Two Generations

by Anne Connor

  I often wondered why he didn’t seek promotion in his work. He was intelligent, well-respected, well-liked and a good worker, yet he didn’t move up from his position as a foreman on the floor. Although not formally educated, he was intelligent and could hold his own in company. His job was to supervise the women who worked on the looms in the factory. Many were Italian migrants who had travelled from their home country in the same way he had. Their English was poor, so Jock taught himself Italian. He often came home with an array of gifts – sugar-coated almonds wrapped in bride’s veil, holy pictures in gold frames, homemade cakes and sweets different to the ones we were used to eating.

  Aspects of suffering can leave a victim with feelings of inferiority and anxiety. Was this it? Did he prefer to stay safe in his work?

  As each child came of age she or he moved out of home. Cleary joined the navy as soon as he was old enough, was stationed in New South Wales and married a Sydney girl. Galvin and Joseph married in their early twenties, had young families of their own and lived in the suburbs of Melbourne. Rose travelled overseas and I moved to Perth to explore the freedom of living in a different city. It was the furthest I could go without needing a passport.

  I wondered whether Jock took this personally and thought his children’s early departures were due to his mood swings and angry outbursts. His anger had reduced over the years, but he was still emotionally distant.

  Bess noticed him becoming more and more tired. His gait had changed. He dragged his feet when he walked. Within minutes of finishing his evening meal he fell asleep in his armchair. The top of his right arm ached throughout his waking hours now and doctors could find no explanation for it.

  With just Bess and Jock in the house, without the distractions of children and Jock’s full-time work, my parents’ closeness from their overseas trip flourished. They took slow short walks of an evening, just to the corner and back, where they held hands or strolled arm in arm as they had done along the foreshore at Eastern Beach. They spent hours chatting together at the kitchen table or sitting in the garden.

  Retirement from full-time work, with no responsibilities, didn’t improve Jock’s health. He was still weary and found it difficult to do much at all. He succumbed to Bess’ pleas and visited the doctor.

  This time, he was prescribed arthritis painkillers, which took the edge off the pain in his arm, and sent for an array of blood tests. A week later in the doctor’s rooms again, Bess knew something was wrong, but the sting of the doctor’s words took her breath away. He was diagnosed with leukaemia with six months to live.

  Back at the Repatriation Hospital in Heidelberg after nearly three decades, Jock had regular blood transfusions and his bone marrow was checked for leukaemic cells. This time, instead of Bess catching two trains, a tram and a bus, the Department of Veteran Affairs supplied a driver and car for their trips to and from the hospital.

  Bess said nothing much had changed from the time she visited Jock in 1945. The coloured lines on the duckboards and the beige walls were the same. But now a photo of the Queen replaced the King’s portrait. Bess and Jock made the most of what time they had left. Bess made him comfortable at home and accompanied him to doctors’ appointments and blood tests. When he was admitted to the Repatriation Hospital for the last time, he had his own room with an ensuite, and the nurses and doctors were kind and caring. Bess was at the hospital as much as possible and did whatever she could to ensure he was comfortable.

  During the last months of Jock’s life, there was a stream of visitors. Every few weeks, Honor, Ralph, Tilly and Dorothy drove up from Geelong. Rose and I returned from our travels and we took turns to sit by his bed, sometimes talking, other times just being with him while he slept.

  Jock died at around five in the afternoon of 26 April 1973. He was alone. It was one of those indefinite times between visitors. Bess was on her way to see him when he took his last breath just minutes before she arrived. She was heartbroken knowing he had passed away on his own.

  The next day, I shopped on the local High Street so there was enough food for people dropping in to pay their respects. Neighbours and a shopkeeper asked after my father. ‘He died last night,’ I said and watched their faces and discomfort at not knowing what to say or do.

  I couldn’t understand how life could continue as usual. How people could buy a loaf of bread, chat in the street, sweep the footpath and the gutters in front of their houses when my world had come crashing down around me. Even the light was different. It was too bright for my eyes.

  A steady procession of people visited over the days between Dad’s death and his funeral. I offered refreshments, scones and slices of cake to family, friends, neighbours, nuns and priests. Grief is exhausting. I’ve never known such bone-weary tiredness. I could see my mother was exhausted too but found comfort in people visiting. Her grief was too much in those first few days.

  She lived in a fog for months.

  During the writing of this book, I had a recurring dream.

  Jock is in the Repatriation Hospital, sitting up in bed supported by fat hospice pillows, wearing his own green and blue striped pyjamas. The ones he used to wear at home when he sat at the kitchen table to have his breakfast; or when he walked to the front gate of a morning to pick up The Sun from the cylinder on top of the letterbox.

  The upper button of his pyjama top is undone, exposing three round holes in his chest where the doctors drilled for bone marrow to check his leukaemic cells. The holes looked similar to bullet wounds, with darkened blood caked around the edge of each crater. His eyes are sunken; his face has a grey tinge and is bloated from the cortisone injections. Lank white hair barely hiding his scalp replaces his once thick, curly black mop.

