Flourishing in the Fifties

When Maths was still Arithmetic

"Ah well," Mum would say when she'd finished her second cup of tea and looked over at the cluttered sink awaiting her last job of the day - washing the dishes. She always insisted on doing the washing part - reckoned no-one else would get them as clean with less breakage than her. Wiping by anyone else was OK with her though. Tonight it's the boys' turn. Jenny helped her make tea and set the table on her own. Now she is the first to start her homework - no matter how reluctantly. Funny that. The eldest and the youngest always had homework, always loved learning. The middle two? Not so much - actually not at all!

"Don't have to ask where Christine is hurrying away to," and Mum's love would glow in her smile. Of course, in moments I'd be settling into my favourite place straight after tea - in Dad's office. It had become a standing joke - who would get there first - Dad or me. When we arrived at the office door at the same time, we loved a pretend push/shove/jammed in the door together game, but this night I was already perched on the several cushions it took to make me tall enough for my most serious after tea job when Dad arrived.

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The adult me whispers to that child of memory, stay still and concentrate - if you wiggle too much, you'll likely slide right off your cushion tower. There'll be no more nightly ritual if you fall and hurt yourself. Do I imagine a dropped and quivering lip? And those eyes! Ahh OK then... just ONE small wriggle, but hold on tight. Across time, I can't help a smile as I see the small Christine grin her cheekiest, and bright little eyes that seem to tell me she absolutely won't fall. There are arms on that chair. She knows she's safe. Besides, her darling Dad is there now to prop her back up if she should falter. As her attention shifts to fixate on Dad with adoration, I chuckle at my mental picture of the two of them.

A variation of a childish rhyme crosses my mind, as I imagine the feelings that went with Dad's loving eyes -

The King was in his counting house,

Counting out his money;

His little girl perched next to him,

Seriously cute... and funny.

Did you feel like a King, Dad? With your small but trusty assistant teller by your side, always and ever chattering about something, whilst solemnly stacking coins in their correct denominations?

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Although I didn't witness the following scene unfolding in his shop as a result of these counting house sessions, it was described to me by several reliable sources more than once. I also believe it happened more than once, as well.

"She's a little wizard with her counting," he'd tell anyone who'd listen (at times a whole shopful of customers would pause when I came home from school - via his shop. On busiest days, they'd make a pathway between them for me to get to Dad's hug - AND a slice of fritz) - and they ALL listened to any snippets about their Butcher's smallest daughter.

"Don't know what she's going to be - maybe an accountant?" A scratch of a chin, a moment's thought, and then, "Yep. I reckon that's it."

"Or maybe a maths teacher," an enthusiastic older customer chimed in. "Little chatterbox that she is, that's more likely."

"Or maybe banking... even a professor of arithmetic." That one came from an older voice near the door.

They were all wrong. I grew up to be unequivocally a wordsmith - capable of sound numeracy skills, but with no passion whatsoever for numbers. They simply don't sing. One possible explanation of my love of words and writing in all its wondrous varieties, is my fascination and awe for my Dad's beautiful handwriting. That wonderful script with 'light upward strokes and firm downward ones' never altered, whether executed in pencil or fountain pen. Thanks to him, my appreciation of the most carefully and ornately created handwriting has never diminished.

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Back in Dad's office of last century, like always, he'd say, "Ready, possum?" and shake his head in some bewilderment at his youngest child as he collected her carefully piled coins and tipped them into small paper bags marked with different values. Sometime before tea, Dad had emptied the cash register with a secret code and a pull of the handle. Out sprang the money drawer to reveal its tray of myriad compartments separating various notes and coins in its removable container. Spring clips held the notes firmly in place.

Dad's eyes would twinkle and I knew my small earnest presence was 'lightening up' an otherwise onerous task. We loved this time together until my bedtime. I looked after the copper half-pennies and pennies; then the silver threepences, sixpences, shillings and two shilling coins. All were lined up in small towers of certain numbers to add up and make the counting process easier for him. He not only had the job of then 'bagging' up the different denominations ready for banking, but also recording all in his Cash book, plus bundling the paper monies - mostly 10 shilling notes, £1 (or pound), some £5 and a rare £10 note. There weren't too many of the larger notes seen in the shops of this typical suburban working-man's area.

The talkative child of yesteryear couldn't help herself asking, "Did Bob and Barry and Jenny all help you like I do, Dad? Did they count the money, too? And did they have to sit on cushions, too? And—"

He would interrupt me with a kiss on top of my head and, "Ohh barleys, you little possum. One question at a time, if you don't mind." He would see me drawing breath to roll on again, so he'd answer quickly, "No. They didn't help me. They were too busy being playmates with each other. Now shh!" and he tried to look stern and make his voice tough. He tried, but failed dismally. I'm smiling again, remembering a time many years later (in my terrible teens) when he did growl - more gently and lovingly than I've ever known. And made me cry for the shame I felt.

Seven decades have not dimmed the memories of these precious moments spent at his huge and impressive lockable roll-top desk - a wonder to behold, complete with heaps of 'pigeon holes' and dividers; compartments; obvious drawers; and a few small secret ones as well. All were part of the upper section under the magical 'rollover' lockable top. With eyes closed, once again I hear its delicious soft clicking as it rolled, and kerchunk as it locked into its brass fitting. A cunningly concealed slide-out shelf on each side provided extra writing space, and beneath, two sets of drawers were the supporting columns, with an open space between - for knees and legs.

When I combine the stories of these treasured memories, it's easy to see why my deep love and appreciation of antiques of all kinds endures. How easily and most comfortably I settle back into that time and place.

'Perhaps age is more about experience than it is about the passing of the years.

We are where we've been.

There is some comfort to me in the fact that I can return to times past that remind me of who I am and help explain why I have become the way I am.'

~ excerpt from 'Four Fires' by Bryce Courtenay

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Author's Note:

For anyone interested in the translations of yesterday's English monies into Australian decimal currency, my memory (and research) says -

There were the frequently used notes - 10 shilling (half a quid), £1-0-0 (pound, or a quid), £5 (five pound, fiver, deep sea diver, Lady Godiva) and £10 (ten pound, a tenner). These were equivalent to $1.00, $2.00, $10.00 and $20.00

And the rarely used notes in this working-class suburb were £20, £50, £100 and £1,000 (pounds). (Again, doubling in number when they became decimal currency. If only those crackly new notes would have also bought twice as much. Alas... no)

In coinage, One Australian Pound (£1) = 10 Florins (one Florin = two shillings, commonly called two bob). One shilling (one bob, a deener) = 2 x 6d. (sixpence, a zack), or 4 x 3d. (threepences, treys), or 12d. (pence, pennies), or 24 halfpennies.

The decimal equivalents are .10c, .20c, .50c, and now $1.00 and $2.00 coins.