Message to M. (III)

I can’t imagine how to manage the anxiety of watching political spin every day.  

Sorting out the truth would be like trying to find souls in puddles of blood.

Powerful Owl

I think I have a Powerful Owl roosting in my Robinia. I have heard its whooshing wings as it flies by my back door.  But I came home to find my resident ringtail decapitated, the top half of its carcass like a tiny ball of fluff on my drive.  Arriving home after 21:00 hours, after 25 hours on the road, meant I wasn’t in any state to scoop it up for a bin burial.  

The next day, however, my neighbour came by with my mail and said her mother couldn’t bear the sight of the possum.  I looked out and saw the top half of its little figure had moved a metre, and in its place fallen, from the talons of its replacement resident, lay the bottom half.  Open and disemboweled.  The green backs of busy flies evidence of the feast in its guts.  

Like some hideous abortion in my front yard I turned away sharply, not believing my repulse.  

She offered to clear the headless two halves when she saw my response, but in my family we clear our own mess and bury our own.  

She had handed me two deliveries of silks and lingerie.  It could be easy to lose myself in soft beauty and laces, but I took my keys to unlock the shed and found the shovel.  

On the way around the side of my house I stopped to find a tiny string of desiccated salami: the possum’s entrails.  Further on, the dried out stomach and larger intestines. 

I scooped them up, and the bottom half and the top, catching the leaf litter and the disembodied grey tufts.  

On the way back to the shed I found the kind of crap that didn’t belong.  Some overgrown cat or small dog that could jump a six foot fence … perhaps the regurgitated bones and blood that owls spit … I didn’t care to know.  

Then later, the back paw close to my puppy’s grave. Heinous sacrilege, but then he always kept the rats and possums at bay.  I fetched my keys, opened the shed, and took the shovel again.  

Today the flies chorus under the Robinia like the owl holds the next offering in its talons.  Tonight’s take-away.  That what they do.  

When one wild life is taken by the other, and it assumes the victim’s home.  

Analogy.  

Analgesic. 

Anaphora until the lesson is learnt or the story changes. 

Message to M.

 Last night they invaded our rooms with repeating sirens and announcements to “prepare to evacuate and await further instructions”.  In my various lines of work and the governments I have worked for, this can be anything from innocuous to Code Black.  

The disregarding, bumbling security man was probably qualified manage little more than an ID check at a nightclub.  As a result, I chased it up with the authorities and gave him a serve anonymously.  He was so useless and apathetic, that it rouses me so much.  This is how people die.  Especially after the people I had to meet this trip, being a soft target because of someone’s profound apathy and disregard riles me so much that I could blow everything.  

Anyway. That means I got about four hours sleep, maximum.  Driving on that is a pill for sleeping on the road.  That is not my idea of getting home early.  So I’ve stopped at Gundagai.  I hate stopping unnecessarily, but I owe it to someone. 

I cannot sleep during the day.  It’s 34° here, and there are cicada songs I haven’t heard before and strange rattling birds and a hollow dog’s call.  

I played Don’t Let Go over and over.  It slowed me right down so I could rest.  

That breaks the virulent anger I can harbour.  No-one ever sees it, but it’s so internally violent.  You can probably guess the pedigree and the potential. 

So thank you. 

I’m going to find a coffee and turn this into something good.

Dutchy

 I got the news that I lost my uncle last night.

He was one of the good ones on my Dutch side.  There were two of twelve.  The rest ...

He looked out for me after my father died.  I am really lucky, really lucky that he did.  He said he'd do anything for me.  He would.

He worked at the speedway.  Dutchy.  He'd pull men from the wrecks or do the pace.  Everyone trusted him.  One of those icons.

Since he died all the rancid relatives have been coming out of the family forging documents for his home, raiding the valuables, staking counter claims in his house and for his car, bullying each other for podium position at the service, subverting his wishes.  All the usual things your do when a loved one dies.

I'm my father's favourite daughter.  I was his favourite, but I was also the strongest and the one who shut him out.  I was stronger than he was in a way I don't think he expected.  I was the only one who made that bastard, who took lives and innocence and whatever he wanted without conscience, to weep in front of other men.

