.

‘This is the one I want,’ I said, pointing at it.

‘Are you sure?’ Leigh asked.

‘Yes, this is the one that needs me.’

The pup was taken for a check-up at the veterinary hospital attached to the facility. The vet looked at us.

‘Are you sure you want to take this one? It looks as if he could have distemper, and he may not survive,’ he said gravely.

‘He is the one I want.’ I said with tears welling in my eyes. ‘If he dies, at least he will be loved until that time.’

The vet looked apologetically at Leigh.

‘We’ll take him,’ she said.

‘Look, if he dies in the next couple of weeks, we’ll give you another one,’ said the vet. What will you call him?’

‘Scooby,’ I said. ‘Like Scooby-do.’ It had been my favourite cartoon when I lived in England.

Leigh paid not only for the dog but also for his vet bills. It must have cost her a packet. Despite everyone’s concerns, Scooby pulled through and lived to a ripe old age.

My mother stopped working at the ABC and Leigh went back to university. After that summer, I lost contact with her. Even now, so many decades later, I wish I could express my gratitude to her for the kindness and generosity she showed to that little migrant girl in her fledgling months in Australia.

A generous sum

The year after my father died, I returned to Elwood High School to complete my HSC. I knew it was the only way forward. My father had instilled in me the belief that education could change the trajectory of lives. He had always wanted to go to University, but the war had intervened. By the time WWII was over, it was too late for him to realise this dream, but not for his younger brother. My father completed an apprenticeship, worked hard, and helped my uncle get his education. This was how uncle Lajos became a professor of history at Budapest University and my father a humble leather worker. I knew what I had to do to get on in life.

A kind teacher at school, who barely knew me, decided to put my name forward to the Returned and Services League for a $100 scholarship. In 1978, that was generous sum of money. 

‘Your father fought in the war, didn’t he?’ she asked.

‘Yes Miss, he was shot in the knee.’ I answered enthusiastically. She ticked the ‘veteran’ box on the form. 

Elwood High School only ever had assemblies for special occasions, as our hall had burnt down in 1975. It was difficult to line up over a 1000 students on the basketball courts to listen to speakers. It must have been an Anzac Day assembly as a retired major gave a speech which most of us couldn’t hear at the back. We were getting restless standing there for what seemed like a very long time. 

This was when I felt a tap on my shoulder. The kind teacher, whose name I can’t remember, was signalling for me to follow. On our way up to the makeshift stage, she suddenly stopped and turned to look at me.

‘Where was your father from, again?’ she asked.

‘Hungary, Miss,’ I replied

This was followed by a long pause as she searched my face. ‘So, so he fought in the war?’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘And Hungary was, Hungary was… whose side was Hungary on?’ she asked, suddenly realising she was more than a little rusty on her knowledge of history. 

‘Sorry, Miss?’ I wasn’t sure what she was asking.

‘Oh, never mind. Just go up and accept the cheque. It may be best if you don’t say much while you are up there,’ she cautioned.

I went up, shook the Major’s hand and thanked him. It was a generous sum and it made a considerable difference to my ability to complete the HSC. 

A couple of suburban boys

https://www.bygonely.com/melbourne-1970s/

My first part-time job was in the deli section of Coles in Balaclava. But by 1976, I was looking for something more exciting. When I heard that the new McDonalds in St Kilda was looking for casual staff, I immediately applied. My friend Sharmaine joined me in working there, and for a while it was fun. 

One Saturday night, our shift finished at seven and it was already getting dark outside. We weren’t looking forward to walking home. 

‘There’s no dance on tonight, is there?’ I asked.

‘None we can get a lift to. Everyone’s already gone out. This’ll be one boring Saturday night!’ Sharmaine said.

We were just about to cross the Esplanade when we heard a couple of guys call from an ancient two-tone Holden. 

‘Where ya girls off to?’ the driver hollered.

