“What animal does this come from?”
Teacher says that meat comes from animals and I’m testing the story. Daddy’s mouth is full, so Mummy answers.
Daddy swallows so fast he almost chokes.
“Bullock. Not bull. Bullock.”
There’s silence, while I finish my mouthful. I’m not allowed to talk until my mouth’s empty.
“What’s a bullock?”
Mummy makes a weird little bow over the table, with a big smile on her face. She wants Daddy to answer.
Daddy goes into one of his long speeches, while Mummy and I continue dinner. Mummy’s having trouble with hers. I think she’s trying not to laugh. Why?
Daddy’s talking about bees and flowers and seeds. Then he switches to birds and eggs. It’s all very interesting of course, but so far, there’s nothing about bullocks. I’ve eaten all my vegetables and have almost finished my meat. Are we going to have ice-cream?
I must have missed a bit of Daddy’s speech because now he’s talking about puppies and kittens. Mummy’s shoulders are shaking. She takes a handkerchief out of her pocket and wipes her eyes. She’s crying? Have I done something wrong?
Daddy’s onto lambs and calves. Mummy goes to the ice-chest and takes out the ice-cream. Goody! Ice-cream!
Daddy’s stopped talking and is trying to eat his now cold dinner. He doesn’t like it.
It’s true that I didn’t hear absolutely every word he said, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t mention bullocks. I wait until he pushes away his plate. He seems to have finished with the animals. Has he forgotten the question? I decide to remind him.
“Yes, but what’s a bullock?”
Mummy dumps the ice-cream and rushes out of the room. Is she sick? She’s making funny noises down the hall.
I don’t remember what happened after that.
Some years later, when I am in my early teens, Mummy and I go to Sydney’s Royal Easter Show. Farmers have come to the big city to show their animals and compete for prizes, and we are having trouble moving through the throng. The crowd parts slightly and an enormous creature comes into view.
“Mummy, look at the size of that bull!”
A farmer in front of us turns his head. Mummy, bright pink, mutters,
“It’s a bullock.”
I look from her to the grinning farmer and back again.
“Oh… What’s a bullock?”
The farmer’s grin broadens. Mummy, now deep purple, snarls in a low voice,
“I’ll tell you when we get home!”
I don’t think she did.