Story for performance #102
webcast from Sydney at 05:57PM, 30 Sep 05

The doctor came and held me, under the arms, my legs dandling down. I hung there, my head hanging too, because I was scared of strangers. And he had a black hat and coat and a strange English voice, with my parents struggling to speak in English. One leg of course, was the shorter one, with that foot of mine turned out. And he let me hang, and then swung me a little back and forth, and with that, he shook his head, and placed me back down in a sitting position.

‘No,’ he said. ‘She will never walk.’ He looked down at me. ‘She may never talk either. She seems simple.’

Well, that I do not remember, except it was often told to me by my father and how my mother wept, and how cold the English doctor was, when my father had saved so long to have him come to our hut and to see me, and how he had kicked at the dog, and how my father, who always loved dogs, and mistrusted a man who would kick a dog like that, had nearly changed his mind, except, he had so wanted to know if he could help me to walk, that he did not dare be rude to the eminence of such a man.

And my father used to say it was what turned my mother to a darker life. But maybe I hold a different opinion on that, because there were many things in my mother’s life which appeared to influence her, which I saw and remembered later.

And the sad thing in my family life, is that they remembered the visit of the doctor and talk of it far more than the happy thing that happened after. And when they remember the happiness, it is tinged somehow with the anger at the doctor’s visit, so it makes the happiness smaller. Except not for me and not for Anna, and of that now, there is only me left. But there is still the memory of our parents, and even more, the memory of my dear Anna.

When that happened with the doctor, I was a year and one half. So it is little wonder that there is not a memory. I have memories of the tent, which we left a year later, of its wet canvas smell, and the light through the door, and of my mother and the brightness of the stove. And of the wooden leg of a heavy table. And the bed next to the stove. And of the yellow of the mud there, whereas at the farm, the mud was black. So I know that my memory of Anna there is also correct.

I used to watch her, flit around the tent, like a sliver of light, jumping on this, climbing into the big bed, taking the water in and the water out, smiling down at me, washing me, comforting me, brushing my baby hair.

But this day, she stood above me. She smelt of milk and she had a brown pinafore. Her hair was like a fluff around her head, and she lifted me, under the arms, like the doctor had, and it was hard for her, which I know now because she was only three years older than I was. My parents were not there, they had gone to the weekly market, so we were alone, which happened each week. And I didn’t know the words, but I remember her smile and her cooing and holding me up and placing my feet this way and that, and how I balanced holding the chair, and here I was, seeing the world, differently, so differently, not from the floor, or held up by my mother, but holding this chair, this strange feeling in me. The strange feeling was legs, only one really, but to feel it, to really feel it was so different. And there was pain in the leg, as there was ever after, but it didn’t matter, because Anna made it seem like the pain was just another feeling. Anna, smiling, laughing, making sounds.

I know what she said, because she always said the same, much later, teaching me to skip, to hop—not so easy, and to run. ‘Come on baby sister. Come on baby sister. Tuch, tuch, here you go, just like me.’

And the light and excitement in her face. And the joy! Joy for me, joy for her! Tuch, tuch, baby sister. Come on, come on.

That hand of hers, soft, but firm, holding me, pushing me, pulling me, trying to get it right, with the clumsiness of a child. Often I fell, but she didn’t stop. Baby sister, baby sister, tuch, tuch, tuch.

And it was through Anna that I began to walk, although that first day, when my parents came home from the market, they tutted at Anna, angry because she tried what was impossible, and they did not want to try for fear of more sadness.

But then, when I began to speak also, they let her—‘you play with her’—they said.

And then another day, many months later, when we heard them come home from the market and I had it, the spirit of walking in me, and Anna said, ‘We will go to meet them.’ And we did, Anna holding my hand, me walking. And they saw us, their two children walking, towards them, and they lifted their heads and praised God.

And while it was God’s work, I had a feeling about that moment, that they should lower their heads and hold out their arms to Anna, for she, not the sky, had God within her at that moment.

Adapted for performance by Barbara Campbell from a story by Helen Townsend.