It finally became obvious I’d walked away and it was over. Noni managed to get a mortgage in her name and bought a 21-acre property with a good-sized forties timber house on it, back in Hazelbrook. We sold the Chatswood house at auction. Noni got it and I got the island house and my mountain acreage. Better Homes wanted me to continue with the show but I did the gentlemanly thing and left Noni to host it. In hindsight, I should have stayed on for a year and fixed my tax bill. Some you win, some you lose.
Between 1985 and 1999, Noni and I bought nine properties and rented five. No wonder we didn’t come out of this shining – that ain’t no way to earn a buck. I was unemployed and I owed the tax department. I had to sell my sacred 60 acres in the mountains and put the island home on the market. I had my eye on an old fibro shack close to Tennis Wharf that I could renovate. It took a while to sell the island house, so thankfully the shack was still available.
Meanwhile, I had to get a job. I didn’t get a lot of work between 1990 and 1995. What I did do wasn’t successful, so I was out of the public eye as an actor from 1990 until I quit Better Homes in ’99. I wanted to get back into acting, but not much was coming my way. I’d become very well-known as a TV personality, and younger people didn’t know I was an actor. There was a woman in Newport I knew who had a lot of experience in lifestyle–reality TV production. I had a few ideas that she fleshed out for me and made presentable. I took these ideas to all the networks and the Lifestyle Channel. The Lifestyle Channel was the only bite I got and it’s the one I wanted most. It was an hour-long documentary called Men + Alcohol = Violence. It was eye-opening. We started with two middle-aged sober alcoholics, one of whom was Davo. We re-enacted both their stories from when they started until they hit rock bottom and how they’d recovered. The middle section was interviews with alcoholics in jail who’d been incarcerated because of their drinking. The second half was a delinquent who’d been saved and turned around by a mentoring program between teachers and the police. This guy went from torching cars and bashing people to becoming Campbelltown High School captain, a basketball champion and a university graduate. Finally we went to primary schools that taught life skills, emotions, anger management, meditating and so on. This is the answer, using our education system to teach people how to live. The documentary was very well received.
I spent 1999 in a blur, moving on from Noni into the next phase, clearing up the past and sorting out the future. Apart from the doco, I didn’t work.
Strangely enough, I spent a bit of time at Noni’s new house. I had a caravan, so I stayed in that. She had a bit of toing and froing to Sydney with Better Homes, I was available, so I was only too happy to be with the boys. They were going through separation trauma and Charlie especially was angry that I’d abandoned them. This was perfectly normal, Zadia went through it too. It was good to be with them when I could.
Will had just started school, so I’d drop them off, go back to Noni’s and tow out acres of lantana with my FJ Holden. I couldn’t help myself.
After school we’d hang out and play soccer. Both boys played soccer, and Will was right into it from when he was three. He played in the under-fives. He missed his first game with flu and couldn’t make the second, so his first match was third game in. I was walking him to the oval and he said, ‘I’m scared, Dad.’
I told the coach and he said, ‘I’ve seen him go around at training, he’ll be right.’
They won eleven goals to one. Will kicked ten of them and set the other one up. The opposition scored their goal when Will was off for his ten minutes. How over the moon was he, how proud was I, how big was my ego. That’s my boy!
By the end of ’99 I’d sold the Scotland Island waterfront: the worst property decision of my life. I couldn’t get a job to save myself and I was behind on the mortgage. If I’d hung in for five more months, I could have kept it.
I bought the fibro shack and booked a ski holiday to visit Brian in January 2000. In the late nineties Brian became a ski instructor. He went to California in November ’98 and scored a job at Dodge Ridge Ski Resort in the Sierra Nevada. He met and fell in love with a local girl, Barb, and he’s been there with her ever since. Our family aren’t used to being apart, so we really miss each other.
Brian met me in San Francisco. We drove two hours north-west, through rolling green hills, past the San Andreas Fault, through Modesto where George Star Wars Lucas was raised, past Gethsemane National Park, into the pine-clad mountains to a village called Strawberry, where Brian lives in a beautiful little cabin surrounded by snow and massive pine trees. We were greeted with Barb’s big beautiful smile, a warm fire and a hearty, superbly cooked meal. Barb and Brian are a great couple, both noisy, funny people with big personalities.
