My Place by Sally Morgan

‘You’re living in the worst possible place for this child. Isn’t there any way you can move? She won’t get any better unless you do.’ I looked hopefully at Mum, I’d always wanted to travel. Mum just shook her head and said, ‘I have to stay where I am.’
    She was quite cynical about his advice. On the way home, she said, ‘I’m a widow with five kids, where does he think I can move to?’
    â€˜Don’t worry, Mum,’ I said confidently, ‘I’ll survive.’
    â€˜I pray you will,’ she sighed. And pray she did. I never saw her praying, but I knew if there were a competition, Mum would be the best prayer in the neighbourhood.
    Almost a year to the day after Dad died, I contracted rheumatic fever. Many times on the way to school, I had to stop and hold my chest until the pain had passed. Mum rushed me to the local doctor twice, but he maintained that I was merely suffering from growing pains. I had no idea that getting taller could be such agony.
    Night-times were the worst, I curled myself up into a tight little ball and willed the pain to go away. I hurt too much to cry. Nan tried to help me as much as she could. I could tell by the look on her face and the sympathetic noises she made that she was worried about me. She admonished me for sleeping in such a peculiar position and then, gently, she straightened out my arms and legs, encouraging me to sleep more normally.
    She spent hours wrapping wet towels and torn-off strips of sheeting around my limbs, all the time reassuring me that the pain would soon disappear. I remember a couple of nights, when I was particularly bad, she just ran her hands slowly down the full length of my body, not touching me, but saying, ‘You’ll be all right, I won’t let anything happen to you.’
    As soon as the bandages and towels had dried, she slowly unwound them and then went and wet them again. ‘You’re very hot, Sally,’ she said, ‘it’s not good for a child to be that hot.’ By the time I finally fell asleep, I felt as stiff as a cardboard doll. When I awoke the following morning, the pain had generally gone, but not for long. I learnt a valuable lesson from being that sick, I learnt I was strong inside. I had to be to survive. My illness eventually subsided without any medical treatment.
    Nan had many beliefs to do with health that she passed on to us. For one thing, she was obsessed with healthy bowels. So was Mum, but whether this was because of Nan’s influence or because she’d reached the same beliefs herself from her lengthy sessions in the toilet was hard to tell.
    Nan worried about people who stayed in the toilet too long. If Mum took longer than ten minutes, Nan manifested her concern by knocking on the toilet door and calling, ‘Glad … are you in there?’ Mum invariably replied, ‘Of course I am, you stupid old woman.’
    â€˜Now don’t get nasty with me, Glad,’ Nan responded. ‘You always get nasty with me when you’re in the toilet. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.’
    â€˜What the bloody hell do you think’s going to happen to me in here?’
    â€˜You could faint, Glad. I’ll never forget old Mrs Caulfield, she fainted in the toilet. It was hours before her daughter found her. You’re lucky you’ve got someone to check on you, Glad. Glad … are you still in there?’
    By this time, Mum was so annoyed that she flushed the toilet violently and emerged, ready to berate Nan. Nan’s sense of timing was perfect; when she heard the chain being pulled, she walked quickly to her room and locked herself in.
    I later realised that the time Mum spent in the toilet was her only chance for peace and quiet. With five children in the house, where else could she go?
    Both Mum and Nan convinced us that a lot of illness was caused by constipation. We were quite happy to go along with their