by Nikki Stern
A few months later, we learnt the result of John’s legal challenge to the video franchise fee: under the constitution, the ACT government was not empowered to impose an excise. Although a victory for the porn industry, this was only the first stage in the lengthy legal battle. Now the High Court had to determine whether the 40 per cent franchise fee was in fact an excise.
One spring morning, Saskia phoned Paul to say that his grandmother’s health had drastically deteriorated; Omoe was apparently close to death. Immediately, he began making plans to travel to San Diego, where Omoe was staying with one of her sons, a padre in the US military.
I was uneasy about travelling with baby Ben who, although now doing well, was only a few months old. But Paul’s powers of persuasion prevailed and our whole family embarked on a trip to the United States, the purpose of which was twofold: to see Omoe one last time, and to allow her to see her great-grandchildren.
We also took the opportunity to see Brian, who was holidaying in Los Angeles. Saskia’s revelations had cast him in a new light and Paul now realised that his father had perhaps been unfairly vilified. Nevertheless, Brian’s constant flippancy discouraged any kind of deep discussion of the issues surrounding Saskia’s original pregnancy.
We returned to Canberra exhausted and jet lagged. Nothing prepared us, however, for the phone call we received that very day: after returning to Montreal, Brian had died. Only in his fifties, he had suffered a fatal heart attack.
Immediately Paul made arrangements to attend the funeral. We hadn’t even unpacked and yet here he was, about to fly to Canada. His grief was compounded by anger that Brian had consistently refused to acknowledge Paul to anyone other than his wife and two sons. Being his father’s spitting image, Paul relished the prospect of turning up at the funeral and carrying the coffin down the aisle for all to see.
Paul returned from Canada in a meditative mood. We sat on the balcony overlooking our view as he pondered life, with a Heineken in one hand and a joint in the other.
‘You know, pet, I loved it: you should have seen the look on everyone’s face.’ To their credit, Paul’s half-brothers had included him in the funeral notice, although no-one was prepared for how much they looked alike. ‘I’m his clone.’
I knew it would have been an amazing experience, which Paul saw as a giant ‘fuck you’.
‘Not that he was a bad person, but he didn’t do right by me, really.’
‘True . . . but at least you got to meet him.’
‘Yeah, three times—four, if you count him lying in his coffin.’ Paul said I shouldn’t worry. ‘One day, you’ll get to meet your mother, even if I have to drag her down here myself.’
‘I’ve practically given up on her,’ I sighed, but he warned me not to leave it too long.
‘Sometimes, I think my life is like a soap opera.’ He’d often said this but perhaps, lately, it seemed truer. ‘I wanna write about us someday. You and me . . . we are the amateur porn industry and that makes us part of social history. Our life—it’s unique. We’re meant to be together. I know I’m not much of a husband or father, but I try in my own bumbling way.’
‘Well, we could write our memoir,’ I said. I’d always enjoyed writing and had kept voluminous diaries as a teenager. It was a pity I hadn’t kept one recently, although I’d always had an excellent memory. I remembered Mae West saying something about keeping a diary, and then one day it would keep you.
Paul was already excited. ‘It wouldn’t be the standard porn-star memoir with the usual deprived childhood and drug addiction dross.’ He wanted our book to be about contrasts: my childhood, mixing with the doyens of the cultural world, and then the sex, sleaze and smut. ‘Ours is an extraordinary love story that needs to be told . . . for posterity.’
‘You’ve got a lot of talent—you could definitely be a memoirist . . . or a novelist. Why don’t we quit all the porn shit and go back to Melbourne and live in Dory’s house . . . and write.’
‘No way.’
‘But we could retire on my trust income. We don’t need to be doing the porn.’
But Paul wouldn’t hear of it. Part of him thrived on the adrenalin rush of living on the societal fringe, although I’d long tired of the lifestyle.
Robbie sent through to the office a fax informing us that the anti-porn bill had passed through the Northern Territory Legislative Assembly. Paul was angry and raced home to tell me.
