Whatever Remains Page 8

  My mother’s health had worsened over the past few months. I was beginning to hear the word ‘TB’, and understood that this was the cause of Norma’s shortness of breath, her coughing and her constant weakness.

  We settled into a house in Nedlands. I remember very little of this house. Much to my disgust, I was sent off to school again, this time as a day girl at a private church-run girls school. Again, school was difficult for me as I was behind in most areas of formal learning, and I did not make friends easily. My brothers also attended a private day school, so we all had the weekends to play.

  The one thing I do remember clearly from those early school days, is that we were all required to drink milk at playlunch. This was a post-war measure to improve the health of all Australian children. The milk, paid for by the Government, was delivered to all schools each morning. Why it was deemed necessary to leave the milk crates in the sun, I don’t know. But when we were handed our small glass bottle of milk at the start of each playtime, it was always warm and tasted decidedly sour. Many girls surreptitiously poured their milk onto the garden beds or down the drain or toilet. I think there are quite a few children from that post-war era who learnt to hate milk because of this well-meaning program.

  Not long after we got to Perth, Norma was hospitalised to undergo a radical operation for tuberculosis sufferers. Tuberculosis is an infectious disease caused by Mycobacterium tuberculosis; it has been present in humans since antiquity. It was once a major cause of death in many Western countries but effective treatment and prevention programs mean it is now uncommon in Australia.

  By 1946, the development of the antibiotic streptomycin became available to TB sufferers and with this treatment, a cure became possible. Why my parents chose instead to try the pneumothorax technique, which entailed collapsing an infected lung to ‘rest’ it and allow lesions to heal, is a mystery. Maybe they did not trust the new drug, or maybe Norma’s lungs were in such poor condition that they believed ‘resting’ them was the only answer.

  It was a cruel operation. They opened her chest cavity up from her back, creating a scar that ran from her shoulder to her waist. One of Norma’s lungs, which was badly diseased, was then filled with tiny plastic balls. This was supposed to rest the lung and stop fluid forming within the cavity, and eventually, when the lung was strong again, the balls were to be removed. At least that was the theory.

  The damaged and diseased section of the other lung was then removed. This meant that Norma was breathing with only half a lung. No wonder every breath was precious to her. The tragedy was that, by 1951, this technique was considered of little benefit and was largely discontinued. Norma would have been one of the last TB sufferers to have this treatment.

  Against the odds, she survived this dreadful operation and was sent to Wooroloo Sanatorium to convalesce.

  The sanatorium was built to manage the large number of people suffering from tuberculosis in Western Australia in the early 1900s. For TB sufferers, convalescence was focused on rest, fresh air and sunshine. The site at Wooroloo was chosen because of the beauty of the countryside and elevation of the site. The cool nights, warm days and the purity of air were all considered optimal for the speedy recovery of the patients.

  Every second day, Denis would leave for Wooroloo to see Norma, as we headed off to school. On weekends, we would pile into the car with him for the long drive there and back. Norma was usually in bed when we got there or, on the good days, sitting in a chair on the veranda. She looked pale and thin, but slowly, with the rest and plain but wholesome food, she started to regain her strength. Now, more and more she would be waiting for us in her chair and she would take short walks with us, leaning on Denis’s arm, across the lawns in the front of the dormitories and sometimes even as far as the gently sloping bushland to see, and smell, the wattle’s golden bloom or stroke the flashy red and green kangaroo paws that grew in abundance around the sanatorium.

  We moved houses some time after Norma went to Wooroloo. Denis rented a weatherboard place close to the Perth Zoo and the Swan River. At night we could hear the tigers roar. One night a young man, bent on suicide, climbed into the tigers’ enclosure and was mauled to death. Pictures of the tigers’ enclosure were splashed across the front pages of the newspapers and the terrible circumstances of the young man’s death spoken of at length on the radio the next day. After that, I hated to hear the tigers roar and would often wake in the night shivering in fright.

  Around this time Denis went into partnership with a man who owned a brick and tile making factory. The man was in financial difficulties and apparently Denis was going to turn the business around. Now what Denis knew about the making or selling of bricks and tiles I can’t imagine. To the best of my knowledge, he had no prior experience in the industry. But Denis always liked a challenge, and so he took it on. With not much success, as I remember.

  With Denis preoccupied with the recovery of our sick mother and trying to revive an ailing brick factory, we children ran wild. We pleaded for a pet to keep us company. So Max, a black and white cocker spaniel with a damp black nose and long drooping ears, joined the family. Our house was close to the river, and Max and we children loved nothing better than to play on the nearby beaches. Because we were so often left to our own devices, we became very creative and would find a hundred different ways to keep ourselves occupied. Looking back on those times I remember one hair-raising period where we were determined to build our own ‘boat’. We fashioned it out of a couple of old oil drums tied together with bits of rope. We would push ourselves out into the strong river current with nothing but a couple of old planks to row with.

  On weekends, we came and went from the house at will and at all hours of the day. Max would usually lead the way by jumping through the front window rather than bothering to use the front door — we followed and the front window became the preferred entrance. We three, and Max the dog, had a wonderfully free and easy existence.

