with a smile told Dad to go down to the back of the paddock – because Joey was around there -- “hanging out against the black stump”.
Relieved and excited, Dad raced through the muddy paddock to the black stump. As expected, Dad found Joey there, only his pet kangaroo was lying up against the stump with its stomach cut and hanging out. Its underbelly was like a neon pink jellyfish, its insides half-eaten out by dogs.
Without having to tell us, from the red in his eyes, we could see how Dad must have cried and wondered about the random punishments the world dished out. In the background, Uncle Harvey was laughing, telling him he was such a boofhead . I knew from my own experience how it felt.
Yes, there was always something to tarnish the good times.
To be honest, if I wasn’t exactly happy, I can’t say I was exactly unhappy. What I was getting now on the new property as Dad built the house, was a lot of attention. And not just from Dad or from his mates when they came around to play their musical instruments and sing and make merry.
I was getting extra special attention from Cec Parsons. Cec was always around on the nights of the merrymaking but he would also be around at other times too.
A fisherman by trade, like Dad, he was also in the timber industry, and would help Dad with the felled trees. He also did the ringbarking, which was a way of poisoning those that needed to be culled to let new growth come on. Because of this work, sometimes he would stay overnight at our house.
Somehow, and I can’t recall why or even how, everyone would manage to traipse off to bed, and I would be left out there, in the woody living room with handsome Cec, the man with dark, mesmerising eyes, a subtle smile, and a voice fit for a stage.
What I especially liked about him was that he was a much softer and gentler man than Dad. He would call me over to him in a smooth and kind voice, his dark brow almost begging, and then when I was comfortable he would do what Dad used to do, only much more gently.
Sitting or even kneeling, he would take down my knickers and rub himself on me. On occasion, he would be lying on the daybed in the lounge where he would sleep of a night, and he’d call me to come over and stand by him.
Out would come that extra tense and it would seem unmanageable part of his anatomy, and, just like Dad, while I stood there, he would rub himself against my vaginal region, in the clitoral area, like he knew exactly where the right spot was. I would stand there, a little girl who should be in bed fast asleep, feeling tingly and soft like velvet.
Sometimes, and again don’t ask me how this was possible, when I was sent to bed early he would later come into the bedroom, which we kids all shared, and he would climb into my bed. He would lie close to me and rub himself against me. It was fleshy and comforting and so intimate, in some ways almost sacred. I would feel needed, a child in a church choir looking up at angels.
It was good to be noticed by Cec Parsons. It made me feel different to the others. It made me feel like a wanted human being. And yet I can’t say I remember there ever being a single conversation between him and me, not even any of that “adult to sweet little kid” talk between us. Strange, but I can’t even remember him asking me how I was or even how school was.
But he was handsome and charming and gentler than Dad, and that was enough. He never felt like he was hurting me or forcing himself on me. I was a little girl, and in my eyes, seeing how well he sang and played his stick of bottle tops, and how friendly he was with Dad, the unbreakable pole that was at the centre of our house, it was hard not to feel special.
Unlike Dad, he never said things like: “ You! Get yourself over here! ” No, he never ever talked like that, never got all cranky when I wanted to do other things. He only ever called me in that wet and generous voice that sounded like an archangel.
Late one night,
Relieved and excited, Dad raced through the muddy paddock to the black stump. As expected, Dad found Joey there, only his pet kangaroo was lying up against the stump with its stomach cut and hanging out. Its underbelly was like a neon pink jellyfish, its insides half-eaten out by dogs.
Without having to tell us, from the red in his eyes, we could see how Dad must have cried and wondered about the random punishments the world dished out. In the background, Uncle Harvey was laughing, telling him he was such a boofhead . I knew from my own experience how it felt.
Yes, there was always something to tarnish the good times.
To be honest, if I wasn’t exactly happy, I can’t say I was exactly unhappy. What I was getting now on the new property as Dad built the house, was a lot of attention. And not just from Dad or from his mates when they came around to play their musical instruments and sing and make merry.
I was getting extra special attention from Cec Parsons. Cec was always around on the nights of the merrymaking but he would also be around at other times too.
A fisherman by trade, like Dad, he was also in the timber industry, and would help Dad with the felled trees. He also did the ringbarking, which was a way of poisoning those that needed to be culled to let new growth come on. Because of this work, sometimes he would stay overnight at our house.
Somehow, and I can’t recall why or even how, everyone would manage to traipse off to bed, and I would be left out there, in the woody living room with handsome Cec, the man with dark, mesmerising eyes, a subtle smile, and a voice fit for a stage.
What I especially liked about him was that he was a much softer and gentler man than Dad. He would call me over to him in a smooth and kind voice, his dark brow almost begging, and then when I was comfortable he would do what Dad used to do, only much more gently.
Sitting or even kneeling, he would take down my knickers and rub himself on me. On occasion, he would be lying on the daybed in the lounge where he would sleep of a night, and he’d call me to come over and stand by him.
Out would come that extra tense and it would seem unmanageable part of his anatomy, and, just like Dad, while I stood there, he would rub himself against my vaginal region, in the clitoral area, like he knew exactly where the right spot was. I would stand there, a little girl who should be in bed fast asleep, feeling tingly and soft like velvet.
Sometimes, and again don’t ask me how this was possible, when I was sent to bed early he would later come into the bedroom, which we kids all shared, and he would climb into my bed. He would lie close to me and rub himself against me. It was fleshy and comforting and so intimate, in some ways almost sacred. I would feel needed, a child in a church choir looking up at angels.
It was good to be noticed by Cec Parsons. It made me feel different to the others. It made me feel like a wanted human being. And yet I can’t say I remember there ever being a single conversation between him and me, not even any of that “adult to sweet little kid” talk between us. Strange, but I can’t even remember him asking me how I was or even how school was.
But he was handsome and charming and gentler than Dad, and that was enough. He never felt like he was hurting me or forcing himself on me. I was a little girl, and in my eyes, seeing how well he sang and played his stick of bottle tops, and how friendly he was with Dad, the unbreakable pole that was at the centre of our house, it was hard not to feel special.
Unlike Dad, he never said things like: “ You! Get yourself over here! ” No, he never ever talked like that, never got all cranky when I wanted to do other things. He only ever called me in that wet and generous voice that sounded like an archangel.
Late one night,
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