by Petrea King
I was totally insignificant in his world, a fact for which I was most grateful. I never saw him smile or talk to anyone, or heard him articulate more than a grunt, which he could do with emphasis or inflection so his meaning was obvious. When I was game enough, I’d watch him at work because it was a wonder to see his sheer strength and agility. With his good arm, he hauled on the rope that lifted the weighty box, tucking it under the stump of his right arm with each pull.
One night, I woke in terror when something furry and warm dropped onto my face. A tiny kitten! The presser was standing beside my bed, and I thought my heart would leap out of my chest. He just grunted and ambled off to some other drunken mischief.
My time in the land of the long white cloud had created a lasting love of New Zealand and its people, and I returned to Australia with a wad of money to contemplate what I might do next.
CHAPTER 8
Travel broadens the mind
1969
Granny, my mother and I had maintained regular contact by post. While our letters were always loving, they focused on the doings of our lives rather than our inner journeys. News of the family and their various activities was always welcome, and I learned to read between the lines of Rae’s letters to decipher Brenden’s emotional state.
By the time I returned home, Ross had flown to Europe to do what many young Australians did: work and travel for a period before settling into a career. He’d graduated from university with an honours degree in commerce, but he wasn’t yet ready to enter the Australian workforce. Brenden, meanwhile, was creating a life for himself; though he still had ups and downs with his mental health, he’d managed to travel through Asia and India before flying on to Switzerland. Now my brothers were working together in a restaurant at the ski fields.
My parents’ book company was flourishing, and my father generously suggested that my parents, Granny and I travel through the United States, Ireland, the United Kingdom and the Netherlands while he did some business and we enjoyed ourselves. We’d all meet up with Ross and Brenden in Basel, Switzerland, and then return home via Greece, Hong Kong and Singapore.
I was still overwhelmed by cities, so my parents thoughtfully planned the itinerary to avoid them. We worked our way through the spectacular national parks of the United States and on to the beautiful Emerald Isle. My father went ahead to work on the continent and stay with my brothers, while Granny, Rae and I enjoyed exploring the countryside and villages, staying in bed and breakfasts and small hotels. The generosity of the Irish was wonderfully welcoming.
This was a wonderful adventure to share with Granny in particular, as she had never been overseas and was tremendously excited. Her zest for life was legendary, and she was a great travelling companion because she found everything fascinating—she would let no experience pass us by without giving it her best shot. Her seventy-two years didn’t slow her down one bit, and it was all Rae and I could do to keep up with her enthusiasm and interest in everything. She readily struck up conversations with complete strangers who warmed to her immediately.
Granny had the greenest thumb of any person I knew, and she collected seeds of exotic plants wherever we travelled. She seemingly knew the name of every plant, and I would gape at her and wonder if she was having me on when she unhesitatingly declared that we were witnessing the blossom of a ‘greater thumbergia’ or some such. I now see exactly the same look on my granddaughter’s face when I name plants just like Granny did all those years ago!
During our journey, Granny and I shared a room each night. I fervently chastised her about her seed collections, reminding her there was no way she could carry them into Australia. But she was never one to abide by the dictates of authority, a trait that I admired tremendously given I was so often crippled by shame, guilt or embarrassment. Not Granny. When she and I had gone for walks in my childhood, she would always bring secateurs and a basket. She’d take cuttings from the edges of people’s gardens—and, if she was convinced no one was home, she wasn’t above going into their yards. I would cringe, terrified that the police would descend upon us, but she was gaily oblivious to my turmoil. She could take on the world and have it love her right back!
In Singapore, on the last leg of our journey, I again reminded her that she must leave behind whatever seeds she had collected. ‘Yes, dear,’ she assured me. She was ample-bosomed and flirtatious, and she looked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth as she assured the customs officer that she had nothing to declare but her fondness for men! If you were to visit her garden in Brisbane today, you’d see a tangled jungle of plants from around the globe—the seeds of which she’d secreted in her bra. I found her audacity inspiring, and as a young person I ached for her confidence and the sheer joy she felt in every day she lived.
