Ice Cream
Sometimes in life, you can pinpoint a day, or even a moment, when everything changes. At the time you probably don’t realise how important a tiny act can be, but later it becomes obvious: that was the turning point.
For me, one of those days happened when I was twelve years old and my sister was nine, and although I did think it odd when it happened, I had no idea that it was the first pebble in a landslide. After that night, my life and the lives of my family would never be the same again. Here’s how it happened.
It was a warm very early summer’s night, early December 1975. The day had been hot, and the sea breeze had never arrived, so it was still hot and dry. Kate and I were watching tv in the back room, with all the windows open. The sun was just setting and the sky was a curious orange that turned to gold, and the crickets in our yard were already chirruping at each other. We’d already eaten, because Mum always put our food on the table at 6pm sharp, after which we had a shower and put on our jammies.
Sometime around the end of Happy Days but before Laverne and Shirley started, we heard Dad’s car in the driveway. This wasn’t unusual. Most days he knocked off around four – he started early – and spent a couple of hours with his mates having a beer and a punt. How the latter went determined whether he came home happy or grumpy. That particular night he was pretty much as usual – not happy, not communicative at all and definitely not approachable, but at least not punchy, like he was some nights. We stayed where we were while he and Mum ate their dinner in the kitchen in silence.
At the end of the meal, as always, Mum said, “Do you want some ice cream?” Every now and then he’d say yes, and Mum would serve them both a bowl of ice cream with Milo on top, and then when that was done Dad would go and sit down in front of the box. More usually, though, he’d say “Nah, just a beer,” and lumber out to switch on The Streets of San Francisco. On those nights, Mum didn’t eat ice cream either. She just cleaned up quietly and went to bed to read.
This night, though, something different happened. The old man picked up his beer and headed for the lounge room without so much as a grunt of thanks. Mum looked after him – I was in the kitchen getting a glass of water – and then she went to the freezer, pulled out the ice cream and put some in a bowl.
She sat at the table and ate that ice cream by herself.
For me, one of those days happened when I was twelve years old and my sister was nine, and although I did think it odd when it happened, I had no idea that it was the first pebble in a landslide. After that night, my life and the lives of my family would never be the same again. Here’s how it happened.
It was a warm very early summer’s night, early December 1975. The day had been hot, and the sea breeze had never arrived, so it was still hot and dry. Kate and I were watching tv in the back room, with all the windows open. The sun was just setting and the sky was a curious orange that turned to gold, and the crickets in our yard were already chirruping at each other. We’d already eaten, because Mum always put our food on the table at 6pm sharp, after which we had a shower and put on our jammies.
Sometime around the end of Happy Days but before Laverne and Shirley started, we heard Dad’s car in the driveway. This wasn’t unusual. Most days he knocked off around four – he started early – and spent a couple of hours with his mates having a beer and a punt. How the latter went determined whether he came home happy or grumpy. That particular night he was pretty much as usual – not happy, not communicative at all and definitely not approachable, but at least not punchy, like he was some nights. We stayed where we were while he and Mum ate their dinner in the kitchen in silence.
At the end of the meal, as always, Mum said, “Do you want some ice cream?” Every now and then he’d say yes, and Mum would serve them both a bowl of ice cream with Milo on top, and then when that was done Dad would go and sit down in front of the box. More usually, though, he’d say “Nah, just a beer,” and lumber out to switch on The Streets of San Francisco. On those nights, Mum didn’t eat ice cream either. She just cleaned up quietly and went to bed to read.
This night, though, something different happened. The old man picked up his beer and headed for the lounge room without so much as a grunt of thanks. Mum looked after him – I was in the kitchen getting a glass of water – and then she went to the freezer, pulled out the ice cream and put some in a bowl.
She sat at the table and ate that ice cream by herself.