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He once argued with one daughter and in the heat of the moment referred to her as a tart. She objected to the word. She considers it an affront to have a father who calls her a tart.

He used the term not to describe her appearance but more because he was angry about her behaviour, too long on the telephone or some such thing. I imagined they were under great pressure to do well at school. I was under no such pressure. I was a girl.

I could do as well as I might, but no one held great expectations. It would be good if I could sing and play the piano the way my older sister did, but academically it was enough for me to pass my tests at school. For my brothers it was a different story. They needed to do well at school, or my father would dismiss them as failures. They needed to get on in the world. This was in the mids when women by and large stayed at home to tend to their families. My father reluctantly doled out a small amount of housekeeping money and arranged in time for an account at the milk bar, the greengrocers, the butchers and the chemist, all of which enabled my mother to buy the necessary foodstuffs and essentials to keep her large family going.

My three sisters and I helped her in this endeavour more so than the boys. The boys collected kindling and newspaper scraps to light the briquette heater in the early mornings, though often times it was my mother who took on this task when the boys forgot. They could be forgiven. They needed to excel at school. Girls were useless at mathematics, at physics and chemistry, all the subjects that mattered, or so my father said.

Their job was to cook and clean and to take care of the men who were the real providers. I need not even worry about learning to drive a car, I thought then.

That would be my husband's job when I grew up and married. Women's power, I thought then though I did not consider it in such words , was in the home. Men's power was outside. Like my mother, I slipped uneasily between two modes of existence, the one we lived on the outside for public viewing, the one that people saw on Sundays at Mass when my family sat together taking up most of the row.

I worried at these times that our father, whom I knew by then had converted to Catholicism when he married my mother, a devout Catholic, was not with us in church. My father sometimes drove us to church and simmered in the front seat for reasons I could not understand.

He dropped us off at the front steps of our Lady of Good Counsel church in Deepedene then made his way back home. It was sinful to miss Mass. It irked me that my father's absence was so public. Other people could see my father was a sinner. Not that they said as much. Early on I reckoned there was something hypocritical in the hold my father had over the rest of us. One rule for him, and another for us. He could bypass events that needed his attention like going to Mass on Sundays without so much as protest from my mother, but we could not.

Mass on Sunday was a given. At this time my father was studying to become a chartered accountant, the last hurdle in his rise to the top of his profession. He sat on Saturdays with his books open on his lap but it was not long before he closed them, took off in the car and returned with a supply of alcohol.

He drank instead of studying. One rule for him. When my oldest brother failed his final year at school my father insisted he return to pass in other subjects. Another of my brothers had difficulty with sums. My father sat with him at the kitchen table drumming in his tables. When my brother made a mistake my father took a fork and rapped it over his knuckles. I felt sorry for my brothers. The pressure on them to succeed was enormous, but they were the strong ones. They held the power.

I resented them this. One day they would take over where my father had left off. Still, I basked in the knowledge that I would never need to learn to drive a car. My husband would drive me everywhere. My mother sat to his right. My oldest brother sat opposite my father at the other end of the table. My second oldest brother sat next to my mother followed by my older sister, followed by my next brother. On the other side I sat in the middle between another slightly older brother, and two younger sisters.

My youngest brother sat in the high chair. In time we moved from the bench up to single chairs on the other side of the table, at least that was the plan as the older ones left home, but by the time enough people had left home our family had disintegrated such that meal times all together rarely happened except at Christmas. My mother and sister served, my mother and my sister cleared away. The young ones in the form of the two little boys, as my two immediately older brothers were called and the two little girls as my younger sister and I were called, dealt with the dishes.

The sight of those dishes in the tiny scullery that stood off from the kitchen in the house we rented in Camberwell, a house that the real estate agent once described as a gentleman's residence, the stack of dishes towered almost to the ceiling, stays with me. Every meal required eleven plates, eleven knives, forks and spoons, eleven drinking cups. By the time I reached adolescence my father refused to sit at the table with the rest of us during meals.

He sat alone in his chair in the lounge room or took himself off to bed, from where he commanded my mother or my sister to attend. He exerted a weak sort of power through his absence and his frequent though unpredictable rages inspired by alcohol. LAST NIGHT AT dinner after a day-long writing workshop, four women and one man, we talked of travels overseas, and one woman, the youngest among us, talked of how she had been groped six times in India in less than five weeks when she finally saw red.

She ran after the man who had grabbed her breast, and yelled at him that he should not behave so, while squeezing a bottle of water over his head. She yelled at him all the way down the street and imagined-hoped, she said, that she had managed to shame him in front of friends and family. Not to me, I thought. But then again I have not travelled through India, or Rome, or the Middle East, where others have told me such extreme exploitation of women takes place.

And I am over fifty, the age they say when women disappear from view as sexual objects. Alas, these unwarranted gropings do not just happen overseas. The march followed closely on the death of Jill Meagher. This much publicised event took Melbourne by storm. Jill Meagher was young, beautiful and talented. She worked in the media. She had a profile in her ordinary day-to-day life that drew people's attention to her, but now she is dead and her alleged killer is at time of writing in prison awaiting trial.

There was a storm of protest when Jill Meagher disappeared, mostly fuelled by comments on social media and people's rage, which apparently made it easier for police to track down the alleged killer. When I heard they had found him, not only did I feel relief, the man was off the streets at last, my daughters might be safe, especially the one who lives in Brunswick close by to where Jill Meagher was taken, I also felt sorry for the children of this man, boys or girls, what does it matter?

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