Windows wound down, elbow leaning out the window, the driver looked us up and down. It wasn’t the most original pick up line, but our feet were sore and we were bored. A lift was appealing and we felt safe enough together. We casually walked over to the car and saw two young guys, probably only about two years older than we were. They were as nervous as alley cats hanging out in the wrong neighbourhood. They clearly didn’t come from St Kilda.

‘You girls doin’ anythin’ tonight? You wanna go out somewhere?’ the driver stammered as we approached. He had shoulder length mouse-brown hair and wore a checked flannel shirt. Not my type, I thought, but what was there to lose?

’Nothing planned so far,’ Sharmaine answered.

‘Why don’t you girls jump in and we’ll go for a ride. Wherever you want,’ he added quickly.

‘My dad won’t let me go out with boys unless he’s met them,’ I said. ‘But if you drive me home and say hello to him, I’m sure I can come.’

‘Sure, jump in. I’m Steve and this here is Glen.’

‘Hi,’ we said, giggling as we scrambled into the back seat.

We drove to my place first. I opened the door and invited the boys in.

‘Papa, this is my friend Steve,’ I said.

They shook hands. I was hoping Steve’s handshake was firm because my father judged a person’s character by their handshake. It looked as if he had passed muster.

‘We ran into these boys from school coming back from work,’ I lied. 

’And we’d like to go to a dance. They’ll bring us back by midnight.’

‘Won’t you Steve? Just nod will ya, I just told him we were friends from way back,’ I said turning to Steve. He nodded dutifully.

‘Sharmaine’s dad already said she could go and he is very strict about who she goes out with. Please Papa.’

‘Not a stroke after midnight,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait up for you.’

‘You’re the best!’ I said and kissed him on the cheek. 

This was one of the few advantages of having a father who could not speak English. I could pull the wool over his eyes.

We had persuaded one parent, now it was Mr Keogh’s turn. To my surprise, Sharmaine talked her dad around quite easily and we were ready for a night on the town.

‘Where d’ya wanna go?’ Glen asked. They were from the outer suburbs and completely out of their depth. 

‘Let’s go to the Outpost Inn,’ I suggested. 

It was my favourite place to go. The Outpost Inn was a basement folk venue at the top end of Collins Street. It was a cool place to hang out and listen to various folk singers. There were three or four windowless underground rooms, painted black with a small makeshift stage at one end and couches or cushions strewn around the room. There was always more than one artist performing and you could wander from room to room to listen to whoever took your fancy. Someone was always smoking a joint and the atmosphere was quite mellow. It was the coolest place to be on a Saturday night, if you were into that scene. 

The Outpost Inn was run by a crazy Russian called Stefan. He was an imposing figure with a full beard and a shock of black hair. He had a striking resemblance to photos of Rasputin. I always felt safe because I knew Stefan could sort out any problem. He wasn’t the kind of person anyone would willingly take on. It seemed like a great place to take a couple of suburban boys. 

Within the first twenty minutes we realised the boys had the completely wrong impression of the venue. It was clearly the first time they had witnessed an alternative scene.

‘Check out the black walls, Glen,’ said Steve, nudging him with his elbow. 

‘Smell that will ya,’ was Glen’s reply. ‘You reckon it’s what I think it is? We’ve scored us some wild chicks, man. Which one do you want?’

Sharmaine and I glanced at one another. This had been a BAD idea. 

‘Just going to the bathroom,’ Sharmaine said and pulled at my sleeve. We quickly made our way to the toilets out the back. 

‘I don’t think this was a good idea,’  Sharmaine said. ‘They think we’re the kind of girls who will go all the way with them. I know that’s what they think. Glen keeps staring at my boobs.’

I had the same impression. ‘You know, we could just leave them here,’ I said, ‘C’mon, I know a back way out.’

And that’s what we did. We we left them standing there waiting for us to return. We fled like spooked cats, laughing until we cried, running all the way down Collins Street, without stopping. When we reached Swanston Street, we doubled over laughing, caught our breath, and waited for a number 67 tram to take us home safely.

