“Hannah, we’re safe. Hannah?” I look at him, and he smiles at me. “Hannah? We survived. I knew the sea wouldn’t get us. Hannah? Wasn’t that fun!”
Josh laughs as his sapphire blue eyes blaze with life and suddenly, surprisingly, it is fun. We are alive. We are young. We are together. And life is always fun, when I am with Josh.
Those Roske Girls
There is a photo hanging in my hallway of a group of around twenty splendid young men and women, taken on Boxing Day 1938. Their shining eyes and happy faces show little concern about or even knowledge of the coming world war; their healthy farm fed bodies are strong and full of vitality, enjoying a Boxing Day picnic those many years ago.
Most of the group are related, brothers and sisters and cousins, sons and daughters of farmers in a fertile southeastern Queensland valley.
The men worked the land with their fathers, grew crops and raised animals, killed and salted and smoked their own meats in their own smokehouses, as their forebears did in Europe for many centuries before emigrating to a new land.
The women raised children and fowls, collected eggs, picked crops and bottled and preserved, in between cooking enormous meals for their families and their farm workers. They worked hard, those farmers and their families, but they also knew how to have fun. They would gather to celebrate weddings and christenings with a party, Easters and Christmas Days with a huge extended family lunch and Boxing Days with a picnic by the creek.
My mother is one of the shining young faces in that photo, as are her two older sisters and five brothers of the Roske family, along with her cousins the Bisches and the Reichls. Not everyone wanted to get their photo taken that long ago picnic day, but the ones who did formed two straggling laughing lines, with the tallest at the back (except for my Aunty Ivy, who insisted on standing beside her George and who can just be seen peeping over the shoulder of one of her brothers), and four of the most daring girls who included my Aunty Polly and my mother Edith with the two youngest Reichl girls sitting on the shoulders of the tallest men and laughing into the camera lens.
As well as being the most daring, the Roske girls were the most beautiful girls in the district. Shy Ivy was a very pretty girl, with blue eyes and nut brown hair, but was totally eclipsed by Polly, with her translucent white skin, lively green eyes and black curls. Polly was the acknowledged district belle until my mother Edie was old enough to challenge her rule. Although Polly was undeniably beautiful and was one of the best cooks in the district, my mother’s jacaranda blue eyes and white-blonde curls were teamed with a natural flirtatiousness from being the baby of the family that drew men like flies to an uncovered honey pot.
One of the family jokes that amused my uncles enormously was the number of arguments among the local single men over which of the Roske girls was the prettiest; shy Ivy with her sweet smile, glamorous Polly whose exotic looks just did not match her home-loving nature, or flirtatious Edie with her fluffy blonde curls. Somehow these five laughing brothers could not see the attraction of their grown sisters, but always retained the image of the little annoying girls who interrupted their boyhood adventures.
When a dance was being organised in the district, everyone checked to make sure the Roske’s would be there so the evening would be a success. Momma Roske’s baking was the centerpiece around which the suppers were organized and Poppa Roske always played for all the bush dances. Although his instrument of choice was the piano-accordion, if the impromptu band already had a piano-accordionist Poppa was equally happy to produce a harmonica, take a seat at the piano, or even grab a violin to fiddle a dance tune. Whatever instrument Poppa played, he always ended up leading the band and never ran out of tunes to play. The five boys were at the heart of any mischief going, and could always be relied upon to relieve a dry evening by secreting a beer keg in the bushes near the hall. As for the Roske girls, all three were willing and able to dance the night away.
My mother loved dancing almost as much as she loved her Poppa who would watch his Edie, his beloved youngest daughter, to see who she was dancing with. If Edie liked her partner the dance would go on and on, but if Edie was stuck with a duty dance, her father would bring the dance to an abrupt end in a very quick time. Ivy didn’t mind because, except for her duty dances, she would dance only with George, but Polly was very vocal with her complaints if she was dancing with a handsome young man and the dance finished within a few bars because Edie had secretly signaled Poppa.
Although the Roske family knew their own worth and their standing in the district, they were confused and upset by Ivy’s choice of husband. No-one could see what Ivy saw in George, even though Ivy’s older brother commented one day that Ivy and George talked a lot together, even if both were stony silent when they were part of the larger family group.
While George was welcome as a hardworking and honest farm labourer and known through three valleys as a good man with cattle, he was not the family’s idea of an acceptable son- or brother-in-law. George was a big, smiling, silent man, strong as an ox who could lift and shift any load, but who didn’t seem to have an opinion about anything but just smiled and smiled and smiled.
To the quicksilver, argumentative Roske’s, this was incomprehensible. It didn’t matter what topic was being discussed, everyone was expected to not only have an opinion, but to voice it and to hold to that opinion in the face of all opposition.
While it was acceptable for a mere farm labourer to be silent in the presence of his betters, the noisy Roske family found George’s smiling silence to be offensive to the point of insolence in their Ivy’s choice of mate.