On my travels with Granny and Rae, I learned that when my mother was away from Geoff and Brenden, she was a chip off the old block. Together she and Granny were a heady mix. Men gravitated to them because they were such good fun, and I became their chaperone instead of needing much supervision myself. Not knowing the local language posed no problem for them, as the language of laughter and flirtatiousness is universal. I loved seeing them together—particularly Rae, who was rarely so carefree in her manner.
***
Eventually the three of us embarked upon a luxury cruise up the Rhine from Rotterdam to Basel, on our way to meet up with Geoff, Ross and Brenden. I hadn’t seen my brothers for well over a year and was hungry to spend time with them. Our reunion was sweetened by Brenden’s apparent happiness and good cheer.
We set off together for several weeks, driving around Switzerland in a van that comfortably carried us all. We wound our way through tiny quaint villages, stopping off for fresh bread, cheese, sausage, vino and fruit, and we had many a cheerful picnic on the carpet of flowers that graced the lush hillsides. Brenden seemed genuinely happy that we were all together without stress or strain; and although Switzerland is a spectacular country, for me the highlight was being with a contented Brenden. He appeared mentally well, and his heavy, dark inertia seemed to have lifted.
During his most desolate days at home in Australia, I’d open his bedroom door and be assailed by the smell of fear. It was rank and cloying and stuck in my nostrils. But that smell was a distant memory now in the glorious sunshine of the Swiss Alps. Our hearts were light and our laughter was frequent.
Ross told us that Brenden had none of his natural caution on the ski slopes and skied without fear—which translated to ‘he took almighty risks’. So long as he was alive and happy, though, I was content. I enjoyed the odd risk myself, so this behaviour didn’t concern me at all.
Those precious few weeks are etched in my memory as the happiest time our family ever enjoyed together. And Granny was the happiest of us all. We could barely keep up with her—she was usually ten paces ahead.
***
We finally returned to Basel, where we reluctantly took our leave from my brothers. Then we turned our noses towards home, travelling through Greece, Hong Kong and Singapore. After smuggling her exotic seeds with us into Australia, Granny headed off to plant them in her Brisbane garden, and Rae and Geoff reconnected with their staff.
But I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was nineteen and still living with my parents, who had moved from Artarmon to a spectacular penthouse overlooking Chinamans Beach. It was a beautiful and spacious home, and Rae and Geoff were happy to share it with me, but I needed to keep moving forward. I worked for a time at Royal North Shore Hospital as a ward clerk in the outpatients’ clinic while I contemplated what to do next.
John McGlynn, my orthopaedic surgeon, also operated at that hospital. One day, while walking behind me, he noticed my gait and suggested I make an appointment to see him. The limp wasn’t new and the pain had been increasing, but I hadn’t noticed that my knee had swivelled in again, putting strain on the arthritic joint. I had two more surgeries to realign my leg, and afterwards I embarked on physio to strengthen and stabilise the knee.
The surgeries went relatively smoothly, but I was in a cast for several weeks after each one, so I was back to being cared for by my mother. She was always so good-natured about driving me around and generally looking after me, but I wondered whether I’d ever be able to start an independent life.
***
A few months later, when I’d recovered from the surgeries, I decided to join Ross and Brenden, who were now living on a boat in Amsterdam. We had navigated our teen years quite separately, and I wanted to re-establish our connection. My parents felt content knowing we would be together, and Amsterdam in 1971 was a very happy place—something they were probably less aware about. I bought an open return ticket to London with a stopover in the capital of hippiedom.
Brenden and I still had a lot in common. We philosophised about existential questions, and we discussed the state of the world: the lack of compassion and care for the underdog, the inequality and poverty, the abuse and deterioration of the environment, the cruelty towards animals—and what, if anything, we could do to make a meaningful contribution. He and I also discussed our anxieties, though his always seemed deeper and more relentless than my own. I still didn’t feel entitled to his depth of despair—surely one in a family was enough.
