Kat's Family

By Larry Lovejoy

Kat is fifteen. She tells the imagined story of her family from her grandparent's birth in the 1920s through each decade to the 2000s. She speculates about family secrets. Kat's Grandpa forces his beliefs onto his five children, some of whom rebel. Kat's Grandma has a secret voice that questions everything.

The story shows cha

• Language: English
• Publisher: Perspicuous Press
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645142235

Larry Lovejoy

Larry Lovejoy is an Australian author who is fascinated by complex family relationships.

Book preview

Copyright

Published by Perspicuous Press in 2022.

Front Cover Image: by Davide Angelini

Back Cover Image: by Suzy Hazelwood from Pexels.

Text and copyright ©Larry Lovejoy

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced without prior permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual

persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Title: Kat’s Family

ISBN:  978-0-6451422-2-8 (paperback)

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Kat’s Letter

1 The Funeral, 2009

2 Grandpa’s Childhood, 1920s

3 Grandpa Grows Up, 1930s

4 Grandpa Falls in Love, 1940s

5 Frank Goes to War, 1940s

6 Kokoda Track, 1940s

7 Recovering From the War, 1940s

8 No Rock’n’roll, 1950s

9 New Guinea, 1950s

10 Society Changes, 1960s

11 School, 1960s

12 Living in Sin, 1970s

13 Setting Goals, 1970s

14 Joanna, 1970s

15 Byron Bay, 1970s

16 Joanna Returns, 1980s

17 The Family Grows, 1980s

18 Adie Fades, 1990s

19 Grandma Dies, 1990s

20 Frank Flirts, 2000s

21 Jo Moves House, 2000s

22 The Wake, 2009

23 Angel, 2009

Dedication

This story is dedicated to individuals who have struggled with the constraints of growing up amidst religious repression. I hope you have found the freedom to flourish.

It is also dedicated to those who suffered from wartime memories and their partners who lived with the consequence. May you be blessed by knowing peace.

Kat’s Letter

Dear Readers,

Hiya, I’m Kat. I’m fifteen. I wanna tell you the story of my grandfather. It’s not that I loved Grandpa wildly, but he was my Gramps. He kinda dominated my family’s life, not always in good ways.

 My cousins, aunts and uncles will think me daft for writing this story. They shove me into an arty-farty, wild animal box. I’m much more, I just don’t broadcast it. I love art, and I am wild at times, but there are many other parts to me. I don’t really care what others think of me, well, not too much, everyone cares a bit, even if they pretend otherwise.

What most of my rellies don’t know is that I adore history, it totally fascinates me. I read lots of stuff. I know all sorts of info, and I’m intrigued with why some people get stuck in a rut, and others get the ball rollin’. I read stacks of books as well as exploding my internet limit every month. I’m scared everybody will call me a nerd. I’m not!

I’m a good listener. It’s not that I eavesdrop. Sneaky people are the pits. But I listen to people nattering away. Gossip sucks, but I learn a lot about how people think by listening. So, when Grandpa and Grandma waffled on, I listened attentively, as well as taking in conversations from my aunts, uncles and cousins, and there are stacks of us.

I can only vouch for the truthfulness of the first and last chapters. The bits of the story in-between the funeral and the wake are a mixture, like what I’ve heard over the years, what I’ve read, or what I imagine. I wasn’t born until 1989, and this story starts in the 1920s, so of course I’ve made up a hell-of-a-lot.

I’ve stuck my voice in italics so ya know it’s me speaking. OK, I admit it, my headspace is expansive. It takes me flying high. I love it! The line between truth and fiction is awfully wriggly.

Signing off for now, wriggle away with me,

Love Kat.

***

PS: Ride high with me, soar to the heavens, paradise, dreamland, wherever you choose to fly.

***

PPS: Most of the time, I write about myself as if someone else is telling my story. Signing off: Kat, over and out.

1

The Funeral, 2009

It was a perfect day for a funeral, if there is such a thing, a simply gorgeous Australian summer day. I’d rather be at the beach. The sky was vivid blue with not a cloud threatening to break through. A refreshing breeze blew the purple and white agapanthus that circled the red-brick, nondescript looking building. It wasn’t too hot.

Today was my grandpa’s funeral. Frank, as people called him, loved the heat. He’d told me stories about playing cricket as a boy, enjoying the searing Egyptian sun in his soldier days, and not caring about humidity when in New Guinea. Australian heatwaves didn’t bother him like they tormented my grandma. She’s dead. I reckon Gramps might have preferred more heat for his funeral. It’d match the fiery words spouted from the pulpit, scary warnings about the fires of damnation. Hells-bells!

