Look After The Lad

"And Hotrocks, you’ll take young Gawn here out and show him the ropes ...and don’t lead him astray and don’t teach him any bad habits...” a chuckle ended the sentence, adding to my annoyance at this direction. Those words I knew ended my freedom for the rest of the day. Resentment filled me as I turned to face my charge, allocated from amongst the small throng of wide eyed recruits. The tall, pale skinned young man barely nodded at me, as he murmured an acknowledgment. He bore a slight air of arrogance as he looked me over. The slight smile on his lips was evidence he had already summed me up in his head. He leaned forward and quickly picked up a portable two-way radio, assuming immediate control over it. “We’d better go then” I directed quietly, as I picked up my hat and stepped hurriedly out of the caravan into the bright early afternoon sunlight. I was anxious to distance myself from the interest and sarcasm being generated in the van. “And Hotrocks, make sure you keep that radio on, we want to be able to contact you pair at all times”. The smarmy inference in a raised voice from the Sergeant was as plain as it was irritating. I fussed for a moment beside the door, slightly humiliated, checking the recruit had it on the right frequency. The bemused look on his face indicated he already had the task in hand. I quickly strode ahead and he fell into easy step beside me, seeming to enjoy the quickened pace. “Have I messed up your plans, having to take me out with you? He was blunt and challenging from the onset. The words came in a surprising thick accent and I was forced to concentrate in order to decipher what he was saying. “Ahh...the accent explains the pale skin” I thought. “No”, I lied, my irritation continuing, “its fine...no problem, I knew I would be taking one of you new blokes out on patrol”. I looked up, his dark brown eyes belied my defence, I knew he had not believed me for a second. He spoke politely, in a deep brogue, I was unfamiliar with. How long have you been in then? He asked pointedly. “I’m off the previous squad to yours”. I offered. “Well, I guess then you wouldn’t know much”, he smirked challengingly. “Saddled myself with a smart arse” I thought with more dismay. I was in no mood for an argument. “Agh... just ignore it and he might give it up”. “I’m sorry” I said, with new resolve, determined to be nice, “I should have introduced myself, I’m Debbie Horrocks. I didn’t catch your name earlier back there, what was it again”. “Michael Gawn” he replied, the rolled words were unintelligible to my ears. “I’m sorry”... Again came the quick response “Michael Gawn” “..er, sorry, still didn’t get it” “Michael Gawn” I looked at him blankly, the embarrassment mounting. “Fer fook’s sake” he muttered and laughed shaking his head “M.I.C.H.A.E.L ... G.A.W.N. “Ooohhh Michael” I confirmed, thinking the way he said it sounded like bloody mackerel or something”. (I still didn’t get the last name but was not going to pursue the painful discussion any further). “So where are you from Michael?” I asked feeling I would regret this further attempt at politeness. “Sydney” he replied slowly. I was sure he was being deliberate now. “No originally” “Oh, why didn’t you say ...Northern Ireland”, (he seemed almost to emphasize the ‘Northern’). “Belfast” he continued nonchalantly, “well actually a little place just out of Belfast...but you wouldn’t know of it”. I looked hard at him and couldn’t decide whether he was deliberately having a go. I chose to ignore the last remark. “How long have you been in Australia?’ Arrrgh... about 18 months now, he paused. “Did you come out here with your family?” I continued... “No, I came out on my own”. “Oh, you’ve got family here then?” “No, why would you think that?”...” I came out on my own, when I was 18”. His reply was almost dismissive of my assumption. ‘Coo... independent boy this one’ I thought, - ‘not easily phased’. I dismissed most of his conversation as I took stock of him. I estimated we were around the same age. His left hand indicated he was single. He was long limbed and lean, with a strong face. Although not classically good looking, his features were too uneven for that...he was certainly was not unattractive, but there was something unsettling about his manner. He was almost too straightforward for my comfort. As if determined to confirm my thoughts, he added “You know you ask a lot of questions, I suppose you think you are a copper or something”. “No”, I countered,” just wondering what language you speak, it sounds a bit like English, but not quite”. “Ah, very funny”, he responded, a wry smile played around his mouth. This conversation was not settling well and I elected to quit with the questions while I was ahead and stick to talking about the job only. The next forty minutes or so did not flow well. I explained the rudimentary role of a patrol officer at a local fair and my charge made it evident he resented me. His accent seemed to grow thicker and I felt sure he was deliberate, it was hard to tell. Either way I became determined to be rid of him and I steered our course back to the caravan base, feigning the need for a cold drink. A suggestion he seemed to welcome. Grabbing a drink out of the esky cooler, I slipped away from him and cornered Sergeant ‘Smarmy’. “Sarge”, I pleaded my case now, “I need to change trainee charges, I can’t understand a bloody word he says and it’s pointless talking to him because of it. I think he would be happier if you gave him to someone else ...please”. “Ahh , so young Gawn doesn’t take your fancy then”, he laughed loudly as I winced at his words, “we can’t have that. I’ll sort you someone else, he can have a bit of break here. He‘s looking a bit hot around the edges”. There it was again, the kindness interspersed with the sarcasm. No point in getting upset, I thought, at least he was going my way and I was getting rid of my difficult charge...and it was getting close to knock-off!

