Below is a Link to Pete Davison’s site I’M NOT DR WHO in which he blogs daily from Game Reviews to Creative Writing, with general social commentaries in between.  He is currently writing his third fictional story for NaNoWriMo – check out his others as well – based on his personal experiences as a teacher.  Below that is my response to today’s blog – a time-out – in which he kindly mentions me.

I can understand the courage and therefore effort required to write like this – I was going to write about my past, but after my initial comments to you which precipitated thinking about it, I found that the demons that had been well and truly dealt with, shoved into the past as negative rubbish while I took the positive forward – always my strong-held belief for coping with crap – raised their ugly heads, penetrated my thoughts at unexpected moments, took over my dreaming mind (both day and night dreaming) and generally made me back-peddle furiously.
What a coward I am. There are some things that were done to me in the name of experimental medicine that should see the light of day. There were other things done in my childhood and teens that carved my pathway even more. But I shudder to put pen to paper – well fingers to keyboard I should say these days. The mind is a traitor. It holds the info locked in cabinets in the basement guarded by crocodiles, as Douglas Adams said, refusing to give it to you when you want it, only to release it in torrents when you haven’t asked. At the merest suggestion that you might open the file it cascades the documents over your head till you are wading in it. How rude!!
Anyway, Pete, I applaud you. When I have controlled my errant demons I might try to get them into some order. Meanwhile I will watch your creative efforts with admiration, not to mention anticipation – I am already hooked on this new story of yours – as I have been by your past ones. Anyone coming across this site should not hesitate to check out your other stories – they will be bowled over. You handle the delicate issues with care, kid gloves, yet without shying away from the truth you are disclosing. Keep going – take respite days off as you are doing – then attack it again. I am sure I’m not the only one watching and waiting and supporting you. 

Jud House  15/11/2013

* * * * *


sleep less
without sleep
lacking sleep
minus sleep
positive negative

Sleep less ness
either way looks sleepy to me
nessling  nestling
between the sheets
under the quilt
snuggling the pillows
lack between abundance
thorn between roses
pea between mattresses

Synonym – sleeplessness
Antonym – sleepiness
New Antonym – sleepnest!

Rest less ness
same same
resting lacking nestling
comfort minus comfort
positive negative positive

Synonym – restlessness
Antonym – restfulness
New Antonym – restnest!

Jud House  16/09/2013

* * * * *


Madam Pele, Goddess of Lava and Volcanoes

Madam Pele, Goddess of Lava and Volcanoes

Pele’s Journey.

Daughter of Kahinalii and Kane-hoalani
insubordinate and disrespectful Pele
enticer of husbands
cast out from Honua-mea, in Kahiki
pursued by sister, Na Maka o Kaha’i.

Kai a Kahinalii
“Here my daughter, you have need of ocean
to carry your canoe.”

Surround the mountains –
Hale-a-ka-la, Mauna-kea, Mauna-loa
till their peaks peek from ocean gift.

Kaula, tiny isle,
a home for Pele?
Tunnelling deep to fire
quenched by flooding ocean –
sister sent.

 Lehua, tiny isle,
a home for Pele?
Tunnelling deep to fire
quenched by flooding ocean –
sister sent.

Niihau, tiny isle,
a home for Pele?
Tunnelling deep to fire
quenched by flooding ocean –
sister sent.

Kauai, large isle,
a home for Pele?
Tunnelling deep to fire
quenched by flooding ocean –
sister sent.

Oahu, double mountained
Kaala, the fragrant
useless, unsatisfactory chain.

failures as before.

Maui, western mount,
Hale-a-ka-la immense and sulphurous,
Pele settled in delving and stirring
the lava and fumes.

South-east to Hawaii
across Ale-nui-haha channel
Firepit bubbling beneath the crust
awaiting release
awaiting Pele
home at last in Kilauea
making the Big Island
Navel of the Earth –
Ka piko o ka honua.

Hawaiian Chain

Hawaiian Chain

From MADAM PELE Contemporary Fantasy Novel by Jud House 2006

Jud House 14/09/2013

* * * * *


October 1931 (cont.)

     Rousing herself, Emma turned her thoughts to what lay ahead.  What would her new school be like?  One thought sustained her.   At least she’d have someone to tell her troubles to.  Again she looked at the back of her father’s head and felt safe.

     It was late afternoon when at last they entered the little town of Northingham and drove along the dusty, main street.  Emma sat up and tried to recognise the various landmarks pointed out to her by her brothers, who were vying with each other to be first to identify them – the Post Office, the Police Station, War Memorial, hotels, banks and shops, but to Em nothing looked familiar.

     It was with profound relief all round that they said “Goodbye” to their passenger and her packages, and Emma was again able to sit in front with her father.  Her spirits rose as they drove out of the township, her brothers assuring her that there were definitely no more towns ahead, and as they crossed a bridge on the outskirts of the town, they became increasingly more voluble.

     “It won’t be long now kids,” said Walt.  “Only two more miles.  Look Dick, there’s the old showground.”

     “Do they still use it Dad?”

     “No son, not for shows anyway,” was the reply.  “There’s a new ground closer to the town.  This one makes a good shelter for swaggies, and there are plenty of them around at present.”

