by Denise Scott
May’s eldest daughter, Noreen, was only two years younger than my mother, and they were extremely close—they virtually grew up together. Until my mother left home, she shared a double bed with Noreen in the sleep-out in the backyard. They did their chores together, rode their pushbikes everywhere together, and as adolescents loved to go to the local cinema together. When Noreen married she moved nearby to Shepparton with her truck-driving husband, who was also a ballroom dancing champion. They had two sons, whom we saw a good deal of in the early days. I loved Noreen (still do!). I used to take great delight in calling her Cousin Nor, because of course she was my cousin, but old enough to be my aunt.
Apart from Noreen, we didn’t see Mum’s family very often—certainly nowhere near as much as we saw the Scotts. Once, sometimes twice, a year we’d climb aboard the sausage van and tootle up the Hume, heading northwards to Tatura, 180 kilometres from Melbourne, to visit May and Jim. The journey took days—at least, that was what it felt like. It was always at least 35 degrees Celsius when we travelled, the four of us sitting so close that the sweat made us stick together. We’d all hold our breath and silently pray, willing the van onwards as it wheezed and spluttered its way up Pretty Sally Hill. Sometimes, as we neared the top, she (the van was always ‘she’) would start to roll backwards, a rather terrifying moment, especially for the poor car travelling behind us.
I was often carsick, and once it was so hot I became totally dehydrated, to the point where Mum declared, ‘Russ, we need to get to a hospital.’ Of course, there wasn’t a hospital, so instead we went to a pub, where I was carried out the back to an old lean-to bathroom. Mum filled the large claw-foot bath with water and I lay in it, cooling off. My sister came to see me with a packet of crisps. She gave me one, and it stuck to the roof of my mouth because I had no saliva.
I loved staying at May’s house. May was quiet—extremely so. She never wore make-up, always wore a full apron with bib, was a ferociously neat housekeeper and was kind, loving and gentle. She spent her days and nights doing chores. Her home was humble, verging on the austere. There were few knickknacks, the odd crucifix on the wall, an oval, framed picture of Jesus baring his sacred heart and a large photo in an ornate dark-wood frame of a greyhound wearing a blue sash. The dog had belonged to May and her husband and at some point had won a major race. It was a high point of their lives and was often reminisced about.
There was a wood-fire cooker that was constantly burning, summer and winter. May would bake delicious, wholesome country foods, and there was always a pot of soup on the go. Above the cooker, in pride of place on the mantelpiece, was a beautiful old clock that gonged on the hour and tick-tocked loudly as we ate our tea in silence (because Jim didn’t approve of talking at the table).
As much as I loved staying with May, the tick-tocking of that clock on the mantelpiece gave me a feeling that in this house time stood still. These were people who led ordinary lives, without dreams or ambitions, where to have nothing happen was a good thing.
For many years I believed that my mother’s devotion to being ordinary persisted because she’d come from such an ordinary family. Of course, the truth, as I later learnt, was quite different.
chapter two
Dreaming big
Unlike my Mother, I wanted more than plain ordinariness.
From a young age I found the notion of having a small life—a little house and a little family in a little suburb—absolutely horrifying, stifling, suffocating. It made me feel panicky and anxious. I hated the idea of ending up leading a life like my mother’s—sure, mayhem and madness sometimes surrounded her, but in her own life it seemed to me that nothing ever happened. Apart from finishing a doily she was embroidering, or a dress she was sewing, or having the neatest house in the street, my mother appeared to have no ambitions or goals, and she was avowedly opposed to taking risks, because what if you failed? As for me, nothing was going to stop me in my tireless quest to have an amazing life.
This was by no means an easy ambition to fulfil, given I lived in Greensborough, where, apart from the odd bushfire or murder, nothing much happened. And so began a lifelong habit of pumping up the dullest event, transforming it from the ordinary to the extraordinary—even if it was only inside my own head.
As a young would-be adventurer I was fortunate to be free from the age of five to roam the ’hood, the only rule being that I arrived home in time for tea. To elevate this activity into being amazing I chose to explore the streets on horseback. His name was Raider. The facts that I didn’t have a horse and had never ridden one in my life were no obstacle. Of a morning I would set off for school cantering down Adeline Street, holding a dog leash out front, an end in each hand, as the reins. Upon arrival I would dismount and tie the leash to a post, do a few whinnies and head into class.
I didn’t always ride. Sometimes I walked. As a child I was quite famous for it. I used to walk 5 kilometres to Eltham to get an ice-cream from the forty flavours shop, such was the lure of an exotic single scoop of black licorice. At other times I threw a broomstick over my shoulder with a nappy tied to the end as a knapsack, Tom Sawyer–style; armed with biscuits and my plastic cordial bottle I’d head to the new housing estate being built in the paddocks of Watsonia to see what adventures could be had—usually none.
Although there was the time my friend Debbie and I had just settled down near a prickle bush (they were common in the paddocks of Watsonia) when suddenly I was grabbed from behind in a headlock.
I couldn’t believe it. It was a dream come true. Some real action!