Waterloo 1974

1974 was to be a pivotal year in my young life. That year I started the equivalent of my intermediate year, or Year 10 as it is more commonly known, at Casuarina High School.  At the time the Swedish Super Group ‘Abba’ were just bursting onto the world stage and topping the charts with songs such as ‘Waterloo’, while air pollution and over population of the earth were becoming topical for the first time.

It was also the year I was to go through one of Australia’s worst natural disasters and the year I was to meet the boy who would become my first love.  

I had regarded the trialling of mixed year levels in one homeroom as being of no real consequence to me. The idea behind it was, while a little controversial, but sound enough I suppose. It was a system that allowed students from 3 different year levels to work to their own level. For the older students however, it also meant the enduring of the more immature jokes and incessant giggling amongst the younger fry.

But I was soon to learn there was another pitfall of this new system, it was the fact that these younger homeroom classmates might actually venture so far as to turn their childish humour on the higher year level students and I was certainly not going to be exempt!

That first moment when I had really noticed Stephen Hurley, was in early February, in the first term of the school year.

I was concentrating on the metalwork project in hand, exactly what it was, I have long since forgotten, but not the moment. 

I was gradually becoming aware of the two ‘first year’ boys on the table next to me, the shoving and jostling of each other as they worked up the courage to rebuke me about my soldering grade and eventually one did.

“So how come you got top marks for your soldering, girls are not supposed to be able to solder?!”

“Well, obviously this one can”,  I threw back without looking up.

“Nah, the teacher’s just soft on you because you are a girl”.

Slightly annoyed, I put down my work with an exasperated sigh and looked directly  at the short skinny kid with the attitude and the ‘Pommy’ accent. 

I had not really paid much attention at all for the couple of weeks to any of the younger ones in the class, but now as my attention was drawn to this one, I recalled seeing him on the first day of school in our homeroom; he had been hanging out with the same or similar friends. What had caught my attention was his long, very blond,  straight  hair shining gorgeously in the early morning sunlight as it streamed in through the large plate glass windows of the classroom. It was the sort of hair girls envied.

He was being noisy then too and had drawn some comment from the teacher to “settle down”.  

It was then I had realised with some amusement the enviable hair was on a boy! 

But now standing before me were a set of amazing blue eyes. I had not noticed them before this.

"Holy Dooley...now those are some  eyes  and they're are on a boy too!" I thought. "Damn some girls would kill for those eyes, what a waste"!

“And she has got rather large…er...breasts, so he would be!” the short dark haired kid beside him added, with a little less confidence, but still determined to be part of the act.

‘Blue eyes’ face grew into an even wider grin and then with mock seriousness, he addressed his mate without looking at him “Now, now Pension, be polite”!

