Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me

by Margaret Wentworth

  Christine was depressed by the primitive surroundings at Kulnura and aghast at the work ahead. It was always at the back of my mind she’d announce university at Liverpool had won over scrub at Kulnura, but she became calmer, and the day we fixed the fences so we could—and did—bring the horses from Terrey Hills was a big step in commitment. She couldn’t deny the evidence. We’d been in Australia three years, had our own home, spring water, fresh air, the privacy to bake in the sun nude (we’d stopped going to the naturist camp) which she loved, and the property was improving before her eyes. She had the independence she needed, the job at the garden centre, boyfriends she entertained at their place or Reg’s, men for whom she advertised, and the option of hiring a male escort for dinner and bed, and her own money to do as she liked.

  Everyone began to settle down happily in Kulnura. It was a pretty, quiet place. There were about 400 people in this tight-knit community and they kept very much to themselves. The locals regarded us with a certain suspicion—we obviously weren’t rural people and we weren’t typical city slickers either. They thought us quite eccentric because we had no farm machinery and cleared land with mattocks and spades.

  We’d made it. This was the fresh start, the clean slate I’d yearned for. I’d left the ugliness, filth, poverty, bad language, booze, violence and crime behind. I’d a burning desire to be a respectable Australian citizen and raise my children in a clean wholesome environment. I wanted to be recognised as a success, achieving great things, and this charged me with excitement and energy.

  When was I going to clearly define my new direction in life? I couldn’t go on doing house and land improvements as an excuse for not establishing some sort of direction that would shape our futures. I wanted to develop the individual talents of Tracey and the boys. But what about me? Should I strive to achieve as an individual on my own, or should I seek achievement through others and be their guiding light? These questions burned in me. It seemed too early to define my game plan because my children hadn’t focused on any career direction, and I felt this would be a crucial determinant.

  We trained our horses for equestrian events. At one, it was suggested I might be good at training racehorses. Christine was dead against it as she thought the sport cruel, but I argued we’d treat our racehorses with care and kindness. The drought forced owners to sell cheaply, and we bought two horses with bad feet for $600 each, Gauntlet Boy and Fear No Evil, by Without Favour out of Without Fear, a fine bloodline. Both were put in a soft sandy paddock so their feet were cushioned and I massaged their legs regularly. They thrived on a new diet of oats, stud mix, vitamins, apples and carrots. Fear No Evil ran fourth at Newcastle, sixth at Sydney and third at News-castle. I rested the stallion for three months, put him with two mares, and started him at Newcastle. He came out of the gates and galloped well, then dropped dead. A post-mortem revealed that atrial fibrillation, rapid heartbeat, killed him. The former owners had run him too hard when he was 18 months. But we had his foal, Lord of Kulnura, and another foal Stately Gauntlet. No way would they race until they were three or more. Meantime, they needed trackwork training. The Wyong course was full so we bumped the 70 kilometres to Cessnock in the dark three times a week. It was unsatisfactory—horses arrived shellshocked. Also, jockeys often failed to turn up, but Christine proved to be the solution for that problem. She took lessons and tips from a jockey, overcame her fear of large horses, learned to cope with the small racing saddle and became a useful trackrider. One morning her horse stumbled, sent her heavily to the ground and rolled over her. I ran over and she slowly came to, even drove home, where she slept for two hours. When she awoke she remembered nothing after the fall, but was riding again within a fortnight, eyes shining with the exhilaration of galloping and achievement. Plucky woman. And we eventually filled a gap in the Wyong Jockey Club’s list. The Wyong crowd looked snotty about our mum-and-dad team, didn’t take us seriously.

  We bred and raced the three thoroughbreds but had more than 30 others at one stage, most old hacks rescued from the abbatoir and petfood industry. Christine was no housekeeper but would muck out stables, polish bridles or groom horses all day. Tracey loved horses too, and rode, fed and groomed them. Guy wormed them every eight weeks. We bought burst bags of feed cheaply, but never caught up on the crippling vets’ bills. Cedrick Bond helped out, lending Christine money, sometimes $1,000, which we tried to repay. Cedric looked up to me as a person who’d be handy if he needed protection. He and I drew into an uneasy relationship of mutual self-interest.

