Free Mother of Ten by J. B. Rowley Page A

were done and the kids were all finally in bed,
they enjoyed some time together. This particular night I heard my mother
quizzing my father about his uncharacteristic tiredness. He then admitted to
other symptoms of possible illness.
    “There’s
blood,” he said, “when I go to the toilet.”
    There
was a short silence before my mother responded.
    “Well,
you’d better get yourself off to the doctor, hadn’t you?”
    My
father, who was usually the one to give Mum strength, would not have admitted
his symptoms to her like that unless he sensed something was seriously wrong.
    “The
sooner they find out what it is, the sooner they’ll be able to treat you.
You’re as strong as an ox. You’ll be better in no time,” she said.
    “I
hope so, love.” His tone was serious.
    Later
that week, my father went to the doctor who gave him a thorough examination and
took a blood sample to be sent to Melbourne for testing. My parents then had to
wait for the results of the tests.
    When
the results arrived, the doctor telephoned our house. It was one of those lazy
days that uncurl slowly like a koala waking from a deep sleep. My mother was in
the yard feeding the chooks. The boys were off somewhere playing. I was sitting
on the verandah step minding two-year-old Irene. A gentle sun warmed our
bodies.  The day’s tranquillity was terminated by a shrill ringing from
inside the house.
    The
phone had been installed when Pop became ill. My father, with a little help
from my grandmother, Olive, managed to scrape up the money needed. It was a
heavy black contraption which scared the daylights out of me. My parents did
not use the phone on a regular basis because of the expense. It was primarily
for my grandmother to call Dad if she needed him. 
    The
sound of the black Bakelite monster echoed through the house. I got up and went
into the kitchen where the telephone sat, squat and fat on an old dresser. I
stared at the instrument but it was no longer ringing. As I turned to go back
outside, it blasted its tune again. I jumped in startled surprise and fear
before running out onto the veranda. In the distance, I could see my mother
scooping food scraps from her ballooned apron and scattering them around near
the chook house. A flock of pecking hens surrounded her.  I called out.
    “Muu...um!
Muu...um!”
    Her
head turned toward the house. Another shrill ring came from inside. I called
again with more urgency in my voice.
    “Muu...um!”
    She
called back. “What’s the matter?”
    “It’s
ringing! It’s ringing, Mum.”
    She
laughed.  “Pick it up then. Quick, love. I’ll be right there.”
    Mum
emptied her apron, brushed the remaining scraps from it and hurried toward the
house. I went back into the kitchen and tentatively reached for the black
handset, hesitating before placing my hand on it, afraid the loud shrill sound
would blast from it again. Then I pounced on it and quickly picked it up and
held it to my ear, the way my father had showed me when he had demonstrated how
to use it. I listened and waited. Nothing. I pressed it harder up against my
ear straining to hear. Suddenly a booming male voice crackled through the
handset and frightened me.
    “Hello?”
the voice said.
    I
dropped the handset and ran from the room, colliding with my mother as she
hurried along the veranda and into the kitchen to the telephone.
    The
doctor explained he had the results of the blood tests and would like to see
Dad to discuss them. Mum could glean no clues from his friendly but
professional tone.
    The
day Dad came back from town after seeing the doctor he announced that he had to
go to Melbourne for more tests.
    “They
seem to think I might have some sort of blood disorder,” he said. “I told the
doc there was nothing wrong with my blood; good blood. Rowley blood, I told
him. But he wasn’t having it; thinks it might be serious. They want me to
report to the Alfred Hospital next Friday.”
    Mum
did not know what to say.
    “Could
be