by Larry Writer
The thing I always remember about those weeks immediately after Mum died was how dark our little house was. Mum always bought cheap, low-wattage light bulbs.
I worried myself sick. Literally. One night when I was thinking that I just couldn’t carry this burden any longer, that I wanted and deserved some fun and romance in my life like other blokes, and I would never have it, my angst manifested itself in a terrible way. I was having a shower and my heart started racing wildly, my body was numb and I couldn’t breathe, and then I went blind for a moment. I swear it’s true. I could not see. I punched the wall and cracked a tile. I recovered quickly, and everything returned to normal. I didn’t seek medical help. I reckoned that I’d had a panic attack, some kind of nervous breakdown. I told myself that things had to improve or else I was going to be dead, like Mum, and then where would Alison and Steve be?
In 1982 after he’d left school, I got Steve a weekend job at the hospital. He didn’t like it and wanted to quit. I said, ‘Hang on, brother, you can’t just walk out on me after I pulled strings to get you this job.’ He replied that he wanted to box on the weekends. I said, ‘Steve, don’t you think I would rather be doing any fucking thing other than cleaning here at the hospital? But I can’t because I’ve got to hold this job down so we can stay together.’ He went right ahead and quit.
As it happens, during our first year without Mum, white ants succeeded where the Housing Commission failed. Our house was infested by them and we had to move out while an exterminator got rid of them on the cheap. I didn’t even tell the Housing Commission because I knew once they realised we’d vacated the house they’d move someone else in who could afford to pay more than we could. Alison went to stay with an aunt, and Steve and I had nowhere else to go but the Police Boys Club. We lived there for ten months. The club president, Bruce Collins, along with Bruce Farthing and the other wonderful guys at the club let us sleep there and use the showers. We moved back to the Police Boys Club a few years later when the Housing Commission decided to paint the house. It was a home away from home. Our debt to that club and those men is immense.
Today, as father to my children Emily and Riley, my mission is to give them a secure life in a loving and supportive family environment, an environment where they go to bed at night without a care in the world and are free to dream their childhood dreams. Every child deserves nothing less.
My fear that we would be evicted by the Housing Commission drove me to do whatever it took to keep us together. I had seen so many families in Woolloomooloo broken up by the bureaucracy when they met with bad fortune: a death, a divorce, a lost job. Some faceless government official would pronounce on whether a family could go on being a family.
In the little time left to me when I wasn’t working at St Vincent’s and chasing after Stephen, I managed to squeeze in a little football, working my way through the ranks of the Eastern Suburbs junior teams – I had my heart set on playing for the Eastern Suburbs Roosters – and I was dating girls when I was not too bone-weary to pull on some smart clobber and go to a party or a nightclub on a weekend night. But being a father figure to my siblings and keeping our house was my primary concern. I kept my head down at the hospital, and, no small thanks to John Ireland, my guardian angel, promotion came my way. When in 1983 John offered me the chance to work in the hospital’s personnel department’s payroll office as a clerk, I grabbed it with both hands.
Working at that hospital brought me into contact with some real characters. The fellow who interviewed me for the clerk’s position was one. Instead of grilling me about banking and the most cost-effective way to pay the staff, he asked me who was the priest in the Book of Genesis who did this, that and whatever …
‘Easy,’ I replied, ‘Melchisedek.’
When he picked himself up off the floor, he said, ‘My God. You know Melchisedek. I’ve asked that question of scores of people over the years and no one has ever known the answer.’
I acted surprised, like I was under the impression that everyone knew Melchisedek. I didn’t bother telling my interrogator that as a boy I’d been brought up in the Catholic Church and prayed and studied my Bible assiduously. I had even been an altar boy with the Guild of St Stephen at St Mary’s Cathedral.
I got the job.
So at age twenty-three I was in the St Vincent’s Hospital payroll office. I had established myself as a diligent clerk and was given increasing responsibility. It wasn’t all smooth sailing, though, because by then my footy dreams had come true and I’d been graded with the Roosters and as rugby league became more professional and time-consuming, it was difficult to dash from the office early enough on training nights. One or two jealous colleagues made sure that there was tension in the office, but I could do my job on my ear and in time I became payroll manager of St Vincent’s. And played rugby league for the Roosters to boot.