When George finally asked Poppa Roske formally for Ivy’s hand after a three year courtship he was promptly refused; as soon as Momma Roske heard of George’s impertinence she tried to pack Ivy off to visit cousins, which Ivy promptly refused.
If Ivy thought that giving the family three years to get used to George would lessen their opposition, she soon realized her mistake. The family discussed Ivy’s obduracy from early morning until after the evening meal, speculating on why she would make such an odd choice when every young single man in the district was at her feet except for those who were already at the feet of Polly or Edie.
Ivy’s boisterous brothers couldn’t understand why she would want a silent husband, and cracked many jokes about how quiet their home would be if shy Ivy and silent George were allowed to marry. One night over dinner they even promised Ivy with much laughter that if she achieved her aim of marrying George, they would gift her with a cage of singing canaries as a wedding present so her home wouldn’t be totally silent.
Ivy’s sisters sympathized with Ivy’s disappointment, but still couldn’t understand Ivy’s choice of man when there were so many more talkative, wealthier and therefore more interesting men available. Edie even tried to help Ivy by arranging accidental meetings with whatever man she thought suitable for Ivy, and didn’t want herself.
By this time, only Edie was truly heart-whole, because Polly was in the first throes of a determined courtship by another George, a farmer’s son from the next valley. Polly’s George was acceptable to the family, being a healthy, hearty, hard-working farmer full of fun and frolics, as well as being a third cousin.
But shy Ivy remained faithful to silent George, and continued to dance only with him at the bush dances, except for her duty dances. When the district, and the family, recovered somewhat from the shock of George daring to ask for Ivy’s hand, the family made a united effort to persuade Ivy to see sense and other men by organizing a 21st birthday dance for her. Ivy calmly accepted her family’s congratulations and presents and happily attended the birthday dance before disappearing late that night with George, reappearing a week later with a big smile and wearing a wedding ring, and demanding her promised cage of singing canaries from her shocked brothers.
The Roske’s accepted Ivy’s fait accompli and welcomed George into the family. From that day on, if anyone dared to tease George or comment on George’s smili
ng silence or lack of opinions, he could expect a fist from one of Ivy’s brothers.
In the meantime, Polly and her George had become an established courting couple, and no-one was at all surprised when this George asked formally for Polly’s hand and was accepted by Poppa Roske. The whole district was invited to the wedding. Presents rolled in to the Roske house; a series of breakfasts and suppers and dances were organised by Polly’s friends to celebrate the coming marriage, and the Roske’s were very content with Polly’s choice.
One week before the biggest wedding the district had ever seen, Polly received a note from her George. Sitting in the middle of a house piled with presents and wedding paraphernalia, Polly read George’s apology that he couldn’t marry her, because he was too young and didn’t want to be tied down yet. He had decided to go droving for a while to think things over, and asked Polly to wait for him and they could be married when he returned.
Polly was a proud woman, a true Roske with a quicksilver temper who was insulted to her core. She angrily retaliated by announcing that the wedding would go ahead as planned, only the identity of the bridegroom was unknown because she would marry the first man to ask her.
This news flew around the district like wildfire, discussed in kitchens and cow-yards, with every young single man in the district wondering if he would have a chance to marry beautiful Polly, should he have the courage to ask her. Sisters and mothers encouraged bashful brothers and shy sons to try their luck.
Everyone was speculating. Did she really mean it? Was it only that famous Roske temper talking? Would she regret her rash promise, and renege on the deal? Would Polly’s brothers catch up with the delinquent groom in time to escort him to the altar for the wedding to proceed as originally planned?
While the district simmered and speculated, somehow a gentleman’s agreement was reached among Polly’s prospective suitors. The men of the district agreed amongst themselves that Polly was badly hurt as well as insulted and shouldn’t be made to keep her word, but if she did want to marry on Saturday, everyone who would like to be considered would gather at the Roske farm at sunset, after milking was finished but before supper, to give Polly a fair choice from those who would be pleased to marry her.
The news hit the local pub mid-afternoon when some of Polly’s prospective suitors called in for some liquid courage. The town drunk, an ugly, skinny, short 40-year-old ex-drover called Bluey was heard to mutter “What the hell” before he drained his glass and staggered outside to steal a horse belonging to one of the prospective suitors still inside the pub.
Somehow Bluey made it to the Roske farm without falling off his stolen horse and was the first man to propose. Polly was shocked but too proud to renege on her word so by the time the gentlemen of the town arrived at sunset, Bluey’s proposal was accepted and the wedding was arranged.
The next Saturday Polly married Bluey front of the whole district. Everyone, not just Momma Roske, cried at the wedding except for the groom who was still staggering drunk and stayed drunk for most of the next thirty years. It was lucky for Bluey that Polly was a hard worker, because he never worked another day in his life even with the encouragement of his new brothers-in-law. However, it was the third daughter, my mother Edie, who brought real shame to the Roske family.