My uncle was so loved by the speedway fold.  They opened the grounds and had a vigil for him.  I loved that photo of him that he had above his tiny fireplace.  The speedway gave it to him in recognition for what he had done.  It was mounted in a thick perspex box like a trophy and had a plaque.  He's in his overalls with "Dutchy" embroidered on them.  You should've met my uncle.  He was such a good guy.  The stories he would've told you.

Hiding

I only learned the words for everything later on, when you hear the adults talking or read the newspaper articles.  There are a few photo albums somewhere with all the clippings.

It was when I was between the ages of 7-11.  I had a few different names during that time.  I was abducted three times and each time I lived under a different identity until my sisters and I were found in 1977.

We came back across the Nullabor.  It was still dirt then.  We did not stop, only for petrol and bathroom.  My father is a machine.  We did it in under three days.  It was dirt but nothing, nothing would stop my father.  We lost the front end of the car because it was dirt and because of the speed he was driving.  The front end is the steering assembly and suspension.  We stopped for that.  He got under the car with a coat hanger and then we were back on the road. 

We also had to stop when the aboriginal folk put a great spear across the road, another time it was a baby in the middle of the road.

We didn't last long back at home, but that is a different story.  Adelaide.

Catharsis

Catharsis.  It's such a strange word.

My father was an evil man.  He did things with his bare hands that some people cannot even dream of.  He wrung the neck of a small dog that was yapping too much.  He beat his pregnant wife until she lost the baby he fathered, but didn't want her to have.  And twice he described in detail how he would kill me, what he would do with my body, and how he would dispose of it.

I was a good child.  I still am.  If another person tells me again that I'm too good, I'll ask them why more people are not good enough.  Other people are so selfish they dehumanise humanity.  It's not that I don't know what I am talking about.  I saw my mother's face beaten like a side of lamb, and watched that father that I was geared to love strangle her with a phone cord.  I know what good is.  And I have seen its nemesis.

My father took me to the whore's terrace when I was eight years old.  I sat in the empty parlour crowded with tapestry chairs and fox furs with beady eyes while the lady upstairs paid him in some kind of foreign currency.

I've seen it all.  I saw something else.  But it would make you sick.

I'm a good person.  People take advantage of that all the time.  All the time.  At work.  Best friends.  My husband.  People I trust.  Cousins.  Sisters.  Sisters who I stood in front of to take their beating.  Those sisters.

I'm not stupid.  I have travelled further than most.  I have endured heinous things and still held faith in mankind.  I have three degrees from one of the world's best universities.  And I don't lie.

In one of my undergraduate classes they played a "Getting to Know You" game called three truths and a lie.  Sometimes Lady Luck is on your side, and this time I went first and stole the game.  You want to hear my responses:  I was abducted three times; I shot a gun in self defence; I lived incognito for three years; I was the prime suspect in a murder.  Guess which one was the lie.

How about my sisters.  They were with me for almost all of that colourful history.  I was the eldest.  Guess who copped it most?  Guess who had to be mother and get them to school and look after them when a fight broke out and protect them from being physically harmed and abused.  And guess what they did when they found out my father, with all his hard work and dealings, had amassed a very heavy six figure sum.  And most of it was in cash.

My sisters, they are not sisters.

How about my mother.  We aren't even going to go there.  Some of what happened as a child, and what she did after I was abused by my ex-husband makes me physically sick.

So I have seen inhumanity first hand and close to home.  And I have seen it in my dearest friends.  But I'm not going to bore you.

Catharsis.

Just lately I had another one.  Another inversion of care to such an extreme degree by my dear friend and partner.  It came after a difficult year when I worked through one of those gruelling degrees under an aggressive mentor; when we lost a dear friend; when he started taking advantage of me in subtle sideways incisions that became long and deep.  But I still trusted him.  Trust was what I was working on after a whole marriage of infidelity.  I had absolute faith.

I drove 3,000 kilometres.  That was after the suicide attempt.  You didn't know about that did you?  What about all the self harm?  Not on your radar?

