Mum and her restorative sherry
Mum just had to drink. She had no alternative. Six children, numerous miscarriages. Some said she had rhythm – one full term, one miscarriage over and over until the six of us were born. But that wasn’t the half of it. She had “station”. Well bred. Standards to maintain. With little money. Staff to lead. When I say lead, I really mean boss. But in the nicest way, with the nicest smile. But staff must know their place. And that was not at our dining table. Nor in anyone else’s bed. The house was big, old, and poorly maintained. 32 volt power from a Ronaldson Tippet diesel engine and a bank of batteries. The batteries could keep a few very dull lights going but not the washing machine. And Mum could not start the generator. Another stress. And she had to feed the men – those that worked the property – not a farm mind you, we were Graziers, not farmers.
Yes, it was important to keep up the standards.
Mum was out of bed before anyone, and was last to retire at night. She had so much energy. She always appeared cheerful, happy, talking, talking. So important to look on the bright side. “If you can’t find something good to say then say nothing” was her mantra.
Our’s was not a wealthy house. We didn’t want for much, but Mum helped make ends meet by buying in bulk. Detergent, flour, sugar, salt, tea, sherry and a host of other necessities. These were decanted into various tins, boxes, jars and flagons and stored in the pantry.
Every now and then things would threaten to get on top of Mum. It was then that she turned to a restorative sherry – dry, of course. Now Mum’s problem was that she could not let her guard down, no-one must know that she was under stress. So she’d glance around to make sure the coast was clear then dash into the pantry, pull a cheese glass from the shelf and pour a sherry and down it in one gulp before anyone could catch her out. Oh, the shame would have been unbearable. She’d quickly fill the glass with water and carry it out to the kitchen with her as cover. The system worked well.
Until she mixed up the flagons. Until she mistook the detergent – BP Compox it was – with the sherry. Similar colour, similar viscosity, different taste, no restorative benefit. Poor Mum. Her face clearly portrayed the shock, the taste, the disgust, and the fear. So ill, so very ill. It was more than a decade before Mum could even say the word sherry without trembling. And we didn’t get detergent in bulk any more.
Dear Mum, it still makes me laugh.
by Cecil Poole May 2013