There were regular meetings where the payroll managers of the various hospitals got together with officials from the Department of Health, hospital administrators, Mayne Nickless, the company that delivered the money and transferred the funds, computer experts, industrial relations officers, and anyone else who had a hand in paying hospital employees. At these gatherings each of us was expected to suggest ideas to streamline the process. Because I had mastered my role and was genuinely interested in my job, I shone, asking relevant questions and making sure I got straight answers. I must have impressed the right people as a bright spark because, shortly before my twenty-fourth birthday, I was poached by the New South Wales Department of Health to co-ordinate and oversee all the public hospital payrolls in the state. It was a complex and demanding job. I was paid $45,000 a year, a fortune compared to what I’d been earning. The new role was fine by me: I had gained a lot of confidence through success at work, and the salary increase was very welcome, a Godsend when it came to paying the Housing Commission. I implemented some new payroll systems and got things running smoothly and efficiently.
I realised that my life experience – hating my father and losing Mum and taking on massive responsibility, doing it tough, living in the ’Loo, meeting people of all nationalities at school, being straight with people because there was no point being anything else – had not been for nothing. It had given me an ability to connect with and make a favourable impression on people. This was why I’d been able to make friends with John Ireland, and the cops and trainers from the Police Boys Club, why I’d won over the bloke with my knowledge of Melchisedek, and it was why I’d made good mates at the hospital and at the Roosters. It definitely played a part in my promotion.
Colonel Clout was another conquest. When I joined the Department of Health, Terry Clout ran that place like his own private military academy. He’d storm around the office barking orders: ‘Do this! Do that! I want that report on my desk yesterday!’ Now after the life I’d lived, just about nothing could scare me, and certainly not him. My knowledge of the Bible had put me in good stead before; this time it was my hand–eye co-ordination. The first time I met Colonel Clout he said to me, ‘Do you drink coffee?’
I replied, ‘Yes, I do.’
At that moment he was holding in each hand the hard plastic coffee-cup holders that were standard issue with office coffee-making machines. ‘ Then take this!’ he snapped, and tossed one to me. It was a poor throw and the cup holder was heading for the floor. I deftly intercepted the handle with the toe of my right shoe just before it landed, kicked it into the air, and caught it easily without ever taking my eyes off his. ‘Bloody hell!’ he said, amazed. ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘James Dack,’ I told him. Next I knew, I was in the colonel’s good books.
My card-playing ability, honed in schoolyard poker games, came in handy when I was cash-strapped, which, in spite of my fair wage, still happened regularly, what with paying the rent and providing for myself, my sister and brother. I played regularly with a bunch of mates, including the Chidiac brothers, my good mates from St Mary’s. I wasn’t a great card player, I did o
kay. I was very disciplined and when I lost I never seemed to lose a lot, and when I won, sometimes I won big. We played Manila, which is a bit like poker.
Around that time, something terrible happened. Alison was sexually abused by a friend of Mum’s sister. Alison was staying with the aunt. I was so busy trying to be father and mother and provider, and not even living under the same roof as her at the time. I didn’t know what had happened to her until much later. This lovely girl, this sweet child with her laughing eyes, wide smile and blonde curls, I believe was destroyed, at the time almost to the point of being irreparable, by the experience. To have something so horrific happen to her so very young and so soon after losing her mother, was simply too much for her to bear. She had to deal with the same traumas as Steve and me, but poor Alison had to contend with being molested as well.
Alison over the next months and years found a world of trouble. She became a very angry teenager. She gambled and drank hard. I was terrified she’d become a stripper and a prostitute but, thank God, she didn’t. One day I was called to Kings Cross police station after she and her boyfriend had been arrested. I took one look at this jerk, his leathers and tattoos, lank greasy hair and gnarly, slack-jawed expression, and I wanted to kill him. I took Alison home, but she didn’t hang around long. She went to live with others, and drifted out of my life. It was more than twenty years before another awful tragedy befell us and rekindled the loving relationship Alison and I knew before Mum died.