I drove into the desert.  I saw things you read in comic strips for a laugh, but it's the bare truth for some people.

Stop laughing.

I came back and tried to start again.  All my friends -- like my family had done before with my ex-husband -- jumped on the star spangled bandwagon.  My ex-husband had a very big salary and related cultural credibility.  My partner was a great musician.

Who needs to be loyal to a good friend when you can jump on his festival float and wave to the crowd in a sequinned g-string leotard.  So said all our friends.  Such taste.  Such finesse.

Some of them feigned a wave.  Most of them just turned away.

I tried to start again.  But no-one wants to make friends with someone who has been disfavoured and left in the bull dust.  They'll pretend to your face, but that's all.


....



My father had a hideous temper.  You would not see it coming.  He had huge farmer's hands with sausage fingers.  When he hit you, you went airborne.

My father did not swear.  He did not drink.  He did not do road rage.  Even though he was born overseas and spoke with a thick accent, the worst he'd ever say was "You continental flip!".

I swear.  I drink a little, but I've never been drunk.  I do road rage with a filthy vocabulary when I'm in the car alone.  But I don't have a temper like my father's.  And I don't do physical violence.

When I've told people about my father, some of them think I must be like him -- that I must be violent and a criminal too.  But I'm not.  Everyone will tell you I'm as honest as they come.  It's true.

But lately, I'm so angry.  I'm so tired of being betrayed.  I'm so tired of being scapegoated for other peoples' fears and weaknesses.  I'm so tired of being a stellar person and being left beaten and bleeding.

When you know people well, you get to know their secrets.  And I know a secret or two about the people who've turned foul on me lately.  I know enough to cause them, at the very least, deep shame.  I know enough to cause them financial hardship.  I know enough to have them harangued and harassed by the authorities for some time.  And that close friend -- I know something that could ruin his life.

But I don't want to use it.  I've been holding it off.  I've been patient.  I have taken care of that precious thing he left here.  I have kept all his belongings safe and in good order.

And the others.  I do not speak about them, because if I did, there would be strong words.  I do not disabuse people of the warped stories those bandwagon jumpers have woven, or the faux care that my partner purported after he left.  I just stay quiet.

Catharsis.

I've been trying to start again.  I buy my friends' music, I support their album fundraisers, I review their albums.  I send them public posts of support.  They do not even acknowledge me at gigs or send me a text to say thank you.

I was their friend.  I did not walk out like he did.  I gave him space.  I didn't even tell him about the suicide attempt or the self-harm because I did not want to upset him.

They all think I'm not strong enough.

They think what I feel is too extreme.  That I should get over it, despite the suddenness.

Despite the fact that we were so close for so many years.

Despite the fact that he promised he would not disappear.  But did.

Despite the fact that he said he was devoted right until the end.  But started sleeping with someone just days afterwards -- before we'd even worked out what happened.  And that's when the self-harm started.  And soon after was when I made the suicide plan.  I knew, even before he told me.  We were so close, I could feel it.  And I was right -- right to the day.

But today I had enough.  Today, again, I offered my hand in friendship.  And he walked away. 

Like my mother's face, I did not have the cheek to turn.

I'm tired.  And I'm sick of all this callousness.  This unjustified heartlessness.  

And I think about what I know, and what I can do. 

Catharsis.

Adelaide V

When I was a little girl I lived in a house with my two sisters and my dad. It was in one of those real poor suburbs, so the rents were cheap. Dad could pay a whole week's rent with a few five dollar bills.

Well, we lived there, and the back part of the house was divided off, and an old drunk man lived there. He didn't come out much, but when he did he was kind of stooped low. He tried to be nice to us and smiled really big, like this, but we didn't speak back. It felt kind of mean, but it also felt like the right thing.

We had a yellow brick house and next door was a wooden house where a real old lady lived. Mrs Bishop. She had chooks. She lived with a really old man. The house was always dark because they didn't open the blinds.