Gatecrashed

Photo: http://www.myweeklypreview.com.au/news/nowhere-to-go-nothing-to-do/

‘Papa, I’d like to have a party for my birthday,’ I said as we sat on our beige vinyl couch one night watching Matlock Police.

‘That’s fine, you had one last year,’ he said not looking away from the screen.

‘No, I mean I want a party at night, like other kids in my class have had.’

‘I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.’

‘Can we Papa? I don’t want to be rude, but it wouldn’t feel the same if you were here.’

‘Well, I can stay in my bedroom.’

‘Can’t you just go out for a while? ‘

Our conversation went back and forth for quite a while until he finally relented He was going to go to a pub in St Kilda and he’d walk home after it closed. We agreed that he’d come home by about eleven. 

I was over the moon. Finally, I’d have the house to myself and we could have a party with alcohol and no parental supervision. I invited all my friends, many of whom would not be able to come because their parents wouldn’t let them. Nonetheless, about fifteen turned up, including my friend Stephen who also had Hungarian parents to contend with. He was a tall, heavy set boy with impossibly curly hair, interested in Science and Maths, a bit of a geek before that word was invented. He didn’t dance but stood around happily drinking and bobbing his head to the music. Someone had brought a small stash of marijuana and passed a joint around. I became giggly and  happily high and, I must admit, pretty pleased with my party. 

When I heard a knock on the door, I hoped it wouldn’t be cops. Someone went to the door and the next thing I knew, about 8 boys I didn’t know were walking through the house. They may have been a year or so older and they thought they’d have a little fun at my expense. They only stayed about 10 minutes but in that time they trashed the place. 

‘Look what we’ve got here?’ One of them crooned. ‘A painting. Now isn’t that the sweetest thing?’

He took the cigarette from his lips and squashed it on the painting above our couch, leaving a nasty black burn mark in the middle of the pastoral scene. 

‘Don’t!’ I cried, but they laughed and made their way to the bathroom where they filled the bathtub and let it run over. A waterfall cascaded down the tiles and soaked everything in its path but worse was yet to come. On their way to the kitchen, they had to walk through my father’s workshop where he kept various rolls of leather, rivets, sewing machine spools with different coloured threads, thick glue and leather working tools. They opened the neatly stacked jars, emptied  rivets, hooks and buckles on the floor and stomped on anything they could to ensure maximum destruction. Then, when the leader of the group got bored, he simply said, ’Let’s go,’ and the others followed him out. 

Stephen stood sentry at my bedroom door, right next to the entrance. His body filled the doorframe. As the gatecrashers were filing past, one of them took a swing at Stephen, punching him right under the chin. He fell back making a sickening thud as he landed. I raced in to see how he was but I couldn’t stir him. As we didn’t have a telephone in the house, I made the decision to leave my friends in charge to make a phone call for an ambulance. I took five cents for the call and walked out into the darkness on my own, crying. 

I had made a right mess of things. I should never have asked my father to leave the house and now I was paying the price. What would he say when he returned? 

I made the phone call and walked back to the house. The ambulance arrived and my father walked in just as they were bending over Stephen on the floor. 

‘I’m so sorry, Papa,’ I stammered between tears. 

A paramedic turned to my father and said, ‘he’ll be right mate, but I wouldn’t move him tonight. Let him sleep it off ’til the morning.’

‘What are they saying?’ My father asked.

‘They said he should stay the night. But, but what about his parents?’ 

‘I’ll go and phone them,’ my father said and he walked back out into the night. 

One by one my friends left, heads down, avoiding my eyes. I dragged my mattress onto the floor and Stephen crawled onto it. I lifted his head and put a pillow under his head and a blanket over him. And then I waited for my father to return.

Easter Eggs

My father gave me a box of Easter eggs every Easter Sunday. He chose them carefully for their appeal and elegance. The boxes were usually silk lined and contained one large egg and occasionally some smaller eggs surrounding it. I loved receiving these eggs, but I never ate a single one.

‘The chocolate is there to be eaten,’ my father said each year.

