So this is a collection of different pieces of writing by Helen Garner. The earliest is dated 1995 through to 2015. Most of them had been published previously in 'The Monthly', a popular Australian magazine focussing on politics and culture. Similar publishers include: 'Elle' 'Age' 'Big Issue'; but most of the pieces date from 2005 onwards which was when 'The Monthly' magazine started. The collection is divided into six segments - which allows the reader to differentiate her varied topics. I think I liked most of all, "Part three: Dreams of Herself" which focuses on her family, specifically her wondrous relationships with her grandchildren and then quite a lengthy piece on her father and mother; that particular section probably contains some of her best writing.
Here are a couple of bits about Ted, who is four, and Ambrose two:
Ted approaches me with a strange bashful smile and his eyes lowered. 'Nanny, you said to me that you always like my face.' 'I do. When I see it coming towards me I feel very happy.' He blushes, and can't stop smiling, or meet my eye. Soon we are aiming his cowboy pistols out the kitchen window at the red bucket on the woodpile, and firing with deadly accuracy. But when I say 'Peeeyow!' he corrects me: apparently only he is allowed to say 'Peeeyow'.
In the morning it rains. Ambrose has passed his whole two years of life in drought. He looks up at the ceiling and says in a surprised voice, 'Noise!'
Jacob's funeral at Springvale. The building is very crowded. Two old women squeeze their way into the seats in front of ours. Another old lady murmurs to them, 'Excuse me, I'm saving these two places for my friends.' One of the interlopers, whose hair is dyed bright red, turns to her and snaps. 'Look, this is a funeral, not a party.' The service moves along with a brisk grandeur. Then we all file out, hundreds of us, and walk slowly along the cemetery roads to the open grave. Even at the back of the crowd we still flinch at the hollow thud when the first spadeful of earth strikes the coffin. I can't believe Jacob's body is really inside it. He had such bright eyes.
Later Ambrose wants to stay the night at my house. He won't go to sleep in the cot. I pick him up, wrap him in the blue rug, and hold him on my lap on the couch. Outside it's still light, but cloudy, as if about to storm. I sing him 'The Tennessee Waltz'. His eyes slide shut. His thumb slips out of his mouth and a few nerve tremors run through his left hand. He begins to breathe deeply, then to snore. Meanwhile Jacob is out there under all that dirt. A cool wind is blowing. I still think cremation is more bearable. The beloved one is only air, and some dry crumbs of inoffensive matter.
(Garner was a friend of Jacob Rosenberg, who wrote 'East of Time' and 'Sunrise West'.)
When my daughter was a teenager she had a dog, a poodle cross called Polly. Polly fell down the crack between two of my marriages. She trudged again and again across inner Melbourne to my ex-husband's house, and died a lonely, painful death by misadventure, in a suburban backyard. She was an anxious creature, timid and appeasing, who provoked in me an overwhelming impatience. She would lie at my feet, tilting her head at this angle and that, striving for eye contact. The more she begged for it, the less I could give.
In just such a way, over many years, I refused my mother eye contact. She longed for it. I withheld it. I lacerate myself with this memory; with the connection I can't expunge between lost mother and lost dog.
In Dad's house I found a little photo of him and Mum in their twenties, sitting on the front step of their house. Between them lay a long-eared black dog, a spaniel. Dad said his name was Ned. I did not remember our ever having a pet. I asked if the dog had died before I was born. 'Ah no. I had to get rid of him. Mum wouldn't let him inside. Because of her brand-new mushroom-pink carpet.' He laughed, and shrugged. 'I put an ad in the paper. A lady came round and took him. She tied his lead to the carrier of her bike, and pedalled away. I thought he might have looked back, but he never even turned his head'.
Garner's writing is simple but meaty - and I enjoyed reading her memoir sections immensely. There were other sections I wasn't quite so thrilled with - e.g. a run down of Russel Crowe's films. I guess many of the pieces are aimed at a Magazine type audience - the sort of reading you do to pass the time - several of the pieces in the other sections do come across as short entertainment set pieces. Overall - very enjoyable. I particularly liked her direct non-fancy, conversational writing style - it gives you sense of a dear friend talking to you about this, that and the other, but her observations are acute and close to the heart.