Dean, so long out of the ring, wanted to fight American Jack Johnson, which meant fighting on another promotion. Dean told Ces he didn’t want to train with him anymore, but when Dean went to Johnny Lewis, Jeff Fenech’s trainer, and added insult when he told the press that Ces used to bully and panic him in the ring, Ces saw red and did a vicious underhand thing. He had his ‘reasons’ though: `Dean was horrified when he heard I’d given Johnson’s trainer a fight plan to beat him. I admit it was a cruel thing to do, but I was still hurting badly from Dean’s decision to train under my rival. I wanted to prove the point that only I intimately understood Dean’s strengths and weaknesses, revealing the latter. I was desperate to get Dean back under my wing.’ Dean went down on points. Guy, who’d defended his title at the Blacktown RSL against Italian-based Ugandan Yawe Davis, earning him WBC No. 1 ranking, wasn’t fooled and promptly moved to Lewis also, claiming Ces was a tyrant. Guy and Dean were promoted by Bill Mordey and managed by John Haag, who’d bailed Dean. Marty Rhone lost a lot of money. But they still had Troy and Troy was to fight American John David Jackson for a world title. Ces was only entitled to 15 per cent of Troy’s earnings but Troy generously offered to kick more in if he won and took the bigger purse.
News from the UK told of Tony’s death from cancer. Tony was buried beside brother Bill, a victim of spinal cancer who’d died alone in a tent in a forest, years before.
Before Troy’s fight with Jackson offered hope, Ces decided to kill himself, an aspirin overdose like Doreen. He taped messages and wrote letters (to Brigadier Merry, Sylvia and Margaret) to prepare. He gave the animals a good feed in case his body went undiscovered for a while. And sat down and prepared to ingest a bottle of pills in warm milk. An alarm clock, which should have been set for a 3.30 am start for trackwork, went off at 3.30 pm. The noise broke Ces’s self-pitying trance; he flushed the pills down the drain. For the second time, luck saved Ces from death at his own hand, so he said. He remained depressed and knew he needed someone to talk to. That chance came at the vet’s when a dog needed stitches. The vet’s words reinstated his positive attitude.
Just weeks before Troy’s big fight, Troy’s car flipped, rolled down an embankment and slammed into houses. A wooden fencepost had skewered the driver’s door but narrowly missed Troy. Surgeons put a steel plate in his broken jaw and 34 stitches in his chin. He’d endured cuts, bad bruises and broken teeth. His emotional balance was disturbed. There was no way he’d fight for months and the Waters-Jackson fight was postponed.
It was a big blow to Marty Rhone and the severing of the drowning man’s last straw for Ces. Then, unexpectedly, hope entered his life again.
Before the auction, Ces expressed some optimism that things might work out. He said he had met a wealthy ex-crim who was interested in buying the property and going into a business partnership with him. Ces wanted to bottle and sell the spring water that bubbled out of the ground on his block. He also wanted to convert the property into a boxing training camp where his sons could give demonstrations and coach aspiring young boxers. Ces had several meetings with the potential buyer; but after a while, Ces became suspicious of him. Their relationship ended at the auction. The wealthy man put in a bid well below the asking price. Ces realised his suspicions were justified. The potential buyer was a wired-up police informant. Every word Ces spoke to him was legitimately recorded for police records. Detective Inspector O’Toole ended up with 30 hours of conversations to sift through. For him, it was a goldmine. O’Toole’s investigations were going well.
Not so Ces. His property was sold for $320,000, and when he paid all his debts he was left penniless. He had nine months to vacate. It looked like Ces would be forced to part with his animals and rent a humble abode until he could find a job and slowly improve his situation. But Ces told me he would lock himself inside his house and blow his brains out before leaving his 15 remaining dogs and several cats, most being too old to relocate. With all the bad publicity he’d received, no one was likely to come forward and offer him and his animals a new home. Up to the last moment, Ces hoped blood was thicker than water.
When his children didn’t come to the rescue, Ces was filled with despair, then bitterness. Why had they forsaken him?
