Girl on the Edge

by Kim Hodges

  I paid my rent from my savings and then replaced it from my first pay packet. The matron, registered nurses, and nursing aides were all above me in the staff hierarchy. I was above the cleaners. Although my place was never discussed, I sensed that that was the division of labour. As a nursing assistant, my job was to shower and dress the psychiatric geriatric patients, to assist with feeding them at lunchtime and to perform bedrolls every two hours to prevent bedsores on the bedridden oldies. I saw the first of many penises belonging to very old men. Two patients died on my shift. I watched the enrolled nurses prepare the patients’ bodies for the undertaker. The young matron was kind to her patients, her staff and especially to me. I stayed for six months and then moved on.

  My vegetarian university student flatmates adhered to a regime of health food and communal cooking, so we contributed to a food kitty and cooked for one another. I learnt to cook vegetarian food, but not very well. Our house was hosting a party, so I invited the only two Coolah people that I knew who were now residing in Sydney. Marijuana joints were rolled and circulated freely, alcohol was consumed, and philosophical conversations engaged in by young, curious minds. That was the first time I had laid eyes on marijuana, or smelt it. I was a non-drinker, as well as a non-smoker, so my watchful eyes remained focused on the others’ behaviour. I listened and tried to make sense of the conversations.

  I visited my first art galleries and museums in Sydney, merely to get a sense of what these cultural icons housed. On my days off, I went for a run to keep fit and to explore the local area. I ran through inner city suburban streets, and in nearby parks. Often, my mind wandered. Memories of my earlier years came flooding back of my long, skinny legs striding out, pounding the earth, chasing kangaroos and the feather of an emu’s tail; times when I had felt at one with the bush. So running must be in my blood, like Mr Cunnings’. I never really quit running, but I ran recreationally rather than competitively. I found solace in running, as I navigated my way around unfamiliar suburbs.

  I was elated when I was accepted into the Trainee Enrolled Nurse Course at Greenwich “Home of Peace.” Being a country girl, I was given accommodation in the nurses’ quarters, one of only twelve single rooms renting for eleven fifty per week. I saved the rest of my pay packet, as I was heading overseas after my training. Tina, the girl next to me, was very attractive and streetwise. She had left home at sixteen years of age after her mother died suddenly and her father became unbearable to live with. I never judged her for her desire for sex and her ability to pick up a male every time we went out. She never judged me for my naivety and prudishness. She exposed me to music, art and to people so different from the residents of Coolah. My social skills improved, but only slightly; awkwardness retained the upper hand. I always went home alone, leaving Tina with her new lover for the night. Our agreement was that she had to ring me by 11 A.M. the next morning to say that she was fine. She always did and insisted on sharing with me, in a whispered voice on the phone, details of her latest sexual encounter—both the quality and duration. Again, I was out of my depth. I managed to kiss a few males, but a sexual encounter was not on my list. Tina and I saved $10,000 that year. Being non-drinkers, non-consumers, and living in the nursing quarters helped us to reach our goal.

  *

  Once I was settled in Sydney, at nineteen years old, I nervously looked up Mr Richards’ phone number. I had kept the name of the suburb where he lived in my diary. I dredged up the courage to phone him. He invited me out for dinner to a little Italian restaurant, where he drank two glasses of red wine and I sipped on half a glass of wine that tasted like vinegar to me. He insisted that I call him Bruce, which I struggled to do, as he was still Mr Richards to me. He drove me home in his car and politely and respectfully said goodbye. Once, on another occasion, he took me back to his townhouse, to show me where he lived on his own. I was a little nervous, but nothing happened. The artwork on the walls caught my eye, but it still made no sense to me. I lost touch with Mr Richards, as I became preoccupied with my new Sydney life and plans for overseas travel.

  *

  As I neared twenty years of age, my desire to travel superseded everything else, especially any interest in having children. After I had completed my Enrolled Nursing Certificate, I packed up my room, visited Coolah, and then flew to England with three girls from Sydney who had studied nursing too. Tina travelled overseas separately to me. The other three girls returned to Australia, but I stayed. I secured a job in Camden Town, London, as a nanny for six months, to a couple with a one year old and a four year old girl. Their father Michael, I discovered after I commenced work, was a famous theatre producer. He went to New York to prepare for the opening night of his play, Noises Off, on Broadway. The opening night was on December 11th 1983. His partner Tania, a stage designer, their daughters and I, all joined him. The four of us went sightseeing around New York City. We stayed at a hotel overlooking Central Park for two weeks. I went to the hotel restaurant early in the evening to have dinner, alone, every night. I ordered from the menu, choosing a different meal every night and indulging in one glass of wine, holding the glass by the stem. I loved it. As I signed the bill that was taken care of by the company, I felt sophisticated, for a moment. I would then return to the hotel room to babysit the girls, while their parents went out for the evening to social engagements. In the morning, I occupied the girls and gave them breakfast, until their mother rose. I was treated with respect by that lovely couple. I attended the pre-opening night for Noises Off where Michael even took me backstage and introduced me to the famous actors in his play. My world had opened up in ways I had never imagined. Tania’s six-month contract finished, so I said a very sad goodbye to them. I then went travelling to Europe, Morocco and Turkey with three very sensible young women I had met in London.

