Up Until Now

by Petrea King

  The memory of this enchanting, spontaneous moment always brings a smile to my face. Travelling with Barb was such a joy.

  Much to my amusement and delight, she went on to become nanny to the Shah of Iran. She lived with his family for several years, travelling to their various homes around the world—and teaching the younger children English! I lost track of where she ended up and have often thought of her fondly.

  ***

  When I worked for the Churchills, my heart particularly went out to young Randolph, who was a delightful dreamer and loved his Snoopy toy. At eight years of age, he was dispatched to a Swiss boarding school where he knew no one. I was told that he would only be allowed to speak English at prescribed times so that he would become fluent in French. He looked very small and bewildered as he waved goodbye.

  Shortly after, my year with the family ended. Nannies were generally employed only for one year, as children developed strong bonds with their custodians. It was difficult for parents to watch their children run to the nanny for comfort or celebration.

  I left the Churchills feeling fully restored and embarked upon travelling around the United Kingdom. I returned to beautiful Wales, where I visited Arabella Churchill, Winston’s half-sister. She was a couple of years older than me, and I’d first met her on one of her visits to the Churchills’ home. She was the black sheep of the family—they obviously disapproved of her lifestyle choices—but I immediately warmed to her and we shared many ideals. As I got to know her better, I came to love her creative eccentricity and commitment to following her dreams. Like me, she was passionate about the peace movement, but she was in it up to her ears whereas I hadn’t yet found my place—a fact that still disheartened and disturbed me at twenty-two.

  It wasn’t until I visited her in the remote hills where she lived with her partner, Jim, and ten-month-old son, Jake, that I realised just how different she was from the rest of her clan. Arabella had unhesitatingly and cleanly turned her back on the social norms that held the Churchills in high esteem, preferring to eke out a simpler existence and only use her position if it furthered a political or cultural cause of her own choosing.

  Her small stone house sat squat at the end of a long and lovely green valley. The furnishings were rudimentary, and the only cooking facility was a wood-burning stove upon which a pot of stew or soup would simmer, its steam creating a delicious and welcoming aroma. There was also an open fire around which we huddled when the temperature dropped, hot drinks cradled in our hands.

  Our discussions about the state of the world heightened my sense of displacement—I still hadn’t found any clear direction in life, aside from wanting to protect Brenden however I could. I admired Arabella’s belief in herself and her ideals, her confidence and joie de vivre, and her willingness to forgo the trappings of a comfortable life to do what she felt was right.

  Every evening around dusk, Arabella would leave Jake in my care and climb to the top of the range far above the house. A distant scream would eerily descend through the valley and, a little while later, she’d return rosy cheeked and content, having discharged the day’s frustrations. I admired how content she seemed within herself and wished I could feel confident enough to do the same.

  It was from the upstairs window of Arabella’s cottage that I witnessed one of nature’s greatest spectacles: a murmuration of starlings. I sat in the deep window cavity, gazing out over the peaceful valley, as the last rays of sunlight illuminated the bright green hilltops. A dark smudge formed in the sky at the far end of the valley, then became a mesmerising liquid cloud that soared, swirled and swooped up the basin towards me. I felt a glorious thrill of awe as I watched this eddying mass of birdlife, millions of starlings perfectly synchronised to move as one.

  I often felt that Brenden and I were the odd ones out; Arabella, the starlings and everything and everyone seemed to have a direction while he and I hesitated on the fringe of life. I would have to find my own route, as would he, but the how remained beyond my knowing. Soon after my visit to Arabella, I decided to return to Australia.

  CHAPTER 10

  Naturopathy, Leo and love

  1973

  Back in Sydney, I gravitated back to training as a nurse. Then, given I was immersed in a medical environment, I decided to have some tests to explore why I was still growing taller. My pants and skirts were getting shorter—at first I’d assumed they were shrinking in the wash, but finally I measured myself and discovered the truth.

