Remembering childhood advice from Mum
Beverly Roberts enjoys writing and has belonged to few writer's groups in Cairns. Over the years, she has written for the local Cairns Post newspaper, doing book and theatre reviews, as well as for the local Rondo Theatre. As family has always played a big part of her life, she loves writing about her family.
“Mu-u-u-m-m… Make her stop looking at me,” whined my young brother as he waved his knife across the dinner table at me.
“Oh, what now?” asked Mum, coming from the kitchen and wiping her hands on her apron, “and don’t wave your cutlery around near your Grandfather. You might hit him.”
“Yeah, thash right (clack, clack),” went Grandad, trying to deal with his rickety false teeth, “keep that knife to yeself, shun.” Grandad blew his large nose mightily and then dropped his handkerchief, slap on the dinner table.
“Urrgghh,” chorused all the children. I ‘urrrgghh-ed’ too, but kept it to myself.
After all, poor old Grandad had never been too hot on table manners.
“Oh dear,” said poor Mum, then turned to me, “and darling, please don’t keep on at them.”
“But Mum, when they grow up, they’ll thank me for teaching them correct table manners.” I glared at my three younger siblings. “You’ll appreciate my advice when you grow up.” I’d loved to have pointed my knife at them, in the manner of a cranky schoolteacher with a stick. But I couldn’t go against my own advice.
Dear Mum. She never imagined she’d be a mother, let alone of five children spread over twelve years. She’d always wanted to be on the stage. Perhaps she got this from Grandad who, I’d been told, had actually been on the stage as a singer. To quote: ‘who’d a thunk it?’ But Mum had produced a brown photograph. There stood Grandad, young and dapper, still wearing his hair in a little curl on his forehead. In the manner of the day, he clutched a rolled sheet of music. His nose, even then, looked rather large, but certainly far less red and dripping than it was at this time. When I saw this old photo, my young heart hurt for poor old Grandad. Much as it does right now for Mum. We just can’t imagine old folks having young dreams, can we?
Mum heaved a sigh and shrugged her shoulders at Dad, immaculate in his collar and tie and knife-creased trousers. It was Dad who had taught me how to behave at the table, which I enjoyed in my snobbish way. But when, six years after my arrival, Mum presented him with twins and eighteen months later another boy he gave up. Trying to teach three of them, all waving cutlery, eating with their fingers and whining about Grandad… It was more than a chap could bear.
Three little kids! Poor Mum was overwhelmed. But whenever their dinner table behaviour became unruly, I would leap in and berate the trio, finishing with “you’ll thank me one day when you’re in polite society and know how to behave at the table.”
Of course, this was met with snorts of derisive laughter. And shrugged shoulders from Mum and Dad. And Grandad? He just blew his nose again, gurgled and tried to clear his throat, and dumped his handkerchief on the dinner table. And so life went on. Poor Mum.