Mrs. Bishop had carpet in her house that was thick, but kind of dirty. Everything was like, dusty. And there were things piled up. Mrs Bishop would let children come over after school. Me and my sisters went, and there'd be about three or four others. They probably went to to our  school, but we didn't know them.  Everyone from round there went to the same school.

When we went over we sat on wooden chairs between piles of other things in this tiny lounge room. Mrs Bishop would give us a drink, and little pamphlets to share between two. The pamphlets would have four pages with a few songs and one story. Sometimes the songs were the same, but the stories were always different. Mrs Bishop would read them out, and we would listen.

...

Dad would leave for work early. Before he left he would lay out the clothes we had to wear on our beds. He would put our breakfast cereal in our bowls and pour the milk on. He was gone by seven when I woke up.

I had to get up first because I was the eldest. I had to make sure my sisters got to school on time. If dad left some change on the table we could catch the bus. Otherwise we'd walk.

My sisters didn't always get up on time. I would eat my breakfast first because I hated how the rice bubbles went soggy and the milk got warm. Sometimes my sisters wouldn't eat their breakfast. They'd chuck it over the fence for Mrs Bishop's chooks.

Mrs Bishop used to come over to give dad bunches of mint. Dad hated mint, but he took it anyway. After she'd gone he'd pull a face and tell us how much he hated mint and chuck it straight in the bin. One time when she came over she told dad she found rice bubbles on her side of the fence.

Dad wasn't happy about that. He made us all sit at the table, so I knew it was going to be bad. I just sat hard and stiff and bit down on my teeth. It didn't take him long to work out whose breakfast it was. I just kept staring at the table when my sisters got the paddling.

...

The school we went to was really big. There was an oval, and grass, and lots of black bitumen. The buildings were big too. With real big windows that looked down at you from everywhere. It was sort of beautiful because they were so old, but it was spooky too. You could have fitted two floors under the ceilings in there. Always made me feel like a lynch mob would be coming any moment to do their business.

The buildings might have been nice but the kids weren't. I never heard fouler words than I heard in that yard. Some things I mightn't understand the meaning of, but I knew what they meant. It was like everything was turned inside out. All those things we hear about in church was upside down there.

Because there was three of us, one dad and no mum we didn't have to pay for much at that school. One day I lost my pen and I felt real bad. The teacher came round and told me to ask at the window by the principal's office. They gave me a brand new one just like that! Not chewed or anything.

They must have known that dad never told us to brush our teeth. There was a portable building where dentists who were still learning used to come a couple of times a week. Whenever I had to walk up that ramp my back felt all icy. I didn't like going there because it always hurt.

Just about every time they'd be drilling. Just like they were drilling for fun to learn about drilling. First you got to see the long needle, then you'd watch them start up that ugly grey bit on the end before they put it in your mouth. I will never forget the time to man drilled so much he drilled out of my tooth and into my gum. Even though he'd given me the needle I felt it.

One time they told me they wouldn't be doing drilling and gave me a fluoride treatment. They had these rubber things they put around your  teeth. The dentist person said it was hawaiian flavoured and would taste nice. He told me to bite down. After a while it hurt and I wanted to stop but I knew I should do what I was told. I bit and bit the whole time even though my jaw was sore. I don't know why they called it hawaiian flavour. It tasted like vomit to me.

...

We'd go to church every Sunday. Dad said the church had been good to us. They'd been the ones who'd put us up when we arrived - in the caravan behind the church, beside the pastor's house.

We got baptised in that church. You had to get baptised before you could speak in tongues. I asked one of the girls at Sunday School how she spoke in tongues. She said it was a secret, and you would only know how to do it when the Holy Spirit was in you. She said it was a special language to speak to God. When they spoke in tongues in the middle of service everyone spoke at once. I wondered how God could work out and understand what everyone was saying.

When we got baptised we had to wear white robes and eveyone sang. The most amazing thing was, when we walked in, the floor opened up and inside was this white pool with water that came up to your waist. We went over to the pastor and he bent us over backwards to dunk us into the water. When I came back up all wet and cold I was expecting to feel different. I was expecting to know how to speak in tongues. I just felt the same and at the service next Sunday, when it came time to speak in tongues and everyone said all those strange words, I tried making some up. But it just didn't feel right. The whole thing just seemed like pretending and everyone was joining in.

