My House

The following is a small piece I had to recently write about my house as a child for my online Novel Writing for Junior and Young Adults Readers course:

The French doors were unlocked as always. One of the kids had lost the key years ago. If we went out for a long time, Dad tied the handles with rope to deter would-be thieves. Mum said we had nothing of value any way. Her precious possessions were us.

The lower door panes had been splattered with the wet dog whiskers of our Old English Sheepdog and the green paint was chipped from where you had to kick the door and push it open when it expanded and dropped in wet weather. “We’ll put it on Dad’s list,” Mum would announce. It’s still on Dad’s list.

Luckily the carpet has been replaced. Our home had singular brown carpet squares that you inevitably skidded or tripped over as they came unstuck. They were rough and cheaply made, exposing smooth pine boards as they peeled off. Textures so contrasted, it was like walking on an infant’s sensory book. Only there was no soft fluffy duckling-like surface.

After our homework had been done we were allowed to eat a snack in front of the T.V. There were only four chairs for five children and ‘chair rules’ applied once you had secured your seats. The seats were soft and spongy and had twice been recovered by Mum after her upholstery course.  The orange plastic K-Mart stools were our makeshift coffee table to place our snacks. Books about birds and Australia wedged the T.V in. My brothers’ footy trophies adorned the shelf above.

Amongst this mediocrity a billiard table was placed. Strong with feminine curved legs, it stood in the middle of this vast room. Almost out of place with this eclectic cheap furniture. Polished and strictly out of bounds for food and drink consumption – back then any way.

The walls were bare apart from a photo that was the result of entering your name and winning a free family portrait. Dad’s tense look indicated his frustration at the dithering photographer. I wore my favourite brown velour skirt and my cute as a button sister wasn’t allowed her teddy in the photo. This image only ended up costing five hundred dollars when my parents were coaxed into buying albums and frames. Free?

Further down the corridor, bedrooms shot off in all directions. My bedroom that I shared with my younger sister was large and framed by a delightful bay window. Northern sunlight streamed in as I lay on the unyielding itchy gold carpet and played with my Barbie dolls. When I was a child the road outside was unsealed and clouds of dust would waft through the Liquid Amber tree when a car ventured to the orchards opposite.

From my room, I could hear Dad preparing the morning cup of tea in the kitchen. This narrow room had equally narrow benches with barely enough room for seven lots of sandwiches and one single stand-alone cupboard to cram in all the food stores. The potatoes lived under the sink. So did the occasional family of field mice lured by the promise of a decent meal. The kitchen was a cramped and dark space with a dodgy oven and one small rectangular window. Still cracked from a cricket ball mishap after a game of backyard cricket.

The gardens smiled with colour and growth and the backyard was shaded by a towering gum tree, standing proudly and often in full flower in the centre of the lawn. A makeshift swing hung off a branch and bark concealed a nest of bugs and spiders to terrorise. There were lots of nooks and crannies where we hid our annual Easter eggs.

There was a plentiful supply of hard-shelled eggs. At the bottom of the garden where the brick path meandered was an aviary. It housed Eastern Rosellas, Cockatiels and Silky Bantams and the everyday speckled hen (rescued from its demise at the chicken farm when my brother smuggled it home after being on death row for cosmetic reasons.)

Mum and Dad’s abundant veggie crop was the benefactor of all the chook poo and grass clippings from the acre property. I could smell that fresh cut pile of clippings from the bathroom window when I stepped out of the big blue porcelain bath. This was another space in much need of a renovation. That wasn’t going to happen with a single income and Dad busting himself to send us to private schools. We were used to the old shower, so dark and unventilated that occasionally tiny mushrooms sprouted in the far corner. The loo didn’t have a separate light, but interesting black and white wallpaper of naked nymphs with strategically placed vine leaves and wandering hands. It was my first crash course in sexual desire.

On the outer, the home was weatherboard with a tin roof that amplified the possums bumping and thumping every evening. On the inner it was simple and predominantly yellow and brown, just as well we are avid Hawthorn supporters. Our house oozed character and a sense of belonging. It was my home – mice and mushrooms included.