The Easy Day Was Yesterday

by Paul Jordan

  My cage floor was covered with dust, dirt, dead ants and flies, rat shit and broken bits of concrete, so I asked Ugly Guard if I could have a broom to sweep it out. He looked at me as if I was suffering from the effects of LSD, rolled his fat eyes and walked away without giving any indication as to whether he was going to help or not. I wandered back into the cage and started pacing back and forth. A few minutes later, Ugly Guard reappeared with an old man following him carrying a broom. The brooms they use in India are just a few hundred lengths of straw bound together. It’s rudimentary, but effective. As the old man approached I put out my hand for the broom, but the old man waved me off and started sweeping himself. I insisted, but he just kept sweeping. Okay, I thought, if you really want to do it, mate, then fill your boots. The old man did a great job and I couldn’t believe how much rubbish he managed to sweep out of the cage. When he was finished I thanked him profusely and he was gone. Ugly Guard looked at me and shook his head. Why are you shaking that ugly mug at me? I said to myself.

  At about 10.00 am I heard Manish calling names, so I stood at the entrance to my cage waiting for my name to be called. My Calvins were almost dry, as was my shirt, so at least they no longer smelt bad. I quickly ducked back into the cage and ran the toothbrush with some toothpaste over my teeth to try to make myself look a little more presentable. About 25 names were called, but not mine. Manish saw me watching and just shrugged and went back to the clerk’s office. I felt as if someone had hit me in the heart with a sledgehammer. Perhaps Manish was right, I thought as I slumped against the wall of the cage. Maybe I was going to court on the 7th of June; maybe I would be stuck here until then. It seemed impossible. It couldn’t be right; people knew I was here. I just couldn’t accept that this could be happening. How could I still be here for something so ridiculous? Yes, I cocked up, but I didn’t try to smuggle a kilo of heroine across the border. Fuck me!

  Manish came to my cage at about 12.00 to tell me I had visitor. Thank God. Maybe I wouldn’t have to go to court. Maybe those wankers at the border had come forward to confess their mistake and I would now be released. I didn’t care who it was as long as they told me to grab my bits and pieces and got me out of hell. It was Ujwal. Ujwal had biscuits and more bottles of water with him. The sledgehammer hit again. You don’t bring water to someone leaving gaol. Ujwal told me that I wouldn’t be going to court today because if I got bail then I could be re-arrested for not having a valid visa and away we would go again. Ujwal told me that the Magistrate was now sympathetic and believed it was all a mistake, but needed the completed police reports before he could release me.

  There was a moment of quiet and then Ujwal said, ‘Is it bad in there, Paul?’ ‘It’s beyond terrible, but I have it better than the other prisoners.’

  ‘Sallie rang and said to tell you she loves you,’ said Ujwal with a hint of embarrassment.

  ‘Tell her I love her too.’

  ‘We will go and talk to your lawyer and give him some money.’

  ‘Okay, mate.’

  I wandered back to the cage trying to stop myself sliding into the depths of depression, but I was losing the battle. I had so many other issues on my mind. My dear old dad was terminally ill with bowel cancer and didn’t have long to live. I now realised I might be in here when my dad died. That would be unforgiveable. I hoped I would be away from this mess in time to see him again. As the eldest it also fell to me to help my stepmother, Carole, and my brother, Trevor, with the funeral arrangements. I took that responsibility very seriously and didn’t want Trevor to have to do it alone. I couldn’t accept that I might actually not get to say goodbye to Dad because of some vindictive, racist arsehole at the border.

  Let me tell you about Trevor. He’s a person for whom I have loads of admiration. You’d describe him as a really good bloke. Unlike my half-brother, Colin, and me, Trevor remained a homebody and never strayed too far from where we grew up in the northern suburbs of Brisbane. Trevor trained as a cabinet-maker, married young and had two girls. That marriage was destined to fail and he met the most amazing woman, Carissa — she is a saint. Carissa is a lot younger than Trevor, but is a mature influence in his life. With Carissa at his side, Trevor rebuilt his life. They now have two kids, Jack and Lily, and a great house and life in Joyner, northern Brisbane. Trevor is the linchpin of the family. He holds us all together and is a great brother.