‘They are too perfect, Papa. If I ate the eggs, all their beauty would be lost. This way I can look at the eggs and enjoy your gift for the longest time,’ I replied.  

My father just shook his head as my eyes feasted on the eggs in the box before I finally took them to my bedroom to be placed on top of my wardrobe with all the other eggs from previous years. The eggs faced into the room and whenever I got dressed, I looked up at the row of stunning boxes and the eggs they contained.

My friends couldn’t understand why I didn’t eat them. Every time they came over, they’d look longingly at the chocolate eggs, but I never relented.

‘You wouldn’t even miss it if one wasn’t there,’ my friend Stephen chided.

‘Can’t we just share one?’ Necef chimed in.

‘No! I love looking at those beautiful eggs,’ I said firmly.

One late spring afternoon I decided to clean my room thoroughly. I tidied, swept, and dusted. I climbed onto a chair to take down the boxes of eggs. To my horror, all that was left of the eggs was the coloured foil, neatly arranged to make it look as if the eggs were still there. I cried tears of rage, frustration, and utter betrayal. I knew who the culprits were.  

The following day, I approached my friends with righteous anger.

‘You ate all the chocolate. How could you!’ I cried.

‘What are you talking about?’ replied Necef and for a moment I doubted myself.

‘The Easter eggs on top of my wardrobe,’ I said. ‘It had to be you!’

Necef and Stephen looked at each other and began to laugh.

‘Oh, those eggs,’ Stephen said. ‘We ate those about six months ago and you are angry about it now?’

I was hurt that they had betrayed my trust, but I could see the funny side too. They knew I wouldn’t look too closely and that they’d get away with it.

That night, I complained about my friends to my father as I cleared away the cheerless, empty boxes.

‘So will you eat the chocolates next year?’ my father asked.

I shook my head. ‘No, Papa. You should know I need their charm to last all year.’

My first trip back to Austria

I was 23 when I first returned to Europe, to search of the girl I had left behind. The girl that I remembered was more like a character from a storybook than a younger version of myself. That trip, half way across the world in a Boeing 747, so many years before, had marked a complete break with the old world. I was never to write to anyone, never to speak German, never to mention Austria. As my father never did learn English, we continued to speak Hungarian at home. I desperately wanted to fit in.  At the time, bilingualism was a social stigma in Australia and, armed with that knowledge, I decided that trilingualism must make me even more of a target. I pretended not to understand or speak a word of German. 

When I returned to Vienna with my then husband and mother-in-law, I found that I had not forgotten my German at all. In fact, I could get by quite well. I had no addresses of school mates, I only knew where we had lived. I simply drew on my memory and found my way back. 

We took the commuter train from Wien Westbahnhof to Pressbaum in Lower Austria. This was the same train line my father had travelled twelve years earlier on his way home from work. It took just over half an hour from Vienna to Pressbaum, the little township nestled in the Vienna woods. In my memory we had lived a long way from the city. 

Once there, I followed my nose. I climbed up the steps from the railway station to where the small kiosk stood, midway between the station and the walking path through a forest. It was shut. As I looked about, I remembered it as a little oasis between home and school. This is where I had bought Twini ice-blocks in summer, holding the siamese twin pop-sticks until I could pull them apart so I had the illusion of two treats when I had paid for only one. 

I had many happy memories of this small kiosk. My father had a tab there which he allowed me to freely use.  On pay day, he settled his account after a couple of glasses of beer with weathered old locals whose dialects were unintelligible. I wondered where these old men would meet now. They had always had a Stammtisch  –  a regular table, and sat there from morning to night – or so it seemed to me. These locals must have felt as displaced as I did now, looking at the forlorn, boarded up wooden structure. 

We turned left at the top of the path, walked through a small patch of forest and sought out the house where I had lived. The gate was shut and no-one stirred behind the curtains. I looked up to the second floor and thought of the kindly old woman who had once lived there and supplemented her pension by selling moonshine to her loyal supporters. 

