Up Until Now

by Petrea King

  We were having fun together, but it couldn’t last.

  ***

  The darkness was seeping into our days, not much helped by Brenden’s alcohol and my drug consumption. He never used drugs, but he had hallucinations without them. He and I were often unreachable, and we weren’t always a healthy combination.

  Raymond would sometimes get angry with me for taking LSD, which was readily available in a nearby town. Most people I knew used LSD as a recreational drug, but I used it to disappear from reality. I was tired of physical pain and my sense of responsibility for Brenden, along with my worries for the world at large, and LSD provided an escape into another dimension. Although not all my LSD trips were happy ones—I had some terrifying experiences from which there was little relief—this didn’t stop me. I was unsure which was the scarier reality: the one induced by drugs or the despair I often felt.

  After some months, I only had to be in the company of people affected by LSD for me to feel that I’d consumed the drug myself. These were often very unpleasant experiences, because while other people would return to their usual selves when the drug wore off, I could be stuck in an altered state for days.

  Brenden was always absorbed with his inner turmoil, and the nature of our relationship was always weighted towards me looking after him rather than the other way around. I’d been preoccupied with him since I was a little girl, but most of the time he couldn’t see beyond his own suffering. Of course, while I craved his acceptance and acknowledgement, I also did my best to be invisible and without needs, which helped him remain oblivious to my suffering. I craved being with him so that I could watch over him—and, at the same time, I lived with my constant concern about the commitment he’d made to me when we were children.

  Brenden was getting restless and toying with the idea of returning to Australia—which he finally did. I felt relieved because I was frightened for him and thought our parents might be able to get him the support and assistance he needed.

  Without Brenden at the farm, I spiralled into a precarious mental state where panic assailed me each day, often keeping me housebound. The LSD didn’t help, of course, but I found that my reality became distorted even without the drug. During that year I took LSD more than a hundred and fifty times, so I’m fortunate to have survived.

  My world shrank into pain and anxiety. Music, meditation and nature were my only comforts, and I confined myself to the farmhouse. I stopped talking to people, as conversation about trivialities seemed pointless. Raymond watched over me but knew there was little he could do to alleviate my turmoil and despair.

  At times I felt myself disappearing into an abyss of anxiety. I would walk in circles, my bare feet on cold stone being my only connection to reality. The aching chill kept me in the present moment, and I used it as a way of avoiding the panic that assailed me. The practice of ‘coming to my senses’ began then and has been a blessing many times since. When focusing on my senses, I was distracted from the chaos of my mind; I guess that’s why we say to people, ‘Come to your senses!’ when they’re having a panic attack. While I concentrated on my cold feet, I could also feel the touch of my clothing against my skin, any taste in my mouth, any aroma in the air, any sight behind my closed eyes, and all the sounds within and outside of the space I inhabited. I also developed an awareness of my inward and outward breaths.

  As weeks passed, I only managed the simplest of chores. Each morning I got up early to sweep out the lounge area, remove the incense and ashtrays, put fresh water in the flowers and plump up the cushions. It was a bit like the film Groundhog Day—I went through the same motions and waited for something to change.

  On one bleak and heavy grey morning, so typical of Dutch weather, having completed my routine, I sat listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons in the lounge. A ray of sunshine broke through the clouds, illuminating the yellow chrysanthemums in a vase. I heard, as clearly as if a voice were in the room, ‘If you don’t leave the farm within the hour and Holland today, you’ll lose all power of discrimination.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Escaping madness

  Without hesitation, I went upstairs, left Raymond a note, put my few belongings into my rucksack and a plastic bag, and left the farm. I hitchhiked to Schiphol Airport. I had my ticket to London and $10 in my pocket, and I felt that I’d just escaped the clutches of impending madness.

  This was early in 1972 and, as there had been a bombing in London’s Post Office Tower a few months before, security was high.

  Passengers were shoulder to shoulder as we boarded the aircraft through the concertina corridors. After months in the spacious countryside, I found the close proximity of people quite daunting, especially after my precipitous departure from the farm. Then we were informed that we would be searched before boarding the plane. No problem, I thought, as they were obviously looking for weapons—then I remembered the two-ounce block of hashish in my coat pocket, along with some marijuana seeds.

  I dropped the seeds down a tear in my coat lining and, under the pretence of coughing, I popped the chunk of hashish into my mouth, chewed it thoroughly and swallowed.

  Clearly I looked like a hippie, given my long plaits and clothing, and the leering American passenger in the seat beside me kept questioning me about life in a commune. As the effects of the hashish spread through my bloodstream and tickled my cannabinoid receptors, I’m sure he doubted me when I assured him that it was anything but a continuous sexual orgy.

  By the time we arrived, I was off with the pixies. While my parents knew many people in London, I was in no fit state to contact them. I remembered that Piccadilly Circus was in the middle of everything, so I took the train into the hubbub of the city.

  There was only one person in all of London whom I felt I could contact—my Israeli friend, Hagit, who was living and working in the city. Neither of us had expected our paths to cross again, though we’d exchanged contact details in the hope she might one day visit Australia or I, Israel. I only had her American Express Mail Service address.

