Author: Elisabeth

‘She was born with the winter in her bones.’ Kate Atkinson

Aurelia, thin and angular, pulled her socks to her knees. She wore them over thick stockings for extra warmth under drill trousers. Work ready trousers so she need not worry over unwanted holes in the fabric. 

Her mother had raised her to work, beginning as a four-year-old and first-born girl in a family where babies arrived year after year. She could change a nappy and prop a bottle on her baby brother’s chest as she folded clothes with her spare hand. She learned fast to keep order and during this time came to resent the mess piling around them in this overfull house of babies and neglect. 

Whatever happened to Aurelia when she was ten I cannot say but just like that, her ability to remember stopped one day overnight. One day she was a child who could recite her times tables, wipe bench tops clean, set out knives and forks in correct order, enough for seven, clear dishes, wash and stack them away. The next day she stumbled over every movement. She dropped plates, smashed in pieces on the floor and could not remember where the dustpan and brush lived to sweep up the shards. 

School became a nightmare, a fog of ignorance and the nuns reported Aurelia must be lacking something upstairs. Best she leaves school when she hits fourteen, they said. She could still be useful at home. 

Only Aurelia was no longer useful at home. She was a burden on her parents, a child who weighed them down with her slowness. 

A disease had crept into Aurelia’s bones. Some malady of mind that left her grasping for ideas. It squashed her memory and the slower she became the more her mother pondered her fate. It was never a matter of love. 

Love was not a commodity within this family of many heads, legs and arms all pistoning in unison to get through the tasks of life, the cooking, the eating, the washing, the cleaning. The walk to school, the books to read, the tasks to be completed outside in the woodshed, the gathering of firewood for the older boys, and stitching of holes in fabric for the girls below Aurelia who had not yet lost their minds. 

Aurelia’s mother feared this might turn out to be the fate of all her daughters. One after the other when they came of age, nine or ten, overnight these girls would shift their weight in the world and disappear.

It had happened to Aurelia’s mother, too, only she managed to hold onto a few shreds of memory, enough to get her past the end of her school days at fourteen, enough to rote learn the rudiments of house care, enough to find a husband. A burly tall man who was not unkind but who did not know any more than Aurelia’s mother that small children need love if they are to burst into bright stars that glow warm. If they are to grow into minds that can think and feel, that can run, hop and skip like John and Betty in the first-grade readers. 

Aurelia’s mother knew there had been other possibilities for her, but once she married and the first seeds of a baby swelled inside, there was no turning back. 

Then there was Aurelia. And her disappearance. 

Her mother then imagined a Hansel and Gretel story for her daughter. She the wicked stepmother, for no actual mother would abandon her child, however forlorn. And she cajoled her burly husband into taking Aurelia to the government house where cast off children were processed. Leaving her there.

Aurelia in a fog in the great hall at the centre of a crumbling mansion where bureaucrats took details of children lined up like ten pins one after the other ready for life to bowl them over. 

But Aurelia had no details to report. Aurelia could not remember. She was born with the winter already in her bones and although she wore clothes that kept her warm enough, thick stockings, socks to her knees over drill trousers and all under a great coat for the out of doors, her insides were laced over in memory loss. 

Aurelia was the raw forgotten part of her mother’s life. Her mother knew this and tried to rid herself of the unknown and unremembered by casting her daughter aside.

But Aurelia would rise again like the characters in Roman myths who once abandoned on hillsides as babies, refused to die. 

Let us hope Aurelia meets a similar fate. We cannot abandon her to words on the page, to the life of our imaginations, to the skin of words and of language. Aurelia is our memory of all that is forgotten. She needs us to hold her tight. 

Bugs that burrow under skin

In the year I turned seventeen, I took a holiday job at the Antonian Children’s home. The migrant branch of the church had set it up for deprived boys and girls of Italian origin and that year for the first time, the nuns at my school offered an opportunity to senior girls who wanted to give back to the community. 

In the spirit of giving as preached by Catholic nuns and priests, my mother believed the best way to overcome adversity was to give to others. So off I went. The Antonian home was a single storey, brick building, stuccoed in white, on Church Street in Richmond. The nuns kept it secure with a cyclone fence in front, wood paling at the back and apartment blocks on either side. Italian style architecture gone to seed. It was once someone’s home with a large entrance way and two big rooms in front with a rabbit warren of smaller rooms off a central corridor down the back. The nuns had organised builders to rip out walls and make room for a refectory where the little ones could eat their meals and for the rest the children stayed in two partitioned rooms: a baby’s room for littlies under one and a toddler’s room for the rest. About forty children in all with five adult helpers, including me. 