  To ascertain what was going on with my hormones, I had daily blood tests for a month. The doctor was surprised by his findings. He told me, among other things, that I had never ovulated and that getting pregnant was out of the question. He suggested that the anaesthetics and drugs I’d been given in my early teens had stopped my reproductive capacities from maturing. I wasn’t deeply distressed because I hadn’t considered having children, though to have no choice in the matter came as a surprise.

  My interest in natural healing methods still greatly fascinated me. I experimented with a range of diets, supplements, fasting and medicaments to try and help my legs, which continued to be problematic and painful. I was limping noticeably and at times used crutches, particularly if the terrain was uneven or if the walk was long. I could just manage nursing and did my best not to draw attention to the fact that pain occasionally slowed me down. Mostly I simply wouldn’t let it, but by the end of every shift my knees would be swollen and sore.

  My training ended abruptly a year later when something dreadful happened to a patient. Evie was eighty-two years old and close to dying from leukaemia. She had no family or loved ones who visited, and looking after her was one of my responsibilities during my shifts in the several days leading to her death.

  On that afternoon, I tenderly sponged her and made her as comfortable as I could. She was breathing peacefully and seemed in no distress. While it was sad that no loved ones were there to hold her hand or sit by her side, I did my best to be with her as much as possible given my other responsibilities. I was present when she died.

  Afterwards, I stayed for a few minutes to allow us both space and time, then I gently closed her eyes, combed back her hair, arranged her bedding appropriately and told the sister on duty that Evie had died.

  To my complete astonishment, the sister called in a ‘code blue’, which meant the crash trolley was raced into the room while nurses and doctors came running. They swung into action as if to resuscitate Evie.

  I stood rooted to the spot in shock. This couldn’t be happening. Surely there was a mistake. I stumbled out of the way, traumatised by what was unfolding. Paddles were attached to Evie’s chest, and she heaved off the bed as the shock passed through her inert and unresponsive body. Heart-stimulating drugs were injected into her poor dead chest. Had I said something wrong? Had the nursing sister not understood that Evie had been dead for at least five minutes before I told her?

  Finally they stopped and, without a word, perfunctorily left Evie’s cubicle. I returned to her bedside to find her tousled and in awful disarray, her body skewed and dishevelled. I gently straightened and re-covered her body, placing her hands on her chest. I was still shaking with dismay and distress at what had been done to her. I again combed her hair and arranged her as gently as possible, but I didn’t think she looked nearly as peaceful as before. Her body seemed racked with abuse.

  The sister dismissed my concerns and gave no explanation for what had transpired. At the end of my shift, I walked off the ward and down to the matron’s office, knocked and went in. I could barely contain myself. I reported what had just happened and my belief that it wasn’t right. After a few minutes, the matron lost patience with me and said, ‘Nurse, they have to practise on someone!’

  Incredulous, I resigned on the spot. Just because a person didn’t have someone to advocate for them was no reason to treat them so disrespectfully. In my view, it was an appalling assault, and I couldn’t be part of a system that condoned or encouraged it.

  ***r />
  I decided that day to start my formal studies in naturopathy and was soon enrolled at what was then called the NSW School of Naturopathic Sciences. I was given recognition of prior learning, which shortened the course by a year. I never looked back—although my great love was always that first year of nursing, where our principle responsibility had been to ensure the care, comfort and dignity of our patients.

  Naturopathy was fascinating, and I became a dedicated student. Again, I studied far more than necessary, and I found that my nursing experience and my understanding of the medical system added a valuable and enriching perspective to my studies.

  Early on in my training, I met a tall, blond and good-looking man at the annual dinner of the college I was attending. He asked me to dance, and I hesitated because of my uncoordinated legs and arthritis; I have never felt very stable on my feet. However, Leo wasn’t one to take no for an answer. He was perhaps the most enthusiastic man I’d ever met. He was also very tall, and he swept me off my feet, quite literally. I had the strangest experience in his arms, as if we were dancing our way through the stars. I had never experienced anything like it—even with all my psychedelic trips!

