A possible biography.

two

And the sky was blue and the sky was me.

She – the big one who loved us all – keeps talking. To me. To the concrete sink in which all the clothes get wet and hard scrubbed. To the walls and through the door back into the kitchen. Sometimes Her words are angry most of her words are angry. She looks at me from time to time and as long as I don't move too much Her voice sounds nice. Her voice hints of rewards. Warm, being held kind of rewards. Her breasts which I haven't sucked in a long time rewards.

Her beautiful breasts. My breasts. These beautiful breasts of mine.

And then Her voice is a mutter again. About Him. And I don't know the words or what they mean but He hurts Her in front of us all, and Her voice when we're alone sounds like a bastard file on rusted and worn through boiler plate. On the occasions She uses it in front of Him, He becomes quiet and not obviously scared. Not the scared we – my siblings and Her – feel before the beatings start but a scared where some part of Him disappears because it cannot respond to Her voice. It has absolutely no way of retaliating. At those moments she is beyond the pain, both inside and out. She is nature transcended to something that even hell will never see. Because if He tries anything to respond in this moment, the actions that will follow Her voice – Her actions – will be terrible and violent and we may be taken from Her and placed in homes even though She has done nothing wrong. Not to me. Never to me.

She fills the basket with clothes all wet and misshapen.

“Stay here, Bubba.”

And I go nowhere because the voice is nice. A reward unto itself. She feels peace after all the talking and muttering and I feel peace because She feels peace. After all. She is me. All of this is me.

Even the darkness that falls upon the deep orange walls late in the day that is me that are the walls of my room that is me but is shared with a brother but not the twin me and a sister me (of course, I don't know this yet. How could I?) And the chipped and stained white crib railings that I see when I turn my head to one side when I'm supposed to be seeps seeps seepy boes.

But not the darkness that brings the two terrors with the shoddy, glowing and haired and fanged mask monster head faces and their rubbery touch clawed and haired paws and their laughter and giggles and shooshes that sound like my me brother twins even above my screams and the smell of the poo and wee in my nappy and the snot running free from my nose down my scarlet and howling and teared face. And the rubbery glow paws and the rubbery glow fanged faces hover over me and trace over my face and tufts of hair and my bunny suit there in the 'lone dark and my screaming and tear-drowned eyes and my paralytic and crippled and terroredshaking body. That darkness is not me. Those tears and that fear and the shame smells are me but that monster darkness is not me and the vomity bits in my mouth and even after the giggles and fanged heads and glowy hair paws recede through the now magically opened now magically closed bedroom window and the terrible, terrible laboured breathing that is me – even after the light goes on and me all crib rattle and terror screaming and She all careworn of face or on the rare occasion He all scowl and Bela Lugosi handsome and metallic voice and near-angry remonstrations and fist all clench unclench, that darkness is not me and never will be. But this time now is light.

And the perfect light streams in through the back door. A living thing inviting and intimidating in its intensity and purity. She stumbles, almost upending the basket as she opens the door and walks down the three concrete steps and up the back path. I can see through the door that She has already unfolded the heavy wooden pen almost directly under the hoisted clothes line that creaks and sways and lazily tries to circle in the warm wind. She drops the heavy basket of clothes, comes back down the path and up the stairs. I have not moved much and I know this will make her relaxed and nice.

“You're a good boy. What did I ever do to deserve a goooooood boy like you?” It is a rare thing for Her to say the word goooooood. Both She and He are laconic by nature. Curt and choked so much of the time. She takes and discards what may or may not be a long piece of lint or cotton thread from my mouth (kikky poo) because I'm still crawling a lot of the time and because I'm so close to the ground, whatever I find there of course I will try to eat because it too is me and I don't hurt me so anything that goes into my endlessly voracious maw won't hurt me either.

She picks wriggle me up. This part of me knows that She/me has a hurt back because she makes a pain noise. Not the pain noise I make when I want something or I've made toilet in my fluffy nappy and no dirty nappy dirty stinky nappy change is forthcoming for a while but a deep pain noise that She/me does not want to share with the world. Much less Him. And now I'm all blue sky and worn varnish, splintery wooden pen bars looking at Her.

“The river sang softly to the leaves on the trees...”

I am song and I like these moments. I am alive in these moments when I am Her voice and I am sun rays streaming down through the blueness to form a halo around her mahogany dark hair. She is forty five going on seventy some days. Every women in every country in nineteen sixty five is forty five going on seventy some days. But now I am a woman's voice I am a river I am singing softly I am being sung to I am the leaves on the tree I am the two hands gently shaking the wooden bars of my pen. Not so much looking for a way out as trying to determine in my small and underdeveloped brain why even these constraints are me.

“I am going to take take you on a journey with me.”

