chp 2 pt 2 mummy dearest

 CHPT 2 part 2 "mummy dearest" 

I had a dream that in the distant future I' d be a writer and some  hip publishing agent would contact me on some strange thing called an eemale  . I dreamed it'd be petercumerford@bigpond. com. Then I woke up. 

Dad got a job at Woomera so mum bought a 2-piece bathing suit and took me on holiday to Rapid Bay. We stayed in a beach hut and ate Vanilla Nougat bars.

Next year our family rented a river shack at Murray Bridge. Grandpa and I drifted under weeping willows on a big rubber tube. Mum caught a 4Kg Murray cod then told everyone I'd caught it.

Dad bought home a reel to reel tape recorder, made by Sonora. He’d got it from Woomera. They were the latest invention and now we could record our own comedy skits. It was fun to play them back

After school Peter Fritz was the Durango Kid and I was an Apache Indian: they died with more dramatics and flair. On weekends we'd play "swordfights", recklessly race our bikes or play "rounders" (a baseball type game) in the middle of our quiet street. We stole empty bottles from behind shops to collect the deposits, explored storm water drains and played in the council dump until chased out.

The few kids I knew well had no parental supervision. On weekends, we’d leave the house as soon as we awoke, meet up and have "adventures" until 9 p.m., the considered time to go home. At the age of 8 our favorite adventure was exploring underground storm water drains and hoping it wouldn't rain.

Later, as 11 year olds, we discovered the thrill of sneaking under the railway viaduct and sticking our heads up and between the wooden track cross beams. As the train roared toward us we’d test our courage by leaving our head exposed then duck down at the last moment.

If only someone had taken me aside and explained,

''You try so hard to win the respect of a couple of silly kids. Spend the same effort on the sport you love, and you could earn the respect of thousands. " I would've denied I wanted respect. In my mind only the best player from each school ever got picked for top grade teams: and I knew I wasn't one. To actually act as a group never entered my head. I was handicapped by the belief that some were born to excel and the rest could never be as good.

I was 11 when elderly Aunt Rita came to stay. She lived alone and liked it so our family thought her a nut. Fritzy and I met a funny tramp and bought him home as a boyfriend for Rita but she locked the door. Rita painted in oils; her best work showed a galleon wrecking on rocks during a storm. Near the beach, four strange cows swam in the surf. Rita insisted they were lifeboats.

She told me,

"Your mum’s gone to hospital so they can fix her headaches." I thought,

"Poor mum. Headaches are rotten"

I prepared for my usual night at the pictures but, strangely, dad insisted I go with him to visit mum.

She looked pale, barely acknowledged me and had a tube up her nose. Dad said to be very quiet and something about "going soon". After an hour I began grizzling about not having time to get to the pictures. I kept asking,

'' Time to go yet? Can I go now? Huh, can I? "

Exasperated, dad gave up trying to keep me there. He sighed,

"O.K Pete: kiss mum goodbye and off you go".

Thinking she'd be home tomorrow, I gave her a peck on the cheek and joyfully shot off to catch the first feature. I missed the first 30 minutes of Jeff Chandler in "Yankee Pasha" but settled (where kids preferred) close to the screen in one of the front rows.

After interval there was Broderick Crawford in a film called "Stop! You’re Killing Me!" I remembered that title the rest of my life.

Next morning I awoke and heard voices in our kitchen. While dressing I heard crying so I put my ear to the door. It sounded like Auntie Phyllis and Auntie Merle. In my happy comforting house dawned awareness the only reason my aunts would cry out loud would be for mum dying. An ache hit my heart and welled up into my throat. I had to make sure. Maybe I was dreaming.

I opened my bedroom door. My relations stopped talking. Aunt Rita came over and said,

"Peter, we've something to tell..."

I didn't want her to have to say the words people in movies always stumble through, so I told them,

"It’s alright ... don't worry... I know ... mum's dead."

No one spoke out to deny it so my heart ached and I cried real big. I'd never see my mummy again. 

My aunt gave me F. Maurice-Speed’s big "Film Review Annual of 1955" to calm me down and it worked. I lost myself in the facts, plots, lengths, stars, directors and crews of every movie released that year in the UK and USA.

