Sixth in Line – Page 2 – My attempt to find a voice after a childhood of silence.

‘Beyond the fixed stars and variable suns…’ James Joyce Ulysses

Last night the wind howled, and it took energy to convince myself, the tall oak in our garden with its high and crooked branches would not drop one onto our roof.

In the particular lies the universal, or so I’m told. I can believe. For isn’t it so, these howling storms and the bleak weather with which we’re faced mid-autumn in Melbourne, Australia while on the other side of the world people roast, is also a reflection of the volatility of our times.

The worst of times and the best of times, only who’s to say.

In 1992 we hired a houseboat on the Murray, three small children, one husband and two adult friends, a long-married couple who chose to stay childless and enjoyed the company of our children in small doses by way of remembering their own child selves. If they ever took the opportunity of reflecting deeply.

On this boat, I read Janet Frame’s memoir, Angel at my Table. Stretched out after lunch while the other adults slept and the children played, on one of the pull out beds in the living area cum kitchen area.

I wept when reaching the section where a sister died drowns, first one sister then another. Dickie hearts, which no one knew about until they died, and in the aftermath, Frame’s life is turned around towards even greater desperation.

I was grieving then too, much as I tried to maintain a cheerful demeanour. The analysts had only months earlier decided I was unsuitable for their training, and I could not see how I might go on in my chosen career beyond putting one foot in front of the other.

We took turns to steer the boat across the slow river, which at a time of receding drought was shallow in places, such we got stuck. We needed to drag tall poles to ease us out of the mud.

If only it was as easy to tug myself out of my hidden despair. If only I knew then that time would pass and the pain ease. That I would find other ways of using my mind to manage my life, that over time I might find even more rewarding than wearing the title, psychoanalyst.

It was to be a medal of honour, like the coloured badges I collected as a young girl guide. A badge for being able to set up a tent. A badge for making a telephone call from a street phone, coins in the slot, dial the number and pull on the receiver in that order, then speak to your mother or sister or brother at the other end. A badge for sewing on your badge, in neat whip stitch. To stop the edges from fraying. Small marks of development.

I knew this was how a person grew. You learned to do things you were previously unable to master. You absorbed new forms of arithmetic. Division, multiplication, and fractions. You learned to spell long and obscure words. You rote-learned the dates of wars and kings and queens from the past. The date of Federation in Australia. Easy because it happened at the turn of a century.

You learned the colour of your nation’s flag, and the mysteries of the rosary, the joyful and sorrowful mysteries, the luminous. You scrolled through the stations of the cross, and committed the Credo, (the ‘I believe’) to memory. You repeated the ten commandments, only they had protestant ring. You rattled off the Our father, whose final sentence differed from the Our Father they recited at Girl Guide camp one Easter time when you were the only Catholic child present.

The small differences between the ways people peeled their potatoes, some under running water. A waste. Others in a sink filled with water which grew murkier by the minute as each potato was robbed of its dusky over coat.

So much to learn in childhood, and much of it I managed, always on the edge of amazement as if I had learned words by rote and could hold onto them only if I recited them out loud and from the beginning.

I did not understand the things I learned. Just the words. It left me with an uneasy sense of fraudulence. As if I could recite swathes of knowledge by rote, but if you prodded me, stopped me mid-stream and interrogated the meaning of what I was saying, I would lose my place. A type of stage fright and I could not speak or think or understand the mysteries of the world.

I felt this way when I first read Sigmund Freud. The case histories of Anna O and Little Hans. On the page, these stories simple, but the voice of the great man had an old-fashioned tone. It took time to absorb and even then the ideas he offered floated in the air like so many dust motes I could rote learn, but not corral.

I went once to an evening lecture conducted by one of the newer members in the 1970s, a Lacanian analyst from South America who spoke non-stop for over an hour.

Not one word made sense to me. Granted I was new to this language, and he was of Lacanian extraction. Jacques Lacan’s writings translated into English are not for the simple minded. They are dense and opaque. Belonging to universities and in need of interpretation before you can grasp something of their essence.

Even today, decades later, my eyes glaze over when I read Lacan’s writing. Not so Freud’s but then, it was all gobbledygook, and even more veiled than the words of the bible.

Mid-afternoon on the Murray after we stopped somewhere for lunch and tied our boat at anchor to one of the many jetties along the river’s edge. I watched the overhead sun illuminate the skies. Best at twilight when we were again at anchor and readying for the night when the sun danced across the red cliffs looming over the water. They threw reflections as though someone had folded a sheet of paper in half. Each side carried a replica of the other. Mesmerising.

And Janet Frame took me to the ice cold of New Zealand and that room at her aunt’s whose walls were lined above the picture rail with the chocolate boxes of her dancing career. Her trophies. And at night after Frame’s sister had joined her, the one who later died, the two ate their way through every single chocolate putting back the empty boxes on display.

Imagine the aunt’s horror when she discovered they had been scooped out. Those chocolates would soon be inedible but no matter to her. The shock, the scandal, the horror. And Frame’s shame.

It reminds me of the times when as a child I stole lollies and was duly punished. It reminds me of the top tier of our wedding cake, which still sits in a tin, sealed with silver masking tape at the top of my kitchen cupboard.

Nearly fifty-years-old now, this cake will only be opened after one of us dies. I would not chance it ahead of time. Or maybe I would. Superstition says, it’s dangerous to open it ahead of the death of one of the partners, unless you open it when you should. And we missed that event because we never baptised our children, in the Catholic way.

