“For Christ’s sake, leave the fucking dishes and find me a clean shirt and iron it,” I pulled a chair back from the table, slammed it against the wall, and thumped down to polish my shoes.
Fred regarded me thoughtfully for a minute, frowning. Then he stood up and walked calmly to the kitchen and fetched a tea towel from the hook above the sink. He walked back to where I sat and flicked the towel hard across my left ear. Then he leant down so his face was close to my ear and hissed, “Iron your own bloody shirt. And don’t speak to your wife like that again”.
He straightened up, walked back to the kitchen and, to my astonishment, began drying dishes. I guess I had always envisaged my father as somewhat chauvinistic and very masculine --- not the type to volunteer for women’s work.
“I’ll do your kitchen duties for you tonight,” he snapped, “but in future, get off your arse and help your wife. She’s got enough to cope with without you expecting her to be your servant. Wilson men treat women with respect.”
I ironed my shirt, pulled on my shoes, fastened my tie and stormed out without a word to either Fran or my father, slamming the door behind me.
In the morning, I sat down across the table from my father, still chafing, and concentrated intently on my breakfast. Fred’s face creased and he spoke hesitantly. “About last night, mate. I’m sorry. I had no right --- ”
His quivering tone shocked me, but I recognised the opportunity his uncertainty presented.
“Why?” I asked, looking up with a wry smile. “You’re my father. It’s your job.”
A sigh of amused relief. Fred nodded cautious approval, and there was a rare softness in his look that spoke of a deep, hurting love for the little boy he had lost, and the adult son he had at last found.
He adopted an authoritarian air, then, and with heavy emphasis on the word ‘son’, he said, “Well then, son, I hope you were listening to me”.
He laughed when I said, “Yes, Dad” in a meek and contrite little–boy voice, and he came around the table and patted my shoulder affectionately. The tension was broken.
Later, I realised that I’d apparently given Dad licence to tell me off whenever he thought I was out of line, but I made no complaint. The order of our relationship was restored, and I couldn’t imagine anything that could make me happier.
Dad went out in the afternoon, and he wasn’t back when I came home from work. When an hour had passed and he still wasn’t back, I worried he might have got himself lost, and went looking for him. I found the silly old bugger in the pub, sitting on a bar stool, holding court. He was bragging to everyone who would listen about how important his son was, being the town bandmaster and all.
“That’s nice, Paul,” Fran said when I told her about it that night.
“It’s bloody embarrassing is what it is,” I replied. “Jesus! I don’t think I’ll ever be able to show my face in that pub again.”
“He’s proud of you. Surely that pleases you?”
“Yeah, well, he can tell me privately or keep it to himself. He doesn’t need to go making an idiot of himself in front of half the bloody town.”
“I’m sure no–one thought he was an idiot.”
“I’m sure no–one there gave a damn about me being the town bandmaster. It wouldn’t have impressed them one iota!”
“It impresses your father, and that’s what matters.”
The memory of his words swept over me like warm rays of sunshine. “Yeah,” I agreed, “I spent a lot of years wishing I had a father to impress.
“But he’s still a silly old bastard,” I added, laughing.
JUNE 2010
Ern’s eyes pricked with emotion. I was accustomed to emotional reactions to this part of my story. It was a big deal, at the time, but it wasn’t until decades later that I really appreciated the significance of that period of my life, and the torrent of emotions that swirled around us all as we struggled to reconnect and to reconcile the joy, the anger and the pain.
I felt the need to discuss something a little less intense, and talking of my father’s pride in my musical accomplishments stirred a recollection of one of the happier chapters of my life. I told him of my triumphs with the town band and performing with the local musical society.
“I did well with the youngsters too,” I said, glowing at the memory of a particularly impressive success. “A parent woke us at 2 a.m. to tell us her son, who I was tutoring privately, won several events at a major eisteddfod. She was so excited she couldn’t contain herself and had to bring me a thank you gift on her way home.”
