Goodbye My Friend

A young man's Father asks him to kill him at Christmas time.

Goodbye, My Friend. 55

Chapter One:

Brave white suburban sunlight tickles the morning air, caressing and fondling dark

secret crevices, beneath silent gum trees and swaying wattle flowers. Sydney,

Australia is a blue ribbon city, resting in the after glow of the excitement of the

twentieth century and now wakes up like a yawning cat, curled-up on her sacred

white cane chair, very interrupted.

In the Western Suburbs we often wake up joyful. The people here applaud the

new morn and Yennora, a busy industrial town welcomes the old Sun and

momentarily becomes keen, ready, alert and like a hungry dog stirs for just a brief

moment, lays it's weary head down and falls slowly back to sleep.

It is not a standing ovation or a salute. After all the sun belongs to the working

classes. They are the chosen people who get to work outside.

There is no need for applause. It is a ritual of showering, quickly eating two large

mouthfuls of cereal and laughing at the squawking radio.

Inside a tired block of flats in Yennora's poorest part, Mrs.Greaveston mumbles

and whistles as she changes the newspaper at the bottom of her budgie's cage.

There appears to be a requesting tone in her voice. She speaks to the bird softly

like someone whispering in church. It is done to remind herself that she is still alive

and that someone out there still needs her.

" Pretty boy, who's a pretty boy then? ", she echoes.

Her voice is as shrill as the budgerigar's song and although it is not intended for

others to hear, someone with a deep male voice from upstairs, has complained.

His protestations fell on deaf ears with Mrs Greaveston.

She is a very private person and in the three years that I have lived in Flat 7 Hope

Apartments I haven't heard her speak about anything other than her precious

Joe-Joe. She is, however, an active lady not likely to ever give up.

" It's Christmas, darlin' and I have a treat for you " , she squealed in the kind of

high voice that only a granddaughter with stars in her eyes could find exciting.

I pulled the covers over my head and held my breath. I half hoped she would just

vanish in a cloud of smoke.

Earlier in the week I ran into her in front of Wright's Pet Shop where she held me

up and showed me a small plastic bell with bird's seed stuck all over it.

I can't imagine what giving this bell to the bird was all about and wondered what

Christmas really meant to an old Australian woman with only a budgerigar and a

few faded memories.

" Why a bell shape ? " , I pondered and shook my head unable to understand the

meaning behind the whole idea. I didn't feel sorry for her or her little bird. I

wondered what Australia had done to her soul. What had happened to the young

lady that laughed and flirted with men who gladly went into battle for her ?

She was the very reason they risked their lives. She outlived them all.

Where are those courageous men now? The faithful ones who followed her round

like pups and fought wars just to feel her soft skin and to hear her laugh are

now distant stars in the night sky of her memory.

Where is Duncan Smith the red haired boy who at the age of sixteen went off

to New Guinea in 1941 and left her to work in the uniform factory. Was it all for

nothing. Was it just so she could look at his photograph and sigh everytime she

remembers?

I suspected it was a past without much real love. Australia was born in

1940 like a new baby, bloodied and screaming and like the rest of the world was

baptised by the burning fires of hatred. The young men thought more about

survival than about loving.

She never spoke about ever being married . All I knew was that she once had a

brief liaison with a young American soldier and retired from life. Mrs Greaveston

had a sorrowful and deserted life. She couldn't have had an easy time after the

war.

All her friends and relatives went off to have ten screaming children and create the

new Australia . Sadder than the cowards who didn't go to fight were the aunties

who didn't have children after the war.

Sometimes life is not really very lively at all. For some it is a self-fashioned

imprisonment. Sometimes it's an endless wanting. She seemed caught in a trap

and was completely unaware of it.

We were both trapped. Ensnared by the feeling that has no name.

I gave it the name "Yenitis" and thought it was just my way of reacting to a cold

and hopeless place, but now I believe it is felt all over this lonely world.

The name came to me one grey day on Yennora railway station. It is often a bleak

and quiet place, in 1965 when I was fifteen and discovering the world that I was

born in. I was suicidal. It was a silent place that called you to the abyss. In those

days you had to sit down and wait for a train. This gave you time to contemplate

ending it all and at the same time provided the means of doing it.

To this day I feel like a coward for boarding the train to escape rather than

jumping in front of it.

To the young the world can be a disappointment and Yenitis strikes the weary

mind without any warning. It is a yen or a yearning that goes unfulfilled.

There is no cure because it is an inflammation of the soul.

It showed me what the soul really is. It's just the collection of the memories

unlucky enough to be created with a deep feeling. Like an intense kiss or your

first suicide attempt. They both hide in the dark part of the soul forever.

Yenitis also has no treatment. It is that nagging feeling you get when you realise

that there are great and meaningful questions in life but the answers are pointless.

The answers are as useless as talking to a budgie.

Yenitis does have physical symptoms however. It causes you to close your mouth

and blow air out of your nostrils like a horse that has been left alone too long.

The air is not let out through the mouth because that might form a pleasant sound

and this feeling is of the life denying kind that should not be mistaken for music.

It might best be described as a " nose laugh " because it is often ticklish. However

there isn't anything funny about it. It comes from disappointment.

At the same time it's an acceptance of our inability to understand anything and the

horrifying awareness of the futility of trying.

I fell from my bed and staggered into the bathroom. A fifty-year-old face stared

back at me from the silver mirror. The image seemed sad. I stared back wondering

what Australia had done to me.

" Hello, David, you old ferret. How are you my old mate ? " , I asked , following

that with one of those nose laughs.

I've never liked mirrors. They are a harsh illusion of what we are. They only reflect

the surface.

Just as I was about to raise a smile I heard Mrs Greaveston scream and my quiet

was shattered forever. A few seconds later she was banging on my door.

I shook my head as I slowly turned the handle. In front of me stood an old woman

in a pink nightgown with a dead budgie in her delicate white hands.

" He's dead! My poor little Joey is dead !" , she howled desperately, with a look of

fear on her face.

I sympathised with her but had no way of painting myself into this extraordinary

picture.

" What can I do Mrs Greaveston?", I mumbled inanely.

" I want you to bury him. It's Christmas " , she explained.

It soon became clear to her that I didn't understand the connection and so she

moved slowly towards me. As I was about to close the door she grabbed my arm

and carefully placed the little pile of cold green feathers in my hands. I felt trapped

and bewildered. She couldn't let go of her little Joey or my arms.

I wondered if she thought I had healing hands or was able to bring the bird back

to life just by willing. The bird was gone and as Mrs Greaveston stared at it she

began to blink and I noticed a tear on her cheek.

"Goodbye, my friend " , she said in a voice that could make a grown man weep.

She loved that bird like a mother loves a child.

I went out the back and carefully placed the remains of Joey under a wattle tree

and covered him with leaves. Pausing for a moment I realised that we cannot hold

things dear to us because they will disappear.

Mrs Greaveston , still crying, stood in the doorway staring as if her purpose in life

had just been taken away.

I was aware that I might shatter the glass case that protected her from the world,

but was unable to bare the silence any longer so I tried to chat to her.

" Never mind Mrs. Greaveston, just a bird ", I said quickly.

She didn't move. She just stared at the tiny pile of leaves.

That curious silence was far worse than any reply she could have given. Now the

light was fading behind her leaving her standing alone in the cold dark shadows.

I could imagine this poor woman crawling around the floor picking up tiny

pieces of broken glass that would have to be glued back together one by one.

" Got to try to be a little cheerful at Christmas " , I said trying to combat the

oppressive silence. She didn't respond so I hurried towards my door.

Christmas for her was just another dusty exhibit in the corner of her very private

museum. It meant even less to her than a bell does to a budgie.

She allowed me to look but only when it was necessary to tidy up the

unpleasantness and restore touch to her cold insulated existence. If you cannot

feel anything you cannot be hurt.

As I opened the door to my flat and the safety of my own glass case I hoped that

Joey's death would give her the freedom she never had before.

I took off my clothes and tiptoed into the shower, turned the hot water on and

closed my eyes.

" What a wonderful haven the shower is !" I thought.

There is no vengeful god in a warm safe shower. There are no unanswerable

questions among the wet tiles. You are alone with the soothing water and the

soap.

My joy was short lived , however. Just as I was feeling relaxed there was another

pounding on the door. This time I had to face the great unknown dressed only in

the white bathrobe my sister gave me for Christmas.

It was Mrs. Greaveston with a large fruitcake in her hands. The old woman and the

fruitcake made me laugh through my nose but I don't think she saw the

humorous side to it. She struggled bravely to say something which I'm sure had

the words 'thank you' in it and burst into tears again.

I froze. There was nothing I could do or say. She wiped her eyes gently and spoke

with the voice of angel.

" I had to say goodbye. He was my little Joe-Joe."

I started to cry a little myself as she turned and disappeared into her museum

again. It was about that time that I came up with one of those great unanswerable

questions that infect the soul. Why do we say goodbye to the dead? They can't

hear us?

Joey's death made me stop and think. For the first time in my life I realised that I

didn't understand what it meant to say " goodbye " or even why we bothered.

