Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me

by Margaret Wentworth

  I turned my attentions to persuading Christine to marry me and come out to Australia as my wife. Christine wasn’t the romantic marrying type, not one who wanted to be tied to a husband and family. Although she’d been invaluable in carrying out domestic duties, Christine had never assumed the mother role and seemed to avoid physical contact with the children. She was more like a friend to them. Perhaps she had difficulty relating properly to the children, because she’d never had any of her own.

  Christine became most depressed every time I brought up immigration. I tried to excite her with the promise of living on a property in Australia and owning her own horse. She was highly sceptical. But I was keen to go and kept on at her. She agreed to marry me and come out to Australia on the understanding she’d return and take up her long-overdue university studies.

  So, in 1972, I married my 24-year-old bride at a Salvation Army citadel in London, with my children as witnesses. They treated the ceremony as a fun day out. Mum was now in her eighties and could not work up the energy to get excited about my fourth wedding.

  I dissolved my driving school, sold my car business and paid our fares to Australia with the proceeds. I bought a motorised caravan. I arranged that our three dogs be placed in kennels. When my family was settled, we would have them sent over. I made special arrangements to be met and guided by Salvationists in Australia, feeling they might be able to assist if we got into strife.

  Only weeks before we left, Doreen paid me a surprise visit with Arnold, then in his twenties. Doreen looked lovely in a red dress with her fluffy blonde hair protected from the wind by a red scarf. I told Doreen how fit and good looking she was. She said that she’d soon be 40, an age she’d never wanted to reach; she talked of ending her life with an overdose, believing it to be easy and painless. I was surprised at Doreen’s negativity and asked her why she was saying these things. She told me her grandmother, who she adored, had just died. Doreen’s grandmother had raised her and they’d always had a special and close relationship.

  Doreen said that she visited me because she wanted to momentarily glimpse her past to help her with the future. When I told her that I was going to Australia with Christine, my new wife, I saw pain in her eyes, but she said nothing. Doreen reached into her handbag, opened her purse, and handed each of my children a £1 note. She wished us all the best. I hugged Doreen and then Arnold.

  A week before we left for Australia, Christine drove our three dogs to the boarding kennels. She was terribly upset. I tried to comfort her, explaining that in about a year’s time we’d be reunited with our dogs, but this seemed a long way off. That last week in London was very disturbing for all of us. Although I tried to inspire everyone with confidence, somewhere deep inside was a nagging doubt: was I doing the right thing?

  A couple of days before we left, I paid my final visit to the corner store. I’d been shopping there for months and often smiled at a young lady with a baby who regularly went there too. I hadn’t seen her for a while and asked the storekeeper where she was. ‘Didn’t you hear?’ he replied. ‘She jumped from the flats behind us with the baby in her arms.’ I was shocked. I hurried home to tell Christine, feeling this might make her feel more confident that we were doing the right thing leaving this unhealthy environment.

  On the day of departure, in April 1972, I phoned my family to say goodbye. There was electric excitement in the air as we stacked all our suitcases together on the railway platform, awaiting the train to Southampton. I felt sick with nervous fear. This was the biggest decision I’d ever made in my life. Christine was quiet and withdrawn. When the train arrived and we moved our heavy bags into it, she hung back until the very last moment. Amid colourful streamers and excited farewells from well-wishers, the Australis pulled away from Southampton wharf and headed out to the grey-blue ocean.

  1. British Men

  Ces and Bill Tucker, 1959; Bill was killed in truck smash.

  Ces's half-brother Tony, mighty handy in a scrap.

  Ces and another half-brother, Bill, 'one of the heavies in my gang' as Ces wrote.

  Jock McAvoy, British middle weight champion, wearing the Lonsdale belt he won. (Inset: McAvoy leaving Manchester on his US tour, when Ces knew him)

  2. Acting Up

  Ces's casting photo.

  Ces in Australian slouch hat - a prophetic shot.

  Ces the naughty vicar.

  A still from the 1963 film 'Shadow of Fear', with Ces playing the gunman.

  Ces with photographer's wife, his own caption 'A bird in the hand...'

  Ces, officer material.

  3. Family life in the Old Country

  Doreen, Ces's 'blonde in red' with their son Arnold on their last visit to Ces.

  Gloria and Baby Guy.

  Dean 'trying to catch the sun' and Tracey in the backyard.

  Gloria, Guy, Dean and Tracey in the same yard.

  4. Uses of Photography

  At the naturist camp in Kent.

  The wronged husband and father posed with his motherless children 'one day after Gloria left' for this shot. The longshot (inset) shows the area they lived in.

  Christine Hicks at home. Ces's interest in photography lasted all his life.

  5. The London Years

  Tracey in the kitchen of the Waters' Wilberforce Road house.

  Troy, Guy, Tracey and Dean in front of the tree, Christmastime.