  I was very engaged in watching people, eating different cuisines, visiting cathedrals, historical sites and tourist attractions. Europe, Morocco and Turkey engaged my senses and also challenged my attitudes, beliefs and world view. Mosques, burqas, the Call to Prayers, markets, snake charmers, tuk tuks, Turkish baths, Anzac Cove—it all stimulated me. While I was in a country, I inquired about a nation’s politics, culture, religion, history and gender divisions. The answers intrigued me but also left my questions unanswered. I asked “Why?” all the time. I also finally did try marijuana, as I partied with travellers, drank a lot of alcohol a handful of times, and met people from so many countries. Meeting Australian travellers, who had grown up very differently from me, also interested me. I had my first sexual encounter, in Spain, as I decided it would be better to do so with someone I didn’t know. I needed to get the virginity box ticked and out of the way. The way I viewed the world had changed forever, as I realised that I really was in charge of my own life journey.

  After one year away, I returned to Australia and worked in Sydney as an enrolled nurse for six months in the antenatal ward at Royal North Shore Hospital, while I completed a bridging course for university. I fed babies through a syringe and changed the nappies covering their fragile bottoms. Again, I was at the bottom of the pecking order, above the cleaners and kitchen staff, but below very experienced antenatal enrolled nurses, trainee midwives, qualified midwifes and Nursing Unit Managers. This unspoken hierarchical structure was without compromises. Occasionally, a nice trainee midwife talked to me and realised that I did have further ambitions.

  I applied for a Bachelor of Arts degree. The Sydney Morning Herald published a list of names of the applicants who gained entry into university. Many potential students waited up until after midnight for the newspaper to be printed, and then stood on a street corner near the first small outlet on Oxford Street, Kings Cross, that would start selling newspapers around 1 A.M. I nervously went there and lined up with the other potential students. I anticipated not gaining entry into the course. I bought the newspaper and stood on a corner under a streetlight searching down the long list of names printed under H, then Ho and then Hod. I felt ill, as my fingers s
canned methodically down the names. There it was—Kim M Hodges—the course, and university that I had applied for. My name was there in black ink. Immediately, in disbelief, I assumed it was another person, but then excitement filled me. It must be me. I looked around. The facial expressions immediately gave away the whether people had gained entry or not.

  On the way home, fear replaced my excitement about university. I had completed my bridging course to university, but the content and writing essays had been challenging. What if I didn’t understand the university material? What if I couldn’t write properly? What if I failed? These questions plagued me. A desire to learn about the countries that I had travelled in, to make sense of them, and a desire for a career, replaced my fears. I phoned home the next day and shared my amazing news with my mother.

  “I’ve been accepted into a university course,” I said proudly.

  “I can’t understand why you are giving up a career in enrolled nursing. Don’t ask me for one cent. I still have two kids at home,” she said, expressing her practical concerns. My mother’s words stung and deflated my elevated state. I was never going to get her approval. As the first relative on either my mother’s or my father’s side of the family to attend a university, I had wished for her to be supportive.

  I handed in my resignation from my position as an enrolled nurse with pride. I announced to the nursing hierarchy that I had been accepted into a Bachelor’s degree at university. I worked up until one week before university commenced, as I needed as much money as possible. At the hospital, an advertisement on a notice board caught my eye. It was a job caring for an older Italian woman, in return for twenty five dollars per week and board in half a house, with a separate rear entry. After an interview, I was offered the job, and made an agreement with her family as to what my role would be. I lived there for two and half years. The old woman and I developed a fondness for one another, even though she was in her seventies and didn’t speak English—or I Italian.

  My newly created life in Sydney was truly on track. I excitedly waited for February to come around. I had passed my motorbike licence and purchased a second-hand 250cc scooter for the sole purpose of cheap transport, as a car was unaffordable. At twenty-one years of age, I went to university for three years to study an undergraduate Arts degree. I discovered sociology and it wrapped itself around me and has never let go. Sociology gave me theoretical frameworks to make sense of how the world worked and my role in it, my upbringing, and an ability to understand people, society, gender, class and other contentious issues. I had found my calling. I had also proved Mr Johnston wrong, so very wrong. How could all seven of us students fail the Higher School Certificate, if we were to blame? It was his fault. He did not accept any blame, nor see any fault in the teaching staff. Apparently it was the poor calibre of all the students that year. Hearing Mr Johnston state, “Not one of you will ever go to university,” had driven me harder to get there.

  *

  In my second year at university, as I was walking down a corridor, I saw Mr Richards walking towards me. He stopped for a short chat. He was teaching at the Faculty of Education one evening a week. I felt so proud of my achievement as I told him I had been accepted into a degree course. Throughout the following months, I kept an eye out for him, but I never saw him again. I wanted one more opportunity to explain my erratic behaviour in year eleven, when he was teaching at Coolah Central School. My intention was tell him about my hyperactive thyroid, but to avoid talking about the big ordeal. The memory of that still occasionally haunted me, so I would push it away, deeper, back into its memory box, again and again.