"Hmmn", I thought, "I wonder if you know the effect of those eyes yet, probably just becoming aware no doubt, by your ‘smart alec’ little attitude! 

Yes I would say so, my thoughts wandered on for a moment, that very blond hair worn too long for your age group and that naturally evenly tanned skin, making those eyes even bluer. Yep, you are one male who is going to be full of yourself. And I think I know what you are up to,  go away little boy, I am out of your league."

“Rack off, you are annoying me”! I said simply,

His return was rapid,  “Oh you love it, getting some attention, admit it”, 

The response had bemused me,  like I would be interested in the attention of 1st years..“You would like to think that, I’m sure", I countered, "sorry, I have to disappoint you children, I am working here on my own for a reason and YOU are being pests”.

“Nah, admit it you love it and secretly you find me irresistible”. 

And there it was, ‘blue-eyes’ so sure of himself as he gazed back steadily with eyes alight, silently challenging me to break his stare.

I couldn’t help but laugh and that was all the encouragement he needed. There was no dissuading him now.

The tormenting and banter continued not only for the rest of the lesson, but over the next few days in our shared classes together.  I could only watch with bemused interest as he struggled to shake away both the obvious age gap between us, and then interestingly, the company of his friends when I would show up.

Stephen was soon interrogating me as to my every move almost, demanding to know what way I went home in the afternoons and suggesting cockily my friends should make themselves scarce when he arrived.

Disarming and with all the cheek of an over-active puppy, I soon became like his constant group of "little friends" as I came to think of them, eager to see what he would be so ‘matter of factly’ out of line about next.

Stephen would slip easily into step beside me as we changed classes. His playful banter turning more serious when he lost the company of his cronies.

He wasn’t a tall kid and I was taller than average for my age. At that time he would have been about 4 inches shorter than I was, but he seemed unconcerned, using the physical difference between us as an excuse to tease me further, even suggesting on occasion, as I was such a "big, strong girl" I should carry him.

I would off-handedly suggest that he "call a cab" or run away and pick on someone his own size to annoy. 

"No, you know you would miss me, I wouldn't do that to you". 

And so it went on between us. Stephen instilled himself as gradually as I came to look forward to the verbal jousting and then even more gradually, his strangely amusing, comfortable companionship . 

Following me home in the afternoons, he would deviate the short distance out of his own way home, to regale me with tales of his superior attributes to other boys my own age. None of whom I had any real interest in anyway at 15. 

My early over-development had made me weary of the more overt attention I attracted from older boys and Stephen Hurley at 13 did not pose a problem in my mind. 

Despite his good humour, there were times when I detected a certain air of possessiveness about him and even a hint of loneliness. 

His parents had split up a year or two earlier in Western Australia and he had recently come to live with his father in Darwin. His younger brother and sister remained with his mother in Perth. The family had like so many others in that era, migrated from England in the late 60's, hoping for better work opportunities and a more promising future in Australia. 

'Ten-pound tourists' and 'working class Pommy muck', was how my mother had referred to the influx of English migrants of the day. Her condemnations had little real affect on my attitudes, although I had, through some strange sense of 'Aussie allegiance', felt the need to jokingly echo her sentiments when immersed in one of our frequent slanging matches. 

"Descendant of convicts, thieves and pickpockets" was the label Stephen would fling back at me in laughing self-defence and I would hotly deny the presence of any convict in my 'free-settler' Australian heritage. 

Being Australian, he assured me, meant I was highly unlikely to know just where I had sprung from. 

Ultimately he was almost always able to acquit himself with the aplomb of a boy much older  and as such, I seldom felt any real mental difference in our ages.

I was however, acutely aware of how much attention our budding friendship was receiving from our respective friends and whilst it did not appear to worry Stephen, I was very careful to deny any real interest in him at all. It was most definitely 'not cool' to like a boy two and a half years younger than yourself, no matter how much fun he was and how much he pursued.

