Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me

by Margaret Wentworth

  I began to feel homesick. One day I switched on the television and watched an English soccer match. I no longer felt so isolated. The lovely warm weather and clear blue skies appealed, as did the wide spaces of suburbia, so unlike Manchester and London and heaven compared to being behind bars. I counted my blessings and decided I’d made the right decision. Australia was my new home.

  My family was so happy living in Sydney we lost our desire to go further north. We sent to the boarding kennels for Josie, Beautie and Logan to be shipped over to complete our family.

  A letter arrived from England in Sylvia’s handwriting. My heart froze in shock when I read how my former wife and dear friend, Doreen, had taken a fatal overdose of aspirin soon after I’d left. I was overcome by grief. At our last meeting I’d excitedly told Doreen I was leaving England to begin a new life with my children and Christine. I realised the combination of this and her grandmother’s death must have broken her spirit. It was difficult coming to terms with Doreen’s death. My memories wavered between recollections of our happy earlier times and some of our wonderful escapades, and then the disintegration of our relationship with her alcoholism and my intolerance of how she’d let herself go.

  Another letter with English stamps arrived, a friendly one from Diana, asking me what Australia was like as she and Dids were thinking of emigrating too. Diana hadn’t spoken to me for years and I knew she wasn’t thinking of coming over out of any affection. They were probably escaping from the heat of their illegal activities. I’d heard through the family grapevine Dids and Diana ‘were hiring caravans under fake names and selling them in other towns. Obviously they’d saved up the fare to Australia. I wrote back describing Australia’s snakes and spiders. I lied: Australia was awful, we might return soon. Not long after this, we heard they had arrived in Australia on a three-month visa. Obviously my letter about crawlies hadn’t deterred them. They were living in various caravan parks, probably ripping people off with their criminal behaviour. After three months I heard they stayed on as illegal immigrants, constantly dodging the authorities in their nomadic existence. I felt uncomfortable about them being out here and wished them back in England for good.

  We began going to the naturist camp regularly and met many interesting people. We enjoyed partner-swapping with a holidaying couple from London, Reg, a commercial photographer, and his wife, an attractive actress. We became good friends and visited them on several occasions. One day Reg invited me over to see some of his work. His backroom had a large blanket on the floor and a sunray lamp above it. We took off our clothes and had an indoor sunbathe. Then Reg wanted me to pose with his wife. We both dressed up in some of their props and assumed cheeky positions. While we were being photographed, I didn’t realise Reg’s neighbours were sitting on a landing staring at us.

  Christine was 22 years my junior and far more promiscuous than me. At 46 my prostate still caused me a lot of discomfort and I knew I couldn’t satisfy her. We agreed Christine should advertise for her own men friends. In return for her favours some of them gave her presents, others money. Christine’s sexual arrangements developed over the years, a lot of which has been misconstrued.

  When the Christmas holidays ended, Cedrick Bond kept Christine on. Over the ensuing months they developed a close relationship. He gave her a regular job as a sales girl which she kept for many years, sometimes working late into the evenings. As far as I was concerned, what Christine was doing in her spare time was her business and I didn’t interfere. I visited her at the Garden Centre one day and she introduced me to a customer who was also one of her boyfriends, James York [non de plume, for legal reasons], a pleasant dark-haired business executive. When I told him what sort of business I was in, he asked me if I could register his old Rover as he was experiencing some difficulty. I helped him out happily.

  My main source of income was selling cars. I’d buy cars twice a week from the Sydney motor auctions and then sell them through local newspapers such as the Manly Daily. I registered the dealership in Christine’s name; she didn’t have a police record. I acted as her salesman and buyer. I took my profession seriously and wasn’t dishonest. I was dealing with family safety so I always fixed the brakes and steering if they seemed worn or faulty. Most customers were satisfied with the deal and service, but like all second-hand car businesses, there were a few complaints. I tried to keep my customers happy but I was foremost a salesman trying to earn a living for his large family. I was not in a position to make costly repairs or re-negotiate deals.