     As their father was speaking, the car passed the gates, and they saw the old show hall looking forlorn and neglected – and just a trifle sinister with its doors and windows tightly shut against the world.  Tall grass added to its unused appearance.  Only a thin curl of smoke from a chimney at the rear gave some evidence of life.  The boys looked at it thoughtfully, turning their heads to look back at it until a bend in the road hid it from their sight.

     But, barely conscious of the countryside through they were passing, Emmy kept her eyes on the road ahead, flanked by great gums growing along its side, their wide—spread arms offering welcome shade to ‘friends of the road’.

     In the paddocks too, creating a scene of utmost tranquillity, stood more of these stately giants, survivors of a bygone age.  Spared by the settler’s axe, their leafy branches had provided homes for generations of nesting magpies, and in their shade, livestock found shelter from the heat.

     But today was mild.  Cattle grazing at will in the late sunshine completed this idyllic rural scene.  Set on a background of lush green grass, surely a worthy subject for a master’s canvas.

     But Emma’s thoughts were busily sketching a different picture. After three years they’d be home again!  What would it be like?  She had no real recollection of the farmhouse, being barely five years old when they’d left.  Only vague scraps of memory remained of her life before The Home.  She stole a glance at her father’s face, as if to help restore her memory.

     “It won’t be long now,” Walt said again.  Em found herself sitting tense, hands tightly clutching the rug over her knees. A properous-looking homestead came into view.  Set back from the road, behind a garden of fruit trees, its inviting driveway led up to the door under a vine-covered trellis.

     “Is this it?” Emmy asked hopefully.

     Dick’s laugh rang out. “No, that’s Sexton’s, isn’t it Walt?  But it’s not far now.”

     A short distance further on, giant gums provided the backdrop for a red-roofed house, with a beautiful front garden of flowers, shrubs and lawn. Emmy held her breath. “Please let it be this one,” she breathed.

     “And this one belongs to the Misses Carter, two dear old ladies,” said Walt.  “But you won’t have to wait much longer Em.  The next one’s ours.”

     In the distance, but clearly visible now, was a small red-brick dwelling, flanked on either side by paddocks of wheat, with a number of out-buildings at the rear and extending to the extreme right.  The house was set back from the road about the same distance as the others they had passed, but there the resemblance ended.  Missing was the gum-tree setting and the cared-for garden at the front.

     Here a few straggly fruit trees competed for sustenance with tail grasses and weeds which had long since established a claim to the area.  A tired row of almond trees drooped beside the fence that ran at right angles to the road, forming the right boundary of a wide race between the house property and the paddocks on the left.

     The house itself was quite unlike anything Emma had seen before, or could have imagined.  As the car turned into the gateway, she stared in disbelief.  A high brick wall stared back at her.  It had no doors or windows, but what appeared to be chimneys where the windows might have been.    Her brothers laughed at her astonishment.

     “The house isn’t finished yet Em,” Walt explained.  “Two more rooms have to be built on the front, don’t they Dad?”

     Her father nodded.  “One of these days, son.  When our ship comes in.”

     “See Em,” Dick broke in.  “There’s already a fireplace on each side.  They were built into the wail when the rest of the house was built.  We used to play in them, remember?”

     Something stirred in Emmy’s memory, a shadowy glimpse of hide-and-seek, of hiding in the fireplaces. She tried to hold on to the picture, but as always, it slipped away.

     “Who’s going to open the gate?” Her father’s voice broke into her thoughts.  Glad to be out of the car at last, both boys sprang out and raced to slip back the bolt on the large wooden gate, jumping on the bottom rail as it swung open.

     “Young devils,” Em heard her father growl, and watched his expression change from momentary annoyance to tolerant good humour as he drove through the gate and up the long drive to the house, the boys racing, laughing, behind.

     Emma knelt on the seat and watched them through the rear window.  Walt at twelve years, dark-complexioned, strong and husky, was in the lead, but only just.  Dick, his junior by two years, was close behind him.  Em looked at their laughing faces.  How dear they were to her.  Her heart lifted and she felt a tightening of her throat, as a wave of love and gratitude flowed through her at the memory of what they’d meant to her during the past three years.

     Walt, except for rare bursts of laughter, given to seriousness, his dark eyes quietly proclaiming his confidence in his own strength and his ability to endure whatever might befall him, had been her protector.  Brown-haired Dick, freckled sensitive face, full of fun, whose green eyes could glint with devilry and as quickly cloud over with hurt or brim with compassion – her playmate, when opportunity permitted.  How she loved them both!

     They came alongside as the car drew to a halt, and stood looking at a tall gum tree which grew beside the gate leading into the yard.

     “I see the tree’s still standing, Dad,” said Walt, quietly.  “Gee, I was so glad to be coming home, I’d almost forgotten she wouldn’t be here.”  No laughter now on the strong young face.

     “What does he mean, Dad?” Emma whispered.

     “That was your mother’s tree, dear,” he replied, lifting her out of the car and holding her for a moment before setting her down.   “She planted it the year before she died.”  His words seemed to hang in the still air, as the late afternoon sun cast long shadows around them.

     A silence fell on the little group.  Emmy slipped her hand into her father’s, his mention of her mother restoring a picture which had lain locked away from conscious thought and become obscured during the long years of their exile.  She recalled that day – so far off – when holding tightly to her father’s hand, she had walked beside him down the long room between the rows of beds, until they stopped at the foot of one and she heard him say:

     “I’ve brought you a little visitor.”