As the war came ever closer to Australia and took the young men of the district into the hungry maw of Army training camps, Edie found life was very quiet on the farm. Both her sisters were married and her brothers’ sole focus was to join the Army. Every time they had a drink they headed off, either individually or in a family group to join up and do their bit even though they were only one step away from an alien internment camp as first generation emigrants and were only saved by being classed as essential land workers.
Edie quietly left home, to go to Brisbane to do her bit for the war effort. Edie’s bit didn’t take her into a factory or making munitions where she would get her hands dirty, but into one of Brisbane’s best restaurants as a waitress, and from there to one of the city’s large department stores to work behind the cosmetics counter.
One day Edie was followed back from her lunch break by a handsome young naval officer, on secondment as a trainer to Australia from the Royal English Navy. The farmer’s daughter was dazzled by the uniform and the handsome face, just as the naval hero was dazzled by a pretty face and jacaranda blue eyes. Edie married her navy officer with as much pomp and circumstance as she could organise, considering wartime restrictions. As soon as the war ended, Edie proudly took her new husband home to meet the family who couldn’t hide their disappointment in her choice.
Ivy’s George was now a valued member of the Roske family; a worthy man who worked hard and who knew cattle. Polly’s Bluey was a mistake; but at least he was Australian and could follow farming conversations. Edie’s Dougal was a city boy who may have been a war hero but who couldn’t kill a chicken in cold blood, much less talk sensibly about cows and crops.
When Dougal saw a snake in the rafters one night, he shot the kitchen roof full of holes and missed the snake completely. When Dougal saw a rat run up a drainpipe, he missed the rat but shot the drainpipe full of holes too, much to the amusement of the Roske boys. So when the family saw a very large spider sheltering from a late afternoon thunderstorm under the verandah, Edie was mortified when Poppa Roske’s only comment was “Hide the guns, or the Pom will miss the spider and shoot the verandah off the house”.
Edie suddenly realized that while an English officer in full naval uniform was a marriage coup during wartime in a city like Brisbane, in the world of the Roske farm and its environs, it was a disaster. She became the daughter who had disgraced her parents and her heritage.
It’s strange now to look at that photo in the hallway and the healthy, shining young faces full of promise and hope and expectations, and to remember the choices made by those splendid, laughing, Roske girls, so long ago.
An unexpected meeting in the library
I heard my name called, but didn’t stop. I just wasn’t expecting to be hailed so loudly, so emotionally, here in the quiet entrance to our library.
The woman called again, then ran awkwardly towards me, pushing a pram with one hand, dragging an unwilling toddler with the other hand, slung about with bags and toys and all the other paraphernalia that mothers need. She rolled to a halt on front of me, exclaiming “don’t you remember me?”
I ran quickly through a mental menu of possible meeting places: not work, definitely not family, not a member of the committee I was rushing to attend.
She dropped her toddler’s hand to impatiently snatch off her sunglasses. “Are you Sue Smith?” she demanded.
Then, not waiting for an answer, again almost crying with excitement, asked again “don’t you remember me?”
I stared at the excited glass green eyes, the red hair, but mainly felt the emotion of the moment. Her desperate need to be remembered, and then I remembered … her name was: “Lizzie!” I exclaimed. “It’s been so long.”
“Twenty years at least”, she proclaimed proudly. “But I knew you at once”, as though this was some sort of contest.
“I haven’t changed that much, have I?” she demanded, as she turned sideways to strike a model pose.
I looked at Lizzie’s glassy green eyes as she continued talking and remembered this was what it had been like, sharing a flat with her for three months, all those long years ago on the other side of our big continent when we were both young. Life with Lizzie was like living constantly on the edge of an emotional volcano.
On the one hand, it was impressive that she had remembered me and more than that, recognized me. I was at least six dress sizes larger, hair graying, twenty years older and wiser. But on the other hand, who on god’s green earth cared enough to remember intimately every brief acquaintance in a lifetime? Only Lizzie would think that was important.
“I knew you straight away”, she repeated, “and after so many years too”.
The Lizzie I remembered cou
ld continue to repeat the same phrase intermittently for hours, like a well-trained parrot hoping for a food reward. For the sake of my sanity I had to deflect her onto a new track.
“How’s life treating you, Lizzie?” I queried. “I can see you’ve been busy”, as I gestured to her children.
Lizzie proudly introduced her children and began to list their many achievements of early walking, talking, and potty training. She told me of her husband, of his successes as manager of one of the local supermarkets, and I gratefully tuned out and remembered down the years.
I remembered Lizzie well, now she had reminded me. The charming young woman who answered my ad for a flat mate and who, in three short months, had never bought anything other than an occasional bottle of milk or loaf of bread but who ate her way through my pantry and drank her way through my liqueur, before leaving abruptly. When the final demand notices for payment of a huge telephone bill arrived, I realized she had hidden the original bill to give herself time to escape from the amount owing from her long, nightly phone calls to interstate friends and family.
Moreover, from the ease with which she disappeared to extricate herself from her debts, I suspected that I was only one in a line of unhappy flat mates. Yes, I remembered Lizzie.