What I liked most was the way in which the new place would wobble so as I negotiated its length. Hopping and bopping, jumping and bumping, it just couldn't sit still. The crackling music from the transistor sound tracked our movements. It was a crazy dance, an unlikely duo. And all the while my mother sat watching; watching and waiting.
My journey was a brief one, the work of a moment; lounge kitchen bedroom and turn, bedroom kitchen lounge and turn. There wasn't a hope that I could ever lose myself here, there really was nowhere to hide. Pete Murray spoke with gentle reassurance and the music played on.
Obstacles piled up on the floor. Stale crusts gathered dust where they fell; cold tea didn't wash it away. I chewed on safety pins and teethed on curlers.
From the moment of that clumsy first crawl my technique was under scrutiny; the house looked on in anticipation, in anguish. And moving as I moved, it shook and it creaked, it shouted and it screamed. Meanwhile husbands made requests for their wives; sons begged a song for their mothers. I would rest at the foot of the bed and watch as my mother grew. I needed a bath.
My mother cried. The house cried too. She awaited the Duke, but he wasn't coming. He wasn't coming yet again. He wasn't coming…. but my sister.... oh yes my sister......... she was coming.
Then a few days later, my sister was there. She arrived wrapped in my blanket, wrapped in my mother. I wanted to ask, 'where have you been?' My sister brought answers. My sister was the answer. The Duke remained absent; my stomach was empty and my nappy full. Only the crusts were gone.
Pete Murray was back too, with 'a dedication to Kate on the birth of her first. This songs for you.' The house and I, both full again were bouncing along. My sister stayed. I gave her my carrycot, my bottle, my clothes. Lounge kitchen bedroom and..... I grabbed at the greying sheet, trying something new; my own two feet. It didn't work. The sheet slipped and my mother’s purse fell to the floor. It rattled. The house shivered.
A new toy perhaps? I held it high for a second before dashing it onto the floor. Coins spewed out. They tasted bad.
Time passed, my birthday approached. My mother bought a candle for the cake. The recipe said flour, butter, sugar and eggs. A tin was found in the local charity store and reserved for one week. The money was coming, family allowance money, she'd collect it on Friday.
Late Friday evening the place really began to rock, it was full of high jinks, a gale force wind in the middle of an earthquake. We were sailing a tidal wave, the ship would surely sink. It groaned in protest, yelled out in pain. To no avail, the battering went on and on into the night.
The following day my mothers face had changed. What an incredible explosion of colour. Reds and yellows and purples and greens, so evenly distributed over eyes, nose and mouth. It was quite a rainbow, but we didn’t have a song for it, on this occasion Pete was silent. She lay motionless on the bed and wept, the purse at her side.
I crawled over, again trying to pull myself up. The sheet held firm, but I didn't. As my legs buckled I grabbed at the purse. Much lighter now, it had lost a lot of weight. And silent too, as I smashed it to the ground. Not a single coin fell out. I tried again; nothing, it was no fun at all.
Attempting to return the purse. I yelled out, a sharp pain, a metal object stuck in my right foot. I'd trodden on something. A set of spurs. They were the Dukes spurs. Left carelessly where he’d thrown them, at the foot of the bed.
In tears now I waited upon a benevolent pair of arms.
Back in the War on Want, the woman behind the counter was having no nonsense. With a series of rapid hand flaps she shooed my mother from the store, imparting some good advise along the way ‘and don’t you dare come back, we are not in the business of giving handouts’
Finally….
The radio gave us more songs of love, every one of them sounding the same.
The butter suffocated in a thin green slime, the old fridge door was to blame.
The sugar carried on the backs of ants, each with just a single grain.
The flour invaded by weevils immediately staking their claim.
The eggs incubated salmonella; it was playing its subversive little game.
And it was big John Wayne, pockets heavy with loose change, who was on the road once again.