Perhaps it was my assumed nonchalance towards him, but whatever the reason, my ever cautious mother seemed to not mind Stephen when she encountered him hanging around our front gate chatting to me after school. I think his small stature and friendly manner posed no threat in her mind to her daughter's chastity either, and there was never any real negative from her about him.  A salient point I did not miss for a moment.

I am sure Stephen did not miss the point either and he seemed to use it to his advantage when one afternoon I had ridden home from a friend's house and noted a familiar white Holden Station Wagon parked in the street opposite our house.  I slowed when I saw Stephen and his father exiting our front gate and crossing to the car, and with all things…my mother cheerily bidding them goodbye  from the balcony!  

“Struth”, I thought, "what on earth is he up to now?".  I waited until the car had left before riding up to the house and approaching my mother who had spotted me and stood waiting for me.  

“What did they want Mum?” I asked casually “Your friend , what's his name"? she commented  "Stephen" I offered gingerly, "yes well”, she went on almost dismissively, "he and his father will be back at 6 to pick you up to go to the drive-in, I have said it is alright",  the tone of her voice indicated she expected I knew all about the arrangement. 

 "Oh thank you Mum", I barely murmured in confused disbelief.  

"His father  seems like a very nice man",  she rattled on now,   "He has assured me you would be in safe hands and they will have you  back straight after the end of the movies".  

"Oh yes, they seem a very nice family", I agreed immediately, knowing this was indeed rare, my mother actually letting me out with people she barely knew!  

I was not going to miss an opportunity to go to the drive-in, no matter what the circumstances.  Stephen, the cheeky sod,  I could deal with later, but for now I was actually allowed out and to go the drive-in, amazing!

I was waiting a little apprehensively, when Stephen and his father arrived right on time and I yelled my goodbyes as I piled down the stairs and out to the front gate, where Stephen was approaching with a knowing grin.  

“So you ready to go or what?”he flipped at me as I past through the gate at glancing sideways at him. 

“Nice one” I muttered. “I suppose I didn't need to know”. 

“No, not really, I’d already decided you were going to the pictures” he responded with an even bigger grin.  

“I’ll get in first and sit next to my dad, cos we cant have you sitting next to him and that way you can have the window”, Stephen opened the car door and we were off. 

There were few boys my age that would have had the ingenuity and the courage to engineer such stunt as this, in order to win a girl over and winning me over he was.

The movies showing that night have long slipped my memory, but the events of the evening didn't. I had hoped Stephen would remain ‘in his place’, but I should have known better for it was only about 15 minutes into the first movie, when I felt his fingers wrap around mine as he pulled my hand down beside him. Presumably,  out of the view of his seemingly oblivious father.  It was like a little electric shock and I gasped softly in momentary awkwardness and the sheer pleasure of his touch and the warmth of his surprisingly strong fingers. 