“You clearly had impressive ability, Paul. Surely you could have pursued a career in music outside the army?”
“Without formal qualifications, there was nowhere to go with it. Ability didn’t cut it, any more than the worthless bloody army certificate I worked so hard for. I taught music at a TAFE College in Lismore years later… filled in for a mate who was ill. I proved myself to be a damned good teacher.
“I could have gone a long way in the profession without even a shred of ability if only I’d had a piece of paper with the right words written on it. Ultimately, I was pushed out of the town band and replaced by a guy with a university degree. Forged, it turned out. He couldn’t blow wind up my backside, but they paid him 10 times what they paid me and they helped him get tutoring positions at private schools to supplement his income. Band never won a contest under his leadership, and they never apologised when they found out his qualifications weren’t genuine either.”
I didn’t tell Ern about the dozens of other jobs I believed I could have done well, nor the dozens of failed applications I submitted for jobs I was confident I could handle with ease. Had I told him, I would have had to admit to both of us that it was an inability to believe in myself --- let alone to communicate confidence --- that deprived me of dozens of opportunities.
For a time after the reunion with my family, a fragile bubble of hope had shimmered inside me that my father’s love and approval might finally quiet the demons and the pattern of my life might at last change.
Self–doubt holds you prisoner, but I thought surely love could set me free. The denial of retraining devastated me, but my father admired me and I threw myself into life determined to vindicate his pride.
~~~~
PART IV
36: THE ‘’MATRON’’ VISITS
ARMIDALE, JUNE 2010
Paul parked the Roller at the gate of the hobby farm. The house was obscured now by trees, and the sign on the gate was elegantly embossed rather than just roughly painted. The property name remained unchanged, and the house --- despite a small addition and some cosmetic improvements --- was still recognisable as the one he had constructed all those years ago.
He and Ern walked up the long drive to find the current owner in the front garden. When Paul explained he’d built the home more than thirty 30 before, she was pleased to indulge them with an open invitation to tour the property, and then to join her inside for coffee.
When Paul showed Ern the little creek on the back boundary, a platypus obligingly slid out from its hideaway to sun itself. Walking back, he showed Ern the spot where the pumpkin patch had been, and the place where he’d built the pigsty. Then he stood with Ern on the little front porch where he had greeted Ede Tuck nearly 30 years before.
ARMIDALE, JUNE 1980
“Paul Wilson!” Ede Tuck exclaimed, throwing her arms around me and hugging me hard, then laughing that deep, resonant, Welsh laugh that made generous layers of flesh roll and her eyes dance. I was instantly transported back to another era, hearing the Ohio Matron’s happy singing as she went about her chores and tasting the rich cream–filled cakes, still warm from the oven, that she greeted me with after school every day of my early teenage years. I heard her telling me to “make your lips like a chook’s bum” to blow into the cornet mouthpiece when I was first learning to play.
It was a wintery Saturday afternoon and Ede and her son, Peter --- my Ohio ‘brother’— stood, with Peter
’s wife, shivering on my front porch. It was over a decade since I had seen Peter. I hadn’t heard from Ede Tuck since I joined the army.
Ede introduced me to Peter’s wife and I stepped back and beckoned them to enter. I led them through to the kitchen where Fran was clearing the table after lunch.
“Fran, this is Peter Tuck and his wife, Helen, and...” I hesitated a moment, feeling rather foolish, then stumbled over the words, “I don’t know what to call you. Matron doesn’t seem right anymore and –”
“ 'Mum’ doesn’t work for you now, and ‘Mrs Tuck’ is way too formal for someone you used to call ‘Mum’,” she laughed. “Why not just call me Ede. That is my name after all.”
I considered her reply silently.
“It’s all right, Paul,” she laughed, hugging me again. “You are all grown up now. Those old rules don’t apply. And my, how you have grown up! A home, a family. How old are your children? You didn’t introduce me to them yet.”
