Somebody That I Used to Know

by Bunkie King

  ‘I don’t want to be held responsible for his death,’ the doctor advises.

  Jack is shipped back to Oz on the next available flight. Just on sunset he arrives, unannounced, at our front door. Looking like a ghoul, he is jaundiced and very weak. Le and I nurse him back to health but he has recurring malarial convulsions and fever attacks for quite a few years afterwards.

  Shortly after his return, Le and I see a photo in his luggage of him — not as Erskine — walking along a beach with Judy Lynne, an actress who had a guest role in the episode shot on Manus. Judy is a confident and sophisticated American who worked in Las Vegas as a showgirl. Jack tells us that although they have a very strong mutual attraction, a relationship didn’t unfold because he is with us and she is married. Judy becomes part of our close circle of friends and we often have dinner with her and her husband.

  Due to Channel 9’s constant advertising, Jack has become a household name by the time the production is over. During his time with the show he uses his income to pay back a loan he’d previously taken out to buy the 440 hectares of farmland near Coffs Harbour. It’s registered in his name only.

  Jack is achieving his dreams as he buys the farm and builds his career in the industry. He is very clear in his ambition and works hard to establish himself as an actor, but we are never consulted about his life or career choices. There is no discussion about his plans and how they will affect the three of us. He never says, I know you’re doing a lot for me and I’ll make sure it’s worth your while. I am not given the opportunity to discuss what my dreams and ambitions may be. I’m beginning to feel like I am a passenger, tagging along for the ride.

  Chapter 7

  Magic mushrooms and nude swimming

  On a tip from a friend of Jack’s, I go hunting magic mushrooms near Coffs Harbour during a summer holiday. I learn to identify the right type of mushrooms, ‘gold tops’, and where to find them. This isn’t difficult as they grow in cow manure. Cows eat the spores off the grass and by the time the mushrooms have grown, the cowpat is generally quite dry, so collecting them isn’t as disgusting as it sounds. I eat them raw, swallowing them like pills with a glass of honey-milk or Milo.

  I prefer mushrooms to LSD. With mushrooms I can have fun visually — the floor dissolves into a paisley design that pulsates with the music, and when it rains, water flows down the window and becomes a moving landscape painting. I don’t indulge in them often though because, again, I am too anxious to let myself get out of control.

  On one of these early trips to Coffs, most of the group are still affected as we drive back down the Pacific Highway. At dusk we are just south of Taree when, after going round a particularly sharp bend, we somehow find ourselves facing the opposite direction heading north again. The driver, a close friend, admits, ‘I don’t think I should be driving!’ I’m the only straight one in the car, so I offer to take over and drive home to Collaroy, a distance of about 300 kilometres. To change gears I have to press illuminated buttons on the dashboard; it’s like driving a jukebox. I am only 17 — I don’t have a licence of course.

  On another visit we stay at Woolgoolga’s Seabreeze Motel, owned by American John Landi, an entomologist who is an artist/sculptor in his spare time. Coffs’ famous landmark, the Big Banana, the first ‘big’ anything in Australia, was John’s brainchild, inspired by a Big Pineapple he’d seen in Hawaii. (So now we know who’s responsible.) When John came to New South Wales to study the insects that were attacking the banana plantations, he thought a large banana would be good for fruit sales and tourism. John also dabbles in real estate and had been the one to show Jack the farm for the first time.

  We drive through the shimmering landscape behind Coffs and the extensive banana plantations that characterise the area. After winding our way up the dirt road that traverses the Great Divide between Coffs and Dorrigo we come to open farmlands. Right at the end of this idyllic mountain valley we pull into the clay driveway of a farm with little hilly paddocks backing on to virgin rainforest — it is love at first sight for all of us. It’s beautiful. I walk around and paddle my feet in the gently flowing creek, drinking in the pristine air tinged with the smell of wet eucalypts. The property is at 600 metres altitude. A short bushwalk to the escarpment offers a spectacular view over the Bellingen Valley.

