The Twins

We twins were born at the Mercy Hospital, from the house at 1231 Cotham road in North Balwyn.

It was a large old Victorian house situated on the corner of Cotham and Burke Roads in Melbourne. It is now a motel, but it seemed that then the block was so large the locals mistook sometimes mistook it for a small park and met there at night: for whatever nefarious reasons. It seems that when I was about four years of age in this park-like garden, when on the way to the tram stop I picked up a tiny, teeny, little balloon (it seems it was a dear little pre-used balloon made from rubber!) which, when I was found to be trying to blow it up on the tram, caused immense consternation!

Our room, as in the twin’s bedroom, is located in the family consciousness and on the ground floor of this gracious old home. It was the place where we were brought some time after our birth as unfortunately the lapse between being born and being brought home was lengthy; due to us both enduring a bout of pneumonia. However, as time went by we made up for our poor start in life by gaining much energy and strength.

Our nursery which was across the hall from our parent’s bedroom had in anticipation of our arrival been freshly painted, the fireplace blackened, floors polished and new muslin curtains hung. It was a fresh room for new babies.

There were two cots, a comfortable chair for feeding us, a large antique cupboard on the far wall, and a dark red rug on the floor. Included of course was all the usual paraphernalia associated with the arrival of new babies.

As we grew the furniture achieved minimalist status. The cupboard disappeared, the window locked permanently, and the door handle was raised to a spot higher than we were.

There were many reasons for these changes. At approximately the age of eighteen months we somehow managed to negotiate our way out of our cots, our bedroom, then past our parent’s room, down the long, winding passageway to the kitchen where we carried out our search and retrieve mission.

Our parents lay asleep in their beds oblivious to the antics of their small children. That is until they were rudely woken up by two small people standing over them each holding a large, sharp butcher’s knife above their respective heads. “Big Sharps, Mummy” and “Big Sharps, Daddy”. Instant clarity provoked the immediate removal of the Big Sharps back to the kitchen. The parental solution to our early morning escapades was to remove the chair and to reposition the door handle. But this was only temporary.

As we grew so did our capacity to find trouble. As one story goes” it was a dark and stormy night, a winter where the earth was cold and hard: in fact, a Melbourne winter. And so, it was that at about 4.30 am my mother heard a knock on the front door. She opened the door but could not see anyone until she looked down and saw twin no. 2 in her long, white nightdress, requesting breakfast.” Now it was extremely lucky that only the day before Mr. Archibald Wilkins-Smith our father’s gardener, had turned over the earth beneath the bedroom window which then made for a soft landing for a small naughty bottom. Therein lies the reason this window being permanently locked.

By this stage all that remained in the room were the two cots, the floor rug, and the large old cupboard. The cupboard was the next piece of furniture to be removed and this was the direct result of our mutual investigations into the power of movement and our own strength.

It appears that after much discussion in a language understood by no-one but us we worked out a plan. Peter climbed into the cupboard shutting the doors behind him which I then most carefully locked. I, according to our mutually agreed plan, then positioned myself behind the cupboard in such a way that the wall became the post from which I pushed and pushed that cupboard in towards the centre of the room. Now whilst I was pushing Peter was inside the cupboard vigorously jumping up and down. Our plan worked. The cupboard swayed, and then toppled over very loudly with a huge splintering crash.

Everyone in the house appeared to view our handiwork unsure whether to be furious or just glad we were still alive. No blood was spilled but the cupboard, or should I say the remains of the cupboard became another item to be removed from our room. For our own good of course.

It is no wonder that after our father “who art” returned from work each night he would ask our mother how the little bathplugs had been that day!