Only a Kid
I was barely six years of age when Mum had roused me from deep sleep on that humid night six decades ago. She’d grabbed my pillow while I clutched my soft toy. Bundled into the old Ford Zephyr station wagon, I’d quickly lapsed back into deep sleep on the rear seat amongst a jumble of our belongings. I was only a kid and it’s a blur, but it’s still an itch in my consciousness.
That evening, I’d gone to bed in our remote shack in the foothills of the Nightcap Range in Northern NSW. By daybreak, when I began stirring, I recall staring out the Zephyr’s window at a huge chimney stack with a flame burning on top. In answer to petulant questioning, Mum informed me we were in Newcastle. It would become our new home. My life had been beamed from the seclusion of pristine subtropical forests to the pall of BHP’s air pollution around Carrington and Mayfield.
I never discovered who my father was; I doubt my mother knew. There’d been a conga-line of “uncles” who’d passed through our home during my eight years with Mum. A wink, a flagon of sherry, and a toy for the kid usually got the newest “uncle” through our doorway. During my second year at school, there was a morning when Mum didn’t stir from her intoxication. During the night Mum had choked on her own vomit, and my latest “uncle” had disappeared with his effects. I ran next door to tell Mrs Everson who summoned an ambulance. After Mum’s body had been removed, I’d been taken into care and eventually fostered out. By the time I was old enough to make my own way in the world, I’d been moved into three different foster homes.
I have no idea how he tracked me down in 2026, but a young detective contacted me a week ago. Given a tip-off about a cold case from the 1960s, he’d been investigating the movements of a repeat violent offender named William Scratchley. The detective suspected Scratchley had been connected to a murder near Bangalow in 1960 and was believed to have been living in various locations in the remote hills nearby. The detective asked me to accompany him to a secluded area of regenerating farmland set in the southern rim of the Tweed volcano caldera. Thought I might be able to help him in lieu of my mother. Thought something might jog my memory. I agreed to accompany him but reminded the detective I was only a 6-year-old kid when I last lived there.
The drive through pristine rainforest in the detective’s 4WD was lush, green and eye-opening. It’s more than 60 years since I was last in this area. Since I’d been translocated into the pollution of BHP all those years ago, I’d almost forgotten the pervasive smell of damp volcanic soil and moist forest floor.
I stepped from the vehicle and surveyed a scene I didn’t recall easily. The decaying remains of our shack were overrun with rampant vegetation, but the bush-lemon tree was still there after all those years! I’d been wary of that thorny citrus since it had given my six-year-old skin some painful wounds when I’d been recovering fruit beneath the tree. Mum taught me to use a garden rake to dislodge lemons, then rake them outwards instead of scrambling precariously underneath the tree. I smiled inwardly as the warming memory of her lemon meringue pies surfaced on my tastebuds.
The detective watched me closely, but I remained expressionless. Gave no hint of recognition. I was only a kid. I was only a kid when I’d overheard the shouting and the familiar sickening sound of male fist on female face. I was only a kid when, hours later, I heard a man scream. I was only a kid as I watched my mother, face bruised and lip split, struggling to drag a blood-soaked sheet containing the body of “Uncle Bill” to the hessian-enclosed long-drop dunny beside our bush-lemon tree. I was only a kid when she despatched “Uncle Bill” into his permanent prison of piss and poop. I was only a kid when Mum filled in our dunny with shovelfuls of rich volcanic soil, so that the roots of our bush-lemon tree would thrive on the sustaining nutrients provided by decomposing sewage and “Uncle Bill.”
Turning to the detective, I shook my head.
“No… sorry. Can’t help you. Nothing’s coming back to me after sixty years. Remember, I was only a kid.”
