Even if I’d had the nerve to release my grip I wouldn’t have reciprocated. I suspected he was taunting me. I willed him to come back. I saw him submerge and some minutes later he resurfaced at my feet. He chortled as he levered himself onto the pontoon with his powerful arms, splashing water around, droplets forming on the hairs of his chest and bushy eyebrows.
“Did you see how far your old man can swim under water, eh?” He was beaming again. He looked around and then at me, drilling his wild eyes into my fear.
As he settled onto the planks next to me, some teenage boys raced past and shoved me into the sea. I looked up as I sank into the depths, alarmed that he hadn’t plunged in to rescue me. I could just see the soles of his feet beneath the surface, signalling his indifference. I had no ladder to climb as my sister had in a Brisbane pool years before. Horror filled my lungs. I flayed my arms in panic and somehow managed to ascend.
When I broke the surface I screamed for help.
He stared at me incredulously.
“Swim! It’s only a couple of yards, for Chrissakes!”
I pleaded for help. I was scared. It was too deep.
Suddenly he was in the water next to me. He grabbed me roughly and somehow tossed me onto the pontoon. I cracked my knee on its hard edge but suppressed a cry, petrified by his fury. He lifted himself out of the water again, with half the sea coming with him like a fluid cape. He didn’t sit next to me again but stood, muttered a prediction about my future manhood, and walked away.
AN END TO WORK
In the first year we lived at Daisy’s place, Pat’s attitude gradually improved. She managed to transform the place into a home, making cheerful curtains for the kitchen and putting cut flowers in vases. She was still taking Bex each day for headaches, but looked less worn out. She sang more as she worked around the house. With fewer concerns about Denny, she showed more interest in our lives, especially about what we did at school. She had always encouraged us to take our education seriously, seeing it as the only realistic way out of poverty, if not for her, at least for us, her children. And for us kids it seemed a sensible distraction. Schoolwork took our minds off our father.
Still, despite some semblance of normality in our lives—my father getting casual work now and then, my mother still working at Borthwicks, our schooling going okay—weekends were usually difficult.
On Saturdays Denny set himself up in the living room. Our lounge suite consisted of some steel-framed armchairs with varnished timber armrests and vinyl-covered foam cushions. He had claimed one as his own. Next to it he put a paper rack for his collection of turf guides from a bi-weekly scandal rag The Truth, a daily tabloid The Sun, and a weekly publication dedicated to the turf optimistically titled Best Bets.
The paper stand doubled as a small coffee table. It had a laminated top where he placed, in a set array, his mug of strong instant International Roast coffee, his Albany Trims—a doctor having advised him to take up smoking for his nerves and these being the cheapest smokes he could buy—a glass ashtray and a portable transistor radio. Saturday morning he listened to turf experts and marked the latest scratchings on his guide. He concentrated on the commentators’ remarks as if they were clairvoyants. He gambled all afternoon, jogging a block to and from the TAB, where he placed his bets between races, radio in hand, form guide grasped under his armpit, his loose change jangling in a pocket. He eventually cut a tiny gate in the tennis court fence to shorten the trip, without the permission of the church, whose curator tried unsuccessfully several times to board it up to prevent him appearing in the middle of weekend tournaments. There was a bench against the fence where spectators sat. On occasion they found the fence behind opening up and my father squeezing past them. If he still had money left in the evening he tuned in to the trots.
Saturday was a time when the rest of us tip-toed round the house. If possible we avoided the lounge room.
“Stay out of his way,” Pat advised in a hushed voice. “Don’t upset him. You know how easy it is to upset him.”
If we happened to make a noise he complained or cursed us, making out we were inconsiderate and disrespectful. If either my mother, trying to do some housework, or Jean with her uncompromising personality, interrupted his concentration on the delicate task of picking a winner his irritation could turn to rage.
If Denny was on a losing streak, which was the norm, even silence could irritate him and seem like a taunt. Gloom hovered over his hunched shoulders like a fiendish aura. It sucked in all our energy and left us exhausted by day’s end.
Usually, then, most if not all his wages were gone and we were to blame. Either our noise or lack of it, our silence, was responsible for his bad luck.
“I feel so tired,” my mother would complain on a Saturday night. “I don’t know why. I haven’t done much.”
She would take another Bex.
I found refuge in the hedge around the tennis court. I discovered hiding places and resumed my superhero fantasies. The Phantom, by now, was well and truly Number One. The ghost who walks. I felt like that. I felt like a crusader against all evil who bore the burden of possible martyrdom. I stepped into the Phantom’s skin and longed for a horse called Hero. My dog Sailor would have to do as Devil, although she resisted my attempts to get her to accompany me into the lofty sections of the hedge. I sent away for imitation gold skull rings with different coloured luminous eyes and a rubber version that I could press into an ink pad to leave the Phantom’s sign all around the neighbourhood, to strike fear into the hearts of all evil-doers. I bought a cut-out cardboard face, black-masked and purple-hooded, attached a length of hat elastic, and poked holes where its eyes would be. I wore it while secretly pursuing my nemesis, The Evil One, from the safety of the hedge as he took a short-cut across the tennis courts on his way to another foray into crime. I hovered over him as he passed through an archway in the hedge, planning the best way to ambush him so he could be brought to justice. I got plenty of chances. He was backwards and forwards all day, his face shining unnaturally with optimism in the morning and becoming grimmer as the day wore on. I imagined a fight to the death. Once, as it was getting dark, I dropped onto Jean and some of her girlfriends as they passed underneath, as a kind of dress rehearsal. It scared the life out of them, and for that Pat scolded me. I spent long hours poring over maps of Africa in my school atlas, devising a strategy to remove The Evil One from the tennis court to Bengali, the Phantom’s homeland, which I assumed was near the Congo.