‘We’re fucked!’ he exclaimed. ‘Looks like we might have to move back to Melbourne after all.’ The legislation had totally banned the duplication of videos in the Territory and imposed a twenty thousand dollar penalty per video duplicated.
Apparently Gerry was planning to revert to duplicating in Canberra, then freighting the tapes to Darwin for despatch. That would be cheaper than paying the ACT’s tax, but the courier costs would be horrendous and it didn’t seem viable any more.
Paul read out the succinct verdict of one opposition politician from Hansard: ‘You are allowed to watch someone being cut up with a chainsaw, but you cannot watch people having a bang.’
‘You’re kidding?’ I asked. ‘They’re saying that in parliament?’
‘Yeah . . . well, the Legislative Assembly—same thing.’
Anyway, I thought, we’re fucked.
24
‘Your birth mother’s a fucking bitch.’ Paul lit a cigarette as he leaned back on our balcony railing.
I felt that was a bit unfair, but he told me to look at the facts: I’d first made contact over a year ago, when she promised to meet me, and all I’d had was a litany of excuses. It had been months since I’d sent the letter to Trudie.
‘She’s not being straight with you,’ he argued, ‘and she hasn’t answered your letter asking for your father’s name. That’s the least she could do if she doesn’t want to know you.’
I replied she was probably feeling afraid and threatened, but he said that was no excuse. And, he was emphatic that she had no right to ask me not to speak to my own aunt—just because she was in a 1950s time warp where single mothers were frowned upon.
‘Call your Auntie Bess and tell her who you are,’ he urged, ‘or I’ll call her myself.’ I had kept her phone number for just such an occasion.
It was at times like this that I appreciated Paul’s decisiveness. Of course, I knew his views were formed as a result of his own situation, having been denied his father’s name for so long; but I was persuaded by the force of his argument. I knew he had my best interests at heart and I admired him for the strength of his convictions.
So I called Bess, full of trepidation. Once I had told her who I was, she was overjoyed to hear from me, never questioning my identity. Although she hadn’t known of my existence, she didn’t seem surprised; perhaps she’d even suspected Trudie had a child and recognised my letter for what it was. She said my appearance explained why my mother left so suddenly for Sydney all those years ago, supposedly for a job—something that had always puzzled her.
I apologised for fobbing her off previously, clarifying that it was only because Trudie had asked me to. In our hour-long conversation, I learnt far more about my relatives than the morsels my own mother had given me. Bess was everything that my mother was not: a retired nurse, she was warm and compassionate; she welcomed me into the family, saying no doubt everyone would be delighted to learn of my existence.
I explained how distressed I was that Trudie wouldn’t tell me who my father was. In her matronly manner, Bess said she’d march over to Trudie’s place and extract my father’s name.
An hour later, she called back to tell me that Trudie would write to me soon.
Paul was with me when the letter from Trudie finally arrived. My fingers trembled as I opened her letter, with its shaky copperplate writing.
She started off talking about the weather. Then:
Your father was a Senior Qantas Pilot whom I met in 1947 in Townsville. He made stopovers there. He was 2nd in charge on the regular run: Sydney, Port Moresby N.G.; h
e was ex-RAAF and was sent overseas during World War II. Also, he was decorated with a DFC . . .
He used to get pains in his legs, sometimes cramps; also headaches which he never reported and of course were not picked up. He was worried he had a brain tumour. I left for Sydney and realised I was pregnant later. I never contacted him, nor did I speak with him again.
In June 1956 his death notice appeared in the paper with a statement from Qantas. Rather, I should say his disappearance from North Head. His car was found nearby in a deserted area. His jacket was neatly folded over his wallet.
He had committed suicide in Sydney when I was just three months old. I was still reeling from the shock; I thought that perhaps he must have had some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. His father had come to see Trudie after they’d found her telephone number and address among his possessions, but she was relieved to be able to say truthfully that she hadn’t seen him since Townsville.
