Life As I Know It (2 page)

On Christmas mornings family members come from everywhere to gather at Mass. Ten o'clock at Our Lady Help of Christians, the church whose primary school we went to. There's no way we can all sit together, so we spread out around the congregation as we arrive. Noisy kids up the back.

Some don't quite make it to Mass and, as the preparations for lunch begin, more people arrive at Home. Car doors slam. People greet each other. Kids hug, laughing. Dad chats.

‘It's good to see you, how are ya?'

My job is to make the punch—one batch for the adults and another for the kids. I'm not far off perfecting the recipe. For the kids it's orange juice, orange and mango juice, tropical juice, pineapple juice and nectar. Same for the adults but with a bit of a kick in it: vodka, Bacardi and champagne. One of the sisters usually picks up the champagne bottle and says, ‘Mmm, nice champers, Little Miss Expensive,' because I like to get the good stuff.

As I cut up bananas, strawberries, mangoes and peaches, Therese's husband Jason Patton—they have four kids, the oldest, Jess, is eighteen—helps me. He always does, as I got a little heavy-handed with the portions one year—a funny day. The adults' brew goes into a giant esky and the kids' into a bowl. With so many people in the house it's a challenge to find enough ‘nice' glasses for everyone. I hunt around, conjure some up and hand punch to people as they arrive.

When I can sit down with a glass, I watch everything unfold. Fortified by the punch, Therese, Margaret, Maree and Cathy do the turkey and the stuffing, the pork, the chickens. Cathy makes a great sweet-potato bake. Margie and Bernadette prepare the vegies
and the salads. Brett and Kerrin do their bit and Jason gets out the electric carver and starts on the meats. I sit back on the rocking chair, sipping on my punch, making wry observations. Jas doesn't find my comments as funny as I do and threatens to claim the easy punch-making job next year.

Christmas lunch is getting closer to being served.

While all that's happening Patrick cooks up some prawns for starters and brings them around. There's a few beers handed out as well. I don't think Andrew does much really. He gets out of it all pretty easily as the official ice-supplier, but at least he entertains all the nieces and nephews. They love him.

Stevie lends a hand. He loves the responsibility and you can rely on him to do a good job. He's good with the kids, too.

Maree often takes care of the setting. We bring in the table-tennis table to join with the one in the kitchen for the adults, and the kids have a long table. She always makes it all look Christmassy.

Dad wanders around, collecting all the news, finding out about all the members of his family: ‘How's it going over there in Hong Kong, B. Prebble?' meaning Brett. By initial and surname is how racing people refer to each other.

Meanwhile, the mayhem goes up a notch as the kids open presents and race around outside. When it's hot there are water guns and water bombs and water everythings happening. Along with kids on bikes. Kids forming little conspiracies of mischief.

‘How are you, Little Girl?' Dad finds me.

‘I'm good, thank you.' And away the conversation goes.

We've always had a few extras over for lunch. Dear friends like Jacq and Karl Schier, who live just around the corner from Dad's, have been coming to Christmas and other Payne gatherings for as long as I can remember. They are a part of the family. When we were kids they always bought us presents, beautifully wrapped with ribbons and cards. Nowadays we include them in
the Kris Kringle—there's so many of us a present each would send them broke.

I gather up all the wrapping and packaging and try to tidy up as we go. I put some in my car to take home as it never fits in Dad's bins.

Therese finishes up with the gravy and the kids are served. Then the adults gather around the table. I walk in, late as always, and as I am looking for a chair, say, ‘I'd just like to thank you, Cathy, for getting here a few days early and cleaning up —' But I'm cut off.

‘We already said that.'

I try again: ‘Okay, well, thanks to all the girls for preparing a beautiful lunch.'

‘Done.'

Probably best I sit down and shut up!

Cathy says a prayer.

‘God, of all gifts we thank you for the many ways you have blessed us this day. We are grateful, each of those who are gathered around this table. In our gratitude and love we remember your humble birth into our lives and pray for those who are without enough to eat. We remember the stable in which you were born and remember those who have no place to live. We remember your challenging message of caring and giving and we pray for peace in families and nations throughout the world. We bless you and give you thanks in your Spirit who brings our hearts to life this Christmas Day and forever. Amen.'