     It was by now only a faint picture – the face on the pillows had become just a blur, but the feeling was still strong. She felt again the wobbly sensation that was somehow connected with the wobbly feel of the hot-water bottles that seemed to fill the bed.  She remembered the sound of soft voices murmuring above her, while a gentle hand stroked her head – then later, the long walk back towards the door, a pause to wave a last ‘Goodbye’, then into the strange steel cage that seemed to go up and down at the same time, taking her stomach with it, until the door opened and the man and child walked out of the large building into the late afternoon sunshine.  The man was silent as they walked across the lawn, and it seemed to the child that his usually springy footsteps had somehow lost their spring.

* * *

     Now, as she looked up into her father’s face, he pressed her hand gently, then released it, passing his own across his eyes. Emmy drew nearer to her brothers, and on the instant, a light breeze passed over the tree, gently lifting its leaves, and it was as though they themselves were touched by a gentle hand, drawing them more closely together.

     Matthew, his hand resting on the door of the car, stood studying the faces of his children – now partial strangers – seeing in their eyes a reflection of his own still deep sense of loss, noting the expressions of the younger two – defensive, uncertain, yet full of hope.  He felt a pang of regret for the lost years, but what else could he have done?

     Then, with a smile that changed the lines on his face, he reached in and blew the horn long and loud.

     “Welcome home kids,” he said.

     The door of the house flew open, and they were caught up in the hustle and bustle of homecoming.

     The two older girls – to Emma’s eyes now quite grown-up – were the first to greet them, rushing past William, who at nineteen, was eldest in the family.  He stood by looking quietly pleased to have them home again, as Maudie, seventeen, and Ellen, two years younger, hugged them excitedly.  Then overcome with emotion and strangeness, they stood aside while their new step-mother greeted Em and her brothers.  They had met her on a previous occasion and had found her pleasant enough.

     But where was Rosie?

     Emma was feeling tired and a little overcome by the excitement of the reunion, and was glad to hear her father’s voice behind her say, “Well kids, lets go inside.”

     As they headed towards the wide verandah – Emmy leading, the two boys a step or two behind her and the tall figure of Walt bringing up the rear, a small vision in pink and white came through the door and stood smiling shyly at them. Emma’s face lit up, a joyous surge of warmth swept away the lonely ache that had been a part of her for so long.

     “Rosie,” she breathed, taking in every detail of the lovely face, whose image had remained the one indelible memory of her life before The Home.  How possessively she had held the memory to her!  No-one could ever know how much she had missed her little sister, how constantly she had longed for her companionship.  There was a moment’s pause while the two little girls took stock of each other, the two boys watching with indulgent grins, while their father looked on.

     What a contrast these two provided!

     Emma – small for her eight years, thin boyish figure, dark hair cut short, adding to the boyish look, her pale face unremarkable except for its liberal covering of freckles.  A plain child, observers might well describe her, until they chanced to look into the blue eyes and found themselves held by some indefinable quality, wondering whether the shadows that moved within their depths were cast by the fringe of thick, dark lashes or came from the thoughts that stirred behind them.

     And Rose?  Surely angels must have attended her christening, for a halo of fair, shining hair framed her face, and the colour of the soft dimpled cheeks would rival the pinkest rose.  Eyes calm and untroubled, were as unexpectedly brown as Emmie’s were blue.  But it was her mouth, a perfect cupid’s bow, full and softly-pouting, which gave the face its beauty.

     Emma dashed forward and wrapped her arms around the younger girl, holding her as though she would never let her go.

     “Rosie, Rosie, where were you?” she said at last.

     “Hiding behind the door, but you took too long to come in,” she replied, eyes crinkling and lips curving in a mischievous smile.

     “Hey, you two, you’re blocking the gangway,” Walt’s voice complained laughingly, as Rosie wriggled to free herself from Emma’s tight embrace.

     Slipping her hand into Emmy’s and holding it firmly, Rose drew her into the house.  They were home!

(C) Winnifred Knight  2000 – 2007

Transcribed and Edited by Jud House 2007

(C) 13/06/2013

* * * * *


October 1931 (cont.)

     But Emma was not yet ready to speak of these things and thought it better to satisfy Mrs Reiner’s curiosity – or perhaps it was genuine interest – by telling her about the trips which were organized each year: to the beach, when she saw the sea for the first time; or to the zoo, where she managed to get lost.

     Emma was always in a world of her own, but on this occasion she had stayed with the body of children throughout the afternoon as they wandered from cage to cage, looking at the birds and animals.  They spent a long time watching the monkeys whose antics captivated them all, but when they stood in front of the lion enclosure Emma was lost to all around her.

     For a long time she simply stood and stared at the enormous yellow cats as they yawned and stretched – occasionally getting to their feet to prowl around the perimeter of their cage as though seeking a way out.  How, she wondered,  could they bear to be shut in like that?  She expected to hear them roaring in protest and thought to give them some encouragement.  Grasping the protective rail to support herself, she gave a few good, hearty roars.

     The lions ignored her; just kept up their yawning, stretching and prowling – sometimes to and fro in front of her.  Emma was about to give up in disgust, when one of the huge beasts came right up to the bars, opened its great mouth and let out a mighty roar!  It shook the very ground — and Emma too! She fell back from the rail in a helpless heap then shakily picking herself up, turned to run away.

