I had my way with a number of women as a result of these parties. A couple of them were quite taken with me and wanted to get closer. My heart wasn’t in it – it was satisfying and the women were sweet people, but my heart belonged elsewhere.
I wanted to see Rosa but Mum got in my ear and suggested I concentrate on NIDA: I was only nineteen, I should concentrate on my career and then think about the rest of my life. Mum didn’t know Rosa at this stage and I don’t think she realised how much she meant to me. I didn’t realise how much she meant to me. Barry had befriended Rosa and I used him to tell me what she was up to.
One day Rosa was at the wrong end of a confrontation with this dickhead. Barry told me about it and I went up to the Epping pub with Brian to sort this bloke out. We found him at the pool table with a few others. Brian held me back.
‘Shit, he’s hanging with Abo Henry.’
‘Who’s Abo Henry?’
‘One of the toughest motherfuckers around.’
‘Well, I haven’t got a beef with him.’
I walked up to the bloke I wanted, introduced myself, told him why I was there and invited him to step outside. He looked at Abo, who said, ‘Not my fuckin’ problem.’
Realising he was on his own, he backed down, like most cowards do. I warned him what I’d do to him if he went within a mile of Rosa and left.
Abo Henry was an offsider of Neddy Smith’s; he featured in Blue Murder, played by Peter Phelps. Brian said he was sweating and that I was playing with dynamite. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.
They announced at NIDA that they’d like us to be the first graduates to do three years as opposed to two. This knocked me: I only wanted two, and I was keen to get out there. Everyone else went with three so I had no choice. I was hoping to get back with Rosa and I couldn’t see myself going another year without her.
I was really upset that I was the only student who hadn’t landed a decent part in any of the plays we were constantly doing. There were about five a year. I was getting pissy little character parts that I seemed to handle easily; I wasn’t being tested. A decent actor has got to know he can play the lead, hold a play together and make it work. My complaints were landing on deaf ears. I asked Clarky if it would help if I changed my name to Angela Punch or Andrew McFarlane, who had more than their share of leads. Don’t get me wrong, they were great actors then and are great actors now and wonderful people.
Clarky wasn’t amused: ‘Patience and tolerance is your middle name in this game, mate.’ Believe me he’s right, bloody good advice. He’s gotta moderate that bloody Tasmanian drawl, though.
I’m sitting here trying to remember second-year NIDA, in 1972: it’s a blur of acting classes and boring plays. The gay tutors were giving me gay roles and gay acting exercises because I was too butch for my own good and I needed to get in touch with my feminine side. I soon learnt that they were also fully intent on getting in touch with my masculine side. I was butch, I turned them on and I was a target. I’m not at all homophobic; I’d become friends with a number of gay guys at NIDA. Like all men, they’re sluts and wouldn’t take no for an answer. They tried it on a few times. One tutor was drunk at a party and grabbed me by the balls. The next instant he was unconscious on the floor. In my own defence, I described myself to them as a ‘chronic heterosexual’. From then on, we treated each other with mutual respect.
The year was coming to a close. I had planned to see if I could bring Rosa back into my life. Occasionally I’d run into her on the way to the railway station. She treated me kindly but civilly. She was deeply hurt by our break-up, and my plucked eyebrows didn’t help: she thought I’d turned gay. The NIDA fairies had talked me into plucking my eyebrows to play this poof in Antony and Cleopatra. I was far from a poof: she looked even more beautiful to me at eighteen than she had at sixteen.
Dad came to me and said he had some great news. An old mate from the Snowy Mountains days was working on the train tunnels just north of Townsville. It was a private line to bring copper from a mine about 200 k’s from the coast. He offered me a job drilling into the tunnel face on an air leg, a machine on a stand that supports a giant drill that bores a hole about 10 cm wide and a metre deep into the tunnel face. That hole and many others were then filled with dynamite and blown. Extract the blown rock and start again. The money was fantastic. The wooing of Rosa was regretfully put on hold.