So, there were no milestones other than anniversaries when it was once okay to open the tin.

In my mind’s eye, I open it and see maggots. Though they could not survive for long, or get in. I see saw dust. The cake crumbed to powder. I see a perfect cake dulled by time, the once white marzipan icing, now yellow, but inside who knows.

And in this night of blustery winds, the tree branches stayed in place for now at least and the world as we knew it, at least here in Hawthorn continues.

‘Happiness hides in the humdrum.’ Paul Lynch

Or as Hugh McKay argues, let’s not seek happiness so much as wholeness, by which he means a person who can carry all emotions, hold them together, comfortably.

Moments of joy and transcendence, a rare treat, while everyday contentment lies in the humdrum, and all the sorrows filter through the everyday and extraordinary.

Rushall Crescent floats through my mind. A road winding through Northcote that I often travel between places, between my home in Hawthorn and the spaces occupied by daughters further away in the north.

It’s now a prestigious street though wasn’t always so. Once the home of migrants, particularly Italians, now the home of the rich.

In my community-based placement as a student social worker, I travelled daily by train to Northcote. Two trains and a bus or tram. It wasn’t an easy place to reach and in the late 1960s was under resourced.

The Northcote City Council asked the University of Melbourne to provide two students who could visit local charities and draw up a booklet of welfare resources within the community.

Ron Tiffen, red haired and tall, married to Karma, and with one small son, a mature age student of sorts and me were given the task.

In those days I lived in Caulfield with my immediately younger sister, her friend from school, Kris Honey whom we called Honey.

The three of us comfortable in a second storey flat perched over Dandenong Road not far from what was then Chisholm Institute of Technology.

On cold winters and to spare heating bills I sometimes took my frozen body over to the student library and studied there. Or should I say tried to study. In those days me and academic books were not a comfortable partnership.

I read words on pages but could not take many in, not as they were intended. Instead, my mind wandered to things I’d prefer to be doing. Mostly time spent with my then boyfriend who was initially ambivalent – or so it seemed to me – to share a lifetime with me though I had fallen for him hook line and sinker.

It’s painful to slip into love when you’re in your early twenties and follow all the tropes you’ve seen on the television and read in books, only to find they make no difference.

A person cannot be made to love another. They will not be coerced. And Paul was like this though he was willing to bed me down as often as the impulse hit him and to accompany me to student parties or share restaurant meals, especially after he won at the races.

He and I went in the evenings to Ron and Karma’s to play cards, gin rummy and canasta. We played for hours while their small child slept. Ate potato chips and drank. Beer for the men, Pimms and lemonade for us women.

While by day during the long three month break over Christmas from the university during my third year, Ron and I traipsed to Northcote. The council offered us two chairs and a long desk at the far end of a concert hall. No actual office as such. It felt as though we were excess to requirements but otherwise they were kind.

As in all matters then, I did not have a clue as to what we were doing but followed Ron’s lead. He was mature age after all, somewhere in his thirties, a decade ahead of me. He seemed to know. Sometimes we visited local agencies together and at other times we went alone.

To Co As It, the Italian support community, well-resourced given the glut of Italian families in the area, to maternal welfare centres and even to then social welfare departments.

At one of these I met Duré Dara, who came to fame as apprentice cook to the famed restauranteur, Stephanie Alexander. Duré then she was a social worker in the grip of Primal therapy.

She gave a talk at one time to her department and Ron and I were invited to join. All about the idea that people took time off work, went on some type of sickness benefits, care of the endorsement of a few local and agreeable doctors, then found a room somewhere.

A dark room whose walls and floors they could pad with cushions, and people sat around. Somehow some inspiration whether from therapists they visited or from within, they were then thrust into the trauma of their birth. Where they could relive the ordeal.

I read Arthur Janov’s book The Primal Scream and stuffed down my scepticism behind a wave of awe that someone should be so bold as to take time off work at the government’s expense to advance their mental health.

After all Ron and I were tasked to locate all the resources for people in the community of Darebin, Northcote Thornbury, and surrounds, and our focus was on people’s well-being.

Not that anyone talked of well-being in those days. In those days, the focus was welfare. For the sick and needy. Those lesser mortals who fell on hard times.

In my first year at university all the students in the social work department made a trip to the housing commission towers in Flemington, the ones that overlooked the city to the south, racecourse to the north.

My boyfriend’s grandmother lived in one of the small flats in this monstrous high rise and I wondered that anyone could bear such a life, stuck up there high in clouds, freezing in winter and roasting in summer with lifts from floor to floor that reeked of urine from the night-time drunks who couldn’t wait. More often than not the lifts mal functioned.

In those days, the days of Ron Tiffen, of studying to become the best social worker I could, book talk bothered me, because it was often too academic, though I remember reading Durkheim on anomie and something there resonated.

Along with all the voices from case work.

Only in my final year did we get to experiment with actual counselling and interviewing. In a new laboratory set up on Royal Parade. Where a man from Britain, newly arrived, taught us the gentle art of interviewing. We role played and taped ourselves in action.

The tilt of my head as I listened intently to my fellow student who concocted a role for my benefit. And the place of my hands when my turn came to raise a respectable issue for her to tackle in front of the video camera.

The days when I first considered the impact I might have on other people. My small diminutive me. Not so much on happiness, but hell bent on avoiding pain.