When I was a child, I patterned the world into contrasts: cold winters, hot summers, happy times like holidays and hard sad times like housework or a scraped knee. There were good people and bad people, my favourite teacher Miss Anderson tall, elegant, her hair in a tight French bun, and bad people like my father. Good people like the saints and angels and bad people like the devil.
Not that we ever met the devil. We only encountered him in bad deeds, our own and others. Hence we needed to get as far away from the devil or our misdeeds by visiting the confessional at least monthly.
My mother fitted into the category of good person, warm kind and predictable, silent and long suffering. I could rely on her, or so I reasoned until one night when we had visitors and she promised to bring me a cup of tea before I fell asleep, but the tea never came.
I waited and waited in my bed into the darkness. Heard the hub bub of voices from the lounge room where my aunts and uncles, mother and father talked together over tiny cups of coffee and sweet liqueurs, but no tea for me.
She had promised she’d bring one to me the next time she popped into the kitchen to refresh the biscuits she served as savouries. Smoked oysters from a tin on salty crackers, and Russian eggs, which she had prepared earlier in the day. She boiled them hard then sliced in two, took out the yolks mashed them together with mayonnaise, a sprinkle of curry, salt and pepper then returned the yolks in a pile to fill the white oval space.
I had not asked for an egg or food, only a cup of tea but my mother was engrossed with her guests, and intent on focussing on them. The hours slipped by and with it I slipped into sleep but the memory of this one too-long-wait for my mother marred her copy book.
I kept a copy book of sorts in my head. A place in which I listed the misdeeds of people who let me down.
I did not consider myself in those days a Scorpio, a person born in November under the eighth astrological sign therefore prone to vengeful fantasies, like the scorpion who stings when wounded or afraid. I thought everyone kept a record book of other people’s failings.
My father’s misdeeds were many, my mother’s few. Until the day I pounced my ball up and down the path that ran alongside our house to the side door which we used as our front entrance way.
Up and down with my ball on the pavement. The trick to keep it in motion as long as possible without it derailing off course or having to catch it.
Up and down until it slipped sideways and into a plate of glass someone had leaned against the fence. The glass was intended to replace the window in the kitchen that one of my brothers had smashed with another ball. He out of carelessness, me out of misadventure. My mother did not see it this way.
‘The glass broke,’ I told her after she came running at the sound of the crash.
‘How could you,’ she said. ‘Not again.’ Her eyes glowered and her cheeks were flushed. My mother had never been angry with me. My mother had always been kind. This was not my mother. This was someone else who had entered my world and did not understand the ways of a ten-year-old child who could not stop her ball from flipping at a right angle and into a plate of glass after it collided with a stone on the concrete.
My mother and her mirror
This was not my mother. This was some other monster mother, and I fled from her down the road to the Canterbury park where I pushed the slide swing up and down to soothe my fury at being misjudged.
I was a good person. I had to be a good person along with the saints and the angels, along with the nuns. I was a good person. If I was not good, then I became bad and to be bad was the worst fate of all.
It put me there among the fallen archangels, among the sinners in purgatory, the devils in hell. It put me there with the people whom no one liked, the people like Hitler who started wars, or like the barbarians and Huns the nuns taught us in history. It put me into the place of the unmentionables.
This was a dilemma for me. An insoluble problem. We could not both be good anymore, my mother and me. Not after she had raged at me. Not after she had shown such hatred in her eyes. We could not both be good. One of us had to be bad. And I feared it might end up being me.
One thought on “My angry mother”
I must have been about the same age when I smashed into the glass doors of my dad’s bookcase. I was playing with a superball (remember when they were a fad in the sixties?) and was doing it in, of all places, the front room, the “good” room, the one used for guests. What on earth possessed me? Anyway, the ball flew off a wall, I dove to catch it and crashed into the bookcase. Amazingly I wasn’t cut to shreds. Of course, everyone in the house was in the room in seconds but, oddly, I don’t recall anyone being especially angry with me. I think they were more relieved not to have to call an ambulance.
My mother was not an angry person. Neither was my dad generally. He had the quicker temper though. My mother preferred to be disappointed in us and, for a while, that worked a treat until it stopped mattering.
The whole good vs evil thing still fascinates me to this day. Like you I grew up in a religious household where God made things easy by telling us what was right and wrong and a part of me wishes I’d never grown out of that. I remember when Clint Eastwood became famous as the man with no name one of the reviewers pointed out he wore a grey hat as opposed to the black and white hats that had, apparently, been commonplace in earlier westerns. It all went downhill from there.