Page 7 of Mad Mabel

An only child of uninterested parents, I was left to my own devices for most of my formative years—encouraged to run off and play or simply make myself scarce. Once children were old enough to walk, they were expected to walk out the door and start creating mischief somewhere else. There’s nothing wrong with this model of parenting, per se, and for many kids it worked well. There was the beach and bushlands to explore, billy carts to race, and footy games in vacant lots that lasted until the streetlights flickered on. But for me, with no friends, it meant childhood was desperately, bone-achingly lonely.

Given my enjoyment of learning, my red hair, and my unusual height, I was an obvious target of bullying at school. A smart girl who liked books and had the nerve to be taller than half the boys? Unforgivable. In grade 4, I was locked in the boys’ bathroom at school and not released until I was prepared to declare that I had ambiguous genitalia. In grade 6, on the school bus, I was punched in the spine so hard I wet myself. The bus driver didn’t stop either. He merely called out for us to “pipe down, in the back.” In grade 7, I was given six sharp whacks on the hand with the strap by Brother Stanislaus for defacing a school library book that had been planted in my bag.

These indignities were distressing, of course, but nothing was asshameful as the performance I went through every afternoon when Mum asked, “Did you have a good day?”

“Great,” I’d say. “Wonderful!”

On the odd occasion, if I could muster it, I’d manage a story about something funny that happened in class or a friend I’d made. Sometimes I’d dawdle home and pretend that one of the girls from a few streets over had invited me to afternoon tea. As noble as it would feel to say I did this for Mum’s sake, it isn’t true. I did it for me. Because, as a few choice victims know, the only thing worse than bullying itself is the shame of speaking it aloud.

My bedroom at Rosehill was enormous by any yardstick. It had its own bathroom, a playroom, and two enormous windows—one that faced the stretch of golden sand leading to the bay, and the other, a huge bay window and seat that overlooked the adjacent cul-de-sac.

The bay window gave me a ringside seat to the neighborhood kids playing, which they always were. Most of the play revolved around sport. In summer, the boys played cricket; in winter, it was football, our driveway gate serving as the goalposts. When the weather was nice, I’d open the window so I could listen to them talking.

When my mother noticed me watching, she would suggest I join in, as if such a thing was easy. When I declined, she inferred that it was my reticence to try that was causing my issues with friends. She’d sigh dramatically, smooth down the pleats of her skirt, and remind me that when she was my age, she had friends over “for sponge cake and cordial” nearly every weekend. After a while I understood that I had to march myself down, if only to satisfy Mum and stop her marching me down there herself.

I chose the day I overheard the kids in the street coming up witha plan to scale the back fences of all the houses in a race—a backyard challenge. Apparently, the Caseys at number 5 had got a new Sunbeam Mixmaster, and whoever made it around the whole cul-de-sac without getting caught by an adult would win one of Mrs. Casey’s famous malted milkshakes, the kind she served in frosty metal cups. I’m not sure if it was confidence in my climbing or my love of milkshakes that got me out of my window seat that day, but I sidled up to the group of kids who were discussing the best place to start the challenge and blurted out, “Can I play?”

As expected, the kids assessed me with suspicion. It was as if I’d just stepped off one of the flying saucers I’d been hearing about on 3XY radio.

“The fence challenge,” I explained. “I’d like to… join in.”

Their eyes slid back and forth in their sockets as they floundered to figure out who was authorized to answer. Such was the peculiar world of playground politics—hierarchies formed through footy prowess, sibling seniority, and sheer force of personality. A few of the younger kids looked scared. I was scared too, though I was careful not to show it. My best chance, I’d figured, was to act as though I deserved to be there or, heaven forbid, belonged.

Finally, Billy Harris stepped up, the self-appointed authority. He was the oldest Harris boy, as handsome as he was stupid. I’d never liked the Harris boys. Shifty eyes, same as their father’s.

“All right,” Billy said. “You can be the timekeeper, Mabel. Go into your garden and wait by the fence. When the winner makes it over, come back and tell us who it was.” Billy didn’t even try to conceal his smirk. “Wait until the winner comes through. I don’t want to see you again until the winner has made it over your fence.”

As the group ran away, I consoled myself with the fact that I already knew no one was coming.

4

Rosehill, my family home, was, and still is, the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen. I don’t say this to be conceited, nor do I have a particular proclivity for beautiful houses, but the fact remains—it was a spectacular home. A grand Edwardian estate with a ballroom, a conservatory, a pool, and a separate guesthouse. The walls were wallpapered and wood-paneled, the ceilings were high and papered, the cornices intricate. The lush gardens and expansive lawns were famously the site of the parish Easter egg hunt and had been long before the home was ours.

But while it’s fair to say there was a lot of love for Rosehill in our community, no one loved it more than my father. During parties, he’d hold court, telling stories of its history, his personal favorite being his own history with the house.

“When I was a boy, I used to walk past Rosehill every morning on my way to school. Rosehill wasn’t on the way to my school, mindyou—it added a half-hour round trip to my morning—but day after day, I did it.

“Usually, I peered at it from across the road, but once, I was there when the iceman came in his horse and cart, and the gates opened so I could see right up the driveway. I thought it must be a castle because there was a princess right there in the window”—here he would turn to my mother, tipping his glass in her direction—“my future wife.”

That part always got a reaction—anawwwfrom the women, a teasing remark from one of the men, and, as expected, the faintest blush from my mother.

“I think even then, I knew Rosehill would be mine one day. I knew that I’d be the prince.”

It was a long time before I realized the love story wasn’t between my mother and father at all. It was between my father and a house.

I noticed it in small ways first—how he would run a hand along the banister absentmindedly as he walked down the staircase, how he took his morning tea on the veranda, not for the sunshine but to admire the grand columns that framed the entrance. I started to see how he spoke of Rosehill, not as a place where we lived, but as something he owned, something he had conquered.

And my mother? She was part of the story, but not in the way I had thought. She was the girl in the window. The princess in the castle. Not loved, exactly. Just… there.

In the corner of my mother’s bedroom was a dressing table with a large oval-shaped mirror in the center, and two smaller oval mirrors on either side. It had an upholstered bench seat that nestled underneath. The dressing table was a polished wooden piece, withrounded edges and delicate, carved legs. I knew enough from picture storybooks that a girl was supposed to sit at it of an evening while taking off her jewelry, after which she’d brush her hair a hundred times. I spent a large chunk of my early childhood sitting at this dressing table among the luxurious Lancôme lipsticks, compacts from Yardley, and delicate glass perfume bottles from Shalimar—watching Mum get ready for an evening out and listening toBlue Hills, her favorite serial, on the wireless radio.

“WhenBlue Hillsstarts,” she used to say, “the world stops.”

Mum drank sherry, or sometimes gin, while she got ready for an evening out. Sometimes she drank both, and a lot of it. This could be a good thing. It was a good thing on the days she decided to give me a makeover. (I wasn’t interested in makeup, but I was very interested in my mother’s attention, so this was most welcome.) Occasionally, she’d keep my back to the mirror until she was finished so she could do a “reveal.” She’d curl my lashes, pinch my cheeks, and carefully apply a dash of lipstick—Red-Red by Tangee. “It’s the perfect red,” she commented every time. “Blood red.”

I always gasped and clapped when she finally spun me around, and Mum would watch me with a small, pleased smile.

On bad days, instead of watching me with a smile, she began to cry. Some days she cried so loud and for so long that the entire house pulsed with it. One day she became so upset she put her fist clean through the large oval mirror, all the way to the other side.