I'd not been told she'd been expected to die. Later I heard,

"Mum had pernicious anemia". My family thought the funeral might freak me out, so my attending was not even discussed. I may have gone crazy if I’d gone. I never mentioned "Stop! You’re Killing Me!", thinking it just an ironic coincidence.

While others went to the funeral I stayed home inventing "hallway footy". You roll up a pair of thick sox so you can tell which end is "open" and which "closed." Begin by tossing up the sock ball and catching it. Whichever goal the open end points to is where you then kick. Each kick should only travel one sixth of the distance between the 2 goals. You punt kick (no dropkicks allowed) then catch, see where it's pointing, kick, catch, look, kick, catch, look, etc .When you get within range of goal, (2 metres) take a punt kick at the goal posts (imaginary or actual: a 4-panelled door makes a good goal) Keep the scores on a scoreboard . It helps if you dress in footy clobber and do an imaginary radio commentary. Don't favour one team over another. That would spoil the neutrality. This was how I stayed "neutral" and stopped my heart aching. 

I mourned mum greatly, with tears, but not for long. Two days later, tears cried out, I went back to school. Kids surrounded me in the playground,

"Your mum died didn't she."

"Yes she did. She died in hospital." I kept my voice steady, hiding any emotion. A kid asked,

"Well then why aren't you sad and why aren’t you cryin'?" I'd cried enough and did not intend to have these kids think I was a sissy.For the next week I was called "the kid who never cried when his mum died." Then kids forgot it and so did I.

Life seemed to go on but after mum’s death I went a bit crazy. I’d kiss and hug my pet dog: then yell and scare him: then hug and pet, then slap and yell etc. I'm so very sorry Tuffy. That 10 minute act of bad karma caught up with me 50 years later.

 

After the funeral, mum's parents took me on a marvelous vacation on the steam ship "Westralia".To me it seemed as big and grand as the "Titanic". In the 50's Huddart Parker passenger liners plied the coast between Perth and Brisbane. The fare was little more than a sleeping berth on an interstate train. We had a 3rd class cabin, movies at night in a theatrette and 3 course meals in a posh dining room.

 

First I got seasick but second day out I leaned out over the bow rail watching the mighty steel prow cut through the ocean. Sadly in '59 the ship was converted to a livestock carrier and in '61 broken up for scrap.

We stopped in Melbourne, where I thrilled at dockland slums and rundown houses. Three joyous days later we docked in Sydney and stayed at the "People's Palace" hotel.

First chance I went exploring. Sydney was like New York. Adelaide had no slums, so the older inner city Sydney streetscape seemed exotic. I marveled how beat-up and tough the men looked compared to Adelaide's "normal" people.

I'd be repeatedly drawn back to this romantic image of the city.

I headed for the old Capitol theatre Art Deco ticket booth to pay the bargain price of one shilling and three pence to sit in the "front stalls". It cost two shillings and three pence for a kid to sit upstairs in the "dress circle" and, if you were really rich, two shillings and nine pence to climb the carpeted marble stairway to "the lounge". The decorated ceiling looked like the sky at night, complete with twinkling stars!

The morning session had only 20 patrons. I liked sitting with no one near and chose a seat 6 rows back.

Half way through "Abbott and Costello Meet the Keystone Cops", a man sat next to me. I didn't move to another seat because he might think he had BO. Abbott and Costello were being chased by the crazy Keystone Cops. The man was laughing more than me. He whispered,

"They're so funny aren't they? Gee I love them."

I gave a non committal

"Yeah, they're great" and hoped he'd shut up. He put his hand on my knee.

I froze, but thought,

"This must be one of those blokes Butch McGregor told me about." Butch and I had been wrestling on Henley Oval and he got me in a neck lock from behind. I couldn't slip out of it. He said,

"If you like I'll show you what a bum f**k is" I didn't like the sound of that, so I tried extra hard and broke away. He told me, "perverts play with ya dick. They're called poofters."

