Grace Beside Me Read online

  Out of all the bad things I did, this was the big one. Nan didn’t speak to me for a whole week. Every time she wanted to tell me something or if she wanted to know something she would ask Pop. Pop could be hard too, don’t you worry, but after the initial blow-out he’d be alright, you know, forgiveness and all of that. Nan arched up something terrible. She said we would have to go to AA and counselling before she sent us off to great cousin Wayne who works as an electrician down in Antarctica for time out. She was so pissed off she broke a wooden spoon on me. My arse hurt for days after.

  Anyway the truth is, my cousin Rina and I agreed sherry was way too sweet; because we were trying not to get caught we hurried the pouring and spilt most of it on the carpet. Rina was sent back to Bathurst. We weren’t allowed to speak to each other for three months. I decided then and there, you can have your booze. Me, I’ll stick with Pop’s homemade ginger beer.

  When it comes to manners, Nan and Pop expect nothing but the best. If you walk inside our house with a hat on anticipate a good clip around the ear. Pop especially does not tolerate it. If it’s a full-on hot and humid day and we all sit down for a meal you must have a shirt on and you must have the buttons done up appropriately. You cannot sit at the table without a shirt, not even if you are in your swimmers, male or female all same same.

  And under no circumstances is anybody allowed to bring a packet cake into the house. Everything is home baked here. Nan just won’t have it. It’s a good idea I reckon because at the end of the day home baked goods taste way better.

  When it comes to saying grace, well that only happens on special occasions like if the aunts come or it’s Christmas, Easter, birthdays or if Sister Bernadette comes over. Otherwise Nan says, ‘Been bustin’ me belly all day makin’ this all taste good and proper, don’t have time to say grace before we eat ’cause the tucker will be buggered. The Lord he knows we are all grateful, so we don’t need to be tellin’ him over and over every mealtime.’

  Table manners also include no elbows. An elbow on the table while eating will get you another clip on the ear. No drinking out of a bowl when you have soup or cereal or anything at all really. You just don’t drink out of a bowl. You don’t hum at the table, regardless how good it sounds, and you don’t ever think about putting any type of sauce on Nan’s gravy. However, if she serves up then has to go out, well then that’s OK. Just don’t let her see you do it. You might laugh about all of these things, but both Nan and Pop are gifted in clipping. They have precision timing, great strength and a freaky sense of direction. Take it from someone who knows.

  At our house we tend to eat things most people my age don’t. Nan and Pop were born in 1931. They both heard from their families how hard the Great Depression years were for bringing up a house full of kids. Nan was lucky she learnt from the nuns the best ways to fix a meal for a family on little to no money. Offal is served up in our house at least once a week. I’ve never really thought about it that much, I just eat it. And to be honest I like most of it, except lamb’s brains that is. Nan will throw them in breadcrumbs then fry them in a shallow pan of oil. Both Nan and Pop tuck into it all. Nan also cooks tripe in white sauce. My favourite is pickled tongue and lamb’s fry. We also have baked rabbit, and when Pop can catch the bugger we have kangaroo tail soup. Nan makes the deadliest dumplings, a great trick of the trade when you don’t have enough meat in the stew.

  Mind you, these days Nan and Pop’s joint bank account is very healthy. Pop makes certain of that. Pop says, ‘Never tell the left hand what the right hand is doing and always put your hard-earned cash to work.’ It has obviously worked because at the end of the day we want for nothing.

  If you happen to buy a brand new pair of shoes, don’t ever think about putting them on the kitchen table. Not only will you get a good clip on the ear, Nan will throw a few choice words and one of Pop’s size fourteen boots at you as well. As you know by now, Nan is superstitious, especially regarding new shoes on the table. If you break a mirror, God forbid, well, be prepared to hear at least five ‘Hail Marys’ in a row. Same goes if you put an umbrella up inside the house or if you walk under a ladder.

  It was only last month when Steve the electrician came around to fix a light. Nan happened to see him walk under the ladder he was using. Thankfully Steve went to school with Dad so he understands what Nan is like. Poor bugger had to stand with a drill in his hand and a funny look on his face while Nan rattled off five sets of ‘Hail Marys’ in a row. Once she was finished he was allowed to fix the light. He’s OK with it all because whenever he comes over Nan bakes him something special to take home.