People were streaming into the building, a church that used to be a school. Mum gave me its history. When the kids who’d attended the school grew up, they fled the area, escaping their past. I get that. Retirement villages with locked gates sit on the site where kids once played.

Into this school-church wandered the faceless crowd. They looked the same. They wore old-fashioned clothes like it was a sin to dress stylishly. OK, it was a funeral, but they took modesty to a new level. They looked like they were living in some headspace I couldn’t crawl into, where doubts, fears, and nagging questions about the meaning of life are shoved aside. I probe the big questions.

For Gramps, to doubt or question, showed a moral weakness. Grandpa and Grandma’s faith was unwavering. Their prayer list was full of doubters, questioners, seekers of different truths. On the list was the family, of course. On Grandpa’s terms, anyone with different views couldn’t be true believers. There was no room for grey in the certainty of his black-and-white truth. Crazy rigid.

***

I’d heard squabbling amongst Grandpa’s children as to what they should wear to his funeral. They’d worn black with smatterings of colour to Grandma’s funeral a few years ago. Same school-church, beliefs and crowd, give-or-take those who’d died.

No-one had expected Grandpa to last as long as he had. A teetotalling non-smoker, he shouldn’t have been surprised.

At the ripe old age of 89, widower Frank, full of the certainty of his destination, took his last breath, and went to meet his maker, sliding effortlessly through the pearly gates. Metaphorically speaking.

***

The family agreed on the time to meet. Gramp’s oldest two wanted to view the body again, as did the fourth child. Child number three and five didn’t. Most people assumed they were a pair. They weren’t. My mum and my favourite aunt were independent thinkers. I often heard them argue in good spirit.

‘Where’s your sister?’ barked sixty-six-year-old Uncle David, frazzled, to Diana the youngest. She’s my mum.

‘How should I know?’ mum replied, soothing her usually calm brother, oldest child, beloved son, heir to his father’s beliefs, and trying not to be overpowering, fighting decades of entrenched practices. Uncle David was a silver fox. His immaculate, slate grey suit with black silk tie showed off his handsome, fit-looking, lean body. Mum says you can tell a story by what clothes people wear. I’m not convinced. You can’t judge a book by its cover, so they say.

‘She’ll be here soon,’ Auntie Joline reassured her husband.

The sisters stood in a group, Auntie Sarah, Auntie Rachel and mum. They were so different. I shake my head wondering if they are sisters. Given they shared the same mother, did they share the same father? Of course! Mm! Anything other was unthinkable. What with my grandparents being pillars of community respectability, nothing untoward could be imagined. It didn’t stop me from being curious.

Auntie Sarah was sixty-four, her neat grey hair matched her sensible navy suit.

Auntie Rachel, fifty-three, had mousy brown hair with grey streaks pushing through. Her dark floral, shapeless sack camouflaged what needed to be disguised. She was sniffling, rubbing her nose on a lace handkerchief scrunched in her chubby hand. Who uses hankies? Gross!

My mum, Diana, was fifty-two. She knew where her missing sister was but was keeping mum. Family peace was important. She looked pure class always does in an expensive designer outfit, with geometric black and white swirls. Total black makes her feel gloomy. She’d piled on red accessories, hoping she’d not feel dragged down into the depths of darkness. Can you believe it, Grandma forbade her daughters to wear red, apparently, it’s the colour of seduction?

The sisters’ husbands stood behind their wives, easy, quiet Uncle Martin behind Auntie Sarah, plain, reliable Uncle Joshua behind Auntie Rachel, and my smartly dressed dad, Nick, behind mum.

‘Here she is at last,’ Uncle David muttered as Auntie Joanna I call her Jo, came racing in, not one of her shortly cropped, hennaed red hair flying out of place. Aged fifty-four, you’d never know it. She’s fit, toned, tanned and looks young.

‘Did you have to dress like that?’ grizzled Auntie Rachel, always judgemental.

‘Like what? Black’s appropriate, isn’t it? It is a funeral.’ She glanced down and probably realised there was more cleavage showing than should be at a funeral, particularly her father’s, especially because it meant you could see the tiny angel tattoo on her left breast. Not intimidated, she grinned. I love that about her. Noting consternation on her sibling’s faces, she explained herself. ‘I’m sorry I’m a bit late. I had paperwork for an urgent refugee case to finalise, and I couldn’t leave until I’d finished my section. Micko will complete it. He sends his apologies.’

‘Always the same excuse,’ griped Auntie Rachel.

The family trooped in, in order of age, the family ritual. Uncle David, eldest child, family patriarch, a doctor, went first, with Auntie Joline, a no-nonsense nurse. Their sons Jacob, a laid-back childcare worker, and Caleb, a super cool surfie and artist followed. I hang out with them, they’re great fun. Uncle David habitually cast his eyes over the crowd. I’ve seen him do this before. I reckon he’s looking for someone he fancied as a young man.