  Twenty-two-year-old Joe Forrester walks into the hospital room. He’s wearing his army shirt and shorts. Youthful, tanned and lean, he has a bloodied bandage around his head and stands at the foot of Jock’s bed. The patient looks up and squints. The late afternoon sun behind Joe makes it difficult to make out who he is.

  ‘Gidday Jock, it’s me, Joe.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Joe, Joe Forrester.’

  Joe sits on the chair by the bed. He leans over and places his hand on Jock’s arm. He waits while Jock studies his face.

  ‘I know you thought the shooting was your fault,’ Joe said. ‘But it was my time to go. I’m sorry you carried the burden for so long.’

  Jock begins to cry, quietly at first. Joe moves onto the bed and sits next to him. Jock’s body, by now, is wracked with sobs. Joe puts his arm around him.

  The older man buries his head in the younger man’s chest and cries … for a long time.

  My daughter and I finished the cake, and when it was done, we sat under the tree in the garden and ate the first warm slices together. As I daydreamed, wishing Dad could have shared a piece of cake with us, my daughter dropped her fork. The clattering sound it made on the plate made me flinch.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  MANY PEOPLE HAVE CONTRIBUTED to the writing of this book and I am grateful. My thanks go to the numerous veterans and family members of veterans who shared their stories of the impact of living with post-traumatic stress disorder. These stories validated my writing of Two Generations. They helped me appreciate how readers are attuned and interested in returned veterans’ unacknowledged and untreated PTSD and the impact it has on loved ones – the invisible sufferers.

  Thanks and love to Janne Martenengo and David Ward who helped me understand the ramifications of generational suffering and for guiding and supporting me to choose what precious nuggets to keep and what fool’s gold to discard.

  This book wouldn’t have come about without assistance from: the library staff at the Australian War Memorial; Francoise Barr from the Northern Territory Archives Centre – Francoise’s guidance and knowledge showed me a thriving Darwin and robust community prior to and during the Japanese bombings; Robert Winther OAM from the Heidelberg Repatriation Hospital; and Reg Elder in the signals
section of the Simpson Barracks, Watsonia.

  My appreciation extends to Ron Jackson for his generosity of spirit and sharing of information about the brave and colourful men of the 2/14th Australian Field Regiment. His book, The Broken Eighth – A History of the 2/14th Australian Field Regiment, Darwin – New Guinea – New Britain, helped me join the dots, bringing to life the lived experience of an Australian soldier in the Second World War. My thanks go to those other gentle, brave and humble men I met from my father’s regiment: Tom Adams, Vin Bool, Linc Burchett, Orm Burton and Richard Geeves. Meeting them enabled me to see my father in a new light.

  From the broader writing community I am blessed to be affiliated with, I have received only encouragement and support. My thanks go to: Janet Blagg; Lorna Ferguson and Dr John Ballam from the University of Oxford; Babette Smith, Varuna – the National Writers House, the Eleanor Dark Foundation Ltd; my fellow Master-classers, led by Dr Antoni Jach: Gill Barnett, Moreno Giovannoni, Angela Meyer, Janine Mikosza, Anne Myer, Susan Paterson, Patsy Poppenbeck, Honeytree Thomas, Evelyn Tsitas and Clive Wansborough; Lucy Treloar for her mentorship and friendship; Carmel Macdonald Graeme, who has seen me through this book from its infancy. Carmel’s gentle feedback and exceptional insight has taught me much about this ‘thing’ called ‘writing’. Karen Throssell for her wealth of knowledge in the written word, encouragement and support. Carmel and Karen have been the midwives of Two Generations and I am very grateful.

  Big thanks to my agent Sheila Drummond for believing in me, taking me on and managing me and the book through the publishing labyrinth. Thanks to the supportive publishing team: Jane Curry, Eleanor Reader and Zoe Hale.

  Appreciation abounds to my family. To Roger Dutton who found the only photograph (to date) of my father with me as a babe. This image is on the front cover of Two Generations and has been a strong link to connecting with Jock – so very helpful in delving deeper into the writing. I would like to honour my siblings Mary Connor (deceased), John Connor for his continued enthusiasm and encouragement during the writing, Jim Connor, Elizabeth Ellis and Patrick Connor for his support and having the insight, motivation and patience to record conversations with our mother.

  Thanks and love to my daughter Scarlett, for her calm presence, belief and pride in me and to the best son-in-law in the world Tom, for his support.

  My deepest gratitude and love to Bernie, for being my chief barracker, for propping me up when I feel a fraud and for everything else.

  If I have missed anyone, I am sorry and thank you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Anne Connor is an award-winning Melbourne writer. For over two decades she has worked in the writing space, with articles appearing in The Age, Business Review Weekly and various lifestyle and industry magazines. Her short stories have been published in anthologies and received awards in short story competitions. Anne headed a marketing and communications consultancy for nine years, and has studied creative writing at Deakin and the University of Oxford. Two Generations is her debut memoir.

  anneconnor.com.au

  anneconnor718@gmail.com

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