‘Barb, brace yourself, I’m a sexual athlete – three and a half minutes including the dismount!’
‘Go fuck yourself, Brian, don’t talk like that in front of your brother, motherfucker.’
She’s an Aussie in a Yank body. She gets it, she understands self-deprecating Aussie humour. Most Yanks get insulted by it and don’t understand it.
Yank: ‘You called your friend Shit Head. Why would you call him that?’
Ozzie: ‘Because he’s my friend. He calls me Fuck Face.’
Yank: ‘That’s disgusting, I don’t get it.’
Ozzie: ‘Oh, come on mate, don’t be a dickhead.’
Yank: ‘Were you being nice to me then?’
Ozzie: ‘Nah, I was telling you off.’
Yank: ‘I don’t get it.’
It was my first time skiing outside of Australia. Dodge Ridge is considered a small family resort but it has much longer runs than Aussie ski fields.
I skied with Brian’s eleven-year-old stepdaughter, Brook. She was very good and I had to work hard to stay with her. To ease the boredom sitting on the chairlift, I taught her how to say something with an Aussie accent: ‘Get a woolly pup up ya!’
‘Get a woolly pup up ya,’ I said.
‘Get a woolly purp urp ya,’ said Brook.
‘No, no, widen your mouth and say “paaaauup aaaup ya”.’
‘Paaaauup urp ya.’
‘Aaaaup ya.’
‘Aaaaup ya.’
‘Paaauup aaaup ya.’
‘Paaaauup aaaup ya.’
‘That’s it! Get a woolly paaaauup aaaup ya.’
‘Get a woolly paaaauup aaaup ya.’
‘That’s it! You got it.’
We kept practising and laughing ourselves sick.
We found Brian on the beginner slope teaching a bunch of five-year-olds. We skied down to him and Brook yelled ‘Hey Briiiieean, get a woolly pup up ya?’
Well, I thought he was going to pass out. He fell onto his side in the snow and laughed his guts out. The little kids were looking confused; they didn’t know what to make of it. Brooke still greets Brian with, ‘Get a woolly pup up ya.’
A lot of the time I’d tag along with Brian and join his adult classes, so we got to ski a lot together during my time there. One night we had a big dump of snow. We headed up to Dodge knowing there were a couple of feet of virgin powder snow waiting for us. Brian lived for days like these. Today I was on my own: he wasn’t going to frig around waiting for me to keep up. When we got to the top, Brian said, ‘Just ski old school (legs together) and face your body down the hill at all times. Have fun, see ya.’
I could hardly wait – I’d never skied in powder this thick. It’s weird, you’re up to your knees in snow, it feels like that’d slow you down, but you’re going at a hell of a pace. I was heading down keeping my rhythm, doing all right. Suddenly the hill fell sharply and my pace quickened. I panicked a little, lost my rhythm and went out of control. I managed to keep my body facing downhill. I fell forward, did a complete somersault and ended up in the sitting position, covered in snow looking downhill. I ‘come a gutsa’ – which is a segue to this story.
One of Brian’s instructors at the ski school, let’s call him Jeff, came down the hill and said, ‘H
ey Brian, I just skied over the rise on number four and wiped out.’
‘Listen, Jeff, next time that happens, don’t say you wiped out – in Australia we’d say “I come a gutsa”. Sounds better, gives it more oomph.’
‘Okay, Brian.’
A couple of weeks later, ‘Hey Brian, I came a gutser.’
‘Nah, Jeff, it’s “I come a gutsa”, not “came a gutsa”.’
‘But “come” is the wrong tense.’
‘Doesn’t matter, “come” sounds better.’
‘But Brian, it doesn’t make sense!’
‘Fuck off, Jeff.’
I love that story.
Coming home one night from Dodge was almost as exciting as the skiing. Brian’s always been a happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care type. He had a big old Chevy pick-up truck. It had been snowing and was quite icy. It was Friday night and there was a lot of traffic heading up the mountain. We didn’t have chains and we were slipping and sliding a bit on our way down the mountain. There was no room to move: a wall of snow bordered each side of the narrow road. Suddenly Brian lost control. Luckily we were coming to a T-intersection and he somehow guided the vehicle in there and we did a complete 360. How we didn’t side swipe any cars is beyond me. The car settled, we looked at each other and Brian said, as calm as you like, ‘Better put the chains on, I s’pose.’