Water sloppy shirts baggy underwear much too much colourlessness in browns and greys and blacks and deep blues. Prefer the colour of the sky the cracked concrete path the punctured rusty forty four gallon drum that serves as the incinerator up between the blossoming lemon tree and peach tree. Peach tree gives birth to wrigglers because Sis picked a peach and was going to eat it and there were small wrigglers living in it and she threw it down in disgust and pulled a sour and frightened face (to think IIIIII might have eaten that! she says with her eyes and downturned corners of her mouth). And one of the older brothers looks at her with his downturned corners of his mouth and says, “Well why doncha just eat a passionfruit. The flies don't like the passionfruits.” And Sis catches her hurt breath to say something, slightly shakes her head and walks away. But I'm growing up ahead of myself and the day that the sky was blue and the sky was me.

What does He do for a living? “He's no frigging good”, she mutters again and again. She mutters a lot more. A lifetime of muttering when there's only Her and me. She mutters more words about Him than anything else in the whole wide world. She mutters a lot. Except when my brothers and sisters are around. She barely says anything then. And when He is around, she goes from saying not much at all to screaming with a few normal sounds in between. And this happens. Maybe it happens a lot. I don't know what a lot really is. But maybe. And there's Jeff and there's Johnny and there's the bloke from down the street and the bloke from across the road and the bloke from Ford Street you remember him, don't you, mate? No. Why would I want to?

“Get us another bottle outta the fridge will ya, Peg?”

She walks back into the living room and looks hood-eyed. Tired, sceptical, and tired. I toddle over to hold Her calf, climb Her knee and His look goes from warm to freezing cold. Terrible things are about to begin but Her lips tighten as She looks from left to right – not at all scared this time. Her eyes look at the drunken faces of the drunken laughing men whose laughter has magically gone a little bit quieter now. She wipes Her hands on the apron and steps back into the kitchen and I toddlefollow.

The laughter and loud men talk starts again in the other room. It is very laughy and Her name is mentioned quite a bit and they all laugh very hard when someone says Her name and she stops and stands stiff like a big soldier and a light passes across her eyes. I see the light comes from within and I see she wants to mutter, scream, with great and careful forethought reach for something – a knife, a screwdriver, a bottle opener, a discarded sharp tin lid from eaten Ardmona peaches, a large baking dish with chipped edges from years of oven abuse, anything – and stop the laughter of Him and these blokes. And she opens up the refrigerator door and with noticeable and purposeful grace removes three bottles barely making a sound. Normally the business of removing beer bottles from the fridge involves much clanking of glass against the plasticoat poor-fitting metal shelves in the fridge. In this way the household and the world can know the true pride of, “YES I AM PISSED!” But that's how He does it. Although She does it from time to time because I've seen this.

And she holds the bottle opener too tight. Her hands are white from holding the sharp fanged bottle opener too tight and One! Two! Three! Pfft, off come the bottletops. And the laughter and loud voices of very Big men keeps rolling in from the other room. A wave of fun and funniness. An army of individual ha's and hehehe's that add up to a fusillade that time and the world can never escape from. And still the battle rages as the laughing and friendly sounds drown out the noise as She carefully pours approximately half the contents of each bottle down the laundry sink. And there in the dark corner of the small laundry, She reaches up under her skirt, smiling at me all the while and making the shoosh face, pulls her undies down to her knees and puts the necks of One! Two! And Threeeeeee! bottles up under her bunched skirt.

And the soft, ocean sound of her wizz filling the bottles.

“Took y'time”. He attempts to look warm as he chides but nobody thinks he looks warm. Jeff and possibly Johnny even look away a bit. Embarrassed and not laughing now that She is putting the bottles on the low glass table.

“Pour 'em yourself, then!”

And She is back off into the kitchen to throw the tea towel that she wiped the bottles with into the dirty laundry pile and they fill their glasses and laugh as they drink and when I was in the war and you were never in the war you lying bastard and I was! Stationed up north at Rathmines!

And they keep drinking and laughing.

But I keep growing up ahead of myself.

“I'll be seeing you in old familiar places...”. She/me really does have a beautiful voice. It's a voice that sounds right. It is rich and it carries forces that science is only nineteensixtyfive now starting to understand but toddlers know nothing about other than the fact that it is reassuring and rich and strong and tuneful. A wooden peg splits and she coos, “Oh bugger.” Just that. Soft and benign. An afterthought or mistimed reaction, almost. Oh bugger because this happens quite often and that is what is expected of the world I have to live through kind of oh bugger. She kicks a broken half of the wooden former peg away with her foot as though it's a kikky-poo bitey but for the most part harmless insecty thing and off it artlessly flies into the grass an inch or two away and I rattle the cage that is me but I'm starting to doubt that.