Ross appeared to skate skilfully across the surface of these conversations and was satisfied to make a contribution in his own particular way, whereas Brenden and I were disturbed by the world. We both lived with a sense of impending doom.
While we lingered in the doldrums, a political freshness was in the air. Many institutions and social norms were being questioned or dismantled. Feminism, anti-war protests and civil rights were on the rise, and the sexual revolution was in full swing. ‘Make love, not war’ was a common slogan that heralded the hope of a better tomorrow.
Brenden was working at a youth hostel, and I happily joined him. Every day brought people from all over the world to our doorstep, and once our chores were done we were free to talk to the guests or explore the city. I loved meeting people from so many cultures, and listening to and sometimes participating in their conversations.
While Brenden and I were friendly with many guests, most only stayed a few nights. But one young woman, Hagit, lingered for a couple of weeks and became a good friend. She was a dark-haired Israeli beauty with soft and gentle eyes. And, like me, she had a passion for animals and the environment. We spent days exploring Amsterdam on our bikes, and I was fascinated by her stories of living in a kibbutz. I soon gained some understanding of how Judaism permeated her life.
The pursuit of understanding spirituality through religious pathways continued to interest me. However, religious dogma seemed an obstruction to the direct experience of the divine that I’d encountered as a child and for which I yearned. I found it fascinating that religious people seemed so consumed by rites and rituals, without expressing a deeper wish to unite with the divine.
Like the eccentric opal miners of Eulo, forever in search of the flash of light and colour in the dark, I was driven by the desire to experience divine luminosity in every waking moment.
***
The boat that my brothers and I lived on was a deserted barge in a canal. While the amenities were basic—indeed, very basic—living there was free and at the heart of the action. We cooked on a precarious and potentially lethal portable gas stove and relied on bicycles for transportation. The barge was virtually empty, so we salvaged some discarded furniture to make it ‘home’. Our sleeping bags kept us warm, and the subtle rocking of the barge was a comfort. There’s a delightful simplicity about living with the bare essentials and bringing home only what can be carried by hand or bike.
We didn’t spend a lot of time on the barge, given our responsibilities at the hostel, and our desire to explore and share easy times with friends, who mostly hung out in the Vondelpark. Amsterdam was a leafy, sprawling maze of low-rise buildings and streets with a friendly and welcoming atmosphere. Hundreds of people were sleeping in the Vondelpark, wearing flowers in their hair, and the smell of marijuana wafted around their gatherings. They played guitars and discussed building a better world based on personal liberty, compassion, justice, freedom and equality. I wasn’t overly fond of smoking but I gave everything my best shot, never wanting to be left out and always keen to explore altered states of consciousness.
When I tried LSD, I thought, That’s better! For the first time in a long time, I felt and saw the world of energy that I’d encountered at the age of seven. Being both a risk-taker and familiar with drug use—given how often I was kept on morphine throughout my teen years—I took to LSD with gusto. In fact, I took it every eight hours for the first three weeks, barely sleeping during that time. Living in a slightly altered reality suited me, as I was often at a loss about how to effectively deal with my day-to-day existence. But gradually my enthusiasm waned, and I functioned more normally while still sometimes exploring my inner landscape via the psychedelic.
One night, I felt a sudden urgency to share with someone what had happened to me at the church fellowship meeting four years previously. I still felt too ashamed to confide in my brothers, but the desperation to tell someone was all consuming. I decided that I could tell my friend Raymond, so I set off to find him and spent hours wandering streets where all the houses seemed identical.
Raymond was a Belgian with a mop of curly dark hair and a gentle manner. He usually wore braces to hold up his jeans. While he had a ready laugh, he also carried a deep sense of calm and appeared content within himself—silence was his friend. This had drawn me to him while we worked together at the hostel.