The fateful day of Ces’s eviction fairly galloped towards me. Ces and Margaret appeared on my doorstep, pleading for help. John was out in the paddocks at the time so I was the only one there to listen to their desperate plight. Both were in tears and it was hard not to be moved by circumstances. As an animal lover, I appreciated Ces’s desire to remain with his pets. I truly wanted to help him but dared not give him any hope without John’s consent. I knew that John would be difficult to persuade.
When John arrived back at the house, he was dismayed to find the three of us waiting for him. He could tell from the expressions on our faces that there was A Big Ask in the air. Naturally, he felt trapped. So did I, though John felt I was part of the conspiracy. Ces passionately explained the desperation of his situation and insisted that if he moved onto a corner of our block it would only be temporary and he ‘wouldn’t take liberties’. John was momentarily lost for words, quite unlike him. He looked so uncomfortable. John had a kind nature and wanted to help, but his instincts flashed red. Our 10-hectare block was a retreat from city living; the only sounds here were bellbirds, kookaburras and rustling leaves. Ces’s life was full of noise and energy. John knew that inviting Ces onto our block would be inviting trouble.
Ces and his Margaret saw the pain in John’s face but kept up the pressure. It was terrible seeing such a proud man begging. Margaret was distraught because she loved Ces so much and couldn’t stand seeing him being abandoned by his family and friends alike. John eventually threw his hands in the air and relented. He realised if he said ‘No’ he’d be unpopular with me as well. And what would happen to all the work on the book?
Nevertheless, John wisely insisted we should establish some ground rules so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings. We paid a lawyer to help us draw up an Occupation Licence which Ces gratefully signed. Provided he respected our privacy and abided by a few simple rules, Ces could stay on the corner of our block rent free until he found a more permanent place to live.
We offered Ces a partially cleared area of ground near Greta Road in the far corner. There were no facilities but Ces didn’t mind. He’d already sold all his electrical appliances. He immediately began `taking liberties’ by arriving with more items than he had stated in the occupation licence, potentially voiding the agreement. He arrived with 15 dogs, several cats, four horses, two sheep, two caravans, a large steel cargo container, an ex-government bus and assorted pieces of junk. Margaret and her friends, Rose and Irene, were tremendously supportive. The larger of the hired caravans became Ces’s new home, which he shared with most of his dogs. Out of nostalgia he’d kept Tracey’s white Christening dress, Troy’s bedroom door decorated with a poster of the middleweight champion Marvin Hagler, Guy’s miniature trains, and Dean’s treasured toy motor car and police helmet.
Ces described his new home life: ‘Conditions were primitive. Lighting was provided by candles, then a kerosene lamp. My water supply was manually scooped from a lower dam until I was able to fix an old pump and siphon it up to a tank next to the caravan. I missed the entertainment of television at night, and sat in dim light sadly reminiscing and planning my limited finances. After paying for caravan rent, petrol, horse and dog food bills, I was left with $20 a week for my own food. Like my animals, I ate a lot of stale bread. Unlike them, I often went hungry. They were always fed first.’
Ces was on our land for six years.
Our paddocks were not developed to produce feed, so Ces and his boxing trainees Steve Unterholtzer and Chris built enclosures to keep the horses in. The sheep were allowed to wander until they decided that our saplings tasted good and began to strip the bark from our young liquid amber trees up and down the driveway, killing a couple of them. When winter came, there was more dirt in the paddocks
than grass. It was clear the horses needed a better home. My parents and aunt, who lived about 2 kilometres away, came to the rescue by offering their large paddock with improved pastures. John and I paid for an electric fence which my dad rigged up so the horses could utilise the whole area. It was a much better situation for these beautiful animals and dad was pleased he didn’t have to slash the grass any more with his tractor.
Ces set about turning his area of our property into a boxing training camp. He and his trainees rebuilt the ring and set up punchbags and exercise equipment. Ces laid down grass, planted flowers and erected a sign on his gate that said:
SURVIVORS WILL BE PROSECTED
John helped Ces build a sewerage outfall connected to an outside toilet. Ces didn’t like hard manual work so it was John and the boxer trainees working up the sweat moving boulders around. John ended up in hospital with an excruciating hernia.