     She expected to see the others at the next enclosure, but there was no sign of anyone.  She hurried, as well as her trembling legs would allow her, to catch up with them.  But they’d completely disappeared.  She wandered around hoping to catch sight of the group or at least a straggler like herself, until the fading light told her that they’d gone back without her.  She hadn’t been missed!

     In despair, she was dragging her weary feet towards the entrance gates with no real idea of what to do, when her troubles were speedily ended. A kindly keeper took her in charge and soon she was sitting on a table in the warm office, being fussed over by more kind men in uniform, and fed on hot cocoa and biscuits.  She felt warm and safe.  It was worth every minute of the trauma of being lost.  Of the drive back to The Home she knew very little.  In the warmth and comfort of the Police car, with nothing to fear, her little body succumbed to fatigue — and she slept.

* * *

     It took an hour on the part of Matt, George Weston and the boys – an hour of heaving, shoving, pushing and hammering – before the car was clear of the creek-bed, the bent track-rod straightened, and they were on their way again, hoping to cover the remaining fifty miles to Northingham before dark.  The boys were in high spirits after their enforced activity, but Em had grown weary with waiting – and answering Mrs Reiner’ s questions.  It was now well into the afternoon and they were still on the road.

     At first it had been fun trying to count the cows and sheep as they passed them by, and now and then they had to slow down while a few runaways crossed the road in front of them.  They’d counted fence-posts, they’d sung songs, told stories and jokes, and played innumerable games of riddle-me-ree, and any other game they could think of to while away the time.  But as mile after mile became a succession of country towns, some large, some small, all separated by interminable stretches of road, Emma’s interest faded, and now the question uppermost in her mind was “How many more towns before we get there?”

     Settling herself back in her seat with the warm sun on her face, she looked at her father’s strong shoulders and the way his dark hair curled on the top of his head, and a lovely sense of security stole over her – reminding her of yet another experience.

     While playing hide-and-seek with one or two girls in the schoolyard, she lay on the ground in the sunshine with her head on her arms and counted to fifty.  When it came time for her to ‘seek’ she stayed where she was pretending to be asleep.  It was lovely lying on the sandy ground with sun shining on her back.  The sound of children at play faded.  The sound of the bell, when it’s summons sent the others scurrying to their lines, failed to rouse her.

     The next thing she knew, she was being lifted by strong arms and a man’s voice was saying, “What have we here?”  It was the voice of the Headmaster, Mr Kemp!  She opened her eyes, blinking in the strong sunlight, but still heavy with sleep, her head drooped onto his shoulder.  The roughness of his coat against her cheek and the faint smell of tobacco brought a vivid reminder of her father.  Like him, Mr Kemp was tall and thin, but his hair Emma noticed, as she roused herself, was not so crinkly.

     With infinite kindness, he carried her into the building, right past her classroom door and into his own classroom, where he stood her on the step beside his desk, saying as he did so, “Look what I found.  A little Sleeping Beauty.”

     Emmy looked shyly around the room and saw her brothers sitting among the other students.  All were smiling in such a nice way.  She felt very special – an uncommon occurrence in her restricted world.

     In a world dominated by women she had ceased to look for love or affection and had come to accept that the attitude of those on whose ‘charity’ she depended was at best impersonal.  No doubt some felt a kindly enough regard for their charges, or they would not have been placed in such positions of trust.  This certainly applied to Matron and one or two senior ‘nurses’, but as Emmy knew only too well, there were weak links in the chain of authority, and the callous, seemingly sadistic treatment she had at times encountered had eroded her trust in them all and her confidence in herself.  Each experience increased her distrust and widened the gulf between herself and other members of the ‘gentler’ sex.  Without emotional support, she was thrown on her own resources, and the foundations were being laid for a personality that was becoming defensive in the extreme.

     But here, at the Headmaster’s side, facing a large group of senior students, Emmy felt unusually confident.  She saw in their smiling faces no rejection, only a sympathetic interest which warmed and exhilarated her.  With sharpened senses, she thought of the picture in the church at which she gazed every Sunday — a small group of children gathered about the feet of the Divine Teacher, whose love encircled them.  They looked so happy and secure.

     It seemed to her that she had stepped through the glass, as she had so often longed to do, into the centre of that intimate group, held safe within the circle of those loving arms.  The mystical moment was caught and held, then everything slipped into focus once more and she was aware of the classroom, the children’s smiling faces and the warm current circulating around the room, having as its source the simple kindliness of a compassionate teacher.

     A rare experience indeed! For it was only on her father’s infrequent visits that Emma got to feel that total sense of security that a man’s presence can give to a child – a feeling that was almost erased by an encounter with the regular Headmaster of the school.  For Mr Kemp was only relieving for a short period while Mr Morrison was on leave.

* * *

     It has already been recorded that in the Third Grade Emma was often apt to lose her things.  It may be that since she had no sense of ownership, she had no sense of responsibility.  Be that as it may, in this class Emmy herself always felt lost – except in language lessons.  She was a champion speller and was recognised as such.  But sums were still a nightmare and it seemed to her that her teacher considered Arithmetic more important than anything else.

   Miss Hobbs was a big woman – not fat but athletic-looking.  From the first, Emmy feared her.  Her very stature was intimidating.  The coldness of the teacher’s manner chilled and bewildered her.  She looked in vain for a smile or  kind word, but received only a cool stare which seemed to be reserved for Emmy alone.  Abjectly, she wondered why her teacher seemed to dislike her.  Apprehensively, she faced the beginning of each school day, thankful when it ended.  And no-one to confide in!