  Fay Street

  Fay Street in Laurie is where we live. Number 10 is a pretty yellow fibro house with a clean tin roof, so we can all hear the rain when it falls. Every time it rains and Pop is home, he yells, ‘Send ’er down, Hughie, send ’er down.’

  We have a white picket fence with roses, gladdies, camellias and the odd rhododendron planted all along the front, down the sides and back. In the cooler months daffodils, hyacinths, freesias and tulips pop up out of the ground. I love to look at their cheeky colourful faces, all vibrant and beautiful, all busting, trying to outshine each other.

  ‘Mmm, Nan, they smell good.’

  ‘Nat King Cole singin’ on a clear dawn is them there freesias,’ Nan always says.

  Special rocks and stones brought back from Bourke, Mount Isa, Coffs Harbour, Goondiwindi, Yeppoon, Cunnamulla and from along the great Diamantina are strategically placed between plants, near the mail box, at the front steps and around the windmill over in the left-hand corner. Pop built the mini windmill and Nan insists it was built to create positive air flow. She must be right because we all get by without too much bad shit happening. It’s a happy, blessed house full of laughter, noisy talk and quiet, precious moments. There are arguments of course but that’s OK, a good argument keeps our minds alert.

  Our house has three bedrooms, mine is next to the lounge room in the middle of the house. I’m not big on posters but I like taking photos. I have loads of them, large and small, all in black and white. There are pictures of Nan pulling the Christmas pudding out of the boiler, Pop working in his shed, cousins bunched together after a footy game and me and Dad fishing. I keep my room fairly neat because Nan throws one if I don’t. Besides, I like a clean room. There’s a bookshelf in the corner, a wardrobe, a desk and my lovely king single bed my dad bought me. Outside my window there’s a small wind chime made from clay and forks, a bed of Nan’s Iceberg roses and the driveway down to the garage.

  There isn’t anyone my age in Fay Street. Most are either way older or heaps younger than me. Every now and then I play street cricket with the little Buchanan kids down the road. They run to our gate and yell out if they need an extra player. It’s all good fun and I don’t mind, and if they are really short, even Pop will join in.

  Two doors up, on the other side of the street, is another proud house and well-kept yard. Like ours, it has roses planted all around the fence line. Mrs Steiner lives there with her cat George and her cockatoo Arnold. Aunt Nell, Nan’s sister from Uranquinty, and Mrs Steiner are great mates. They share recipes, cry on each other’s shoulders when life gets rough, go shopping together, and even nurse each other well if one of them gets crook.

  After the war, around the year 1948, people from overseas were encouraged to work in Australia; it was known as the ‘Populate or Perish’ policy. Mr and Mrs Steiner came from a refugee camp in Europe and they lived in accommodation set up for the Displaced Persons Immigration Scheme.

  While Mrs Steiner looked after her daughter and taught English to other families in the camp, Mr Steiner worked long hours in freezing conditions. He was working on the Snowy Mountains Hydro-electric project.

  Once every month Mr Steiner travelled with fellow workers down the mountain and across the flat to Uranquinty, where wives and children reconnected and practised being ‘real Australian families’.

  Aunt Nell lived just out of Uranquinty
on the Albury road. One day she met Mrs Steiner outside the pub. Aunt tells me the story while we are knitting squares for a new blanket.

  ‘Why were you hanging around the pub, Aunt?’ I ask, taking a new ball of wool out of a bag.

  ‘I was waitin’ for your Uncle Billy to come out and give me money. Every payday, me and the kids had to wait outside the pub for His Majesty to hand over a few bucks for our tucker and rent. Not once could he remember us all waitin’ outside. Lazy good-for-nothin’ was too busy bangin’ on to his mates while I tried to get his attention through the window. He knew if he pushed it too much I’d walk in and call him every decent swear word known to man … and a few good women.’

  ‘You should have done that to start with, Aunt.’

