Cry Babies

Note: Contains violence toward children.

Cry Babies.

‘You kids! Bloody wood box is empty. Whose turn is it to fill up the bloody kindling?’ As usual father’s shouts reverberate through a house sleep-warmed, closed off from soon-to-be new day. As a result, any remnant slumber is now shattered. Any time of the day or night might be a time for our father to shout, diminish our skills, or admonish for a job not done.

There are no turns in this house, no roster charts with lovely gold star rewards, nor an unwritten accord with child age-appropriate specific tasks; everyone does, every job. Any tasks can be considered a lot of children. More so with mum recovering from a stroke, plus recent departure of my two older brothers.

‘Call it a working holiday driving right across Australia. Being bums, more like it.’ Our father’s response to Robin and Greg’s loading their possessions into a racing striped, orange Torana and heading east through wheat belts, then out across treeless spaces of Australia’s Nullabor Plain. Nothing like that for our father, he remained, ever present as a threat. More so now with mum in a hospital bed.

Even before our three bedroom house, built by my father began to empty turns, jobs, selection of a scapegoat, were only mentioned in search of a victim. Part of Dad’s quest for an object to blame, rather than ply his strap on everyone. No-one ever admitted to anything being their turn.

‘Get outta bed. Ya bloody, lazy, useless articles. Get some bloody wood for a man to get breakfast.’

So out into what felt like sub-arctic temperatures we stumble. Deathly afraid of our father’s wrath; A leather belt!

Without slippers, we trundle up dew-wet paths toward a woodshed. It’s still dark, and we haven’t brought torches. While we trip and tremble, chilled fingers attempt to find a few dry twigs. None seem to be available. Only moments pass before an ominous human cloud darkens an unlit shed even further.

‘Yers can’t see a bloody thing, ya stupid idiots.’

My sister and I cower further under this new attack.

‘Jeez! Ya thought yers had enough brains to bring torches.’

A beam of light bites behind our retinas.

‘Where’s the wood bucket? Back at the bloody house, of course. Empty as always. How was yers gunna carry kindling down?’

These questions are statements rather than requests for information. We remain silent, motionless, except for unstoppable shakes. I glance across at my sister and know we are both stunned into a stupor. My father’s presence can do such things. I remember once being shouted at, ‘ya think, being a carpenter’s daughter, you’d know what a 4 x 2 was.’

Warm sparks of shared experiences arc across gaps in our consciousness. If only mum was present, she’d probably have made sure we filled the wood box yesterday, before todays rain and early morning dew.

‘Here!’ he passes me the tomahawk. ‘Chop some.’

Flat side of this little axe hits my chest, with enough force to knock warm breath into a cloud, but I dare not cringe away from his commands. Even a second’s delay, could cause a huge hand to follow tomahawk’s impact. Unless he removes his belt, and slices that through the air. He loads my younger sister’s arms with small, dry pieces of wood and sends her back through darkness, towards dull light of coming dawn. My arms will be loaded too, but not before Dad grabs the axe, mumbling ‘…bloody useless article…’ A title I will live with for all my years on earth. He shows me correct methods to chop kindling. Mine are too large and thick. His efforts produce paper thin, as tiny as match sticks specimens, something I cannot achieve, out of fear of having a finger amputated. As he keeps this tomahawk, plus his one-time competitive wood-chopper axes, and an enormous cross saw’s teeth all razor sharp.

Rain falls again while I return to our house.

‘Hurry up. Bloody wood will get wet!’ He yells as long adult legs strode past me. Again an ominous shadow, meant to intimidate.

I fall on wet cement, dropping my load in a vomit of sticks about our back door while he stands waiting straddling back steps, consuming light, and space. Blood fills my mouth, from a bitten lip. I won’t cry; I mustn’t cry. The strength of this conviction quickly vanishes, and I can feel tears dribbling down my face.

‘Jeez, bloody Christ! Ya can’t do a bloody thing right.’

Tears spill out as his huge hand contacts my cheek.

I pick up a few pieces of wood from enlarging puddles. But he has already gathered up most and gone inside, slamming the door, and only just missing my head.

In silence he builds a fire. When smoke hangs about, misting our giant stove, he begins to mumble. Complaining about wet wood…useless articles…stupid kids…can’t do anything right…who brought them into the world, who brought them up?

Did his miss something, or my sister, and an older sister already left home, are his responsibility as we live under his guidance, and bear the wrath of his parenting style.

My sister has pieces of bark, dust and charcoal, debris from her load of wood, stuck to her nightie. She stands staring and shaking before embryonic flames. I felt my leg tremble from impacting path concrete, damp, and cold seeping, I sniff.

‘Ya better not have snot on the wood, how’s it gunna burn if you do.’

Little flames leap, promising warmth, and hot food. Sustenance if not nurture.

Our father turns to look at his two wretched offspring. ‘Get yer bloody selves cleaned up and stop ya stupid blubbering or I’ll give you something to really cry about.’

One day I will grow into a woman, and his aftermath will be present. Particularly when I learn the joys of endurance sport, a means to keep hurting myself like he did. All of us girls have failed marriages to look back on. Each has an obsession. Plus, our second brother winds up dead, after Dad won’t lend him any money and he decide to move north up into well paid areas and suffers an epileptic fit while working as a mechanic on a farm. Seems the parenting style blew our family apart.