Making a Stand

Making a Stand
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday July 18, 2015

You rarely see a shopkeeper in a top hat these days. Or a roadside lemonade stand on a glacial Sunday afternoon.

Had the top hat been made of felted beaver fur, it might have lent its owner an entrepreneurial air. But this topper was made of pink plastic and glitter and made its owner look like a circus performer. It was rammed onto the head of my five-year-old, who had set up shop under a naked plane tree. Her cardboard sign read: Leminhade $10.

“Shall we move the dot and make it $1.0?” I suggested. “The mining boom’s over, you know.”

“No,” she said firmly, customising her paper cup tower. “But you can do the pouring.”

I remembered the last time I ran a lemonade stand. I was ten and a dead rat sent me broke.

It had been a broiling summer and we’d moved to a new suburb. The neighbourhood kids were mostly boys who roamed in a pack. I crossed the street to avoid them but then eyed them jealously as they huddled outside Mrs Fong’s milk bar dividing a lolly bag between them.

Mrs Fong had a knack for siphoning my pocket money into her Atari video game machine. She’d sandwiched her console between her bread rack and her drinks fridge. An upturned milk crate masqueraded as a stool. Its plexus of hard plastic bit into the backs of my thighs. Sitting on that crate for ten minutes left my bottom scored like pork crackling.

Mrs Fong wasn’t the friendliest of deli owners but she knew that kids who had pocket money needed to spend it. Her Atari offered only the enticing frustrations of Space Invaders. If my stash of 20-cent pieces lasted longer than she liked, she’d clap her hands as if to say “Enough!” and yank out the power cable.

One slow weekend, Mum suggested a lemonade stand might make me some friends. She mixed a jug of Cottee’s lemon cordial and I scooted round to Mrs Fong’s. I steered myself away from her Atari and spent my week’s pocket money on her lollies instead.

Lugging Mum’s rickety card table down our driveway, I set up my stall by the kerb and re-branded Mrs Fong’s shop as my own. Business was slow until several specks appeared on the crest of our hill and a bunch of kids came charging down the footpath.

Three of them, I noted, were boys from the neighbourhood gang, but customers were customers. Besides, one boy was begrudgingly towing a sister about my age. I tried to sound cool as the boys procrastinated, fingering the coins in their pockets.

“The lollies are half the price of Mrs Fong’s,” I lied.

“As if” said the tallest boy.

Two loud cracks split the air. I spun around to see my step-father at the top of the driveway. He had the stock of his air rifle jammed into his shoulder, the muzzle aimed at the ivy to our left, festooning our side fence.

“Crack!”

He fired off a third shot. We kids were paralysed by fear and indecision.

My step-father leant his gun against a drainpipe, strode over to the fence and bent to retrieve something from the garden bed. He straightened, shouted something I couldn’t hear and triumphantly held up a small package he appeared to be holding by its string.

Grinning like a Mississippi Republican, he was heading our way when I realised he was dangling a dead rat by its scaly tail.

It took a moment for this gruesome sight to register. When it did, the sister screamed. Her brother panicked and all five of my customers bolted.

“I thought the boys might like to see it,” called my step-father, perplexed by all the hysterics.

“Don’t be ridicuIous,” said Mum. “You scared the daylights out of them.”

On cue, I burst into tears.

When the rat corpse had been disposed of, and I’d recovered from the murderous interruption to trading, I resumed my post with my cardboard sign.

The street remained deserted. After an hour, Mum gently suggested I come inside. I spent the last weeks of the holidays riding solo to the local pool and trying to impress on Mrs Fong the need for crate cushions.

That was then.

I was snapped out of my 1980s reverie by the arrival of Jack and Finny, my five-year-old’s favourite playmates, both desperate to play shop with her.

Finny made a grab for her tissue-box till and Jack began unstacking her cup tower. “No-one’s allowed on my side of the table,” my youngster wailed, flinging her top hat to the ground and stomping up the street.

Finny and Jack poured themselves some lemonade, clearly delighted with their takeover.

“You two are in charge while I sort her out,” I called, breaking into a jog. “But make sure you leave me your ABNs!”