I owned a 1962 Morris Major Elite. It cost me very little and was a piece of shit, so Dad fixed it. By the time I left for Townsville, he had it going like a clock. I drove to Townsville in a day and a half. I had Max’s work number, and I rang him when I was about half an hour away. He said he’d meet me near the cop shop in town. I drove up the hill towards the cop shop to be met by Max, Denis and another bloke, Billy Gregson, who became a lifelong friend.
It was exciting to be back with my closest mates on earth. We’d missed each other. I celebrated by chucking a screaming U-ey in front of the cop shop. I finished the manoeuvre by parking expertly opposite them. They were impressed; the cops weren’t impressed. The boys raced across the road to greet me. The cops walked across the road to book me.
Max was already working as a draftsman in town, and Bill and Denis were at teachers’ college. Bill reckoned my timing was good, because he was looking for a house to rent and I could stay there. So I went with him in search of a house almost straight away. We quickly found a rambling Queenslander in Hale Street, a house on a hill overlooking the town. Boy, did we have fun. I was twenty, I was fit; NIDA kept me very fit. Fit enough to live on a diet of beer for the next three months. The parties were outrageous. Bill was laying any woman he could get his hands on. I didn’t lay anyone, didn’t want too. I was lovesick for a woman I’d walked away from because of NIDA. Idiot!
So I got drunk, very drunk. I got into fights, including a memorable one with Billy. Bill was standing – no – swaying with his legs a long way apart in a desperate effort to stay upright. I was standing at the top of the stairs teasing him. I got him worked up.
‘I’ve had e-fuckin-nough of you, Jarratt, get down here and put ya fuckin’ hands up, come on, have a go, I’ll show you how to fuckin’ fight!’
Bill was only 5 foot 7, but he was a feisty little bastard. I just stood there laughing at him, knowing that would make him angrier. The more I laughed, the more he yelled and the funnier he became and I laughed some more. I couldn’t take it any more, my guts were aching and I’d laughed so hard I had tears running down my face. So I went downstairs to clock him in order to shut him up. I didn’t have to; he took a giant swing and missed by about 2 metres. The momentum spun him to the ground, upon which he went into a drunken coma and made that spot his bed for the night.
Another party night, I was quite drunk and this monster of a bloke, about 6 foot 4 and two pick handles across the shoulders, was swanning around full of his own importance. I decided to give him a bit of lip.
‘Hey King Kong, you’ve had a few, why don’t you stay the night, climb up that mango tree and go to sleep.’
Everyone laughed and I went back inside for another beer.
Max came into the kitchen looking worried. ‘That big bastard’s mad as hell, he wants to fight you.’
‘Jesus, he’ll kill me.’
‘Yup.’
I came up with a plan and I took Max through it. Next thing I’ve got Geoffrey John and Billy holding me back, I’m going nuts at the front doorway and allowing a lot of spit to come out while I’m ranting. ‘Let me go, let me fuckin’ go, I’ll tear his overgrown fuckin’ head off, I’ll rip his fuckin’ eyes out,’ etc.
Max was in front of me, giving the big guy some advice. ‘Just go, mate, get out of here, he’s a pro boxer and he just goes berserk, just get outta here, mate.’
The big bloke was wide-eyed and slightly pale at my maniacal visage and took off. He drove away and we fell about laughing. Acting comes in handy sometimes.
I’ve gotta tell you this yarn, apropos to nothing, apart from the fact it�
�ll annoy the shit out of Bill when he reads this. A bunch of us, mainly girls, were sitting up one end of a verandah. Up the other end sitting on a bench with one leg up and his elbow resting on his knee was Billy, holding forth with what he thought was a funny story as he was getting plenty of laughs. He was wearing stubbie shorts, and you could see along his inner thigh, up the leg of his shorts. His right knacker had slipped out of his jocks and a fly was doing slow circles on it. All eyes were on it, you couldn’t look elsewhere. It slowly dawned on Bill that he was getting laughs in strange spaces, and then he noticed where our stares were heading. He slowly felt down and his hand discovered the one lunger hanging out of his shorts. You’ve gotta hand it to Bill, he’s a good sport and saw the funny side straight up. He laughed. ‘You bastards, you fuckin’ bastards. I need a beer.’
