The following is in excerpt from Maleny author Patty Beecham’s recent early memoir ‘Growing up, Rocky’ based on her family life in Rockhampton and Central Queensland.
All the news
Saturday afternoon. The garden is silent in the heat. Only the stoic sparrows scribble the noise. I’ve been swinging off the Hills Hoist until my arms ache. It’s getting quite a distinct lean. A quick splash down and a big drink from the garden hose and I escape inside; it’s cooler near the open louvres.
The horses are racing at Callaghan Park. Mum’s Biro momentarily hovers over the favourite’s name and then circles a long shot at 25/1. It’s been a good race day so far.
I’m bashing away at the huge Olivetti typewriter, making sure the stencil cuts cleanly for the Reno machine. This will be my first edition of my own newspaper, nattily called Pat’s Press.
I’ve written a poem and interviewed June when she called from London.
“Is it cold, sissy?”
“Freezing, but lovely.”
“Have you seen the Queen?”
“Once or twice, yes.”
I could only imagine the Queen turning her coiffured head, to smile and wave to my older sister, with the Mary Quant elfin cut hair. London has been good to her.
Such a change from the little girl running along the wild beaches of Lockhart Mission, with the huge granite rocks like strewn marbles. Bowen, Cooktown, and Lockhart boast these endearing natural rock forms, carelessly tossed into the sea.
Other breaking news for my newspaper included Pouncer giving birth near the sewing machine. Eight kittens this time, one black and patchwork, like its mum, and the rest tabby and greys. God knows how we are going to get rid of them. Litter after litter. It’s getting tedious.
I wander outside to think of possible names, and take a break from typing. It’s harder than you think when you’re only ten.
In the garden, there’s a silky nest of something. I gently place it inside my school hat. That should keep them safe and secure. I’ll keep my eye on it to see what hatches. I can check the kittens and mystery cocoon at the same time, in the back room next to the kitchen.
I begin to load the Reno copier with my finished page, and making sure the teeth and gears are locked and loaded, I wind the handle.
I print ten copies, one for every year. I can’t wait to sell them. Hot off the press!
Chris walks past me and snatches one copy.
“Hey! That’s ten cents please,” I demand.
He walks onto his verandah bedroom, through my bedroom, through Mum and Dad’s bedroom, to the known safety of his familiar easel and paints. I follow, like his shadow.
I hear the sound of paper being scrunched, then landing in his bin.
In the morning, my hat gives birth to spiders, which climb the walls and cover the ceiling.