It wasn't just the fact that all things come to an end. In some people there is a

real need to let go. There is an enslavement in love, a willing attachment and the

only freedom from it is death.

It is the kind of freedom found in not having to worry about a loved one feeling

pain any longer.

Mrs. Greaveston didn't have to feel trapped anymore. All she could do was accept.

Her way of coping with death was to embrace it as a doorway to freedom. She

never questioned anything and never wished anyone any harm. It was difficult to

disagree with the simple wisdom she lived by. I began to envy her calm.

Not that wisdom has a special place like a church or a school. Wisdom grows

everywhere like grass. It can be seen in the knowing smile of a loved one.

It can be the innocent comments of a child. It can even be found in the death of a

beloved pet.

The people of Yennora will not wear black armbands for Joey. The flags will

not fly at half-mast today. No one will light a special candle at the altar in church

or leave a bunch of white lilies at his door.

Yennora is now a noisy industrial town. It rarely inspires wisdom or compassion.

There is an enormous metal shed for storing wool. Not far away is an aluminium

factory.

Yennora is where they class some of the finest Merino wool in the world. Across

the road they make cans for some of the most popular soft drinks ever produced.

Because of the diligence of the workers of Yennora millions of people have warmth

in Winter and a cool drink to ward off the Summer heat.

Although there is a darker side to the railway track. Probably the most threatening

symbol of that part of the world is the numerous car repair places. They stand like

a monument to human misery.

During the fifties everyone dreamed of owning their own car to escape in but

of course they never did. The young ended up crashing the family car shattering

the dream and the windshield all at the same time. By the sixties the dream

was all but abandoned.

Yennora is more likely to extinguish hope and discourage any souls unlucky

enough to be born there. It has always been a place to grieve not a place to live.

Little blue budgies, cars and souls die there everyday. The souls that don't die

suffer a lifetime of yearning.

There was something worthwhile there however and something great.

This was the humble birthplace of my silent journey. It was the start of a life

long exploration. It was the beginning of my search for what replaces hope when

the young are continually denied it?

Very few people even knew that Joey ever lived. Not a soul would mourn his

death. For me Joey's passing was the first step in a long complicated waltz with

"goodbye".

For a moment I began to envy Mrs. Greaveston. Her life seemed simple.

You let life deal with itself. Her life was a photograph that faded when exposed to

the light of day but was safe when kept in the dark.

I went back to the bedroom and dragged my jeans on, cursed my stomach and

promised myself for the thousandth time to go on a diet, when the telephone rang.

It was my sister Cynthia. She was in her usual state of panic but this time there

was a good reason.

Her voice was very low and I will never forget the sinking feeling I had as she told

me the news.

" Oh God, Dad's been rushed to hospital. Come quick. It's Auburn District, I'll meet

you there at midday. ", she ordered, and with a terrible clang hung up the

telephone.

The most ridiculous thoughts rushed through my mind. I stopped breathing for a

moment. I didn't know what to think. The truth is that I wasn't able to feel

anything.

I grabbed my car keys and wallet and ran out of the flat only to be greeted by Mrs.

Greaveston again.

" Funny time, Christmas, aye ? " I shouted, without thinking.

With the dignity of a mourner at a funeral she took a deep breath and carefully

framed her words.

" I hate Christmas, my Aunt Violet died at Christmas ", she revealed, " At least I

got to say goodbye to Joey."

With more pressing concerns I ignored her and ran to my old car. Luckily it started

easily.

There were hardly any cars on the road. Boxing Day is a very quiet time. Most

people from Sydney get out quickly after the hysteria of Christmas has waned.

On the way to the hospital I became philosophical. I tried to remember what my

father looked like but I couldn't make a mental image of him.

I narrowly missed a small gang of children who bolted onto the road riding their

brand new bicycles.

It was still bright as day even though it was about 8 o'clock at night. Sydney

children have a hot Christmas. Skateboards were weaving everywhere. The riders

looked like giant seagulls with their wings spread for the landing.

I reached the hospital without incident, which was one of those Christmas miracles

that go unnoticed.

Auburn Hospital is an austere building. It towers above the red suburban houses

like a monument. Skirting the entrance were rows of dry thirsty gardenias and

bottle brush trees with their blood red flowers stood like soldiers at the gates of a

medieval castle. Even God doesn't like Christmas in Australia. The land is dried out

like paper and set on fire.

I reached the reception area and was confronted with a fire-breathing dragon in

a white nurses uniform. I told her my name and before I could explain she began

repeating it and searching her computer.

" Mr. Masters, Mr. David Masters, David Masters, no I don't have anyone here by

that name." she roared.

I shook my head and explained that my father Kevin had been admitted and that I

was here to see him.

" Oh ", she said inhaling so she could breathe out more fire," Why didn't you

say so ?, I'm not a mind reader!"

" Keith Masters has been admitted for tests and he is happy to receive visitors ",

she indicated.

At first I smiled. The idea of my homophobic father being happy to receive

visitors was laughable. There was a humorous contradiction in what she said but

her next statement was anything but amusing.

" Mr. Masters, your father is seriously ill. It's his heart, God bless him, and him

bein' such a nice man. Didn't give us an ounce of trouble." she explained.

I remember reaching for my throat. I couldn't breathe. I wondered if she was

talking about the same man. I even felt guilty because the

thought occurred to me that the one thing he didn't really have was a heart.

My father always said that the heart was just a second rate pump. It was now time

to rethink that rating. Hiding in a stupor was more important to him than looking

after his health. His medicine was alcohol and his ideal evening was getting drunk.

Without thinking about the whole idea he often asked me to "pull the plug" if he

ever became a "vegetable". That was the extent of his journey into metaphysics.

My thought at the time was that the death of the soul by cheap liquor had the

exact effect he was trying to avoid.

He was not an unintelligent man. He was just one of those lonely men who are

afraid all the time. He was so afraid he drank himself senseless every night.

It was comedic that he regarded personal dignity with such adulation yet took

great strides to humiliate himself at every opportunity.

The only time I ever heard him say anything that was remotely thought provoking

was when he was arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol.

One night he crashed the car into a rose garden. The police found him half-naked

rambling about the "Japs".

As he was poured into the house from the Police Van his words were about his

sense of shame not the awareness that he could have killed himself or others.

" They can take your house, they can take the shirt off your back, but if you lose

your dignity you've got nothing. That's how the Japs did it in World War II. Strip

you off. Let you walk around half naked while they laughed their heads off."

Dad was 16 years old when he went to War. He just lied about his age like most of

them did. At 16 my biggest problem was talking to girls.

Their teenage years were a mixture of extremes. Extreme fear, extreme glory and

most of all extreme regret. Of course the Fathers of the age of teens were

desperate. They had no understanding of the frailty of the new creature that had

suddenly invaded the house.

In the fifties about thirteen years after the war the first teenagers were created as

a marketing exercise. To combat this new threat to Australian society they had to

invent the idea of the Father.

It was an awkward male who had to pretend to care. Never in history had the

working classes ever had such a thing as a teenager laying around all day.

In the past they were sent out to earn a living. Only the rich were able to have

children of leisure. By 1960 Australia was over run with teenagers. They were

everywhere. It was a plague of youth.

The Fathers weren't given any training or any example to follow. Child Psychology

was still in its infancy. Their teenage years were spent killing the Japanese.

It was a strain for the war-makers to live in the same house with young dependent

adults who were yelling for peace.

They had no way of knowing what it meant to be a teenager and had no strategy

to deal with them.

So never having been teenagers themselves they resented the freedom that their

sons and daughters had. This resentment caused the death of Australia.

This mutiny created an Australia divided.

The teenagers, having nothing to do all day protested against the war, against the

world, against anything.

At the end the house was burned down by the children.

Just like petrol on a bushfire the new war in Vietnam started and of course the

youth were chosen to be sacrificed. But this time they objected.

"Conscientious objectors" they were called. Young men were thrown in gaol

because they wouldn't kill. To most Australian Fathers they were just cowards.

I was visiting my father who was dying of heart disease and I realised that he was

a stranger.

The Fathers of the Baby Boomers were the worst in the world because they were

the first. They got it horribly wrong.

These saddened men whose sons and daughters had protested against them

became embittered businessmen who gave Australia away to the highest bidder.

It seemed to take hours for the elevator to arrive. I stepped in carefully as if there

was no floor there to support me. On one of the walls was a mirror.

I stared at my reflection thankful that I would get to say goodbye.

The old elevator reached the seventh floor. The ward was pale. The walls and

floor were shining and of course there was a distinctive smell of hospital

antiseptic.

There wasn't anyone at reception so I summoned the courage of the Samurai and

went on alone. I didn't go far and soon found him in room 45B.

He was laying on a white metal bed. Next to his bed was a glorious vase filled

with orange marigolds.

I smiled when I saw them. Apparently they are named after the Virgin Mary and

represent the Sun shining but aren't particularly linked to happiness. It is a

mystery that such a beautiful flower could possibly be associated with sorrow.

My father had a peaceful look on his face. The look of a man who didn't know

where he was and didn't care.

He heard me approach and slowly opened one eye as if I was the enemy trying to

sneak up on him.

