Katie McGrath - Deadly Earth

By the year 2020, 45 years after my parents deaths, there was still no commitment from the Government of New South Wales, Property NSW or NSW Health to enact the full remediation plan that had been developed in 2008 as an outcome of the parliamentary inquiry, funded as always by taxpayers, into the former uranium smelter site in Hunters Hill.

When the government does not keep its residents safe and, further, puts its citizens lives in harms way, knowing full well how that harm could be avoided the responsible authorities are on a slippery slope towards becoming an evil establishment where treachery may triumph.

This is Australia, the lucky country, a place of good fortune.

Not so for my parents, my siblings and me.

A whisper ruffled the grass as the wind blustered through the trees and, at just two years of age, I watched the suns shadows dance over our lush garden. Just then my mums sweet voice filled the air, Katie, come and sit here, darling, she said as she patted the grass beside her, and help me finish planting.

A childs innate intuition probably accounts for how some images from my young days have never left and I truly hope they never do. Its weird to contemplate these memories for fear that they dont do any justice to the moment itself. I guess thats what it is with them; they are recollections of the past, a faint melody from your youth that floods back with every trigger. But the images fade and distort as time wears on.

At my childhood home on Lot 17 Nelson Parade, Hunters Hill, it had become a daily routine to sort through the abundance of vegetables and plants that thrived in the backyard and to keep it productive with continuous new plantings. Mum often hummed to herself as she tended the vegetable plots, which flourished with such vigour that her winter cabbages were always well formed and pure white, and her tomatoes were always blushing with summer ripeness. It seemed she was always in her garden, releasing sighs and smiles of satisfaction as she surveyed the fruits of her labours. On this day, I felt the luckiest small girl in the world, because I was in the orbit of her smiles and her radiating warmth.

Proudly wearing my very first pair of little red walking shoes, one of many gifts from my mother, and carrying Suzie with me, I dropped to the ground, legs folded. With the doll permitted to sit beside us, Mum resumed her chatter.

As a toddler, my favourite part of the day was afternoon tea. That was when my two older brothers would arrive home from school ravenous, with stories of playground games and the mischief theyd got up to. My parents genes were obvious in both: they were strong, tall boys, with the build of budding surfers or front rowers. Dan, the eldest, would have been eleven at the time and, typical of boys his age, motorbikes often materialised in any conversation he had. His best friend, our brother Greg, was ten. And whatever Dan did, Greg did.

From the moment my sister, Shannon, was old enough to feed herself, Im sure afternoon tea was her favourite time of the day too. Mum always had delicious, freshly baked biscuits laid out on the table causing a mouth-watering scent to waft through the air. I remember Shannon stealing away into her room with her pockets stuffed with cookies while I waited to hear the boys thunder into the house and into the warm embrace of our mothers loving arms.

There was something different about this day and maybe thats why, more than forty-five years later, an image is burned into my brain of my mother sleeping on the couch during our beloved afternoon tea, from which she was never absent.

I had woken her up to announce my latest prized possession, a book that my father had given me. Having plopped it into her lap, I climbed onto the couch beside her. Look Mummy! Its an animal book with pictures and stories. Will you please read it to me?

I dont remember if she ever got through the first few pages because my dad had walked into the living room, still wearing his work clothes. He was covered in dust and grime, yet he held a bottle of red wine. Beaming at his wife, he must have sensed something was wrong beneath the warm smile shed feigned because he made a point of revealing the Penfolds Grange label on the bottle he was holding. My mum got up, about to leave the room.

I was naturally unaware of the cascade of emotions tumbling through their minds. Kissing her softly on the lips as she walked past, Dad let his gaze hang on the empty space shed left on the couch before turning his attention to his little girl, now reading to herself. I can imagine him swallowing the lump in his throat as he blinked away the salt in his eyes.

That night, Greg persuaded our father to take the boat out on Sydney Harbour during the weekend. Photos tell me that the day was perfect, sunny and cloud-free, with a light breeze in the air. Usually, when we went boating, a multitude of people other families and friends would join us, but the camera shows just us on this occasion. I can imagine my parents sitting comfortably onboard, glancing over at the many waterfront homes as they cruised by, thoughts drifting through their minds, thoughts about their lives and their futures. Photos from the year depict weekend parties that began with my mum setting the large table on a Friday night. My parents were renowned for enjoying and sharing their bounty with an abundance of food, fun and frivolity and no shortage of drinks so everyone knew it was always open house at our place. Theres a photo of my mum watching my dad take centre stage, telling funny stories and gesticulating wildly, throwing his arms out expansively exuding the warmth and generosity famous in Southern European culture.

According to hospital records, the following Monday my mother prepared for her first round of chemotherapy at Sydney Hospital (on Macquarie Street in Sydneys CBD). The specialists promise this will be the start of a long journey to recovery would have become her mantra during those sessions. But on this particular day, my mums mind would have been drifting back to earlier in the morning when she dropped me off at playgroup. Id been attending the group for two half-days a week over the past month and it was well known that I loved playing with other children my own age and was a capable and self-reliant toddler. But this morning was different.

My mum had no sooner kissed me goodbye at the entrance than an attentive young caretaker welcomed me in. Dressed in a blue pinafore and my shiny red shoes, I had just walked through the gates when alarm swept over me and, gripping the closed bars, I yelled Mummy! Mummy! Dont leave me. My mothers face registered anguish as she stood unnaturally straight. It was as though a chill had swept down her spine. No one could have known then how heartbreakingly prophetic those few words would come to be.

Ive been told that my parents had the kind of love for each other that could light up shadows. When the family was out driving, with Dad at the wheel, Greg would notice the small, secret smiles theyd exchange, followed by a squeeze of their hands, often three times in a row. Mum would call Dad Fabe, but as a child Greg thought shed said Fave. Both terms of endearment were equally fitting and reserved only for Mum. Ive been told it was Iris and John against the world; they had the belief that they could do anything as long as they were together, and nothing could harm them.

When each of their children was born, my parents, as Ive mentioned, had no one to share the experience with. Family didnt come bearing gifts, there were no joyful tears from grandparents at the sight of their new grandchildren or soft coos into the cot. Apparently, Mum and Dad hadnt seen either of their parents since they fled to Alice Springs with Dan in Mums womb. It was as if the family tree began with my parents and I think they made a pact that the six of us would be forever entwined, that our family life would comprise just us.