  Our pack of dogs just grew. Logan disappeared, shot by a neighbour probably. His mother Josie died at 16. A tick poisoned Beautie. Dean found Lucky bleeding, its jaw half off, on the Pacific Highway and took it to a vet, who recommended putting it down, but I pleaded by phone to give surgery a try. Lucky recovered. I found a lost silky terrier and took him in. Two weeks later a woman called—she’d lost her dog while picnicking in the Yarramalong Valley, tried the pound, put ads in the papers and on the radio, and, like many others, heard about us on the grapevine. I told her to take a look. ‘Giggles!’ One lost silky found. I refused payment but she brought 12 bags of dogfood. The grapevine informed us of unloved pets and we also had unwanted dogs like our cattledog Betty dumped on us. Dean found a week-old whippet Pluto while jogging in bushland. Our beds were seas of fur, wagging tails, bright eyes and wet noses at night.

  Our tribe of cats grew too, 15 at one stage. They ate rats but we fed them unsaleable bread from a Wyong bakery. A night raid liberated 35 hens from a battery. They couldn’t walk at first but picked it up from our free-range residents, and laid eggs in the stable. We crusaded for the right of animals to a decent existence, and practised our preaching.

  Several years after settling in Kulnura, I noticed local kids had nothing to do after school or on weekends. My sons had all enjoyed playing soccer at school when we were in Terrey Hills, so I mentioned starting a club to the local teacher. She reckoned it was a great idea, but didn’t think I’d get one started because parents would be more interested in rugby or cricket instead.

  So I went down to the local Sommersby, Mangrove Mountain, Peats Ridge and Kulnura schools to drum up a bit of support. The children responded with great excitement. I needed at least four teams before I could register a club and realised I could easily make up the numbers. First, I needed the permission of their parents. This proved to be more difficult than expected. Some raised the objection that their children might get kicked on the shins but the same parents were quite prepared to let their children play the more dangerous and less supervised game of rugby.

  One mother said, ‘Damn you and your soccer,’ and tossed me off her property. An Italian father said, m’a sorry, I can’t’a do this, the children, they work’a on the Saturday. How’d you think we get’a food for the mouth? Get away with the foot’ a ball, we don’t want to know.’ I felt sad for some of those Greek and Italian boys, pulling lettuces or picking potatoes all weekend. Some of those parents were feudal, using their kids like serfs.

  Pretty soon I bad six teams between seven and 14 years. I tried to form a committee of parents but no-one turned up at the first meeting. I posted announcements in local shops and contacted the Star reporter, who wrote an article. Parents turned out for a meeting this time. Who’s going to coach the boys? They were. Where were the boys to train? Peats Ridge Oval. What about goalposts? We’d build them—and did. What about jerseys? Central Coast Citrus ‘ became sponsors. What about referees? I organised for a local excavator to do a ref’s course. What about the Central Coast Soccer Association? I eventually registered the club, PMK United—P for Peats Ridge, M for Mangrove Mountain and K for Kulnura—and games were played. The whole process took nine months.

  I was elected club president but I fell out with a few committee members. I asked that meetings be conducted in a non-smoking atmosphere and met strong opposition, so at that point I bowed out. The club is still going. They developed a new ground called the PMK United Sports Oval wi
th the help of council and some donors. I was somewhat saddened not to be invited to the opening, but I was a rebel and used to putting people offside in the single-minded pursuit of my goals, in this case to add an extra dimension to the lives of children and their parents in the area.

  Guy and Troy were in their final year at Wyong High in 1979 when I knew the time had at last come to set clear goals for the future for all of us, something constructive to work towards. Ambition for my children to succeed and reap great rewards burned inside me. Dad never bothered to take my hand and lead me anywhere, my youth was aimless and years wasted as a result. I would not repeat that mistake.