" Don't let the bastards know you're afraid !" he ordered.

There was no intelligent response to that so I commented on the flowers and how

well he looked.

We always speak softly to the ill even though they are not deaf. It was time to

talk. Too many years had gone by not to take this final opportunity to face each

other. It didn't look like he had too many years left anyway.

I leaned close and asked him if he was comfortable but we had both lost the ability

to communicate. As usual he didn't answer me directly. He often came out with

whatever thought that was able to make its way through the dead brain cells and

rise to the surface.

" Please put me to sleep son! Don't let them butcher me. I don't want them

operating on me!" ,he screamed.

Before I could assure him that they were the best doctors in the country he

explained why he was worried.

"The bastard's a Nip ! Can you believe it ! They've given me a Jap doctor! Please

don't let him come near me son!"

My mouth dropped in horror. There was no stopping him so I closed the curtain

around us both. He was already out of mind I was trying to get him out of sight.

It only made matters worse and soon he was shouting.

" Can you believe it, they send me a bloody Nippon ? Slanty-eyed little, crazy

Kamikaze rice eaters! I fought hard in 1942 in New Guinea. Killed my share of the

bow-legged empire building mongrels. Did you know that they ate human flesh,

during the war, in New Guinea ? Cannibals! The bastards! That's why they like

Sushi so much. It's all raw meat. I won't have any cannibal Japs operating on

me."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I was embarrassed but worse than that I

became disconnected. I didn't know anything about this sad old man.

There was nothing I could say to appease him so I poured some cold water into

a glass and handed it to him.

" Please Dad have this , it will calm your nerves " I said, softly.

His pain was very real. It was unimaginable. The level of hatred he had for the

Japanese was immense. It was not racism because they invaded Australia.

Racism is an unreasonable fear of another race. His fear was based on terrifying

first-hand experience. He was almost killed fighting Japanese soldiers.

There was nothing imaginary about that. His fear was real.

" Don't let him operate on me. He'll do a rotten job on purpose. I want you

to do the job properly. Don't let the mongrels make me suffer!", he pleaded.

He went on begging for mercy for minutes until a grey nurse came in and

gave him that look that can stop traffic. Dad went quiet.

It didn't stop him for long though. He just tugged at my shirt and made me lean

close.

" What exactly are you talking about Dad ? " I asked.

He wiped his mouth and spoke slowly in an eerie voice.

" When the time arrives I want you to put me to sleep!"

It finally hit me like a cricket bat in the face. He wasn't talking about giving him a

sleeping pill. The thought made me pale. He wanted me to kill him.

It was unthinkable, even though it was true to say that he wasn't the greatest

father who ever lived.

How could anyone even contemplate killing their own Dad? It was reminiscent of

an ancient Greek tragedy.

As I walked out of the room I took a long deep breath. He wasn't joking or

even trying to test my loyalty. I reached the elevator and felt nauseous.

I was able to hold on until the carpark and threw up behind a gum tree.

I couldn't believe he would ask me to do such a thing. I couldn't kill a fly.

There was no way that I could murder my own father.

The old fool had really made me angry. We should have been talking about our

lives not planning his death.

It was difficult for me to sleep. I lay awake all night wondering what kind of man

he really was.

My first clear memory was Christmas 1975. I was studying at Sydney University

and like most people my age I didn't believe in anything. Christmas was for

children or adults who never grew up.

Although it was hard to believe that God could have been born in a manger I was

determined to find out what Christmas meant to everyone.

It was a typically warm Summer day in Yennora. Australian children have to suffer

a hot Christmas.

It was Dad who met me at the door. He was already merry. The rest of the

Masters family were in the living room spread out like a pack of playing cards.

Everyone seemed to go quiet when I entered the room. The working class

don't trust anyone with a university education even if they are family.

I sat down quickly and tried to avoid the inevitable but pointless questions families

ask each other.

Michael, my brother asked me how I was and Glenda his " pommy " wife laughed

without even hearing my answer.

Michael was a hard working Australian man, tall with strong shoulders and brown

curly hair. He was a plumber and so pretended not to understand anything

intellectual in the conversation.

His twenty year old face was prematurely wrinkled from working outside under the

great Australian sun. Like most teenagers he left school on his fifteenth birthday.

He seemed hopeful although the future was not very kind to him.

He was the last child of a large baby-boomers' family. As such he was raised by

his brothers and sisters.

He was the last child and he was also the last straw.

The only human contact came from TV, a drunken father and an exhausted

mother. Naturally he became an alcoholic.

The alternative would have been a lifetime of trying to win the approval of parents

who didn't care.

His wife was a brave passionate English lady who came out to Australia in the

early seventies. He married her because she wasn't like his mother. She took an

interest in his life and cared about him. Mum could barely raise enough energy to

pretend to care.

Like a dark black cloud alcoholism settles around the young who are not given

hope and who have parents who are comfortable with the prospect of them never

achieving much. Mum saw marriage as the only worthwhile achievement.

Glenda was new to Australia and was told that all the locals were low class and

that she was superior to them. Of course she wasn't but if you pretend long

enough you become.

She was a stocky lady with a full figure and beautiful blonde hair that curled down

to her shoulders. She loved life and laughing but always seemed out of control.

I made her laugh just by opening my mouth and speaking.

I don't quite know what it is about some people. They find conversations boring so

they end up laughing. Laughter is the parachute that we use to avoid the fatal

impact of intelligent conversation.

Glenda used it as an umbrella that protected her from anything too stressful and to

ward off anything too thoughtful that might accidentally come towards her.

She sat on a brown vinyl lounge in a yellow dress. As I settled down Dad broke the

terrifying silence.

"There's been bloody hotter Christmases than this John, but thank goodness I

can't remember when , he said loudly, " It's been so hot I have to hose the cat

down every afternoon."

He had just been caught admiring Glenda's bare knees when he was rescued by

the fan. It stopped. "Fittz", then nothing.

"Well, Dad you seem to have your eye on the situation. What are we going to do

now, hose each other?" inquired Mum who was sweating like a pie in a plastic bag.

Mum had been preparing food for hours and had lost any patience she might

normally have. She began wiping her hands on the dirty apron around her waist.

This was an unmistakable sign that she was not happy. It was done out of anger

rather than cleanliness. She sat down and tried hard to pick a fight with some one.

Mum didn't like fighting. She just enjoyed starting them.

My mother was a tall strong Australian woman born in the nineteen twenties. She

grew up with a Catholic education, a world wide depression and a World War to

cope with, all before she was twenty-one. After the war she had to deal with

having six children one after another during the fifties.

Her only reference to child rearing was to treat them the way she had been

treated by the Catholic nuns. Of course that meant we were raised by fear of

the belt.

Other than the use of punishment to solve problems she had the good sense to

abandon that evil cult before it infected her adult life.

She had the foresight not to bring the kids up believing in a devil or that we were

born in sin or that nonsense about God being nailed to a cross.

She had a deep sense of goodness. It centred on suffering in silence.

Unfortunately that kind of tolerance is often confused with apathy. She always

thought of herself as a good person yet had no idea what that meant and did

nothing to prove it.

She smoked too much, she gambled too much and was a terrible cook. Yet she

wore the title of mother as if giving birth was all you had to do.

The men in her life, her father and her husband were both soldiers and

therefore murderers. Australian women like my mother became hard. They learned

to hate Australian men and to fear them.

Consequently they treated their sons like dogs and their daughters like dolls.

Children were just pets that had to be tolerated. They were let out at sunrise

and told not to return to the house until the sun went down and dinner was on.

She always had a cigarette in her mouth as did most Australians in the sixties.

They didn't have the courage to say the word cancer in those days.

They were the wonderful days of freedom of every kind. But children often endure

neglect for the glory found in freedom.

She raised six brats single handedly and was always tired. Like many women in

those days she spent her youth yelling at kids and pealing potatoes.

It is no surprise that the next generation embraced women's liberation.

" We'll just have to do what we did in bleeding New Guinea ", Dad said

thoughtfully.

He was dangling his line in front of Glenda hoping she would bite, and of course

she did.

" What did you do in New Guinea, Dad ? " inquired the luscious Glenda with a

genuine desire to know the truth.

" Well, Glenny, just imagine if you will, twenty big hairy Aussie blokes in an army

tent in the steaming jungle. There was no way we could cool down.

You couldn't go outside because of the tsetse flies. Those mongrels were so big we

had to build airfields for them. The poor fellas on watch had to carry tennis

raquets!"

We all laughed but poor Glenda was mesmerised.

" Anyway there we were up to our bleeding armpits in it ! " Dad continued.

" In what Dad ? ",asked Glenda without even blinking yet managing to raise a

giggle.

" Never mind! Anyway let's just say it was stinking hot, okay. So good old frog-

nosed Wilson gets this bright idea."

" Why did they call him Frog-nose ? Frogs don't have noses!", revealed Glenda,

causing us to laugh through our noses.

" Never mind Glenda!", continued Dad, " Wilson thought ,if half of us flapped our

arms for ten minutes every hour it would cool the tent down!"

By this stage Glenda was on the edge of her chair.