Before our reunion, in 2009, there were three notable occasions when Alison and I reconnected.
The first was when my father died, in 1997. He’d left behind a few thousand dollars and his will stipulated that the money was to go to his children. Alison and Steve came to me and asked whether I wanted a share. I said, ‘You can both have my share. I want nothing to do with him or his money.’
The second was in 2000, a time when Stephen was destroying himself with alcohol and I feared for his life and was doing all I could to help him. Alison called me that summer, right out of the blue. ‘How are you going?’ she said.
‘Okay, Alison. How are you?’ I sensed she wanted to tell me something and I had an inkling that it was that she was gay. She had never said as much to me before, but for some reason I had a hunch that she was.
She hedged about at first, told me some of the things she had been doing and where she was living. I asked her if she was in a relationship and she said, ‘Yes, I’m with such-and-such.’ A woman’s name.
The best I could do was blurt out, ‘Oh, are you gay?’
She said, ‘Yeah.’
I said, ‘Oh, okay, I didn’t realise that … I mean, I thought you were, but I wasn’t really sure. How long have you guys been together?’ Alison told me and I said, ‘I’m glad you are happy.’
The third time was when, in 2006, a lawyer who somehow had heard of the sexual abuse Alison had suffered approached her and offered his services, saying he was reasonably confident that he would win for her a major compensation payout from the creature who molested her twenty-five years before. He said it might be a bit complicated, because once seven years elapses after a crime is committed it is very hard to take legal action. Still, he was confident. It was only then that Alison came to me, revealed what had happened to her, and told me about the lawyer. She had agreed to pay the lawyer for his groundwork on her behalf trying to bring the molestor to book, and then he was to receive a percentage of any compensation payout he succeeded in winning for her when he got the creep in front of a magistrate. But even though the lawyer had made no headway in fourteen months he was demanding to be paid for the hours he said he had worked – $40,000, and he wanted it now. Alison told Steve of her predicament and he advised her to get me involved.
When my sister outlined what had happened, I told her to contact Steve and together they should bring this lawyer to my workplace and he could ask me for the money himself. I made him wait in the boardroom while I spoke to my sister in my office. Steve sat there with us. ‘I love you, Alison,’ I said, ‘and I will get you out of this, and I will make sure this bastard gets you the compensation money he said he would. Now, we’re all going in together to front him. Just sit still and let me do the talking.’
We joined the lawyer in the boardroom, and before he could ask me for the $40,000 I laid down the law to him. ‘You’ve come here trying to emotionally break me down about my sister being molested and trying to get a cheque from me. You’re not worried about Alison. You’re just worried about what’s in your bank account, mate. You’ve put fourteen months into this case, and you reckon we owe you $40,000. Well, I’m taking this matter out of Alison’s hands and I’m not paying you a cent. And the reason why I’m not paying you is because you promised Alison you would win this case and so far you’re failing miserably. Forget your fee. All you’ve got coming to you is a percentage of the settlement that you win. If you win no settlement for her, you don’t get paid, so you had better win this case. You instigated all this, so get to work and do what you promised you’d do.’
The lawyer tried to tough it out, saying, ‘Hey, don’t get heavy with me. You know, I might just drop the case right here, right now.’
I said, ‘Well, drop it. Then, for sure, you won’t be getting a penny. Here’s my advice. Pick up the threads, get your case together, take it to court and win. You know damn well that you’re in too deep and have spent too much time on this matter to do anything else. Winning is the only way you’re going to cut your losses.’
‘But I’ve got to make a living,’ he protested. ‘I’ve a business to run.’
I said, ‘Don’t waste my time, or yours, by staying here a moment longer. No victory in court, no money.’
