THE MANGO WINDS

The Mango Winds

If we are the sum of our memories perhaps the pattern of our lives is set in childhood. Children cling to the familiar. Even something broken beyond repair. Separation; a harsh unfamiliar word too awkward for the tongue of a four year old. Bitter as the most vile medicine.  ‘Come along love, come along. Hurry up.’  No time for questions less for answers.

A journey stretched ahead; the magnitude far beyond my comprehension.  Three days and two nights I sat, slept and clung to my mother or sister. The train stops, starts, rattles along, shunts and chants its monotonous song.  Big brave girl, big brave girl, big, brave girl. Only I’m not.

Sooty smoke tickles my nose, I like the smell.  We alight for a meal. Better than yesterday’s stale sandwiches.  We drink milky tea from thick white cups stamped with the railway emblem.  My sister points and asks mum. ‘Is it so people can’t steal them?’ Mum gives a funny scrunched up smile. It sits uncomfortably on her drawn face. Thinking back I wonder if she was picturing an afternoon tea party where a thief served up Earl Grey  and apologized for the chunky china cups. But in my childish mind I felt a prickle of alarm. What about the ladies behind the counter whose white uniforms & caps all bore the same little picture? Were they in danger of being whisked off also?

Utensils clinked and clattered on plate after plate of pies and mushy vegetables. Even now a whiff of mashed pumpkin and I am transported back to that railway canteen. The scene is static. Mum stands in a queue. My sister and I cling tenaciously to our hard-won table.  The train hisses impatiently in the background.  I fight down terror that I will be left behind.  I cling to my sister’s hand which prevents us both from eating. Mum rouses at me and even while choking back tears I consume every last morsel.

The conductor shouted all aboard. The rail compartment had become home. Crumpled, red eyed from the soot, but certainly not grubby, mother would never have allowed that, we pulled into the final platform and there was Townsville. All around us people were laughing, hugging and kissing loved ones.  I attached myself to mum’s skirt while she searched for an obliging porter. The tide of strange faces ebbed & flowed around us.

We tumbled wearily into a taxi. I pressed my face to the window, doubtful of the palm trees waving in welcome.  We crossed Victoria Bridge.  I suppressed a shudder wondering what lay hidden beneath the dirty, sullen green blanket lit by pin pricks of fading sunlight.

Darkness had descended with tropical haste by the time we arrived at our new home. The taxi driver carried our ports inside and mum half carried me.  I rested my head on her shoulder, my eyes shut tight against the unfamiliar surroundings and voices.  It came to me slowly, the exotic scent, drifting all around me, sweet, fragrant and heady.

Through half-closed eyes I looked around for the source of this magic and there on the table was a bowl of ripe mangos. That night in that strange house the rich, ripe fragrance drifted through  my dreams.

 A rooster crowed and I slipped from my bed and went out to explore my shiny, new world. A huge  mango tree sheltered  the back yard. I reached out and picked a green globe, ran my fingers over the rosy cheeks, breathed in the sharp tang of sap.

Christmas came and as the year ended so too did the mango season.  All that remained were piles of fermented fruit, messy leaves and sticks. Mum assured me with a tired sigh that they would come again next year. And of course much to my delight each year they did. Even the resulting endless trips to the outdoor loo didn’t stop me from gorging myself.

That rooster turned out to be a bad tempered brute whose sole aim was to make my life miserable. He roosted in my mango tree hiding amongst the foliage and at an opportune moment he’d fly at me like a demented demon.  In retaliation I pelted him with fruit and I’m proud to say on occasion scored a few very solid hits. But both of us came to a sticky end. It wasn’t my fault that mother was hanging out the washing when the mango missile sailed through the air in a beautiful arc, missed my adversary and hit mum square in the back of the head. The rooster ended up in the pot and I couldn’t sit down for a week, well for a couple of days anyway.

So long ago.  Snapshots of childhood dimmed by time. Yet when the mango winds blow, wafting the sharp sweet fragrance of  blossoms, memories stir within me, re-awakening the promise of things to come. Nameless, exciting ,shadowy wisps of a future unknown.