" At least that way " , explained Dad , " the other half could get forty winks. Well

anything for some sleep, we had to have a go ! There we were twenty Aussie

soldiers, in a army tent, in the middle of the jungle with Japs all around flappin our

arms like a bunch of flamingoes on heat !"

Everyone had heard the story a dozen times but out of a peculiar sense of duty

they all laughed.

Glenda opened her legs and then crossed them again. With the accumulated

wisdom of the English speaking world she shouted, " Wow Dad did it work?"

The look on Dad's face gave the impression that he thought that this was too easy.

He had to finish the story quickly.

" No Glenny, the tent took off like a hot air balloon. It lifted us all up and over the

Sepic River. We abandoned the tent just in time to see it explode into a million

pieces. We ended up cooling down alright! Drenched to the bone!"

Again everyone burst into laughter, except poor Glenda who was still bemused by

the tale. She had the last laugh, even if it was accidental.

" The tent was probably made in Japan !" she suggested.

There followed the long silence of the defeated. This time Mum wanted to steal the

show and slap Dad as well.

" Dad, that old story is as full of hot air as you are and it doesn't fix the fan now

does it ?", she bellowed.

" Yeah but it sure put the wind up Glenda ! ", blew Dad, as he slapped his knee

and grinned from ear to ear.

" Oh Dad, you ain't half the one, pullin' my leg like that ! ", answered Glenda

unaware of what he was talking about.

I think Dad mumbled something about wanting to pull her leg but cut the

statement short realising that the joke would have been completely inappropriate

even for him. The situation was saved by a loud knock on the door.

The door flew open revealing the pear-shaped Ernie Calabro.

" Ern you old deigo, we had to start without you? ", said Dad, " You look as dry as

a nun at a church fete in the middle of Summer."

Ernie was a large man. He had a loud voice and drank too much. If misery loves

company it would adore Ernie.

I never really understood why Dad accepted him as a friend. It was probably

because he made his own home brew and so Dad could have as much as he

wanted.

Even though Ernie was as blind as a bat and Dad couldn't speak he persevered

with the introductions.

" This here is Glenda, she's a pom from sunny England. That's Rob, and John and

his wife Kath. That's Pete and of course you know David my crazy schoolteacher

son. Reckons he's never met a kid he didn't like. Like to barbecue that is!"

The rest cackled as if it was the first time they had ever heard Dad's wise and

enlightened attitude to children.

Dad's approach was very simple. You bribe them with lollies until they are old

enough to pay pocket money. You then pay them money until they are old enough

to send to work. You then blame society for anything they do wrong.

The children of the post war period destroyed Australia because their parents

didn't love them. Most of the parents didn't even use the word.

Children were pets. Some children behaved like dogs and became obedient to their

parent's way of life while others became cats who sat defiant and wouldn't bow

down to materialism.

The raucous laughter in the room opened the way for the less than remarkable

Ernie to remark.

" Hello Everyone, I'm Ern but I'm certainly not Grecian, get it ?"

Because there was no response he went on and laboured the point.

" Grecian Urn, get it ? "

There was no response the second time either.

Dad changed the subject back to his favourite past time.

" Yeah, yeah Ern good one, so what are ya drinkin' ? Same old rocket fuel. Three

parts nitro and seven parts rat poison? You'll never learn !"

Ern's real name was Enrico and he was one of the thousands of Italian peasant

migrants who were given cheap passage to Australia in the fifties.

They were brought out to build a white anti-Asian country.

Dad hated the Italians even more than he hated the Japs. Poor old Ernie didn't

know when to keep his mouth shut.

"Oh you crazy Aussies, you always drink a da beer! Don't you know I'm Italiano. I

only drink a da vino!"

Dad took a deep breath barely able to contain himself.

"The Italians gave a many things to Australia. Opera, Art and of course da vino!

most of all da vino! Yes?" Ern said putting his big Italian head in the lion's mouth.

" Don't start with me, Ern! ", Dad threatened, " I don't mind you as a neighbour

but you'll never become a mate with that attitude! You're a wop,mate, a wog and

a deigo and that's that! They used to say buy now before the deigo's buy! We

can't trust you "eye-ties"! You have to remember we fought a war against your

fascist mates under Mussolini! What did you blokes expect when you came out

here, a big red carpet at the wharf and a brass band playing?

Of course you "eye-ties" were hated and still are today. You were the enemy! You

don't forget that in a hurry!"

Mum sat there shaking her head the whole time. She was fortunate. She didn't go

to war so she didn't hate Italians or any other race for that matter.

However she wasn't going to miss an opportunity to shoot down in flames the man

she married.

" Dad you're talking out ya backside!", she said politely.

"Am I, Am I really ", Dad asked," the bastards don't even speak English! Every

second word is bloody momma mia! I know Ernie here saved every penny. Got his

parents out here. Isn't that true. They all lived in a tin shed.

But now they all live in mansions. How do you explain that?

They dismantled this great country of ours. It's dead I tell you. The bloody "eye-

ties" The whole place is over run with Catholics. They're all money mad. Dealing in

drugs!

They're all on the councils now! They're all into re-zoning the place so they can

make a killing!"

"Shut up , Dad, it's the alcohol talking!" Mum explained.

"I won't shut up, " Dad shouted, " There are four evils that all decent peace loving

fair dinkum Australians hate! Mad Catholics. Real Estate fraud, car salesmen and

bloody drugs! All of these were brought here by the "eye-ties" and the place has

gone to the dogs ever since!"

Mum couldn't take anymore rambling and grabbed a glass of beer and three it

into Dad's face. It made him worse.

" You bitch, what did you do that for? You see this is what I'm talking about! ",

Dad explained wiping beer from his forehead, " the tidal wave of wogs and deigos

in the fifties coupled with the lazy teenagers not caring meant white Australia died

in the sixties. It's a question of loyalty! The first white Australian woman to marry

an Italian migrant stabbed a knife into the heart of a wondrous people !"

Glenda woke up and realised that she was a migrant, although from England and

so wasn't under attack at this stage. She managed to pluck up enough courage to

have her say.

" My sister's married to an Italian! Luigi his name is. He's a car salesman. He'll get

you a great deal Dad!

With that news Dad sat down. It was pointless going on. Ernie sat down on the

floor and the room went quiet.

All we really knew about Ern was that he once worked in an ice-cream factory. One

day he deliberately put his hand in the slicer and cut off two fingers. The story was

that he was after compensation.

After the accident he couldn't work and became one of the first dole bludgers in

Australian history. He was bitterly hated by hard working Australians.

The only choice for the hated is to fight back or become clowns in the presence of

those who hate you.

I sat there with a green pickle in my mouth thinking about Racism. There really

was no response anyone could make. Racism is just a dark ugly monster that runs

screaming when light shines on it. It needs to be examined, killed and buried in

the backyard.

Throughout the whole Ernie fiasco Mum had sat quietly like a cobra snake, without

making a sound, waiting for her moment to strike.

" Now what about the bleedin' fan ?", she yelled loudly.

That was one of those moments in time when chaos reigns.

Events that should never happen at all actually happened at the same time with

the disastrous consequences that only a terribly sick God could allow.

At the Christmas party Ern volunteered to fix the fan. That was

pure comedy waiting to happen.

Outside under the blazing Sun and in the light of innocence Michael's son Jason

was feeding the budgies. Naturally he left the cage door open when he was

finished. As a consequence three of the feathery flying machines escaped. Luckily

they flew into the house.

They entered the house unnoticed and settled on one of the curtain rods in the

living room and waited for God's instructions.

" Neva fear, a Ern is a here ! I just 'appen to have a screwdriver handy in my a

pocket. I can let you have it for a song okay."

" What song is that, Ern ? " , asked Mum, " Jeepers Creepers where did ya get

those pliers! Looks like one of Dad's tools from the shed!"

Like a woman whose dress blows up by the wind he had no recourse but to smile

and pretend it didn't happen.

" Never mind Mum I sell it to you for nothing okay?", offered Ern, " Mumma mia

you gotta eyes in the front of your head!"

John, my older brother who always took over when he shouldn't , grabbed the

screwdriver and attacked the fan.

'' Greatest piece of technology since the mechanical udder pump ", screamed John,

as he wrestled with the helpless fan.

While John parried and thrusted like an amateur fencer the rest of us went back to

the great Christmas torment of making conversation with people you can't stand.

Suddenly , out of the blue, John had a revelation.

" There's ya problem. Right there!" Ya bloomin' do-hickey's bent ! "

Dad wasn't able to resist responding to that news.

" Yeah, yeah that would be right John, the flammin' story of my life ! It's no

wonder my flammin' kids are all screwed up !"

John was more than capable of putting Dad in his place.

" Well Dad I might be a chip off the old Jacaranda !" , answered John, " But I'll fix

this fan in a jiffy! I'll have ya bums as cold as a nun's tit in no time!"

It was now about two in the morning and I woke up screaming with a vivid image

of John and Dad at the Christmas party replaying in my head like a broken record.

Was that my life? Was that all I had to look back on? All I have is a few deranged

memories. Was my sad life any more purposeful than Mrs Greaveston's?

It soon became clear why Dad wanted to end it all.