  Finsbury Park, last white Christmas 1971, Christine with Camera

  Family sightseeing in London before embarkation

  (as above)

  6. Manchester and Dartmoor, 1950s

  I found this photograph in an old 'Manchester Guardian', photocopied it and showed it to Ces, who immediately recognised that it was taken before the city centre became a smokeless zone.

  Cell ready for inspection, Dartmoor.

  Cell block corridor, Dartmoor.

  7. New Home

  Ces took this photograph of Christine, Troy, Guy and Dean, Tracey obscured behind, on the Nullabor Plain, making their way east in the Bedford van.

  The Yarramalong Valley, from Bumble.

  Ces in his heyday at Kulnura, dreaming his awesome dreams of gladiatorial splendour.

  8. Australian Kids

  Ces and Gloria's children, about 1975 (ages given approximate):

  Tracey, 14

  Dean, 13

  Troy, 10

  Guy, 12

  9. Family Life in the New Country

  The Waters boys metamorphosed into Aussie school boys.

  Tracey with her beloved Ringer and Troy. Christine and Ces bought a sickly nag called Yamaha at auction and transformed it into a sleek fine horse inside two months.

  Christine and Ces take a break.

  10. Early contact.

  The author 1982, when Ces entered her life.

  Husband John Meagher about that time.

  Ces clowning a mock punch to Dean Meagher's jaw.

  Dean, John and Jinka Meagher.

  11. Rebels with a Cause.

  John Meagher filming Surf to City run, Gosford, the Waters boys entered.

  John discussing filming with Ces (in a rare hatless moment) and his sons.

  12. Ces's Places

  Dean works a post-hole digger on the author's Bumble Hill property.

  The Waters house at Kulnura.

  Ces's camp on our Bumble property.

  Ces's caravan kitchen, Bumble.

  13. This Sporting Life.

  Ces and his sons jogging.

  The ring rebuilt at Bumble, training ground for the Waters champions, the mighty New Zealand-born Samoan Jimmy Thunder who won the IBF world heavyweight championship in 1993 when Cess was 66, Steve Unterholtzer, Danny Boy Pierce and others.

  Troy, Dean and Guy have a day at the races.

  14. The Hard Path to Glory.

  Christine, mounted, and Ces from his vantage point, watch a somewhat unorthodox three-way sparring session between the three boys.

  Dean works the heavy bag under Ces's tuiti
on. The bag had BUGNER MUST FALL written on it. Joe Bugner was the Australian heavyweight champ when this book first went to press.

  Troy Waters between rounds.

  Ces, acting as second, tending a boxer between rounds.

  15. Days of Gloved Glory and Other Paths.

  Tracey had found happiness and husband Marc in Sydney by 1994 when this was taken.

  Australian champion heavyweight/cruiserweight Dean and sparring partners before the makeshift training ring.

  Australian and Commonwealth lightweight champion Troy poses for this publicity shot before his departure to San Diego for a shot at the world title, a fight many fans say he should have won but the judges didn't agree.

  Police at Allen Hall's Warnervale property the day after Hall was shot dead.

  16. Last Days.

  I often think Ces had this photograph taken with the intent of making his sons feel guilty about his poverty and their 'betrayal' - it was rare for Ces not to act up for the camera.

  Ces painting the landscape from nature, a hobby of his in later years.

  The author's and Ces's family on the porch at Bumble a month after Ces's death.

  The author holding Jinka, John, Ces, Margaret Barnett and Marty Rhone at Dean and Kelly's wedding.

  Ces and Margaret Barnett, the woman to whom he imparted extraordinary health and happiness and who loved him deeply in return.

  Book 2

  Sunny Australia

  The two most beautiful things in the world are a woman in love and a ship in sail. But you must be strong with them and they will lead you through fair and foul. Be weak with them and they will lead you to Hell. And if to Hell I must go, then give me a ship.

  Ces Waters, often

  24 New Place, New Life

  You’ve got to come to Australia.

  It’s wonderful and it’s made for people like us.

  Criminal to Ronald Biggs, Great Train Robber

  On a crisp Autumn morning in early May 1972, our ship nudged the wharf at Fremantle, Western Australia. All around me was excitement and activity. I was reluctant to leave the ship’s security and stayed on board as long as possible. I had family responsibilities and only £7 in my pocket. What sort of work could I do out here? Apart from driving instruction, I’d no formal training in anything. Would I be able to fit into the Australian lifestyle or would I feel displaced and rejected? I’d made some bad decisions before so I had to question my judgement.

  Eventually, after everyone else had disembarked, I gathered up my young family and walked into the strangeness of this foreign land, its glaring sunlight, deep blue sky and fresh clean air. When my foot touched Australian soil, I felt that I’d cut a rope. There was no returning.