     One day, to relieve her feelings, Em wrote on a small scrap of paper the words “I hate Miss Hobbs”, and hid it in her sum book between the book and the paper cover.  It gave her a sense of relief.  She’d actually put her feelings into words.  They were no longer bottled up inside her.  It felt good – until she lost her book!

     It was an exercise book, in which she wrote her sums.  She had taken one or two pages from the middle of the book to use as scrap paper – as most of the children did at some time or other, but it was otherwise intact.

     She hunted everywhere for it – even at The Home, on shelves, ledges, in impossible places where she knew it could not have been, because it should have been in her desk at school.  Two days went by, and without her book she could not do her work.  The backlog of sums was mounting.  On the third morning as she entered the classroom for the first lesson, Miss Hobbs said, “Emma Haywood, you are to report to Mr Morrison at once.”

     Emma had never been in the Headmaster’s office.  She had seen others go in from time to time and come out crying, and wondered what happened to them. She was soon to learn!

     This morning, all unsuspecting – merely curious, she knocked on the door.  It opened and she entered, her eyes following Mr Morrison as he walked back towards his desk.

     “Shut the door,” he said. She did so and turned to face him. Thickset but by no means tall, he surprised her as he moved quickly towards her.  Towering over her, his eyes hard and his naturally swarthy face made darker by anger, he raised his hand and slapped her about the head and face with an exercise book which he was holding.  Back and forth several times he slapped her until she was gasping and crying.

     “Look at this book,” he thundered.  “Or what’s left of it.  How dare you treat your things in this manner!”  He opened it and Emma saw through her tears that half the pages had been removed from the middle of the book.  What was the use of trying to explain that only one or two of them had been removed by her.  He wouldn’t believe her and it would probably make him even angrier.  As it happened he gave her no opportunity to explain.  She withdrew into herself and listened to his voice ranting about the cost of things supplied to her and other Home children and that they should be grateful and look after them, and she’d better not be sent to him again or “Look out!”

     Then handing her the book he said, “Now you can report to Miss Hobhs who found the book – and this!”  And in his hand he held the scrap of paper on which Em had scribbled the fateful words.  She’d completely forgotten.

     Returning to her classroom she was treated to an icy glare from Miss Hobbs, who issued an imposition of two extra sets of sums to be done when she’d completed the work she’d missed.

     Was it any wonder that she was delighted when occasionally banished to the Grade 2 classroom as punishment for any misdemeanour?  To Emma this was no disgrace.  It was Heaven!  She could join in confidently with all the work there.  Everything was so easy.  How she loved it there and hated to go back!

     But again came a reprieve.  Another relieving teacher came for a few weeks. Her name – incredibly – was Miss Haywood, the same as Emmy’s.  During her stay Emmy blossomed.  It seemed that all relieving teachers were the ones whom Emma liked best.  For a time she knew what it was like to look forward to school each day.  She gained a little in self-confidence so that when the time came for Miss Haywood to leave, she was able to face the change with a degree of composure.

(C) Winnifred Knight  2000 – 2007

Transcribed and Edited by Jud House 2007

(C) 13/06/2013

* * * * *


 October 1931 (cont.)   

     Emma suddenly became aware that Mrs Reiner had stopped talking.  She looked up in confusion.  Mrs Reiner had apparently asked her a question, which she now repeated.

     “You’re much too thin Emmy.  Didn’t they feed you properly at The Home? What were your meals like? “

     Emmy would have preferred not to remember, but memories came crowding back.

     “Pray Lord, bless this food to o.. ..u.. .. r use and give us grateful hearts A…-men.”   The children’s voices intoned in monotonous rhythm, as they stood behind the long stools – heads bowed, hands folded – before taking their places at the table.

     As for the meals, though plain, they were wholesome enough – porridge for breakfast, sandwiches for lunch, and a program of evening meals that to an adult would have been monotonous in its predictability.

     But Emma was used to plain food.  She loved porridge, even when it was lumpy – which it invariably was – but for which Norma, who sat next to her at table, felt nothing but repugnance.

     Emma’s pet aversion was root vegetables – of the turnip, parsnip variety.  Try as she might, she could not overcome her revulsion for these – obviously considered as the basic ingredient for stews – so liberally were they added to the pot.  She could, when pressed, deceive her tastebuds by secreting a piece of swede or parsnip under a piece of carrot or potato – both of which she loved, but without this subterfuge any attempt to eat these vegetables would result in overwhelming nausea.

     Emma and Norma had a good working arrangement that enabled them to face their morning and evening meals with reasonable fortitude. At breakfast, Norma would surreptitiously transfer the lumps in her porridge to Em’s plate – in just a matter of seconds.  In the evening, using the reverse procedure, Em disposed of her unwanted vegetables.  But here the plan was not entirely foolproof.  A platter of stew was far more complex than a bowl of porridge.  To identify and dispose of the inedible chunks of vegetables took longer than a few seconds, and Emma feared that one night she would not complete the transfer in time.