The question was whether or not I could take his life. Could I end the life of a man

I should have loved?

I walked out into the summer night burdened with the most difficult decision

anyone could ever have. I was even afraid to fall asleep in case I recalled those

dark cold days again and how separate I felt. I didn't belong. I had no way of

relating to a world filled with ashtrays and alcohol. I reached a park bench and sat

down to think about life.

Looking out into the shadows I saw a drunken man curled up under a pile of old

newspapers. From the odour I think he'd wet himself recently. I felt guilty about

smiling but I couldn't stop myself.

He seemed oblivious to anything around him. The one joy in alcohol is it's sedative

effect. But alcohol as a form of suicide was far too slow for Dad. He wanted

someone to push him over the edge.

I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep leaving the comical face of the moon

laughing at both of us. It was only a mellow kind of half sleep and I was taken

back to 1975 again. I was not going to be allowed to escape and was forced to

endure time travel as my punishment.

Glenda could never sit still. I will never forget how she crossed her legs and

conducted the male eyes in the room and made that monumental discovery.

" The bleedin' fan's not plugged in Dad!", she revealed dangling the electrical cord

in her slender white hand. Her face lit up brighter than a shop front Christmas

tree.

Lurking just behind the lounge was the shadowy figure of Colin her personal

Lochness monster.

" Colin you little beggar! I'll bleedin' tan you alive ! ", she screamed, not really

having any idea what she meant. I really loved the way she got the old sayings

wrong. Of course correcting her was pointless.

" Was the poor little blighter bottle fed?" Dad inquired.

" You're bleeding joking, Dad, what do you think these are rockmelons?", she

squealed pushing out her enormous breasts.

This was too much for Pete who nearly choked on a green pickle with the

toothpick still in it.

It is quite amazing the food people manage to eat at Christmas. They eat things

they would normally never touch. Pete would never dream of buying some pickles.

Yet at Christmas he ate bottles and bottles of green pickles and olives as if they

were the last ones left.

Startled by the commotion Kath thumped him on the back. Out popped something

slimy and green. Pete burst out laughing and spilled his beer all over the bits and

pieces of the dissected fan.

" Jesus, Pete, that'll ruin the Persian rug we got from Fiji last year!", yelled

Mum with a horrified look on her face.

" What are you crowin' about, Mum, the bloody thing fell off the back of a truck

anyway!", Pete argued.

This was the limit for Kath. She had sat quietly for most of the time but Mum's

reference to our lord and saviour was enough to make her Catholic blood boil.

" Stop it, everyone ! It's supposed to be Jesus' birthday. Show some respect !", she

said and started to cry.

" You're right Kath we should feel sorry for the little Tyke, having the Father he

had !" Dad said, making matters worse.

Dad saw himself as the family compass yet always seemed to point everyone the

wrong way.

He maintained a sense of reality even though no-one ever knew whether he was

serious or not.

Kath was raised to be one of those Catholic girls who chose to support her

husband. She believed in the Queen, the Pope, children and a woman's place in

the home.

For Kath the highest achievement for a woman was to love and follow her

husband and to encourage her family. She saw Christmas as a combination of all

she believed in.

There was the Queen and the Pope's Christmas message. Jesus was the perfect

baby and Mary the perfect mother.

Kath's mother was a hard working woman who raised her daughter without the

hindrance of a Father figure.

Kath's method of coping without hope was to imagine her mother as a combination

of the Queen and Jesus and create herself out of this fantastic collage.

She stood strong like a statue of Venus d'Milo with her arms intact. She was a

living protest against woman's liberation which was blossoming in Australia.

She left a promising career at a young age, resigned to the fact that her life should

be like her mothers.

The irony was that it worked. By supporting and loving John she gave him the

hope his parents denied him.

Together they made a small fortune in the building industry. John would work hard

knowing his loving wife was at home supporting him and raising the children.

John married her because she was very much like his mother. Because he was

the first he was the only one loved.

Brothers are not always raised by the same Mother. All mothers have their

favourite son or daughter.

John my older brother was the family favourite. He was a living testament to the

power of American marketing to corrupt the world. For most of his teenage years

he wore jeans and combed his hair like a rock 'n' roll star.

When the first take away fried chicken place opened he lived on nothing else. He

became addicted to anything American. Music, clothes but most of all the food.

He was the quintessential teenager who gave Australia away without a shot being

fired. It can be said that he wrestled with alcoholism but won the fight due to a

good woman in his corner.

Although he criticised his Father for going to war he would shout support for the

Vietnam War. Without ever holding a gun he like many Australians supported the

notion of war as defence. This kind of blind faith is often scarier than war itself.

Dad was not quite sure how to deal with a crying girl. He chose to ignore her and

busy everyone else.

"John I want you to fix the fan or throw it away! The rest of you, get drunk! " he

said, like a drill sergeant.

After a few minutes of cursing and swearing, John actually got the fan back

together by straightening the do-hickey and plugging it in. He turned it on and it

worked better than ever before.

By this time Jason's negligence that led to the three budgies escaping was about to

become budgiecide.

" Well I'll be snookered! You got that fixed faster than, "My Mistake's win at the

dogs last week.! Bonza! " Dad shouted in a voice that would frighten the bravest

budgie alive.

Before I could remember anymore I heard the frightening words: " Excuse me sir,

are you allright?"

I woke up to a loud Policeman tapping me on the shoulder. It must have been

about four in the morning. The old wooden bench was hard and I was exhausted.

I didn't answer the Policeman. I just smiled at the fact that he had no idea where I

had just been. I staggered back to the flat and fell onto my bed.

The next morning I went to the hospital again.

I hadn't been able to make a decision either way. All I knew was that it was an

awkward situation.

I began to get angry because he had no right to put me in the position of

executioner. I reached the cold metal bed Dad was in and we smiled.

" Will you please do me that little favour son?", he pleaded.

I explained the problem I had with the whole idea. If I was caught I would be sent

to prison for murder.

I could see the veins in his neck as he became enraged and I realised why we

hadn't spoken for years.

He began yelling as loud as ever although this time there was a surprising purpose

in his words.

" You poor bastard ! You married a bitch who didn't love you. You had three

ungrateful kids and now you are alone! You'll probably never find any real love.

You've worked hard all your life and you've got nothing to show for it.

I was a hopeless Father too. I think you're the one who should be wishing to cash

in his chips not me."

I thought for a moment that he was trying to talk to me but as he went on I

wondered if what I was hearing was that little voice in his head. That strange voice

that didn't like him was getting the floor.

It was one of those rare moments when he was sober and he was scared because

he was forced to listen to himself.

At last he discovered that I existed and it was important for him to talk to me man

to man.

He waved me over to his side and whispered to me.

" Believe me son, life is just froth and bloody bubble. It's not worth the frigin'

paper it's printed on! No-one gives a rat's arse about this country anymore! During

the war I fought and almost died for this place! Look around you! It's not the same

anymore! No one cares! You can say what you like because it won't make any

difference. It'll be all forgotten five minutes after you've said it!"

He fell asleep with the words "It's all a bloody sham!"

Being an older man with a fairly good job and plenty to live for I never really

thought about death much. It scared me to think I would end up rambling like

Dad. His speech made me think about death. What did it mean to me?

I really couldn't come up with any answers except that it would be bliss not having

to think anymore. Thinking is God's way of tormenting the ones he loves.

The mind can be a wonderful world of possibilities or a dwelling place of dark fears

and doubts.

I sat down near him and started to eat an orange. It reminded me of the

Christmas Party again. They were the same colour as Glenda's orange juice. She

was the only non-drinker at the party yet she acted more like a rolling drunk than

any of us.

Just after the fan was repaired and everyone was cooling down Mum entered with

a giant punchbowl. It's contents were unfathomable. The liquid was a peculiar red

colour with mysterious rinds floating in it.

I remember Pete whispering that it looked like cold rhubarb soup and I wondered

if there was such a thing.

"Come on have a go at this little beauty!", invited Mum.

Glenda sat back in her chair hugging her famous juice.

" Go on Glenny, have a snort, it'll put some hair on your chest!" explained Dad

knowing she was a tea-totaller.

She was unmoved by the suggestion and ignored him.

" It's Christmas Glenda, don't be a bloomin' wowser, even J C himself had the

occasional sip of wine!"

That was too much for poor Glenda. To shut Dad up she decided to have a short

sip of the bright red fluid.

It looked potent enough to kill a Sumo wrestler. That first sip was followed by

twelve more and Glenda was a new woman. No-one suspected that underneath

that quiet English exterior beat the heart of a dancing girl.

The camera was set for a double exposure. Unknown to anyone, Colin, who by the

way should have died at birth but was kept alive in a humidi-crib for several weeks

untied the straps on her top.

Her outfit consisted of a yellow mini-skirt that left little to the imagination and a

white top that was split at the front and was tied in a bow around her neck.

Glenda was so drunk that she didn't notice her undoing and was oblivious to

anything around her.

In her wisdom Mum decided that everyone should dance. She went to the stereo

and put on a disco record. This was irresistible to Glenda the belly dancer. She

stood up and started shaking to the music. The top fell down revealing two

enormous pink breasts. She looked like part of a travel movie about Africa.

