Chapter 5
The Old Neighbourhood
I visited with several of the neighbours in Broomfield Road. It was interesting to notice how some of the older people, without children, unofficially adopted children in the neighbourhood. My two brothers, Syd and Peter, and I were the chosen three in the top end of the street. They all had as much fun as I did listening and telling the stories of our childhood exploits; how they used to watch us through the lace curtains. The three Murphy spinster sisters were keen to tell me how they all used to make a night of it when I was on stage at the Town Hall for the dancing school’s annual concert.
“I remember you used to have me bring all my costumes to your house and show them to you.” They were thrilled that I remembered doing that, and they all wanted to talk at once as each memory unfolded and was retold.
Mrs. Douglas and son Lloyd became extremely animated as they both bent their elderly bodies back and forth with arms flailing, describing my learning to roller skate out on the road. They also recalled how my brother Syd crashed into the tree with his go-cart he had made it out of an orange crate and pram wheels found at the tip.
“We watched you two go up to the top of the street, then with you in the go-cart, Ruth, and Syd pushing, you careened down the hill and hit our tree. I rushed out thinking you were dead after you were thrown out of the go-cart!” Lloyd was flushed as he described the incident. “The two of you were rolling around on the grass, laughing. Then, you headed up the street to try it again. We couldn’t look any more after you crashed into the tree for the third time! Ruth, I could never understand how you never broke an arm or a leg!”
“Lloyd,” I explained, “The crash was planned that way. We had to hit the tree - we didn’t know how else to stop the go-cart!”
Second cousin Jim, wife Amy, and their four children lived next door to the Douglas family, and across the street there were more relatives: Auntie Vera and Uncle Albert (Mum’s eldest brother), and their son, Bluey. Broomfield Road was full of my stepmother’s relatives. According to my stepmother and her three sisters, if you weren’t Roman Catholic, you weren’t worth knowing. Their brothers were not like that. Funny! None of the ten members of the Little family married Catholics!
The bush telegraph worked very well in Auburn. When I visited those in the lower half of the street the next day, they told me what I had been up to, referring to the stories passed on by neighbors after I had already visited the top half. The lower half wanted to hear first-hand about the interesting people I had met. Each family asked me to repeat the story about meeting Maurice Chevalier.
Most of them could tell me the names of my children and their ages. They remembered Bill fondly, and what a handsome young fellow he was in his American Army uniform. I couldn’t believe how the people in Broomfield Road had shown so much interest in my whole life - in particular, the past fourteen years since I had left the scene.
Auntie Lila was the Town Crier, who delighted in spreading the news and took my letters with her wherever she went.
Mrs. Adams, who lived next door at number 30, said she admired my friendly ways as a young girl, especially towards the older neighbors in the street; she recalled that I always had time for a chat at her front gate. It’s strange, but I don’t remember ever having treated anyone differently because they were old.
“For all the years that you have been gone, Ruth, we never knew for sure what happened to you when your Mum and Dad brought you home from the hospital in Sydney? Was that girl Lily, the one who boarded across the street with Mrs Cook, responsible in any way for your illness?” Mrs. Adams was genuinely concerned. “I do hope you don’t mind my asking. There was so much talk about what happened to you. Most of the people in the street were concerned about you - it shows how much people thought of you, Ruth.”
“I don’t mind your asking at all, Mrs. Adams. I had a mental breakdown - not a crazy mental breakdown - just lost my memory for three months.”
“Oh, Ruth! I can’t imagine what you must have gone through! It must have been so terrible for you!” Mrs. Adams said sympathetically.
“Actually, Mrs. Adams, I think it bothered everyone else much more than me. Most people, including my parents, understood very little about amnesia. One thing though, I had virtually nothing to worry about. I don’t know what I would have done without our family doctor, Dr Wilkins. He was a great support for me and got everyone through a bad time.”
We talked on about Dr Wilkins, but I never once mentioned that Lily had had an abortion, and her boyfriend’s henchmen in the underworld had threatened my life if I ever called a doctor or spoke about the abortion to anyone. Their threat: ‘If she dies we’ll get rid of the body’, haunted me all the time I took care of her.
Some of my other favourite neighbors were the parents of one of my school friends, Trixie. I used to always choose Trixie as my vice-captain in ‘rounders’ (like baseball) and basketball in the school sports. She wasn’t an aggressive player but she was my best friend, and that made her play ever so much better. Her parents, Tom and Beatrix Fenwick, welcomed me like one of the family. Trixie’s mum used to work with my stepmother Bertha and Auntie Lila at the Bryant & Mays Match Factory, in Richmond, before any of them were married.
