Open Writing

A blast of night air quickly penetrates the cocoon-like warmth of the bed. Shivering, I pull at the dishevelled blankets and now wide-awake, I roll over to seek comfort from my older sister, Catriona, sleeping undisturbed in the three-quarter sized bed we share. Long black ringlets cover her face except for her chin, a gleaming white pebble atop smooth snugly tucked blankets.

I sneak another peek at the window. The fat, yellow green flowers on the curtains still bear a lingering resemblance to the leering gargoyles of my nightmare. The shadows cast by the dying moonlight and the glowing street lamp, create menacing monsters of the bedroom furniture. Fear fuels my urgent whisper, "'Treena, 'Treena please wake up!" But the ramrod figure, far away on the other side of the big bed, doesn't respond.

The thudding of my heart almost masks the murmurs from familiar voices drifting through the partly open bedroom door. Without hesitation, I scramble out of bed, dash for the doorway and slip soundlessly through the narrow opening.

A short scurry to the staircase and my hand finds the comfort of the polished banister. A filtered strip of moonlight from the landing window, beams torch-like to illuminate the carpeted stairway. Descending on tiptoe I avoid the stairs that creak, until, spurred by the smell of cooking and promised warmth seeping from the kitchen, I recklessly race to the bottom, to stop abruptly gasping.

The polished linoleum of the lobby floor is icy cold. If only my slippers could magically appear—their hand-me-down floppiness unsuitable for silent speed but necessary for warmth on this wintry Scottish night.

Quivering breathlessly, I gently twist the kitchen doorknob and push the door open. The harsh incandescence of the naked light bulb, suspended from the whitewashed ceiling, forces me to squint. Mum materialises beside the stove, stirring porridge, in a large aluminium pot. Dad sits nearby, his folded arms resting on the grey Formica table; his newly scrubbed face ghostlike above soot-stained railway overalls.

Their low rumble of conversation ends, when, sensing my presence, Dad stops in mid sentence. He turns. Our eyes meet. Smiles a mirror match. 'Come into the warmth little ...'

Interrupting yet another sentence, I catapult into his outstretched arms; burrow deep within his loving hug. Snug, safe, warm, relaxed—not a monster in sight.

Coal dust mingled with the distinctive smell of Lifebuoy soap, teases my nostrils. Rough stubble and wiry moustache scratches soft six-year-old skin; with a knowing smile and without comment, Mum ladles out another plate of porridge. I bask in the joy of this special attention dipping my spoon in Dad's cup of Carnation Milk ...

All too soon, thumping from upstairs, slammed doors, running feet and the flushing of the toilet, announce my three brothers are awake.

A prolonged wail from baby Rita sends Mum racing up the stairs and uneven thuds and bumps herald the usual morning race as the boys come down. Nuzzling my ear in a last embrace, Dad whispers, 'Here come the rest of the clan,' and reluctantly places me on a nearby chair.

Forty years later, in our adopted country of Australia, I guide pyjama-clad Dad back to bed. His nightmare about bombs and blackout curtains over, he thinks I am the kindly landlady of a boarding house. Yet he puzzles over the family photographs lining the hallway.

I was truly blessed with a hard-working, loving Dad and thank God once more for my childhood; grateful that Dad's dementia did not destroy my memories when he died 25th August 2005.

© Mairi Neil

Mairi writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au