Brian and Barb made sure I left with a bang. Their mate Johnny Action had a Winnebago mobile home. The four of us headed to San Francisco for a night on the town before I flew out. We managed to find a park near Fisherman’s Wharf, where we bought fresh fish, crab and wine. Next stop, under the Golden Gate Bridge at sunset, Johnny cooked up a brilliant meal. We sat at the table looking out the window and a good-sized wave curling around the southern pylon of the Golden Gate Bridge came crashing onto the breakwater, the setting sun making rainbows through the spray. Man, does that spell San Francisco or what?
Johnny drove back to the city and parked the ‘Winny’. We headed into town looking for nightlife. We found a bar with a great singer–guitarist. We joined in on the songs and got a bit Aussie tourist on the singer. I think he dug us; we certainly dug him. I did an Irish jig and I was the only sober one among us. We ended up in a poolroom at around two in the morning. Brian, Barb and Johnny were as full as ticks, and Brian got a bit out of hand. He took a shot on the pool table using the entire cue rack. Eight cues crashed onto the table and we were kicked out. We were walking back to the Winny when we passed a compressor, the machine used to operate jackhammers. Brian is a diesel fitter and he decided to start the compressor. It was very noisy. Next minute, in screeches a car marked ‘Security’. A tough guy in a security uniform got out, turned off the compressor and told Brian to get in the car.
Brian was legless. He told the guy to go fuck himself.
The guy yelled, ‘Get in the car!’
I was the sober one so I took decisive action. ‘I’ll take him home, mate.’
‘I’m putting him in the car.’
I’d had enough. I stepped up close and fronted him. ‘You and whose fuckin’ army?’ I grabbed Brian and Johnny and dragged them away.
The guy drove off, thank Christ. You can’t outbox bullets.
The drunks were ‘guts up for a coma’ sleeping off the night before, when someone started banging on the door. I opened the curtain and the sidewalks were full of people heading to work. It was peak hour and Johnny had parked the Winny in the middle of it. It would be like parking in George Street, Sydney. Johnny drove down to a surf beach and went back to sleep. I took a long walk up the beach to a headland and back along a typical San Francisco street with the typical wooden houses.
It was a great way to end my stay. We said our farewells and walked away quickly so that Brian and I couldn’t witness each other’s tears. Big boys don’t cry. ‘Come on, knock ’em off, knock off those tears, you bloody girls!’
Ebony’s puberty blues
In 1999 Ebony was attending the International School, the same high school that Zadia went to. When Zadia attended, it was located just across from Macquarie Centre, North Ryde. Zadia majored in Socialising and Community Interaction, and she spent most of her time researching at the Macquarie Centre and Macquarie University lunch venues, although she’d occasionally attend the school. It cost me a fortune in fees and she left when she was seventeen.
When Ebony started there she was a sweet, dedicated thirteen-year-old. She loved the school and was most upset when it went into liquidation. We tried to save it, but to no avail. Ebony then attended Carlingford in 2000, when she was fourteen going on fifteen. She walked into Carlingford High School and a transformation came upon her like something out of a superhero movie. She went from a sweet teenager to ‘Hey, I’m a teenager, sweet!’ Bang, bang, bang, suddenly she had the Italian curves of Sophia Loren. Then, ‘I’ve never had a cigarette before, wouldn’t mind a drink, what does marijuana do to you again?’ Three months later, ‘Hey Mum, I wanna live with my dad, it’s about time we got to really know each other.’ There was no great animosity happening between Rosa and Ebony, just the usual traumas between mother and pubescent daughter.
I was really taken aback by this. Of course I wanted her to live with me, but at the same time I had to respect what Rosa wanted, which was for Ebony to stay put. After all, she’d done all the hard work and sacrifice to get Ebony this far, so for her it was a slap in the face. Ebony was just your typical selfish teenager who didn’t understand how upsetting it was for her mother. ‘I just want time with my dad, what’s the problem?’
