Cheryl Wilson 

Once a month, come Friday afternoon I’d pack two bags then wait for my youngest to arrive home from school. 

It was my ritual; the tram from Brunswick to Flinders Street Station; the train to Frankston; a slow bus to Mt Martha followed by the calming scenic walk to my parents’ seaside home. 

I hear mum announce from her spanking new kitchen: “Does anyone fancy Kirk’s tonight? They’ve got five dollar meals and a Jazz band.” 

Dad replies “Wouldn’t mind seeing the band.” Silence. I wait for it.

“But why pay when we can eat here for free.” 

As usual mum turns to me. 

“I’Il be in it.” I say.

“Yeah, nan, me too” responds my youngest, his eyes glued on tv –

Dad fillets fish caught from the bay in the boat Sea Nymph – he is also sticking to his guns.

“Well I’m eating here!” 

As intended, this rattles mum, haughtily she exits her seventies open plan kitchen. 

“So who’s playing tonight?” asks dad now she is safely out of earshot. 

I glance at the Mornington Local.

“Paddy Fielding Trio” I say. 

“Never heard of them” he scoffs. 

Neither have I, but somehow it’s beside the point. 

I sense a more delicate issue is at stake as I hear mum shout “Ron? Are you coming or not?” from the immaculate ensuite bathroom – and Jamie turns up tv, just slightly, then unwittingly raises his eyes. 

And here is his nan sailing, majestically, into the kitchen. 

As grandpa crams gooey uncooked flathead into nan’s spotless fridge. 

“So have you made up your mind yet, Ronnie?” she says while glancing at me.  

“What about?” questions dad half grinning, and knowing full well why. 

“Tonight of course. I’m ready now!“ and straightening on Jamie the stripey sweater she knitted him back in Pascoe Vale – will ignore the terrible fishy state of the freezer. 

“Okay, Vonnie, I’m ready, so keep your wig on,” cries dad, and leaning over his grandson clicks off tv. 

“Anyway, we will go in my car,” he adds, meaning the prized Jag, then is searching all kitchen drawers for his keys. 

“Come on love,” mum yells to me, “or we’ll miss dinner,” and taking her grandson’s hand, she clatters down the stairs and I obediently follow.

Copyright Cheryl Wilson, June 2025. All rights reserved; this intellectual property belongs solely to Cheryl Wilson.

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.

Another poem from Cheryl

Recollections – Poetry