Ever since she was a young girl Shirley had always had a sense of humour. She’d gotten it from her mother Lilian who, well into her twilight years, still found time daily to laugh so hard her whole body would shake and she’d have to sit down. While seated, Lily usually took the opportunity to reach for a tin of fruit jubes and down a couple to fuel a few more minutes chasing and tickling her giggling great-grandchildren. Humour was one of the many gifts Lily passed onto her eldest daughter. Humour, fortitude, adaptability and an endless capacity for love.

When she was little, Shirley would get up to mischief. Not nasty mischief, but cheeky mischief. One sunny afternoon, she remembered, when she was only 5 or 6, she sat her sister Norma down in the shade of a bulging pear tree and imparted a plot she’d been devising. The workmen were on the farm for the season. They would pick bags and bags of fruit to be sent to Mildura for sale and processing. In the middle of the afternoon they would congregate for their lunch break in a sunny spot in the farmyard and chat and smoke, enjoying the calmness of the day. Then Lily would emerge with a big pot of stew, which they’d guzzle silently before returning to the orchard.

The plan was simple: sabotage. Norma, Shirley explained, would act as a decoy. She would skip happily by the farmyard and, all of a sudden, pretend to fall over. The men would naturally be concerned and come to her aid (or at least look up from what they were doing) at which point Shirley would race past, quick as a flash, and drop some sand in the stew before any of them noticed. That would teach them for not letting her join their card game…

Five minutes later saw Shirley and Norma surreptitiously peering at the workmen from behind a large gumtree in the farmyard. They watched in silence while their mother wandered out the back door of the house, carefully navigating the wooden steps of the veranda so as not to spill the steaming pot of stew she gripped firmly between her two least favourite tea towels. As she approached the small crowd of workmen one of the waiting bunch sprang up to help her and, soon enough, the stew was resting in the midst of the group. The men gazed at it with eager patience as Lily made her way back inside to fetch bowls and spoons, mopping her moistening brow with her apron as she went.

‘It’s now or never’, thought Shirley, and as the sharp snap of the flyscreen door heralded a small reprieve from the watchful eye of her mother, she signalled to Norma, who began to skip. Down the garden path Norma skipped, past the side of the house and around the workman’s cottage to the farmyard, where the huddle had resumed its puff and banter. Norma hesitated momentarily as she made her approach, but soon plucked up her courage, bravely executing her mission. A couple of metres from the workmen, who had barely noticed her thus far, Norma fell to the ground, displaying all the theatrical prowess of a modern day film star…which is not a lot. Unsurprisingly the workmen barely looked up. Steadfast in her commitment to her role, Norma improvised. Laying helpless on the sandy earth she let out a deep, guttural groan. It was a strange noise as, unable to decide whether to she wanted to communicate pain or illness, Norma attempted to incorporate both. At this point one of the workers paid her some small heed, momentarily breaking from his conversation to call out ‘You orright little one?’. Not quite sure how to respond, Norma propped herself up on one elbow and stared at him quizzically as he went back to his grown-up conversation.

Over by the gum tree Shirley glumly observed the mediocre results of her masterful plan, and decided to save the day. She darted forth, as fast as her little legs would carry her, the small clump of earth in her tiny hand now muddy with the sweat of excitement. Within seconds she was amidst the group and released the few morsels of gravel that would unstick from her palm into the workmen’s lunch, before taking off once more towards the orchard, heart racing, mind all aflutter.

Unfortunately little Shirley only managed a few strides before karma, in the form of uneven bitumen, caught up with her. As she sprinted on towards the sanctuary of her favourite naval orange tree the ground seemed to shift beneath her feet. Struggling to reconcile balance and momentum Shirley took a hefty tumble, a real one this time, spinning like a sausage over the gravelly lane before finally halting in a startled heap. She immediately sat up, mind racing and gaze darting. To her left was the group of workmen, who looked over at her with a mixture of bemusement and irritation. To her right another figure emerged and, within a few moments, the stout silhouette of her mother could be discerned, impeding a portion of the glaring sun.

Lilian stood above her stunned and sheepish daughter, hands on hips, silently assessing the damage of the fall. Shirley barely had a scratch on her but the shock of her tumble and the embarrassment of being caught out in a failed plan were too much to bare. Tears began to well in her eyes. Her mother was unmoved.

In an instant Shirley was hoisted from the ground, briskly dusted off and promptly marched over to the waiting workmen for the public humiliation of a smacked bottom and a forced apology. She had little choice but to shamefully oblige, half hiding behind her mother’s apron while she professed her remorse.

When finished, Shirley was goaded back through the farmyard, up the veranda steps, through the back door and into the kitchen, with Norma trailing behind like a lost, little duckling. Lily sat her disgraced daughter on the kitchen bench before walking slowly to door. She briefly peered outside and then closed it tight. Turning, she walked a few steps back into the room and sat at the kitchen table, gazing pensively at Shirley who was herself gazing, with some consternation, at the floorboards. A moment passed and nobody said anything.

Eventually Shirley looked up and, with a shy smile, met her mother’s eyes. Lily could no longer contain herself. She burst out laughing, loudly and heartily, the volume increasing as she took in her daughter’s own gleeful cries. They laughed together for some time in the warm kitchen, about the excitement of the day, the mischievous plan, the sandy stew, the smacked bottom and the bemused workmen. They laughed together as they would laugh together for years to come.

Norma sat quietly beneath the kitchen table taking in the raptures of amusement. She looked up and enjoyed her mother and sister bent over, struggling to draw breath. But she couldn’t quite see what all the fuss was about.