That first winter was hard for Ces: ‘The thin walls of the caravan provided little insulation. As there was no electricity or gas, we built a tin shed next to the caravan which contained a large drum. I’d throw wood in it and light a fire for warmth. My mind was in such turmoil I slept badly and sometimes woke in the dead of night. It was so cold in the caravan I’d get up and light a fire in my tin shed, then try to keep myself warm beside it until dawn.’
Ces lived under a cloud of anger and depression at his sons leaving. We still saw him for a chat and a cup of tea. On rarer occasions we’d wander round to his caravan. The amount of weeds, junk and discarded rubbish lying around depressed us. Ces had a large python living in his bus which apparently kept down the rat population. The whole place seemed like a health hazard, and the dog smell in the caravan nearly knocked us off our feet. Margaret Barnett would faithfully visit him fortnightly using public transport as Ces had permanently ‘borrowed’ her car. She would wash and clean for Ces, even bring him money earned from finding stray golf balls on various Sydney courses. Margaret was a devoted and loyal girlfriend, one in a million. Ces knew he was a lucky man. One time Margaret didn’t visit the farm for several weeks. When we saw her next she had a black eye. Marg insisted a dog caused the injury. John and I wondered about this.
The Waters boys had mixed outcomes in the ring. For Dean, boxing simply became less important. Guy lost on points to the champion Virgil Hill in the US, but under brother-in-law Marc Erbsleben, won a WBF light heavyweight title against Gavin Ryan in Adelaide. In the US Troy KOed Robert Wangilla in Round 6. His next fight was the zenith of the Waters boys’ careers.
Terry Norris was the WBC super welterweight champ, had been so for five years, KOing Sugar Ray Leonard in Leonard’s prime. Before 16 000 fans in a San Diego ring and millions on TV, Troy Who? became Troy The Glamour with the Hammer Waters. Troy took two hits to the back of the head that should’ve disqualified the champ. Even so, Troy stepped out in Round 2 and floored Norris, leaving him dazed. The ref started the count long after he should have. Twice robbed of the title, Troy was forced to retire after Round 4, blinded by blood. Sugar Ray Leonard saw it all and turned to new manager-trainer Bruce Kennedy in front of controversial Superstar promoter Don King: ‘Not only will Troy be world champion, he’ll be there for an awful long time.’ Negotiations between King and Kennedy began immediately but when the Waters boys parted with Kennedy, King pulled out.
When I think of how close these magnificent young men came to the heights they dreamed of, I am sad. Ces was the prime mover of those dreams but he laid waste to them too. Murder is a powerful `distraction’.
My mother died in mid-1994. She’d battled Parkinson’s for a third of her life. Frail and unstable, a nursing home was the obvious solution towards the end but she didn’t want to leave dad and dad didn’t want her to go. After 45 years, they couldn’t part. And I ask myself still: why did this happen to her, so good, so kind? John’s mother died two years earlier, arthritis her cross. Nature is cruel.
John and I rented out most of the house and moved into the granny flat, little more than a lounge facing the garden with a small side bedroom, where Dean and Jinka had bunk beds. We put single beds in a corner of the lounge. All quickly adjusted and enjoyed living close. The reduction of housework suited me just fine, too. When I was offered an admin job at Honeywell Software Centre after doing temp work there, I was delighted. The people and the environment were so exceptional I am one of those rare people who love their work.
Brother Geoffrey became David and took an unusual post-grad career flip. He became a numerologist at the Adelaide markets, enjoying the laid-back lifestyle, irregular hours and the pretty young women wanting to know their future. But when he turned 40, he decided to be an analyst computer programmer in Sydney, his first regular job, but not before marrying a beautiful Fijian Indian, Sheryna.
When my own son Dean was about eight, he showed definite sporting potential when John taught him some sparring skills. John asked Ces if he could teach Dean a few more boxing tricks. John had been taught to box by his own ex-army boxing father and was keen to release The Warrior in his son. I considered one noisy volatile warrior in the family more than enough, but he persuaded me amateur boxing was very different from the pro scene. It was much safer due to all the protective padding, shorter fights and stricter supervision. I felt it would be good if Dean learned to defend himself and there could be no better teacher than Ces.