  All four were average scholars. Not one showed any inclination to join the safe nine-to-five rat race in office or factory. All were exceptional athletes. Tracey’s aptitude for long-distance running and the boys’ for soccer, shotput, running and boxing held the keys. Top sports professionals earned a lot of money, led more interesting, satisfying and rewarding lives than rat racers. And I could get them to the top.

  I expected high standards from them. When Dean misbehaved back in the UK; I’d whacked him in front of his brothers with a thick hose. He learned and I seldom had to hit again, though I used the hose for drama and display. The mere existence of the hose was like a magic wand in controlling Guy and Troy, who rarely felt its sting, rather like Miss Tenant used her cane in the steaming bucket to curb the rebellious children of Keele. Tracey and Dean often rebelled against me, but Guy and Troy appreciated that my sometimes irritating guidance had good sound reason.

  Guy and Troy worried me at one stage while they were still at school. They’d become lazy and did poorly in a race. I tried to control myself listening to their weak excuses when I picked them up. They didn’t look upset, so I drove homeward via the Yarramalong Valley, the long way, stopped, and told them to get out and run home. I drove slowly behind to protect them from cars in their rear for 8 kilometres, then let them back in the car, hot, tired and furious with me. ‘Look, you haven’t fainted or collapsed, have you? You’ve run eight kays, which shows you how much extra energy you had. Why didn’t you put that into the race and win?’ The message was unpopular but sunk in.

  Troy’s remarkable mental dedication gave him the winning edge. He was upset after school one day. He’d joined some boys practising shotput. Expecting to do well like his brothers and strong from weight-lifting, he’d thrown well short of the others. I said, ‘Let’s start practising.’ I knew nothing of shotputting, but read the books, constructed a 3-metre concrete circle, studied his stance and pegged every throw in the long sessions we had after school every day. He became state champion and twice Wyong High’s Sportsman of the Year.

  It was time to choose and focus on clear goals. Tracey chose long-distance running and aimed for a state title but I was looking at a Commonwealth Games one. All three boys opted for boxing and gold medals at the Los Angeles Olympics, five years away, and if they achieved that, world championships. We made a 10-year pact to stay together and work towards those world titles. After that, they could do whatever they wanted.

  I knew I had the experience and commitment to guide them 24 hours a day. I felt I was the best teacher they could have. The army and London gyms had taught me about physical training, how to lift weights, how to run, how to breathe, how to avoid injury, how to build the stamina for, say, 12 rounds in the ring. I knew the stages to peak fitness. I’d boxed, seen fights and boxing trainers at work. My sons, particularly, thrilled to the challenge once they set their sights and directions. We were on a path to greatness, an inspired and happy team.

  Tracey was soon a concern. She was a cork on water, just bobbing around, often lacking the focus and concentration she needed to succeed. Troy had fanatical ambitions like I did. His bedroom walls were smothered with posters and photos of Salvador Sanchez, Sugar Ray Leonard, Robert Duran, Michael Spinks and other classy fighters.

  With no ring or punch bag at first, we ran, skipped and shadow boxed. Gloves were handmade. So what if they tripped over their feet? They were fit, strong and keen; they didn’t swear, smoke or drink; they were obedient, respectful and spoke politely; they loved animals; and at night, when I checked on each, they’d call ‘Goodnight, dad’ and, without knowing it, make my heart sing. As they approached the age they could enter the amateur lists I stepped up training to six days a week. Friday night was for socialising and they fell under the influence of friends with much more freedom, and, naturally, they’d confront me with their concerns that they were missing out on life’s pleasures. I’d refocus their minds on their quest.

  We loved our home and saw the beauty of it. The dam sparkled in the sunshine, the grass runners we planted formed a sweeping expanse of green paddock, our small saplings had grown into spreading gum trees, and all our animals were well fed and contented. Scattered on the property were gutted car wrecks, broken-down trucks, a caravan, an old blue Sydney bus and an old red phone box that stood for many years on the Pacific Highway near Doyalson. The rusty old vehicles represented a link with my past, buying and selling cars, and the connection with my father. It also gave me an excuse to prise off an old nut, bolt or battery.

