A Cliché Waiting to Happen

Skipper Was Dead

The Micallefs moved in next door when I was seven – back when Barbie was trending and cooties were the worst thing you could catch.

I remember bounding off my beloved swing-set and darting into the front yard, where Dad had dropped the shears. Dad was always pruning. Mum joked that the only reason they were married was because Dad had once got down on bent knee to clip a fading rhododendron, and she'd exuberantly said "yes" just to lock him in.

I'd tottered after Dad to the large moving van that blocked our driveway, a stranger's voice booming from the open window.

"...family from Sydney," the driver was explaining to Dad, whose moustache practically danced the Macarena as he tried not to look too pleased. Our last next-door neighbor had been cranky and always complained that our dog was keeping him up at night, except that we'd never actually owned a dog.

Mum said Mr. Caroselli was just lonely and that he didn't have any family nearby, and we should try to be kind, so every morning on our way to kinder we would wave cheerily while he shouted obscenities at us.

"And good morning to you, Mr. Caroselli," Mum would greet him as we passed his gate, that very first year we moved in.

"Stronza. Stronza to you, and you, and especially you," he would say, levelling a finger at each of us in turn. Mum would nod politely, Danielle and I in tow, and then, when we were a safe distance away, she'd inform us that under no circumstances were we to repeat Mr. Caroselli's favourite word.

Ever.

Of course, Danielle, who was only three at the time, took it upon herself to defy Mum that same Christmas. "Stronza," she'd chanted over the festive ham, to the amusement of our older cousins. "Stronza to you, and you, and especially you."

To Mum's horror, the 'especially you' was levelled at the Jesus Christ hanging above our heads, from whose bounty our meal had just been blessed, his arms outstretched piteously as if to say 'why stronza me?'.

Nonna, bless all five feet of her, had looked ready to faint.

"Bloody Anglo-Saxon," she'd muttered at Dad as she'd served up his meat, the carving knife waggling dangerously close to his nose. "They no learn these bloody swears from us." Nonna hadn't known the meaning of irony.

Not that I did back then either.

But, yeah, the fact that Dad seemed so pleased that our new neighbours weren't likely to bestow upon us daily tutelage on the Complete A-Z of Italian Swears... yeah, in hindsight, I could get behind that.

The driver leaned out of his window and peered at the car that was easing down our street. "Looks like that might be them now. The Micallefs."

I remember mouthing the name to myself. Mi-cal-lefs.

"Hiyo," Dad called out as the car drew close, drawing out a jaunty half-moon wave in the air. "Welcome to Coburg."

The car stilled, the window slid down, and we got our first look at our new neighbours.

A lady sat in the driver's seat, sunglasses balancing on top of her hair, which was beautiful and yellow. I remember thinking she looked exactly like Hollywood Barbie, with the painted red lips and dangly earrings.

"No. 132?" she asked, tipping her chin toward our home.

Dad nodded, sticking out his hand for her to shake. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Micallef."

"McNamara," she corrected Dad. "Ms. Karen McNamara. Micallef is my husband's name." She paused a moment and then made a second correction. "Sorry. Ex-husband."