DIARY – LOVE AT CUMBERSOME CORNER – FATHERS DAY – PT 13
By Bruce Williams
Technically, my father didn’t die on fathers day. He fell face down into the flowerbed, hitting the ground with his arms loose at his side, that’s what he did. Smack into the ground. Smack into the ground.
At 5 the following morning, it was official. That was three years ago.
On mothers’ group Tuesday we’re at Whitlam Park, Tempe, where the playground has a nautical, pirate-ship theme. Something taken rather too literally by some of the locals who have set fire to every shade sail that has ever been unfurled above the play area. In the end, the council gave up replacing them, and put up a bunch of slip slop slap posters instead. These, too, were burned. But were cheaper to replace.
Ibises, rumoured to be sacred, pick through the two-day-old garbage overflowing from fathers day picnics at Whitlam Park. Ibises – with their beaks like surgical implements designed to go someplace nasty.
“How was your fathers day'” Sophie asks.
“Tricky,” I reply, “With my Dad and all. But I guess, for me, I’m happy with a sleep-in, a coddled egg, and a root.
“And how’d you do'”
“Two out of three.”
‘That’s too bad,’ says Colette.
‘Yup,’ I say, ‘that girl just can’t seem to coddle!’
Sophie tells us that she took her Dad to a bay-side Greek place at Ramsgate. Sabina paid a visit to her parents bringing only a card from the newsagent, at let them feed her.
“What about you, Colette'” asks Sally, just back from changing Jenny’s nappy, and wiping her hands with an alcohol gel that cleans and evaporates, vanishing without a trace.
“Sean and I took Dan to his Grandad’s up in Glenbrook.”
“Your Dad, or Sean’s'” asks Sabina.
Come midday, I’m back home in Cumbersome with Sam and Ellen. I’ve looked forward to this all morning. I make us sandwiches for lunch, and after, we read together Going on a bear hunt, and then it’s time for Ellen’s nap. When Ellen’s down, then I get to play Ker Plunk or snap or go fish with Sam, just the two of us. And we can talk over the relative merits and attributes of dragons and dinosaurs, of angels and fairies, until I have to ramp it up again ‘ for dinner prep and the bringing-in and folding of clothes – and the waking of Ellen.
So – I’m looking forward to my quality Sam time as I’m walking Ellen to the foot of the stairs. She reaches up to me.
“You carry me, Dad'”
Most times I’d encourage Ellen to take the stairs herself and learn to negotiate those firm steps with those wobbly legs. But today I’m thinking – only six months until I’m back five days at the Ministry of Truth. Only six months, and you’ll be asking Betty this question – and she isn’t going to be carrying you up stairs.
So I lift her into my arms and cradle her – her little arms loose and limp by her side, ready for the sack. At the landing I feel the need to steady a little, and this gives me the chance to look into those small brown eyes, and feel the weight of her, the warmth.
Looking down into those eyes, I say: “Oh Ellen, I love you.”
And looking up into mine, she says: “I love Mum.”