“Maaaac”. Cautioning. An inverted accent circumflex that speaks of a smacked bum if I do that sort of thing too much so of course I rattle it the me cage again and she sighs, puts two wooden pegs back in her gob and pins the sloppy rags up on to the low line and they will dry to be clothes.

A wind comes up and ruffles my blonde hair. This gives me license to make whrr whrr noises and rattle the cage in something approaching a rhythm. Whrr whrr. Whrr whrr. Whrr whrr. Whrr whrr. Whrr whrr. Whrr whrr. Whrr whrr. Whrr whrr. Whrr whrr. Whrr whrr. Whrr whrr. Whrr whrr. Whrr whrr. Whrr whrr. And so it goes on and She is not paying any attention and I don't understand this at all. She used to pay attention EVERY SINGLE TIME but now she only does so on the rare occasion and even the me cage rattling doesn't break her concentration. In fact, now that I look at her. Really look at her. Reeeeeeeally look at her, I can see that she's concentrating perhaps more than she needs to because as my other Sis says, maybe just maybe I'm being a little shit. And She needs to get the washing hung and in order for Her to do this to the utmost of Her abilities, She needs to not think about a toddler in a ramshackle playpen that adamantly keeps making whirring noises and rattling the cage.

Some small part of me is learning about me at this point. That maybe me isn't sky. Maybe me isn't even Her or the grass under foot or me isn't the wind or the wind noise through the peach and lemon trees or the flap of the soapy sloppy rag clothing or the smell of ash deep inside the rusted forty four gallon drum. Maybe me doesn't really exist. Is me sky? Am I blue?

Help! Because that was Shotgun by Junior Walker and the All Stars! The people type people over the back close the door to their house and the radio sounds aren't even a muffle any more which I don't like and I rattle the cage to make my dissatisfaction known and the door opens and I can't get no satisfaction and the door creaks shut again and the cage rattles again and maybe I don't exist and I have to accept this new state/non-state I find myself in.

“Sheets!” Half sung and She is walking back down the path but I know she will return with another full basket with bigger blobby wet rags so I am not scared because even if I am not blue and I am not the sky I can rattle me cages and that must be worth something to somebody somewhere. The wind gently blows the back door closed after her.

Hahahaha! Ssshhhhh! It's my brother who is very old and seventeen and his friend who is very older or slightly very younger and they laugh. They laugh as they run from around the side of the house and across the back grassy yard to penned me and they punch each other and try to stop each other laughing as they lift me up because I loved being lifted up because I can see different things or the same things very differently.

Ssshhhh idiot! Hahaha-ssshhhh!

And I love it now because in his arms I am now slightly up towards the sky and now slightly down towards the ground and the dirt driveway and this is my brother running and although I don't know what to make of him in all the time I've been alive, I like when he runs when he is holding me and I can feel his jerky ribs as he tries to hold back the giggles and I can smell the beer on his breath and it is definitely the breath of beer because He smells that way but only a bit that way after those threeeee bottles. (hanging on the wall they all sang). The doors to the open topped MG are so low and my brother and his friend are so big that they can step over the doors and not stop laughing and we are seated and somewhere close by an engine starts and sounds fast and free and wonderful too.

But I don't see any bottles – empty or otherwise so perhaps just perhaps that's not the breath of beer (which I don't like because now that means that I can't sip the froth which is what both He and She let me do when they think no one is watching) but perhaps it is and we pull around the bend and I see the brown and gravel siding of Lane Cove Road ahead. Now the wind really IS whipping my blonde hair and I'm feeling uncomfortable that I'm not the wind. Disappointed. And my big brother must know this because he squeezes me tighter and we fly around the orange lights on to the Epping Highway and one day cars will have a thing called seatbelts but again I'm growing up ahead of myself.

“Where to?” “Anywhere.” “City?” “Anywhere.” “Pub?” “Uncle Mitta's.” “Wherezy live?” “Just keep going this road.” “Wherebou-” “I'll tellya when to turn no stay in this lane.”

Fast and free. The chemical smell of Selleys on the hill there and that's where I usedta go to school, says my big brother looking at something that I don't understand what he and his big friend are looking at. And the big screens of North Ryde drive-in are ahead, level, gone. Down the hill very fast past Wickses Road and there was when the rains come and stay this part of the fucking highway gets flooded, didja know that?

“Thank fuck it's not raining then, eh?!”

Lots of trees and traffic lights and Delhi Road we stop. “DELHI Road. Fucking. Isn't that another country?” “India.” Isn't that India or something?” “Yeah.” “Bloody India!” “Yeah.” A man in a car made in the nineteen fifties is next to us at the light and I smile as my head wobbles because two things: I like it when my head wobbles in a car from moving and b) I like smiling. That's two things at least! And my big brother looks at the man (for the man does not look particularly happy – not really unhappy but slowly making up his mind about something and that something involves my big brother and the conclusion does not look to be a happy conclusion).