  Another of Christine’s boyfriends was not so easily satisfied. He called on me when she wasn’t home. After some polite chit-chat, he said he had something to ask me and tried to in several nervous attempts but couldn’t get it out. He feared I’d get angry and asked that I talk to Christine about it. That night, in bed, I asked Christine what was on the fellow’s mind; she coolly said the man wanted my permission to take Tracey to bed. I hit the roof—Tracey was only 12. I was amazed she hadn’t knocked the idea cold when it was first put to her. That man was banned from my house thenceforth.

  After a few months, Cedrick Bond found us a better house in Terrey Hills, on a 2-hectare block, $27 a week. It was not uncommon for Cedrick to visit us there; I assumed it was because of his affection for Christine.

  Davidson Public School was in the same road so I sent the children there. They fitted in well and were highly thought of. They learned to play soccer. I gave my children every opportunity to improve their physical skills. When Dean started high school he competed in the district shotput and javelin championships; he didn’t win but I was proud he took part and tried hard.

  Tracey trained daily with the boys, jogging about 5 kilometres a day. She was an excellent long-distance runner from one to 10 miles and I saw in her great potential. On occasions she’d go into 400 or 800 metre races at the Sydney Sports Ground or Chatswood athletic field. One day I went to Chatswood to see her run but arrived there late. A spectator came up to me, ‘Oh, what a runner that girl of yours is. She murdered the best three in the State! She ran the 800 metres as if she was running 50 yards—it was wonderful to watch her!’ I felt proud.

  Although Tracey was a very good athlete, she seemed to lack drive and confidence. She would get into moods and, despite the pressure, fall behind in a race and not give it her best shot. During one cross-country run she competed in, I ran through the woods, took some short-cuts and caught up with her. I could tell she wasn’t trying. I jabbed my fingers in her back and pushed, yelling, ‘Come on, move yourself!’ The moment I did this, she just shot off. It was incredible how many girls she passed as she quickly gained 12 places. Soon she was out of sight. There was some kind of generating force missing in Tracey: she couldn’t drive herself. This weakness would cause her a lot of strife in later life if we didn’t get on top of it.

  Later that year I drove Tracey to Wyong, where the qualifying races were being held for the State titles. We discovered with mounting panic that we couldn’t find the local high school where the competition was being held. When we did, the crucial race had already been run. We were all very upset. Tracey had trained very hard for it. The day after the State finals race, I bought a newspaper which told me what the winning time had been. We drove to Chatswood Oval where they’d been held and I timed Tracey running the same distance. She came in streets ahead of the official winning time. I was hoping this would inspire her to train hard.

  Now that we had several acres of land, it seemed fitting we should introduce some animals into our lives. We bought a black-and-white cow we named Phyllis. Tracey was fascinated by horses and always borrowing one owned by a girl across the road. I knew that she would adore a horse of her own. So I went to an auction where horses were sent before being condemned to the abattoirs. I ended up buying Ringer, a two-year-old gelding. Tracey took to Ringer with natural ability and rode him bareback for the first few weeks until I managed to scrape together money for a saddle. She took riding lessons and entered equestrian competit
ions with Ringer every couple of weeks. We also bought a four-year-old gelding, Yamaha, which the children enjoyed riding on, as well as a trotting stallion, Star of Lock, with equestrian potential.

  Christine went in a few cross-country events on Ringer and did very well, coming in the first five. Then I trained Ringer for• a 40-kilometre cross-country event and he won. We owed money to the vet who was in charge. When Christine came in the vet examined Ringer. `The heart’s beating too fast. I’m disqualifying him.’ Apparently he felt that if a horse had been pushed too hard, this indicated a lack of riding judgement and skill. I felt it was an act of viciousness and revenge; the horse was fantastic. We washed Ringer down, cooled him off, took him straight to a trotting meeting in Wiseman’s Ferry where you trot out and stand still, trot out and stand still again. Ringer won second prize on the same day. A few weeks later, Star of Lock won third prize in the equestrian competition at the Royal Easter Show. Christine showed real qualities of horsemanship.