  I suspect that meals, homework and housework were all treated rather casually at this stage. I never remember being asked to put on my best clothes and on the weekends and after school, I never wore shoes. The soles of my feet hardened and my hair lengthened and tangled with the lack of haircuts and regular washing. With all that slightly sour milk and the sunshine I was getting, I became not quite so pale and gangly.

  The big day finally arrived; we were to bring Norma home. She was waiting for us, dressed and ready to leave when we arrived at the sanatorium. And she was wearing lipstick. How glamorous she looked in her smart grey suit, her hair washed and curled around her face. How happy she seemed to be at last on her way home. Home to her family, back to the real world.

  It was mid-1951, and although we did not know it at the time, Norma had only a year and a half left to live.

  We moved house again, this time to a two-storey place in Mosman Park, a ‘good’ suburb with gracious old homes with large gardens. Our new rented house overlooked the Swan River. Across the road the land fell away down a steep embankment. This embankment and the sandy flats below became our new adventure playground. The tracks running down to the river were steep, sandy and treacherous, but we intrepid three could sprint up and down them like mountain goats. The small beaches and the wide expanse of river at the bottom were worth the effort of the climb. Max approved of the new lifestyle too. With regular meals in his dish, occasional brushing and plenty of space to run wild in, he was a happy dog. It was pretty much the same for we three children — regular meals, regular bedtimes and plenty of outdoor play made us happy, contented kids.

  My brothers persuaded Denis that as we now lived so close to the water, a small sailing boat was needed. She was an 18-foot, clinker-built gaff-rigged centreboard sloop with stiff white canvas sails — Avanti had joined the family. Sailing became a passion for my two brothers. I was a bit more cautious. When the sun shone, the wind was mild and the waves not too rough, I loved it. But when the wind gusted, and Avanti keeled over with the gunnels almost in the water
and we three kids had to hang over the opposite side to try to keep from capsizing, I was not so sure.

  My interests were turning in different directions. Most little girls love horses and, at age nine, I was no exception. Like so many young girls, I loved all things equine. I read books about horses, looked at pictures of horses and sometime even pretended I was a horse. I had been pleading for a pony for some time but while Norma was so sick it had been out of the question. This house had a back garden that was ‘perfect for a small pony’, I pleaded. The garden was large and had a partitioned section with a shed that could be used as a makeshift stable. I must have been very persuasive as one day a small brown pony arrived. His name was Lucky Boy and it was clear from the outset that no skinny little nine-year-old was going to run his life. Nevertheless, after a settling-in period where he set the ground rules for our future relationship I grew to, if not love him, at least respect him as an independent being who was gracious enough to let me ride him when he felt like it.

  Norma’s health continued to improve, she seemed to be coughing less and looking less tired. She made friends with our neighbours and seemed happier than I had seen her for a long time. The affairs of the house ran smoothly again, meals once again appeared on the table at regular intervals. I was told to brush my hair and teeth on a regular basis and the wearing of shoes became mandatory.

  I had again moved schools when we moved houses, this time to another private church-run day school not far from our new home. It also served warm milk at playlunch and offered lessons that I had difficulty keeping up with. My memories of the short time I spent at both Perth schools blend together in an uncomfortable blur.

  During this period of our lives, when we were at school and Norma was slowly regaining her strength, I have no idea where Denis spent his time. I don’t remember him having outside work, but always think of him as being busy. My memory is that he was still trying to make a go of the brick and tile making business. I know the business did not prosper so our school fees, and travelling from country to country, state to state and house to house, can only have been funded from investments from his time in Singapore.

  Our next venture overseas came in early 1952. Travelling by ship to what was then Ceylon, we made ourselves comfortable at a very large, and no doubt expensive, hotel called the Galle Face in Colombo. The ship trip was fun with unlimited freedom again for us children. Norma was looking well and pretty with her new clothes bought specially for the trip. The only downside for me was that I missed Max, our cocker spaniel, who was being cared for in our absence. To my great joy, when we returned to Australia some months later, he became our faithful companion again.

  Again, I have no idea why we went to Ceylon. Was it for the warm climate? Was it for financial reasons that I know nothing of? Whatever the reason, it didn’t work out. Our visit was very short, a month at most.

  From Ceylon we travelled by ship to Singapore once again. I remember being so happy to be eating Asian food again and loving it. We leased a house in Balmoral Road, about 5 kilometres from the Singapore city centre. This house has always been known in the family as the ‘Pink House’ as it was painted a delicate shade of pink.

  Our stay in the Pink House was brief — probably less than three months. It was memorable for me as being the time I had horse riding lessons on a reasonably regular basis. Denis would, if I had been ‘good’ during the week (which was not always achievable), take me to the stables where he and Norma rode, and I would be given riding lessons and then time to ride by myself. Oh, if only I had had the skills I learnt there when Lucky Boy and I were vying for supremacy, things might have been very different!

  All good things must end, and early in August 1952 we left Singapore on the SS Charon, a Blue Funnel Line steamer that plied the Singapore to Fremantle route, and home we came once more to Western Australia.