Sometimes I just lay in a kind of nest I had made myself and watched the sky, idly projecting meaning onto the random shapes of clouds. I loved the sour resin the hedge exuded, which stuck to my skin and clothes. Occasionally I would put my hand inside my shorts and rub away. The sensation took my mind off family matters.
Around the house I kept out of Denny’s way. I avoided leaving the Phantom’s mark inside, unless it was on a wall beneath a bed where he was unlikely to detect it. I knew how easy it was to infuriate him. His moods were unpredictable and frightening, whichever way they swung. Often they were so violent he would grab the nearest sharp object to wield like a samurai warrior. Kitchen knife. Screwdriver. Hammer. Axe. Even the biro if we happened to interrupt his perusal of a turf form guide.
Whenever that happened I went to jelly. I disappeared into my room or into the hedge, leaving the others to their fate and me to brood over my cowardice, which had a physical manifestation, an invisible barrier that was as cold and unyielding as a prison wall.
On rare occasions when he had a big win, when one of his hundred-to-one chances got home by a nostril, he reached a jubilant crescendo that threatened to burst into madness where anything could happen. Bear hugs. Shouts of hallelujah. Dancing in the laneway. Chinese take-away. His whole appearance was transformed. The glare went out of his eyes, replaced with an impish sparkle, like the look of an urchin who had just found a shilling dropped in the street. His smile, purloined it seemed from someone more accustomed to merriment, was enough to unne
rve me. His false teeth gleamed. His shoulders drooped, as if he had been released from an obligation to stand to attention all day. He looked years younger. He wanted us to join in his celebration, the joy he felt. He almost begged us to love him for his achievement, his long-awaited success.
When he tried to dance with Pat, she fended him off. “Don’t Denny. I’m busy. I’ve got to cook.”
“Come on, darl, my luck’s turning! Can’t you see? Put the spuds away. Tonight we’ll get takeaways!”
It didn’t matter which way the pendulum swung I ducked for cover. I couldn’t stand these extremes. There was no in the middle. No normalcy. No neutral mood. No chance to relax with him. Whenever he was around I was uptight and anxious. I awaited the next argument. It was usually over money.
Pat had learnt to be thrifty. Leftovers never went mouldy in the fridge but became another meal. No slice of stale bread was wasted. It was turned into a pudding of sorts. Bed sheets that were worn out in the middle were cut in two and re-sown so the less-worn edges became the middle, and so extended their use. Socks were darned. Patches were put on the torn knees of my school trousers. Still, she had to struggle with the household budget: the weekly groceries, the bills, and, with us kids growing unstoppably, clothes and shoes. And at birthdays and Christmases, money was needed for presents.
While we never went without a meal, or a present for that matter, it came at a personal cost. Pat had to hide the wages she earned and face abuse from Denny. Sometimes when she refused to hand money over he crossed the line from verbal threats to physical abuse, leaving her bruised and cringing.
She would plead with him to stop, as if gentle words might bring him to his senses.
“I can’t Denny, I’ve got to feed the kids,” she’d say, nursing a swollen jaw. “If I had any spare I’d give it to you.”
It was usually enough to deter him.
As far as I know his own monetary contributions were meagre and sporadic, often given one day and retrieved the next. Even our presents were fair game to him.
One Christmas to my delight I received a wristwatch. It had luminous hands and a tiny window that displayed the date, which changed automatically each day. It changed seven times before disappearing from the dressing table where I left it each night before I went to bed.
Fearing burglars had stolen it I informed my mother.
“Denny’s taken it, love, to hock.” She sighed and gave one of my arms a consolatory squeeze. “Jean’s too.”
“What’s ‘hock’?”
Again she sighed. She puckered her lips. Her embarrassment was acute. “It’s a way of borrowing money, from what they call a pawnbroker. Ever heard of them?”
I nodded.
“You swap something of yours for a loan,” she went on. “If you don’t pay it back with interest, this pawnbroker fellow sells your stuff.”
It sounded desperate and shameful.
“Please, love, don’t bother him about it,” she pleaded. “If he doesn’t get it back, I’ll buy you another one as soon as I can.”
An opportunity arose to earn a little extra. Pat heard that Borthwicks hired people to tie strings to labels, for which they would be paid piece rates. The exact amount eludes me but I remember it being a pittance, perhaps a shilling for every hundred. Nevertheless, Pat began to bring home boxes and in the evening the entire family sat in the lounge room under a stark light bulb, threading strings through the eyelets on the labels while listening to the radio. Even Denny participated, yielding to the logic of the cash flow.