  ‘Yeah well it wasn’t that simple. The rantin’ and ravin’ plan was always left as a last resort.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the mongrel would take it out on me when he got home … Mind, he only did it once. He tried a few times but only succeeded the once. One time he came home with his mate, he was real angry. Goin’ from one end of the house to the other tryin’ to find someone to cook ’im eggs. He was so mad he broke four windows, two dining-room chairs, kicked a hole in the front door and threw me good dress in the stove and burnt it. I knew we’d be in for a good goin’ over because his dopey mate Wally had come back from a big stint of shearin’ the day before. They’d been on it all afternoon, both talkin’ up shearin’ tallies and sweet ladies they played with along the way. That’s why we took all the beddin’ over to the hayshed on next door’s property and stayed there the night. The followin’ mornin’ we all walked back to the house and cleaned up the mess. In our heads all of us were feelin’ tired, fed up, angry and sad, all at the same time. Poor Boots and Melba broke out in hives.

  ‘He was still asleep on the lounge. It took all my strength not to hit the bastard over the head with the fire poker. From that day on Darcy had nothin’ more to do with ’is old man. So after that, I gave ’im some back. Once I found me strength it was on. I laid the mongrel out on the floor. That’s when I came to me senses and threw the mangy good-for-nothin’ out.’

  ‘Did he come back?’

  ‘Tried to but we wouldn’t have none of him. He wasn’t even worth a good riddance.’

  ‘So Aunt, how did you become friends with Mrs Steiner?’

  ‘Mrs Steiner was walkin’ past us one day. At that time your uncle was still livin’ with us. We were waitin’ at the pub for the usual rent and shoppin’ money. Mrs Steiner was with her baby daughter in a dilapidated pram, lookin’ sad and lonely. I think … she had just said goodbye to Mr Steiner who was on the bus headin’ back up the mountains to work.

  ‘The kids and I were tired and hungry. Somehow we started talkin’, that’s when Mrs Steiner invited us all back to her place for a cuppa and a chat … Shared accommodation it was, pretty basic with a tin roof, a whole heap of outside pit toilets in a row and no flyscreens or fans. She didn’t care that I had five kids of my own. She didn’t see colour and it didn’t even bother her we were Koorie, which at the time meant you were lower than blacks from the Pacific or even Africa. From that day on, we’ve been the best of friends. As you know, Fuzzy, she is part of our mob now, one of the family she is.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘After a time, Mr and Mrs Steiner pulled up stumps and moved to Laurie. Elizabeth their daughter later married a nice man called Red. They had the two boys. When her eldest turned four, Elizabeth and her family moved to Hobart for work.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember Mitch … he went off to the conservatorium, eh?

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I used to like hearing him and Mr Steiner play violin.’

  ‘We all did. Mr Steiner eventually left the Snowy and was lookin’ forward to makin’ violins in his newly built shed. He was a great musician. He told me he was taught by teachers of distinction while still a young boy livin’ in a Shtetl in Germany.’

  ‘What’s a Shelt?’

  ‘A Shtetl is like a community of Jewish people livin’ on the outskirts of a town or city. Somethin’ like that anyway. Go look it up.’

  I nod in agreement, while picking up a stitch. Nan’s new washing machine beeps. Its load of washing must be finished.

  ‘Believe it or not, Mr Steiner played alongside Einstein when he was a little fella, just learnin’.’

  ‘Brainy Einstein you mean?’

  ‘That’s the one. He was older than Mr Steiner. Apparently he remembered Einstein as patient and happy. He liked playin’ his violin.’

  ‘Wow, Aunt, how cool is that? Einstein.’

  ‘True, a quarter of his brains would have done me good.’ Aunt giggled while I watched her hands dance a jig with needles and wool.

  One day Pop and I visited Mr Steiner in his studio. We said nothing as we moved about the work area, totally in awe. Mr Steiner handed a violin to Pop. As his big hands gently embraced the instrument, Pop’s eyes became watery. He stood quiet and slowly turned the instrument, relishing the beauty. Even without their song, each violin was art in its highest form. Beautiful curves loved and sculpted and loved again. Pop continued to stand silent, totally mesmerised.

  Four or five months before I turned ten, Mr Steiner died of a heart attack. Two of his violins are now owned and played by bulletproof Baily and his brother Finn, Mr Steiner’s two great grandchildren. Both lads are gifted musicians. We reckon their grandpop must be fair dinkum proud … I know we are.