  The solitary dwelling gives the word ‘basic’ a whole new meaning: it’s a simple two-room farmhouse with a small kitchen and an even smaller lean-to area housing the old wood-burning stove. On our first overnight stay we all sleep outside on the front verandah. It’s so cold that we join two sleeping bags together and throw whatever we can find over the top — no sex, just four freezing people (we three and a close friend) desperately trying to stay warm.

  The farmhouse has no electricity or running water. We have one rusty old tank, kerosene lamps, an ageing kerosene fridge and the classic outside dunny with no door. Occasionally the fridge gets clogged and spews greasy black smoke through the house; it only happens at night so whoever is sleeping in the kitchen wakes up with a black face. Then we have to wash everything down — the walls, ceilings, everything. It’s funny how history repeats itself: the farmhouse reminds me of the stories my parents told of the old place they lived in when they first came to Australia, right down to the cow dung on the floor — although this place does at least have glass in the windows. That’s something.

  Jack likes kerosene lamps and he buys a couple of really beautiful, ornately painted antique ones plus a very chunky brass lamp. We only get electricity because the neighbouring farmers want it. Le and I enjoy turning the ramshackle farmhouse into a home; it gives me a clear sense of purpose — I have a powerful connection to this magical place. The interior decoration is more her domain, while I make a rock pathway and a garden with ferns that I water throughout summer.

  I sleep in the only bedroom on a dozen tea chests packed full of ‘stuff’. I cover the boxes with a carpet and put a mattress on top. Jack sleeps in that room with me, or on the verandah with Le. He alternates nights between Le and me so there’s no favouritism. Visitors stay in tents or wherever they can find a spot to make their beds. In the morning we usually cook breakfast outside, over an open fire.

  At the farm we break convention by going around in the nude. Carloads of people stay there with us, often coordinating their holidays, especially for Jack’s birthday in August and at Christmas. Both are big events. Jack finally has his own extended family of friends and lovers, his tribe. Mostly it is the same group of people who are like family to me, too. Sometimes we stay up all night smoking dope and talking, moonlight shining on the moisture rising from the creek in a cloud that disperses slowly. To me, it seems like the earth is breathing. We often watch the sun rise slowly and majestically over the hills. Funny, but it sometimes seems to me as though the horses know when I take acid, because they come and stand close to the house, providing even more company.

  One time I decide to read a book out loud, The Hog Farm and Friends by Wavy Gravy, a veteran of Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters’ psychedelic bus trip across the US. I read it from beginning to end. People drift in and out between sleeping, eating, swimming, drinking and smoking. Every now and then I am given a cuppa or a joint and continue reading. I love it. Mother sometimes used to read aloud to us as children; the memory is strong. Another time a mahjong marathon continues for about three days. When a player wants a break, someone else takes over. I don’t sleep much during that event. There are thousands of card and board games played over the course of our visits. We don’t have television or radio. It is homemade entertainment — people laughing, talking and sharing their minds, their space, their thoughts and fantasies. It’s a magical time in my life.

  There are always so many people visiting the farm that every night is like a party. When the sun starts to set everyone makes their way to the little farmhouse for the evening meal. Le usually does the majority of the cooking, but many of our guests help with the preparation, serving and the subsequent clean up
. We don’t go to Coffs and shop very often so the unspoken entry fee for staying with us is to bring a box of food and whatever else you’d like to partake of. We always have a delicious feast though there are a few times when stocks get very low. On one of these occasions, when I am helping, I drop a whole saucepan of pasta on the floor. Unfortunately we don’t have any more and there are a lot of hungry mouths to feed so I scoop it all up, wash it and then we eat wonderful Bolognese with salad and garlic bread. Afterwards we form a production line to wash, dry and put everything away. Having many hands chipping in makes the job less cumbersome. Jack loves his music and keeps the sounds thumping as people play cards, talk or just drink in the atmosphere. It’s a blissful time.