Sensible Auntie Sarah, who was a school teacher before producing a girl child, a boy, a girl, a boy, a girl and a boy, was led in by easy-going architect Uncle Martin, who led their brood in. Imagine having six kids, not for me, that’s for sure! Delilah, a pleasant-natured architect, Mark, an undemanding architect, and Lily, an uncomplicated architect, was followed by Nathan, a troublesome, troubled engineer, Susie, a flighty teacher, and Daniel, a solitary, contented gardener. I adore Daniel. He’s a committed Greenie.

Joanna, a passionate human rights lawyer, dedicated refugee advocate, tripped sprightly in, confidently alone. Usually, Micko accompanied her. Grandpa never accepted him. Grandma liked him, but never understood why he didn’t marry her daughter. Most of the family had stopped asking tricky questions. Jo would’ve wanted him beside her. Here with these holy-rollers, she felt awkward, a fish out of water. I swam in the currents with her.

Auntie Rachel came in next, an enthusiastic teacher, like her dad. So much of her was like her father. Uncle Joshua, a fellow teacher led their children in, George, a belligerent car salesman, James, an unexceptional IT consultant, and Petra, a florist. She’s a sweetie. George moved seats, making sure he sat beside anyone except his mother. I saw his face.

Diana, my mum, an interior designer, made an impression as she entered with Nick, my dad, a handsome architect. They’re a fine-looking couple. My brother Nat took after my parents. He’s smart and fussy and wears fashionable clothes. I came next, dressed in a bohemian rainbow-coloured outfit, layers of deliberately mismatching colours. I looked as out-of-place as I suspected Jo felt. We smiled companionably at each other across the pew, guessing what each other was thinking.

Let the funeral begin. And begin it did. It was everything Grandpa would’ve wanted. I think. Old hymns were sung with gusto, the prayers were mini sermons, and Uncle David presented a humourless eulogy, raving on about his father as a godly man. Sure, Gramps rammed this down our throats. I see my imperfections. I can accept my spots, they make me feel like a leopard-human, mysterious, agile, a powerful force to be reckoned with.

Daniel told me later that he thought of a garden, that even amidst neat rows of plants, unruly, uninvited weeds push through, as well as surprise plants, naturally seeded by birds or insects. These images make sense to me, this pleased my cuz.

Sitting beside mum, I felt her breathing tightly, her blood pressure rising as her brother droned on.

Jacob and Caleb gazed absentmindedly at their father, lost in their own thoughts.

The rest of the family nodded away, no tears. Emotional control is part of their tight upbringing.

Now came the time for people to offer their last respects to the remains of the physical body lying in the closed coffin. The plan was for the children, in order of age, as usual, and then their partners and children to throw a sprig of rosemary. Everything must be done in orderly fashion. It freaks me out, I find chaos appealing.

As the youngest grandchild, I was last. I’d respectfully said my farewells when an audible gasp rippled through the building. I wish you could have heard it. It was shivery loud. You could feel the energy of the collective breath. It was like the spirit of the Almighty rushed in, rousing a frenzied, crazy whirl.

A stunning black woman with tightly curled ringlets stood, walked to centre stage, dramatically grasped a sprig of rosemary from the basket as if she was a lead actress in a play, laid her ringless hands on the coffin, placed her forehead on the shiny wooden box, and with dignified emotion, kissed the coffin. It felt like a passionate embrace, not that I’d know. It was as if she owned this space, like she had a right to belong. Who the heck was she?

I waited at her side until she’d finished her farewell rituals, took this unknown woman’s hand, and led her following the family trailing my cousins, who as pallbearers, were ready to walk down the aisle to the sound of Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus triumphantly ringing forth. Not exactly Leonard Cohen.

***

By the time the family had traipsed down the aisle, finally allowing the odd tear to drop down their cheeks and arrived to see the coffin sliding into the black hearse, everyone looked around for the mysterious woman, but she was gone. Gone! In a twinkling of an eye, she had disappeared. How was that possible? The curious chattering, the outrageous rumours, the suggestive innuendos weren’t gone. They were just beginning.

2

Grandpa’s Childhood, 1920s

This is my fictitious account of what I think might have happened. I’ve read stacks of history books and listened to relatives’ tales. I’m forever cruising internet sites. Grandpa told me a fair bit about his boyhood. Uncle David and mum filled me in on a few blanks I wasn’t sure about. But it’s my story: Kat, over and out.

***

Frank Baines was born in 1920, an ordinary child, raised in an ordinary family. From early days, he refused to accept ordinariness. This wasn’t something you bragged about.

