losing a mentor

When I was a kid, we lived in a small country town on the foothills behind Melbourne. We were on a dirt road with more empty blocks than houses. Not long after I began school, builders moved into the block next to us.

It was a very exciting time. I spent hours and hours watching new and interesting things like bricks being laid, cement mixers rumbling and men scampering all over roofs. I made friends with all the workers, from my perch on our fence, and knew well before my parents that the brickie with the crew cut was to be our new neighbour.

I was most impressed by the luxury of their emerging house. It had two toilets, an unheard of addition in those days. It had a patio! It had coloured brick contrasts. It had a built-in barbecue. And a matching brick fence (with built-in letter box). These people were classy indeed.

Once the house was completed, even more exciting things happened. I watched carpets being installed (wall to wall!!) and light fitting going in (circular flouro, way classy). And then, one day, the furniture van arrived. I watched every single item go through those doors. I watched with envy and covetousness. Not only did they have television (my father refused to have one), they had TWO!

But the best part was yet to come. The best part was the fashionable young wife that arrived soon after the van.

Oh my. I can still (more than 40 years later) remember her outfit. She was in a skin tight sleeveless ribbed white polo-neck top, navy blue shorts (that showed her knees!) and silver scuff sandals with jewels on them. And she was wearing make-up! And she had her hair permed and set. She was bold and brazen and I fell instantly in love.

Then the most amazing thing happened. She saw me and she walked over and said "hello" and she offered me a chewie! My very first chewie (it was Juicy Fruit). I went from love to total devotion.

That was the start of many firsts. She was the first grown-up I didn't have to call Mrs Something, she was just Betty she told my Mum. (It was compromised to Auntie Betty because my parents weren't comfortable with the modern idea of kids calling adults by first names.) She fed me my very first steak. I watched my first telly. I tasted my first soft drink. I saw my very first coloured underwear (how brazen is that!).

I became Auntie Betty's constant (and, probably, pretty annoying) companion. Whenever I could get over the fence, I did so. It was a whole other world.

A couple of years later a baby arrived. They called him Darryl (which I thought was really really exotic) and they let me play with him. Another series of firsts came with that little fellow, including the very first willy I ever saw.

Aunty Betty's house became my refuge. And she became my mentor. She (and her husband Lyle) was so very different from my own parents. Modern, relaxed, casually affectionate and open. I had no idea, at the time, that the difference was a class thing. I couldn't understand my father's reluctance to make friends. I was blissfully unaware that these were "working class" people, not "our type". I had no clue that they were members of the new cashed-up tradies that Dad felt were threatening his smug little world. All I knew is that they welcomed me with open arms and allowed me into their lives.

Despite my father's rampant snobbery, the family became an integral part of my life. I wept with them when they lost the twins in the next pregnancy and cried with joy when Shane arrived just before my 14th birthday. I worked at Uncle Lyle's side and absorbed his work ethic and pride in quality. I talked about all my problems with Aunty Betty and learned to see my parents through different eyes. It was their love and attention that kept me grounded through my turbulent teen years. It was from them that I saw how I wanted my future family to be. They were the only non-relatives at our tiny wedding.

We saw very little of each other after I moved interstate but we always kept in contact. Letters and phone calls and cards kept us up-to-date on each other's lives. I probably have more photos of her sons' weddings than I do of my own and I could fill several albums with her grandkids.

Several years ago Betty was diagnosed with cancer. She took the blow in her usual manner. She girded her loins and set in to fight. And fight she did. Through umpteen courses of chemo and radiation and surgery, she always knew she was going to win.

In January this year, they found secondaries. She was winning her battles but losing the war.

Last night I had a call from Mum. Auntie Betty has been put into hospital with pneumonia. I know she will put up the fight of her life but she is not expected to come out again.

The world will be a sadder place without her.