‘Hand over the biscuits or I’ll belt your friend over the head.’
It was two boys from the state school, and the one who had me by the neck was holding a heavy silver toy gun to my head.
‘Don’t give him the biscuits, Debbie!’ It was an intuitive response. It was as if I just knew how to milk a dramatic situation. Had I simply agreed and said, ‘Okay, give them the biscuits,’ how dull would it have been? The biscuits would have been handed over and that would have been that. As it was, the whole thing escalated magnificently.
‘I said give me the biscuits or your friend is dead.’
Was I really willing to risk my life for a Monte Carlo? No, I wasn’t, but I was willing to risk it for the sake of having something extraordinary happen to me. ‘Don’t do it, Debbie!’
‘Give me the biscuit. Or I’m gonna hit her. I mean it.’
Oh, the build-up of tension—it was superb.
Debbie picked up a Monte Carlo …
‘No, Debbie, don’t!’ I cried.
… and she took a bite.
The boys were so taken aback they didn’t know what to do, except give me a pathetic little bonk on the head before running away in what appeared to be a state of confusion.
* * *
However, while I could be brave by day, when it came to bedtime it was a different story. Oh, how I dreaded that moment when I had to say goodnight. It wasn’t fear of being alone; I always shared a room with my sister. The problem was that while everyone else in the house went to sleep I stayed awake, my mind unable to stop creating these dramas that by day were so exciting but by night left me utterly terrified. As a child, every single night—I am not exaggerating—I would cry with fear about something or other.
The communist invasion was a favourite source of terror. I lay in bed listening for the sound of their tanks rolling across the nearby paddocks.
Then there was the fear of dying in a state of sin and consequently burning in hell. (And on that point can I take a moment to thank the nuns for teaching me the concept of eternity when I was four years old.) The thought of being on fire was bad, but the thought of being on fire forever really took fear to a whole new level.
I cried with fear about my parents dying.
The fear about the world ending was especially unpleasant, as it usually involved at the very minimum an earthquake, a volcano, floods and fires, the whole world running around screaming in terror.
* * *
It wasn’t just adventure and unpredictability that I craved (if only during the day). I also loved an audience. In fact, while my mother worshipped privacy and lived by the mantra ‘Don’t, whatever you do, draw attention to yourself,’ my mantra was ‘What’s the point of doing anything in life if no-one knows about it?’ More than likely this was inherited from my dad and his brothers. From my earliest days I was happiest when in front of a crowd. I loved to sing at family events—no need to ask; I just took the floor.
It appeared that I also had an innate understanding of showbiz principles. For instance, once, at six years of age, I was standing in front of an open fire—specifically, a raging open fire, a really raging open fire—performing the classic power ballad ‘My grandfather’s clock’ for all my aunties, uncles and cousins. I was halfway through the song when I realised just how hot my little bare legs were becoming. They were prickling with the heat.
At the three-quarter mark they were scorching.
By the final verse the pain was so intense I was certain I would erupt in flames, but I stayed put and kept going, giving that song everything I had. Why? Because I just knew that, no matter what—death by self-combustion included—The Show Must Go On.
At eight years of age I turned my talents to folk singing and happily took out the Watsonia Community Talent Quest with a rollicking version of ‘The fox went out on a chilly night’. I wore a tartan skirt, long white socks and brown school shoes, and won fifty cents and a fountain pen. I was told by the judges that I should have singing lessons. I raced home and told my mother, but she just looked mystified and it was never referred to again. From folk songs I moved on to contemporary hit tunes, and in 1964—I’m not bragging, just stating the facts—my impersonation of Satchmo singing ‘Hello, Dolly!’ brought the house down in my year four classroom.
* * *
Singing wasn’t my only way to access an audience. When I was nine—and apologies for this unashamed boast but there is no humble way of expressing such a triumph—I won Miss Junior Watsonia. That’s right. I couldn’t believe it, either. And, though you may find this hard to credit, until the moment it was announced that ‘the winner is Denise Scott’ I’d had no idea I was the most beautiful girl in the world.
Admittedly, it was a controversial decision. Mrs Mobilia declared her daughter Tessa would have won ‘if only she didn’t have a stutter.’ She might well have: Tessa was a stunner. But what can I say? On the night in question it was yours truly who took out the title.
I suspect it was my hair that elevated me, quite literally, above the norm. Mum had taken me to Anne Barnes Beauty Salon. Anne herself sported a mauve beehive, and when she’d asked me how I wanted my hair I’d gazed up and without hesitation replied, ‘Like yours.’
Anne had weaved her magic, and forty-five minutes later I’d emerged from the salon feeling like a movie star. My shoulderlength, thick blonde hair was piled high on top of my head in a ‘do’ that was declared by all who beheld it to be ‘just like Princess Margaret’s.’
The following morning, as I walked down the aisle of St Mary’s Church to receive communion, a red sheer-nylon scarf tied under my chin, I felt everyone’s eyes upon me and I knew everyone was whispering, ‘There’s Miss Junior Watsonia. Isn’t she beautiful?’
