I gently place my hand on the top of the cool, smooth metal gate and it squeaks a welcome as I step off the footpath and onto the rough, grey bitumen. Around me lingers the faint smell of overripe bananas, probably emanating from the battered, peeling and overflowing metal bin up ahead.
I walk slowly down the path, the solid red brick wall of the building with its stark white regular mortar to my left. It’s the backdrop to a row of twisted, stumpy rose bushes, sporting limp pale pink roses, petals barely hanging on. Nevertheless, the faint rose perfume is a welcome relief to the banana aromas. It’s a hot day, like they all seem to be in my memory, and the bitumen exudes a shimmering heat around my feet. Today they are shod but it’s easy to recall the rough burning sensation on the soles of my younger feet.
The sprawling dark Moreton Bay Fig tree at the end of the path brings welcome relief when I reach its shade. Beneath the canopy is a cool, dark world. Between the roots the soil is lifeless dust. The roots must be long and winding to find nourishment. A noise above attracts my attention and a small grey squirrel stops frozen in its place, liquid brown eyes bulging. On its way to find scraps of food on the ground while all is quiet, no doubt. The squirrels have been here for many years, though they are not native. It’s believed that over a century ago some escaped the nearby zoo and this little guy would be a recent descendant.
Faint, childish voices drift through the half-open windows that regularly punctuate the brick building. Closer by I hear a single deeper voice responding, authority overlaid with gentleness. Silence follows. A pigeon coos from somewhere high in the tree. Now I hear pages gently rustling from somewhere inside. The adult voice comes back again, followed by the sound of chairs being dragged and pushed. A little bit of high pitched laughter, stifled. A siren suddenly blares out, overwhelming all other sound. I hear steps. They soon swell in number, intensity, volume and then through a pair of double doors to my right bursts a collection of small children. They almost climb over each other in the rush to escape. Running, wriggling, turning, pushing, jumping; all headed to the beckoning cool, spongy green grass of the waiting empty oval.
Enjoy Helen Jahn’s memories? Find more of her writing here; https://mountainashchapter.com.au/?author=7
This amazing image of an Australian schoolroom comes from Museums Victoria. Discover more of our shared history here; https://museumsvictoria.com.au/