‘Sister, Mum forgot our lunch. We’re hungry.’ We would try to downplay this as we didn’t want to make our poor mother look bad.
With kindness, the nuns would always share their food – invariably hot, stale sandwiches and room-temperature green milk. They must have added green cordial just for us, thinking that children would like flavoured milk. Milk made my stomach churn at the best of times, so I would quickly hand my glass to Ger, who also went green at the sight of green milk.
After walking back from school I would help Mum with the dinner. ‘Mary, darling, peel forty potatoes for me,’ she would say, then call out, ‘Brig, get the boys out of here!’ Dinner was always a frantic time for her, the children hungry and wanting food, especially the boys. The little ones demanded her attention, but Coralie was simply too busy trying to get dinner on the table. Often she was seen wielding a wooden spoon to stir the food and also to smack any random child who came too near the hot ovens.
Despite the chaos, Coralie was a fine cook. Dinner was typically meat and three veg, all beautifully presented on a white plate. We would stand in line behind the counter, tallest to smallest, holding a plate, and file past Mum. She would stand on the other side of the counter in her apron in the sweltering heat, smiling while carefully serving the food. Everyone was fed the same. It was a military operation as Coralie was determined to bring some civility to dinnertime. If we wanted seconds, we would hide under the table and eat quickly, then pop up to pretend that Mum had forgotten us. Poor Dom, being last in line, always missed out on things like pork crackling, and one year when he was asked what he wanted for his birthday, he said he’d like to be served first.
While we ate, Coralie would sit in her rocking chair with a glass of Scotch in hand and watch us devour what was on our plates. Other times she’d read a book, waiting for Neil George to come home so they could have their dinner together. Dad would normally appear when all the dinnertime mayhem was over. He would have had a beer or two at the Brunswick Hotel after work, discussing politics and general business. In a country town like Rocky, this was how people got to know and trust you – the pub after work was where business contacts were made. ‘What splendid children you are! What a queen your wonderful mother is!’ he would say when he came home. He was always happy to be with his brood and his darling queen.
He would change into a singlet and boxer underpants, smoking, and, with a ‘tallie’ (longneck) of beer at his elbow and a full glass, he’d sit at the table, happily looking over his family.
In spite of the chaos, table manners were enforced: ‘Pass the salt, please.’ We had to hold our knife and fork properly and weren’t allowed to elbow whoever was sitting next to us. However, we were encouraged to speak: there was no adherence to the notion that ‘Children should be seen and not heard’. If one of us looked like stepping out of line, Dad would make up nonsense to make us laugh. He had sayings like ‘Stand by for a karate farty’, or he’d tell us about his mate Tommy Tit who wanted to change his name to Edgar.
Sometimes there was a race to sit next to baby Dom, because if you didn’t like the meal that had been served you could just put it on his plate; he usually flicked his food on the floor anyway. The other ploy was to sit near one of the louvred windows and throw any unwanted food into the neighbour’s yard. We would often put peas in our pocket, leave the table with an ‘Excuse me’ and empty them into the bin.
With ten people eating every day, Dad was all about the rubbish. Somebody had to take it out to the bins at least twice a day, after breakfast and after dinner. The weekly council collection was not sufficient: we had to drive to the dump at least once a week to empty our bins, and then we’d start again, to escape the maggots. This was how Dad taught us what maggots were.
Paddy was a big boy, and clumsy. We eventually found out he needed glasses, but every night at the dinner table we would wait for him to knock over his drink or something. Every single night . . . We were waiting for it. And over it would go.
‘Don’t say anything!’ Mum would warn us, worrying Paddy would get an inferiority complex, which was the mental health buzzword of that era. So we would just wipe it up and pretend it hadn’t happened. Then we could relax and eat after that.
Afterwards, while all of us children had our baths – water puddles everywhere – Dad would help with the dishes and then join Coralie for a beer and a smoke. We were supposed to do our homework, but we spent most of the evening distracting each other.
One time we had an unwelcome guest living near the downstairs bedroom under the walkway where we often played hide-and-seek. We all knew the big, scary, lethal brown snake was living there, but we couldn’t catch it, until one day Dad spotted it and got a rake, managed to trap it against a wall and squished the life out it. It was around 5 feet long, but to us kids it was triple the length! We talked about that snake for a long time.
Another time when we were swimming at Lammermoor Beach with our friends, Dad grabbed a baby shark by the tail and began smacking it onto the sand while yelling at us to get out of the water. It was only a couple of feet long, but it seemed much larger to us. Dad was worried about us in the water in case other sharks were close.
Coralie’s night off was Friday, when we went to the Melbourne Fish Bar, famous for its fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. The whole package was placed on the table, with Dom sitting alongside it. I had never tasted anything better. No plates, no lemon, no tomato sauce, and it was our favourite meal of the week. This is where ‘the top gang’ really had to learn to share and look after the young ones to ensure they actually got a piece of fish and some chips.
On Sundays, we would go to church and then to the pub for Coke and potato chips. Coralie would have a shandy and later a Scotch, while Dad would have a beer. There weren’t many places you could take eight children, so we adored the Brunswick. It had a very lush lawn where we could play touch footy using someone’s shoe as the ball, or run races. After this treat, we would go home for a roast lunch.
We had a great network of friends within walking distance of our home. The Agnew clan, with five children, lived just up the road near the hospital, where Alan was the surgeon. We called him Uncle Alan, and his wife was Auntie Shirl. Shirl and Mum were great friends and she often came to Mum for advice because Mum was always so calm, despite everything.
Nella and Jack Gillogley and their three children lived behind us. Jack was the hospital’s radiographer and Nella was the organiser of neighbourhood Friday drinks. Nella loved a party and was very generous. Often on a Friday afternoon Mum would tell us she’d had enough and walk out. We collectively knew that she was going for drinks at Nella’s, and that, sadly, we children weren’t invited. Instead, Nella’s son, Peter, would jump over the fence and stay with us.
At Christmas time, we would go to a church service before we were allowed to gather around the Christmas tree. One present was handed to each of us, usually from youngest to oldest. I might be given a skipping rope or a pogo stick, while my sisters Brig and Jo would receive cute dolls. Even though I didn’t like dolls, I remember feeling a little jealous. Once I found the scissors and cut the dolls’ hair – I was desperate to be a hairdresser then. I was in pretty big trouble after that incident.