  Michael, Row the Boat

  Although Nan doesn’t go to church every Sunday, her love for Jesus is unconditional. Because Nan grew up in mission homes, religion is an important part of her life. She has big views on the afterlife. Her ideal vision of heaven is pretty weird and Pop and I always giggle behind her back when she describes it to us.

  ‘Fuzzy, heaven is beautiful,’ she says, real confident.

  ‘I hope so, Nan,’ I say, rolling my eyes.

  ‘Yep I’ll tell you what I know about heaven, Fuzzy. That dear man Jesus is a mixture of Denzel Washington, Vivian Richards, Sidney Poitier and, of course, Marvin Gaye. And when the day comes and I glide up through them pearly gates, straight in front of me Jesus will stand, saintly, smilin’ and admirin’ the sweet and gentle woman that I am. Next, that handsome man will step forward and tenderly hand me a large block of dark chocolate, a large bag of candied ginger and a bigger packet of licorice allsorts. He will start singin’ to me and me only, “Michael, row the boat ashore … Hallelujah”.’ This is one of Nan’s most treasured Sunday-school songs.

  ‘Fuzzy, heaven is a sweet, sweet place and Jesus the most ’andsomest man you ever set eyes on.’

  How she thinks these things up I don’t know and, to be truthful, I really can’t be bothered asking.

  But I do ask Nan about boys and girls and having sex. Sex is something I am not familiar with. I haven’t done it yet, neither has my friend Tui. We agreed that when the time was right we’d both be looking forward to the experience. The main thing is the timing.

  Nan always says, ‘Fuzzy, the first time is that bloody quick and full of fumbles you may as well be doin’ the washin’. But then once you understand how to best use your skills it’s a whole different story. You’re moanin’ and groanin’, your body is twisted into positions you never thought possible and to top it all off you’d swear you’d finally made it to heaven. Fuzzy girl, when you gets it right, bugger the washin’ then.’

  My mum, her name was Rita, she was Koorie also on her mum’s side. I reckon she was a bit of a hippie, you know those mother-earth, light the incense type people. Not only did she give me a hippie name but in every photo I have of her she is wearing long flowing skirts and dresses, coloured bandanas and always no shoes.

  I didn’t know my mum. They reckon she was beautiful before the heroin took her. I say the heroin took her, but when you think about it, Rita took her own life by using drugs. It was her decision, wasn’t it? Lately, every time I think a
bout my mum it pisses me off. She had me and they say I was her ‘little pride and joy’. If that was the case then why did she need heroin? If Nan Tilly was her mum I reckon Rita would be still around. She would have a few cuts and bruises but I reckon Nan would see her right. But you can’t change what is already done.

  ‘She is six foot under and her spirit, now weightless, pure and sweet, looks on over you makin’ sure you’re doin’ good,’ Nan says to me when I start to tear up.

  Every now and then I wonder about Rita. Just recently I needed to ask Nan again about what really happened. I’ve noticed that the older I get, the more information Nan gives me. This time Nan gives it to me straight.

  ‘Nan, why did Dad and Rita get together? It seems to me Rita wasn’t really his type.’ I’m watching her darn one of Pop’s work socks.

  ‘Fuzzy, Rita your mother was a good-lookin’ girl. She was Koorie and proud, she had many lads after her. Not only was she pretty but she had a sweet attitude about her as well.’

  ‘She mustn’t have been too sweet if she had me and was a druggo.’

  ‘Things happened in a rush. Rita’s mum and dad split up. Her dad found another young Miss over in South Australia. It hit Rita and her mother hard, they had no idea he was sharin’ his bits with someone else.

  ‘Havin’ you so young in a way was pretty bloody stupid. Your mother and your dad could have waited, seen if they could live together before gettin’ pregnant. But nah, they buggered that up.’ Nan sucks in a deep breath while adjusting her glasses and trying to thread a needle. ‘But if they hadn’t, we wouldn’t have you, eh? So I’m happy ’cause you’re our granddaughter and we love ya. You’re special to all of us.’