When I was eleven, I knew what was hidden in graves: stories. Stories that once living people knew, then secretly carried into death, lodged in their brain like a talisman. That’s what I believed in the 1960s, when the cloud of WW2 still hung heavily in the minds of the generation above me. Grown-ups still frightened and holding back a tide of grief, burnt by the aftermath of a war that lived in their bodies and minds. Strong adults in their prime of life but aged beyond their years. A generation working hard to protect their children from the ripples of damage from what they had experienced.
‘That story will be taken to the grave’. A turn of phrase I’d heard many times from my parents and other adults who seemed to know a lot more about hidden events that I and other children should never be allowed to know. I had little idea as to how big or small they were, what forms or places or languages the events might have if spoken. I sensed they were dark and ominous. For me a story came in a colourful book with pictures. Stories were amusing and enjoyable with inviting beginnings and a happy ending. There were not graveyards for my stories because they were kept in the open air on bookshelves and could be accessed by anyone at any time.
The extended family members I grew up knowing lived in different households in suburbs beyond walking or bike riding distance. Visits to my parent’s family or friends were rare. When they did happen, our best behaviour was always required. Aunt Kate was my father’s older sister, she was married to Bert a silent man with only two fingers on his left hand. As children we were told never to ask what had happened to the other three, we never did. We were also told never to mention Uncle Luke, we didn’t.
It was uncommon for to Kate to smile, even rarer to laugh. A stocky practicable woman she was usually too busy for sitting. Although they were of the same generation as my parents, Kate and Bert seemed much older and lived by rules that were unlike my family’s ways. Caution was required at all times, silence, slow movements and erect posture were obligatory when eating at their mahogany dining table. We did not know if our Aunt and Uncle had ever raised a family. A framed sepia photograph of a rigid sour-faced man and dour woman watched us from a high shelf while we ate our meal. There were no photos of children. Once my siblings and I had finished eating, we were quickly banished to play outside. Although the cold air of the backyard provided some relief from oppressive in-house rules, it presented little solace. We did not feel enticed by the austere backyard. Unlike our yard, there weren’t any handmade, colourfully painted swings, no cricket stumps or chalked hopscotch markings laid out. It was a functional space, utilitarian and for purpose, not play. Though we were outdoors and away from adults we knew we were not free to roam, sing, be boisterous or have audible fun. We had been assigned to a functional fruit and vegetable garden, not a playground.
Bert and Kate’s backyard was disciplined, yet it was not controlled enough for conversations to be half heard or fully contained behind closed doors and windows.