I was forbidden to go to the Fenwick’s house; Mum would never tell me why. After I found out about being adopted, however, I put two and two together and figured that Mrs. Fenwick knew about the adoption and my stepmother was afraid they might tell me. It never came up.
The strangest thought occurred to me: of all the houses in the street that I had been invited into that week, my parents and relatives had never been beyond their unopened front gates.
Another interesting observation and one where I believe the Australian and the American people differ. In the States, if a well known local identity in the community returned home for a visit, someone in the neighborhood would organize a potluck picnic, or a social at a local hall or church. They might even set up tables on the street and the local folk would come together to welcome the homecoming personality. I came back to the old neighbourhood in Australia and I had to knock on most doors and wait to be invited into their homes.
Peter, Auntie Lila and I discussed this observation of mine over tea that night. “Do you really think we are all that different?” Auntie Lila asked.
“No, I don’t think we are so different. Here, in Australia, you follow more of the English conservatism. Most Australians like their privacy.”
“We are nothing like the Poms! Don’t say we are! They are a bunch of stuck-up bloody snobs. I know - I’ve worked with them!”
Peter and I laughed at Auntie Lila’s outburst, as she banged dishes and cupboard doors and kept mumbling about being called a Pom. I poured her a beer and she calmed down. It was all a bit much for our 79-year-old Aunt.
“Don’t you think the high fences built around the houses stop you from getting close to your neighbors, Auntie Lila?”
“I’m damn glad I have my fence. Do you think I would want that silly, drunken bitch next door wandering into my yard?” Auntie Lila always did call a spade a spade.
We washed the dishes while I told her that in the Midwest, where I lived, we didn’t have fences at all. Often a neighbor would call out from three houses away while we were hanging up our washing and invite me over for coffee. We would just walk across the backyards.
“Ruthie! What did you do with your babies?”
“We changed their diapers - I mean nappies - and took them with us. Don’t worry; we never left them home alone while we went to the neighbour’s.”
“Oh, Ruthie! I don’t think I would like to live there. My goodness, no fences!”
Peter and I went for a walk down to the shops on
Marjory Hubbard 1942 |
We have often laughed together and kidded about the moment we fell in love.
He suggested I fell in love with him because I wanted to get as far away from my family as possible, and South Dakota was 12,000 miles away. That was just about far enough!
Train journeys and model trains have always played a major role in our marriage. I have always encouraged Bill to enjoy his hobby - creating a model layout and building his own trains from kits, or designing his H.O. scale buildings from scrap materials. That hobby could be rather expensive if one bought rolling stock ready to go right on the track. Once in a while Bill did lose track, and blew what little savings we had accumulated because it was imperative to have that particular engine for his layout. The difference between men and boys is definitely the price of their toys!
I have heard Bill say, “This is a good hobby for young Billy. Our son will enjoy working with the model trains when he gets a little older.” Billy was never old enough! His father made it quite clear that he wasn’t to touch the controls till his father was on the scene.
Bill was no home maintenance man. He said he was a ‘lover and a poet’, not a plumber or a carpenter.
In the States there was a popular saying about The Arkansas Traveller: “If it’s pourin’ rain and the roof is leakin’, it’s too wet to fix. When it stops rainin’, it’s no longer leakin’ so it don’t need fixin’.” That’s my Bill!
Hobbies are of therapeutic value, and after working on a linotype machine in a noisy area in production all day at the newspaper Bill found it very relaxing to work on his model railroad. I guarantee that a husband who is a model railroader can be trusted forever. I know too if a wife supports her partner’s love of trains she always knows where he is, or, she knows where to send him - off on a long train trip!
Bill, on the other hand, felt safe in the knowledge that I was close by, but he was never sure of what I was up to! He was cautious during February; there was a danger that I would go berserk and lose the plot. He knew of my allergy to cabin fever – being housebound during the winter months with our four children and being deprived of the warm outdoor freedom of spring and summer, going barefooted in the garden, dressed only in shorts and a halter-top. That’s when I was the happiest and in my element.
The solution: I went to night school in Fort Dodge during the winter. My friend, Lorraine solved the problem - she and I chose February night classes in millinery, art, woodworking and learning a new language. When we arrived at the school we couldn’t go past the swimming pool entrance. We chose to swim instead and never made it to any of the other classes.
Auntie Lila distracted me from my reverie and placed photo albums in front of me. My whole life, from childhood to marriage unfolded before me, filling six albums. She told me about every one of those photos and the stories behind each one. So many of them I had never seen before, and I believed less than half the stories she told me! I’m sure she thought everything would be exactly the same when I came home for a visit and she could still be in charge, as she was when I was young. As she was growing older it could be the reason she was trying to recapture some past glories.
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