  There are lots of naked or semi-naked people around the place but no great orgies. A few of our visitors enjoy sex with more than one partner but this is done in the privacy of their own tents or campervans, not for all to see. Dennis Hopper spends what seems like a very pleasant night in his tent with two women when he stays on the farm. Le and I have been brought up with no great concerns regarding nudity. Our grandmother, the doctor, joined a nudist colony in England as a way of being around healthy bodies, rather than the sick and cancerous. On the farm if it is hot we take off our clothes. If it’s cold we put them on again. It makes perfect sense to us. What could be more wonderful than immersing our naked bodies in a cool, crystal clear creek under an azure blue sky then drying off on the grassy bank while drinking a cup of tea made in a billy over an open fire? ‘Tea, then nude swim’ is pretty much our way of life, a funny combination of our very English upbringing and a more open-minded, modern lifestyle.

  Apparently someone who came up from Melbourne told people there are two rules at the farm: magic mushrooms and nude swimming. But that’s just not true; we never pressure anybody. Quite a few people prefer to stay clothed while we are naked and there are some who don’t consume drugs either. Everyone can partake of whatever we are into but that has more to do with hospitality, not rules. Magic mushrooms, mescaline, LSD, marijuana, hashish and hash oil are the drugs of choice. And, as Jack loves the sociability of alcohol, there is always a bottle of Jack Daniels Black Label on hand.

  In summer a group of us sometimes camp out for a few days at Pebbly Beach, just south of Yamba, sleeping around a campfire in the dunes, living under the stars, being one with the beach, the sea, the sand and the seagulls. These are more really good times, fun times, lots of singing, laughter, all of us enjoying each other’s company and friendship. I am so completely at peace when I am surrounded by nature. It feeds my soul.

  ***

  It isn’t all drugs and nude swimming, though. Jack runs 30 to 40 head of cattle on the farm. He has a good eye for cows and horses. He sells the steers or rangy ones that don’t produce good offspring. The intention is that if his career doesn’t work out, it will be something he can fall back on. We have a Jersey cow to be milked every day and there’s always someone there to look after her.

  I hand-rear a foal named Bobo after her mother rejects her and I can ride her now because she’s strong enough and has been broken in. Being a surrogate mother and then riding her whenever I am home on the farm I develop a really strong bond with her; she is my one true ‘mate’. I miss Bobo when I am away and I always look forward to spending time exploring with her. We have a strong connection; all I have to do is walk over to the fence and whistle for her to come galloping up to me. It helps that I usually have an apple handy for her to munch on but she stands still while I apply the bridle. Sometimes I use a saddle but other times I will go bare-back. I think Bobo prefers it.

  On the farm I am Jack’s right-hand man. I assist Jack in most of the things he does, whether it’s just handing him tools or actually getting in and doing the job as well. Old Bill, our neighbour, calls me Jack’s ‘best mate’. ‘They’re very important when you’re working in the bush,’ he explains. We aren’t there all year round but when we are, there’s always some major job to be done. I’m one of the labourers. I want to be functional and helping Jack also makes me feel closer to him, almost like I am an extension of him.

  After a strong windstorm, the corrugated iron roof, still attached to the purlins, is blown off — so I get up the ladder with Jack to fix it. When the bull has pink eye I go with Jack every day to spray powder into its eyes. When it comes time to castrate and brand the cattle, I help in the yards. Jack and I plant the orchard, hand spread fertiliser and seed over the steep part of the pastures. I tend the chickens and help to fence all the new paddocks and the boundary. I stack the wood after he goes bush to collect firewood. Together we shovel gravel out of a streambed and then onto the clay driveway when it needs to be stabilised so cars can get up the slope to the house. Others help too, but I’m always in the thick of it. I feel useful, involved, engaged. I belong.

  Le does all the cooking and tends the vegetable garden while I collect the dry cow manure to fertilise it. I plant a few white and red cedar trees and water them for weeks afterwards by carting the water in buckets up the hill from the creek over and over again. Over the next few years I watch with pride and wonder as these tiny little saplings grow to majestic, ten-foot-high cedar trees. I love the opportunity to be part of the environment, to plant things and nurture them into adulthood, to come back after months away and see what changes have taken place, how everything has grown and matured. I suppose, in a way, Bobo, the cedar trees and the little rock garden could be seen as my ‘children’. I feel satisfaction and pleasure at the sight of their growth and the beauty of my handiwork.

