MY GRANDMOTHER'S MOUTH
there was this absence of belonging, of not having a proper school uniform, because we couldn't afford one, even though the class photos were black & white, you could tell i had a tartan skirt & red jumper on, so i tried to smile the largest to make up for it, my toes curled into the black clarke's shoes, always a size too small, i was growing too fast for money, we were all dressed like dags, so mum could make the house repayments, dad took vegemite & peanut butter sandwiches to the cop shop, while his workmates ate out, he later told me, 'i threw them in the bin every morning & bought hot chips, all the blokes would laugh at me if i took vegemite sandwiches in', he told mum but she continued to make them, cutting them into little triangles, when i was three, mum made a green & yellow hat for when i was in the sun, slapping up the water with my hands & kicking the side of the inflatable pool, out near the dry cactus garden, the weathered insects coming in to land & drink, a plastic animal held high in each hand, she left a hole in the top of the hat where my fountain stuck up, i caught her laughing at me in-between the housework, 'cookie, cookie,' she called & i was her cookie, my fat legs rubbing together as i ran along the concrete, weak-heeled & toes twisting into claws, arms outstretched like a toddler to gather light & air, always about to fall again & blood my knees, in a paisley outfit with matching pants & pilchers, the little drawstring around my neck, made with a piece of wool that served no function, but when i went to nanny's in the school holidays, i wore different clothes, puffy white sleeves & a flared green dress, high elasticised socks with frills to the knees, black patent leather shoes, a purple slacksuit & matching ribbons for ponytails, i felt like a million dollars, nanny said, 'you're in the eastern suburbs now,' & i knew that when i went to sydney with nanny, that i would wear my good clothes, she said 'we are going into the city, they call it sydney at liverpool & when you say the city out there, they think you mean the city of liverpool, but sydney is the city over here', my eyes held her upright, making her like the neat clipped pine trees, that grew in the frontyard of boonah avenue as a windbreak, upon retirement pop grew poppies & pansies in the grey coastal soil, nanny watched him from the kitchen window, she said 'we might have to move to liverpool because pop can't grow his vegies here,' he grew the pansies in tubs & the poppies down the side of the house, the poppies reminded me of him & the pansies of nanny, each flower opening into its own colour, i could hardly wait for the next day, she said 'i like everything matching, see how my shoes match my handbag & my scarf, the red one goes with the red blossoms on my top', her class & decency, the cleanness of her house, her simple dignity, her cautionary tales, for years she held me close, never let me out of her sight, on the speeding government buses, i held onto her skirt, in the toilets i was amazed by her steppins & the way she laid the soft tissue all around the seat because it was dirty, 'money is dirty too,' she said & told me to go & wash my hands after handling it, when i had a bath i thought, i am washing all the money feeling off my body, then nanny said 'don't put your fingers near the plughole. as the water goes out, some little girls did that & got their fingers stuck in it, then the plumber was called & he had to cut around it & take them to the doctors,' i didn't want any plumber seeing me in the bath, so when the water was released i curled up at the other end & it roared down into the sewerage in a whirlpool, as my shoulders turned cold, sometimes i jumped out of the bath & raced into the hallway with the towel of fairy penguins wrapped around me, i heard the sudden grey roar & gulp from the bathroom, as the sewer devoured the water, water with my hair, a toenail, toothpaste, spit & skin cells in it, water with the dirt & the money feeling in it, knowing it could have been me, being sucked away down there, the place where all the bathwater & toilet water went, where it all mixed together on its way to the opening between the cliffs at bondi beach, nanny said 'coral, never trust anybody,' she kept saying it for the next twenty years until i finally understood what she had meant, like one day in the city on the way to the movies, when nanny fell down in pitt street, i didn't know what to do, i looked up at the high buildings, like australia square that had the opals at the top, in the glass cabinets glinting down & got dizzy as the buildings seemed to converge & move whilst the clouds stayed still, everyone had come to watch, no one helped me get her up, i was too small to do it, so nanny had to get up & stand by herself on her own two feet, slipping back into a mauve shoe that had twisted her ankle, her hair was messy, her matching handbag pushed up against a plate glass window, she had to walk away without a kind word from anyone, in order to make the world right again, as she dusted herself off she said, 'that was very embarrassing,' later we had a prayer for all the people who stood around to watch, on that little section of sydney footpath outside hungry jacks, nanny said 'they don't know any better,' on the way home she took me to the hillsdale park next to the church, so i could forget about it, while i climbed on the steam roller, that had sand where you steered the wheel & smelt because all the cats used to piss in it, i kept my eye on the church, that had the ocean air smell embedded in the sandstone & the rough old yellow powder crumbling off onto my fingers, i painted my face with it & said, 'this is my makeup powder,' nanny said, 'don't ruin your skin,' i thought of how soft my skin was & that maybe if i coated myself with the powder that i would be old like nanny, or take on the age of the church, or of the sandstone of sydney, i had rehearsed my immortality, by being an angel in the church, little wings of glitter strapped to my back, tinsel criss-crossed on the front, nanny took a photograph in the hallway by the linen press, i pointed to my chest & said 'this is where my soul is,' she said, 'well when you are in church you sing from there,' a few weeks later, on christmas eve, coming from liverpool to matraville, i sat in the back of the ej holden with my cup & unlit candle in it, dressed in my frock made of a white sheet, i said 'mum, are we nearly there yet?', but dad was drunk, they had had a fight, as a result we never made it to the church carols, i missed out on being an angel, there was no explanation from the vinyl bench seat in the front, no apology, just stony silence, my brothers' gentle exhalations during sleep & out along botany bay the dark green waves rolled in on the rock barriers, the hot white seagulls squalled up in the lights on the wharves, above the billion bright stars which seemed to take on meaning, i thought of the age of the church, the singing inside it, the history i would not contribute to & nanny waiting for me at boonah avenue, checking the time, straightening her skirt & the white sigh like christmas from the northern hemisphere, in the back of her throat, as she leaned back in the chair, knowing i wouldn't make it, she would comfort me when i arrived, make me a pretend cup of tea whilst mum put the boys to bed, she would smile at my crinkled tinsel across my chest & keep the light on for me, while i went to sleep, high up on the rock-hard mattress in the big cold bedspreads, dad slammed on the brake pedal, as a seagull skated across the bonnet & flew off, i looked out, a lit-up christmas tree blinked out from a unit window, suddenly nanny seemed as old & as far away as the sandstone church, i hoped she wouldn't die before we arrived, otherwise all good things would be lost, my history would be lost in my grandmother's mouth |