Now Mary

Now Mary, I reckon if you get in the back like a good girl...we can go back to the station and you can have a nice bed for the night, whaddya think?”
I asked the heavyset woman who was standing, legs apart and firmly planted. There was a bemused look on her dark face and I knew despite her drunkenness, she was finding my dilemma amusing. The idea of loading this belligerent, drunken woman into the back of a Police van was not one I relished.
I sighed...here we go... she’s not getting in the back without a bloody struggle. Her next comment confirmed it for me...
“I’m not puckin’ goin’ anywhere girlie... so you can piss off”.
I reached out and gripped her huge upper arm momentarily, before she shrugged me off with the ease of swatting off a fly.
“Yep this definitely isn’t going to work...
I cast a weary eye over the damp, filthy, sweaty mismatched shirt and skirt she was wearing,“ I need a plan B without a struggle, I thought now...’cos I am not getting close to that lot and having to sit in a stinking uniform for the rest of the evening”. My new partner, John had moved away to clear out the other drunks from the area in his formal, awkward manner and I noticed Mary eyeing him off.
“Hey... he’s new eh?”
Swaying, Mary slurred her question at me, sucking back on her spittle as she ran her tongue over her huge lips. It was hard to tell if they had always been so large naturally or whether they had simply become deformed through countless fights. Most likely, the latter - I thought idly watching young John politely shooing the other drinkers away. I abruptly dismissed my musings as an answer came to me.
“Tell you what Mary, we been watching you for a while fighting and he’s pretty impressed with you, reckons you can fight real good one eh”.
Mary stopped swaying and stared hard at me for a second
“What... he likes me?” she slurred again.
A flicker of pride started to cross her face now.
“Yep”
I reassured her while I looked around to make sure John had not moved back into earshot, then leaning forward, I lowered my voice as the pungent stench of not washing and a solid day on the grog, filled my nostrils.
“Yep Mary”, I went on, ignoring the fact my eyes were starting to water, “He’s pretty young too eh, probably be pretty nice to you if you are a good girl”.
Her bleary eyes widened,
“Haaay, he’s alright too ‘eh, cute...maybe you like him, you gotta bloke”?
She hesitated good-naturedly with all the consideration a close friend.
“Nah Mary, I reckon he likes you ‘eh”. I responded to her concerns.
“I think he might like aboriginal girls ‘eh, but you gotta ssshhh ‘eh, you can’t be telling everyone out loud, he’s new and he’s bit shy”.
Mary grinned broadly, swaying again and swiping her finger to her lips briefly, blowing spittle onto it and attempting to wink.
“Hey that’s alright girlie”, she reassured me, “I’ll be bit shy too hey... at first!”
She chortled at her last remark and made a beeline for the back of the Police van.
I rushed to get ahead of her to open the cage door before she did it herself.
"All aboard Mary", I said, as I swung the door wide.
“I reckon” she replied “Let’s go!”

The van rattled noisily down Paterson Street as we headed towards the Station watch-house. Mary, in heightened anticipation was determined to be heard above the racket. With ears well tuned to the local vernacular, I tried to distract John's attention away from Mary's loud, raucous broadcast to all and sundry who would listen along the way, "I'm gonna get pucked, I'm gonna get pucked"!
There were a few good natured cheers and whistles as she made herself clear to the numerous friends and relatives gathered outside the main street's two pubs.

"What's she saying?" John quizzed me now.
"No clue" I lied.
"I can't quite make it out" he continued and started to roll his window down.
"Don't worry about it, she thinks she is getting dinner, I told her we might have one spare".
He laughed and rolled the window back up and applauded my feigned ingenuity,
"Well I suppose if it works".

I smiled back and said nothing.

I swung the van easily into the station yard outside the watch house. Did the customary reversal up close to the door and watched in awe as John scuttled out of the van to open the back. It was a 'bloke thing' they all had going. Beetle out of the car and around to the back like their bloody lives depended on it! All the new ones seem to do it. It was like having to work with a young, more senior female was the epitome of injustice and affront to their male egos and they were somehow trying to make me look inept by getting the door open first. I knew from the demeanour it wasn’t simply good manners.

Ah well, this fact was simply going to work my way tonight.

"Hang on" I called, as I hastened to the back of the car, but John in his clipped, no-nonsense manner, already had the door bolt in his hand, mumbling "It's alright I've got it!"

"You bloody bet you have", I murmured under my breath as John slipped the latch to his fate.

Mary, right on queue unleashed herself in full flight…"Gib me a kiss!" she demanded as she flattened John to the concrete, her huge body spread eagled across the top of him.

"Hmmn, nice landing, right on target" I thought.. "and good use of flaps" I added in my mind as I saw her great lips pucker up in anticipation.

"Jesus, get her off me!" John screamed, whipping his head from side to side to avoid Mary's romantic advances.

"Bugger, now that is ugly, you gotta feel sorry for him I thought".

It was no good, I was laughing too hard now, tears were filling my eyes.

"I would John", I finally managed to hiccup out, "but Hell I think I have to go to the toilet before I wet myself!"

"You bloody bitch, you bloody bitch" was all he could say as I helped heave her off him.

"But I like you!", Mary wailed in assurance to John as we shoved her towards the watch house.

"Fuck off Mary", I countered, "can't you see he has changed his mind".