She’d added: The father’s family came from Scotland. His parents took it all so badly: he was their only child. Your father’s name was Allan Proctor. Then she signed off with all my love to you and Paul, and big hugs to the little ones, which was sweet.
‘What a tragic story,’ I said. But frankly, it had opened up more questions than it had answered.
Paul’s alcohol consumption had escalated since Brian’s death. He was also constantly irritable and argumentative. At night he would retreat to his room, withdrawing from me and the children. Often he would sleepwalk in a drunken daze, reeking of alcohol in the morning.
‘Listen,’ he suddenly said over dinner one evening. ‘I’ve had a call from Gerry in Darwin. The business has had a major downturn . . . and some of our accounts are in arrears.’
I knew instantly that things were probably far worse than Paul was letting on.
‘Gerry reckons he can’t keep subsidising Flesh. It has to start paying for itself.’
I had thought it was, but apparently not. It had become too expensive to despatch the videos out of the Northern Territory. We may have been avoiding the 40 per cent franchise fee in Canberra, but the cost of freighting everything up to Darwin then freighting it all back south again was prohibitive, especially as most of our clients were in the eastern states.
I insisted that we go to the office and speak to Flora. With two children under two years, it was months since I’d visited.
Flora was grim as she showed us the accounts. I couldn’t understand how the debt had become so large without us knowing.
She hesitated. ‘Well . . . I did warn Paul.’ She said he was ordering so much stock and there just wasn’t the cashflow any more, because of the large courier bills.
‘Yeah, I know—he never listens,’ I said, glaring at Paul. ‘You told me the business was doing well. We should never have gone overseas,’ I lamented.
I had trusted him with the business and he’d kept reassuring me everything was fine. I’d been having babies for the past two years while he’d been racing around in a Beamer we couldn’t afford and living in a house we couldn’t pay for.
‘Oh, my God—the house!’ I wailed. It suddenly dawned on me that we were going to lose it because he’d talked me into putting it in the company name. I was furious now. ‘You’ve talked me into some stupid things, but that was one of the fucking stupidest!’
‘But Danny at Deloittes said we could tax deduct the loan,’ Paul offered lamely.
‘Yeah, if we’re making a profit.’ I explained, as if to a child, that a tax deduction when you’re making a loss is just a bigger loss. I was frustrated by his inability to grasp basic principles. He just didn’t get it.
‘You’re accountancy-challenged,’ I sniped, knowing we were facing disaster.
Paul began lengthy negotiations with Gerry and reported back to me once a deal had been struck. Gerry pointed out that technically we’d been trading while insolvent—as company directors, we would be breaking the law if we continued in business. He offered a solution whereby we would avoid bankruptcy.
Gerry proposed to take over everything, including our liabilities. He would take possession of our house and Flesh, from which he’d satisfy the creditors; we’d retain all the copyright material—the footage and photos—and walk away. Given that he was the main creditor, it seemed like a good deal for us.
‘Yeah,’ I barely hesitated. ‘Let’s do it.’
It broke my heart to let go of the staff, particularly Tanya and Tessa, but I knew they’d find employment elsewhere. We began packing up the office. Other than all our footage, photos and negs, I didn’t take much with me, besides client orders and correspondence.
Paul suggested that maybe my trustees could buy the house from our company with some of their spare cash. But I’d already discussed that with them: they wouldn’t buy real estate in a territory, because it wasn’t freehold property—all ACT land is government owned and on a 99-year lease.
‘That’s just a technicality,’ said Paul. ‘Fucking conservative bastards!’
Anyway, I wanted to live in Melbourne; we had a choice of two houses there. ‘Don’t complain. If it wasn’t for Dory’s trust fund, we’d be out on the streets.’
But Paul flatly refused to move into either of them. He labelled the Balwyn house as too small and thought we should sell the Warrandyte one. Reluctantly, I agreed, instructing the trust to buy another property with the proceeds.
So the trustees sold the Kangaroo Ground Road home and bought a suburban property in the eastern suburb of Templestowe. I felt sad at the loss of our uniquely charming house, but our new ‘executive residence’ boasted quality amenities. The only thing missing was an extra bedroom—I worried how Paul and I would fare being forced to sleep in the same bed.