Hello Stranger

Hello Stranger
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published Saturday May 18, 2013

Moving neighbourhoods is a test of my social skills. I knew the shift would be a wrench: How could we replace our favourite family across the road? Three brothers under nine who shimmy like monkeys up their wrought iron fence and hang on the crossbars yelling: “Hello! Hello! Can you come and play?”  

Our three would send back an equally ear-splitting chorus of greetings (whilst taking turns to ride the gate off its hinges). We two mothers would leave surprises at each other’s doors – a bunch of parsley, or my latest attempt at low-fat brownies. (why bother, we decided). On chaotic mornings, I could signal a mayday from the porch and she would walk my boys to school.

Two doors up, the mum of another trio of boys would share with me her recipe for lemon cupcakes and raising 12-year-olds. Her bags of hand-me downs outfitted my eldest son for years.

Further along was the Italian nonna who gushed over my babies and leant on her rake explaining to me the old ways of bottling home-made tomato sauce and how to stop basil going to seed. On weekends, the kids would flash past her on their bikes bellowing: ‘Ciao Ciao Pina!’ Or they’d call up to her as she dusted the Doric columns of her Juliette balcony: “Can we practice our scooter tricks on your driveway?” (She has a spotless expanse of concrete.)

I don’t like putting barriers around my family. They should feel safe by instinct. I want my children to have the same freedoms I had growing up in the 70’s, when we knew almost everyone in the street by name and the neighbourhood kids roamed as a motley tribe. I don’t want my children being fearful of strangers. I like it when people stop at our fence to ask my 5 year-old: “Was that your big boy’s bed arriving this morning? How’d they get it through your door?”   

We have been in our new house for four months now, and our old suburb is becoming a faded postcard. Now I need to memorise another footpath for potholes and jutting pavers that could tip up a scooter or skin the knees of a budding skateboarder.

Diagonally opposite our century-old cottage, there’s another wrought iron fence and three little faces curious to see who has moved in. I feel the throb of awkwardness and insecurity as I make the first tentative offers of friendship. But the kids hit it off and we are away! – Within a fortnight small children are madly swapping houses – and we two mums discover we have a girlfriend in common.  

I’m heartened by the elderly couple who cross the road to say to tell me: “You’ll love it here.” The neighbours on the west side say: “It’s so good to hear children in the backyard again.”

Uprooting forces me to be resilient. The kids dream up the idea of walks after tea in their pyjamas. I make a point of smiling and talking to everyone we meet. I would never have had such confidence before motherhood. But a gregarious small daughter and two excitable boys make conversation-starters easy: “Why are you wearing that funny hat?” asks my small daughter of an elderly lady sweeping her path. The lovely old dear replies: You know what? It hides my funny hair.”  

After a weekend of work at the family farm, we bring home a load of fallen apples and juicy Meyer lemons. The kids want to make the “deliveries” they enjoyed in the previous suburb. They laboriously count out a dozen Fuji’s, still with leaves attached, and add a couple of lemons to each bag. Five-year-old son proudly draws a tree dotted with red splodges and writes: “Wood you lik some fresh appels from our farm? XX from us”

We leave our surprise bags at front doors. without being spotted. Within the week we have several handwritten thank-you’s in the letter box. The kids are delighted.

There are shopkeepers to befriend too. We five become Dave the Icecream Man’s best customers. While the small ones deliberate over cups or cones, Dave and I discover we once lived in the same street.

I feel at home. The kids are settled, the neighbourhood is becoming familiar – apart from one decrepit old fella who makes two round trips past our house each day. Is he shuffling to the shops? He always returns empty-handed. No hello, just a grunt. And then one lunchtime, he takes a tumble at our gate. Blood is dripping from his papery hand. We bundle him home to number 39 in the car. Without a word, he lurches inside, leaving his startled wife to make apologies.

The next morning he stops at our gate as I’m unloading the car. He extends a bandaged right hand: “I’m Milton” he says gruffly. “Had one too many at the bowling club yesterday.”

The kids now yell out “Hi Milton!” If he hears them, he raises his hand but his eyes remain firmly on the pavement. Neighbourhoods embrace all types.