  Colin is my half-brother. What a life he has led. Colin has never let anyone stand in his way in the pursuit of his one love — BMX. At the tender age of 18, Colin gave up his life in Australia and left for the USA to ride BMX. In Australia the sport was in its infancy and no-one was really into it, so he went looking for like-minded professionals. Once he got to the USA he never came back. He was the first Australian to make it big in the USA — he led the way where many have now followed. He’s made a bundle from the sport and continues to enjoy celebrity status to this day. He’s a champion bloke with a great wife and I wish I could see more of them. I’m blessed with two unbelievable brothers.

  The other thing playing on my mind was that my ex-wife had a new boyfriend and my youngest son, Zac, and my daughter, Sayge, seemed to get on well with him. I knew my eldest son, Sam, was loyal to the core. Not that I blamed Zac and Sayge — they were two beautiful people and seemed to like everyone. Sam was more measured and, while a little difficult as a child, had grown into an intelligent, deep-thinking young man. I was really concerned that my ex-wife would seize the opportunity while I was away and have the boyfriend move into my house and take over as a dad for my kids. It seems silly now and I’m sure it wouldn’t have happened, but in prison when you have 24 hours a day to think, you can convince yourself of some bizarre things — your worst enemy is your mind. Your mind can be evil and play tricks on you. Your mind has you contemplating things you would never otherwise consider. Your mind knows when your security barriers are depleted through stress and that’s when it attacks.

  8.

  GROWING UP

  I didn’t really know my dad as a kid, and I didn’t know it at the time, but he really left a huge hole in our lives when he left the family for another woman. But when he finished his time in the army, he re-entered our lives, and we enjoyed a cordial relationship, although we would never have that bond that a bloke should have with his dad. Bonds are built on the foundation of history and experiences, and we really didn’t have any. Dad went on to remarry — a lovely lady called Carole. In reality, Dad left Mum for Carole, but that’s life and we all liked her. In fact, she was great at always filling the gaps on the many occasions when I had nothing to say to Dad.

  Despite a few setbacks in my childhood, it was actually good and I have nothing to complain about. Dad left the family when I was about eight or nine years old, but that’s all right. Dad’s a good guy, he just wanted something different out of life and that didn’t include us kids or mum. He did call in every couple of years to say ‘hello’, which was a bonus, and it kept his image alive in my mind. I don’t really remember much about Dad when he was living with us, even though my memory goes back a long way. Dad was in the army and always went away for lengthy periods, but I also suspect some of those trips were to see his girlfriend at the time — Carole. My older brother Steven and I would see him loading gear into his car and ask, ‘Where ya goin’ Dad?’

  ‘Going to see a man about a dog,’ he’d reply.

  ‘Can we come with you, Dad?’ we’d ask, all excited and bouncing around the driver’s door.

  ‘Not this time, boys,’ he’d say and then drive off.

  ‘Do you think he’s fair dinkum this time and he’s gunna bring us back a dog?’ I would ask Steven. Steven was older than me by 18 months and, as the eldest child, was deemed to be the leader with all the answers. ‘Nah,’ he would say, ‘he says that all the time, but never brings back that dog. Besides, we’ve got Tina and she’ll do.’

  Tina was our little Pomeranian and possibly the smartest dog on earth. When Trevor was small and got lost
or went for a walk, Mum would ask Tina where Trevor was and Tina would somehow find him — he’d usually be a few doors down, sitting on someone’s front lawn. Tina would lead Mum, Steven and me down the road straight to Trevor. When we saw him, Steven and I would yell to Mum, ‘He’s over here, Mum, she’s found him again.’

  Trevor was four years younger than I was but, by some strange twist of fate, he was born on my birthday. I know it’s hard to believe and I hated the idea of sharing my birthday with someone else. We weren’t even twins! I remember the day he was born — in fact I think that day is my earliest memory.

  We were living in Casula Street, Arana Hills, in an army married quarter in the northern suburbs of Brisbane. The day is memorable not only because Trevor was born at the Royal Brisbane Hospital, but also because it was Easter and my birthday. I recall my paternal grandmother, Hazel, looking after Steven and me while mum was in hospital. On that day Nana presented both of us with an old jam tin with some grass clippings from the lawn in the bottom with three small chocolate eggs on top. We were excited, but were more excited about having a baby brother.

