"Dad, Dad... " Customers turned in surprise to see who the excited little voice came from, as the shop door banged loudly behind a blur of motion, rushing to kiss the butcher. It was little Christine, babbling on as though unaware of anyone else on the planet - only her Dad and his special territory. "Mrs. Downer says I have to get a note from you for the picnic next weekl" A deep frown furrowed her pretty little forehead. "She says I can't have the day off school otherwise, and... and... she says I've got to bring it tomorrow."
And although puffing hard from having run all the way home, and becauseof her great excitement, her next burst of activity saw her scramble up on a chair to reach the pencil tucked behind her Dad's ear. "Write it now, Dad... p-l-e-a-s-e? So you don't forget?"
By now the waiting customers were grinning, but not nearly as widely as her father. They all enjoyed this talkative, friendly child... but none could match her father's love and pride. He ruffled her soft brown curls and wagged his head. "Little tyke. You truly are a one." His voice softened, eyes twinkling. "I'll write it tonight - AFTER tea, Christine - when we're in the office counting the money, OK?" And barely finished speaking before she was off again, through his shop, banging open the office door. Now she was in the throes of the next most important part of her routine... in the kitchen to tell her Mum about her day over her waiting milk and biscuits.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Later, bathed and snug now in my pink pyjamas with the white puppy pattern and cosy dressing gown, I wriggled and squirmed all through my job of piling up the coins for Dad to count, sometimes knocking over those carefully counted and balanced towers - unusually clumsy in my haste to get to the real business awaiting. At long, long last, he finished filling the last calico money bags - coins and notes carefully separated - totalled the final neat row of figures in his ledger, and firmly closed the book. Easy to imagine his thinking as he barely contained his mirth - if she'd had to wait a moment longer, she'd have burst.
"NOW," he said, "... now I'll write that important note. Wouldn't want you to miss out on our 'extra-special, you beaut' holiday, would we possum?"
I shook my head as a rush of excitement overwhelmed me. I could feel my widest grin baring tightly gritted teeth as I watched him writing, his pen flowing smoothly in that most special handwriting - up lightly, down strongly - on his best writing pad. "I love that end bit, Dad. When you write your name," I hesitated. "It's a sig-uhrr, a signame? No, that's not it. Dad?"
"A signature... that's what it's called."
"You're so fast... and with that great big wiggle at the end, too." And I'd lay my head on bent arm, leaning on his shoulder to watch adoringly. "I love you Dad," and I'd kiss his ear.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Unbidden, the thought flitted through his mind once again. What a beautiful, enquiring mind she has. Just imagine, our Chrissie never would have existed if her brother hadn't died. And to think I now thank the God I once cursed. But you understand that God, don't you? He wasn't a religious, church-going man even before their loss, but his Anglican upbringing had ensured his faith and belief in a higher power had rarely faltered over the years. He hugged her tightly. She'll never know how precious she is to both of us, he thought as he remembered the breakdown his Winnie had suffered after their toddler died in her arms. He mentally shook himself - hard - and purposefully turned his attention back to his little darling.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
When the note was carefully folded and tucked into a crisp white envelope addressed to my teacher, I couldn't contain a couple more wriggles. "When did it start, Dad... the Butcher's Picnic? When you were a little boy? THAT long ago?" I knew he loved to reminisce as much as I loved to listen to him. Didn't fool him. I had no idea how easy it was to guess what I was thinking as I unsuccessfully tried to stifle a chuckle - hoping he'd forget my bedtime for a bit longer, and gleefully hoping that maybe... just maybe, I could outwit my Dad. Ha! As if!
"Oh yes!" he continued, as if not noticing a thing. "EVEN before THAT long ago!" and he laughed at my face. I could feel how my eyebrows fought to raise up high - and frown, all at the same time. "My Dad told me these picnics started in the 1880's - strictly for butcher's families. He said it was because butchers worked so hard and had little time off to spend with their families. So this special holiday was created for ALL to enjoy—"
To my bitter disappointment, he interrupted himself just when I thought my wish to prolong bedtime was coming true. I tried my most woebegone face, but it didn't help. I pleaded, "... but D-a-d-d-d..." - ha! - didn't stop him picking me up and blowing a raspberry into my neck, tickling me with his night-time sprout of whiskers, and making me laugh instead. In his firmest, no-nonsense tone of voice, followed quickly by a chuckle, he said, "More tomorrow night. We'll give Jenny the night off and make it your bedtime story. Howzat?"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Look at that face! Cheeky little blighter - that's not just a happy grin - that's a sneaky little smirk, if ever I've seen one! She's actually pleased, like she's read my thoughts.
"That's great, Dad," she says, but her bottom lip drops. "I love Jenny reading to me - honest injun I do, Dad. But..." and she peered all around and then in a stagey whisper blown strongly into his ear, she continued, "— but then she reads herself to sleep, instead of me!" Indignantly her fan-forced whisper comes out louder now. "And, and... she's BIG. Jenny goes to BIG GIRLS' school and all. I don't get it!"
Little tyke! She'd read and talk the legs off a kangaroo, this one. Struth but she's a 'go-er'. And he hugged her closer. Who'd have dreamed a treasure like her would come along following all those dreary days and nightmarish nights after that beautiful boy had been taken from them so cruelly?
Author's Note: **I'm particularly interested in feedback on the way I've changed POV within this chapter. Is it the correct way to handle this without being accused of head-hopping? Is there a better way, does anyone think? Please. No holds barred on this or anything else you see worthy of a rethink/edit/rewrite.
YOU ARE READING
Flourishing in the Fifties
Non-FictionA collection of tales of growing up in a working class suburb of South Australia in the 1950's. My Dad was the butcher, next door was the grocer. Milk and bread were delivered by horse-drawn vehicles, and what is now a busy highway was once an ordin...