  Sylvia rang. Our mum had died. She was over 90, the quality of her later life diminished by severe rheumatism. After I put the receiver down I went for a quiet walk across the property to reminisce about my younger years with mum. She’d always been supportive of me. I recalled her compassionate grey-green eyes, the gravy-soup smell of her apron as she pulled my head to her soft warm breast in those loving protective moments. Such a hard life; she was a survivor with a heart of gold. I felt deep loss. Sylvia had planted a rose bush on mum’s grave which would bloom every June around her birthday.

  When Beautie, Josie and Logan came out of quarantine, the reunion was thrilling. Christine cried, the children laughed, the little dogs barked and smothered us in licks, wagging their tails and jumping up and down in uncontrollable excitement.

  For three nights running I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned; something was haunting me. Then I realised .I was concerned about eating animals. I loved them, yet I ate them. I talked about this quandary to the family and we all agreed to become vegetarians, omitting even fish. I’ve not regretted it. The closest creature to the human being is the gorilla, one of the strongest two-legged creatures in the world, and gorillas don’t eat meat. I felt I was a better man for this and I exerted a positive and beneficial influence on my family.

  I was keen to help those less fortunate. There was a children’s home in Kurringah where children from underprivileged families or broken homes were sent. On alternate weekends we’d invite one or two of these children to share a day with us on our block. Handicapped children too enjoyed riding the horses. Because of my disabilities as a child, I was at ease with these children. I had to rely on Christine, the more experienced riding teacher. At first she was nervous around spastic children or those with walking or speech defects. In time she overcame her fear and ended up doing a splendid job. Over several months we saw the children gaining skill and confidence as they clung to the backs of our gentle horses. The joy on their faces brought tears to my eyes. They were very special little human beings.

  My boys were taught Christian principles such as humility, honesty and consideration for others at all times. Troy’s teacher asked the class what happened if you steal. She was hoping to stimulate a discussion about traditional law enforcement. Troy’s hand shot up. `My father chops your hand off!’ The class roared with laughter, but the teacher was disturbed enough to bail me up and ask if I really said it. I confirmed her worst suspicions, but there was still a grain of doubt: ‘You wouldn’t really chop the hand off, would you?’ After a dramatic pause I seriously replied, ‘Of course not. Maybe a finger but not the whole hand.’

  At times I may have seemed too protective of my children, but I’d grown up in a dangerous environment and thought like a survivor. I drove the children to and from school every day; they weren’t permitted to use the bus. I discouraged them playing with local children unless it was under my watchful eye at home. Not surprisingly, the boys endured being called ‘pansies’. They’d group together for mutual protection against bullies. My sons rarely got into fights. They could all box well since the early training they’d received in England. After a few scraps in the playground, word got around and bullies steered clear.

  My prostate got so troublesome I reluctantly saw a specialist. I was having difficulty urinating, and it had a detrimental effect on my sex life. The specialist booked me into hospital for an operation straight away. I was very nervous about being cut open but he assured me it had to be done and was a relatively safe procedure.

  Christine dropped me off. A nurse told me to put on a surgical gown which was split open down the back as I’d go into the operating theatre soon. While I was nervously waiting, I heard this terrible scream. Someone told me that it was a mentally handicapped kid panicking before an operation. I bolted down the stairs and ran past waiting rooms with Aristotle flashing as my gown billowed out, exposing my bare rump. Visitors stared at me as I ran to the carpark, heading straight for a telephone booth. I connected to the operator and transferred the call home, but no-one was there. I rang a friend who came to rescue me. She laughed her head off when she saw my garb—then kindly drove me home.

  My prostate got much worse. I decided to try a vegetarian hospital, the Sydney Adventist Hospital in Wahroonga. I put on another surgical gown and started pacing up and down. Through the window I could see the Adventist chapel. As soon as my eye caught the chapel a funeral cortege pulled up and carried a coffin inside. `That’s got to be a bad omen!’ I put my clothes on, bolted for my car.