     It was bound to happen – and it did – with dire consequences. One never-to-be-forgotten night, as she happily prepared her palate to enjoy the last piece of vegetable, Emma discovered to her horror, that what had passed for potato was in fact, a large piece of parsnip in disguise! There it lay, on the middle of her otherwise empty plate, hovering malevolently, with nowhere to go.  Emma turned it over in disbelief.  Parsnip!  She stuck her fork into it and prepared to pass it to her neighbour.

     “Norma,” she whispered urgently. “Take this – it’s parsnip.”

     “I can’t.  I’ve finished,” was the reply.

     “Please Norma.  I can’t eat it.  I’ll be sick,” pleaded Emma.

     “I can’t.  Nurse is looking.  She knows I’ve finished.  Look out!  She’s coming this way.”  And Norma laid down her knife and fork.

     Emma sat looking desperately at her plate.  What could she do?  Just thinking of biting into the loathsome lump made her stomach quiver.   The nurse took Norma’s plate and Emma felt, rather than saw her standing at her elbow waiting for her too, to finish.  She looked at the parsnip on her fork.  Forbidden to leave anything on her plate, she lifted it gingerly to her mouth and prayed!  Her empty plate was whisked away and replaced with a plate of dessert – boiled rice with currants – one of her favourites.  How good it looked!  It would take away the awful taste of stew.  But she still had a mouthful of parsnip.  By now, the others had begun to leave the table, having finished their meal.

     There was no way out!  She’d have to eat it.  Bracing herself, she chewed quickly and swallowed, only to have it rise up in her throat again.  Once more she tried.  This time her whole being revolted, and not only the last mouthful, but the whole of her meal was disgorged into her plate of dessert. In disgust, the nurse who was hovering nearby, snatched away her plate and sent her, still retching from the table – the last to leave.

     Equally distasteful was potato pie – served without fail every Friday night.  How Emmy dreaded Friday nights!  Nor was it Norma’s favourite meal, and Emmy couldn’t count on her help in disposing of it.  She simply had to eat all her own serve.

     She loved mashed potato, but on Friday nights, it was spread on top of the meat, baked in the oven and called potato pie.  That too, would have been acceptable, even enjoyable, but before the potato was added to the meat, chopped onion was mixed into it.  Emma had conditioned herself to eat it without nausea, but it took her so long to get through it.  Each mouthful went round and round for long minutes before she could bring herself to swallow it.  Every Friday night, she was still sitting at the table long after the last girl had gone upstairs.

     On this unhappy night, the supervising nurse, waiting to go off duty, finally lost all patience, and snatching up a large teaspoon, scooped up a spoonful of food and pushed it into Emmy’s mouth.  Emma tried to swallow it as quickly as she could.  But not quickly enough!  The exasperated nurse grabbed a handful of her hair, pulled her head back, and thrusting a second spoonful into her mouth, forced the spoon right down her throat!

     Emma felt the spoon scrape against the walls of her throat; felt a moments terror as she feared she would choke.  Then the spoon was removed, and Emmy stumbled from the room, hand clutching her smarting throat, tears of pain in her eyes, anguish in her heart.  Grateful?  Yes, but only that Friday night was another week away.

     Friday night was also bath-night. One experience was to eclipse all others.

     Two or three children always shared the bath, and there seemed to be no restriction on water and on this occasion – no supervision.

     The Home being built on a slope, the bathroom itself was situated on ground level, along with the bedrooms, dining-rooms, kitchen, cellars and laundry downstairs.  This meant that while water was being drawn downstairs, it ceased to flow in the bathroom above.  Unhappily, the finer points of hydro-dynamics meant nothing to children five to eight years old, who used all kinds of tricks to induce the flow of water from taps suddenly run dry.

     The taps were the old-fashioned kind with removable keys, and one trick employed was to remove the key and strike the tap sharply several times rather in the manner of Moses striking the rock.  On this, for Emma, disastrous night, her efforts were crowned with success and lo, water flowed once more.  Flushed with her success, she replaced the key and proceeded to turn off the tap. All her life she was to recall the horror that gripped her.

     Nothing happened! The tap refused to budge and the water, piping hot, flowed on.  Emma looked wildly around her.  Her ‘companions of the bath’ each tried in turn, as did several ‘maids in waiting’ – all to no avail.

     Then the cry went up “Fetch Hilda.”

     Now Hilda, an older girl, and built like an Amazon, delighted in demonstrating her prowess – both physical and authoritarian – over the younger inmates.  Emmy regarded her with awe.  When the cry went up, Em’s heart leapt, then sank.  If anyone could turn the tap, Hilda could, but at what price?  All this time, the water was rising and getting hotter.  None of the girls had the presence of mind to pull out the plug – or get out of the bath.  By now Emmy was immobilized with terror.  She gazed at the rising water and gave herself up for lost.

     Then in marched Hilda.  One vigorous turn of the wrist and the flow of water ceased.  Relief surged through Emma as she turned a grateful face towards her saviour.  But her gratitude was short-lived.

     “Who’s the culprit?” thundered her rescuer.

     All eyes turned towards Em.  Fear, mingled with fascination held her as she shrank down in the water, and watched a muscled arm reach out towards her.  Grasping Emma by the hair, the older girl thrust her head beneath the surface, held it there, then pulled her up, gasping and spluttering.  A second and a third time she repeated her action.  Then turning on her heel, she left as quickly as she’d come. Her parting words were:

     “Let that be a lesson to all of you!”

     It was! Emmy never learnt to swim.