‘Amen,' we repeat in unison.

Everyone eats up—even me. I always ride on Boxing Day, but I don't think about that now, I eat without a worry.

One of the great traditions of lunch is that it's a single conversation. I think this proves that miracles are possible, when you consider how chatty everyone is and how many of us there are. It's not a rule, no one ever suggests it—it just happens. There is rarely
any racing talk. Just happy chat. And before long someone will start with the childhood memories. Every year, without fail.

‘What about the time Therese got hooked on cooking chicken schnitzel!' You can see J. Patton, K. McEvoy and B. Prebble grimace: ‘Here they go, again!' Nick Bompas, Margie's French husband, laughs his big, deep French laugh.

Therese laughs, too, a little bit embarrassed because she knows what's coming is completely true.

‘It was chicken
and corn
schnitzel,' she corrects us. And someone takes up the story. I was too young to remember, but I've heard it so often I could tell it perfectly.

‘Hey, Therese, what's for tea?'

‘Chicken schnitzel.'

‘Oh yum!' We thought it was exotic that first time, compared with some of our other meals. And it was served with some vegies—we were rapt.

The next day: ‘Hey, Therese, what's for tea?'

‘Chicken schnitzel.'

‘Great.'

This went on for a fortnight until we couldn't stand the thought of it anymore.

‘Hey, Therese, what's for tea?' And before she could say ‘chicken' we all had our fingers down our throats, gagging.

Everyone laughs. Even the brothers-in-law.

‘I still can't look at chicken schnitzel in the supermarket,' Therese says.

That's how it goes, one story after another.

Dessert is served. Rocky road slice and a bit of Christmas pudding and ice cream.

The kids are long gone, wherever kids go, and we summon the energy to get the dishes out of the way. It's a communal effort and after they're put away Home turns into a gamesfest: table tennis
(once the tinsel and the tablecloth are off), cricket, basketball, cards, Scrabble, chasey, bike races. Little groups congregate.

Traditionally, at some stage late in the afternoon, we have a huge game of soccer, where Dad mixes it with the young 'uns, but last year we didn't have one. Perhaps it was because Dad hadn't been the best in the months leading up to Christmas. Or maybe it was just too hot.

And then there's a photo. There are always people popping in, which means we can get someone to take a photo of the entire family. We all love this moment. Everyone smiling big smiles that come from deep within, and my dad is so happy.

Late in the afternoon I have to think about driving back to Melbourne for my ride the next day and I work up the motivation to shed the magnificent Christmas lunch. I work out I have about three kilograms to tackle, and I've got eighteen hours. But I've developed a strategy for this over the years.

I put on my sweat gear—a long-sleeved top under a sweat suit, a jacket over it, and leggings—and have one last game of something. It was basketball last Christmas. Red-faced and sweaty, I say goodbye to everyone. I then put a rubber mat and a towel down on the car seat, and wind up the windows. Away I go, back to Melbourne without the air conditioner.

As I drive I mop my neck and forehead with a little towel. It's not very pleasant but it gets the job done. I usually sip on mineral water to help me to keep sweating. I try not to make eye contact with people along the way. If they see me they must think I'm some kind of weirdo. By the time I pull into the driveway at my home everything is damp and I'm around two kilograms lighter. I have a cold shower.

Last year I had rides at Randwick in Sydney on Boxing Day. I had to catch a very early flight so I made sure all my race gear was ready to go before I climbed into bed around 9.30pm. Every year I
just lie there and think about the day. These wonderful people with whom I have spent my life. We might not be the most lovey-dovey family, who tell each other how we feel. We just know. These are the people I love and the people who love me. That makes me smile. And I feel blessed.

I also think about the three who are no longer with us.

