Edward ‘Give me the knife I want to use it.’
Amelia ‘No, I’m using it first.’
He grabbed for my arm to twist it to make me drop the knife, but instead I moved away and I pointed the knife at him
Amelia ‘Take one step closer and I’ll cut your balls off.’
He panicked and grabbed the blade and I pulled it back. The knife slashed into the fleshy part of his right hand between the thumb and the index finger and the blood spurted everywhere. The pair of us nearly died of shock. I had no idea what to do. The first thing I could think of was to get a bucket of water and get him to put his hand into it. I ran around getting towels and cleaning the blood off his hand, but as soon as I’d mop it more blood would spurt out. Edith came home minutes later and she nearly had heart failure. Edward was rushed to the doctor and he received several stitches in the wound, the doctor told him that he was a hair’s breadth off cutting the tendon and that he could’ve gotten lock jaw. The top of his index finger is permanently bent downward at the first knuckle joint because of the wound.
Another day I was listening to some records on the radiogram and Edward came into the lounge room and turned it off, it wasn’t because it was loud, he just didn’t like me enjoying myself. I started to swear at him and he told me to stop swearing or he’d tell Edith. I pushed him and he shoved me back onto the lounge chair which made me swear even more. He went off his rocker grabbing me by the throat and started to choke me. I punched him and bit his arm as hard as I could and he let go. I ran to Edith’s sewing table and got the scissors and went downstairs to where his gold Malvern Star racing bike was. He’d saved and saved for that bike by selling papers and doing odd jobs and it was his pride and joy. I got the tubes out of the tyres and cut them in half. Not content with that, I walked one and a half miles to the police station and reported his attempt to murder me. The police drove me home in the side basher of the bike and by that time Edith was home. Edward told them that I was swearing for no reason and that he had put his hand over my mouth to stop me swearing and that he hadn’t tried to choke me at all. The cop reprimanded me, Edith gave me a hiding and Edward was as happy as a pig in shit. Well for about an hour or so until he discovered his precious bike.
In the early part of the fifties Friday nights in the Long household was spent sitting around in the lounge room listening to the fights on the radio. Dad would bring home a huge tin of roasted peanuts and we’d hoe into them as if we hadn’t eaten in weeks. On some Sundays, Uncle Stan would come around and quite often he’d bring big Sam Burmester a fairly famous wrestler who was a family friend. Usually other friends would turn up and before long there’d be a party in full swing. Other Sundays, Dad would bundle us into the car and we’d head off to Jimboomba pub approximately thirty-five miles (fifty-five kilometres) south-west of Brisbane. There was no Sunday trading in the pubs in those days, except the country pubs. Pub patrons had to be bona-fide travellers and would have to have driven at least one hundred miles (one hundred and seventy kilometres) before they could be served. Dad used to give his correct name, but he’d tell them he’d driven from the Sunshine Coast so as to gain entrance and allowed to have his beloved amber nectar of the Gods as he called it. Uncle Stan was a barber by trade but he should’ve been a comedian. He would give the hotelier a bodgie name such as Charlie Killfoppingbird or Charlie Honeystick and tell them he was an Englishman on holidays. He looked a bit like Leslie Phillips from the Carry On movies. Of course the staff got to know them as regular customers but Uncle Stan would still sign himself in under a bodgie name. I used to love going to the Jimboomba pub, I was always assured of having plenty of soft drinks and bags of Smith’s crisps. Edith would often play the old piano there and everyone would gather around and have a sing-along. One Sunday the cops came in to check the registry book to make sure all the patrons were bona-fide travellers. Uncle Stan dived under the table which had a heavy tablecloth over it. The cops had a look around the lounge where we were all sitting and came up to our table. Dad stood up to address the cops and in doing so moved away from the table. He had a lit cigarette in his hand which he was smoking and I noticed smoke billowing up from under the table. I darted my eyes back and forth signalling to Dad that Uncle Stan was still smoking. Dad immediately placed his cigarette in the ashtray for it to burn down and thus giving a reason for smoke to be billowing from the table. After the cops had gone, I was rewarded with a packet of Fantales from Dad and a box of Jaffas from Uncle Stan for being such a smart kid. Driving home from the Jimboomba pub was always a little bit risky even though there was no such thing as random breath testing in those days. I’d always be on the lookout for anything that resembled a carload of police. One particular occasion Dad was going exceptionally fast and I said to him, ‘If you go a bit faster, Dad, we’ll all be able to get the best beds in the hospital.’ Edith looked at me in total disbelief her eyes were as big as saucers because I’d had the audacity to say something like that. She closed her eyes and waited for Dad to go off the brain. Instead he laughed and said, ‘You’re absolutely right, little darlin.’ He slowed down to a sedate thirty-five miles per hour (sixty kilometres).
We always enjoyed our long drives no matter where we went and we’d all sing at top note. No drive was complete without at least one rendition of Carolina in the Morning, Am I Blue, Five Foot Two and many more. On the Sundays we didn’t have the parties or go to Jimboomba or BBQ’s, Dad would take Edith and me to Fortitude Valley to a Chinese restaurant for dinner. The proprietors knew us extremely well and didn’t even wait to take my order. Within minutes of being seated my entree was served, half a dozen fresh oysters in the shell followed by a small serving of curried prawns and rice and a small serve of fried rice. It’s still one of my favourite meals.
I was about two and I was walking down George Street with my parents. I apparently wanted something and Dad said I couldn’t have it so I threw a tantrum. I can’t remember the belting he gave me but Edith assures me it was a ‘good’ one. When I was about eleven, we were on one of our many Sunday outings to the country with all of Dad’s friends and their families. There were at least ten carloads of people and we’d go to a farmyard with acres of land and a running creek. I’m not exactly sure where we were, but I have an idea it was out at Upper Brookfield. In those days the area was classified as way out in the sticks but now it’s almost an inner suburb. We’d have a BBQ and everyone would bring a plate of food and the men would chip in and buy a keg of beer and soft drinks. I had been sitting in a deck chair on the slope of the creek embankment dozing off to sleep in the sun. Jack Hillier the barman from the Regatta Hotel who was renowned for always being drunk came up behind me and pushed me down the side of the embankment. I rolled right down skinning my hands and knees and nearly ended up in the water. He laughed at me and sat down in the deck chair I was absolutely livid. I got up raced over to him and said, ‘You drunken old bastard’ I grabbed the few hairs on his head and reefed them all out. Dad found a tree branch that was about an inch thick and took me over near the car and hit me at least ten times on my backside and legs. The welts were bright red and raised to such an extent if they weren’t so sore too touch you could’ve pinched the flesh between your thumb and forefinger. I couldn’t sit down properly and Edith had to pack all the towels together for me to prop myself onto for the drive home. She also applied heaps of ice to try and get the swelling down. I couldn’t go to school for three days because of the pain, it took me years to forgive my father for that belting and he lost my respect for a long time because of it too. I know I deserved a hiding on many other occasions but not that time. I think what made it more unacceptable was that he hit me in defence of a drunken old sot.
Chapter 8
Misadventures
I don’t know what it was about me that seemed to entice child molesters like bees to a honey pot. Perhaps I was extremely unlucky or there were more offenders around than what was reported. I think I was about nine when the first incident occurred.