She fussed over the children while I asked Peter where he was living now and what he was up to. He had changed corps, been promoted to corporal and was stationed in Perth. He had two children, about the same age as our older two. Fran had presented me with another daughter four years earlier, and Helen was pregnant with their third.
“Cup of tea?” said Ede, looking up. “Sit, Fran. I’ll get it. Just point me at the makin’s.” She took command of our kitchen with the same happy confidence that dealt with a thousand boyhood crises and challenges during my early teenage years. Within minutes we were all seated around the dining– room table with Frances and Helen smiling silently while two brothers and their mother laughed over precious memories of childhood, struggling to fill each other in on events since they last parted.
“I visited Garry Simpson yesterday,” Ede said. “Things are not going too well for him marriage–wise, I’m afraid. I’m so happy to see you with a lovely family and a nice home, Paul. You deserve to be happy.” She winked at Fran. “He was always one of my favourites, you know. I shouldn’t have had favourites and I tried not to let it show, but this auburn–haired, freckle–faced squirt, with his cheeky grin and devilish eyes, won my heart. He was a good kid, and he was good company. He used to stand in the pottery shed for hours talking to me while I worked.”
“I loved watching you,” I said, remembering. “An artist at work. Loved those stories too --- about you working in decryption during the war.”
“Paul has told me such a lot about you,” Fran said. Since reuniting with my family, I had begun to open up about the happier chapters of my past.
Ede laughed. “Should I be worried?”
“He paints you as a very special lady.”
“Perhaps I should be embarrassed, then?”
“I only told her what you did for me. I’ve often wondered where I might have ended up if you hadn’t come into my life. I think I was pretty messed up when I arrived at Ohio.”
“It took us three weeks to get a word out of him,” Ede said softly, addressing Fran. Her eyes misted and her forehead creased. “He had us very worried. We were required to report that he was seriously disturbed, but they would have sent psychiatrists to take him and lock him away.”
“I used to call him ‘Monkey’,” Peter laughed. “He was a runt when he came there. Bald patch on the side of his head. Emaciated, and wanted to sleep on the floor for some reason. Scared of pissing the bed, maybe, or not being able to make it to required standards in the time allotted. Wouldn’t speak either. Shit scared of something. Dad made me take him to my room and show him my stamp collection and comics. Reassure him. Get him to speak. I didn’t want to, but we became mates and we were inseparable. He’s my little bro’, and I’d fight to the death to protect him if the need arose. Even now.”
“As if I’d need a wuss like you to protect me,” I said, punching his arm lightly and reaching in the fridge for two stubbies. “Look at you. All flab and beer gut.”
“That’s gratitude!” Peter replied, twisting the cap. “Cheers, mate,” he said, clinking the bottle against mine. Then he turned to Fran again and his tone changed. “Mum and Dad loved those boys,” he said, his voice warming with fond recollections. “Referred to them as 'their boys’, and demanded they be treated with respect and kindness. Dad was tough. He ran a tight ship, but he cared and it showed.”
Peter and Helen excused themselves mid–afternoon to do some sightseeing. Fran started preparing dinner. She had invited Ede, Peter and Helen to stay and they accepted eagerly. I took Ede on a guided tour of the house and our little hobby farm.
“You’ve done an incredible job here, Paul. You always were good with your hands,” she said, running her fingers over the cedar–panelled feature wall in the living room. I was tempted to reply it was a shame her husband didn’t appreciate my talent enough to let me cultivate it, but I kept the thought to myself.
“So, tell me what else you’ve been up to since you left the army.” “Not much to tell. I work in a shit job I hate, but it pays the bills.”
Her face puckered with concern. I was still working on the electricity lines and I hated it. I had consented to complete a short course to become a qualified electrical linesman, mainly for the extra pay and the chance of a place on the on–call roster, which meant a generous annual bonus and occasionally some well–paid overtime. It was dangerous work. I tried to keep it from Fran just how dangerous, but in town one day she was embraced by a teary friend who had just heard a newsflash on the car radio. One of my workmates was electrocuted. His first name was Paul. She had misheard the surname. I didn’t tell Fran I had handled that light choke just minutes before it killed him. I didn’t tell Ede how dangerous the job was either.