  Christine’s and my sex life continued to suffer, partly because of the prostate problem, but she was promiscuous and active. I suffered my painful prostate in silence, hoping she’d get her fill and settle down. But the prostate itself worsened to the point where I returned to the Adventist hospital. I was nervous and uptight about the operation. The doctor asked what I was scared of. ‘Dying!’ I told him I’d only have the operation if I could have a local instead of a general anaesthetic. He was surprised but agreed. I felt groggy during the operation and tried to distract my mind by reading an aviation manual while they snipped and shoved down under. The surgeon asked, ‘Are you all right?’ I replied, ‘I’m all right. More importantly, are you all right? You’re holding the knife.’ After the operation and healing time, I couldn’t believe how fantastic it felt passing water. And I’d put up with prostate discomfort for 30 years.

  Our car business did quite well, although I had to be careful. A new Consumer Affairs Act prevented car dealers like us from operating, so I was doing it illegally—I didn’t have registered premises in an industrial area. When Consumer Affairs paid me a visit, I told them to get lost, not the most tactful response. I had a strong feeling I hadn’t seen the last of these irritating officials.

  Christine sold a Mini to a woman. I’d put a new gear box in it, made sure it was working well. After months of driving it, the buyer lodged a complaint with Consumer Affairs, claiming it was faulty. A `ConAff representative’ handed me a summons. I explained I was an employee-buyer, Christine had the licence. So they summoned her. Naive Christine accepted the court’s order and paid money back to the owner, who kept the car. Funny justice. Then she was summoned to answer a charge of dealing without a licence. They forced our business to close. But I found a legal loophole: as an individual I could buy and sell three cars a year, and so could Dean and Christine, because they too had driving licences. Lorries and trucks didn’t count, so we could buy and sell those. Then a new ruling prevented us from buying at auctions regularly. We switched to machinery, buying, repairing and selling. Every bureaucratic obstruction became a challenge. I enjoyed finding solutions.

  Three years after settling in Australia, we began searching for a cheap country property where we could keep our cows, horses and dogs. We found one in Springs Road, Kulnura, about an hour’s drive north of Sydney. The salesman assured us fresh drinkable water lay in springs beneath our feet. One fed into a small stream at the base of the property. It was a wild unkempt 10-hectar
e block strewn with blackberry bushes and a few trees. Dirt paddocks were roughly defined by tangled barbed-wire fencing. The house had been empty for 18 months and its bare concrete floor was covered with dust and rodent dung. The exterior was grim and ugly, walls of large grey concrete blocks thrown together in a hurry. The plumbing was Ma and Pa Kettle. The system to bring water from the stream to the house no longer worked. The dilapidated cow shed was a haze of cobwebs.

  At $39,000 it was cheap and had great potential, the place of our dreams. Christine looked distressed and sighed, ‘Oh! What a lot of work.’ I put down money saved from car dealing as a holding deposit, but needed thousands more for the deposit. I put the friendly squeeze on Christine’s wealthy boyfriend. I told him I’d forgiven him for wanting to bed Tracey, then asked for a loan. Being in an obliging frame of mind, he agreed. Christine and I were grateful and promised to pay it back in regular instalments. We had the deposit but the loan was going to be difficult. Every financial institution considered me too risky because my income was too unstable. But fate was on my side. I stopped and gave a driver who’d broken down a hand and a tow. He owned a building society and offered to help me. It was the sort of lucky break I could’ve done with years before.

  We expended a lot of sweat on the land, clearing blackberry, planting kikuya grass from runners off the roadside, planting trees from Cedric’s nursery or the nearby forest. I got a pump going easily—we overturned a car and attached a belt to a wheel rim. We could get in, start the motor, put the car in gear and fill a tank for household or plant use. But we hadn’t counted on a drought which lasted years. Our grass went yellow. Our exotics and natives wilted alike. But luck was on my side. The tractor got stuck in a sandy patch, the wheels just spun, so, fed up, I walked home. When I came back the rut was soaked—I’d struck a spring. An excavator created a dam and the hole he left filled with an unending supply of crystal-clear water. The property thrived again.