That night, I finally found him by lighting matches under the nameplates on every door in his district. It was two in the morning when, with a thumping heart, I tentatively rang the bell. A sleepy Raymond finally appeared and led me up the steep, winding steps to his bedsit. I could barely talk. He sat opposite me, gently holding my hands, and waited as I tried to get the bones of the story out. His kindness and patience enabled my long held-back distress to find expression.
It was Raymond who said, ‘You were raped.’
I was so shocked, I could only say, ‘Was that rape?’
Raymond made tea and held me close while I shivered and shook with the memory of the sexual violation. He murmured soft and soothing sounds as I gradually slid into sleep, relieved to have shared the story with someone at last.
***
After a couple of months, Ross continued his journey through Europe, while Brenden, Raymond and I moved to a tiny coastal village in Zeeland, Oostkapelle, where we rented an old stone farmhouse and continued to live a simple life. We were within easy walking distance of the traditional Dutch village where staples could be purchased and mail collected or dispatched.
Our farmhouse was clean, rustic and comfortable, and it had plenty of space for the three of us plus visitors from Amsterdam, Israel, Belgium, France, Italy and elsewhere—sometimes half a dozen people at once. Downstairs we had a kitchen, a bathroom, and living and dining rooms heated by an effective wood-burning stove; and upstairs were several bedrooms along with another bathroom. Attached to the house was a huge stone and timber barn that could be accessed through the kitchen. It was mostly used for food storage or the drying of vegetables, and it housed a tractor that looked like it belonged in a museum.
Behind our farm, fields of beetroot spread to a horizon dotted with similar-looking farmhouses that stared back at us. We had a productive vegetable garden where we mostly grew brussels sprouts, silverbeet and other leafy greens, as the growing season was relatively short and only the brassicas really thrived.
Our days took on an easy routine. We attended to the necessities: preparing and eating meals, tending the garden, and exploring the countryside and coastline. Each day I baked bread and traded it for goods from local farmers.
Within a short walk of our house was a dairy of magnificent Friesian cows. Every couple of days I left a clean billy there alongside my loaf of bread, returning an hour or s
o later to retrieve the billy full of fresh, frothing milk still warm from the cows.
Another farmer supplied us with eggs. His house was an enormous, thatch-roofed white building with old stone steps and tiny windows. Its kitchen housed an ancient fireplace big enough to stand in, as well as a wood-fired oven; a hundred or more years of smoke had stained the walls and beams that supported the low roof.
The farmer was short and stocky, and he looked as worn down but not nearly as handsome as the square black and white tiles on his kitchen floor. When I told him, in my hesitant Dutch, that he had the most beautiful farmhouse in the area, he gave me a hearty, toothless grin and embraced me enthusiastically—a hug that went on far too long. I escaped and pedalled home as fast as my legs would allow. When I told Raymond what had happened, he laughed: I’d said that the man was the most beautiful farmer in the area!
At another nearby farm, I traded my bread for the right to pick through their fields after the potatoes and onions had been harvested. There were always many that had either been missed by the pickers or were considered too imperfect to be sold.
All in all, Brenden, Raymond and I subsisted on what grew around us or what could be traded, with the addition of flour and rice that we purchased by the sack from the nearby Demeter organic farm.
I’m sure that the locals—fitted out, as they had been for centuries, in clogs and wide flannel trousers or traditional dresses with aprons and headwear—were bemused by the small influx of hippies into their village. We were certainly a novelty, but we were also industrious when not otherwise occupied with hobbies or books, and they admired our flourishing veggie garden when curiosity drove them to our door.
The seashore was a short ride away, and the three of us would often go down at low tide to retrieve mussels from the timber piers that stepped their way out into the water. Sometimes we made a fire on the beach, cooking up the mussels for a simple feast while we watched the sun sinking into the sea.