(C) Winnifred Knight  2000 – 2007

Transcribed and Edited by Jud House 2007

(C) 13/06/2013

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October 1931 (cont.)

     As the travellers emerged into open countryside, Emma looked around with interest.  In contrast to the hills they’d left, the country was gently undulating, with vast open paddocks – some high with yellowing wheat, and in the distance an occasional farmhouse set among trees like an oasis in the desert.  In others cows and sheep grazed contentedly or stared with quiet unconcern at the car and its occupants heading northwards.

     Their way lay through many creeks and natural water-courses, but the road had been formed and culverts installed where creek-beds had become impassable.  These early roads were very narrow and high in the centre, and their father had kept, for the most part, to the old dirt track that wound along beside it, often at a lower level.  In dry weather, this was more comfortable for the passengers, and kinder to the tyres than the coarse metal surface of the newer road, in which there was always the danger of hitting an unexpected pothole, spelling disaster to springs and axles alike.

     Of course, the side-track was not without its hazards either.  There was more likelihood of punctures – from old horse-shoes, nails, half-buried roots and pieces of wire.  Motorists were careful to carry plenty of spares, sometimes on the mudguard, sometimes strapped – as in this instance – on the back of the car.  Since the tools were carried under the back seat, however, changing a tyre on this trip could be a very awkward exercise!

     As it happened, it was neither a pothole nor a puncture that was the cause of their second mishap and subsequent delay.

     A hundred miles had been covered and all was going well. Having left the small town of Drayford behind them, they were approaching a wide creek-bed where once again necessity dictated that they abandon the old road and cross by way of the culvert, when they noticed that a large vehicle appeared to have stopped up ahead.  This proved to be the case.  A truck had come to a halt in the middle of the road – right in the middle of the culvert! They too would have to stop.

     The children were ecstatic!  A chance to stretch their legs.   Since they had a good supply of sandwiches, fruit and biscuits on board and could eat as they traveled, stops alonq the way had been restricted to toilet needs only.  So it was with a certain degree of alacrity that they leapt out of the car and followed close on their father’s heels as he went to speak to the truck’s driver.  The man stood looking despondently at his vehicle. Matt introduced himself.

     “In trouble mate’?” he asked. “Can I do anything to help?”

     “Only if you can fix a broken axle” was the gloomy reply.  “Been hoping somebody’d come along before it got dark.  Name’s George Weston.”  They shook hands.

     “What I need,” he went on, “is in Marney’s Creek.  But getting there’s the problem.  I’m blocking the way, and I can’t see anyone getting through down there, can you?”  Together they looked dubiously at the rough rock-strewn gully that barred the way.

     Matt shook his head, “‘Fraid you’re right,” he said.  “But I’ll have to give it a go.  If I get through I can send help back to you from Marney’s Creek.”

     There was no alternative.  To wait any longer was to run the risk of darkness overtaking them, and they were still nearly fifty miles from home.   He walked down and closely examined the floor of the creek-bed, deciding how he would negotiate the mass of stones and boulders, then advising Mrs Reiner and Emma to cross by way of the road, he called to the boys who jumped enthusiastically into the back of the car.

     The others watched as the car moved forward and entered the creek-bed, slowly at first, then gathering speed, clawed and bounced its way over the rocky surface.  They were almost across when the back wheels spun suddenly, and in a shower of stones and pebbles, the car jerked to a halt.  Now it was Matt’s turn to look worried.

     “What’s holding her?” asked George Weston, as he joined Matt on his knees beside the car.

     “A ruddy great rock,” replied Walt, “wedged between the front axle and the track rod.”

      Mrs Reiner turned to Emmy.  “We might as well take a little walk dear,” she said.  “There’s nothing we can do, and it will be some time before we can get into the car again.”  For a time they walked in silence, then Mrs Reiner looked down at Emma and said, “What a little thing you are, Emmy.  You haven’t grown much have you?”

     Emma was used to being told that she was small for her years. Once or twice at The Home, when it was necessary to balance the numbers in each section, she was moved into the Babies’ Wing with the ‘under fives’. She loved it there.  Nothing was expected of her and even the addition of the Monday morning Epsom’s Salts to her porridge, as was customary in the Babies’ Wing, didn’t detract from her happiness in that environment.  The older children too, partook of the Monday morning draught, but they were considered mature enough to drink it straight down from a cup, without fuss.

     One day, while there, she was home from school suffering from a cold – not sick enough to be in bed, but there was a rule that the Babies Wing received a little more attention than the residents of the others.  Suddenly, looking up from her drawing, she saw through the open doorway a tall man walking towards her.  She thought that he looked like her father, when he suddenly turned and began walking away.  Leaving her chair Emmy quickly followed him as he went back to the car.  Fortunately, before climbing into his car he glanced up and saw her.

     “Emma!  It’s a week-day.  So I thought you’d all be at school” he exclaimed as he hugged her.

     If she hadn’t have seen him, how disappointing would it have been to find out later.  It would have been one more of many.

     Emma would quite happily have remained with the babies for the duration of her stay at The Home.  At school it was the same story.

Her year in the First Grade was her happiest year at school, and she wished never to leave it.  The small group of Beginners, drawn from a handful of five to six-year-olds from The Home and others from the surrounding district, enjoyed a warm, secure environment.  As in any ideal infant class, their days were a succession of pleasurable activities.  Not all beginners – even half a century on – are fortunate enough to have a teacher whose sole concern is the happiness of her little charges.

