matchbox lid said the brand of matches was ‘Redheads’ so I figured Indians would like that.
Christmas morning Mum and I would go down the back and Old Perc would hand over one of his birds, alive and squawking, its legs tied with twine. Mum gave him a couple of dollars.
When she had the chook by the feet, and was holding it at arm’s length (so it couldn’t peck), Mum told me to get the tomahawk from beside the copper boiler in the laundry. (Nobody else had a copper boiler. Ours was a legacy of that boiled-and-starched country cleanliness that Mum brought with her from the bush.) ‘Look the other way Charlie,’ she said (which I did, sort of) and she slapped the chook’s head on the block that she used to split chips for the copper and brought the tomahawk down with a whack.
Come dinner time, Mum would serve the bird up on a plate along with baked potatoes and pumpkin. We had canned peas on the side.
The Christmas that I wanted the cricket bat promised to be the best of all. Behind the bolt of shantung (just as well I knew my fabrics), I found a long, thin parcel done up in red cellophane, with a piece of green ribbon tiedaround it. (I’d seen this same ribbon on Mrs Faulk’s hat in race week, the month before.) When I took the parcel into the kitchen and untied it on the table, there was my cricket bat with a spring.
It was Rory Whittaker who pointed out to me, when I took the bat over for a hit that afternoon, that it wasn’t a ‘proper’ bat. He was only too pleased to show me that the V shape where the handle was spliced into the blade was only painted on and that the bat was no more than a lump of pine (even a fence paling), which made me wonder if that couple of dollars Mum handed over to Old Perc really was for our Christmas chook, or the bird plus a little more.
‘You been sold a crock, Monkey Boy,’ Rory said, laughing at my tears. ‘This bat’s a fake.’
I never did tell my mother this because I knew that she had given me all she could afford and I should be satisfied with that. But when Mum died, I chucked the bat out. I put it in the wheelie bin with her hat blocks and a million other childhood memories that brought me grief. Which is why I said to Lootie, ‘Do you want a hand with that stencil-cutting?’ since it looked like fun.
7
T hat first Monday of Lootie’s prac I woke up to see her standing in front of her open wardrobe. She was wearing a pair of cotton knickers.
‘What do you think?’ she said, turning to me as I lounged on my pillow.
‘How about you come back to bed?’ I replied, lifting the doona.
‘Ha,’ she laughed. ‘I’m asking what you think I should wear.’
‘To bed?’ I said. ‘Nothing.’
‘I don’t think so.’ She hauled a couple of dresses from the wardrobe and held them up. ‘I’m a teacher today. Not a lover.’
‘Pity,’ I said. ‘So what have you got?’
‘Not much,’ she said, looking at the dresses critically. ‘Unless I wear jeans. And I can’t do that. Not on my first day.’
She was right, of course. It would never do for a teacher as young and pretty as Lootie to wear jeans.Especially on her first day. And in front of a class of boys. ‘How about that blue one? It’s nice.’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, putting the clothes back. ‘I should make a firm impression. A skirt, I think. That’s what a teacher would wear. Tartan. It’s conservative. And a cardigan. Yes?’
‘I guess.’ I was tickled that she bothered to ask. ‘Come back,’ I said, patting the bed. ‘The kids can wait.’
‘You’re being silly,’ she said, giving me a consolatory peck on the forehead. ‘Besides, you should be up yourself. You are going to work, aren’t you?’
I groaned. I had no choice as to what I would wear.
I knocked off early that afternoon. I guessed that Lootie would be tired after her first day and I wanted to have something ready for dinner. Seeing the autumn leaves aflame, I took a short cut through the
Christmas morning Mum and I would go down the back and Old Perc would hand over one of his birds, alive and squawking, its legs tied with twine. Mum gave him a couple of dollars.
When she had the chook by the feet, and was holding it at arm’s length (so it couldn’t peck), Mum told me to get the tomahawk from beside the copper boiler in the laundry. (Nobody else had a copper boiler. Ours was a legacy of that boiled-and-starched country cleanliness that Mum brought with her from the bush.) ‘Look the other way Charlie,’ she said (which I did, sort of) and she slapped the chook’s head on the block that she used to split chips for the copper and brought the tomahawk down with a whack.
Come dinner time, Mum would serve the bird up on a plate along with baked potatoes and pumpkin. We had canned peas on the side.
The Christmas that I wanted the cricket bat promised to be the best of all. Behind the bolt of shantung (just as well I knew my fabrics), I found a long, thin parcel done up in red cellophane, with a piece of green ribbon tiedaround it. (I’d seen this same ribbon on Mrs Faulk’s hat in race week, the month before.) When I took the parcel into the kitchen and untied it on the table, there was my cricket bat with a spring.
It was Rory Whittaker who pointed out to me, when I took the bat over for a hit that afternoon, that it wasn’t a ‘proper’ bat. He was only too pleased to show me that the V shape where the handle was spliced into the blade was only painted on and that the bat was no more than a lump of pine (even a fence paling), which made me wonder if that couple of dollars Mum handed over to Old Perc really was for our Christmas chook, or the bird plus a little more.
‘You been sold a crock, Monkey Boy,’ Rory said, laughing at my tears. ‘This bat’s a fake.’
I never did tell my mother this because I knew that she had given me all she could afford and I should be satisfied with that. But when Mum died, I chucked the bat out. I put it in the wheelie bin with her hat blocks and a million other childhood memories that brought me grief. Which is why I said to Lootie, ‘Do you want a hand with that stencil-cutting?’ since it looked like fun.
7
T hat first Monday of Lootie’s prac I woke up to see her standing in front of her open wardrobe. She was wearing a pair of cotton knickers.
‘What do you think?’ she said, turning to me as I lounged on my pillow.
‘How about you come back to bed?’ I replied, lifting the doona.
‘Ha,’ she laughed. ‘I’m asking what you think I should wear.’
‘To bed?’ I said. ‘Nothing.’
‘I don’t think so.’ She hauled a couple of dresses from the wardrobe and held them up. ‘I’m a teacher today. Not a lover.’
‘Pity,’ I said. ‘So what have you got?’
‘Not much,’ she said, looking at the dresses critically. ‘Unless I wear jeans. And I can’t do that. Not on my first day.’
She was right, of course. It would never do for a teacher as young and pretty as Lootie to wear jeans.Especially on her first day. And in front of a class of boys. ‘How about that blue one? It’s nice.’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, putting the clothes back. ‘I should make a firm impression. A skirt, I think. That’s what a teacher would wear. Tartan. It’s conservative. And a cardigan. Yes?’
‘I guess.’ I was tickled that she bothered to ask. ‘Come back,’ I said, patting the bed. ‘The kids can wait.’
‘You’re being silly,’ she said, giving me a consolatory peck on the forehead. ‘Besides, you should be up yourself. You are going to work, aren’t you?’
I groaned. I had no choice as to what I would wear.
I knocked off early that afternoon. I guessed that Lootie would be tired after her first day and I wanted to have something ready for dinner. Seeing the autumn leaves aflame, I took a short cut through the
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