  *

  Whilst I was at university, I worked in many different jobs part-time to keep myself afloat, so that I could continue with my studies. Weekend shifts as an enrolled nurse, an after-school childcare worker, a cleaner, a bar attendant, and even serving cakes in a French patisserie had all provided an income. Working as a childcare worker in the Kids’ Club, for Club Mediterranean in New Caledonia and in Bali for two week stints had reignited my desire to travel. It had also exposed the vast distinction between the rich westerners who were on holiday in a resort, and the poor locals who were trying to feed their families. Again, an overt social division struck me, this time between first and third world countries, which made little sense to me. I wanted to understand it.

  *

  I shared with my new university friends that I had spent most of my childhood in a remote township in central New South Wales, with a population of nine hundred. “Wow, that must have been different,” was the general response. My next disclosure always astounded them further. I would share with them that in my teenage years I had never been out to pubs, clubs or parties, a cinema, a gallery or seen live theatre. Instead, I babysat people’s children on their properties. More excitingly, I also I often rode my dad’s friend’s camels and chased kangaroos and emus through the bush. City friends responded that dancing, music or ballet lessons had been their after-school activities. In my early twenties, I wondered what growing up as those city girls had was like. I felt very different to them, but the differences never stifled a friendship. As time passed, the differences diminished and I blended into Sydney life. Sydney accepts all types of people.

  I still made comparisons to pass the time, if boredom set in at university. For example, the number of students, teachers and workers in one place, at a given time, intrigued me. In a lecture theatre, I might cast my eyes around and complete a rough count of the rows of seats; or the number of students filling a university cafeteria at lunchtime; or the volume of students I passed as I walked down the long, wide university corridor from one lecture theatre to another. My mind wandered back to the size of Coolah. It was so small and isolated. My upbringing was so different to the kids who grew up in Sydney. I felt the urge to ask these young city people if they had ever considered that some kids grow up in the country, in really small isolated towns, and how different that might be to the way that they had grown up. Those city kids only knew half of it; life in a city. I wanted to tell them all that they really should visit an isolated town. My Sydney friends were too caught up in university life to accompany me on a visit to Coolah. Sydney suited me, my inconspicuous daily movements went unnoticed and the city protected me. No judging eyes were upon me; only my own judging eyes—that were scathing of myself.

  *

  Halfway through the third year of my degree, I completed work experience in the public events section of the Sydney Morning Herald and was offered a job there two days a week. I was an assistant in the team that organised the City to Surf Fun Run. My new Sydney life was full of opportunities. By the time I was twenty-four, I had finally completed my degree, the long way, as a mature-aged student. I had resolved the initial difficulties that I had writing essays and reports by learning quickly. Each year my confidence had grown slightly. The biggest barrier was my own perception that I was undeserving of a spot at university. The feeling of being undeserving lingered on for the entire three years of my undergraduate studies. But I stood proudly to be presented with my Bachelor’s degree at the end. Many students lived at home with parents who financially supported them, while they engaged in the pleasures of university life—and they oozed confidence. But not me, I was on my own.

  I discovered those pleasures in my third year, but only sporadically, as my weekends were spent working to pay for food, rent and petrol. Like my father, I too, learnt of the joys of excess alcohol. It helped me to let go of inhibitions, to dance more freely, laugh and it enabled me to talk to the opposite sex. I became very good at going to pubs in my final year at university—my friends and I loved live music, dancing and playing pool. I dabbled in a tiny amount of recreational drug taking and realised it wasn’t for me. I had a handful of awkward sexual encounters, but no relationships formed. I was too self-conscious and uncomfortable compared to my new Sydney friends. At least I was less so than I had been in my late teens. A late starter, my teenager years free of binge drinking, I made up
for some lost time. I also learnt how to hold a wine glass by the stem, to sip wine rather than gulp, to taste the subtle differences between grape varieties, to match wines with the meal, and above all, to be able to participate in a conversation about wine. My sociological mind rationalised that no-one is born with this knowledge; it is acquired and learnt over time. I too could mix with the graziers now, if I had to. But I chose to mix with my newly acquired Sydney friends.

  Thinking back now, I can’t be sure if my father drank a lot of alcohol, or not, when I was growing up with him. Was he a small drinker, big drinker, a social drinker, a binge drinker or a functional alcoholic? I’m not sure. My father never drank alcohol at home and he didn’t drink at kids’ sporting events, despite that being common behaviour in Coolah. I had assumed that he drank a huge amount, when he was out socialising with his male friends, away from his wife. His smiling, happy face was always the same on his return home from the pub or club. My father told me once that, when he was in his twenties, he could dance on the tops of tables at pubs until the early hours of the morning—when others had long since passed out from too much drinking. This was a boast he made to me, but never to my mother that I knew of anyway. My mother had told me that pubs were not places for women. But why, I had queried? She tried her hardest to pass on gender stereotypes about women socialising in pubs to me, but they didn’t stick, nor did all of the other stereotypes that she promoted. I needed an answer, proof, about why it was fine for men to drink at pubs, but not women. Why should women be at home preparing the family dinner and not the husband?