it seems to be. Other people leave for England—the real England. Everybody leaves at some time, though they leave temporarily, a year or two of what is called O.E.—overseas experience—in the land where their grandparents or great-grandparents were born, rickety paupers, housemaids, labourers, miners, dockers, those we call ancestors.
Ancestors. What do our kind, Heels, Winks and me, care about ancestors. Ancestors is hori talk. Only horis and snobs who want to trace themselves back to the Earl of somewhere or other care about ancestors. “What did ancestors ever do for us?” is our opinion of ancestors.
Australia is our England. Ancestors left England for a better life, and we are going to Sydney where I myself was born. I am my own ancestor.
“Someone’s leaving for greener pastures,” Mrs Quigley announces on my last day at school. She asks me to stand up in class and explain where, when and why we are going. She hasn’t warned me she would do this and surely she knows I hate standing up in front of people.
“Up. Up,” she motions with her fingers as if stroking something. “Up. Up.”
I get to my feet, hands clasped in front of me, trying to close myself off. Mrs Quigley repeats the question. “Now, where are you departing our fair shores for, and when and why?”
After the fall from the landing a remarkable thing happened. When I sobered up from the bang on the head and the fog of the drink and said my first sentence—“Sorry. I’m sorry.”—the words came out of my mouth clear, with no false starts. The two sorrys had one Seach, not three or four. No stutter. My stuttering disappeared. It’s cured. Dr Murchison has never heard the like. The only trace is a vague, whistly lisp. I’ve never known such happiness. It’s probably not even happiness but a feeling far greater. I can be happy eating the crisp rind from bacon or on Sundays when the hotel is closed and the bars and rooms are silent and empty and mine all to myself. But this is a feeling that swells inside me with such pressure it takes my breath away, it makes me want to laugh though nothing funny has happened, and cry as if suffering from sheer pleasure.
On the day my stuttering died I vowed to speak as often and as loud as possible all those once feared words with the Fs and Ths, Ss and Ps. I rattled off “feather, father, system, slice of pickled pepper” to Heels and Winks, running on the spot with excitement. Heels hugged me so tight into her bosom my new, pure speech was momentarily muffled and I strained impatiently to get away. And Winks’ eyes—I’m sure they were wet. He turned his face from me and gripped the back of a chair. His shoulders quaked. I skipped around my bedroom saying, “fans and farmers thick as thieves in sport and pirates” as Heels and Winks settled into bickering.
Her: “We all have me to thank for this. If I hadn’t insisted on elocution lessons he’d still be jabbering.”
Him: “It was his fall.”
“I’m not interested in any fall thank you very much.
Elocution lessons .”
“He’s been having those lessons for a bloody year.”
“And now they’ve finally paid dividends.”
“He was drunk from stealing from Hugh’s flask and fell off the landing, love.”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“And it was him in the bloody phone box.”
“I can’t bear it. The embarrassment. It’s all around town.
As far as I’m concerned none of it ever happened. My son no longer stutters because of elocution lessons.”
Her eyes had narrowed as if fighting back tears. No tears came. She buried her fingernails deep into her stiff hair-do and scratched it in time with her heavy breathing. The scratching made a static sound come crackling out of her scalp. She spoke to Winks through clenched teeth. “If you’re so clever then, then, then … what else has the bang on the head cured? Has it cured his being ungrateful? Has it cured his foul-mouthed manners? Or just singled out his
Ancestors. What do our kind, Heels, Winks and me, care about ancestors. Ancestors is hori talk. Only horis and snobs who want to trace themselves back to the Earl of somewhere or other care about ancestors. “What did ancestors ever do for us?” is our opinion of ancestors.
Australia is our England. Ancestors left England for a better life, and we are going to Sydney where I myself was born. I am my own ancestor.
“Someone’s leaving for greener pastures,” Mrs Quigley announces on my last day at school. She asks me to stand up in class and explain where, when and why we are going. She hasn’t warned me she would do this and surely she knows I hate standing up in front of people.
“Up. Up,” she motions with her fingers as if stroking something. “Up. Up.”
I get to my feet, hands clasped in front of me, trying to close myself off. Mrs Quigley repeats the question. “Now, where are you departing our fair shores for, and when and why?”
After the fall from the landing a remarkable thing happened. When I sobered up from the bang on the head and the fog of the drink and said my first sentence—“Sorry. I’m sorry.”—the words came out of my mouth clear, with no false starts. The two sorrys had one Seach, not three or four. No stutter. My stuttering disappeared. It’s cured. Dr Murchison has never heard the like. The only trace is a vague, whistly lisp. I’ve never known such happiness. It’s probably not even happiness but a feeling far greater. I can be happy eating the crisp rind from bacon or on Sundays when the hotel is closed and the bars and rooms are silent and empty and mine all to myself. But this is a feeling that swells inside me with such pressure it takes my breath away, it makes me want to laugh though nothing funny has happened, and cry as if suffering from sheer pleasure.
On the day my stuttering died I vowed to speak as often and as loud as possible all those once feared words with the Fs and Ths, Ss and Ps. I rattled off “feather, father, system, slice of pickled pepper” to Heels and Winks, running on the spot with excitement. Heels hugged me so tight into her bosom my new, pure speech was momentarily muffled and I strained impatiently to get away. And Winks’ eyes—I’m sure they were wet. He turned his face from me and gripped the back of a chair. His shoulders quaked. I skipped around my bedroom saying, “fans and farmers thick as thieves in sport and pirates” as Heels and Winks settled into bickering.
Her: “We all have me to thank for this. If I hadn’t insisted on elocution lessons he’d still be jabbering.”
Him: “It was his fall.”
“I’m not interested in any fall thank you very much.
Elocution lessons .”
“He’s been having those lessons for a bloody year.”
“And now they’ve finally paid dividends.”
“He was drunk from stealing from Hugh’s flask and fell off the landing, love.”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“And it was him in the bloody phone box.”
“I can’t bear it. The embarrassment. It’s all around town.
As far as I’m concerned none of it ever happened. My son no longer stutters because of elocution lessons.”
Her eyes had narrowed as if fighting back tears. No tears came. She buried her fingernails deep into her stiff hair-do and scratched it in time with her heavy breathing. The scratching made a static sound come crackling out of her scalp. She spoke to Winks through clenched teeth. “If you’re so clever then, then, then … what else has the bang on the head cured? Has it cured his being ungrateful? Has it cured his foul-mouthed manners? Or just singled out his
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