Perhaps the experience depressed him. Or it was the current affairs programs on the radio that used to make him mutter and curse, from which I gathered he blamed the government for all his woes. Each night he took medication to help him sleep. Yet in the morning he looked gaunt and tired, as if he had spent the night awake. Throughout the day he scowled and muttered away at no one in particular and the world in general.
His mood was always better when he was working. But work on the wharves was intermittent. When he tried other jobs, they never lasted more than a few days. And even in work he had no luck.
One job was on a construction site in the port. SAFCOL was building a fish factory near an obsolete breakwater, which had been converted into a dock for the trawling fleet. When he told us about this job it struck us all as a great opportunity. He was back in his old trade as a builder. We held our breath, hoping he would last. But he was only there a few days when he blacked out and fell ten feet from a scaffold to the ground. Miraculously, he landed upright.
I learned later that the impact crushed a couple of discs in his lower spine. His ability to work had always depended on his physical well-being. He had been a carpenter, a soldier, a labourer, a wharfie, where brawn was required. He wasn’t vain, but he was proud of his strength. It was the one genuine thing about him. He must have been devastated. The accident meant an end to his working life. He wasn’t yet forty.
THE ‘ITINERANT PSYCHOPATH’
I don’t remember it happening.
It dismays me now to think I have forgotten. What had I become by the age of eleven that I would pay such little heed to his catastrophe? Was I starting to live in a kind of denial?
In recent years, when I had access to his files, I discovered more.
His local doctor wrote that Denny had ‘aggravated a probably already existing lumbosacral disc degeneration’.
He developed severe headaches and saw black spots in front of his eyes and again had feelings of unreality. Curiously he kept working for about a week but then had an argument with his boss and quit. Eventually he received some compensation through the courts but most if not all of it went to pay off his debts. Denny later told me the ‘blood-sucking’ lawyer took most of it.
Six weeks after his accident he was back at the Repatriation Hospital in Heidelberg, with ‘terrific headaches’, apparently from his medication, and complaining about being ‘allergic’ to noise, to his boss and to work. He repeatedly asked the medical officer questions like: Why can’t I stand work? Why do I dislike people? Why do I get feelings of unreality? Why do I drop my fork at the table?
He was back there a month later, on the 19th of February, 1963, and his medical officer noted that Denny was very pleased with himself, was working whenever he could find a job, and was off all medication. He told the medical officer that Pat was delighted with him, and he was no longer allergic to noise. But he felt drowsy all day.
In early March he reported that he’d had a few drinks and once more caused problems at home and told his boss ‘what to do with his job’. Two weeks later he was in the Heidelberg Repatriation Hospital for an extended period. He told his medical officer on the 14th of March that Pat had kicked him out and called him useless, ‘with which he in part agreed’. (Did he go to the hospital because he had nowhere else to stay?) He added that his wife and children detested him. “ I’m no use to them and they’re right. I haven’t been for years.” He also revealed that he wasn’t having sex with Pat. Once he had admitted their sexual relations had deteriorated, he must have feared his sexuality might be questioned, because he ‘spontaneously stated he was not a homosexual, never played with little boys, [but had] “seen it” in the army’.
During his stay he undertook occupational therapy. His clinical report states that on initial contact he appeared depressed and sullen , and wasn’t relating with staff or patients, but within a week he had become co-operative and over-anxious to please. He participated in all the department’s activities. Three weeks after he first attended the sessions he was still co-operative and helpful. He liked to offer others advice. His therapist remarked he had ‘a marked influence on other patients’. But by early the following month his attitude was beginning to change. He was affecting the group dynamics, becoming intolerant towards the other patients and irritable when he was unable to enact his own plans for the day.
By the 23rd of May there is a note from his medical officer: I am afraid he is an itinerant psyc
hopath, manifesting his oral needs in an aggressive & immature fashion. He is rapidly reaching a stage where he seems to have a grudge on society—refuses assistance in a practical way & looks for the easy way out.
What is meant by ‘itinerant psychopath’ and ‘oral needs’? I am unsure. But the hostile tone is unmistakable. On the same day, Denny signed a release form stating he was being discharged at his own request against medical advice.
Bizarrely, amongst the documents for this period of hospitalisation there appears an employment reference from a building contractor from Warrandyte, a town on the outskirts of Melbourne, claiming to have known my father for three years. He said he had employed him for approximately six months on a large building project, and added: [Denny] was a very good worker and willing to do anything he was asked, cheerfully. His habits were very good and if he did any drinking it was during the weekend in moderation.
There is no explanation for its appearance in his medical records, and I can only guess that Denny presented it as evidence of his sobriety and work ethic, which throughout his relationship with the Repatriation Department was under question from the professionals he dealt with. The authenticity of the reference I’m unable to establish. The signatory, Ian W. McKellar, and my father’s relationship to him, remains a mystery to me. How had the building contractor known Denny for three years? When had he employed him? Was he really a building contractor? Yet the reference might be genuine. During the years we lived at Daisy’s place, my father was away from home for lengthy periods without me knowing where he was. If my mother knew, she never enlightened me.
You Never Met My Father Page 13