Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
Let me tell you a joke.
It’s 1973 and the world’s a different place. As no one had air-conditioning, summers seemed hotter and longer. Late at night, groans could be heard echoing around the suburbs, as the test pattern signalled the end of television for the evening. We’d now have to wait until morning to watch shows, which somehow were even more crap than what had been shown the previous day. Blokes were called Bazza and seatbelts were still perceived to be for wimps only.
In comparison to now, it seemed simple, or even a strange time. I bet you something though. There were a lot stranger things going on and unfortunately for me, they were happening under my roof.
Mum and dad were splitting up and had decided to sell the house. No big deal, right? Well, it was back then, as divorces were rare amongst my friends. Most parents I knew had been together for years. Mind you, they probably detested each other, but they certainly kept their misery private and carried on.
Okay, so the splitting up may have been a bit hard, but something more stressful was going on. Mum had officially become strange. I don’t know if there’s an exact moment when someone has lost their rocker, but the giveaway for me is when she started talking to herself. This may not seem too odd, but I can assure you it was, as she answered in a different voice, whilst being alone in a room.
As young child, I thought she was just going through a phase. A little odd, but was going to be okay the following morning. The next day of normality never arrived though and she would frequently become, what my siblings used to call, ‘mad’. How else would one explain your mother screaming at people in the street, accusing them of having followed her for over 40 years from another country? How else would you explain her talking in different voices, before launching into a screaming tirade? This solo scream-fest would always conclude with her opening and slamming shut the thick, wooden rear door, over and over again, causing the house to shudder.
Even through all of this repetitive behaviour, I still thought she would one day be okay, but until then, I learned to hide when she was ‘mad’. It was still what I’d call an internal family drama, as no one, including friends, knew what was going on.
During the lazy summer of 1973, this hidden drama began to seep out of our bland, suburban walls. It’s pretty easy to pinpoint the exact moment as well.
Our house sat on a busy highway and I could see the premises as I walked home from school. The ‘For Sale’ sign was easily visible from some distance. No problem, right? Well, yes, no problem, except one day the word ‘JOKE’ had been written in massive, black letters on the sign.
Huh? Who would do that? I had some suspects. My brother was living a last man standing, rough and tumble teenage lifestyle, which involved frequent fights with local kids and generally just upsetting everyone. He certainly may have disturbed one local too many.
Dad though, was just plain old confused and I guess he wasn’t the only one. Hell, it confused my world of friends, as kids would approach me at school saying, “Why is ‘joke’ written on the sign outside your house?” The best answer I could give was a very vigorous shoulder shrug.
Life continued on and the sign stood with the thick, black paint scrawled across it for a few weeks. I felt uneasy and ashamed to enter the driveway, as I imagined people looking at our house, which was suddenly the centre of attention. This was the exact opposite of how I wanted to live.
Things never seemed normal, but eventually when the sign was changed for another, I believed things were looking a little brighter.
It’s said you only remember moments from the past, which are significant. If that’s the case, what happened next must have been important, as I clearly recall it, even though it occurred 40 years ago. I could also say another thing. Be careful about what you view, as the sight can’t be removed from your memory and can linger for a lifetime.
Late afternoon, I was standing in the lounge-room, aimlessly staring out into the front yard. In my languid state, I really didn’t take notice as mum walked up the driveway towards the highway. She was out of view for a moment, before suddenly heading back into my sight. Now I was intrigued.
Returning down the wide, gravel path, she was bolt upright with a stern face staring straight ahead and purposeful stride in her step. Down by her side, something was held in her hand. What could it be? Quickly switching to another window, I only had a glimpse of what she was holding, but a momentary view is all I needed. It was an open tin of black paint with a brush protruding.
Damn I wished I hadn’t looked out the window that day. What I’d wished for mum was gone in a handful of seconds. I wanted her to be normal, as all the other mothers of my friends I’d met, but it wasn’t to be. From that moment it struck me she was gone and was never going to return from the alternative world she lived in her mind.
Remember the start? What was the joke? I’ve no idea, but I didn’t have to look far, as once again the new sign had that familiar word scrawled on it as before. ‘JOKE’.