Racist toy box

“I’m just warning you that there’s a racist toy box in the house,” I say into the phone.

“Tell me we didn’t get golliwogs or something from your family.”

That’s exactly what we got, a golliwog toy box full of baby clothes from my remaining auntie and her daughter. I just liked it, you know? And it’s really well made, Vick said as she handed it to me. We go into the lounge room. 

A golliwog in a rainbow with an alphabet rain shower falling on green plains, blue sky overhead. Mum sees that I’m fixated on the box and draws attention to its contents to distract me from the threat of an unsavoury outburst. Now is not the time, I feel her telling me. 

They’ve been collecting bits and pieces for months, my auntie and cousin. We spend the afternoon unwrapping scores of presents for the unborn, cooing and calling him into existence. Bibs and beanies and onesies and towels with hoods, robot blankets, pastel blue soft toys, tracksuit pants, t-shirts with tents and dinosaurs, tiny singlets, a dummy with a moustache. 

You’ve gone to so much trouble, I say, adding that I’m not sure about the golliwogs, that I might have to talk through the ethics of having them in the house. I know they’re not very politically correct, but really it’s just a black doll, isn’t it? What’s the harm, says Vick. Maybe they’re Somali, adds Mum. Maybe they’re Somali pirates. Nervous laughter. 

My smile locks into a grimace. Now is not the time. I offer Sodastream and weigh up getting into a fight over casual racism as I add cordial to bubbly water – my cousin follows me into the kitchen and calls out that she wants a Sodastream for Christmas. 

As they’re leaving, Mum puts her hand on a pink bag in the hallway, stuffed with more presents. These are from Susie, she says. You might not want to open them just yet. My other auntie was meant to be with us today. We were meant to have this afternoon a month ago, but Susie called the day before to say she had an appointment and could we reschedule. Then she went out with a list of things to do – buy present for Kel’s baby, send mail, pay due bills, go to Bunnings. I saw the list at her house that night while we were in shock, me with my hopeless offering of a pot of pumpkin soup for the family. In-laws stationed around the house staring at surfaces, holding cups of tea with the teabags still in. At Bunnings she bought enough rubber hose to run from the exhaust pipe into the side window of her car, then went home and killed herself in the garage. 

I rummage through the laundry for bright red paint, take the toy box out the back, mask up the leather trim and lay down some newspaper. Do one coat, wait an hour or two, then another. And another. 

“Pete, the golliwogs are still showing through,” I say as we walk to reverse dinner (ice cream first, fish and chips for dessert) in the warm evening, the boys scooting ahead. 

“Trouble is, we'll always know what's under the paint,” he replies.