I was still laughing and somehow through the booze and blear Mary had caught the joke.

"Well Lub, you always know where to find me, if he changes it again", she chortled as she marched herself into the Watch house reception.

"Welcome to Tennant Creek John", I giggled.

"Fuck off" came the reply.

"No sense of humour" I thought later when I found I was 'persona non grata' amongst the male sympathisers at the Police club for the next month.

The Frog

Now if I stand very still, it will croak again and I will find which pipe it is hiding in. Waiting, with toes wriggling in pooled water. Squelching the waving green slime that clung to the rocks and concrete. The leaking laundry tap and the quagmire it created was bliss for frog hunting.

There it was ...brrruurrk, brrruurrk!

Flipping the blackened brass drain cover lid, I could see him now... gold and black eyes, blinking with translucent eyelids. He hunched his shouders in tighter as though he instinctively knew this tousled blonde 3 year old was about to wrench him from safe haven. Ohh this one is a big one, have to grab him tight when I get him...and he's really beautiful green too!

And there it was, determined little fist shoved straight up the drain pipe at lightning speed. The prize - my friend for the day ...and tomorrow too, if Mum did not find him in the pillowcase I was going to put him in tonight.

Mum wouldn't like that, I know...

"Bloody frogs going through the wringer when I do the washing. It is cruel Debbie and not responsible! "

There was that word again. I screwed up my brow. A big grown up word... dunno what she means .... poor frog is yucky now. All red and green and bits ...must be that thing ...dead or somethin'.

When Mum gets all quiet again, I will find another one, but this time I will remember not to let it stay in my pocket and then go in the dirty clothes basket in the bathroom. Mum won't be cross then.

So here we are ... got you frog!

The Split

At the top end of Australia, miles from any real civilization, Darwin in the 1950’s was the little outback town everyone came to when they had something or someone to run away from. It’s harsh tropical climate, guaranteed refuge from responsibility for those that sort to shun it. My parents had been part of its colourful population for a decade by the time I added to it.My father, well known in the town and an irreverent rogue, was not the epitome of his strict upbringing. His excellent private school education and Naval electronics background was put to good use as he charmed his way through business and life in true Queenslander style.

My less laid back mother was struggling with the urge to live up to her grandmother's haughty standards and the gene pool of a cavalier father she had never met. It was probably his inherit attitudes at play the day she decided to marry my father, against her family's better judgment. Whatever it was, she was by this time regretting it.
My two older brothers battled with their opposite personalities as they tried to get along with one another. My arrival came as a welcome distraction from their constant warfare. At last someone who would provide them with a real role in life. A little sister had to be looked after and.... made tough! I barely had time to draw breath before my mother packed her three children up and reversed out of the dirt driveway of the unpainted, cement fibro elevated home that was so typical of Darwin's tropical houses. The domestic violence I had always known would become a thing of the past…well for a while anyway.

For me this should have been just another episode of leaving home for the night, but somehow I sensed a change in my mother this night. Her anger subsided more quickly than usual and she smiled over her shoulder like a shaken victor in a battle. Here she was in her own car, with a job and all three of her children “sitting up like Jacko” in the back of the station wagon.

These small babies only eight, six and four years old were already so in tune with the violent fights they had developed a silent ritual for the occasions.
Tiny little school bags were ‘jam packed’ with tomorrow’s clothes, while tonight’s pillows and bed sheets were bundled up as they dashed down to the car where they would wait expectantly for her to come wildly crashing down the stairs shortly after with their father rampaging behind .

I remembered the scene with the ambivalence of a child who loved both parents, seeing my beloved big Dad bellowing at my tiny Mum from the unstable, unmaintained wooden stairs that shook with his anger.
His dark hairy chest heaved with exertion while the white skin underneath danced in the low reflected light from the house. “Gee Dad’s getting fat”, I thought in childlike candor, “He’s nearly got bosoms like Mum... I wish he would just shut up the silly drunk bugger!”
For a moment he seemed to be searching for something on ground around his feet and instinctively I knew he would be looking for stick to come after Mum. "Quick Mum go", both brothers were urging her now with the smae well-honed instincts.