There was other things like that in church, like when you could go up the front if you were sick or worried about something. Everyone stood in a line and you would wait for the pastor to come over to you. There would always be someone standing behind you, because after the pastor said that the power of the Lord would work through him, with his hand on your forehead, all that power was so strong it would make you fall over and faint. The person behind you would make sure you didn't hurt yourself when you fell on the floor.

My sisters and I wanted to see what it would feel the power of the Lord. We each thought of something that the Lord could help us with and stood in front of the congregation. When it was our turn the pastor pushed really hard on my forehead, but I didn't feel anything. I stood straight and stiff. The pastor  pushed again and said, loudly, "Be Healed!" and pushed again. I didn't feel anything and I didn't want to fall over just because he was pushing me. He pushed one more time, but I just stood straight. The same thing happened with my sisters. The Lord's power did not come down to us.

...

Before we lived with our dad, we lived with our mum and her new boyfriend, Leon. They took us away one night to a hotel in town. That was the beginning of seeing things that children should not have to see. Some of that had happened before. Before.

We stayed the night in town and then the next day we went on a train across to the other side of the country. I remember standing beside mum when she was buying the tickets at the train station. I remember looking at a neon sign with grapes and a wine glass. It took a long time. She passed over a lot of big notes. The next day we caught the train. All five of us. The trip took three days.

When we got out at the other side, we had no-one to meet us. It was raining hard. We walked out of the railway station to where big trucks unloaded things onto the train. Leon asked one of the men with an empty truck if he could take us to the place we were staying. He gave the driver some money and we got in the back with our suitcases. The driver left one of the canvas flaps up so we could see.

We lived in an apartment by the sea. There were some strange people staying there. Like the boy who had a knife go right through his foot, and kept on telling us that my sister's name was Simon. He always called her Simon and asked her to come and play with him every day. My sister was a tomboy so it was okay. We all started calling her Simon after that. She didn't care.

The laundry was outside. One day the roof blew off. The wringers didn't work and we had to twist the water out of the towels by hand. Leon was strong and when he twisted from his side it hurt your hands, because they had gone all cold and soft with the water.

Lots of things happened there that didn't seem right. I don't know if I want to tell you about them all. Sometimes we were locked out of the apartment after school. Mum and Leon were inside, but we weren't allowed in. I used to take my sisters to my friend's house, a few streets down. She had a really nice room and lots of dolls and a new TV. We didn't have a TV. We drank out of jars and ate out of pots. Mum would usually come and get us just before dinner.

Sometimes we used to see what Mum and Leon did. Sometimes on the weekend it got really late and I'd make them breakfast. They would lock the bathroom door. We had to wait. We always had to knock and wait until they said "Come in" before we could go into their bedroom.

There were more things, but I don't want to tell you about them now.

...

Adelaide IV

When I was a little girl I lived in a house with my two sisters and my dad. It was in one of those real poor suburbs, so the rents were cheap. Dad could pay a whole week's rent with a few five dollar bills.

Well, we lived there, and the back part of the house was divided off, and an old drunk man lived there. He didn't come out much, but when he did he was kind of stooped low. He tried to be nice to us and smiled really big, like this, but we didn't speak back. It felt kind of mean, but it also felt like the right thing.

We had a yellow brick house and next door was a wooden house where a real old lady lived. Mrs Bishop. She had chooks. She lived with a really old man. The house was always dark because they didn't open the blinds.

Mrs. Bishop had carpet in her house that was thick, but kind of dirty. Everything was like, dusty. And there were things piled up. Mrs Bishop would let children come over after school. Me and my sisters went, and there'd be about three or four others. They probably went to to our  school, but we didn't know them.  Everyone from round there went to the same school.

When we went over we sat on wooden chairs between piles of other things in this tiny lounge room. Mrs Bishop would give us a drink, and little pamphlets to share between two. The pamphlets would have four pages with a few songs and one story. Sometimes the songs were the same, but the stories were always different. Mrs Bishop would read them out, and we would listen.

