‘And I said, “I’m here with my two sons.” And she says, “You lucky bitch, no one will ever love you as much as those boys do.”’
The story continues for a good ten minutes or so, a well-rehearsed script of Mum’s that never changes.
‘We never told Dad about going,’ she says, drawing to a close, and we’re all ready for the familiar punchline. ‘And one day we drove past the bar on the way to the airport and I said to Glenny, “Isn’t that the All Blurries?” And Glenny said, “What’s the All Blurries, Mum?” because Dad was driving and we —’
‘— didn’t want him to know!’ Jeff finishes with her. Mum wipes the tears from her eyes.
‘I knew you’d been in there, darl,’ Dad insists from the table behind us, proving once again that his deafness must surely be a choice. ‘It doesn’t matter how many times you want to re-tell the story, I always knew you’d been in there.’
But the next time she tells it, a clueless Dad is what will tickle her funny bone the most.
Fabulously, when you bring a partner into the fold, they too become subjected to the treasury of family stories. At first you can’t object because it’s obvious they haven’t heard them before, but after eighteen years, the odds are pretty high that poor Jeff has heard every story multiple times. While he’s happy to take the piss out of Jude for many a thing, he doesn’t have the heart to cut off her repeated tales, so we’re all forced to sit and endure them again. Mum no longer tries to rouse my interest and now delivers them squarely to Jeff, who’ll never shoot them down in flames.
It’s a trait many of my friends and acquaintances put up with. Not easily dissuaded by our rolling of the eyes or insistence we ‘know how it ends’, our parents will barrel on regardless, retelling the same stories for their listening pleasure. Often, they’re the only people in the room laughing, but that’s no problem. I’d say Jude has ten or twelve stories on the old AM station rotation, and Pete has about six. Spend enough time tuning in, and you’re bound to hear a familiar lyric.
When I’ve had a few wines, if I’m in the right frame of mind, I can tap into a ‘skill’. I use the term very broadly but it appears I can predict what someone is about to say. It also helps when the target has had a few.
‘When we went —’
‘— picking oranges!’ I finished for Mum one night.
‘And our —’
‘— arms all got —’
‘— so —’
‘— scratched!’
Mum looked confused. ‘How are you —?’
‘— doing that?’ I finished.
Mum grew genuinely fearful. ‘How are you inside my head? Jiffy, how is he in my head?’
‘He’s not really, Jude.’
But I thought it better to stop at that point.
If it’s not family stories being repeated ad nauseum, my parents will very happily repeat the news to us.
‘What about that heritage-listed building they demolished?’ Mum said one day with a tsk.
‘Terrible, isn’t it?’
‘It had a protection order on it!’
‘Yes, I watched it on the news.’
‘My parents got married there! Reduced it to complete rubble.’
‘Yes, I watched it on the news.’
‘And no one is accepting responsibility for it!’
‘Yes, I watched it on the news.’
Dad walked into the room, emerging from one of his two or three daily baths. He shook his head solemnly and that could only mean one thing was coming.
‘Did you hear about the heritage building?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I watched it on the news. Mum and I were just talking about it.’
‘No clown is taking responsibility for it! Your grandparents got married there!’
‘Yes, I watched it on the news.’
‘What?’
‘I WATCHED IT. ON THE NEWS.’
‘No need to shout, Skeet.’
And then the next time I visited, Dad again shook his head solemnly.
Oh no, I thought. Surely not. Not again.
‘Did you hear about that heritage building that got demolished?’ he asked.