  In the noise and activity of the dinner there wasn’t much time or space for conversation, but we spoke to each other as Leo escorted me home by cab. The next day, a mighty sheaf of roses was delivered along with a basket of fruit.

  I soon learned more about Leo. Born in the Netherlands in 1938, he had lost his father when he was a toddler and experienced starvation as a young child during the Occupation—his family lived in a farming community, and all their food was handed over to the German army. Leo had strong memories of his mother concealing potatoes under her traditional Dutch skirts to bring home from the fields to feed her children, and of others who would happily trade diamonds for potatoes.

  After school, Leo rose to the top of his profession as a chef, working in prestigious restaurants in France and Holland, and sometimes lending a hand to his friend Pierre, who was chef to Queen Beatrix for decades. In 1967, Leo orchestrated the food for the coronation of King Taufa’ahau Tupou IV of Tonga. Leo’s enormous ice sculptures and other decorations were legendary at such events; silver foil animals and intricately carved fruits and vegetables turned dishes into extraordinary works of art.

  Like many others, Leo came to Australia in search of adventure and to create a better life for himself. He was accepted into the country as part of the influx of immigrants to help build the Snowy Mountain Scheme. He worked there as a cook and relished the multicultural community that had instantly developed. Fluent in six languages, Leo had an easy way with people and a gift for making them laugh. He treated everyone the same and was happiest in company where genuine conversation took place. He was full of fun with a twinkle in his eye and often used humour to soften or avoid difficult circumstances.

  When I met him in late 1974, Leo was still working as a chef. But, like me, he’d developed a strong interest in natural medicine and the powers of the body to heal itself. He felt that many of the extraordinary dishes he created were nutritionally deficient, and he wanted to eat and prepare healthier meals. He had studied many of the philosophers who intrigued me, including Vincent Priessnitz, Paracelsus, Sebastian Kneipp, Louis Kuhne, the great faster Arnold Ehret and, of course, Hippocrates.

  While my interest was driven by my physical suffering, Leo’s was born out of a natural curiosity about health, healing and wellbeing. We had much to talk about and quickly became inseparable as love wove its magic around us. I was enjoying my studies in naturopathy, hydrotherapy, botanic medicine, massage and homeopathy, and Leo was always interested in whatever I was learning.

  He was interested in fasting too, and we both undertook quite a few fasts. I found a spiritual clarity during the two twenty-one day fasts we undertook together. My spine seemed to come alive and become an extra sense organ, and I noticed a heightened intuitive ability. I went on to do much longer fasts and, each time, I noticed the pain and swelling of my arthritis diminished and my flexibility improved.

  Leo also shared my love of nature, and we spent as much time as we could enjoying the beauty of both beach and bush. Every weekend was an opportunity to explore the natural world through camping or bushwalking.

  Leo’s other passion, however, was for something I knew nothing about: he followed the stock market, understood its patterns and was very skilled at interpreting his meticulous charts. Frequently he could predict when a penny dreadful was about to take off. In the middle of the night he could often be found perched on a stool, elbow on knee and hand on chin, studying the patterns of charts that stretched down the hallway into the lounge. He said they ‘spoke’ to him.

  But Leo wasn’t interested in accruing wealth. I once found a briefcase under his bed stuffed with letters and certificates of appreciation from more than a dozen charities to whom he regularly donated sizeable amounts—some in the tens of thousands. He was content to live in a rented apartment overlooking Bondi Beach and happy to disperse his successes to worthy causes.

  ***

  Leo belonged to a School of Philosophy that, as the name implies, exposed students to all the great philosophical teachers and teachings. It also provided a structured pathway to ignite spiritual awakening. I was keen to join Leo in this exploration, as it aligned with many of my interests; meditation and the practice of being present were fundamental to the School’s teachings, and this resonated strongly for both of us. I was already a keen practitioner of meditation, and because of my legs I had to move with heightened awareness, otherwise I could easily tear ligaments, muscles and tendons.

