Delta40
02-20-2011, 09:01 PM
I forget how telegrams arrive at houses. Somehow, the blue slip of paper, gummed at the sides with my Mum's name on it just appeared when I came home from school. That probably isn't true but the mailman did not deliver it because I always checked the mailbox before slipping through the side gate to the unlocked back door. I'm sure it was sitting on the table, leaning against the vomit coloured vase in the middle as if it had been there all its life.
At nine, I knew little of telegrams. Who cared about a blue slip of paper gummed at the sides at that age? The dog was glad to see me and waggled her stump because she knew when I got home, I would make a sandwich but not before cutting off the crusts and dropping them on the lino floor. When we first came to live here, with my stepfather, she was a fully trained doberman guard dog. But with time, alot of lollies and treats, she had become a family pet. She was just a big old softie really. She still looked real mean though and that was important when anyone approached the property or if the other kids thought they could pick a fight with me.
I tore the bread on account of the fact that butter in Australia has to be refrigerated otherwise it turns into liquid. Who can spread butter straight from the fridge onto fresh bread? Not me. Not then. Not now. As I chewed on jam and bits of butter, I wondered what the telegram was about. Did my teacher report me to the headmaster for bashing Kim Sterling up and they were going to suspend me, or worse, expel me? My heart skipped a beat. I didn't even know what a telegram was so how come I thought it could only contain bad news?
Outside, the other kids on the street yelled, screamed and laughed. I heard Alan Spencer bounce his footy, kick it against the wall. He was a ponce and always bragged about how good he was. I heard a crash as another kid who thought he was hot on his bike, barrelled down Galian's Chute, the death hill road at the side of my house. He hit the kerb and flipped into the scrub. Living on the corner, I regularly watched these comic accidents. A kid died there once. Long before I arrived. Nobody knew who he was. I think his parents were so heartbroken after it happened they moved away. All us kids knew about it though. As he tore down the Chute, he couldn't make the sharp L shaped corner at the end. A car coming in the opposite direction pitched that kid into eternity. We often tried to find some of his remains embedded in the bushland where he might have landed. Other kids, especially Alan boasted that the dead boy didn't know his stuff and they went to the top of the hill with their gleaming chrome bikes and skateboards to show how the trick should really be done. Alan just grabbed any bike he wanted and sailed on down. He, like everyone else, seldom landed gracefully. I would hold my breath, excited fear pounding through my temples as I hoped nothing bad would happen but also hoping it would. Imagine if I witnessed a horror like that! Imagine if one of those kids got squished by a car! A little voice told me it was wrong but I still hoped anyway.
That afternoon, me and Mitzi went down to the old deserted school and played football. Alan accused me of the sin of being a girl. 'You can't play as good as I can! Lesley's a girl, Lesley's a girl!' One swift kick between his legs and the matter was settled. I got to be the halfback.
Mitzi ran round free in those days. The laws on dogs were pretty lax. She was a good accessory to have when up against the local kids. She wore a thick spiked collar and as I held her, she used to tug as if she was just dying for me to let go so she could eat all the street kids up. 'If I give the command to K I L L, she will tear your throat out. Go on! I dare you to try her' The kids giggled nervously, disbelievingly but not enough to call my bluff. They called me a bully and then someone yelled, 'Let's play wars in the bush!' Everyone found themselves a stick and off we went. Arguments ensued. "My gun hit you so you're dead and you gotta stand still and count to twenty!' 'No way! You only got me in the shoulder so I'm still alive!' More wars. More punches thrown and then Mitzi would growl and everyone would stop, stand up, dust themselves off and start the next round.
My Mum drove up while I was squatting behind a bush, waiting to shoot Peter Watkins as he snuck along the thorny sand. I watched her unlock the front door and go in. I hoped she would be in a good mood. We didn't talk much. She was always so super busy and I think but I can't be sure, I was yet another mouth to feed within a very tight budget. The stress in the home was enough to keep the electricity going for a week. I didn't know this though. I only felt the hair on the back of my neck rising whenever I was in the house with her and my stepfather. What does a nine year old tomboy know of such things?
