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.