*          *          *                

By age 14 Shirley had completed her schooling. That isn’t to say that there wasn’t any schooling left, but she had excelled at arithmetic and been invited to Melbourne to study the machinations of the comptometer; a new-fangled machine designed to better facilitate business calculations and accounting. Once again she excelled – she seemed to have an aptitude for all things mechanical – and, by 15, had been employed as a junior book-keeper at a doctor’s office in Carlton. Norma would come to visit in the school holidays to enjoy in the hustle and bustle of city life. She looked up to her sister and dreamed of one day following suit and moving to Melbourne to complete a course of study at university. She had seen the nurses coming and going at the doctor’s office and felt drawn to their sense of purpose, their stoicism and their starched uniforms. Perhaps this would be her path in life.

Shirley enjoyed her time in Melbourne but wasn’t nearly as impressed by the chaos and flurry as her little sister. Her heart was still drawn to the merry simplicity of the country, and she would regularly organise groups of friends to travel en masse to rural Victoria and New South Wales to attend dances and parties. It was at one of these dances that she met Lloyd.

Lloyd was a grand fellow, not in manner, but in stature and gait. The youngest of 6, he was as tall as Shirley was petite. He had kindly, dark features, enormous ears, a booming voice and, like Shirley and Lily both, a wonderful sense of humour. Their courtship was brief, but marriage long. Once the formalities had been attended to Shirley moved from Melbourne to Lloyd’s family farm Warringah, outside the small town of Deniliquin. She quickly became master of her domain; cooking, cleaning, organising, taking care of the farm finances and keeping the workmen in line when they would arrive for the season. Once, in a funny mood, when cooking up a lamb stew for the workmen’s lunch, she found herself sprinkling a small pinch of sand atop the rich, gelatinous mixture. She laughed softly to herself and imagined little Norma looking up at her from beneath the kitchen table.

*          *          *

The cold air stung Norma’s cheeks as she slowly strode towards the Prince’s Bridge. It was the only sensation she could derive amidst the otherwise numbness of her body. Was it the still, freezing night or the tablets she had taken before leaving home that shielded her from the elements? She was unsure, but it didn’t really matter. Her uniform was freshly laundered and pressed, her cap starched, the brilliant, crimson cross adorning her forehead like a jewel of sorrow.

When she reached her destination she looked out over the calm, black water. She breathed deeply, stepped up onto the railing and, in an instant, made the leap into finality. Icy pinpricks attempted to invade her dull senses as she sank beneath the surface. She remained calm and continued to breathe. Soon it would all be over.

*          *          *

Not long after Norma’s accident Shirley and Lloyd decided to move the family into town. The farm had been earning them a decent living so they could afford a small house to base themselves in while Lloyd travelled back and forth, tending to the fields and livestock. Graham, Gregory and Neil were away at boarding school for most of the year, with just little Lynne at home, so Norma would have a room to stay in when she arrived and wouldn’t be overcrowded by inquisitive children. As Norma would be living with them for a while, Shirley felt it was important that she wasn’t too isolated from the township. She would be able to make friends and lead a relatively independent life, and she would be able to visit Lily, who now resided in a community for the elderly which was conveniently, although rather obtusely, located very close to the Deniliquin undertaker.

When Shirley had received that dreadful call in the middle of the night a month ago she was understandably beside herself. The kind men who had fished her sister out of the dark and muddy waters of the Yarra had taken her straight to hospital, doubtless saving her life. Norma had spent the preceding month under observation, receiving treatment for depression and addiction. Ground-breaking treatment, the doctor’s said, that left her feeling fuzzy and unable to remember details. Over the course of the same month Shirley had spent much time in Melbourne, packing up Norma’s things and disposing of the stolen prescription pads and medication hidden in every nook and cranny of her small room. Shirley tried ensure that there were very few hiding places in the new house.

Her efforts were in vain.

*          *          *

Shirley sits in her home in Canberra playing games on her iPad. Next to her is a bowl of fruit jubes that she nibbles sporadically, purportedly to stay focussed, but actually because Candy Crush often serves to stimulate her sweet tooth. Behind her stand myriad photographs of a life well lived: children grown and married, grandchildren born and raised. Romance. Birth. Love. Death.

Lynne knocks lightly on the door and enters, bringing her mother a steaming cup of tea and a butternut snap biscuit.

“How’s it going?” she enquires.

“Almost won the last round!” Shirley gushes, sitting up slightly and gratefully accepting her treats. A moment passes.

“He still hasn’t mowed the lawn…” observes the grandmother as she sips her tea.

“Who, Douglas?!” asks Lynne, feigning alarm.

Shirley nods solemnly.

“Well, why don’t you remind him?”

“He’s your son”

“He’s your grandson!”

They smile at one another and continue to drink their tea.

“Where is he?” asks Shirley after a moment.

“Uni started again this week” Lynne informs her, “Shall we call him?”

Shirley nods.

“We’ll get his voicemail”, Lynne warns as she hands her mother the phone “He never answers”.

“I know what to do”, says Shirley knowingly.

The phone begins to ring and, sure enough, a recorded greeting can be heard over the airwaves. At the sound of the tone Shirley enacts her plan. Adopting the most terrifying, most masculine, most un-grandmotherly voice she can muster, she booms down the line “Now you get home and mow the lawn or I’ll put sand in your stew, do you hear?!”.

Lynne and Shirley laugh together, heartily, as they’ve laughed so often over the years.

Humour is one of the many gifts Shirley has passed onto her daughter. Humour, fortitude, adaptability and an endless capacity for love.