Cheryl Wilson

As the Carvers are renting in Albion Street, and the furnished house is such a dump, Pam trusts her husband soon has the deposit for a home in leafy Essendon – especially as their five month old is living up to her middle name.  David has thought, but is not game to say out loud, that Precious is exactly like her mother. So he prays the silly name will be dropped and the baby known as the elegant Leslie Carver – which, after all, was his choice – and after the argument became the Christian name on her birth certificate. 

David’s also decided that with the right education, followed by five or six years at Melbourne Uni, she will surely snap up a brilliant career in Law – seeing as he has no intention of trying for a future son.   While in Pamela’s mind their daughter will always be Precious Leslie Carver.  With David at work; and a pile of shitty nappies soaking in the laundry, Precious bellows in the nursery with the door tightly shut.  

Pam is wearing David’s headphones, and to soothe her jangled nerves, has Jose Feliciano seductively inviting her to Light my Fire, on her husband’s expensive stereo.   This he bought while still single – and a different man to the man he’s become now.  All it took was the quick, select, registry office wedding, and the baby to arrive five months later in a livid state of mind; and to play havoc with her mother, alienate her father and put a terrible dampener on the marriage.   As David’s ardor has recently cooled, Pam makes do with songs of lust from Feliciano as she waits for the real thing. 

Wakeup call

Off come the headphones, and Precious is now roaring above the insistent ring ring of the phone. Pam bolts to the passage knowing who it will be after her trying day. “David!” she snaps.  There’s a pause. “Hell, Pam, what is all the bloody racket! What in hell is wrong with the baby?”  “Nothing.” she responds flatly, “Just the usual…she wants attention.”  “I hope she grows out of it eventually,” he says as if it’s her fault. 

“Look, Pams, I am sorry to do this but Thomas wants to see me after work.”  His voice is no longer cross, but placating. “He wants us to talk more.  We’ll have something to eat in Carlton.”   Her voice is petulant, sulky.  “What time do you think you’ll be home?”  “Hard to say. You know what Tom’s like.” 

Actually Pam doesn’t. She has met him once, he was drunk, he fell over in their lounge room and broke a vase – lucky it was only from her mother. “Anyway, it’s about his new business.” David lowers his voice. “He’s keen for me to throw in my job here and do his accounting. To help run his bookshop.  So at least we’ll be talking good money.”  She has heard this before. 

“Buck up Pams!” he adds briskly, “Look, I’ll see you later tonight.”  The phone clicks in her ear.  She sighs loudly and checks the baby.  Precious is now asleep though in need of a fresh nappy.   She opens the window and pulls the door to behind her.  Lighting a cigarette she then dials her mother’s number. 

“Well, it’s you Pam.” says Helen breezily.  “I’ve just walked in to change.  I’m attending a function with Ron and a few Reps so I really can’t.”

Bash! Bash!

“Shit, what’s that!” – goes Pam. “Pamla! Pamla! please open your door!” “Who is that?” says her mother. “It’s only the neighbor.” “Please Pamla it is very important.” “Just go away,” says Pam under her breath.  “Better answer the door.” says Helen. Pam drops the phone to the hideous occasional table, from where it bounces to the floor.  Neighbour Anna is wringing her hands in   dismay.  “My husband he trip over the cat!  I think he hurt leg…not cat hurt leg but stupid husband.  I need to speak with my daughter.”

Pamela looks at her confused.  “Then why don’t you ring her?”  “I not have telephone. I need to use your telephone.”  “For gods sake,” sighs Pam. “Just come in.”  She scoops the phone up from the horrid floral carpet and realizes her mother has hung up.  She hands Anna the phone “You know how to use it?”  “Yes, my daughter give me lesson at her house.”  Anna’s smile is wide.  “For when me and husband get telephone soon.” 

Pamela rolls her eyes.  “Sorry, but your baby she is starting to cry.”  “Nothing new,” says Pam glancing at the door of the nursery.  “She does it all the time,” she adds while stomping off.  “Sorry, Pamla,” Anna responds. “I hope to not make baby any worse.”

Come Sunday

Pam is not surprised to find her mother on the doorstep, smiling too much, while clutching a teddy bear three times the size of her granddaughter.  “I just happened to be in the area,” chirps Helen, “and thought I’d drop by.”   She is glancing at her watch, “I have to see Ron about a new system we are trialing in the office – then after we’re having a bite at the Pancake Parlour…with a few more reps.”  Her daughter smiles wanly and opens the door wide to allow for the bear.  “Hullo Pamla!”  It’s Anna in her driveway, hosing the family car – a pale blue FJ Holden that has seen much better days.  “How is Preshus?” she shouts cheerfully and aiming the hose in Pam’s direction. “Good!” lies Pam ushering her mother inside and slamming the door. 

“Preshus?” says Helen.  “Precious? This is new. Since when has the baby’s name …?”  “She’s my baby” snaps Pam “and I will call her what I want.”   “Yes, she is your baby,” agrees Helen, and quickly changes the subject, “Where is David?”  Pam answers he’s in the garage, there is some minor problem with the car – as David saunters in clutching a folded copy of The Age.  

Helen notes both faces are hostile as Pam, discovering they are out of milk, asks him to go out for more.  “I’ll walk” he snaps, and leaves.  “Is the baby sleeping?” asks Helen for something to say.  “I imagine so,” says Pam, “I can’t hear her crying.”  “Well it can’t hurt to check.”  “Whatever, mum.”  It’s obvious by her manner that something is decidedly wrong, though busy Helen, preferring not to know, goes to the nursery.  

“Pam, I think Leslie needs a nappy change!” “Not another one,” she moans.  “Well, that’s what babies do for quite a while.  Why, at her age you went through nappies like you wouldn’t believe.”  “Just shut up mum!”   Suddenly she is standing behind Helen, and though there are tears in her eyes, she is angry, “I do things differently to you!” “So I can see, Pamela.”  She hears the disapproval in her selfish mother’s voice.  

“Don’t worry about tea, I think I had better go.  Bye darling,” she whispers at the sleeping baby, then defiantly plonks the bear at the end of the cot.  “And don’t come back” mouths Pam as Helen closes the front door.                                                           

Snatching up her mother’s unwanted gift, she hurls it at the wall.  It knocks down the framed photograph of she and David in much happier days.   Bear and picture frame drop unceremoniously to the floor – The mess is kicked under the dresser, the bear tossed into the wardrobe and its door heartily slammed; which in turn wakes up the baby. 

David is placing milk bottles on the ugly laminex table, and on hearing this safely calls from the kitchen, “Where has your mother gone?”  “She got the shits and left. Probably gone to Ron Thomas’s.”  “Hmfff...  Marilyn’s father?” he snorts while pulling a face.  It’s a private gesture that if seen would give nothing, and yet everything away.  Even if Pam didn’t pick up the scorn in his voice, she already knows how much he hates her old friend Marilyn. 

“I’d better finish the car before it gets dark,” he further calls to his unhappy wife; who left alone in the whiffy nursery, reaches for a fresh nappy, and tries to dismiss Marilyn, and her annoying mother, from her mind.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

MORE CHAPTERS TO COME         

About Cheryl Wilson 

Writing stories may be a way of life or as an escape from real life. I enjoy inventing characters and placing them in surroundings once familiar to me – especially our inner northern suburbs during the seventies. I also write shorter pieces about real people who are closer to my heart.

Copyright Cheryl Wilson, October 2024. All rights reserved; this intellectual property belongs solely to Cheryl Wilson.                                        

                                                                                     *