  Tracey, older and more obstinate, didn’t want to stay around the farm training and riding. She developed new interests. Men were a major distraction. I was upset because I knew that this would interfere with her potential as an athlete. She wanted to go to places I knew were frequented by drug addicts and delinquents. I put my foot down. Tracey began to rebel. I held her until she was almost 21. I was about to buy her a car for her birthday but she was too restless to stay any longer. One day when I wasn’t at home, she packed her bags, wrote a note, climbed through the bedroom window and took off. The note told of her dislike of the way I regimented her life and said she was going to work for another horseracing trainer in Gosford.

  When Tracey left I was furious she’d stood against me; it reminded me of the way her mother Gloria had walked out. I also felt betrayed by Tracey joining a competing trainer, but she didn’t last long working for him. Within three weeks he threw her out, apparently because she’d tried to entice his son away from home.

  Tracey lived in Gosford on the Central Coast, where she had several jobs she lost. She became involved with the type of man I most deplore: a long-haired bearded lout who boozed and took drugs. Tracey went to Western Australia with him. It was not long before she was involved with the police and appeared in court. Tracey. was put on probation. Her boyfriend ended up in jail. I knew Tracey had a lot of her mother in her and was sad to see her lowering her moral standards. I wanted her to be special. Wherever I went I took her with me, whether I pushed the pram or carried her. Everything that belonged to her I treasured. I kept her Christening dress in a little box at home; I couldn’t part with it for sentimental reasons.

  The boys were also upset because they were doing things that enhanced their characters and careers and couldn’t relate to her errant behaviour.

  Tracey wrote several times. In one letter, she admitted lots of things I’d said and done were for her own good, and she hoped we could get back together again one day. I was so hurt, I didn’t reply. I was determined to show strength in my belief that she’d done the wrong thing. Silence was my way of punishing her. If she’d come to my door asking for a glass of water, I would have turned her away. Yet if she’d needed one of my kidneys in a life-threatening situation, I would have gladly given her one of mine. She caused me great distress from which I still suffer. At that stage I never wanted to see her again.

  I discouraged sexual activity when my children were in their mid to late teens. I felt that if I could distract them with sport, they would be able to deal with sexual relationships in a more mature way later on. I’d started sexually experimenting far too young, catching gonorrhoea seven times before I was 21. By then I was so experienced that sex lost a lot of its attraction. I wanted my boys to have a healthy sex life throughout their adult years. I felt I was doing the right thing for them,
and was fortunate the boys were not really interested in girls then.

  25 Fists of Fury

  The longest bare-knuckle fight was 6 hrs 15 min between James Kelly and Jack Smith at Fiery Creek, Daylesford, Victoria, Australia on 3 Dec 1855.

  The Guinness Book of Records

  In 1981 Troy asked me when he could have his first fight and was very disappointed when I told him he wouldn’t be ready for 12 more months. I refused to do anything half-hearted; I wanted my sons to win when they stepped into that ring.

  They first had to be registered in a boxing club and there were no clubs in my area. I asked if I could form my own—I automatically had three members. They told me this would be difficult: the •club needed a constitution, a committee and of course a ring. The Amateur Boxing Association wasn’t particularly impressed with my efforts to form a club. The interchange of members for sparring practice was difficult because we were cut off from larger communities. Eventually the ABA permitted us to join as honorary members. We were considered a bit of a joke, stuck out in the country with hardly any equipment. They all predicted failure. They didn’t realise they were dealing with a stubborn rebel striving for the top.

  To construct a boxing ring, I first had to get a timber-cutter’s licence. We were allocated an area where we could cut timber and drag it to the road. We set the corner posts in one of our paddocks and strung wire wrapped in hose for ropes. We nailed springy floorboards down to form the base and hoisted a tarpaulin overhead in case of bad weather. My boys were itching to climb into it and let their fists fly. The ring was a little over half-sized, small on purpose because I wanted to give my boys lots of experience fighting aggressive opponents in tight spaces. Once they stepped into a full-size ring they’d have more confidence about their ability to get out of a difficult situation.