The job in the tunnel was interesting, but really hard work. There were about ten air legs going at once, bloody noisy. It took all morning to drill, then we’d have lunch. Another team would set the explosives to blow the face. The rocks were loaded onto a purpose-built truck and out of the tunnel they went, and back into the tunnel we’d go to start more drilling. This was okay, and after a week I was getting used to it.
The gang consisted of ten Yugoslavs, a Kiwi and me. The boss was also Yugoslav. He gave his orders in English, except once. We were working away and he screamed out something in Croatian. All the Yugoslavs left immediately. A couple of beats later me and the Kiwi ran. As we ran out, a part of the tunnel’s roof collapsed. The dust surrounded us. We got outside and I said to the Kiwi, ‘I’m outta here.’
I explained my predicament to the boss and I got a job on the outside track build as a chainman, a surveyor’s assistant. I worked outside and ended up with a beautiful tan. It was easy work holding a staff for the surveyor. I was surrounded by heavy machinery building the railway. Bulldozers, scrapers and graders. The scraper drivers used to chase me and almost run me over, scary bastards. The most amazing thing I saw on that job was a big D9 dozer on top of a major cutting, and hanging off the side of it held by massive chains was a grader. The grader was grading the face of the cutting at a precarious angle. Highly illegal and scary to watch. Those were the days: no yellow danger vests or hard hats working in the open in those days.
I had my eye on an EJ station wagon, but I needed to sell my Morris first. I had New South Wales registration so nobody wanted to buy it. Dad had fully insured it for me, so I got an idea. One Saturday I drove around Townsville looking for an accident. I was driving past the hospital and this guy on my left drove out of the hospital in front of me, without looking. I sped up and just before I hit him, I hit the brakes and ploughed into his front mudguard. I hit him so hard, the back of my back seat came off and hit me in the back of the head. Didn’t do me any damage except an instant headache.
I got out of the car and I was really pleased with how crunched the front end was – a write-off for sure. Then the karma. The guy got out of his car very apologetic. He explained how his wife was dying of cancer and he wasn’t thinking straight. I got the EJ but I never felt right about it and I was pleased to sell it a year later.
Graduating into the real world
I was heading back to Sydney. But a very important event was happening along the way. Nial was marrying the love of his life, Sally – Sal Pal – at Sal’s parents’ place on the Gold Coast. I think I can count the number of my true female friends on one hand, and Sal is definitely one of them. Nial is a very lucky man, batting well above his average. Sal is one hell of a good woman.
I was honoured to be Nial’s best man. I’ve won acting awards, I’ve won Logies, but they don’t even come close. The look in their eyes and the love in their hearts that day made me ask myself, What am I doing!?
I went home to Epping. It was my first day back at NIDA. I sat in my car, knowing Rosa had to come past me to get to the station.
I saw her from afar. It was summer and she was wearing a beautiful dress. She seemed to be walking in slow motion. She came into focus and she was breathtaking. Her olive skin was tanned, her perfect Italian face shone. She walked straight past.
I got out of the car. ‘Hey Rosa!’
She spun around and looked at me with utter surprise. After a beat, ‘Hi.’
‘Hi, would you like a lift? I virtually drive past your work.’
After what felt like a couple of years, she said quietly, ‘Okay.’ She got in the car and off we went. We kicked off with small talk, and by the time we got to about Lane Cove I was gabbling nervously about my time in Townsville.
Rosa’s shy, but she also likes to get to the point. ‘Why did you pick me up this morning?’
‘Why?’
‘Yes, why?’
Pause, pause, pause. ‘Because I love you and I miss you and I can’t get you out of my head.’
‘Do you know the hell I went through when you left me?’
‘I don’t, but if it helps I’ve been through hell without you too.’
‘Really, I’d never have guessed.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I hope so.’
We sat in silence for a while. By this time I was driving over the Harbour Bridge. Suddenly, almost out of nowhere, I said something I didn’t seem to have control over. It was almost my inner self saying something my stupid outer self couldn’t comprehend. I found myself saying, ‘Will you marry me?’
Rosa leapt across the bench seat to my side, wrapped herself around my left arm and said, ‘Yes!’
