Bobbin Head

They didn't call them corporate ladders back then, but, I guess, in a way, Dad taught me to climb them.

I grew up in the suburbs of Sydney when they were still country and the bush came up to the back door. In our street we were eight kids. I was the only one who had to squat to pee. But that didn't matter because down the bush there were always enough eucalyptus trees and bottle brush bushes for cover. We were tough. In the summer it got so hot that we'd never wear shirts or shoes. Our soles were like leather by the time we went back to school and it was hard forcing our feet into lace-ups. I called myself "Bill" and when Mum bought me T-shirts and shorts, I made her swear they came from the boys' section of the store. She'd swear, and smile. And I'd keep my face straight.

Maybe I was one of them because of my billy cart. We'd scavenged old fruit crates. Dad had made the axle, but let me nail the slats of wood together. I missed a nail, slammed my thumb, but I bit back the tears, and when the pain died down I wore the bruise like a battle scar. Dad put ball bearings on my cart as wheels and said it would be the fastest in the street. The best place to ride our carts was our driveway. It was steep and I crashed the first time, but the heap of grass cuttings cushioned my landing. I'd practice until I was as good as the best, braver, sometimes faster.

But when I was nine I learnt I wasn't really one of the boys. One Saturday, my family went down to Bobbin Head for a dip in the river. There was a picnic spot and toilets and change rooms marked MEN and WOMEN. Mum didn't want to go for a swim, so I went with Dad to change. "She can't go in there," Mum said.

"It's all right," Dad said. "No one's around." He tousled my short hair. The men's change room was empty and I slipped out of my shorts and into my trunks, then I slipped off my T-shirt and flexed my muscles. Dad looked at me, hesitated, then patted my shoulder. "Let's go, Bill," he said. I stalked out behind him. At the entrance to the change room a boy was peeling paper from an ice-cream. He stood and stared at me. "Hey," he said. "You're not a boy." I stuck out my chin and looked straight ahead.

"You've got a - chest!" he said.

I stopped and raised my fist. I wanted to punch him. I was burning, like a bursting inside me would make me choke. Dad was moving off ahead. I had to catch up. So I ran, faster and faster, but I didn't cry. Wouldn't let myself. Real boys didn't cry.

And I still won't, where I am now, in the big top-floor office.

---

Return to CONTENTS