I’m sure she felt the grass would be greener and life would be more exciting with her lenient father. I sat her down and said, ‘This is not going to be a picnic. During the week you do schoolwork, no socialising. Weekends you can go have fun as long as you don’t get out of control. Sunday night is at home, fresh for the new week.’
She was okay during the week, although sometimes she’d take her time getting home after school. I don’t smoke, but when I was fourteen I did. I just told her how crazy it was and asked her to please quit, which fell on deaf ears. She found a boyfriend and I didn’t like him, but that’s not unusual. What was unacceptable was that he introduced her to weed and alcohol. I found out about it, the shit hit the fan and we had a family conference with Rosa. We said we’d give it one more go, but if she failed she’d have to go home to her mother. Unfortunately Ebs had fallen in with the wrong crowd and inevitably, she failed. I really wanted it to work, because it gave me a chance to make up a little for not being there in the beginning. It lasted about eight months and we got along very well. We had a lot of beautiful moments; it was just a shame her social life got in the way. It connected us with a stronger thread, which has since turned into a rope, and we got to know each other at a deeper level. Other chances for connectedness were still to come.
It also woke her up. She applied herself, finished high school and did very well. She now has two kids and a successful marriage, and they live in their own house. She does uni by correspondence and she gets shirty if she doesn’t get high distinctions. I couldn’t be more proud of her.
McLeod’s Daughters
I was cast as one of the leads in a new drama, McLeod’s Daughters, which first went to air in 2001. There were about eight main cast members, and I was playing opposite Sonia Todd and Rachel Carpani. They were a great mob to work for. Filming all took place on actual farms in Gawler, just outside of Adelaide, which was very pleasant for a country boy. I averaged about three days a fortnight, six months per year for five years, between 2000 and 2005. Some episodes I’d be written up; others I’d hardly be in. My life at home wasn’t that jolly during this period, so I enjoyed the escape to Gawler. Also, it paid well and regularly. I liked that.
The first two years the scripts were great. We were the number-one show picking up Logies. Like most shows, it went slowly downhill and I think I got out at the right time. I got very tired of walking out of the house to my ute and Meg (Sonia Todd) racing out afte
r me: ‘Forgot your lunchbox, Terry, by the way.’
I liked the town, which was close enough to the city and the Barossa Valley, so I usually found something to do on layover days.
When I first got there I went to a cafe and the owner recognised me.
‘Anyone ever told you that you look like John Jarratt?’
‘All the time, but he’s shorter, fatter and older than me.’
‘Yeah, true!’
A few weeks later I went back.
‘C’mon, you are John Jarratt.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘But the other week you said you weren’t.’
‘I’ve never been here in my life. I’ve just turned up to do McLeod’s Daughters. Nice town.’
The guy was really confused.
Island house number four
By the end of 2000 I’d extended the mortgage on my house at Tennis Wharf and I’d started the demolition stage, ready for the rebuild. Having a regular job made it easier for me to talk with my bank. The house was on a rare flat block just above Tennis Wharf. Tennis is a great spot, facing north, with a nice little beach stretching back to an expansive park bordered by beautiful gum trees that I helped plant back in 1980. We parked our boats on a floating pontoon, connected to the ferry wharf.
The house consisted of a small deck and a living area at the front, a kitchen on the side, and behind that a bathroom and toilet. On the other side was the main bedroom and two poky bedrooms. I demolished the front deck and replaced it with a big one. After removing the main bedroom and the kitchen I made one big open room combining living, dining and kitchen. I renovated the bathroom and made the two poky rooms into one bedroom. I built a massive rumpus room. I put a stairway on one side of the main room and built another storey. There were two big bedrooms and an ensuite at the back, and a massive tiled deck over the main room at the front. I lived there while slowly rebuilding the house over a couple of years.
Jackson
I had been in another relationship for a few years, but my life was not good on the home front and into this, on 2 August 2001, a miracle arrived: Jackson joined the Jarratt tribe. He was extremely good-looking. If you hold our two baby photos together, it’s hard to tell the difference. Like Charlie, Jackson’s existence was supposed to be impossible. I’m very pleased that I seem to have the ability to make the impossible possible, otherwise I’d only be the father of two girls.
The Bastard from the Bush: An Australian Life Page 31