  We were soon met by a Salvation Army captain who’d got my letter and had made arrangements for us to stay at the Captain Fremantle Lodge. It was luxurious with thick pile carpet and all the mod cons. I was shocked at how expensive the accommodation was: $80 a week without food was a lot more than I’d anticipated. I was forced to sell antiques and artefacts I’d bought at auctions in and around London.

  Some of our other possessions were on their way over in another ship and we needed to go to the shipping company to find out details of their arrival. We passed through an industrial area and some Aboriginals walked unsteadily towards us, yelling and swearing. We ignored them as best we could. Quite unexpectedly, one woman punched Christine in the face. Christine coloured in anger. I told her to just keep walking; I didn’t want us booted out of Australia so soon after we arrived. But the experience was a shock to Christine, who may well have wondered why she hadn’t followed her instincts and stayed in familiar old London.

  Our motorised Bedford caravan called ‘Act II’ arrived a week later. I’d converted it from a two-seater to a six-berth for our journey, as I thought it wise not to rely on other people for accommodation and transport.

  We thoroughly enjoyed our short stay in Fremantle—the sparkling Swan River, black swans, parklands and attractive bungalow-style houses in quiet tidy suburbs. We were swimming and sunbaking at the beach nearly every day and gaining a tan.

  In a spirit of adventure, my family set out to the eastern shore of Australia, over 3000 kilometres away. We had planned to stay for a while in outback locations on our way to Adelaide, then Sydney. Perhaps after that we’d travel up the east coast to the warmer climate of Queensland, where we’d settle down.

  Our first destination was Kalgoorlie. Our old caravan was not really prepared for all the shuddering and bumping over rocky roads and potholes. A quarter of the way there I had to repair a broken steering and ball joint. After hours of driving through dry scrub semi-desert, we eventually arrived.

  I found a school and enrolled the children immediately, then managed to get some work on one of the local gold mines. I wasn’t very impressed by my first contact with outback Australian men, they seemed very anti-British, drank and swore far too much, and generally behaved in a coarse and crude manner.

  After two months we travelled east across the Nullarbor Plain, 700 kilometres of it. The only signs of humanity were small, infrequent groups of shacks where the railway fettlers lived, their backdoors opening to the desert vastness. At night I looked up to the most glorious clear black sky illuminated by masses of stars, overwhelmed by the beauty and splendour of it. Magnificent orange sunrises, where the sun burst from behind the dunes like a huge fiery ball. Wild flowers blooming in the dry desert sand. The pink splendour of the bush called Christmas bush heralding a time of year I associated with snow, not heat and flies.

  The children enjoyed the travelling. Christine had been a strong and supportive companion, although she found parts hard-going, irritated by the lack of water, intense heat, sticky flies and airborne dry sand. We were always shaking sand out of our food, belongings, bedding, clothing, hair. Sometimes the willy willies stirred up great clouds of sand which stung our eyes and faces as they whirled and raced across the barren landscape.

  By Adelaide our funds were exhausted. We had no money left for food or petrol. Christine sold a valuable pair of half-sovereign earrings to keep us going a bit longer.

  We stayed a month at Renmark, on the South Australian Murray River, lush flat irrigated river plains scattered with orchards and vineyards. I dug ditches for the local council in order to receive social security. The local Salvation Army captain was very nosey and thought my caravan too small for my family. He said that he’d get the local welfare officer to have a look at it, and maybe try to get us a bigger one. I knew what his game was. I stalled him for a week then packed our bags and disappeared.

  While the children went to a local school at Gol Gol, near Mildura, Christine and I picked fruit. We lived from hand to mouth, the money we earned each day would buy our evening meal. Many times I sent the children to school without lunch and brought sandwiches in a brown paper bag at midday. Some days, when no work was available, I’d picture them waiting by the school fence, looking down the empty road, knowing their gnawing hunger would not be satisfied.

  On Christmas Eve we arrived in Sydney. The journey had taken seven months. We’d applied for membership in the naturist camp at Terrey Hills, an undulating northern suburb where houses were wide spaced and surrounded by greenery and large areas of natural bush-land. As soon as we arrived there we confirmed our membership. They suggested a caravan park not far away, but we were turned away because it was full of holiday-makers. I stopped outside a house in Mona Vale Road and asked where the next closest caravan park was? They said it would probably be full too. The residents had English accents. One thing led to another and they gave us permission to put our caravan in their driveway for a couple of days.

  After Christmas we got casual work at the Warringah Garden Centre. The owner, Cedrick Bond, was short staffed. The whole family ended up working there over the holidays, moving plants around and doing odd jobs. We found accommodation: a $20-a-week rat-infested ramshackle weatherboard house in North Narrabeen. It was so di
lapidated we continued living in the caravan for two weeks while we carried out some essential repairs. It was bare of furniture, so we shopped for second-hand items.