...

Dad would leave for work early. Before he left he would lay out the clothes we had to wear on our beds. He would put our breakfast cereal in our bowls and pour the milk on. He was gone by seven when I woke up.

I had to get up first because I was the eldest. I had to make sure my sisters got to school on time. If dad left some change on the table we could catch the bus. Otherwise we'd walk.

My sisters didn't always get up on time. I would eat my breakfast first because I hated how the rice bubbles went soggy and the milk got warm. Sometimes my sisters wouldn't eat their breakfast. They'd chuck it over the fence for Mrs Bishop's chooks.

Mrs Bishop used to come over to give dad bunches of mint. Dad hated mint, but he took it anyway. After she'd gone he'd pull a face and tell us how much he hated mint and chuck it straight in the bin. One time when she came over she told dad she found rice bubbles on her side of the fence.

Dad wasn't happy about that. He made us all sit at the table, so I knew it was going to be bad. I just sat hard and stiff and bit down on my teeth. It didn't take him long to work out whose breakfast it was. I just kept staring at the table when my sisters got the paddling.

...

The school we went to was really big. There was an oval, and grass, and lots of black bitumen. The buildings were big too. With real big windows that looked down at you from everywhere. It was sort of beautiful because they were so old, but it was spooky too. You could have fitted two floors under the ceilings in there. Always made me feel like a lynch mob would be coming any moment to do their business.

The buildings might have been nice but the kids weren't. I never heard fouler words than I heard in that yard. Some things I mightn't understand the meaning of, but I knew what they meant. It was like everything was turned inside out. All those things we hear about in church was upside down there.

Because there was three of us, one dad and no mum we didn't have to pay for much at that school. One day I lost my pen and I felt real bad. The teacher came round and told me to ask at the window by the principal's office. They gave me a brand new one just like that! Not chewed or anything.

They must have known that dad never told us to brush our teeth. There was a portable building where dentists who were still learning used to come a couple of times a week. Whenever I had to walk up that ramp my back felt all icy. I didn't like going there because it always hurt.

Just about every time they'd be drilling. Just like they were drilling for fun to learn about drilling. First you got to see the long needle, then you'd watch them start up that ugly grey bit on the end before they put it in your mouth. I will never forget the time to man drilled so much he drilled out of my tooth and into my gum. Even though he'd given me the needle I felt it.

One time they told me they wouldn't be doing drilling and gave me a fluoride treatment. They had these rubber things they put around your  teeth. The dentist person said it was hawaiian flavoured and would taste nice. He told me to bite down. After a while it hurt and I wanted to stop but I knew I should do what I was told. I bit and bit the whole time even though my jaw was sore. I don't know why they called it hawaiian flavour. It tasted like vomit to me.

...

We'd go to church every Sunday. Dad said the church had been good to us. They'd been the ones who'd put us up when we arrived - in the caravan behind the church, beside the pastor's house.

We got baptised in that church. You had to get baptised before you could speak in tongues. I asked one of the girls at Sunday School how she spoke in tongues. She said it was a secret, and you would only know how to do it when the Holy Spirit was in you. She said it was a special language to speak to God. When they spoke in tongues in the middle of service everyone spoke at once. I wondered how God could work out and understand what everyone was saying.

When we got baptised we had to wear white robes and eveyone sang. The most amazing thing was, when we walked in, the floor opened up and inside was this white pool with water that came up to your waist. We went over to the pastor and he bent us over backwards to dunk us into the water. When I came back up all wet and cold I was expecting to feel different. I was expecting to know how to speak in tongues. I just felt the same and at the service next Sunday, when it came time to speak in tongues and everyone said all those strange words, I tried making some up. But it just didn't feel right. The whole thing just seemed like pretending and everyone was joining in.

There was other things like that in church, like when you could go up the front if you were sick or worried about something. Everyone stood in a line and you would wait for the pastor to come over to you. There would always be someone standing behind you, because after the pastor said that the power of the Lord would work through him, with his hand on your forehead, all that power was so strong it would make you fall over and faint. The person behind you would make sure you didn't hurt yourself when you fell on the floor.

