To people with money, life is a constant competition with the Joneses, and if you can’t compete successfully you drop out, only to resurface in a new suburb where you compete in a new Jones weight class. In our case our new weight class was an entirely new state, climate and what felt like a new language in Rockhampton, Queensland, where my parents bought a combined take-away food and grocery store. By this stage my mother weighed eighteen stone and beads of sweat dripped off her while she worked like a slave. Working in the store was hot, tiresome, and very demanding. Mum had never worked before, not even house cleaning. We always had what Mum liked to call helpers.
I had responsibilities as well. Before the age of ten my daily chores began when I dragged my feet out of bed at four o’clock in the morning to ride my bike five kilometres to pick up the newspapers. Following this I opened the store, cleaned the grill, prepared the money for the till, swept the floors, wiped the kitchen tables and dusted the shelves. I then got the fat ready for cooking, put the chickens on the rotisserie and prepared bacon and egg burgers for the workers when they came in for breakfast at seven am. I would serve until just before nine am, when I would go to school. I returned home shortly after three pm, and helped clean the store from that day’s traffic, then helped prepare for the next day. My mother and I had never spent so much time together, and I certainly had never had to communicate so much with so many people.
It was decided that my brothers should stay out of the family business because they were too young. Dieter was seven and the twins were five years old. As far as my father was concerned, boys didn’t do women’s work. Dad had not always been so harsh. When times were good and Dad was present, he would treat me with love and kindness. I remember him taking me to the backyard and teaching me about the solar system for hours. I also have memories of us wrestling in his king-size bed. Before we moved to Australia he would take me to Radio City Music Hall in New York to see a ballet or an opera. When I saw him, I loved him, probably because I relished any time he could give me. Like many business men he was frequently absent; in my childish memory I only recall seeing him on weekends, as he would leave in the early hours and return long past bedtime. What little time I had with him in my early years was pleasant. However now we were all in each other's pockets familiarity began to breed contempt. Previously Dad’s brief visits gave him no time to get tired of me, while now I was starting to question and ultimately doubt my previous child-like perceptions that he was the Brady Bunch-like father I had built him up to be.
Occasionally my family did resemble something out of an American sitcom. Dad would sit with his arm limply draped over my mother’s shoulder. I’m sure Mum wanted to believe his affection was sincere. She seemed to believe in anything other than what was staring her straight in the eyes. Shirley MacLaine was at her New Age pinnacle at the time, and Mum used her example to closet herself in previous lives, chakras, aura, astrology—anything but reality.
Of course, Dad wasn’t entirely absent from the store, he would even serve customers, but the labour intensive work of cooking and cleaning was reserved for my mother and me. He quite blatantly defended his right to stay out of the kitchen by stating that domestic work is always reserved for women. These were not the times when a child could question their father. Perhaps I did express my disapproval in other ways, though, because his frustration and anger with me became palpable.
Conversations were eventually limited to orders: three bacon burgers, Annika, two chips, four cheese and salad rolls. This was the most conversation I had with my father on any given day, week or month.
I made most of my friends over the counter at the store, as it was the closest shop to both the primary and secondary schools. I seemed to be able to relate to people better if they were a little older than I was. I had spent a lot of time on my own and hadn’t been around enough young girls to be tarnished with the giggly, silly girl brush. Although it wasn’t only my head that was mature for my age—I needed training bras by the age of nine and had a bulging thirty-eight-inch bust by ten.
To say my parents weren’t affectionate would be an understatement, so I sought affection however it was being offered. Boys naturally gravitated to me and I of course enjoyed and learnt to crave their attention. Positive attention was in short supply in our household, and compliments came four times a year on report card days. I had been continuing my netball and was selected to represent the schoolgirl state team when I was eleven. This meant a lot of weekends away. Although I was nearly bursting with the news, I couldn’t tell my parents because I knew they wouldn’t let me go. They would want me to stay and work in the shop. So I just left. When I returned on Sunday my parents demanded to know where I had been all day. I had disappeared for the entire weekend and they hadn’t even noticed.