B
Y THE TIME
my mother Mary brought me home from the Ballarat Hospital, a few days after my birth on 29 September 1985, the rhythm of Payne family life was well and truly established. My father Patrick was training racehorses, something he loved doing. Brigid was sixteen and Therese fifteen. They had left school and both were apprenticed to my dad, riding winners for him. Maree was at Loreto College, the Catholic girls' school in Ballarat in regional Victoria. Bernadette was in her last year at Our Lady Help of Christians Primary School in Wendouree, a suburb of Ballarat, with Patrick, Margie and Andrew. Cathy was off to school the following year.

They'd all been born in New Zealand and had spent their early years on the family's dairy farm at Hawera on the west coast in the Taranaki area of the North Island. Dad had also trained racehorses there. By chance, two things changed the direction of their lives. One was a racehorse called Our Paddy Boy. The other was a local council decision, totally out of their control.

Dad owned and trained Our Paddy Boy and when the colt showed so much promise as a two-year-old in 1980, brought him across the Tasman to take on the big races in Australia. The horse did so well Dad was offered a lot of money for him. After selling Our Paddy Boy they returned to Hawera, near Mount Taranaki on the North Island, and settled back into family life. However, their land was required for a major public works project and they were forced to sell.

Saddened at their loss, but always adventurous in spirit, Mum and Dad decided to move to Australia in 1982 because their taste of life here had been so good. They decided on Ballarat as they liked the area, having stabled Our Paddy Boy and his little mate Gentle Joker there with trainer Robert Smerdon on the previous visit.

Dad wanted to keep training horses. They bought our property on Kennedys Road at Miners Rest, which we call Home. It included the stables and a number of paddocks where the horses were during the day, as well as The 40-Acre Paddock, where horses were worked on a dirt track. The house had been built by Tommy McGinley, a wonderful Australian jumps jockey who'd won the Grand National Steeplechase five times in the late 1960s. It had five bedrooms—which was barely enough with the eight children they had then, with two more to follow.

Life was hectic for the family. Dad was training horses and everyone had to pitch in to help feed them, muck out the stables, move the horses, groom the horses, ride trackwork, as well as other jobs around the yard. It was relentless—the life of racing people.

My mother worked tirelessly to keep the family as organised as it could be. She was the bookkeeper, nominated the horses for races, was Dad's secretary, and all the while was bringing up the kids. Being a woman of great love and compassion, she always found time for others. My sisters recall Mum milking the cow we
had at the time and taking the milk to the homeless men's shelter in Ballarat every week.

Mum had a delightful sense of humour, which she no doubt needed to get through each day, and put up with the way Dad loved to tease her. He told me she never swore, but he tested her sometimes. He used to say he found it very hard not to smile when she was telling him off, and if he smiled it made her even angrier with him.

As we grew older we would all help around the stables and the house, getting up in the dark to get the jobs done before school. We said Dad had a lot of kids so he didn't have to pay staff! But not all of them were happy with that approach.

‘Another one?' the older ones lamented, when Mum was pregnant with me. ‘Why do you keep having more children?'

They were also concerned that, because she was older, there might be complications. Stevie, the youngest at the time, was two and had Down's syndrome. From the outset Mum and Dad lived their belief that all children are precious, and that proved true. What a blessing Stevie has been for our family.

My parents also knew the grief of losing a child. Michael was born between Margie and Andrew and died just three days later. He suffered a hole in his heart, which would be treatable today with the advances in medicine.

By coincidence, I was born on the same date as Michael, 29 September, and so I was named Michelle in his memory. Michelle means ‘Gift from God'. My middle name is Jacinta, after Saint Jacinta, who was born near Fátima in Portugal in 1910.

One Tuesday morning, not long after Easter when I was six months old, all the jobs were done and the younger kids were getting ready for school. Brigid and my mother were arguing. While everyone usually spoke their minds in our family, this argument must have become heated. Brig was sixteen and having one of
those typical teenage arguments with a parent and she left for work with the issue unresolved. Saddened by what had happened, my mum wrote her a note saying sorry and put it under her pillow. It said, simply, ‘I still love you.'