Jonathan Baines, his father, was a muscular man, pleasant looking. I’ve seen the pics. He worked on railway lines in routine jobs. He pulled up rotting sleepers, laid new rail lines, stoked the upgraded boilers, and carried out mundane jobs for the South Australian Railways before it was handed over to the Commonwealth Railways in 1926.

There was nothing much he didn’t know about the differences between three-foot six-inch, narrow-gauge lines, and four-feet eight-and-a-half-inch, standard gauge. Like all railmen, he coveted the driver’s position. Not a chance! He was a labourer, a reliable, hard worker. He loved the camaraderie of the rail men, hard-hitting banter, the crude jokes exchanged about sex and women, and the shared sweat that accompanied a hard day’s yakka. Jon was tough, curt but never cruel to his wife, and unintentionally harsh to his four sons.

There was one anomaly to Jon’s rough exterior. All his Scottish ancestry came to the fore in his voice. Even his blasphemies that his wife cringed at sounded melodical. Boy, could he sing! I wish I’d heard him. As he took his after-work shower outside, lathering himself with scraps of lifebuoy soap, then throwing cold water from a dented metal bucket over himself after a day’s work, he’d break out in song, singing in the Gaelic traditional language his grandparents had taught him. Unpronounceable words! His name is Eòin. Dunno how ya pronounce it. His wife hushed the children so she could enjoy the wonder before he burst into their tiny cottage to demand dinner. When she asked him to sing, he refused, as if his voice was a curse. I reckon it was a gift.

***

Marjorie, my great-grandmother, was every bit as soft as Jon was hard. She was slight, with light brown wavy hair, clear skin, blue eyes and lined gentle hands. She’s sweet looking in the pics. She was grateful that Jon had work and handed her enough housekeeping money each week in a little brown envelope to keep the family going. No bank transfers or ATMs. Marge was careful, saving every penny and half-penny she could for a rainy day, or more likely, a drought.

Marge’s veggie garden was the envy of the neighbourhood. She worked hard to keep it yielding. Chooks kept them in a daily supply of eggs. Hens scare me. Marge radiated a positive outlook even if truth be told, she was a worrier. Not a soul knew how weary she felt. Sometimes, Frank noticed it. A sensitive boy, he recognised his mother’s feelings more than most boys. I like to think this. There was a bond between mother and oldest son. He told me so.

As soon as the wobbly back gate clicked and Marge heard her husband coming home, the family burst into well-practised action. Gramps explained this routine to me. Everyone knew what was expected.

‘Frank, set the table,’ Marge called.

Frank thought this was something girls should do, but he didn’t yet have a sister. Yelling, ‘coming mum,’ he set the table, same cracked, yellowing, bone knives and forks, and a bent metal spoon on Sunday. I saw this bone cutlery in an antique shop recently.

‘Peter, pour the water glasses,’ requested Marge.

‘I know, I’m coming,’ Peter muttered, discarding the piles of marbles he had accumulated, some through skillful play, most through carefully honed cheating. He’d worked out when you had to stick to the rules, and who couldn’t catch him being sneaky. I used to be a whizz at marbles. He placed two chipped glasses haphazardly on the scratched, rickety, wooden kitchen table in his parents’ places, and four dented metal mugs in his and his brothers’ seats. There was method to his slapdash intent, he never placed them in the exact same place. Neat patterns can be detected, randomness keeps people guessing. I like that sorta thinking.

‘Jim, this washer on the tap is loose again, come and fix it,’ called Frank.

‘Fix it yourself.’

‘Don’t be rude,’ his mother responded. Jim had an uncanny skill in fixing household taps. No-one had taught him what to do. He just played around with them, loosening, tightening, and persisted doggedly until the tap worked.

Mark, the youngest son, inherited his father’s melodic voice. His sole duty was to call his dad in. The task terrified him. Sometimes, Jon sat on a crumbling tree-trunk, staring into space, and then Mark didn’t know what mood his dad was in. He’d stand feeling shivery nervous. He had to get the tone perfect, otherwise Jon grew cross, as if his son’s musical voice annoyed him. On those days, Jon stomped grouchily into the kitchen, noisily scraped back his chair at the head of the table, and barked demands to Marge. She was infinitely patient. Wish I’d met her.

The boys loved being in the kitchen with their mother. She chatted away, asking them about their day, laughing at their silly little boy jokes. She was always busy, cutting, slicing, stirring, prodding, bottling, mending, washing, cleaning. She fell into bed exhausted. Poor dear.

Meals were never fun, except for Sundays. All week, Marge struggled to save her spare sixpences and the little silver thruppences so she could