  Anyway, back to the dog that Dad was always going to see that bloke about. Sure enough, a few days or weeks later, Dad would come home from his trip away without the dog. Steven would say, ‘Told ya, didn’t I? He’s never bringing that dog home.’

  A year or so later, Mum and Dad bought a block of land in Cestrum Street in the same suburb and built a house on it. The house and land package cost them $9000. I recall periodically visiting the house while it was under construction, and my dad pinching some tongue and groove timber which he later used to build a sandpit for us. Our enjoyment of that sandpit was short-lived when the cats decided it made a damned good toilet. Quite late one night, my dad lifted me from the couch and placed me in the car where the rest of the family was waiting and we drove the short distance to the new house. Steven and I shared a room and Trevor, who was just a baby, had his own room. I spent the next 15 years of my life in that house.

  We were very lucky as kids because my dad’s parents, my nana and pop, lived at Mooloolaba on the Sunshine Coast. My pop fished for a living and they lived in a great apartment directly opposite the Mooloolaba River. Pop had a fantastic shed out the back where he kept all his bait and the catch. There was also a shower outside so that, when we came back from the beach, we could wash all the sand off before going inside. Pop was a big man and I thought he was the strongest man in the world. Some afternoons we’d all walk along the shore of the river at low tide and collect soldier crabs to be used as bait for fishing. There’d be thousands of crabs scrambling along the sand, all in the same direction. If we wanted to look under a rock for crabs, Steven and I would push and shove, but never budge the rock. Pop would stroll over and, with spectacular ease, roll the rock over while we chased the scrambling crabs. Pop was strong.

  Staying at Nana and Pop’s house was an adventure and we all looked forward to it. We’d sleep in massive beds with huge, white mosquito nets draped over them that also kept the sandflies away. Nana cooked good food that always consisted of seafood of some description. Mum would help her in the kitchen while Dad was at the bowls club with Pop having a few. Dad’s sister, Aunty Carmel, lived in the house as well. She was a really nice lady who always had a kind word for us kids. There was a corner shop only a few doors up and Aunty Carmel would ask Steven and me to go to the shops and buy her a packet of Benson & Hedges cigarettes — in those days kids could do that. She would always give us one or two cents each as a reward so we’d buy lollies that were two or three for one cent. Aunty Carmel wasn’t in the best of health. All we knew was that she’d been pushed down the stairs by her former husband and now had trouble walking and talking. Nana worked in a fish shop up on the esplanade where Pop sold some of his catch. When they weren’t working they always seemed to be at the bowls club drinking. We seemed to spend a lot of time there. My grandparents, my dad and his sisters were all heavy drinkers. For Mum it was a case of ‘get on board or you won’t survive in the family’. But Mum had never been a big drinker and was content to let them go for it.

  In 1974 I was eight years old and in grade 3 at Grovely State School. One day, after walking the two kilometres home, I saw my mum watering the garden and, as I got closer, I realised she’d been crying. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. She was really upset and I started to panic. Mum never cried in front of us — this was the first time I’d actually seen her cry. ‘Your pop died today,’ she whispered.

  I was stunned.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Because he had a weak heart and it was his time.’

  I couldn’t work this out and wondered what it all meant. Pop was such a strong man, how could it be possible that he was dead and what did that mean? Where was he and when was he coming back? Mum sent us to Sunday school every week and they taught us that, when you died, you went to heaven. Heaven was supposed to be a paradise where all the nice people went. It seemed pretty simple, but even at that age I struggled with this concept. Sunday school for Steven and me was simply an opportunity to make a little money. Mum gave us ten cents each for the plate that was handed around. We didn’t put our money on the plate, but kept it for later in the day when we’d go down to the creek and search for penny turtles. On the way we bought matches for a small campfire and some lollies.

  Anyway, five days later, we went to the Albany Creek Crematorium for Pop’s funeral. When we arrived, Dad came over to the car and told Mum that we boys had to wait in the car. Mum said, ‘No,’ and that we were all attending the funeral. That’s the only recollection I have of that day.

  A year or so later, I saw Dad loading some of his stuff into his car and we thought he was going to see that man about that dog again, but this time he seemed to be taking more stuff than usual. Steven and I were playing in the front yard and asked him where he was going. He said he was going to visit Nana for a while. We got all excited because we loved visiting Nana at the beach and pleaded to go with him. He said, ‘No,’ then left. We rarely saw Dad after that. Mum was a scorned woman and, understandably, wasn’t going to make life easy for Dad. He had met another lady and left us for her. Years later, we met her — Carole — and we all liked her. She was very nice to us and never tried to play the role of a second mother. We remained fiercely loyal to Mum.