I checked my clothes. Jeans ripped when I slid across the grass during a footy tackle and now I was covered in old burn off ash and sand. A few prickles and sticky grass seeds in my hair. Yeah, I thought. Mum will be real mad if she sees me like this. The game came to an abrupt end when Alan Spencer wrung a younger kids neck and announced he could ride down Galian's Chute on a bike with no brakes. Everyone threw their 'guns' to the ground and followed Alan. I stopped at the bush edge across from my house and watched them all traipse up the hill. I hoped Alan would come a cropper like that kid because my Mum would probably thrash me for tearing my jeans. There was always a chance she wouldn't notice though.
The back door was my best option. I took the long route through the bushland and came out to the side of the house so she wouldn't see me through the front door. I could sneak in and jump in the shower before she knew I was home. She seldom noticed me anyway because no sooner would she get home from work, she would start preparing dinner. Mitzi knew not to make a noise when I did this. Very smart dog. She slipped through the side gate and made herself comfortable in the shade while I stood and listened at the flyscreen door so I could time my entry.
It was silent. No pots clanging, chopping board sounds, creaky cupboards opening and shutting. Nothing. I strained closer, not sure why those familiar sounds were absent. I heard a muffled sound. Deep and continuous but that was it. My heart sank. That blue slip of paper, gummed at the sides! She must have read it and found out about me. For a fleeting moment, I thought about running away from home. The plan quickly crumbled as I only made it to the bus stop in my head before realising, I had no money. That muffled sound scared me. I couldn't run away and I knew they would find me if I lived the rest of my childhood in the backyard. There was nothing for it but to slip in and see why the house wasn't working in the way it normally did.
I saw her in the kitchen at the sink. Her back toward me. She had a bath towel knotted loosely round her hands. Her face was buried deep in its folds. I watched her body shake uncontrollably as that deep muffled sound escaped into the thick towelling fabric.
On the table, the telegram lay open, its corners flapping gently as the afternoon breeze wafted through the kitchen window. I snuck behind her so she wouldn't see me and get angry at the way I looked. She continued to shudder, rocking forward and back, almost as if she were laughing hysterically. But she wasn't.
I picked up the telegram and read it. We regret to inform you that your mother was killed lastnight when she was knocked off her bike by a vehicle travelling in the opposite direction.
Outside, I heard a car horn, brakes squeal. I heard the familiar crash, then hysteric screams of horror as the local kids ran to the kerb to stare at the lifeless body of Alan Spencer, spreadeagled, contorted and greyed by the bushscrub ash.
At nine, I knew little of telegrams. Who cared about a blue slip of paper gummed at the sides at that age? The dog was glad to see me and waggled her stump because she knew when I got home, I would make a sandwich but not before cutting off the crusts and dropping them on the lino floor. When we first came to live here, with my stepfather, she was a fully trained doberman guard dog. But with time, alot of lollies and treats, she had become a family pet. She was just a big old softie really. She still looked real mean though and that was important when anyone approached the property or if the other kids thought they could pick a fight with me.
I tore the bread on account of the fact that butter in Australia has to be refrigerated otherwise it turns into liquid. Who can spread butter straight from the fridge onto fresh bread? Not me. Not then. Not now. As I chewed on jam and bits of butter, I wondered what the telegram was about. Did my teacher report me to the headmaster for bashing Kim Sterling up and they were going to suspend me, or worse, expel me? My heart skipped a beat. I didn't even know what a telegram was so how come I thought it could only contain bad news?
Outside, the other kids on the street yelled, screamed and laughed. I heard Alan Spencer bounce his footy, kick it against the wall. He was a ponce and always bragged about how good he was. I heard a crash as another kid who thought he was hot on his bike, barrelled down Galian's Chute, the death hill road at the side of my house. He hit the kerb and flipped into the scrub. Living on the corner, I regularly watched these comic accidents. A kid died there once. Long before I arrived. Nobody knew who he was. I think his parents were so heartbroken after it happened they moved away. All us kids knew about it though. As he tore down the Chute, he couldn't make the sharp L shaped corner at the end. A car coming in the opposite direction pitched that kid into eternity. We often tried to find some of his remains embedded in the bushland where he might have landed. Other kids, especially Alan boasted that the dead boy didn't know his stuff and they went to the top of the hill with their gleaming chrome bikes and skateboards to show how the trick should really be done. Alan just grabbed any bike he wanted and sailed on down. He, like everyone else, seldom landed gracefully. I would hold my breath, excited fear pounding through my temples as I hoped nothing bad would happen but also hoping it would. Imagine if I witnessed a horror like that! Imagine if one of those kids got squished by a car! A little voice told me it was wrong but I still hoped anyway.