My sisters and I wanted to see what it would feel the power of the Lord. We each thought of something that the Lord could help us with and stood in front of the congregation. When it was our turn the pastor pushed really hard on my forehead, but I didn't feel anything. I stood straight and stiff. The pastor  pushed again and said, loudly, "Be Healed!" and pushed again. I didn't feel anything and I didn't want to fall over just because he was pushing me. He pushed one more time, but I just stood straight. The same thing happened with my sisters. The Lord's power did not come down to us.

...

Adelaide III

When I was a little girl I lived in a house with my two sisters and my dad. It was in one of those real poor suburbs, so the rents were cheap. Dad could pay a whole week's rent with a few five dollar bills.

Well, we lived there, and the back part of the house was divided off, and an old drunk man lived there. He didn't come out much, but when he did he was kind of stooped low. He tried to be nice to us and smiled really big, like this, but we didn't speak back. It felt kind of mean, but it also felt like the right thing.

We had a yellow brick house and next door was a wooden house where a real old lady lived. Mrs Bishop. She had chooks. She lived with a really old man. The house was always dark because they didn't open the blinds.

Mrs. Bishop had carpet in her house that was thick, but kind of dirty. Everything was like, dusty. And there were things piled up. Mrs Bishop would let children come over after school. Me and my sisters went, and there'd be about three or four others. They probably went to to our  school, but we didn't know them.  Everyone from round there went to the same school.

When we went over we sat on wooden chairs between piles of other things in this tiny lounge room. Mrs Bishop would give us a drink, and little pamphlets to share between two. The pamphlets would have four pages with a few songs and one story. Sometimes the songs were the same, but the stories were always different. Mrs Bishop would read them out, and we would listen.

...

Dad would leave for work early. Before he left he would lay out the clothes we had to wear on our beds. He would put our breakfast cereal in our bowls and pour the milk on. He was gone by seven when I woke up.

I had to get up first because I was the eldest. I had to make sure my sisters got to school on time. If dad left some change on the table we could catch the bus. Otherwise we'd walk.

My sisters didn't always get up on time. I would eat my breakfast first because I hated how the rice bubbles went soggy and the milk got warm. Sometimes my sisters wouldn't eat their breakfast. They'd chuck it over the fence for Mrs Bishop's chooks.

Mrs Bishop used to come over to give dad bunches of mint. Dad hated mint, but he took it anyway. After she'd gone he'd pull a face and tell us how much he hated mint and chuck it straight in the bin. One time when she came over she told dad she found rice bubbles on her side of the fence.

Dad wasn't happy about that. He made us all sit at the table, so I knew it was going to be bad. I just sat hard and stiff and bit down on my teeth. It didn't take him long to work out whose breakfast it was. I just kept staring at the table when my sisters got the paddling.

...

The school we went to was really big. There was an oval, and grass, and lots of black bitumen. The buildings were big too. With real big windows that looked down at you from everywhere. It was sort of beautiful because they were so old, but it was spooky too. You could have fitted two floors under the ceilings in there. Always made me feel like a lynch mob would be coming any moment to do their business.

The buildings might have been nice but the kids weren't. I never heard fouler words than I heard in that yard. Some things I mightn't understand the meaning of, but I knew what they meant. It was like everything was turned inside out. All those things we hear about in church was upside down there.

Because there was three of us, one dad and no mum we didn't have to pay for much at that school. One day I lost my pen and I felt real bad. The teacher came round and told me to ask at the window by the principal's office. They gave me a brand new one just like that! Not chewed or anything.

They must have known that dad never told us to brush our teeth. There was a portable building where dentists who were still learning used to come a couple of times a week. Whenever I had to walk up that ramp my back felt all icy. I didn't like going there because it always hurt.