`Give me any little boy and he’d start off no different from my sons. I could spend the next eight years with him and turn him into a champion. All I’d need him to do is to listen to me and do exactly what I say.’ Serious stuff for my little lad.
Ces kindly gave Dean a boxing bag and some gloves, and over a period of several months showed him how to fight. Although Dean was more interested in tennis, golf and soccer, he politely listened to the instructions, energetically thumped the bag in training sessions and put up with all the adult enthusiasm. Anyone who knew anything about throwing a punch could see young Dean Meagher had talent. But his heart wasn’t in it. John sadly put the gloves away for some future occasion, just in case.
On occasions—not often—I would go up to the property alone and stay several days in order to work undisturbed. I was never comfortable doing this because I knew Ces would see my solitariness as an opportunity for amorous advances. Through man-to-man conversations with John, he knew about our sexual independence and considered this too good an opportunity to miss. I was embarrassed to be placed in a situation where I had to turn him down, not knowing how he’d react. My shyness made it difficult for me to deal with confrontation. Ces had admitted himself that he had little respect for women generally. I suspected that the word ‘No’, however firmly spoken, was not going to be much use if he was determined. Despite my fears and sense of vulnerability, Ces always treated me well when I was up there alone. He certainly tried the usual seductive routines but when they did not succeed, he had the decency to leave me alone with my work. I respected him for that.
One night up there alone, I had a nightmare. I didn’t think it was a nightmare at first because I had woken up in the dead of night and truly thought I was awake. I sensed something wrong. There seemed to be a dark force in the room. It had no shape but its presence had power and it was evil. I felt the weight of this force slowly come down on me until it was pressing hard against my body. It was enveloping me, wanting to possess me. I tried to escape but was paralysed. I couldn’t breathe properly because of the weight on my chest. It was a suffocating overwhelming experience, I’m not sure what happened but I suddenly woke to find myself in bed in a lather of sweat, my heart thumping wildly. The experience shook me so badly I had to turn on the light and wait an hour before I was ready to try sleeping again.
Not long after my nightmare, which .I never told Ces about, he excitedly related his night-time encounter with an unexpected visitor: `I was lying half asleep in bed surrounded by my precious dogs: little Dolly snuggled against my back, Tuppy at my feet, Licko at my thigh, Titch, Betty, Pluto and Happy sprawled els
ewhere. Suddenly little Titch began to growl menacingly. I opened my eyes to see a man standing near the doorway of the caravan. The interior was bathed in faint moonlight so his image lacked crisp detail. Was it Dean coming to visit me? When my vision cleared I realised it was a stranger with a black cloak and large floppy-brimmed black hat, rather like a Quaker in early American history. Titch stopped growling and settled down. None of the other dogs were awake. This was my experience, not theirs.
The man came over to my bed. I detected the musty smell of incense. I still couldn’t see his face clearly but sensed he was a friend. He held out his hand to me and, in a cultured English voice, said: “Shake hands with the devil”. I felt no fear and grasped the palm of his hand, warm and covered by the soft fuzz of a kid glove. I felt The Devil was more like the Angel Gabriel than someone who should be feared and hated by man. Having made contact, the apparition dissolved into the dim light. For me, it was a profound experience that made me re-evaluate my concepts of good and evil.’
After about 12 months of devoted effort, the manuscript was completed. No happy ending. Ces read it and confirmed everything I had written was true. I needed this confirmation, time and time again, because I felt vital information remained missing. Something that would explain why the boys were so uncaring of Ces’s difficult predicament. Ces always told me he had no idea why they were treating him so badly. The thought tormented him.
For example, he complained they never came to visit, even at Christmas, never offered money or food, and never allowed him access to his grandchildren. For a man who often spoke of his devotion to little children, this seemed to be like twisting a sword in his chest. Ces was living in terrible poverty but none of his children seemed to care. Dean, Guy, Troy and Tracey did not want to speak to us and never responded to our approaches. They later explained to us they felt we were in cohorts with Ces and not to be trusted. They did not want to speak to local and city journalists either. Typical evasive comments were: Dad was training us too hard, he didn’t give us enough freedom. Parts of the jigsaw puzzle were obviously missing and remained that way for ages.
Hellbent: Ces Waters & Me Page 35