That afternoon, me and Mitzi went down to the old deserted school and played football. Alan accused me of the sin of being a girl. 'You can't play as good as I can! Lesley's a girl, Lesley's a girl!' One swift kick between his legs and the matter was settled. I got to be the halfback.
Mitzi ran round free in those days. The laws on dogs were pretty lax. She was a good accessory to have when up against the local kids. She wore a thick spiked collar and as I held her, she used to tug as if she was just dying for me to let go so she could eat all the street kids up. 'If I give the command to K I L L, she will tear your throat out. Go on! I dare you to try her' The kids giggled nervously, disbelievingly but not enough to call my bluff. They called me a bully and then someone yelled, 'Let's play wars in the bush!' Everyone found themselves a stick and off we went. Arguments ensued. "My gun hit you so you're dead and you gotta stand still and count to twenty!' 'No way! You only got me in the shoulder so I'm still alive!' More wars. More punches thrown and then Mitzi would growl and everyone would stop, stand up, dust themselves off and start the next round.
My Mum drove up while I was squatting behind a bush, waiting to shoot Peter Watkins as he snuck along the thorny sand. I watched her unlock the front door and go in. I hoped she would be in a good mood. We didn't talk much. She was always so super busy and I think but I can't be sure, I was yet another mouth to feed within a very tight budget. The stress in the home was enough to keep the electricity going for a week. I didn't know this though. I only felt the hair on the back of my neck rising whenever I was in the house with her and my stepfather. What does a nine year old tomboy know of such things?
I checked my clothes. Jeans ripped when I slid across the grass during a footy tackle and now I was covered in old burn off ash and sand. A few prickles and sticky grass seeds in my hair. Yeah, I thought. Mum will be real mad if she sees me like this. The game came to an abrupt end when Alan Spencer wrung a younger kids neck and announced he could ride down Galian's Chute on a bike with no brakes. Everyone threw their 'guns' to the ground and followed Alan. I stopped at the bush edge across from my house and watched them all traipse up the hill. I hoped Alan would come a cropper like that kid because my Mum would probably thrash me for tearing my jeans. There was always a chance she wouldn't notice though.
The back door was my best option. I took the long route through the bushland and came out to the side of the house so she wouldn't see me through the front door. I could sneak in and jump in the shower before she knew I was home. She seldom noticed me anyway because no sooner would she get home from work, she would start preparing dinner. Mitzi knew not to make a noise when I did this. Very smart dog. She slipped through the side gate and made herself comfortable in the shade while I stood and listened at the flyscreen door so I could time my entry.
It was silent. No pots clanging, chopping board sounds, creaky cupboards opening and shutting. Nothing. I strained closer, not sure why those familiar sounds were absent. I heard a muffled sound. Deep and continuous but that was it. My heart sank. That blue slip of paper, gummed at the sides! She must have read it and found out about me. For a fleeting moment, I thought about running away from home. The plan quickly crumbled as I only made it to the bus stop in my head before realising, I had no money. That muffled sound scared me. I couldn't run away and I knew they would find me if I lived the rest of my childhood in the backyard. There was nothing for it but to slip in and see why the house wasn't working in the way it normally did.
I saw her in the kitchen at the sink. Her back toward me. She had a bath towel knotted loosely round her hands. Her face was buried deep in its folds. I watched her body shake uncontrollably as that deep muffled sound escaped into the thick towelling fabric.
On the table, the telegram lay open, its corners flapping gently as the afternoon breeze wafted through the kitchen window. I snuck behind her so she wouldn't see me and get angry at the way I looked. She continued to shudder, rocking forward and back, almost as if she were laughing hysterically. But she wasn't.
I picked up the telegram and read it. We regret to inform you that your mother was killed lastnight when she was knocked off her bike by a vehicle travelling in the opposite direction.
Outside, I heard a car horn, brakes squeal. I heard the familiar crash, then hysteric screams of horror as the local kids ran to the kerb to stare at the lifeless body of Alan Spencer, spreadeagled, contorted and greyed by the bushscrub ash.