“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” All bar one of my brothers are, by nature, scary. This one moreso when he tries to be and he starts becoming scary by opening his deepbrownyblack eyes abnormally wide and shouting out things like woo to strangers. And the stranger at the Delhi Road traffic lights is duly scared to the point where his car stalls as he releases the clutch too early and we in this small and carefree boat commonly referred to as an MG TF take off with a beautiful note from a happy engine.

Us three happy things. “WOOOOOOOOOO!” “WwwwOOOOOOOOOOOOwoo!” “whrrrroo”.

The new Channel 10 building on the left and the sign should be black and white and why is it colour and

“Fess Parker. Like 'm.” “...who's Fess Parker?” “Fess Parker. Daniel Boone. Dickhead.” “Ah, that bloke.” And we're quiet again all except me and I'm not and I'm going whrroo!

Bye bye channel 10. We are going very fast and bye bye. And the sky is still blue and the sky.

Down again through the front windscreen and for a second I panic because there is water either side of the road above the water and the water might not be good but I see other cars – lots of them – going over the road above the water and I think we may be okay after all. And that terrible smell! Not the terrible smell of farts or soiled cotton nappies or my big brothers' socks. Not the smell plasticy, chemical of Selleys because Selleys is behind us on this road and we have NOT been going backwards. And give me one good reason why the new Channel 10 building should smell.

“CSR” “Sugar?” My brother's friend nods. He knows things. No doubt this upsets my brother because my brother prides himself on knowing more things than anyone else and he didn't know this thing. And my big brother squeezes me tighter but not the happy, carefree squeeze or the squish squeeze or even the protect you squeeze. I will note this squeeze as the 'don't know enough and definitely not as much as my friend and I don't like it one. Little. Bit.' squeeze. But I like it when I look up at my big brother's face and his somewhat gaunt face and hollow cheeks and fine and rich jet black hair and sharp deepbrownyblack eyes and thins his lips and sucks his cheeks in slightly. He lets go of me and rummages around in his pockets, pulls out a packet of cigarettes and lights one with great difficulty against the wind. Accidentally ashes on me after a couple of drags.

I didn't notice that we had crossed the river until I wriggled on my big brother's knee and looked back. We all jump as a car honks going past us. To whom and for why, no one knows. But the car definitely honks. And we definitely all jump and breathe in the terrible CSR smell that speaks of terrible goings-on down by the river stay in this lane.

“No! Stay in THIS lane!”. Nobody likes being told what to do (in no uncertain terms) and my big brother's friend twists and grips his hands slightly around the wheel used for steering this delightful MG TF. My brother can't help it if he likes (trying) to tell people what to do (in no uncertain etc). He gets it from my family. Only: a) one brother and b) one sister don't really think much about telling people what to do and as a result, don't often tell people what to do. But the rest of 'em sure do, they do! Hyuk. And my big brother flicks the cigarette away from the car so that it won't set fire to us and will probably only set fire to the trees down along the river and we go right here.

“WE GO RIGHT HERE! But watch out because there's a sharp left hand sweeper. Mitta lives just past it.” But there is much oncoming traffic and we are stuck waiting to make a right handed turn and the cars behind us are honking because evidently my big brother's friend did not indicate with enough notice to the honking cars behind us and this is, of course, why they are stuck behind us. And honk. And both my big brother and my big brother's friend are slightly extending their lower jaws and not looking at each other now. This is what they are doing. And flicking glances to the mirror that looks back and the place from whence honking comes. A final clench of the lower jaw and a small break in the traffic and we FLY through!

FLY down the short small road into the creek gully and FLY up the short small road and FLY 'round the short sharp left of this short small road and FLY rrrrright up the arse of a big, long angular Dodge Phoenix, as my big brother later describes it all to the police and do you need an ambulance?

“Nah. We're alright.” “The little one doesn't look alright.” And another copper off by a car yells an ambo is on the way and my big brother's friend is sitting on the gutter looking at the scrunched up nose of his fun MG TF and the parts between the two cars that now make it one new and funny looking kind of car and I can't see blue and I am not blue now because I can't see because there's blood all over my eyes and my head hurts.

...

“It may have been a bit of glass from the windscreen or he could've just bashed his noggin on the dash. Either way, we'll have to take him to North Shore to get that gash stitched up. You blokes want a lift? Haven't been drinking have ya?”

And the sky is not but is red and I am the sky and what'll Mum say and the Old Man and don't worry mate, we all have scars. Whaddya reckon?