‘Denise, 9, poised model,’ declared the headline in the local paper the week following the pageant. Underneath was a photo. I was beaming at the camera, wearing a royal-blue sash with gold fringe and holding an enormous cup that my mother and father never did get around to having engraved.
A proud Miss Junior Watsonia
My destiny was obvious—I would become Miss World, no question. It was just a matter of time.
But things didn’t go quite according to plan. A month or so after Miss Junior Watsonia I took myself off to the shire hall and entered Miss Junior Diamond Valley. I was completely on my own: no parents, no sibling, no friends. Just me and a dream. Sadly, I didn’t get a look-in, didn’t even make it to the final forty. I suspect the eczema that had flared up all around my mouth causing the skin to crack and bleed was possibly a little off-putting for the judges.
* * *
Having to forsake my dream of becoming Miss World did, however, leave me free to become a missionary and go to Africa and get those wild black savages to put on some trousers and praise God. That was certainly adventurous, if not glamorous, living.
I was forever on the alert, listening to my internal voices, worried that I might miss the Call from God to become a missionary and/or nun. I was pretty keen. Why wouldn’t I be? Overseas travel, meeting new people, doing good for mankind, possible martyrdom for my Lord Jesus Christ: it definitely had appeal, and at the very least it wasn’t ‘ordinary’. But then something happened that changed the course of my life forever.
When I was eleven years old my Uncle Frank invited my mother and me to accompany him to the Comedy Theatre in Russell Street to see British actress Joyce Grenfell in her one-woman show. I had been to a musical before, but that was as far as my experience of theatre went. That night I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, or, rather, not seeing. For there was Joyce—tall, thin, elegant and buck toothed—standing all alone onstage, yet I could see children: she was surrounded by them, talking to them, bringing them to life in her famous kindergarten sketches.
Later that night as I lay in my Queen Anne single bed, my glow-in-the-dark Jesus on the Cross gazing down upon me, I prayed with all my heart that God wouldn’t call me to become a missionary and/or nun. I now had bigger plans—I wanted to stand alone on an empty stage in a beautiful theatre just like the Comedy and tell stories that I had written.
chapter three
Adolescence
When it came to sex education my mother wasn’t too forthcoming. She never mentioned it.
Ever.
This meant my sister and I had to scrounge around gathering morsels of information wherever we could until the final piece of the jigsaw fell into place and my sister duly informed me, ‘The man puts his dick inside you.’
I was twelve, maybe thirteen, at the time and shocked out of my tiny brain. Why wouldn’t I be? Taken out of context it’s a repulsive notion. Quite hideous. I’d never even seen a penis. My sister had seen one hanging out of a man’s pants in a park while she was on her way to school. She described it as a small, pale-pink sausage. Having a father who delivered smallgoods and having thus grown up surrounded by strass sausages and black puddings, I found that the thought of a small, pale-pink sausage being put inside me did nothing whatsoever to excite.
My introduction to menstruation was an even bigger shock. Mum had never mentioned that, either. I was ten years old, and my sister and I were getting ready for bed when I suddenly screamed, ‘Julie, you’ve cut your bottom! There’s blood all over your pants!’
The fact that my twelve-year-old sister had been performing in the school concert earlier that evening and was thus dressed in a white sailor suit made it an even more dramatic and horrifying discovery.
Julie said nothing but headed for the bathroom.
I couldn’t believe it. I became hysterical. ‘Julie, it’s TERRIBLE! You have to tell Mum and Dad. You have to go to hospital.’
‘Just shut up.’
My sister never spoke to me like that. What was wrong with her? What had happened? Had she been attacked? Was she too scared to tell anyone? Were her attackers going to come back and kill her if she blabbed?
I didn’t know the answer to any of those questions. All I knew was that my sister was bleeding to death before my eyes and I had to do something. Fast.
I raced into my parents’ bedroom. Mum had her glasses on. She was reading a magaz
ine. Dad was snoring beside her. I was crying my eyes out. ‘Mum, you’ve got to come, quick. Julie’s bottom is bleeding. It’s really, really bad. There’s blood everywhere and she doesn’t want you to know.’
My mother did nothing. Why? Why wasn’t she shaking the bejesus out of my father and screaming her lungs out at him to ‘wake up, Russ! We have to get Julie to hospital! She’s bleeding to death’? All she said was, ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s just one of those things. It’s normal. It’ll happen to you one day.’ And then she went back to reading her magazine.
What the hell? What? What was going to happen to me? Was I going to cut my bottom and bleed to death and have no-one do anything about it? Had the entire world gone crazy?
I eventually got an explanation out of my sister, who had had no such knowledge when blood had first appeared on her underpants, and, yes, at the time she had also thought she was dying and was still coming to terms with the shock.
At least I now finally understood what was inside that parcel wrapped in brown paper that my mother always sent me to collect from Mrs Sterndale’s newsagency. And it explained those ads—full-page pictures in the Women’s Weekly that always featured a beautiful model in a dazzling gown standing in a glorious ballroom next to a white Grecian pillar or something equally grand, below which were the words ‘Modess … because.’
That was it. Not another syllable to be seen.