Molasses by Cecil Poole

It is dark.  It is 1958.  It is snug under my new pale (“for restful sleep”) yellow and blue and green checked woolen blankets.  One blanket running the right way, top to bottom, the other across the bed so as to tuck in tightly.  There are two older blankets under my bottom sheet.  Mum says the cold gets in from the bottom.  It is snug in my new bed built by the very clever builder who is renovating the cottage and building a new kitchen here at home.  My new bed has drawers underneath and a wonderful bookshelf at its head.  I have a beautiful anodised bedside light, green, with tiny cut out stars around the rim.  These seem to glow when you look at the light from behind.  It has a luminous switch – it glows in the dark.  I have a Golliwog and a Mickey Mouse clock.  Mum says I am very fortunate.

Now Mum is in my room.  It must be morning.  She has a mug with hot water.  She has a jar and a spoon.  She digs into the jar with a spoon and pulls it out full of thick black molasses.  I have to suck the spoon clean then follow it with a spoon full of hot water. Mum watches to make sure I swallow it.  My younger brother has to do the same.
“It’s good for you.” Mum exclaims.
“As good as saying my prayers?” I ask.
“Almost.” she answers, in a way that is no answer at all.
My brother and I hate the molasses and hate the water chaser.  My brother never swallows his.  He has a big mouth, and Mum doesn’t watch him the way she watches me.  He runs to the bathroom and spits his out when she has gone.  Sometimes I think he is cleverer or braver than me.  I want Mum to love me.

He and I know this is another of Mum’s fads, and will not last any longer than the cod liver oil fad did.  Still, it is not nice.  Still, we love Mum.

It is a quarter to seven and Mum has put our school clothes out, making sure that they are clean and respectable.  I have to wear shorts.  My younger brother has to wear shorts.  Only big boys wear long trouser my mother says.  It is cold, it is mid winter, it is western Victoria.  The men say the wind would blow a dog off its chain.  I can’t imagine that, but the wind is strong.  Other men say it is a lazy wind, that it will blow right through you rather than go round.  I can believe that, at least my legs can.  My boots are leather, with leather laces.  They used to be my elder brother’s.  They have new toe leather stitched on by Mr Abernathy, the bootmaker.  Mum calls him a bootmaker, but I think he only repairs them, putting on new soles and new toes.  My boots don’t have proper hobnails like Dads do.  They have little metal protectors at the heel and at the front of the sole under the toe.  I like to scuff my boots along the gravel and, best of all, on the pavement when we go to town because these metal bits make a great noise.  Mum gets cross when she sees me doing this.  We are not allowed to wear our boots inside and have to put them on sitting on the back step.  I can tie my own laces but sometimes Mum does it for me.  Very quickly and very tightly.  I don’t say anything.