1998 School Magazine

Girls 6rammar ^ichool a!Brisbane 1998

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170ghorns Sound Beautiful

stare into my cup of tea, just listening to my Grandmother's voice. An afternoon gathering, three generations of Morton women seated around the table. The ritual weekly visit Curtains sag and sigh against the windows. The kitchen table lies scratched and scarred beneath our cups and saucers For decades it has listened, a secret spectator at crisis talks, Birthday lunches, or normal afternoon teas. I contemplate all this table has witnessed, the birth and growth of generations, the tears, the shrieks, the smiles. A concentric unification of years, people and time. The clock continues its muttering 'tick' The conversation flows from my Grandmother as tea from the ancient pot. More monologue than anything, this impres- SIve, ageing drama queen pours forth the melodramatic high- lights of her week. She spins a scandal of acid strength, or performs her grumbling gripe. Either way, there must ajar^ays be drama. My Grandmother's into xicating addiction is more POW- erful than the pills from the red plastic box. A turbid turmoil churns constantly throughout our family. Beneath the wrinkles and cuddly crinkles lurks a manipulating mastermind, jusidious and ruthless. She transfoi. ms sisters into traitors, cousins into wicked children and neighbours into hellish thieves. The steam rises from my cup Who shall feature this week we do not know. Perhaps it is Uncle Charlie, who never mows her lawn. Or AuntyJulie, who invited her to the Gold Coast but did not take her to the beach Or May Vatkins who snubbed her at the last Weight Watchers meeting. Regardless of the characters, the soap opera contin- ues. A bizarre and complex cycle. If she allowed harmony to slip into life, she woutd have died of boredom long ago A drawn-out performance, exaggerated and embellished, her old voices wavers, crackling willI fatigue. And cackling with

mother's conversation. An advertisement amid the slander as my Grandmother observes, glasses pointed in my direction, "She doesn't say much, does she. Quiet, just like her father" There are so many things I have to say that dance silently through my mind. All are more interesting than Aunty Colleen only having stayed for fifteen minutes on Tuesday night However, I sit mutely through the drone. I learnt long ago that it is not my role to speak. My voice was always too loud, infamously so Her performance continues. My thoughts start to sway and waltz as I stare, silently, blankly into my cup of tea I was four and a half years old and my helmet of mischie- vously misbehaving blonde hair bounded into the kitchen AuntyJulie's house was my favourite, a blissful princess palace The bright, yellow flowers kissing the pergola shone like Africa and the newly established garden was a jungle paradise. My cousin and I spent hours navigating a path through the growing trees, jumping on the coolness of the grey leather lounge and casting toys Lipon the roof. it was a house of summer and sunshine. A time when everyone was young and fresh And Aunty lulle was my dearest Aunt. Glamorous, blonde, so Malilyn Monroe. I used to sneak into the secret cove of her walk-in-wardrobe in search of her open-toed pink satin slip- pers. Crowned in luxury, soft feathery flourishes I fancied were ostrich plumes tickled my toddler skin. in the softened light of the afternoon she would brush my hair and walk me through the rudiments of pre-school standard French. The daughter she never had The kitchen was washed in sunshine. 11 must have been time for afternoon tea. Excited, exLiberant, I announced my enri'an CG 'Jesus Katie, you've got a voice like a foghorn. " My angel Aunt, haloed harshly in af- reinoon SLinlight The movement of car

glee. We sit with masks of interest, an audience ex- pected to listen in silence Rarely is theIe a breath for my Inother' to interject and defend the villain of this week. Their name shall be cii'CLIlated as mud throLigh- out the family in gossip- 11ushed telephone calls Lintil a new scandal erupts. Or is ci'Gated Tabloids piled neatly I stare into itTV CLIP of tea and at the patterIT on the plate where lily cake lies, growing stale. Like it\y Grand- In a comei

keys. My In other has acted Our aftei- Lipon a pause noon duty is done. I often think during sucli visits that I could bound into the con- versations and nail the old- woman whinge. But no, it is not deserved. in silent victory, my tea remains cold in its cup

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by KATIE MENDRA 12 Gn:0"ith

KATE BOURNE 12 Gibso" Aichi!ec!!lie Uru'I 1.34