I have some photos taken in the last couple of months before our departure from Austria. Black and white, they show me holding the handlebars of an ancient bicycle in front of the gate at number 40 Bahnhofstrasse. Although I know that the child looking at the camera is me, she is a time traveller from a bygone era. I said goodbye to that girl in the photo and crossed the railway line. 

Next stop was the old station masters’ cottage. The tiny two storey house stood frozen in time. Before I could ring the bell, an old dog came tottering up the path. It was Rigo. A very old dog now, his tail still had the piglet curl. I was sure he wouldn’t recognise me but my heart skipped a beat when I saw him. My handsome and faithful dog who had accompanied me in my adventures through the surrounding woods was still alive! 

Then, an ancient, crooked woman approached the gate. 

“Frau Deim?” I ventured. 

Her eyes searched my face and crinkled into a smile. “You’ve come back!” 

She unlocked the gate and my first reaction was to reach out for Rigo. He was happy to see visitors and who knows, maybe he did know who I was. After giving the dog a long pat out in the cold, we were invited in. Frau Deim apologised over and over for the state of her house. I was simply happy to see her.

In the past I never understood my mother’s desire to leave Europe behind. For years I was homesick for this place yet I could never tell anyone. Europe was a door slammed shut. My job was to face forward, embrace the New World and not look over my shoulder lest I turn to a pillar of salt. But for years I furtively glanced back, when no-one was watching. Now I came face to face with what we had left behind.

Frau Deim was the widow of a railway worker whose body was found strewn across the tracks one icy January. She kept to herself, worked hard and bought up her only son as a single mother, well before the term was coined. The only assistance she received was her right to live in the signal master’s cottage until death tracked her down. 

In 1983 she was an elderly woman with few means and plenty of problems. She had no running water and was reliant on a hand pump in her garden. Then, one day she noticed a foul odour emanating from the well. She asked the Austrian railways to investigate. The water was deemed to be undrinkable. From that day, she had to boil her water for ten minutes before it could be used.

Entering the house was like entering a sauna. Water droplets formed brown constellations on the ceiling, gliding down the walls and fogging her windows. It was hard to breathe. Mould invaded every crevice and advanced with military precision. Frau Deim looked about apologetically. Her bedroom opened onto the kitchen and had suffered the same fate. Her clothes hung limp over doors, on nails and draped forlorn over her bed. The wardrobe doors were swollen and warped. 

As I witnessed the pitiful fate this woman had to endure, I saw my parents’ choice to leave with adult eyes. Leaving Europe was like buying a lottery ticket. The outcome was uncertain but it had offered them a last chance of starting anew.

My primary school in Austria -2018

I want to go in but I can’t quite bring myself to do it. I’m standing in front of my old primary school in Pressbaum, a country town not far from Vienna. I feel foolish standing at the threshold and when someone finally comes out, I sneak in and take a few steps into the hallway. The thought of announcing myself to the office fills me with dread. What would I say? And who would care that I attended this school in the late 60’s and have traveled back to see it? I clearly hadn’t thought this through. What did I expect when I planned this pilgrimage? I take a photo and quickly leave before anyone can ask me what I am doing loitering in the corridor.

At the bus stop, I check the time table. I am the only one waiting until a boy, perhaps nine or ten, comes along and greets me. He too is waiting for the bus and without any hesitation he starts to chat. The boy tells me all about his school and how much he loves the place. I reveal that a long time ago, I too used to go to this school. I don’t go into details and he doesn’t ask. He is happy with his own chatter. ‘The music room is now a classroom,’ he tells me, ‘And the climbing wall had to be dismantled and rebuilt. Nothing stays the same,’ he says, shaking his head knowingly. I suppress my smile and encourage him to keep talking.

Clearly, he takes me for a local. At times he speaks so fast, I have to ask him to repeat what he says. This doesn’t worry him, and he continues to tell me about his life in broad strokes. He tells me that next year he will have to leave this school and he doesn’t want to go. ‘All the teachers here are nice and the school up the road is huge.’ I get the feeling he doesn’t cope well with change. Then, apropos nothing, he asks whether I’m not too hot in my leather jacket. ‘I am,’ I say and put the jacket in my lap.

