Relatives

Once when I was walking across the grass in the playground at school, I saw a group of boys in their section of playground helping a younger boy by walking him towards a teacher. Blood streamed down the little boy's face. I realised the boy was Stephen, my younger brother.
I burst into tears. People came up to me. "Mum's in Sydney" I burst out, blubbering through my mucus. "Mum's in Sydney." I said inconsolably. A few days later when she arrived home, Dad was in big trouble for not taking Stephen to a doctor. He had been hit on the eyebrow by a speeding cricket ball and should have had stitches. It was too late by the time she arrived home. The scar, a white streak in his brown eyebrow remained noticable all his life.
Mum liked to visit her sisters in WoyWoy, then Sydney, by train. WoyWoy is a water-lovers paradise half way to Sydney and at the gateway to some spectacular rugged gorge and rocky bushland country banking down to the sprawling waters of the Hawkesbury River inlet. That rail journey is a scenic wonder and takes about three hours from Newcastle Rail station to Sydney. The line winds through tunnels, by the edge of oyster farms, across bridges, past tiny settlements. WoyWoy is almost snared by the creeping tentacles of Gosford these days, the next biggest town to Newcastle north of Sydney.
My Mum had relatives who lived around Newcastle as well. They often came to our house and talked about important topics, seated around the big kitchen table, such as preparation for the May Day march, Communist party meetings and the Christmas party each year where the kids wore their best clothes and were given a present. One uncle liked me to sit on his knee and I loved to do that as physical affection was running short in our house. But something happened one time and after that he could never coax me back onto his lap again. Alas I have no memory of what it actually was that caused me to not want to go near him again.
A big crowd would often sit around that kitchen table which was covered in a long, plain, linen tablecloth that I used to wipe my fingers on under the table, then a plastic lace one over the top covering the middle of the table top. The piles of jars of jams and sauces and the sugar basin never moved from the middle. Crumbs always covered the table and flies crawled, flew short flights and buzzed.
We were taught strict table manners. Our parents inevitably flew into a fury at each meal time because they just couldn't stand the way we ate. Chew with your mouth closed and don't make a sound. Elbows need to be pulled in tight. Knife and fork must be held and used properly. Everything must be eaten on the plate. Nobody can leave the table until everyone is finished.
A cousin exploited this last rule once. After the main course was finished he ate twelve bread slices one after the other which he buttered with butter then vegemite, strawberry jam, peanut butter until all the children, especially my elder brother, who was head of the kids in our house, were beside themselves with fury. The grown-ups didn't seem capable of putting a stop to his mischieviousness..