  The word ‘mindfulness’ hadn’t yet been invented, but at the School we participated in activities designed to keep us firmly focused in the present moment—which is, of course, the meaning of the term. These included calligraphy, the sounding of Sanskrit, gardening, cleaning, woodwork, dressmaking, lace-making and crocheting. One of the School’s mottos was ‘wake up, get up’, and we arose every morning at four to undertake a series of disciplines made up of these activities, beginning with three hours of spiritual discipline.

  Though I had no desire to crochet, I found that focusing on the space between the hook and the thread was a fabulous mindful activity. Our hooks could barely be seen by the naked eye, and our threads were of the finest cotton available. In groups of about ten, we would sit with our spines comfortably erect while focusing on our work, which was held at eye height without any support for the arms or back. The finished products were crocheted spider webs no more than a fifty-cent coin in diameter and edged in gold thread. Our group produced two thousand of these to be sewn into a magnificent bedspread, although any attachment to the outcome wasn’t encouraged.

  The purpose of this activity was simply to keep the attention focused and the mind under observation. It went for three hours every Saturday afternoon, and silence was maintained throughout. As you might imagine, this was a perfect opportunity for the mind to go wild: ‘What the heck am I doing this for?’ ‘I could be at the beach or bushwalking.’ ‘Whose bright idea was this anyway?’ ‘Surely there are more preferable pathways to enlightenment?’ and so on. It was a great discipline in observing the ego’s resistance, and this rigour and focus was applied equally to all our disciplines.

  Another of the School’s valued activities was cleaning, and I soon came to understand the expression ‘cleanliness is next to godliness’. Bringing one’s whole attention to the act of cleaning turns a mundane activity into a more sacred one. When a surface is pristine, there’s a simple purity to it—everything that doesn’t belong has been removed. This reminds me of sculptors who say their task is to remove everything extraneous to their artwork, which already exists within the stone or wood. It also echoes the age-old spiritual philosophy of removing the falsehood of separation so the unifying principle that enlivens everything is recognised and experienced.

  In the School, I learned to observe my mind by simply watching the thoughts and
feelings without acting on them. This mental training, along with meditation, has been an invaluable asset throughout my life, giving me great focus and concentration.

  After I joined Leo at the School, I moved into his Bondi flat—a big step for us, and one that brought us happiness. Until then, when not travelling or staying in the nurses’ quarters, I had always lived with my parents. I was finally making my own way in life, though I was also happy to be swept along by Leo’s enthusiasm and certainty about our combined future. Our marriage in 1975 sealed our commitment to each other. A simple, civil ceremony suited us both and we celebrated the occasion with my family and a few friends at a restaurant at The Spit.

  CHAPTER 11

  Life’s surprises

  Only a few months passed before a great sense of tiredness overcame me. Whenever I had a spare half-hour, I just wanted to lie down and sleep. This went on for several weeks—I slept soundly at night and grabbed a nap during the day if possible. Between my work in a health-food store, my studies, my School commitments and my weekend activities with Leo, life was full, but that didn’t account for my profound exhaustion.

  At first, pregnancy as the cause of my tiredness didn’t occur to me. I had resigned myself to the fact that I couldn’t bear children. But when my exhaustion didn’t abate, I decided to eliminate the possibility before seeking medical tests. I picked up a kit at the local pharmacy, went home, used it and sat there waiting for the negative result.

  You can imagine my amazement and delight when the test confirmed that, indeed, I was pregnant!

  It was also a considerable shock. Restless and excited by this unexpected news, I went down to the rocks at Bondi to take in the enormity of this revelation before Leo arrived home. I had no idea how he might react—I’d only ever broached the subject to tell him that I couldn’t fall pregnant, and he hadn’t seemed perturbed.