Page 6 of Mad Mabel

3

THEN

Iwas born in 1944, just as the war was coming to an end. Christened Mabel Elsie Waller, I was the first child of Elliott Waller and Mary Fitzpatrick—a couple well-known in the right circles for their good looks; their obscene wealth; and Rosehill, our stately home, an Edwardian mansion with a sweeping veranda, mahogany-paneled drawing rooms, and a full-time groundsman who still called my father “sir” long after it was fashionable. It had once been the residence of my grandparents as well as several prominent figures in Australia, including a former prime minister.

They were also well-known in our community as the parents of Mad Mabel.

I don’t remember ever discovering that was my nickname. Like discovering you have blue eyes or a vagina, it was something I’d always known but never thought a great deal about. I do, however, remember the day my mother found out.

It was a Sunday morning in the sweltering heat of an Australiansummer, and I was six. The sky was the kind of endless blue you could fall into, and the parishioners of St. Mary’s had spilled out into the courtyard after Mass and immediately split into three distinct factions: the men, who stood in loose circles, talking about business; the women, who stood in tight knots, gossiping about other women; and the children, who, elated after being forced to sit still for an hour, tore around on the grass outside the Presbytery, snatching each other’s hats and frisbeeing them in front of oncoming traffic.

The men’s conversation drifted over us—chatter about the Menzies government, the rise of suburban development, and whether petrol rationing would ever return. The women’s talk was lighter, filled with murmurs of who was seen at Georges of Collins Street last week, which girl was engaged to a bank clerk, and how so-and-so’s son had joined the RAAF.

I remained at my mother’s side, something that I knew caused her tremendous irritation, particularly when my presence impeded the divulging of some juicy gossip by another mother. Still, her irritation was preferable to the humiliation of trying to join in where I wasn’t wanted.

That particular day, I’d been grateful that another child—a little boy of about four or five—also insisted on hanging about his mother’s legs, saving me from being the only one. Until he’d pointed his chubby little finger at me and said, “You’re Mad Mabel.”

My mother looked down at the boy, and then me. “Did you just call her Mad Mabel?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Everyone does.”

“Why?”

Neither the boy nor I had an answer for this. It hadn’t occurred to me that there would be a reason, beyond a way to be cruel.

“Does everyone call you this?” she asked, as we walked home from Mass a little while later in the shimmering heat. “Even your friends?”

“Friends?”

Mum looked as if she was about to repeat herself.Yes, Mabel, friends.Then it dawned. “You don’t have any friends?”

It felt impossible that this could be news to her. Had she lived in an alternate house, where the doorbell rang constantly, and the backyard was full of the squeals of neighborhood children? Was it possible that she’d been so caught up in her own affairs that she hadn’t noticed what a social failure her daughter was?

She became silent, perhaps thinking of all the opportunities I’d had to make friends—the playgroups, the church activities, the playdates at the houses of her friends who had similar-aged children. The reasons these didn’t pan out varied. The church kids didn’t think me pious enough; the kids from playgroup were scared of tall people; the twin daughters of my mother’s friend Pauline already had each other, so didn’t need more friends. I’d never expressly told my mother these things, we didn’t have that kind of relationship. But I assumed she’d noticed. I’d thought she’d remained silent to spare me the embarrassment.

“I did have Daphne,” I said.

I said it to try to cheer Mum up, but it didn’t have the desired effect.

Daphne had been in my class at four-year-old kindergarten. She’d started a few weeks after the rest of us, after her parents had relocated from England. After several weeks of following the teacher around at playtime while other kids buddied up to play, she’dmarched right up to me and said: “You’re the princess and I’m the wicked queen, get in your tower!”

And we were off.

Daphne was the friend I’d been waiting for. She had a funny accent and said things like “balderdash” and “tickety-boo” and my personal favorite, “corsets I will.” She ate buttered bread with Marmite, and said “I say” when surprised. She was the greatest thing to ever happen to me—she was cheeky and naughty and we were forever getting into mischief together. Perhaps this was why my mother hadn’t been terribly disappointed when I told her the news that Daphne was moving back to England.

I was still brokenhearted.

“Well,” Mum said, as we began to walk again. She reached into her handbag—a soft leather clutch from Finlay Bros.—and took out her handkerchief, which she used to dab at her forehead. “You’ll make other friends then. At school. Don’t worry.”

School, Mum decided, was where friendship would finally happen for me. She was sure of it. I didn’t share her confidence. Even at a young age, I’d understood that school was nothing more than a convenient place to put the youth during those years they were not yet fit for the workforce. The nuns would be strict, the uniforms scratchy, and the days long. But Mum was adamant.

I tried not to get caught up in her enthusiasm, but clearly, I didn’t try hard enough. Because when my first day came around, I was hopeful. Almost expectant. Unfortunately, with great expectation came the opportunity for great disappointment.

School is an arduous thing. Sure, there are a few who sail through it like a yacht in the breeze, untouched by its breathless cruelty, but the vast majority would agree that it’s ghastly. The stiff, itchyuniform. The unspoken hierarchy of the playground, policed far more rigorously than anything in the adult world. The lack of control over your life. The viciousness and unpredictability of a peer group hardwired to protect their place in the pack at all costs. The relentless inevitability of school, day after day after day. To add insult to injury, it’s sold to you by older folk like it’s a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Talk about gaslighting.