Waiting

I'm improving, but I’m not great at waiting for people.

It’s not impatience that's the problem. It's anxiety.

‘They said they’d be here at a certain time! Has something bad happened? They're all dead!!’

Ridiculous, I know. But as I said, I’m getting better at pushing those feelings away these days and rationalizing why people might not arrive on time.

On 12th December 1963 I was already waiting. I see in my mind's eye a 3-year blonde boy, chubby cheeks, possibly wearing denim overalls. It is a washed out color filmstrip from so long ago.

It is midmorning. I am driving my red toy car along the windowsill of my parent’s loungeroom.

The internal part of the windowsill is the perfect width for a two-lane highway. It consists of two flat heavy pieces of unpainted timber, side by side, with a tight but visible join down the middle. My dad and grandpa drive noisy vehicles, so I’m making appropriate sound effects as I push my tiny car.

It is cool near the louvred window panes. In the evenings, the cold air creeps in between each louvre, making it difficult to keep the house warm overnight. The slow combustion wood stove in the kitchen next door generates warmth in that area but the warmth dissipates quickly into the cavity of the rest of the house, defeated before it begins.

I like this spot also because it gives me a clear view of the track which leads up to my parent’s house. Grandpa arrives on this track around mid-morning most days to join us for morning tea. The distinctive noise of his white Volkswagen car heralds his arrival minutes before I can see the vehicle.

On a typical day there is cheerful fanfare as Grandpa arrives at the lounge room door - boisterous laughter from the adults, Grandpa’s booming voice and, of course, the moment when Grandpa spots me and fusses over me, rustling my hair. He sometimes slings me up on his back and piggybacks him to the warm kitchen. He does this to my many siblings as well, naturally, but this is all about me.

The tea brewing in an old teapot, teacake just out of the oven in Mum’s country kitchen, the hot homemade butter melting into the slices I’ll be given shortly with my glass of milk while the adults settle into convivial conversation – these rituals mean all is well in my small world.

I did not, of course, understand back then that Grandpa came so often to morning tea because my grandma died a few years before. And it was decades before I learnt that he took up lawn bowls after her death, spending long evenings at the Bowls Club socializing, before driving the necessary 7 minutes back to his cottage to sleep.

Today I just wish Grandpa would hurry up. My baby sister, barely able to walk, has now made her way up beside me, upper body upright as she rests on her knees. She burbles cheerfully at my side, flowing blonde hair tumbling over her overalls.

We stare together out the window at the empty track.

I hear Mum enter the room behind us and stop. She then moves back to the kitchen.

‘The children are waiting for him at the window’, I hear her whisper.

A pause. Whispers.

Dad then strides into the lounge room.

‘Come on, kids’, he booms.

He sounds weird.

He reaches over and picks up my sister.

‘Come away from the window. Grandpa won’t be coming today. There’s no point waiting’.

‘Why, Daddy? Why won’t Grandpa be coming?’ I ask.

Dad stands there, my sister in his arms, with an expression I’ve never seen before.

‘I’m sorry, Mike’, he finally blurts. ‘Grandpa’s been in an accident. He’s … dead, Mike. I’m sorry’.

He swivels and leaves.

It was 12th December 1963. Apparently, Mao Zedong published a poem ‘Reply to Comrade Guo Moruo’ earlier that year. The Beatles recorded ‘Please, Please Me’ on February 26th. Nelson Mandela’s trial began in South Africa on October 20th. Just over a month later, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated.

I can't find anything of major historical importance happening on 11th December 1963.

But that was the date my grandfather was killed instantly in a car accident. His Volkswagen was crushed by a truck soon after he departed the Bowls Club late the previous night.

Decades later my eldest brother purchased my grandfather’s house from my parents. It had been vacant and derelict since the deaths of both of Dad's parents.

My eldest brother is sometimes unusual but is also a steady reliable type. He soon claimed to have been woken a number of times in the depths of night by the sound of a Volkswagen slowing down and coming towards his house. The motor would die, a car door slammed, and footsteps were heard on the stairs. But nobody ever opened the door or entered the house.

And when he cautiously dragged himself from bed and checked, there was never a car there.

I’m now middle-aged and no longer blonde. I’ve nearly succeeded in completely rationalizing why people may sometimes turn up later than originally arranged.

If I feel anxiety when waiting, it occurs to me that I may, in some way, still be waiting for Grandpa.