There were other, more serious incidents of rebellion. In our neighborhood, there was a huge Billboard of a denim-clad Sriram Panda sitting on a motorbike smoking a Cavanders cigarette. He was one of the coolest actors going around in the 80s—girls wanted to be with him, guys wanted to be like him. So one day, two friends and I went out to buy some cigarettes. When we reached the tobacco store, the shopkeeper recognised us and asked who they were for. ‘My brother-in-law,’ I lied. It worked. I shoved them in my pocket and we headed straight to our hangout behind the girls’ high school. I lit the cigarette and took a puff. I choked, coughed and tears streamed down my cheeks. My friends then tried. Same results: choke, cough, tears. After finally recovering from our collective coughing fit, we decided to ditch the cigarette and head home. When I walked in the door, the whole family was staring at me. They had daggers in their eyes. Can they smell it on me?! I thought. It didn’t take long for the truth to come out” a neighbor had spotted us in the shop. As if that wasn’t enough, he actually followed us to the girls’ school and witnessed us smoke it. It’s true what they say, ‘It takes a village to raise a child’.

Nana and Pa helped Dad buy the block of land behind us. The new land was turned into a huge chook run, replete with hen houses and laying boxes. The eggs were routinely collected and taken to St Vincent’s Hospital as part of Dad’s war effort. Several times a year the rat-catcher came to flush out the rats under the shed who were eating the eggs. He pumped poison gas into their holes and out they would flee, only to be pounced upon by a fleet of fox terriers. The rats didn’t stand a chance. I couldn’t help but watch it all unfold. Occasionally a new cheeping box of hatchlings would arrive. I remember looking inside and being delighted to see the mass of yellow fluff, all chatting to one other. To keep them warm Mum hung a lightbulb over the box. They had been sexed so as to ensure we were only getting hens. Occasionally, however, a rooster would get through. It was rather gruesome work when Dad lopped off their heads with his tomahawk. I wasn’t supposed to watch but I did. He then dipped the body in a bucket of boiling water to soften the feathers for plucking. When the chook reappeared at Sunday roast I quickly forgot all about the horror. That was a credit to mum’s cooking. On special occasions she made an upside-down cake for dessert. Despite the rations our family had a good supply of fresh food from the garden—plenty of eggs, plenty of veggies.  The layout of the garden was typical for that time: beds of small flowering trees and shrubs ran along the edges of the property. Out the back was a sizeable veggie patch tended to by Toby, a WWI veteran who lived in a small room below the garage. Toby chopped wood for the stove and looked after the many chooks who, like him, were relegated to the farthest reaches of the garden. I loved hanging out with him. He wheeled me around in the wheelbarrow with the tools and garden trimmings, teaching me the names of all the plants and trees—lemon, peppercorn, apple, deodar, pear, liquid amber… Around the back resided a dense cluster of hydrangeas. It was there, tucked against a side wall, that Toby hid his little bottle of hooch.