Dad moved dangerously close to Glenda and had to be pushed out of the way by

Mum who didn't look impressed.

The whole affair was too much for Michael who slowly became conscious enough

to realise that the woman he loved was dancing around the room, half naked, to

the tune of "Disco Dolls"!

He rose from his chair, charged forward, snorting as he tried to rescue his damsel

in undress.

"Sit down and take it easy Glenny you know you've got a bad back. You're not at

home now! ", he revealed.

To everyone's surprise Glenda danced on like she had done it all before until she

collapsed on the lounge and was made to look more decent by her devoted

husband.

An eerie calm come over everyone and I had a moment to reflect on my family

and what Christmas really meant.

Dad saw his chance to take control of a difficult situation, although after an infinite

amount of beer it was hard for him to find any words at that point.

Being intuitively aware that the only way to resolve a philosophical dilemma is to

create a third option Dad distracted everyone by changing the subject completely.

" Have you seen our latest little budgie John?, Dad inquired.

" What the hell are you blathering about Dad?", asked John.

" Yes it's a pied blue! A little beauty!" Dad continued.

" You're the only pie-eyed blue around here dad. No-one cares! I've always hated

those budgies! Filthy little rodents!"

I had never seen John lose his temper like that. I wondered if he was upset that

the Christmas Party had degenerated into a strip tease or that Glenda's dance was

over.

Remaining calm under pressure Dad took another drink of warm beer and

continued along the same path.

" Come out to the garage, John, I'll show you! " Dad invited.

At that Dad disappeared and we went back to party small talk. Ern came out with

his annual inquiry.

" How's teaching going? Taught any good kids lately?", he asked.

Peace come in and curled around us for a minute like smoke after a candle has

been gently blown out. Sadly it was only a temporary cease fire.

The back door burst open. Dad stood there red faced and screaming. He looked

like a windmill, waving and pointing his trembling hands.

" He's out! Bleeding Jesus, someone let three of the budgies out! I don't want

anyone to move! They may still be close by!

Always there for him in a crisis Mum come to the rescue.

" There they are on the curtain rod. Oh aren't they cute. Here birdie birdie birdie.

Let's try some lamingtons!

As she broke the cake and offered it to the birds I caught a glimpse of Dad outside

calling to the sky.

" Here fellas come to Daddy!" he cried. It was sad to watch.

With the power of an electric shock I woke up next to Dad in hospital. A nurse was

yelling that visiting time was over and that I should let my Father get some sleep.

" He's going to die isn't he?", I asked, void of tact because I was tired, " I think I

should say goodbye to him!"

" No, no!", she said, " he'll be around for a good while yet. His heart is blocked.

Probably an old war injury. But we have Doctor Mukasushi from Japan. He's the

best heart-surgeon this side of the Murray River! Your Dad'll have a new heart and

he'll be a new man! Now I have to ask you to leave. We need to let him rest! "

" Rest, yes that's all any of us want is to be able to rest! ", I said smiling.

Right on cue Dad woke up screaming, " Where's my son?"

" I'm right here Dad ",I said trying to reassure him.

The nurse left us alone. She was too busy to worry about one particularly difficult

patient.

" Son, you have to help me out. You heard her. The Doctor's a Jap. His father

probably tried to kill me in New Guinea during the war.

I'll bet he grew up hating Australians. He'll cut me to pieces! Don't let it happen.

Please son!"

In all my life I had never argued with my Father. I had always preferred to let him

live with his own nonsense than make things worse by letting him suffer mine.

That way I kept my thoughts pure and uncluttered by fear.

It was impossible to calm him down so I agreed to discuss the issue, even though

I wasn't completely convinced that I was incapable of mercy killing!"

" Okay, Dad , let's say just for a moment that I decide to put you to sleep. You

know it's forever don't you?", I asked, without needing an answer, " there's no

going back, and besides how am I supposed to do it anyway?"

" I've got it all worked out son!", he said without hesitation, " All I need is a bowl

of Aussie Mushrooms!"

That was the limit. Now I was completely confused. I thought that possibly the

shock had sent him crazy.

" What are you rambling about, Dad, Mushrooms?" I pleaded.

" Yes, you remember when you were a kid. We used to go out to the country and I

used to tell you about the mushrooms. You know that some of them are deadly

poisonous!" he said, as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

I told him I needed time to think about the whole idea even though I knew he

wasn't listening. I was exhausted all the next day and could only manage to lay in

bed and think deeply about the whole idea.

I tossed thoughts around in my mind like it was the first time in history anyone

had been asked these questions. It occurred to me that in less civilised times sons

were often called upon to put their Fathers or Mothers out of their misery. When

they were seriously injured for instance.

I thought of that ridiculous, "thou shalt not kill" argument, and how God alone

has the right to murder.

Unfortunately God wasn't listening to me or Dad. Of course we can let ourselves

off the hook by saying that it's God's business one way or the other.

The truth is it comes down to what is more fearful. Sometimes a person's situation

can become so scary that we contemplate the ultimate solution. They don't want

to end life, they want to end the pain.

Old age can be hell. It's where terror taps it's icy fingers on the cold windows. It's

hell for the loved ones who have to watch you suffer. It's hell for the doctor's who

can't save you. Finally it is hell for the mind that cannot rest.

Without the option of ending life yourself it is cruelty on a scale unimaginable to

the merciful.

At lunchtime I noticed an old dried up cucumber. I laid my head down on the

kitchen table in despair. All the thoughts of Hell and cucumbers took me back to

the Christmas party where fried chicken was being served.

Dad was still outside calling to the birds in the sky.

Mum and Shirl had out-done themselves. There were plates and plates of fried

chicken. Surrounding the chicken were bowls of green salad.

In some bowls the cucumbers were making love to the tomatoes.

Around the edge of the table were even more plates filled with nuts and small

biscuits with pickles on them. In the centre of the display was a giant turkey.

" Come on, dig in, there's no formalities in this house!" said Mum, with the

sophistication of the lead hyena.

It was as if someone put a neon sign out the front with giant letters flashing the

message:" Come and get it !"

Just as we were about to eat, Jim my younger brother arrived with his Italian wife

Rita and her soccer team. By her own confession Rita was a good Catholic and had

as many kids as God and her hips would allow. They looked like rats in a maze

searching for a way out.

Mum barely had time to welcome them when Rita started.

" Well I swear to God, Mum, we nearly didn't make it , what with Bonzo's asthma

attack and Enrico's butt boils! Not to mention my bowels playin' up. I swear to

God. You've got no idea. Arr, yes, you won't believe my luck but little Julian is

going blind. Yes I better get him tested. I caught him with a "girlie" magazine the

other night. And you know what, he was under a blanket with a torch. Well I mean

the magazine was bad enough but being near-sighted. I swear to God. The

expense. I'm not made of money. Arrh, yes you know what else. Mrs Criface. You

know the lady from the back fence. The one that had the hysterectomy."

Mum was holding her breath hoping it would give Rita the sign to stop and

give us a chance to start eating.

She looked around the room for Dad to help but he was still out the back staring

into the clear blue birdless skies. Without dad to stop her, Rita went on and on and

on.

" Yes Mr. Criface. Bloody old fishwife she is ! Can talk the chair off a leg. You know

it's probably my own fault. I let her go on I'm such a good listener. I swear

sometimes I think I'm cursed. I'm too nice!

John made a quick dash for the back door to try to attract Dad's attention but it

was Mum who was forced to save us.

" Well Rita, you can tell us all about it after lunch sweetheart. Here have some

Italian bologne !" she said grinning.

That was the only endearing quality Rita had, she couldn't talk and eat at the same

time. Although God knows she tried and almost choked several times.

The food was very filling and after buckets of alcohol everyone returned to the

living room to collapse. Time slowed down as if the hands on the clock were

pushing through concrete. The only break from the boredom was Glenda who

found her sea legs and decided that she wanted to dance.

Rita's kids ate like hungry lions. Luckily there was plenty.

It was certainly interesting to watch them eat, but the more sober among us

began to worry about the host. It must have been by telepathy that Dad heard us

and charged into the house scattering kids and chicken wings to either side.

He came to a halt in the middle of the living room. He looked like a giant garden

gnome. His fingers were bespeckled with birdseed and his forehead dripping with

sweat. His words as usual were "carefully" chosen.

" Oh hello Rita. Here for lunch I see. By the way I'm going to kill John!"

Yes I'm going to tear his throat out, limb by limb!" he said with controlled anger.

Rita recited a dozen " Hail Marys!" , sat down on the lounge and began fanning

herself with a red handkerchief.

Mum was concerned about Dad's mental state and pleaded with him to calm down,

have a drink and forgive and forget.

Sometimes Mum would have been wiser to keep her mouth shut.

" It's only a dumb budgie! Anyway it's free now, isn't it! Free on Christmas Day. A

present for the baby Jesus!"

That comment sent Dad into a tail spin. He became completely incoherent but the

anger was loud and clear.

" Free!, Free!, Christmas present? Are you mad woman?" he shouted.

The mention of the Christmas myth was all he could take. It conjured morbid

images in his confused mind of "crucifixions and babies sleeping in donkey dung

and myrrh!"