My soul leapt to heaven and back.
Before I popped the question, I’d sat there looking at her thinking, This stunning woman is most assuredly going out with a tall, dark, handsome executive who drives a Porsche and owns an apartment in town. I thought I’d have a snowflake’s chance in hell of getting Rosa back in my life. It turned out she really loved me too.
Lucky me.
Back at NIDA, back into the grind. To be honest, I know I didn’t mind the work I was doing, but I can’t remember much of the first half of that year. I wanted to get out into the real acting world.
Something strange was emerging. Two Australian films went through the roof: Alvin Purple and The Adventures of Barry McKenzie. Both crass ocker films, one a sex romp, the other a booze romp. NIDA hated them, I loved them. Another film that didn’t do so well but eventually became iconic was Wake in Fright. We took Mum, she walked out. It was like a piece of Aramac, a brilliant film. Mum said it was tough enough living there without reliving it in the cinema.
I started thinking about being in movies for the first time. My timing was perfect. If the renaissance of the film industry hadn’t happened, the only alternative for me would’ve been theatre. I really don’t think I would have hung in, doing play after play; it’s not me. I probably would have become a singer in a rock band. If you haven’t heard my single ‘Killer in Me’ from the film StalkHer yet, YouTube it. I can sing pretty well for an old bloke.
Rosa made it clear to her parents that she was going out with her fiancé like a normal Australian couple. Charlie wasn’t too keen. Rosa’s Mum, Carmela, knew Rosa meant business. She was a typical subservient Sicilian wife, but at times in her life she stood her ground for herself and especially her daughters. She stood up to Charlie and got through to him. So Rosa was allowed to be ‘normal’ with me. When Rosa told Charlie I was going to be an actor, he immediately said no. Rosa quickly threw in, ‘And a qualified English teacher.’ This made the difference.
It was the summer of 1973. My mate Herbie from Townsville had moved to Sydney. He had a job as a food technician and he was responsible for the contents of fruit juice in a juice bottling company. He slept in the same room as me in the family home in Epping. He snored and I would often stuff his dirty socks in his mouth through frustration. One night I woke and he’d pulled the blind up and he was standing on his bed.
I said, ‘What are doing?’
‘I think a spaceship has landed.
I raced over to have a look. Not
hing, just streetlights strangely flickering. It turned out there was an earth tremor, I slept through it. Herbie jumped up and looked out. He thought the trembling was the effect of a spaceship landing outside. We were smoking a lot of weed in those days. ’Nough said.
Speaking of weed. A bunch of us were smoking joints in our lounge room. Dad opened the door, knowing what was happening. He looked at me and said, ‘It’s called dope, son, it’s not called intelligent.’ Funny bastard.
Herb, Brian and I loved to bodysurf. Every weekend we’d drive to the Northern Beaches. We all had girlfriends, so we went in different cars. I had my EJ station wagon and I still had the mattress Mum made me for the FC panel van. Off we’d go for a surf. Rosa was magnificent in her bikini.
In the afternoon we’d walk to our cars, tingling from being soaked in Pacific salt. Feeling satisfied and invigorated from catching waves and canoodling on beach towels, we’d reluctantly head home. Well, Rosa and I didn’t, maybe the others did. We went for a cruise down some beautiful little trails in Ku-ring-gai Chase National Park, where we found a picturesque little glade on a slight hill just off the trail. It was a grassy natural circular shape, under a magnificent tree with outstretched branches covered in lush green leaves. It was completely private. I parked my EJ Holden station wagon onto our little piece of heaven. We looked down past a sea of eucalypt forest to the vast Pacific Ocean. Memories, ah.
Rosa and I didn’t have much money. She was on an apprentice hairdressing wage and I had money from two cleaning jobs. The first was cleaning the Ugg Boot factory in Epping with Mum, Barry and Herbie: 5 a.m. start, 8 a.m. finish, five days a week. Then Herb went to his juice-making job and I went to NIDA. We used to have the radio up loud and we’d all sing and dance and clean. Rob Stewart’s ‘Maggie May’ was number one. What a classic.
The Bastard from the Bush: An Australian Life Page 14