  A solid, unpretentious brick house in a pretty street in Dalkeith was to become our temporary, and my mother’s last, home.

  My brothers were sent to school as day boys while I was allowed to stay home, much to my great joy. A few days before the end of term, my brothers came home from school with chicken pox. This was not a condition considered dangerous or unusual for school age children. In fact it was a wonder that they, or I, had not contracted it sooner. It would have been a lot better for Norma if they had! It was almost Christmas and they would have come into contact with the disease in the last few days of the school year.

  So home for the holidays they came, only to pass on their spotty childhood disease to Norma. She had no resistance and her poor damaged half lung could not cope. Within days she was admitted to the Infectious Diseases Hospital in Subiaco with broncho-pneumonia. A few days later she was dead.

  On 23 December 1952, she was cremated at Karrakatta Crematorium. We children were not present at the service. Children were thought too impressionable to be allowed to see death close up. Her death certificate states that her name was Norma Felicia (nee Briar-Roberts), she was born in Somerset, England, had married in 1937 and was 33 years old at the time of her death. Years later, I was to find that all of these details, bar her age, were pure fabrication.

  I believe in times of great stress, fear or sorrow, our minds block out what we do not want to remember. The next few months seemed to slip by as a grey blur. Christmas came and went, term started again, but we all clung together in the house in a daze of grief.

  It was Denis who broke the spell. We were, he announced one day, to move again. He proposed we move out beyond the city limits to a house and land on the upper reaches of the Stirling Range. We were to be country people and I was delighted with the idea.

  We moved to just outside Greenmount, a small village some miles from Midland Junction. The cosy timber house with its few acres of grazing land and small orchard could almost be considered a farm. We not only moved, we bought the house; an unusual occurrence for us. I loved the idea of living in the country but there was another reason that the move was the best thing we could have done at the time. The house needed repairs, and we needed distraction.

  To make the house comfortable, it needed work. That meant keeping busy. That meant having to come out of the state of almost complete inertia we found ourselves in after Norma’s death.

  We painted, we fixed, we made it comfortable and then we moved in. I was put in charge of sewing curtains for many of the rooms. I was 10, and totally unskilled at sewing, but I was willing to give it a go. Yard after yard of bright colourful prints were threaded through Norma’s treadle Singer sewing machine while I pedalled happily away. All the curtains had crooked hems, puckered and unfinished seams and dips and drops in unexpected places. Denis put them up and said they looked wonderful, and I believed him.

  After we had moved in the boys went to school again. Looking back, getting there must have been a terrible chore. We were some way from the city of Perth and the closest bus or train would have been Midland Junction. So Denis would drive them to Midland to catch the train. I, on the other hand, stayed home.

  One of the most memorable, or should I say infamous, incidents at this house was the death of a chicken. It was no ordinary chicken and no ordinary death. We had bought 12 chickens, and they were housed in a yard with an enclosed roost and nesting boxes. There were foxes around, so every evening the chickens were encouraged, with a handful of grain, to return to their enclosure from their rambles in the garden. These chickens had been purchased on the strict understanding that they were working hens. They were to give us a regular supply of eggs and occasionally, when the need arose, meat for our table.

  But I had given them names. I would call each and every one by name when I went to let them out of their yard and scattered their breakfast grain each morning. They became my best friends, and I loved them all dearly.

  One morning I found bloodstains on the back steps leading into the kitchen. They stopped at the fridge. In the fridge was a large bloody parcel, a decapitated chook wrapped in newspaper. I was shocked. S
o was Denis it seems!

  Over breakfast, he told us of his decision the previous night — it was time to roast one of the chooks. Late in the evening, he had had a whisky to steady his nerves, gone to the chook shed, removed a bird from its perch and chopped its head off on the chopping block that was used to split kindling for the fire. He was so horrified by what he had done, that he could not pluck the poor bird but wrapped it up and stuffed it into the fridge. He had had a restless night and was still looking grey and haggard at the breakfast table.

  Still wrapped in its newspaper shroud, the chook was buried with great ceremony later that day and no other chook ever met an untimely death at his hands. We ate beef or lamb or bought chicken instead.

  We spent most of 1953 at Greenmount. My brothers began turning into gangly teenagers who talked incessantly of boring things like the cricket score, the politics of the day and what their friends at school did and said.

  By Christmas, the blistering summer sun had wilted the fruit trees, taken every last drop of moisture from our creek and turned the grass in our paddocks tinder dry. The crooked faded curtains hung listlessly in the windows and the chooks went off laying as the summer sun cranked up the daily temperature.

  Apparently, it was time to move again, to a country where we could live in greater comfort and style within the limitations of Denis’s finances. We were to give Portugal a try. A country of promise, where living was cheap and the climate temperate.

  The house was put on the market, Max, the chooks and the few remaining sheep were bade a tearful farewell. We were on the move again, first back to Singapore, then ‘home’ to England before setting out for Portugal. Our family circumstances were changing and so was the wider world. It was nearing the end of 1953; America has developed the hydrogen bomb, the young Princess Elizabeth was crowned Queen in Westminster Abbey and in December the first colour television sets for commercial use would go on sale in the USA.