His beer soaked mind was combining the dark side of the Easter myth with the

lighter side of the Christmas comedy. This ended up with a kind of whimsy

greater than either of them.

" Right then , you want bloody Christmas!, I'll give you bloody Christmas allright!

I'll crucify John! That's what I'll do I'll crucify him with a couple of planks of four

be two !"

Only having adopted the family by virtue of marrying Jim, Rita attacked. You

could feel the Catholic vengeance in her voice.

" Bloody Dad ! Bloody Dad ! I know it's none of my business and you think I'm

crazy Rita, but you shouldn't talk like that at Christmas. We are talking about our

Saviour! You know Enzo. My cousin Enzo! God bless his face. He swore like that at

Christmas once. I'd just given him some pizza. You know the one with pepperoni,

and he starts to swear! Oh my God! After about five minutes he's throwing a

coughing fit. God doesn't like swearing at Christmas time. You know what he said

don't you. My blood goes cold when I think about it! It is too terrible to say out

loud.

We stared at her like we were confronting a murderer in a dark alley without a

crucifix in sight.

" He said that Jesus was gay because he didn't marry and all the disciples were

gay men. He reckoned Paul circumcised Timothy! I swear to God!"

After a short silence everyone became hysterical.

Not having been brain-washed into associating sacrilegious comments with

damnation in hell, we had to laugh.

Of course laughter hath the power to enrage the religious breast.

Rita screamed, " Mamma mia " , crossed herself and ran to the toilet.

Before entering the undersized room she turned and gave a lasting impression of

the great ability of Christianity to withstand criticism. She stuck her thumb up at

us!

Rita waltzed into the toilet and slammed the door. She had no way of knowing

that Colin had put chewing gum in the lock and so she was securely locked in.

Poor old Dad hadn't opened his mouth for some minutes and looked like a second-

rate busker begging for small change. Raising his glass as high as he could Dad

proposed a toast.

" A toast. Please ladies and gentlemen charge your glasses. I want to salute two

old birds. The one who's in the loo and the one who flew away. Just kidding Jim

old son! Seriously though this is what Christmas really means. Family! Thank

Christ, we only have to see them once a year !"

With Dad's voice resounding in my head I woke up. Of course the idea of mercy

killing your father is unthinkable on many levels until he begs you. It terrified me

to think that he might be delirious with the pain and didn't want to go through with

it.

I strolled around the flat asking what-if questions. What if at the last minute he

recounted and I was thrown in gaol forever? What if it was one of his sick tests of

courage to see if I would go through with it.

Like the time when I was ten and he made me cry by getting me to arm wrestle

one of his drunken war mates.

I also wondered how I would feel if he wasn't around. Talking to him at the hospital

made me think that we could still salvage something from the relationship. I also

felt that too many years had gone by to ever be more than two lost souls in a dark

place. I went outside to see if some fresh air would help.

The streets were empty and I was grateful for the calm after the storm. The only

sign of life was a dog barking.

In Sydney, Boxing Day is always the quietest day of the year. Everyone from

Yennora heads for the coast to learn how to breathe again. It's like the exodus

from a prison of war camp.

I walked for hours and finally stopped at the fruit shop on the corner. I wanted to

see if they had any good mushrooms.

" They're not the white poisonous ones are they?" I asked.

The girl behind the counter looked at me like she was ready to call the manager or

the Police. I needed safe ones so that I could compare them with the deadly ones

when I found them. I put them in a back of the car and started the loneliest

journey of my life.

When I was little and still idealised him, my Father took the family to Kiama on the

New South Wales, South Coast. On the rare occasions that he was sober we would

go for walks in the bush and look for mushrooms and berries. Once I made myself

very sick eating some of the the wrong type. I had to be taken to Kiama

Hospital. I remember over hearing the Doctor say that the name of the deadly

mushrooms was "Amanita Phalloides"

I couldn't wait to tell anyone who would listen that the mushroom I ate was one of

those "Man eater fellows."

Dad couldn't resist humiliating me every chance he got by calling out, "Look out

son, that mushroom could be one of those man eating ones. Better get out of the

way!"

I was going to have to find that old place and try to collect as many of the

Phalloides type as I could.

The trip was important to me for several reasons. It was a return to the eventful

times of childhood. As I drove along I had to laugh at the way life twists

and turns. I began to ask what-if questions again. If I decided to kill him what if he

just got sick. What if the doctors had to pump his stomach.

I opened the window to cool the car down and saw a flock of parrots flying over a

golden wheat field. It reminded me of Glenda at the Christmas party.

Without consulting anyone, she put the fan in front of an open window in an effort

to cool the room down.

" Should blow some nice cool air in from outside!", she mumbled.

The fact that it was over 100 degrees outside made no difference to her

application of the theory of relativity. You are cooler if you think you are.

Without warning, God went to work. The lost budgies, startled by the noise flew

down from the curtain rods! With an enormous crash one of them hit the open

blades of the fan. Delicate green and white budgie feathers went everywhere.

Dad couldn't move. He just stood there with his mouth open.

There was nothing much he could do but watch his precious prize winning bird

rotate, around and around, trying to dodge the fan blades.

For some reason no one thought of pulling the plug. Instead, Ernie shoved a

screwdriver into the works. In the background could be heard the operatic tones of

Rita screaming that she couldn't get out of the toilet.

" Quick cut the wires! Someone dive on the fan! Sacrifice yourself but do

something! Save that bird! " , Dad screamed in a panic.

Completely horrified by the sight of mutilated budgie bits flying everywhere,

Glenda fell back into her chair. It was an unstable cane lounge that kept tipping.

As she fell back her long legs went up into the air and she reached and grabbed

the fan cord. Slowly the blood-stained fan blades came to a halt. Nobody dared to

move.

Mum, who had been in the kitchen entered the room with a giant pavlova in her

hands. She took one look at the feathery fan and dropped the cake. She fell to her

knees crying as the dessert crashed on to the carpet and broke into a million soggy

pieces.

Everyone moved in different directions. Some tried to grab floating budgie

feathers. Others tried to rescue the pavlova. Nothing anyone did seemed to help

the situation. Suddenly like an elevator reaching the ground floor everything

stopped moving and we all stood still.

We stared , hypnotised, as a lone green budgie feather floated down and landed

gently in the dying pavlova.

Mum just kept on crying. She often showed remarkable strength, at times, but this

was too much for anyone to handle.

Dad of course was made motionless by shock. No-one had the courage to tell him

he had a budgie feather caught in his hair.

I was laughing, inside, and nearly choked on a pickle but managed to show

concern. Dad walked slowly to the fan and picked up one of the poor creatures

and held it with his hands outstretched.

" Does anyone one know CPR? ", he asked hopefully.

The thought of giving some poor little bird the kiss of life was beyond the call of

duty. I put my hand over my mouth trying desperately not to laugh. There were no

words of reassurance that could be given.

Dad would not have heard me anyway because he was mortified and Rita was

still screaming as loud as ever in the background.

All I could manage to do was take the failing feathered friend from Dads hands

and put it back in the cage where it belonged.

It is strange how quick twenty five years go by. Even stranger is that old people

tell you all the time but when you are young you seem to have all the time in the

world. I managed to go from Dad's personal loss to Mrs Greaveston's bereavement

in the flap of a wing.

Like most teenagers in the sixties I left home as soon as I could because I didn't

feel accepted by my Father and there was no sense of family then. Perhaps if I

had been more like him he would have respected me.

But it is impossible to make a person into something they are not. Its like bringing

a dead bird back to life.

After World War II, Fathers were disappointed because they wanted their sons to

be warriors not school teachers.

It's terrifying revisiting a childhood place. That's why most of us block out

childhood memories. Looking into the eyes of your demons is crueller than the

original experience. That's when therapy does so much harm. It gives form to

ghosts that were long dead.

There is a joy and a sadness when you look backwards. After a few hours of

driving I turned a sharp corner and noticed a particularly dense part of the bush.

The sun was high and it was perfect South Coast weather. The verdant green of

the luscious hills disappeared into the dark spiritual blue of the horizon. That faded

perfectly into the light blue of the Australian sky. The blacks and greys of the bush

were a welcoming sight.

I could hear the kookaburra calling to each other. I felt like a little kid again. I even

kicked some leaves the way I used to and realised that I was once capable of

being happy.

Quite unexpectedly the sun went behind a small cloud. I fell to the ground

clutching my stomach. I began to weep like I had never done before. A grown man

crying like a baby cursing God who did nothing.

Laying there in the soft place of my childhood I realised that my Father never

loved me and it was now impossible to go back and make it right.

I cried and cried for several minutes, then nothing.

I didn't hear a sound. Not a bird nor an animal moved. I just lay there, a great

sadness in the centre of an infinite universe, filled to the brim with nothing.

Eventually my eyes became too sore to continue. I rose from the ashes and walked

bravely into the bush.

Not far away was a huge patch of Amanita. They are harmless looking mushrooms

but very deadly. I carefully gathered as many as would fit in the plastic bag I

brought and strolled back to the car. I didn't look back. It was time to farewell that

place.

