There was one odd-bod who’d often come into the park to talk to us kids. He wasn’t a child molester or anything like that he was just a poor simpleton who loved kids. He always wore a rope around his waist with about six tennis balls hanging off it on pieces of string. As well as the tennis balls, he had a spoon dangling on a piece of string. He spoke with a foreign accent and would repeatedly tell us,
‘Childrik drenk planty mulk,’
Whenever he came around, we’d stop whatever games we were playing to talk to him. He’d stay for about ten minutes and then keep walking to wherever he lived and we’d resume our game.
At the top of the hill on our side of the street lived a wonderful old lady by the name of Mrs Ward, all the kids liked her and it was obvious that she loved kids. She would often give biscuits to the kids but none of us went to visit her specifically to get biscuits. We all genuinely liked her and it was a pleasure to go and talk to her. Directly across the road from Mrs Ward, next door to the White’s house lived an old battle-axe by the name of Mrs Stanley. We all called her old mother Stanley among other names. As much as Mrs Ward loved us kids old mother Stanley hated us double fold, we in turn felt likewise. She had an orange tree in her backyard that none of us, that I knew of at any rate, ever raided. But that didn’t stop her from putting big chunks of glass and barbed wire along the top of her fence obviously to stop the kids from jumping the fence.
Her house was always locked up like a tomb and on one particular summer day I decided on the spur of the moment as I walked past to remove the glass and put it in the gutter. I removed about thirty pieces of the jagged chunks placing them in the gutter. Out of the blue, the back door flew open and old mother Stanley stood peering down at me like a vulture. I got such a shock seeing her I nearly shit my pants. I said in my best elocution voice, ‘Hello, Mrs Stanley, look at what some naughty child has done. They’ve put all your glass in the gutter and I’m just putting it back on the fence for you.’ I placed all the pieces of glass back and took off for the lick of my life. I told Edward and Joey what had happened and they decided to get even with her for me. They both went over to the park and found a dirty old used frenchie (condom) that had been left on the ground. They picked it up and wrapped it in a bit of old newspaper and just before dark they placed it on the footpath just outside her front gate.
The following day after checking to see it was still there, we all played out in the street just waiting and watching to see if she would find it. At long last she came downstairs to do a bit of gardening. We all scattered to strategic hiding places behind lamp posts, up trees or crouched behind parked cars, anywhere as long as we could see what she’d do. We didn’t have to wait long she came out of her yard as fast as her old legs could move and she had a little garden fork in her hand which she stabbed the frenchie with. She carried the offending frenchie at arm’s length and scurried over the road and stood below the Carmelite Monastery fence. To our astonished delight she tossed the fork and frenchie as hard as she could, high up into the air and straight over the fence. The dogs howled their obvious disapproval as we all gathered around absolutely pissing ourselves with delight. Whenever we walked past old mother Stanley’s place after that, we’d always yell out,
‘Ya filthy old bitch, we saw ya throw the frenchie over the Carmelite’s fence.’
Then we’d take off as fast as we could. It wasn’t long after that she removed the glass and barbed wire off her fence and we stopped calling out to her.
Our other neighbours were Professor and Mrs Robinson they had two sons who were studying at University to become Medical Practitioners. Professor Robinson was a Professor of languages and taught at the Queensland University at St Lucia. Both he and his wife were lovely people and spoke with an upper-class English accent. They were the type of people whom you would expect to be stuck up and toffee nosed, but they were the exact opposite. They would always stop and talk to all of the kids and ask us how we were. We all liked the Robinsons and even though they were elderly we could never work out why the Professor carried a walking stick. He didn’t appear to need it to help him walk and he seemed to be quite capable of walking up and down the street without the aid of a cane. We came to the conclusion that it was a hollow stick where he hid millions of pounds worth of diamonds. For ages we’d sit around and plan how we were going to hit him on the head to knock him out and pinch the cane full of diamonds. We figured we’d have had enough money to live happily ever after. I know it sounds as if we were completely nuts, but I guess in the fifties kids had very vivid and wild imaginations.
The Robinson’s sons were as crazy as loons. It was nothing unusual to see them running around the backyard in lap laps beating tom toms as if they were Africans or natives from New Guinea. We’d often sit at our window hiding behind the curtains and watch them. Looking back, I think they must’ve discovered something stronger than marijuana, failing that they really were a couple of basket cases. (they both became Drs.)
I’ve often wondered if their antics were the cause of James telling Edith and I to stay in the kitchen one day because he wanted to show us something. He could draw any painting or cartoon character with extreme accuracy. When I was in the fifth grade Sister Mary Leonard asked the pupils if we knew anyone who could draw. I volunteered James name and before we could blink, she had a canvas backdrop sent to our home which James transformed into an absolute masterpiece. He copied a picture of a Gondolier in a gondola in Venice from a picture in the grade five reader onto the thirty-foot long by eight foot (ten metres by three metres) high canvas. It was absolutely fantastic and it was used as the backdrop in our school concerts. I’ve often wondered whatever became of the painting.
Anyhow Edith and I were waiting in the kitchen expecting to see one of James works of art when he came prancing through the house stark bollocky naked with his penis hidden between his legs. He did a pirouette around the room with his hands above his head like a prima ballerina and said, ‘Do you think I’m too sexy for films?’ Edith and I cried with laughter for about ten minutes. He was about seventeen at the time and I was ten and I thought the sun and moon shone out of him. He was a wonderful brother to Edward and me. Ever since I can remember he called me Fatso because I was always quite plump as a kid when I went down to six and a half stone a few years ago he continued calling me Fatso. Unfortunately, it’s a name I‘ve grown back into. James had charm, personality and the funniest sense of humour. Edward on the other hand was very manipulative and often quite cruel to me. I know I was verbally cruel and abusive to him on many occasions, but his behaviour went beyond being mean and unkind. Edward sexually assaulted me not long after my eighth birthday and for many years I carried the burden of guilt blaming myself. The nuns had taught us that any wrong doing in the first seven years of our lives was not classified as a sin, but any wrong done after our eighth birthday was sinful and if we didn’t confess it to the priest, we would pay for it in hell. I also felt that if I’d told Dad he would be extremely disappointed in me and I didn’t want to lose his love for me. I was convinced he wouldn’t love me anymore. I thought too that he’d kill Edward (I wouldn’t have minded that) but I most certainly didn’t want Dad going to jail for murder. I eventually told my mother five months before she passed away, although she knew I was speaking the truth, I know she had difficulty accepting it because I think she felt that she had failed in her duty to protect me. I’ve lived with a certain amount of self-loathing since. For some inexplicable reason even though I hated Edward for what he did to me, I still felt a certain amount of sympathy for him because he never seemed to be quite right in the head. He was eventually diagnosed with schizophrenia when he was nineteen and I guess in a way I made his illness as his excuse. Since 1999 after Edith passed away, I’ve finally grown to forgive him for what he did. I guess in a way I’ve come to realise that his behaviour is