Looking back, I understand that the lawyer was only doing his job. It was a straightforward exchange, there was no real animosity. We were just coming at each other from different directions. My sister had had an horrific experience and I was looking out for her. And that’s what big brothers do.
The lawyer won the case and the man who molested Alison had to sell his house to compensate her for what he’d done. Alison received a sum of money and the lawyer got his cut.
[STEPHEN]
into the ring
I grew up fast after Mum died. I had no choice. I was sixteen, but like James and my sister Alison, the tragedy made us older than our years. It was really us against the world. The Housing Commission’s attitude to us was cruel, wanting to throw us out because they didn’t think we could pay the rent. We were all dealing with our grief, and all they wanted was their money. James did not let them kick us out. He convinced them that he was capable of paying the new increased rent of $120 a week and my brother never missed a payment. They left us alone.
We had tenants move in with us from time to time to help James pay the rent and put food on the table. There were three bedrooms. James and I shared one, Alison had her own when she was staying with us and not at an aunt’s, and the tenant had his own. James handled the meagre finances, bought the food and cooked it, clothed us all, paid the bills and gave us a small amount of pocket money, which I supplemented with the money from my paper route and collecting bottles. In the years since Dad left and Mum got sick and died, I had watched in awe and admiration as James changed from a knockabout boy into a serious, single-minded man.
I wished I’d made it easier for him.
Apart from a couple of times when James and I lived at the Police Boys Club, these living arrangements continued until the mid 1980s when it was time to leave the ’Loo. The Housing Commission people never relented in pressuring us to vacate our house. James was doing well at work and I was able to get a cheap loan at the building society where I was working, so in 1986 he and I took the plunge and bought a little house in Randwick together.
I wasn’t sorry to say goodbye to Woolloomooloo. Most of the kids we knew had moved on; strangers were living in their houses. The ’Loo was changing from a rough and ready working-class neighbourhood, where everyone knew
each other and stuck up for one another, to a weird and uncomfortable socio-economic mix. The yuppies who had moved in to renovate the old terraces, and who might spend hundreds of dollars on a meal at any one of the trendy new restaurants in the area, lived acrimoniously with poor people of a dozen ethnic backgrounds who had been shunted into the ’Loo without a thought by the authorities. The welfare bureaucrats had no qualms about breaking up old communities and plonking a Chinese family beside an Aboriginal family or a Lebanese clan. As a social experiment it was a failure.
Two years after Mum died, in 1984, as James had been, I was graded with the Eastern Suburbs Roosters. About ten of us kids from the ’Loo played with the team which today is known as the Sydney Roosters but also has a proud history dating back to 1907 during which they’d had golden premiership winning periods in the 1930s and under Jack Gibson in the 1970s.
I never made it to first grade. I was never better than a good reserve grader. Our coach was Barry ‘Bunny’ Reilly, a comparatively small forward with a lethal tackling technique that in his playing days had earned him a second nickname, ‘ The Axe’. He was just as hard and ruthless as a coach. Playing alongside me were such well-known first graders as Johnny Tobin, and Scotty Gale, a brilliant and lightning-quick back who would later fall victim, much too young, to cruel motor neurone disease.
Harry Raven, the old Balmain forward of the 1950s, was on the Roosters’ staff. He took a shine to me. One night he drove me home from training and he said, ‘Okay, so what’s the Steve Dack story? Do you have a claim to fame?’ I told him how I’d grown up in Woolloomooloo and was tossing up between a boxing and rugby league career. I mentioned how I’d been in the 1980 New South Wales schoolboys team that toured New Zealand, knowing that Harry had been on the coaching staff of that side.
‘I thought you were familiar,’ he said. ‘What’s important to me is how a bloke fits into a side, his conduct on and off the field, and his statistics, which never lie. I do remember you, and what I liked about you then was that you were not a flash Jack, you rolled up your sleeves and worked for the whole game. Now that’s what I want you to do at the Roosters. Make your forty solid tackles a match, not just three big hits, and hit it up all day, get up and keep going after a knock. If you can do all that, week in and week out, you’ll always have a place in any team I have anything to do with.’