  The first person to live on the farm full-time sits in the little cabin playing his guitar all day. He ends up with cabin fever and has to leave. Then a couple, who are into communal living, sustainability and ecology, build an enormous rainbow-coloured polystyrene dome to live in with their baby daughter. They are quite active around the place. After they leave, Beverley builds a lovely little wooden cabin. She and Patrick live there for a few years when Patrick starts school. There’s really only one rule for those living on the farm: don’t sell the dope you grow, especially not to locals. One person made that mistake and gave Jack a bad reputation around the area for a while.

  Some of our oldest friends, Kevin and Briann Kearney, make a short film, Jeremy and Teapot, on the farm. Patrick plays Jeremy, a boy who voyages through the universe with his imaginary friend Teapot, played by Brian Syron in tailcoat and top hat. Together they visit the worlds of light, sound, and even invisibility. Jack plays Jeremy’s father and also narrates the story written by Briann. The whole Thompson household — Bev, Le, Jack and I — appear in it, playing Jeremy’s earthbound family. The farm is the perfect location to film this sweet little film, set in the World of Forever. It feels like a remarkable reflection of our fantasy world on the farm.

  Chapter 8

  ‘A bull needs many cows’

  After Spyforce ends, the three of us move back to the city and live in a share house on Jersey Road, Paddington. It is 1972 and a new women’s magazine, Cleo, is launching with a nude male centrefold. They want to make a big splash. But they are having trouble attracting a significant showbiz figure to bare all as the inaugural Mate of the Month. Many men agree but then get cold feet. Time is running out; their deadline is looming. Jack is offered the job and decides it will be a good opportunity to alter the general perception of him and change his image.

  Spyforce has fixed him in the public’s mind as a tough action man with a machine gun, a guy comfortable with random acts of violence. One day a boy comes up to Jack in the street.

  ‘Are you Erskine?’ he asks, his eyes wide.

  ‘Yes,’ Jack replies.

  With that, the boy points an imaginary machine gun at him and impersonates it firing: ‘Kh-kh-kh-kh-kh-kh …’ Jack, a pacifist at heart, is shocked at how this boy identifies him with his on-screen behaviour.

  ‘I’d rather be a sex symbol than a kill symbol any day,’ Jack tells us.

  He sees the centrefold as a b
it of fun and a good way to turn conventional stereotyping on its head: if it is ‘acceptable’ for a woman to be photographed naked in magazines, then why not a man? But he doesn’t want the beefcake pose on a beach that has been proposed. I look on with no small amount of interest as he agonises for days, trying to come up with an idea that reflects much more than just his physique. Jack is searching for something that is clever and different, something that shows he is a multi-faceted person: not macho and clichéd. The sun rising between his naked thighs is definitely not the image he has in mind. He deliberately misses the dawn shoot on the beach. Instead, he is photographed reclining on a sofa in a pose emulating a classic nude — Titian’s Venus d’Urbino. The Cleo centrefold flies off the stands. Jack is now a sex symbol.

  We don’t last long at Jersey Road, though. One morning, just after I leave for work at 8 a.m., police, in the midst of raiding all the ‘weird looking’ places in the neighbourhood, raid the house. I’m lucky; I’m carrying some Turkish gold and a few choice buds of Sumatran in my handbag. It isn’t a huge stash, but is enough, if found, for the cops to make my life difficult. They find a little hash oil inside an antique hatbox in an unoccupied room, but can’t ascertain who it belongs to. There are too many people coming and going in our shared house — and no one seems to be living in the room with the dope.

  I’m glad the cops weren’t around a few days earlier. Jack is filming an episode of the TV show Linehaul, a pilot for a series about a truck driver that doesn’t eventuate. He pulls up in the middle of the street in an enormous Kenwood truck, beeping the horn madly and blocking the traffic.