Forged with Flames by Ann Fogarty, Anne Crawford Page B

in for the preschool assistant, teaching religious instruction and listening to reading when Sarah started at Upper Beaconsfield Primary. Naturally, my anxieties would pop up again when I stood in front of a class, but the girls loved having me there so I would push my panic to one side, just get in there and do whatever was needed.
    Procie, one of our elderly neighbours who lived just across the road, took to coming in for cups of tea at least twice a week, which I really appreciated. His wife died just before Rachel was born and he became a grandfather figure to us all, babysitting once a week while Terry and I went down to Beaconsfield for some time together over games of badminton or occasionally to the drive-in in the Dormobile.
    For the first time in my life, I had the time and financial freedom to explore interests that would have been impossible to pursue in my previous life. I began learning the flute, and took to this new passion so much that my teacher in Berwick even persuaded me to sit an exam—still a frightening prospect. Once the girls arrived, we couldn’t sleep comfortably in the Dormobile but made up for it with other holidays, cruising down the Murray River in a steamboat, and staying at a friend’s holiday house in Dromana. Mostly, our life centred around the home, our sanctuary. Terry and I were both still essentially quiet people despite our many friends, and just loved spending time together, reading companionably, walking Tammy and Dusky, or playing board games or cards. Our life together flowed easily. It was full and busy in these years, but contentedly so. Therewere things I missed about England, though—the gentle, green beauty of the English countryside and my mother, especially when the girls came along. But my Australian haven in the bush was where I wanted to be; I’d created with Terry the family life I’d always craved.
    Because my time was taken up with family, community and church commitments, the difficult side of my life was kept in some sort of perspective. I was struck with nervousness at times in what would seem ordinary everyday situations—helping out at school or kinder, playing the flute in front of people, even making a meal for visitors. I was always aware that I hadn’t really dealt with my anxiety issues but with so many people around to take my mind off them, they didn’t seem the overwhelming problems they’d once been. I had finally started to feel that I belonged. Life was amazingly good in so many ways.
    Christmas 1982, unlike the blur of Christmases before, is lodged in my mind, a bitter-sweet memory. I was thirty-two at the time. We spent it at home with the girls, Flo and John, and Procie. The pine tree Terry had chopped down from the bottom of our block stretched, festooned, up to the ceiling. Christmas cards hung in an arc of string on the wall, and the dining-room table was set festively with a red-and-white tablecloth and a centrepiece of red candles. Dressed in their best summer frocks, the girls hovered, hopefully, around the pile of presents. The adults wandered into the kitchen from time to time to offer some help or to perch on one of the chairs at the kitchen bench and talk for a while as I prepared the roast. Having Flo there ensured that nothing would go terribly wrong with it. My cooking had improved since the early days of our marriage,even if my repertoire of dishes hadn’t expanded greatly. It was a lovely kitchen to be busy in; I could look up and watch the girls when they went outside to dress our two dogs, Tammy and Dusky, in decorations, or as the adults stood talking on the lawn. Even the roast was a triumph that day.
    Everyone seemed so happy, so it was a surprise to go into the kitchen during the afternoon and find Flo crying.
    â€˜Everything’s so perfect,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it can’t last.’
    We laughed together at the inexplicable comment and went back to join the