The boy returns to his subject, telling me about all the changes he has seen at the school since he started there. I have an urge to tell him my story but don’t want to burden him with what happened long ago. There are so many things I could say, but I don’t. I remember visiting Sacre Coeur, the school he will attend next year. It was going to be my school too. As it turned out, a much bigger move awaited me. Australia, 16,000km away, was unfathomable and there was nothing that could prepare me for it.

As he speaks, I think about my old school I had come to visit. I can’t quite answer why I couldn’t bring myself to announce my presence. Maybe it was that I was searching for traces of that young girl I had left behind but realised that they had long been erased. So instead, I took the obligatory photograph; two dimensional and lifeless. I had made my pilgrimage and was now ready to leave. Then, a chance encounter with this boy. In him, I recognise the innocence of a bygone era. And as he speaks, I finally get a glimpse of her – that young girl of long ago, reflected in his clear, bright eyes.

In the era before Slip Slop Slap

From this week I will be posting some short pieces from my memoir writing. I am choosing pieces that can easily stand alone. This relates to events from when I was 15 years old.

‘Would you like to go to the beach tomorrow?’

‘I’d love to,’ I replied, already panicking about the state of my swimwear. 

Alan and I had not long started spending time together. I was besotted with this tall, gentle Ceylonese boy who treated me like a princess. He was quite unlike any boy I had ever met. Alan had a quiet, measured way of talking and there was something chivalrous about him. For my part, I was trying my best to impress him in the summer of 1976. 

I couldn’t tell him that my summers were mainly spent indoors. Most days I either rode my bike to the St Kilda library, where I experienced the luxury of air-conditioned comfort, or I rode over to a friend’s house where we listened to music or simply talked. The beach was the last place I went to in summer.

Alan had beautiful light brown skin, perfect for a day on the beach. I, on the other hand, had pale skin that was the height of fashion in 17th Century Dutch paintings but definitely not in Australia in the 1970s. To make matters worse, like a lobster in boiling water, I started to scald if I stayed in the sun for longer than twenty minutes.

But back in my mid-teens, I was determined to cheat my European genes. I poured on the coconut oil and headed to the beach with Alan, wearing nothing but an orange bikini and a towel slung over my shoulder. After a couple of hours lazing in the sun, Alan began to look worried.

‘You sure you’re OK in the sun? You look kinda red.’

‘Don’t worry, that always happens when I get hot. I just need to go back into the water and cool down,’ I replied, wishing it were true.

‘If the sun’s too much, we don’t have to stay,’ Alan said gallantly.

’No, no, it’s fine. I’m having a great time,’ I said, and that was true. I loved all the attention I was getting. 

Alan dropped me back home late that afternoon. We made plans to go out the following Saturday to the Palais cinema in St Kilda. There was a rare showing the Woodstock music festival documentary. I was keen to see the film and even keener on spending an evening with Alan in the darkness of the cinema. It sounded promising for our burgeoning romance.

By the time my father arrived home from work, I had a throbbing headache. Every part of my body felt hot and dry. I was trying to suppress the urge to vomit as I felt the room shift under my feet. 

‘Good God, what’s happened to you?’ My father said, as he dropped his briefcase at the door and reached out his arms to catch me. 

I had been holding in the pain ever since had Alan left. Now I just buried my head in my father’s chest and sobbed.

‘Don’t touch me!’ I yelped as he put his arms around me.

‘C’mon, let’s have a look at it,’ he said.

We peeled my top off. I was so sore that the only thing I could do was to lie face down on my bed wearing nothing but my undies. I couldn’t even endure the weight of a sheet over me. My father found some Nivea creme and tried to put some on my back. The pain was excruciating; I couldn’t bear his touch. Somehow I fell asleep lying on my stomach. By the next morning my shoulders, back and legs were blistered and even more painful than the night before. I could barely move.