Moments later we were speeding off up Christie Street past the neighbour’s houses to a new life.

“Where are we going Mum?” my brother Tony asked enthusiastically.

Before she could answer my eldest brother Mark interjected with a new sense of authority and knowledge in his voice.

“We don’t know, we just have to get out of our house you know. Dad’s done it this time – he’s too cross and he’s always too drunk to stay with so we are getting out of there”.

Tony seemed to understand and he nodded his little blonde head gravely as he added in a more subdued tone

“Yes I think we should”

My mother elaborated at this point “We are probably going to camp down the beach tonight and then after that I will have to see, we will probably go to the ‘Izods’ for a little while.

I shivered with excitement at Mum’s news, this was definitely different …and it was better than being in bed! Going to the Izods and a million kids …this was bliss!

The Holden headlights split the blackness of the moonless night as we nosed our way down the well-worn, familiar sandy track leading to Vestey's Beach and our camp for the night. The car pulled over quickly and the engine's drone was replaced by the sound of waves lapping gently and a soft sea breeze filled the back of the station wagon.
"This is a good spot Mum" reassured Mark and Mum smiled back over her shoulder at him. "Yes and this nice breeze should keep the mozzies away "she added.
"Hey Mum", I interjected the moment, "I need to wee and there is no toilet"!.

"Well you will just have to get out and wee on the ground," shot back Tony

"But I don't wanna go in the dark out there". I whined now.

"Just squat down next to the wheel Deb, it won't matter", contined Mum cajolingly. "Actually you can all get go to the toilet and then settle down and go to sleep. Here's a Kleenex for you to wipe with Deb". Mum handed over a square of soft tissue paper from the ever-present pack in the car.
"I don't need a tissue do I Mum", Tony was more making a statement than asking a question. "No dear, boys don't need tissues for doing a wee". "See!?", Tony sneered at my dilemma, I'm glad I'm not a girl". "Soooo what!?" I retorted scrambling out of the car ahead of him. My toes sunk deliciously into the soft clean sand that lined the beach track and for a moment my fear of the dark no longer seemed to matter, I could just run and jump in this stuff. "Mind you don't get your feet dirty, I don't want grubby little feetmarks on these sheets, I don't know when I will be able to wash them again for a while". Mum, like all mothers always knew!
"Yeah, so that means don't wee on your feet" added Tony.

Women in Uniform

The make-up went on first, so as not to risk any spills on the pristine, beautifully pressed beige dress, that hung from the back of the wooden louvred door. A central row of shiny buttons caught the light and twinkled in appreciative response.

They seemed to shine with the importance of the event I was to be part of... the first day of uniform for the women in the job.

Sitting on the end of the bed, the pantihose were to a girl brought up in the tropics, not something tackled easily.
Talls, mini beige, reinforced toe and heel. Sliding them on gingerly, positioning the toe and then the heel. Ah huh...got that, now here goes the rest.
The results were less than I had hoped ...the long length of slim, suntanned brown leg with the telltale imperfections of tomboy days, were smoothed to dull and milky looking. Errgh ...the constriction!

Unruly, long , brown hair resisting capture into a ‘no-nonsense’ bun. It was taking me forever ! One gossamer hairnet and a million bobby-pins later and we have compliance! No not quite... fine wisps breaking free at the sides, in search of reprimand... I just know it, it will get me into trouble! "Bugger... it will have to do!"

I cautiously slid the dress down over my head, shiny buttons aligned and now for the crowning glory...the black and white hat with it's blue chequered band. The same face staring with eyes alight in excited disbelief at the transformation in the mirror . Like a lamb to the slaughter, there stood a baby in police uniform.

For a nineteen year old girl in 1978, this moment of stepping out into a man's world of policing in the Territory, was the beginning of a loss of innocence. It was however this same innocence that made it possible to withstand the shameful treatment that was to be dished out to myself and many of the young women who were to follow.