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.
The Bells, The bells
I have always sung; I am a singer. There is a song in my head for every occasion, and for this I am eternally grateful. Blame long church services, and me; restless with youth and the itch to run and go and play, I was glad of the distraction to belt out a song. It wasn’t for me to sit as an altar boy, looking mournful, reverent, and quiet. They would be statues and I would marvel at their centred stillness. How did they do it?
On Sundays, it was my duty to pull the church bells. I’d say ‘chime the bells’ but it was a simple small bell; it had to do.
I’d begin on Sunday morning at 6:30 am, after a quick shake awake from Dad.
“Thirty-three rings, Patty. No more, no less, remember?”
“Yes, Dad, you tell me every time,” and off I’d go; getting a good hard pull, enough to raise my skinny brown legs off the ground to my own hilarity.
I am a clown, and together our black cocker spaniel and I would bay and howl together, totally forgetting to count the pulls and chimes.
As I became older, visiting the teenage years of sulk and flounce, my weight kept me grounded. The bells simply rang, and our dear old cocker would lie on the dirt nearby, one eye open to watch me yank the cord crossly in exasperation.
The Methodists planted pansies in their front garden. I loved to look at the different colours: the rich purples, the shocking yellows, and the soft blue of the flowers. We only had purple bachelor buttons. Upright, no nonsense flowers that held no appeal. The trees between both churches were named the drunken parrot trees, named as the lorikeets fed on the fermented flowers and often fell out of the tree. You had to look up and choose your moment to pass underneath.
***
One night, after an argument with Carolyn about washing up; whether she should wash or dry the dishes after dinner, I stormed into our shared bedroom and packed my school sports bag, preparing to run away from home. I have always had a strong fight-or-flight streak, but running away from life’s problems is no answer. I was yet to learn that.
For my 10th birthday, I was given a beautiful talcum powder called Three Flowers. The previous week, I had been invited to a girl’s birthday party. Everyone was there. I was shocked at how many gifts she received. There was cake, fairy bread, soft drinks. Mum had given me one of her own hankies, taken from her duchess, as a gift. I died of embarrassment as it was opened. I hid beside the concrete block and shrank into the background.
My own Three Flowers powder paled into insignificance after that, but I loved it. I threw this into my bag, along with a pair of pyjamas; the yellow ones with ducks that I accidentally wore to school one day, only realising when I went to the open toilets at Berserker Street State School and stared down in disbelief at the comical sight.
“I’m leaving!” I shouted to everyone, who sat in the lounge-room rolling their eyes.
“Goodbye, dear,” chirped Mum.
Slamming the old kitchen door behind me, I crept out to the dark garden, to the sound of the flying fox feeding on the tamarind tree. Past the church, past the yellow light of Chris’s window, and the shadow of him standing at the easel. All good so far. I crept along past the fat bookleaf conifers that lined the driveway. This wasn’t the time to pick the plump berries and hurl them at the black night. Where was the moon? Goosebumps raised on my bare arms. Please, Ghosties, don’t chase me tonight, I pleaded. I reached the drunken parrot trees, and the stench of fermenting flowers in the night air made me turn around, and I bolted back to the safety of the rectory. The Ghosties were on my tail, and once again, I slammed the kitchen door to announce my arrival home. No one moved. Homicide was on TV, and I quietly unpacked my bag, trying not to cry. The dishes were still in the sink. I’d only been gone four minutes.
My Three Flowers powder had spilt everywhere. The next time I run away, it will be to the bathroom, I pondered, in between sobs. I’ll put a towel down in the bathtub, another one on top of me for warmth, and I’ll eat toothpaste for dinner. It seemed like a Master plan.
The lounge-room flickered with grey light as I quietly washed up.