Just about every time they'd be drilling. Just like they were drilling for fun to learn about drilling. First you got to see the long needle, then you'd watch them start up that ugly grey bit on the end before they put it in your mouth. I will never forget the time to man drilled so much he drilled out of my tooth and into my gum. Even though he'd given me the needle I felt it.

One time they told me they wouldn't be doing drilling and gave me a fluoride treatment. They had these rubber things they put around your  teeth. The dentist person said it was hawaiian flavoured and would taste nice. He told me to bite down. After a while it hurt and I wanted to stop but I knew I should do what I was told. I bit and bit the whole time even though my jaw was sore. I don't know why they called it hawaiian flavour. It tasted like vomit to me.

...

Adelaide II

When I was a little girl I lived in a house with my two sisters and my dad. It was in one of those real poor suburbs, so the rents were cheap. Dad could pay a whole week's rent with a few five dollar bills.

Well, we lived there, and the back part of the house was divided off, and an old drunk man lived there. He didn't come out much, but when he did he was kind of stooped low. He tried to be nice to us and smiled really big, like this, but we didn't speak back. It felt kind of mean, but it also felt like the right thing.

We had a yellow brick house and next door was a wooden house where a real old lady lived. Mrs Bishop. She had chooks. She lived with a really old man. The house was always dark because they didn't open the blinds.

Mrs. Bishop had carpet in her house that was thick, but kind of dirty. Everything was like, dusty. And there were things piled up. Mrs Bishop would let children come over after school. Me and my sisters went, and there'd be about three or four others. They probably went to to our  school, but we didn't know them.  Everyone from round there went to the same school.

When we went over we sat on wooden chairs between piles of other things in this tiny lounge room. Mrs Bishop would give us a drink, and little pamphlets to share between two. The pamphlets would have four pages with a few songs and one story. Sometimes the songs were the same, but the stories were always different. Mrs Bishop would read them out, and we would listen.

...

Dad would leave for work early. Before he left he would lay out the clothes we had to wear on our beds. He would put our breakfast cereal in our bowls and pour the milk on. He was gone by seven when I woke up.

I had to get up first because I was the eldest. I had to make sure my sisters got to school on time. If dad left some change on the table we could catch the bus. Otherwise we'd walk.

My sisters didn't always get up on time. I would eat my breakfast first because I hated how the rice bubbles went soggy and the milk got warm. Sometimes my sisters wouldn't eat their breakfast. They'd chuck it over the fence for Mrs Bishop's chooks.

Mrs Bishop used to come over to give dad bunches of mint. Dad hated mint, but he took it anyway. After she'd gone he'd pull a face and tell us how much he hated mint and chuck it straight in the bin. One time when she came over she told dad she found rice bubbles on her side of the fence.

Dad wasn't happy about that. He made us all sit at the table, so I knew it was going to be bad. I just sat hard and stiff and bit down on my teeth. It didn't take him long to work out whose breakfast it was. I just kept staring at the table when my sisters got the paddling.

...

Adelaide I

When I was a little girl I lived in a house with my two sisters and my dad. It was in one of those real poor suburbs, so the rents were cheap. Dad could pay a whole week's rent with a few five dollar bills.

Well, we lived there, and the back part of the house was divided off, and an old drunk man lived there. He didn't come out much, but when he did he was kind of stooped low. He tried to be nice to us and smiled really big, like this, but we didn't speak back. It felt kind of mean, but it also felt like the right thing.

We had a yellow brick house and next door was a wooden house where a real old lady lived. Mrs Bishop. She had chooks. She lived with a really old man. The house was always dark because they didn't open the blinds.

Mrs. Bishop had carpet in her house that was thick, but kind of dirty. Everything was like, dusty. And there were things piled up. Mrs Bishop would let children come over after school. Me and my sisters went, and there'd be about three or four others. They probably went to to our  school, but we didn't know them.  Everyone from round there went to the same school.

When we went over we sat on wooden chairs between piles of other things in this tiny lounge room. Mrs Bishop would give us a drink, and little pamphlets to share between two. The pamphlets would have four pages with a few songs and one story. Sometimes the songs were the same, but the stories were always different. Mrs Bishop would read them out, and we would listen.

...