Frantic Fan Dancer

Balboa Press

Contents

Introduction.........................................ixPrologue.............................................xiSauce (1)............................................1Trees in the Forest..................................7Circus, Circus.......................................15Chasing Nightmares...................................19Serendipity: Here Comes Turkey!......................25No Splinters, Just a Thumb...........................27Grandma's Bed........................................33Sauce (2)............................................37A Steel Magnolia.....................................43Bush Symphony (1)....................................47Milko................................................51Bush Symphony (2)....................................63Mum, What's Happening!...............................65An Ill Wind..........................................73A Rental.............................................83Just Cruisin'........................................91Bush Symphony Discord................................105Honeymoon Period.....................................111Overboard............................................123Bush Symphony (4)....................................129Screwed!.............................................133Photo Gallery........................................143Sauce (3)............................................159Sisterhood Hallelujah!...............................165Betsy................................................171Pearly Whites and Ham Sandwiches.....................179More Hallelujahs.....................................185Good-bye Vera May....................................193Travels on a Carpet..................................203Betsy Untamed........................................213Sticky Wickets.......................................225Glory................................................231Bush Symphony (5)....................................239Fragrant Rain........................................243More Cruisin'........................................251Bonjour Madame.......................................257Ice Queen Revisited..................................273Epilogue.............................................277For Your Information.................................279

Chapter One

There was always sweet mustard sauce. It was synonymous with Sunday roast at Grandma's.

Grandma Roberts, my dad's mother, was tall and broomstick-straight. Her legs were as thin as a broomstick handle, and they were always covered in flesh-coloured, thick silk stockings. There was never any doubt that those stocking-clad legs were capable of many a good mile. She strode purposefully out from her house in Cleary Street, Hamilton to Maitland Road, Islington every Sunday—twice (there and back). Yes, to church—like Mother Duck with her ducklings falling in behind in a farmyard procession: Grandma, Carole (my sister), and me.

Her shoes were black and tightly laced. They had sturdy, stack heels, so sensible for walking. She wore a lightweight fawn coat buttoned at the waist over her Sunday dress. There was always the same demure neckline, and an antique brooch kept it all properly in place around her neck. Nothing was showing. Her soft straw hat with its gathered black netting around the brim was a biblical covering for her thin, silver hair that was fashioned into a plaited bun at the nape of her neck.

I mostly felt that Grandma was stern. She didn't display her affections openly; her smile was measured, and then it quickly vanished. There wasn't ever a laughing sound as far as I can recall. We didn't indulge in big hugs as we stood tippy-toe to receive a swift air kiss that was meant for our cheeks.

But that was her way; our way was different. Our mother had softened Grandma's son, Frank, over the years. Hugs and real kisses were always flowing whenever we greeted our family and friends.

A family-size roast with accompanying vegetables was baked on a Saturday in the huge, old kitchen in the back of the house. There was no toiling of any kind on a Sunday, so it was served cold for lunch after church. Grandma and Dickie laid out the food as they played host for Carole and me. We did this routinely so that we could attend the Islington Baptist Church (Dad's choice, not Mum's, for his two young daughters).

Grandma lived in a Federation-style house—the sort that had a long, gun barrel hallway—where we grandchildren never got to run. Dickie Bowman was Grandma's boarder, and he lived in rooms on the side veranda. There was a push-out window that we knew was Dickie's. It was always wide open, and the curtain pushed back. Dickie was reliably there ... hovering in among the pushed back curtains and leaking smoke. As we children ran and pushed jovially along the side pathway of Grandma's house, we knew to look up and spot Dickie's strong silhouette just behind those tired ruffles of lace. There we saw the smoke spiralling and trailing its way lazily outside through the hinged side window.

Down through the years, I pondered this image.

Our father was a stickler for rules, and he'd developed an extreme dislike about windows wide open and curtains pulled back. Boarding houses! Whenever we attempted to pull back the curtains and raise the blinds at home to see the beautiful lakeside scenery, he'd hit the roof and claim very hotly that we'd made the place look just like a boarding house. A boarding house? Perhaps he really objected to this smoking window on Grandma's side veranda (the one with the curtains pulled right back), but he'd never raised the issue with his equally stern mother. Regardless, we paid the price forever after.

Dickie's thumb and two fingers were permanently stained brown, and he perpetually wore a soggy, stained cigarette on his bottom lip. Gazing at the wizened, stained butt and the fingers burnt brown, I was filled with a morbid sense of fascination about this nice little man with a dreadfully wet cough.

The lonesome four of us sat at the Sunday lunch table in a room that was heavy with antiquities and smothering dark corners. There were at least eight empty chairs still around the giant table which made us sisters long for our parents, cousins, aunts, and uncles who would join us that evening for the Sunday night tea. Usually, Dickie carved the cold roast with a horrendous-looking knife while Grandma served the vegetables. It was mostly the playing out of a very serious pantomime: the laborious eating of the cold roast meat after it was generously doused with the sweet mustard sauce. The sauce continuously did the rounds of the table during the meal. For encouragement, we were given a nod and cursory grunt by Grandma. "Do the same," the grunt seemed to say. And we did.

There was a silence of sorts, but I listened to the sounds.

Grandma relished every mouthful as she effectively personified the grace that we had just finished praying: "Lord, make us truly thankful." Her plastic teeth clacked, and her appetite was keen. There were frequent applications of the sweet mustard sauce in the absence of gravy.

Dickie's nose was bulbous and red. Tiny veins made a spidery web over most of its surface, but to my dismay, it whistled and wheezed as Dickie ate—even though it was large enough for the task. I pretended not to hear it, but under the table, another story played out: four skinny legs kicked and bumped together as they dangled...