My father went to the chemist and returned with a burn spray in an aerosol can. It looked like pink shaving cream and offered some welcome relief. I think I must have stayed in bed for two full days and struggled to wear anything but a loose cheesecloth top. By the time Saturday arrived, my blisters had burst and I could sit gingerly on a chair as long as I didn’t lean back. 

‘I don’t think you should go out tonight. Your back hasn’t healed yet and I can see you’re in pain.’ my father cautioned. 

‘I’ll be OK, Papa, I’ll take some Panadol before I go.’

My father just shook his head and didn’t say another word.

That evening, when Alan arrived, I put on a brave face. 

‘Are you sure we should go?’ Alan asked, full of concern.

‘Of course! I’m ready, aren’t I?’ I snapped.

Alan and my father looked at each other. Without a common language between them, they reverted to universal sign language. My father lifted both his hands, palms facing forward and shrugged his shoulder. Alan nodded his head and his gentle brown eyes conveyed that he would look after me. 

I hobbled to the car, sat carefully on the front seat and did my best not to lean back. I held the seatbelt away from my shoulder and asked Alan to drive slowly, especially over any bumps. When we arrived, Alan had to lift me out of the car. At the Palais, we sat in uncomfortable wooden seats with arm rests that jabbed into our ribs when either of us tried to lean across. Alan carefully put his arm around me and I was glad he couldn’t see me wince.

I remember the film well. The music transported me to the long lost America of the late 60s, where a counterculture promised a new age of peace and free love. I wished I could have been born a few years earlier to experience it firsthand. But with my back still raw and weeping from burst blisters, what I longed for most on that big screen was the joyful abandon of naked bodies in mud baths as the rain came down. I so wanted that soothing shower to soak my clothes and feel the cool thick mud cover my sunburnt body as I leant over to finally kiss Alan.

The Blayney Agricultural Show

Before I moved to the country, the only agricultural show I had ever visited was the Royal Easter Show. As a child I went along for the rides and as an adult, I went to take my daughter. I never paid much attention to the agricultural displays and probably only watched the sheep dog trials.

Since I have been in the Central West of NSW, I have been to at least one if not three shows each year. Admittedly, I first started going because the children at my school had entered artwork but once there, I began to understand that each town’s show has a slightly different flavour and that the locals have great pride in the competitions they run on the day.

The Blayney show was founded in 1878 and this year was the 144th annual show. Not even Covid could stop the show. Somehow, they managed to run the event just before the lockdowns of the past two years.

Volunteers run the show year in, year out. I have met members of the organising committee who have committed their time and organisational skills for decades. It is mainly retirees who volunteer on the day, and many are glad to share a story or two with anyone willing to listen.

I missed the sheep dog trials in the morning, but I did see the pedigree dogs lining up to be judged. There were some stunning dogs among them and of course some that I couldn’t quite warm to. What I did enjoy was watching young girls handle their dogs expertly in the ring as they competed against seasoned adults. It must take a lot of work and courage to prepare for such events.

While there were no boys entering their dogs, there were plenty of young chaps handling cattle. They all wore cowboy boots, checked shirts and large hats, emulating their fathers. Even their walk was the swagger of an older man as they made their way to and from the sheds. While amusing on one level, it did display the strongly gendered roles that are still evident out in the country.

There were stunning horses of every colour with coats that glistened in the sun. Their tails were either beautifully brushed or plaited. Horses are magnificent creatures to watch and once again, there were many young people who were entering these events.

I found it fascinating to walk through the wool, vegetable, and poultry sections. There were ribbons on some entries indicating a first or second prize. I often couldn’t tell the difference between one bird or another or one fleece from the other. I don’t understand the judging criteria nor what to look for in these categories. These are clearly specialised skills that people have developed over many years.