In the Capitol the hand crept slowly toward what I figured was a no-go zone. Too polite to scream or tell him to desist, I gently took his hand and placed it back on his lap. He pressed a coin into my hand. I held it up to the flickering light to check the value. It was an exciting silver two shillings (about $10 these days) .That was big dough. My heart warmed at what I'd do with all that moolah but I knew he wanted something for it. In my sweetest voice I murmured,

"Thank you, I'll just go to the toilet then be right back." I got up, walked slowly toward the dunny, past it, then out the exit.

I never told my grandparents. They would have stopped me going out alone and I loved exploring the city by myself..For the rest of our visit to Sydney I was vigilantly "on guard", in case that rich guy found me and demanded a refund. 

We caught a train to Mackay (Qld) to visit old Uncle Edgar who had perpetual hiccups; then stayed with relatives at Sarina. It was exhillarating. They had a bull that chased me, sugar cane fields, a molasses pit and a girl who was my second cousin. We kissed 3 times. I thought I did it just like in the movies.

 

We returned from the holiday. Dad sold the house at Richmond and I went to stay with my grandparents. They’d bought a house near my Auntie Phyllis at Henley South. I played with my cousin John. I was a thin 13 and he a well built 9, so when we played sport we were equal. His mum encouraged me to join the church choir as a soprano. I joined a tennis club and the Church of England Boys Society, a group similar to Scouts. My friends were from good homes and a steadying influence. 

The rector of St. Michaels, the lovely old Archdeacon Montcalm Gooden took me to Aussie rules football games. He read my palm and said my heart and life line was strong. He predicted I‘d have a wife and gave me "Christopher Columbus", a novel by Raphael Sabatini, advising, "Always let this be your guide." I had no idea what he meant.

 

I almost lost my "good" eye and spent 6 weeks in a private hospital. A rope I was swinging hit a clothes line, swung around and wacked me in the pupil. A kid in my ward told another boy patient to sing "God Save The Queen" every few hours. I asked,

"Why does he sing when you tell him to?"

He grinned and answered,

"I caught him pulling his dick so I said 'sing god save the queen' when I say so or else I'll tell on you." 

At Aussie rules football games I began selling a magazine called "Football Budget," getting paid for such easy work installed in me a craving for "easy money".

I had a 5-foot hollow wooden surf ski. Henley had no surf, so I’d pretend it was a canoe.

Keen to experience romance, every few months I'd have a crush on some girl, quite unknown to them. I recall singing (to the tune of "Rose Marie") as I rode my bike,

"Marlene Jones I love you - I'm always thinking of you." Marlene looked a bit like Anne Miller in "Kiss Me Kate". We'd never spoken.

Insanely romantic, I lived in a fantasy of kisses and hugs that I prayed would soon come true. I yearned for a girl friend; anyone would do, but preferably one like 12 year old Elizabeth Taylor in "Courage of Lassie".

We 12 year olds were being taught about earthworms. Neil Banyon jumped up from his desk, grabbed both openings of his short pants and ran from the room. We didn't know why. The teacher commanded,

" Settle down everyone. Some people have weak stomachs." At recess time we learned poor Neil had shat himself in class. We discussed the amazing occurrence:

"Gee, he must have s**t his pants 'cause teacher was talking about worms. What a sissy!" We gathered outside the dunnies to wait for Neil to come out.

"Gee-I bet he'll be embarrassed" an aware kid supposed. We felt sorry for Neil. He was the only boy in class that had to sit next to a girl, (there was a shortage of desks) so his humiliation was even worse. For once in our life we were sensitive and decided not to tease or mock his unfortunate movement. Meanwhile he hid in the dunny - afraid to face us: we were not known for our sensitivity. 

"Let's not make fun of him. It's bad enough he s**t himself next to a girl, so let's not tease him O.K?" We all agreed and yelled out,

"It's O.K. mate: come on out. We know how you feel."

A sheepish Neil emerged; obviously relieved he was not to be mocked.

And so life went on. Yes we were very understanding that day. But for the rest of his life; every time his name came up in conversation, and even though Neil worked his way up to become a successful and respected CEO, everyone (behind his back and even in front) call him "S****y Neil ."

--end of chp--------