Butterfly Road

1. The Painted House Childhood is as innocent as a long, luscious dream filled with happiness and security. At least it was for me as I travelled around the rural landscape of Australia during my earliest years. But everything was set to change when I was five years old and my family descended on a seemingly normal country town in Queensland. It was the early 1960’s and I was facing my first big lesson about what can go wrong when you don’t fit in with your surroundings. Even my first day of school awakened me to an unprecedented world of horror, locked in a room with a bunch of complete strangers and Miss Wells. She was cruel, hard faced and never apologetic as she snarled. Her beady eyes and heavily painted face never smiled, only cracked, while her wrinkled skin spelt an age past retirement. Every time she bellowed on my first morning, I burst into tears along with half the class, making her even more vindictive. Miss Wells’ stern, heartless rants would haunt me long past first grade. I was born the optimist and bounced through life’s challenges as a dreamer. Past bedtime I could be discovered asleep on my knees, saying my prayers. One Sunday I was playing with a small green frog when I was called into the church meeting. The frog and I had become quite attached to each other that morning so he unwillingly accompanied me into the Salvation Army citadel. Mum was too focussed on the proceedings to notice the slippery little creature in my grasp and when everything was quiet, somebody stood up to pray. The frog became restless and in a single bound, he escaped my grip and leapt onto a tambourine girl in the front row. His slimy little feet clung intensely to her bare arm and she screamed. The prayers were immediately aborted as everyone’s eyes descended on me. I scooped up the frog and Mum dragged me behind the citadel for a harsh spanking. Still the optimist I roamed the shopping centre every afternoon after school, making social contacts with shopkeepers. I stopped and chatted with a crippled old lady who spent many hours each week collecting money for The Salvation Army, sitting on her walking stick. I loved milkshakes and ice cream sodas when there was enough money to afford them and I ogled at the TV sets that flashed away in the electrical retailer’s window. Black and white TV had been introduced to Australia in 1956, although it would be some years before we had a set ourselves. Some days I played with other children at the park in the centre of town with its immaculately kept paths and rose gardens. The turntable swing was an unmistakable high as my brain spun while the breeze brushed through my hair. Other times I played with the matchbox cars in the display window of the local department store. Although friends were few and far between in challenge town, Ronny was the exception. He was the Presbyterian minister’s son and he lived next door to a soft drink factory. I was coaxed to slide under the corrugated iron door past the padlock and chain amid the claim that Ronny was allowed to drink all the soft drink he liked. Gullible as I was to believe Ronny, it was a great afternoon sipping cola, lemonade and creaming soda till I felt quite ill. Then when we emerged under the iron door, Ronny’s mum told us off in no uncertain terms. Non-Salvation Army friends rarely visited my house so I was rapt when Ronny was allowed to come one day after school, despite his history of trespassing. Mum happened to be cooking a mammoth saucepan of lemon butter on the stove and Ronny just had to pull the handle, sending Mum’s hours of labour swimming across the lino. Not only that but Ronny somehow stepped right in the middle of the hot lemon butter and slipped and slid from one end of the kitchen to the other till he was covered from head to toe. Normally composed Mum freaked out and I just didn’t know where to hide. I don’t remember having another friend over for a very long time. In contrast animals were always welcome in our family. Our pet goat Donald was determined, disobedient and usually too strong for me to control. He was a handsome young goat and an active one. Mum and I had spent hours filling the garden with colourful pansies, stocks and petunias and Donald demolished them all. It was a daring escapade the day I took Donald across the street to school after lunch. Or should I say he took me? The excited hysteria in the playground made me such an instant hit that the kids ignored the bell to return to class. I was soon carted off to the headmaster’s office with Donald in tow and my moment of glory was over. One Saturday I remember the big back yard where I was playing hide and seek with a large group of children of varying ages. Squeals of laughter erupted as each child was discovered in their hiding place. The grass was freshly mown and a patch of healthy cornstalks rustled as children brushed past them. Hens clucked in the chook pen as the hostile sun beat down. I was one of the first to be caught and it upset me so I decided I would hide where nobody would look. When some other children crept up the back steps of the house, I followed them. There were no adults around as it was customary for us to play unattended. My older brothers were away playing sport or at least practising ― cricket, football, athletics ― always on the go. Some girls were playing with dolls in the living room and my sister had one dressed in an Indian sari. My mother had grown up in India and still wore saris on special occasions. My sister Coral was nine or ten years old. I ran along a corridor and opened a bedroom door. I walked into the room, sure that nobody could discover me. I could smell fresh paint on the walls. Time slowed as a teenager appeared from behind the door and pushed it shut. I’m not sure who he was or if he lived in that house but he was completely naked. It wasn’t something I’d ever seen before and it startled me. I went to leave but he stopped me. I felt apprehensive but he was confident. He instructed me in what he wanted me to do. I don’t imagine I was in that room for more than a few minutes but I’m sure I missed a few rounds of hide and seek. My mind was too young to process what had just happened to me but my emotions were obviously affected. I could tell that I was physically similar to the big naked boy though there was something different about the proportions. It felt special that he had included me in his adult game and allowed me this intimate experience with him. However, something didn’t feel quite right ― maybe I had a sense of danger or embarrassment. The teenager made a threat that I must never tell anybody what happened. By this time there were no secrets in my world so I didn’t know how to keep one. I guess it would be quite a while before I learnt the art. By the time I climbed down the back steps again, all the children had disappeared. Even my sister was no longer there and I felt distressed. I began to call out for the others by name. Then I spotted a little boy on the driveway. ‘Have you seen Coral?’ ‘Up the street,’ he said, ‘at the wedding.’ I ran up to the citadel and found the children. A bride and groom were standing on the front steps. Dad was the celebrant in his Salvation Army uniform. The bride had a white veil pulled back and a posy of pretty flowers. A man kept snapping photographs with a big black camera that had a black cloth over the top of it. He kept poking his head under the black cloth and then pulling it out again. Everybody was smiling. I found Mum and latched onto her. Her arm slipped instinctively around my shoulders even though her attention was captured by the bride and the conversations of the people who were oohing and ahhing. I was relieved that my world returned to normal for a moment, yet my world had changed forever.