I am but an outsider looking in at a tradition which I don’t really understand. I saw people catching up with each other, possibly for the first time since the last show and appreciate that these shows build social cohesion in a community. I also saw many older people volunteering and exhibiting but also some young ones taking an interest in the competitions. I wondered whether the younger generation would continue to volunteer their time and build up the skills needed to run the show.

Judging by the number of cars and the crowds, the attendance was high. But money is tight, and I saw many stall holders without customers to buy their wares. There’s also the issue of a changing population. Some country towns are in steep decline while others have become popular with urban dwellers looking for a different lifestyle. These ‘blow-ins’ are a bit like me, they have come from the city and have made a choice to live in the country where the pace is slower, the air is clean and property prices are still somewhat affordable. I wonder whether they will embrace the traditions of the bush or see them as a quaint hangover from yesteryear.

TABOO

While my father was politically progressive, he held some conservative views about women. For a woman’s life to be complete, she would have to find a suitable husband. This is why he was perturbed that I wasn’t interested in learning to cook. I was also untidy and couldn’t even sew on a button.

‘What will you do when you get married?’ he’d ask.

‘I’ll marry a cook,’ I’d reply or ‘I’ll marry a tailor.’

He’d shake his head and no doubt wonder what would ever become of me. Clearly, I was unsuitable as a traditional wife.

‘You need a mother,’ he’d say sadly. ‘I’m not up to it.’

‘You are my Mapa,’ I’d say, ‘both Mama and Papa and that’s enough for me.’

Sometimes he would attempt the awkward conversations about bodily functions and sex. As I was equally uncomfortable talking to him about this, I would quickly say that I already knew all there was to know and stop the conversation before it had the chance to begin. I could sense my father’s relief as he returned to safety of discussing dinner or what we would watch on TV.

Menstruation was definitely a taboo subject. I would ask him for money to ‘go to the chemist,’ a euphemism for getting sanitary pads. Nothing more had to be said. I’d go to the local chemist, wait until the pharmacist was busy and then approach the female assistant to ask for the product I was after. Sanitary pads were always wrapped in plain paper bags and sticky taped so that no part of the original wrapping could be seen. This drew as much attention to them as if they had been handed over the counter in their original packaging. Everyone knew what the brown paper bag contained.

After some time, our toilet became blocked we had to call a plumber. This is when I learnt not to flush the used pads. I developed a way of folding them neatly and wrapping them in toilet paper, which I then took out to the bin. I was meticulous about this. Nonetheless, one day, I must have been distracted and I left the wrapped pad wedged between a pipe and the gas hot water heater. I simply forgot about the package.

My father’s face was steely when I came home that day. I knew I had done something wrong but no matter how hard I thought about it, I couldn’t work it out. I went through a mental checklist of misdemeanours, but none would have explained the expression that greeted me.

‘I found something disgusting belonging to you today,’ he said.

I still had no idea what he was talking about.

‘I went to the toilet and found a little parcel. I didn’t know what it was, so I unwrapped it. Let me tell you, no man should ever see such a sight. It is disgusting. And I never, ever want you to leave such a filthy thing in my sight,’ he said.

It felt as if I would die of embarrassment. Boys at school were merciless in harassing girls about their periods and now I was told off by my father for something I had no control over. I wasn’t particularly keen on having my periods and now I had to endure my father’s wrath as well.

‘I just forgot, Papa, that’s all.’

‘I don’t ever want you to ‘just forget’ again,’ he said.

I went to my room and felt ashamed and dirty.

I had forgotten about this episode until I was watching the 2021 Australian of the Year awards. Isobel Marshall, a 22-year-old Adelaide woman was invited to the stage and began to talk. On national television, in front of the Prime Minister and other dignitaries, she spoke eloquently about the stigma of menstruation. She was voted Young Australian of the Year for not only developing ethically sourced sanitary products but also for her work in helping to end period poverty, a term used to describe the lack of access to sanitary products. I felt so proud of Isobel and her friend and business partner Eloise who are challenging society’s views on a fundamental aspect of every woman’s life. As she spoke, I remembered my shame and wished she had been there for me for those awkward teenage years.