The drive back to Yennora was slow. I kept wondering what life might be like for

sons who are loved by their Fathers.

It wasn't really all that bad, though. He never hurt me physically. He was just

incapable of affection. It would have been difficult to learn to love on a battlefield.

He grew up in a Depression between two World Wars. Life could not have been

easy for him.

As I turned into the driveway I saw Mrs Greaveston placing flowers where I had

buried her Joey. She seemed to have an infinite capacity for love. Just as others

have a great capacity to ignore. Ignorance is not bliss for the ignored. They simply

learn what it means to be locked out.

I ignored Mrs Greaveston and walked inside and put the poisonous mushrooms in

the fridge to keep them fresh.

I slept exceptionally well, that night, resigned to the fact that I would kill my own

Father the next day. I was to take the life of a human being with a handful of

mushrooms that once grew in a happy place.

The next morning I woke up early and had a quick shower. I put on my best suit

and prepared a wholesome breakfast on eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms. I was

careful to cook the good ones and couldn't help grinning at the sardonic humour

involved in that meal.

When the mushrooms met my lips I felt uneasy. It occurred to me that even if it

was Dad's decision he might still be terrified placing them in his mouth.

After breakfast I put the other mushrooms in a small box. All I needed were two

innocent bottles of sleeping pills and a large bottle of vodka. I quickly gathered

some marigolds from the garden to cover the awful contents of my parcel.

Driving to the hospital was difficult. the box was hard to face. I was shaking with

fear. Fortunately the overwhelmingly ordinary has a way of getting us through the

most fearful of situations.

The hospital was packed with foreign visitors. They were from different countries

and chattering in different languages, sounding like a flock of galahs.

No one seemed able to communicate. I felt invisible. There was a screaming drunk

trying to push through the crowd.

" Bloody Asians! Go back to your own country!", he yelled.

One of the Asian men took offence at that and shook his head.

That was all the drunk needed. He went up close to the old man, spat in his face

and pushed him over. One of the nurses called for Security but it all happened so

quickly that there was nothing anyone could do to help.

The drunk stormed out of the waiting room laughing and yelling about how the

country had gone to the dogs.

I stepped into the elevator and was met by a Japanese doctor who grinned

politely. It might have been the very doctor who was going to operate on my Dad.

It was strange, yet appropriate meeting for my Father's kind of confused

Christmas. We had the would be saviour, the Judas and the executioner all together

in the same elevator.

I reached the now familiar seventh floor and walked briskly out of the lift. Ignoring

everyone on the way, I went straight over to Dad's bedside table. I whispered to

him that I had brought enough mushrooms to kill a horse. In combination with a

large glass of vodka and two dozen sleeping pills his heart should just slow down

and stop. He would pass away in his sleep.

I tried to explain to him that he wouldn't feel any pain. I don't know if he heard

me. He just nodded.

At that moment I saw death as a kind of blessing. If a person is in extreme pain let

them free. I knew the way of his dying would be very similar to the way he lived

his life. He wouldn't feel a thing.

Suddenly he grabbed his chest. He was in pain and started to ramble on about the

death of Australia.

He kept repeating that, Australia, had been raped by foreigners and was not the

same country he fought for.

" I was born in 1923. The war had just ended and it was hard son! There was no

work anywhere.

My Father never had a penny and I had to go to work at the factory when I was

only twelve. The depression was on soon after that. No-one had a quid then. Do

you think there was hope in those days. Not on your life.

My Dad, your grandfather had to walk all the way from Croydon to Lithgow,

hundreds of miles, no trains in those days! For what? Just to work in the coal

mines. He did a bit of wood choppin' along the way, to get a meal. It was tough

son. No money and no hope.Then World War II comes along and the Japs bomb

Darwin!

Just then the Doctor pushed his clipboard through the curtain.

" Is every-fing good Mr Masters?" asked the Doctor.

We seemed to part of one of God's unfunny jokes.

" You slanty-eyed bastards. Get the hell away from me!", Dad screamed ", I killed

your kind in the war, so piss off!"

Doctor Mukasushi grinned but wasn't amused.

" The war's been over for years. Now try to get some rest."

Dad wasn't about to let him get away that easily.

" Go close the window son! There's a nip in the air! Although every-fing is Okay-

now-wa, aye Doc? No more Horror Shimmer to worry about!", he said with a nose

laugh.

The good doctor knew he had met his match and even though he wasn't

impressed, he said nothing and turned to leave.

As the doctor left, the lunch nurse arrived with Dad's meal. He ignored her and

began a speech about chickens of all things.

" There you are. I've got your favourite, chicken and potatoes " , she said, " and a

nice plate of salad and mushrooms.

" You know we used to keep chickens in the backyard after the war. Do you know

why ?", he asked, not expecting an answer.

I stood there ashamed of the fact that I didn't know him and that it was now too

late to make amends.

At first I thought he was going insane but the more he spoke the more I began to

understand. There is no dignity hating an old man who is dying.

The nurse seemed used to being ignored and kept chatting.

" The mushroom is an amazing food. They can prevent cervical cancer, ha , not

that that will worry you, but still, they dissolve fat and best of all they neutralise

toxins ", she said , putting the plate in his lap and making a quick exit.

Dad started to laugh because he could appreciate the irony.

" You know why we had chickens? Wasn't just for the eggs. It was hope. I mean

the world was devastated by war. We all needed to get this country going again.

There was a saying in those days, "if you had an egg you had a meal !" Well I

loved those stupid old chooks. There aren't any chickens in Sydney now. Not one!

Why? I remember when the council came around and we had to get rid of them. It

was a shame. That's progress.

Australia has been given away, son. It's all dead! It's a graveyard now! Plant a tree

in Sydney, it'll die. The soil is no longer fertile. Too many weeds growing.

Just after the war Australia was alive. Do you know what it means to be alive? You

didn't have to make friends. We were all mates and we worked together. We built

this house and the bastards are coming here telling us how to live in it.

Something very valuable has been lost, son, lost forever.

You can't possibly have a clue what I'm talking about but this nation was built by

battlers! Diggers! Now there's none left. The ship has been over run with rats. How

can all these bastards mix? Have they ever mixed in the past? What bloody flag

will they march under on Anzac Day?

In the trillion years on this crazy planet has a "black-fella" ever made friends with a

white? It's unthinkable. It will never happen! God made us all different! Why? So

we'd stay away from each other!

I couldn't just stand there. I had to say something.

" It's a new Australia, Dad you can't say those things anymore!", I said, not feeling

comfortable arguing with him.

" Even if it's the truth!" he replied, not giving in.

" Especially if its true!" I explained quickly.

I had never heard him so angry about anything as much as he was about

multiculturalism. He believed that Australia was dead and the cultures wouldn't

mix. I couldn't see any point debating with him anymore. Multiculturalism is not an

option. It's inevitable.

The Sun was going down outside the clear open window. I could see the people

below busying themselves. Whether mixing the different cultures and people

together was working or not they were going to try.

I looked back at my old Father and he smiled. It was too late for me to change his

mind about me, but he did make me think I could change my view of him.

Maybe he hadn't ventured into my world much, but I didn't know anything about

his world either.

He tipped his lunch into the bin and spoke his final words to me.

" I will always cherish the sweet taste of strawberries, and how they would

soften in the mouth like kissing a beautiful woman. I can now laugh at the way I

used to eat mangoes, dripping juice everywhere. I remember when an ordinary

egg would explode whenever I tried to cook my morning breakfast.

I can recall having a cold glass of beer with your dear Mother and how good it felt

just to make her smile.

I loved the way her soft hair moved whenever she laughed. Your Mum and me

were made for each other. We were good mates."

A tear began to form under his eye. He seemed to drift away. I don't believe he

knew I was there.

" When I look back through the photograph album that has been my life I will

remember the great joy of my son hugging me and how natural it was to love him.

I can still see your sister at her wedding and the tears of joy people shed for the

happy couple. These are the memories that we will not easily farewell.

I guess if I let the shields of cynicism lay to rest for awhile I can reveal a dark

secret. I really did love life but probably didn't give it a chance. Oh don't get

me wrong, there were plenty of hardships. When your Mum died and I wasn't able

to say goodbye. "

I tried to enter the conversation because I remembered that when Mum died, Dad

locked himself away. He was like a man wondering around in the dark.

" After Mum's death, I realised my sons didn't love me. That was difficult. I guess I

wasn't much of a Dad. Still I tried my best. When I reflect on my life, taking

everything into consideration, I really did love it all."

With that he laid his head back on the long white pillow. I placed the deadly

mushrooms in a jug and added dozens of sleeping pills.

I paused for a moment and then filled the container with Vodka. The pills began to

dissolve. I pushed the jug close enough for Dad to reach. He saw what I had done

and nodded. All I could do was smile at this funny little man who gave me life.

" Thanks, son. You know we never really got to know each other, you and I. Not

properly. It wasn't that you were invisible, son, it was just that I was blind most

of the time. Still, never mind. Sometimes it's crueler to let someone in than it is to

lock them out. Not much to know anyway, except loyalty."

" Yes Dad, you're right! ", I said acceptingly.

" Goodbye, My friend."