  With my last bit of money, I ordered a cup of tea in a tiny cafe off Piccadilly Circus. I was contemplating my next step when who should walk past but the beautiful, dark-eyed Hagit. I almost knocked people off their chairs as I rushed to the door, where we fell into each other’s arms.

  Chattering like monkeys, we returned to her home where she put me to bed on her couch. She was returning to Israel in two days’ time, so I needed to act quickly.

  ***

  The next day, having recovered from my drug-induced haze, I went to Australia House, which contained a large book of employment opportunities for Australians. I thought that being a nanny would be a quiet and gentle opportunity to live in the country, recover from my overindulgence in drugs and generally mend myself.

  One ad stood out, so I jotted down the number, made the call and went for the interview. And I got the job. Given the state I’d been in just a couple of days before, it all seemed like a miracle.

  At the time of the interview I had no idea that my employer, Minnie Churchill, was none other than Winston Churchill’s wife—this Winston being the grandson of Sir Winston Churchill. She provided me with my train fare to Sheffield Park Station, along with the assurance that I would be greeted and transported to their home near Chailey. So began a restorative year with their three delightful children: seven-year-old Randolph, six-year-old Jennie and five-year-old Marina.

  The company of young children was perfect and my duties were simple. There were already two Japanese au pairs who lived in the house and attended to cooking and cleaning. Winston’s elderly nanny also lived in her own wing of their home and, being an ‘old school’ nanny, she guided my efforts when they occasionally fell short.

  My duty was to care for the children. Each morning I supervised their dressing for school and oversaw their breakfast in the nursery. After breakfast, they brushed their teeth and went up into the main house to greet their parents. Once inspections and cuddles were complete, I drove th
em to school about half an hour away. During the day I ensured their beds were made by the au pairs, and their rooms and clothes were clean and respectable, none of which was onerous as I didn’t need to attend to these chores myself.

  I blended into the home life of the Churchills, having been brought up with appropriate manners instilled by my parents. And as the daily schedule became a familiar routine, I managed quite well on automatic pilot.

  Only once or twice did I step out of line—for instance, when I thought it might be good for the children to learn how to make their own beds. I turned it into a game where we sang as we accomplished the task: ‘This is the way we make our beds, make our beds, make our beds, this is the way we make our beds, all on a sunny morning.’ This caused a bit of a stir, and I was reminded that these were ‘Churchill’ children and we were there to ‘do’ for them.

  When I’d first arrived, the children had been restless and jumped around like fleas in a bottle. They had very short attention spans, their incomplete puzzles and projects were strewn all over the nursery. I thought that being outside would be a great blessing for all of us, so every afternoon, weather permitting, we walked the moors and relished the joys of nature. Perhaps a caterpillar would catch our attention, and we’d get on the ground to watch it navigate its way through the long grass. The children would be off in a flash while I was still mesmerised by the caterpillar—my year on drugs had no doubt deepened my wonder at the intricacies of nature. The children would circle back, asking what on earth I was doing, before they too settled into the moment of intently watching the caterpillar. In time, they slowed right down so each of them could read quietly or complete a project without becoming distracted. Together, we grew and healed.

  During breakfast one morning, I was surprised to discover that Jennie thought milk just came in bottles from the supermarket. She had no idea about its relationship to an animal, so I arranged to take the children to a local dairy farmer where they could learn the story behind what they put on their cereal. Their eyes were like saucers as they watched the farmer at work, and they even had a go at milking themselves. Of course, the children weren’t destined to do farm work—or any physical work—on a regular basis. I was often reminded to ensure they were familiar with their heritage and lineage. Behind the nursery door was a family tree mapping out their ancestry, all the way back to the First Duke of Marlborough.

  On one particularly hot day, when driving the children home after school, I saw an elderly woman waiting for a bus and stopped to give her a lift to her home. She gratefully sank into the front seat and started talking to the children. On finding out their names were Randolph, Jennie and Marina, the penny dropped and she said with emphasis, ‘What special children you are because you’re Churchills.’

  I felt this was an unnecessary burden to place upon young children, and I frequently told them they were special because all children are special and no child is more special than another. I also spoke about the importance of making a life guided by kindness and a personal sense of meaning. I hoped my words would be remembered when unexpected traumas presented themselves—a proud family history doesn’t necessarily equip a person to stand on their own two feet; happiness can only be found living in an authentic way congruent with a person’s values. Perhaps, I thought, I could teach the children what I was desperate to experience myself.

  I was still learning and reading everything I could. One of the great joys of working with the family was that Sir Winston’s library and letters were housed in the Churchills’ home and in the lodge that stood in its grounds. I offered to catalogue these documents, as a display of them was planned for the ten-year commemoration of Sir Winston’s death. It was quite something to handle the correspondence between, for example, Lawrence of Arabia and Sir Winston. I also came across a small book that had hurtled across the House of Commons and clipped Sir Winston on the ear, along with many author-signed first editions. My experience in my parents’ publishing business had given me a knowledge of cataloguing, so while the children were at school I immersed myself in this pleasurable task.

