Read Online They Left Us Everything by Plum Johnson - Free Book Online
Authors: Plum Johnson
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old and unable yet to pronounce the word. Our allowances grew in penny increments, depending on our age; as the oldest, my allowance was a dime. After breakfast at the dining room table we’d stand to attention beside Dad’s chair. He’d bring out his ledger, interview each of us, peruse our weekly offences, and then tot up our fines. More often than not our fines would outstrip our wages and we’d owe Dad money, which we then had to work off with additional chores. If we were lucky we got a few pennies, which we had to sign for.
After assigning us our duties, Dad would march outside and turn his attention to his beloved vegetable patch. Tucked in behind the back of the house was a large plot of land where Dad grew tomatoes, pumpkins, carrots, lettuce, and rhubarb. He also grew marigolds, nasturtiums, and hollyhocks. Everything was planted in neat rows, staked with thin bamboo poles and long lines of white string. On hot days Dad removed his shirt, knotted his white handkerchief at the four corners, dipped it in water from the outdoor tap, and placed it on his head like a hat. While the boys helped Dad outside, my job was to clean the kitchen. Dad’s detailed list was thumbtacked inside the door of the broom closet. It listed our chores and the time frame in which they were to be completed. Under “Plum” it read: “7:30–7:38 mop floor, 7:39–7:46 scrub sink, 7:47–7:52 clean counters …”
Periodically, Dad came in to inspect. He’d examine the sink in minute detail until he found a dot of grease I’d overlooked.
“You call this clean?” he’d shout. “Do it again! If a thing is worth doing, it’s worth doing well!”
By the time Mum got out of bed and drifted downstairs in her housecoat and furry slippers, looking for coffee and an ashtray, she’d find me heaving with sobs.
“Nothing I ever do is good enough!” I’d cry.
Out in the driveway she could see Sandy standing erect, his arms up-stretched, holding a log over his head for five minutes—his punishment for not having cleaned the garage properly. When I think of it now, Dad’s memories of POW camps must have been only ten years in the past, but what was Mum thinking?
One Saturday morning Dad came home with a man he introduced to us as “Popeye,” a homeless man he’d foundsheltering at the police station. Popeye was old, arthritic, and unkempt, with matted hair, rotted teeth, stubbled chin, and torn clothing. He smelled bad and spoke Dutch—which Dad knew a little of, too, from his days in Java. (Dad loved languages, and also spoke a smattering of Portuguese, Spanish, and Malay.) He told us he was employing Popeye to help him weed. Since we were Dad’s regular labourers (the source of our pocket money), we viewed Popeye with a mixture of relief and skepticism. What did this mean?
Dad carried a wicker chair and small table down to the bottom of the garden and placed them in the shade. Then he ordered me into the kitchen to prepare a tray of tea, complete with biscuits, jam, and our best silver cutlery. He sent Sandy to the mantelpiece to bring out a tin of Dad’s best pipe tobacco— and there Popeye sat, smoking his pipe, sipping his tea, paid by the hour until lunchtime. Dad supervised our work in the garden until it was time to drive Popeye back to the shelter. This went on every Saturday, for years. Dad told us to be kind to Popeye “because that could be you one day.”
On Sundays after lunch, while Mum wrote her letters, Dad took the five of us for hikes in the countryside. Dad had a particular way of walking. He took long strides with a bounce in each step, claiming that with this method even young children should be able to walk four miles in an hour. He showed us how to do it and clocked our speed with a stopwatch. While he strode ahead, swinging his walking stick like an army major, our Dalmatian, Scrappy, raced after him and we tried to keep up.
During these walks, Dad taught us how to make water wheels. In his pocket
After assigning us our duties, Dad would march outside and turn his attention to his beloved vegetable patch. Tucked in behind the back of the house was a large plot of land where Dad grew tomatoes, pumpkins, carrots, lettuce, and rhubarb. He also grew marigolds, nasturtiums, and hollyhocks. Everything was planted in neat rows, staked with thin bamboo poles and long lines of white string. On hot days Dad removed his shirt, knotted his white handkerchief at the four corners, dipped it in water from the outdoor tap, and placed it on his head like a hat. While the boys helped Dad outside, my job was to clean the kitchen. Dad’s detailed list was thumbtacked inside the door of the broom closet. It listed our chores and the time frame in which they were to be completed. Under “Plum” it read: “7:30–7:38 mop floor, 7:39–7:46 scrub sink, 7:47–7:52 clean counters …”
Periodically, Dad came in to inspect. He’d examine the sink in minute detail until he found a dot of grease I’d overlooked.
“You call this clean?” he’d shout. “Do it again! If a thing is worth doing, it’s worth doing well!”
By the time Mum got out of bed and drifted downstairs in her housecoat and furry slippers, looking for coffee and an ashtray, she’d find me heaving with sobs.
“Nothing I ever do is good enough!” I’d cry.
Out in the driveway she could see Sandy standing erect, his arms up-stretched, holding a log over his head for five minutes—his punishment for not having cleaned the garage properly. When I think of it now, Dad’s memories of POW camps must have been only ten years in the past, but what was Mum thinking?
One Saturday morning Dad came home with a man he introduced to us as “Popeye,” a homeless man he’d foundsheltering at the police station. Popeye was old, arthritic, and unkempt, with matted hair, rotted teeth, stubbled chin, and torn clothing. He smelled bad and spoke Dutch—which Dad knew a little of, too, from his days in Java. (Dad loved languages, and also spoke a smattering of Portuguese, Spanish, and Malay.) He told us he was employing Popeye to help him weed. Since we were Dad’s regular labourers (the source of our pocket money), we viewed Popeye with a mixture of relief and skepticism. What did this mean?
Dad carried a wicker chair and small table down to the bottom of the garden and placed them in the shade. Then he ordered me into the kitchen to prepare a tray of tea, complete with biscuits, jam, and our best silver cutlery. He sent Sandy to the mantelpiece to bring out a tin of Dad’s best pipe tobacco— and there Popeye sat, smoking his pipe, sipping his tea, paid by the hour until lunchtime. Dad supervised our work in the garden until it was time to drive Popeye back to the shelter. This went on every Saturday, for years. Dad told us to be kind to Popeye “because that could be you one day.”
On Sundays after lunch, while Mum wrote her letters, Dad took the five of us for hikes in the countryside. Dad had a particular way of walking. He took long strides with a bounce in each step, claiming that with this method even young children should be able to walk four miles in an hour. He showed us how to do it and clocked our speed with a stopwatch. While he strode ahead, swinging his walking stick like an army major, our Dalmatian, Scrappy, raced after him and we tried to keep up.
During these walks, Dad taught us how to make water wheels. In his pocket
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