  I really didn’t think much about Dad leaving because he was always going away with the army and this seemed just like a long trip away. But he didn’t come back from this one. It wasn’t a case of them sitting us all down and telling us that their marriage was over. We were too young for all that, I suppose. I don’t remember Mum crying about her marriage falling apart and Dad running off with another woman. I’m sure she did, but she did a great job of keeping it from us. To us kids, life just continued as normal.

  There were times when we missed having a dad around. Steven and I had to learn how to fix our bikes ourselves, and when my friend’s dad built him a bird aviary I had to make my own and the end result was a pile of crap. I’d saved my pocket money for a few weeks and had enough to buy six Zebra Finches. They were white with red eyes and made a tiny squeak. I carried them home in a shoe box balanced in my lap as I peddled my bike. I watched with joy when I released the finches into their new home and then horror as they all followed each other out through a gap in the chicken wire. I just sat there and watched them all head for the hills. Bugger; I couldn’t believe it and wondered how I had missed that gap in the wire. It was massive. A pelican could have flown through it. But I fixed the hole and went over the cage very carefully looking for more holes, but there was only the one. As kids without a dad around we had no choice but to adapt and get on with it. There was no point complaining about it because who’d listen and who’d care? We learnt how to make do and managed as best we could.

  I remember not having a great deal of money. Mum always made sure we had enough food, were always dressed nicely when we had to be and, every second year, we’d visit my relatives
in Sydney. But it was clear we were doing it tough. I was aware that we didn’t have those small things that all my friends had. We didn’t have a phone in the house and were the last house in the street to get a colour television set. In the school holidays my friends would go to school camps while we stayed at home on our own. We were doing this before Trevor started school so we were quite young. You can’t get away with that sort of stuff now, but in those days it was not considered anyone else’s business and we really had no choice as Mum certainly couldn’t afford holiday care. While we knew we didn’t have much money, it didn’t seem to bother any of us and we just made the most of what we had. We learnt to fend for ourselves very early in life. We had to make our own fun and look after Trevor as the need arose.

  I remember one year when we were lucky enough to go to a school camp — run by the local church group so I think it was free. The camp started at around 9.00 am, but Mum started work at 7.00 am, so we had to wait in her car in the car park at her work. I wouldn’t consider doing that now with my kids, but in those days it was okay and we just sat there waiting for Mum to come out on her morning tea break. It was worth the two-hour wait; we had a great time at that camp. An Aboriginal guy showed us how to make a fishing spear and then he showed us how to spear fish. This guy was an expert and there was no way we could match him, but we had a great time trying and I really admired this guy’s ability to make a spear out of almost nothing and then fend for himself in the bush.

  Mum had a boyfriend who was also in the army. Jack was his name. Jack was okay and Mum seemed happy with him. They used to go to functions at the Sergeants’ Mess and Mum would get dressed up in a beautiful, red, full-length dress and have a great night. One night we were asleep when they got back from a night out. Steven and I slept in bunks in one room and were woken by Mum screaming from her room to be left alone. Steven came down to my bunk on the bottom and we talked about what we should do. I was really scared because Jack was yelling at Mum to be let into the room. We heard a loud crash and we both jumped as Jack rammed the bedroom door with his shoulder, smashing the lock in the process. Jack must have fallen and Mum ran to the bathroom crying and screaming. We could tell she was scared and I became terrified as well. Only a few months before this, Mum had told us about her mother and how she was burnt alive by a boyfriend who was drunk and angry with her. I think Mum was also worried that Jack would do something similar to her by the way she was screaming and pleading to be left alone. Steven was very brave and, despite my pleas, he went to the bathroom to confront Jack. I think the act of being confronted by a 10-year-old boy who wanted to defend his mother brought Jack to his senses and that was the end of the fight. But the relationship survived a while longer — at least until the next time Jack got drunk and decided to use Mum as his punching bag again. That was the end of it for her. I always wondered why she didn’t dump the shithead the first time it happened, but I think she just didn’t want to be alone.