  I was also learning a new skill: Minnie Churchill was a keen equestrian-trained horsewoman, and sometimes I accompanied her to her class. This was most definitely not the kind of riding I was used to, but it was good training and I enjoyed learning the finer points of professional riding. Heels down, toes in, back straight…quite different from the skills I’d picked up at Kilmarnock when droving and mustering.

  ***

  My parents visited twice during the year, and the Churchills generously made the lodge available to them. Geoff was captivated as he immersed himself in the extraordinary library. He held Sir Winston in the highest regard, so he spent his days happily going through the books shelf by shelf, and we loved his frequent cries of delight as he discovered some treasure that sparked his interest.

  Rae and Geoff also brought news of Brenden’s mental health. Since returning from Europe he’d been hospitalised from time to time, and this made working difficult for him. Given his immense creativity, it was hard for him to have no formalised channel in which to express himself. He taught himself the guitar and drew intricate designs, but he was often like a caged animal who lacked the keys to release himself.

  Ross, meanwhile, was working in the family business and gradually taking the reins from Geoff—although that was a rather bumpy transition, given that Geoff found it difficult to relinquish control. The business had recently built a warehouse and offices in Frenchs Forest, a short drive from Geoff and Rae’s home, while Ross had purchased a beautiful unit on the harbour’s edge in nearby Cremorne.

  While my mother and I were close, our love for each other was demonstrated more through actions than words. We didn’t discuss our feelings of insecurity, but I knew they existed for her. She lacked the confidence to confront Geoff about his behaviours and lived by the saying, ‘You’ve made your bed, now lie in it,’ followed closely by, ‘Peace at any price.’ My struggles for identity and self-confidence were beyond my articulation and therefore her knowledge, though perhaps not her suspicion.

  While I happily told Rae about my psychedelic explorations into both light and dark experiences, I withheld such information from Granny; I knew she would find it beyond her comprehension. Our regular correspondence was still focused on the doings of life. Granny was an uncomplicated woman who lived a simple spirituality based on a firm foundation of kindness. She often wrote to me about her visits to Currimundi Lake and the happy times she shared with her friends there—fishing, reading and relaxing—along with news of her latest exploits in her beloved garden. Granny simply wouldn’t have seen any need to distort her reality; she was completely content in the moment.

  But she eventually learned of my drug use from Rae, and she was mightily relieved that I’d found greater stability and a better lifestyle with the Churchills.

  ***

  The Churchills had friends with two unruly children who could easily have been described as rude, disobedient brats. They would, for example, deliberately drop an item on the floor and then, with an air of disdain, tell the ‘help’ to pick it up without a ‘please’ or a ‘thank you’. Given they weren’t yet ten years of age, I thought they were an unfolding disaster both for their own happiness and for anyone unfortunate enough to know them. It was hard to see children who seemed so indulged, snooty and superior.

  Their parents were impressed with the impact I had on Randolph, Jennie and Marina. They beseeched me, did I know anyone in Australia like me who could come and sort out their children?

  Yes, indeed, I knew the perfect person for the job! My friend Barbara from the shearing sheds would whip these two children into shape.

  We still wrote to each other irregularly, though Barb’s letters were a jumble of phonetically spelled words and sometimes didn’t make sense. You might remember that she’d left school at fourteen to work on the family farm—she certainly didn’t have the vocabulary, spelling and grammar I was fortunate to h
ave acquired. Barb’s manner was kindly but uncompromising, and in person you always knew exactly what she thought even though she had a colourful way of expressing things.

  I tracked her down to a South Australian cannery and offered her the nannying job. Despite my warnings about the children’s behaviour, she was undaunted. She seemed eager to leave the cannery and travel to a distant land, and the family were happy to pay her fare. Within two weeks, she had arrived.

  As I’d predicted, Barbara was perfect for the job. The family loved her; they found her use of the English language and her broad accent endearing. She treated the children fairly but gave no ground and had them using their ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’ in no time. They had clearly met their match and were much happier too—they now had clear boundaries, and knew what was on and what was most definitely not.

  After Barb had settled in and worked for a couple of months, the two of us took a holiday in Wales. We were standing on a bridge above a swiftly flowing river when her attention was caught by something in the water. She said, ‘That really raises my curiosis!’ This wonderful word has remained in my family’s vocabulary ever since.

  On this same holiday, Barb and I got hopelessly and delightfully lost in the lovely hills and dales of Wales. We had stopped at an intersection far from civilisation to consult a map when a farmer pulled up beside us on his tractor. He found it strange that two young women were quite content not knowing exactly where they were, and he invited us for a cup of tea with his wife at his nearby farm. As we entered his handsome old stone cottage, with its low ceilings and rooms filled with the scent of homely cooking, I spotted a harp in the corner. We were then treated to a beautiful concert by the woman of the house; she had played for the Queen and been the harpist on the maiden voyage of the QE2, the magnificent ocean liner built by Cunard for their transatlantic service.