“I took some time off a couple of years back,” I said, trying hard to sound more cheerful. “I had renovated a little cottage in town and we sold it and bought this land --- eight acres. It’s an idyllic spot. The back of the house overlooks the creek that forms the back boundary. The creek is inhabited with eels and platypus. I’ll show you shortly.
“It’s blissfully peaceful out here,” I continued, smiling now, although it was still a little forced. “A mile off the main road with only a handful of neighbours, all a considerable distance away. I hired a mate, on daily rates, to help me build this place to lock–up stage and I moved the family out here. Then, after I started working again, I worked nights and weekends to finish the place. It was a labour of love and I think it was the only thing that kept me sane.”
I didn’t add that, during the day, I went through the motions of living mechanically, without feeling. At night, I either hammered, sawed and sanded until I collapsed from exhaustion, or drank myself into oblivion.
“You never went on with your music?”
“For a while. Until some up–jumped academic decided the town bandmaster should be someone with formal qualifications. They brought a fellow up from Tassie who supposedly had a uni degree in music. I stayed on and played under him for a few months, but I quit after he told Fran I could develop into a competent musician under his tutelage.”
The acid in my voice discouraged reply, but the sympathy in her eyes told me she felt my pain. I decided some happier conversation was in order and changed the subject. I pushed the living room sliding door open and ushered her out. We walked towards the little creek on the back boundary. I hoped the platypus would be out, but I couldn’t see any. A few eels darted about just under the water’s surface.
“Remember the time I tried to run away?”
She nodded and laughed.
“I found my parents a few years back, and three brothers and three more sisters, plus the two brothers I knew existed.”
“Oh Paul! That’s amazing.” She smiled broadly, but her expression changed to concern as she asked, “And how did the reunion go?” Long experience with State wards would have taught her that going home is often a devastating experience.
“Good. Really good. Fran gets on well with Mum and Dad. My brothers are great
.”
She was studying me intently, searching out my secrets.
“My brothers and sisters had good parents. They grew up OK. Adore Mum and Dad. Doesn’t seem like there was any good reason to take me away.” I tried not to sound bitter. When she didn’t reply, I forced a smile and continued, “But all grey clouds have a silver lining. If they hadn’t taken me, I wouldn’t ’ve met you”.
“I remember the day you arrived at Ohio,” she said in a wish–I–didn’t voice, her eyes watering. “You were so pathetically skinny. All battered and bruised. I don’t know when I’ve seen a little body in such dreadful condition, and in my line of work I saw a lot of abused children.”
“It wasn’t that that hurt me, though, Ede. I was a survivor. Resilient. I could have avoided a lot of beatings, but I stood up for myself, even when it cost me.”
She nodded and I knew she remembered times at Ohio when I defended myself despite the price.
“It was the loss of identity. The loss of a place to belong in the world. I see my brothers so at ease with themselves --- comfortable in their own skins. They know who they are and where they fit in the world. Me? I don’t know where I belong in the scheme of things. My father was a drover, a shearer and a horse breaker. Good with his hands and in touch with nature. That was me when I was little, a bush kid, feral. When they took me away, they took away the right to be me.”
I resisted the urge to add that I didn’t belong in a uniform, jumping to attention every time someone barked a command.
“And it turns out there was no good reason for it. I had loving parents. Dirt poor, but decent, caring people who worked hard and gave their kids all the stuff that really matters.”
She took a hanky from the pocket of her cardigan and wiped her eyes.
“One day I’ll find the bastard who did that to me,” I said. I was conscious of clenching my fists and thrusting my lower jaw forward. “Geoffrey Simms. I am going to find him one day and kill him.”
The Pencil Case Page 26