Their teacher, Miss Johnson, was just such a person.  Emma had never given any thought to whether people were pretty or plain. Had she been told to describe her teacher she might have said that she had fair smooth hair, blue eyes and was good to look at.  Emmy only knew that she was kindness itself, and her lonely heart opened to her teacher like a flower to the sun.  With her quiet voice and the smile that reached her eyes, she held the children in the palm of her hand.  Like all the others, Emma loved her, and she loved her lessons.

She never remembered beinq taught to read.  She seemed always to have been able to do so and her appetite for books was never satisfied.  From the very beginning she astonished grown-ups by her ability to read the words in the hymn books in Church and at the mid-week prayer meetings.  Poetry too, she loved.

But her favourite lesson was singing.  All her life, with no-one to remind her, she was able to recall the words of some of the songs she learnt in this first year of school.

She had no special friend, and was to regret a lost opportunity to gain one.  One morning, just after they’d begun lessons, Miss Johnson was sitting at her desk talking quietly to a new girl who was being enrolled, while the class was working on its own.

Suddenly Miss Johnson said ‘Emma, put up your hand.”

Emma, who was sitting in the back row, looked up in surprise.  She didn’t understand.  Children put up their hands when they wanted to speak to the teacher.  Now here was Miss Johnson telling her to put up her hand.

Again the teacher spoke. “Emma put up your hand.”

Still Emmy continued to look surprised, wondering what it was all about . Had she done something wrong? By now all the children had turned to look at her.  Feeling very self-conscious, Emma slowly began to raise her hand.

“Never mind Emma” said Miss Johnson. “Mary put up your hand” Mary did so.  “Mary,” said Miss Johnson. “This is Polly.  Please make room for her to sit beside you, and look after her on her first days with us.”

Emma watched sadly, as Polly took her place next to Mary.  Why hadn’t she understood what was required of her?  Polly would have been sitting next to her, and might have become her special friend.  In this, she was probably right, for Polly was the soul of loyalty and attached herself to Mary devotedly.

Polly was to become a legend in the school, because of her unpredictable behaviour.  Completely self-willed, she did exactly as she liked, and let everyone know if she didn’t.  Under the gentle ministrations of Miss Johnson she was fairly tractable, but once the Infants Class was left behind her and expectations in the Second Grade became greater, many a battle royal ensued between Polly and her teachers.  If sent from the room for misbehaviour, she would open the door, walk through, then on the point of closing it, would put her head through the half-open doorway, open her mouth and scream loudly!

To Em this was high drama indeed.  How she admired Polly’s audacity! Mary, as Polly’s special friend, basked in her reflected glory.  Alas!  All this could have been Emma’s.

Although the second grade was more demanding, the atmosphere was still fairly comfortable.  Emma thrived on all the work associated with language of any kind. Spelling and Dictation were child’s play, while as before, Reading, Poetry and Singing were a sheer joy.

     But sums were another matter.  The principles of Mathematics were a closed book to Em.  Arithmetic lessons were torture.  Addition was impossible – numbers refused to line up straight and be counted. Subtraction never came out right and while Em could memorise whole songs – words and music – on first hearing, multiplication tables played hide-and-seek with her memory cells and always eluded capture.

In this class also, she was for a short time blessed with a teacher who was on the same sympathetic plane as Miss Johnson.  She got on well enough with the regular teacher, but kept her protective cloak closely-drawn to compensate for the lack of real warmth.  For a time Miss Bell was on leave, and her replacement, Miss Jones, brought the sunshine back into the days.  One small act of kindness was to imprint itself on Emma’s memory forever.

It was Anzac Day.  Emma knew that this was regarded as an important day by her family.  Her father had been a soldier and had been wounded in the Great War, so she took the ceremonies very seriously.

A few days earlier, Miss Jones had said, “I have a supply of small flags – Union Jacks – which you may order for one penny each and collect on Anzac Day.”

Emmy’s heart yearned for one of these bright flags.

On Anzac Day, when the morning class ended, and they were ready to be dismissed for their half-holiday, Miss Jones said, “Now those children who have flags to collect can do so on the way out.”

Some of the children who lived in the district moved out to the teacher’s desk, while the rest, together with all The Home children filed out of the room – that is, all except Emma.  Impelled by some power she could not resist, she found herself on the end of the line of children at Miss Jones’ desk.  As each child’s turn came, Miss Jones asked “How many?” and handed over the requested number.  The flags had been paid for in advance so that no money was changing hands.  At last it was Emmy’s turn.

“How many for you, Emma?” asked Miss Jones, without batting an eyelid.  They both knew that Emma had not paid for any flags.  How could she?  She had no money.  But Miss Jones hadn’t referred to flags being paid for.  She’d said “Those with flags to collect.”

Greatly daring, Emma raised her eyes to her teacher’s face and whispered, “Two please.”  Of course she’d love to have asked for three – one for each of the boys – but if she could just have one for Dick, as well as herself, how thrilled she would  be.  In exactly the same tone of voice and with the same kindly smile that she had given the other children, Miss Jones placed the two flags in Emma’s hands.

“Here you are Emma, have a happy half-holiday,” she said.

Emma was her slave for life!

(C) Winnifred Knight  2000 – 2007

Transcribed and Edited by Jud House 2007

(C) 13/06/2013

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