We were headed by a nun from an order whose convent sat several houses down Church Street over the road from St Ignatius. Their long habit was less foreboding than that of the nuns who taught me at school. The Daughters of Divine Zeal also dressed in black and white but with a bold white bib in front and a looser fitting wimple than the one worn by my lot, the Faithful Companions of Jesus.

This was the summer when my mother had decided she could not take living with my father anymore, or perhaps my older brothers decided it for her. In any case, one of my oldest brothers arranged for the younger ones of our tribe to move into a shack down by the beach in Parkdale.

For once it wasn’t scary to go home at night. There was a predictability to each day. A certainty about what breakfast time might be like. No surly overhung father snarling in a corner. No volcanic ash burning father at night. Just the quiet lull of the ocean waves in the distance and the thump of pine tree branches as they clipped against the tin roof of the bungalow where one of my older brothers lived. 

We four little ones shared a wide room in the centre of the house, four beds cheek by jowl. It must have once been a dining room as it flanked the lounge room through opaque double glass doors that glowed all night from the streetlamp outside. I did not mind. The murmur of my sibling’s breathing at night was a comfort against the fierce uncertainty of our lives back home in Cheltenham.

Because we lived free of the strictures of our father, it was nothing for my little brother to come home with a stray cat he’d found in a laneway near the beach on his way from school one day. And nothing for the cat to skulk off under our house to give birth to a litter of pink babies who looked like tiny furless mice. 

Without my father for constraints, our mother was helpless against any interlopers we children brought home and although she told us we could not keep all the kittens she let us keep two until we found homes for the other three. The mother cat was a given. No one else would want a feral mother but in no time this cat gave up on mothering and left the cradle of her kittens to roam free once more.

One morning I woke to a scratchy itching on my arm. A ring of red welts that circled my inner wrist. 

‘Looks like ring worm,’ my sister said. She who read more books about facts than me. She had dreams of one day becoming a nurse. No children for her. Nurse Spinster Bowen my brothers nicknamed this sister. She could diagnose ringworm from the illustrations in one of her books and I worried all the way to childcare whether I should be going there at all.

I took the precaution of wrapping the offending arm in glad wrap as if to protect children from any creeping bugs crawling inside my arm. Not that any were visible to the human eye. My sister had told me they were buried under the skin. They must have escaped into me from the kittens.

It was a hot day but not too hot to hide my glad-wrapped arm under a cotton blouse which hid my wrists and although I’d have loved to travel without sleeves it was the only precaution I could imagine. I could not miss out on my work at childcare. I was volunteering, and the nuns needed me.

All day long I tried to avoid direct contact with the little ones. The hardest thing in the world to do in a place teeming with small people who regularly ran to anyone taller than them for comfort when they fell or brawled with another child over someone’s preferred toy.

It was a Friday. I had the weekend to recover. I had the weekend to go to a chemist shop and buy the necessary ointment to eradicate the bugs from under my skin. To choke them to death rather like the fly spray we spurted into the air after someone had left doors or windows open, so flies could swarm into each room. They lay lifeless on window ledges, giving off tiny flecks after you left them for several days. I thought of my miniature bugs similarly though I did not know they had wings or whether they were simply the crawling variety living under layers of skin.

By the Monday, despite my glad-wrapped arm still covered in the fabric of my blouse, I feared some parents might report their little one had come home covered in red welts.

It did not happen, not in my hearing and the days into summer and my holiday job advanced without hiccoughs. Even as it took ages before the welts disappeared.

When the pandemic erupted across the world in 2020 and people everywhere worried about our proximity to other people, my memories of contagion erupted once more. Only this time other people’s bodies were the carriers. Unless of course speculation was accurate. The Corona virus first appeared in bats, then crossed over the species barrier and spread through us humans. 

In 2020, I needed to revisit my scepticism about all things contagious, including in my time at the Antonian when I understood more about the way feelings can also be contagious from person to person. Though I did not fully understand it then. The way we send messages to one another without words. And sometimes those messages can leave another person sick, with a ring of red welts around their minds where the bugs of another person’s concerns can settle on their sense of themselves like the bugs that burrow under human skin to take up residence. One parasite on another.