Perhaps because he was feeling guilty about losing the business, Paul again broached the subject of me meeting my mother. He’d had an idea: he was going to call up Trudie and tell her that he was shouting me a trip to Townsville for my birthday. ‘You have to meet her—before she carks it . . . like Brian,’ he warned me.
‘But she doesn’t want to meet me,’ I countered.
‘Rubbish. She just needs a little push.’
I fervently hoped it wouldn’t be too traumatic for her.
So Paul rang Trudie. I asked him excitedly what she’d said. ‘It’s all arranged,’ he said, explaining that she obviously didn’t want me in Queensland, and so she was coming to Canberra instead. ‘Anyway, I told her we’d put her up at the Hyatt. It was either that or the Pavilion, and I couldn’t do that—not after we’d shot porn movies there!’
‘The Hyatt?’ I said, thinking how lucky it was that we still had my trust income. Unfortunately, it was bad timing. The house was full of boxes containing the packed-up office contents: cartons with labels like Horny Housewife, Videos 1 to 5. ‘We’ll just have to hope she doesn’t go snooping when she comes here to visit.’
‘Hey, maybe we can throw a sheet over them—like what we did with Donald!’
I laid eyes on my mother for the very first time as she entered the arrivals lounge at Canberra Airport. Nervously, I greeted her with a hug and a kiss, while she stood stiffly in my arms, nattering about flight turbulence.
‘Let me look at you,’ I said, still holding her with my arms outstretched. ‘I want to study your face.’ Her features were strong: she was a handsome woman with lively green eyes and olive skin. She certainly did not look her 72 years.
As we drove back to Fadden, our conversation was stilted. Paul seemed genuinely excited to meet her, but Shoshanna and I had reservations. We discussed it: there was a vitality lacking, her voice and vowels both flat. I recalled Dory’s vivacity, her joie de vivre despite her own tragedies. Trudie had none of that.
I dreaded getting through the next days, feeding her the fantasy that I was just an ordinary housewife. Part of me wanted to shock her, by telling her the truth of what my life had become: that despite all the trappings of an upper middle-class existence, we were actually purveyors of pornogr
aphy on a massive scale. I didn’t want to play the charade of ‘We’re in marketing’, and I wondered how she’d react if I simply told her the truth. After all, I didn’t think I owed her anything—or vice versa. And I didn’t think she had the right to judge me; yet I knew she would.
But I just couldn’t tell her.
Despite my prodding, I got little more than sketchy details of Trudie and Allan’s almost ten-year relationship. They had met just after the war and had started ‘seeing each other’—whatever that meant. I gathered I was conceived in a Townsville hotel where Qantas had rooms permanently reserved for its captains. I doubted she’d found out about her pregnancy after she’d left Queensland: it didn’t quite tally with Bess’s assessment.
Apparently Allan repeatedly tried to contact her in Sydney; but she refused his calls, even asking her landlady to lie about her whereabouts. She didn’t want him to know of her pregnancy, possibly because she was too proud to accept the inevitable marriage proposal that would follow. Either way, he then killed himself at a well-known suicide spot. However, his body was never recovered from the ocean.
After we left her at her hotel, Paul and I had a chance to chat.
‘So, what do you think?’ he asked eagerly.
I was still digesting it all. It was so bizarre. I couldn’t believe that I was related to her; in truth, I didn’t want to be related to her. ‘Actually, if I’m really honest, I don’t like her much,’ I admitted, painful as it was to say that.
I was trying very hard to warm to her, but it wasn’t easy. I just couldn’t respect her; I felt she had owed it to Allan to tell him she was pregnant. It was possible he might not have killed himself if he’d known he had a baby. ‘And imagine not telling his grieving parents—who’ve just lost their only child—that you’ve just borne their only grandchild,’ I said. ‘It’s cruel.’ I believed it would have given them something to live for—in fact, I was still in the orphanage when he died.