My father and I were to meet in the middle of the bridge, which is predominantly made from Australian ironbark timber, tough as nails and designed to survive. I thought this a good omen for our reunion.
I got up early on the day of our meeting, fired up and ready to go. It was a picture-perfect late winter’s day without a cloud in the sky as I drove from Stanwell Park to the city. Even so, after parking the car, I began to grow increasingly anxious as I walked towards the bridge. Although I’d seen photographs of my father, they weren’t detailed enough to give me a strong sense of what he looked like. As it had been with Maida, I seriously worried that I might not recognise him. I hadn’t spoken to him yet, either, apart from my mystery call to his house in the months after my mother had first given me his name 18 months previously — and even then, I hadn’t been sure it was him I’d spoken to. I scanned my surrounds as I walked along, worrying that he might even be walking beside me without my having realised.
When I reached the agreed spot in the centre of the bridge, I couldn’t see any sign of him, and the frightening thought hit me that he might have changed his mind.
I waited for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a few minutes, and then I saw a man in the distance who seemed to be looking for someone. He saw me, and we both smiled tentatively as we began to approach one another from about 50 metres away.
We kept walking towards each other through the heavy pedestrian traffic on the bridge, and the smiles got bigger the closer we got. On meeting, we spontaneously wrapped our arms around each other in a loving embrace and held it for some time. I don’t think I have ever met anyone in my life with whom I felt so completely and immediately at home.
‘Hello, my father,’ I said, my arms still around him, gazing into his eyes for what was to me the first time.
He, of course, had looked into my eyes in Crown Street Hospital all those years ago, but he was now nearly 67 years old, so it had been a long time between hugs. He was clearly just as awed by this moment as I was. He smiled and said, ‘Hello, my son, what a wonderful day in our lives.’ He had a soft and gentle voice, which quavered with emotion, and that drew me to him even more.
He had dressed up for the occasion, as I should have expected from his letters, in a light fawn suit and a tie with diagonal red stripes. He wasn’t quite as tall as I’d expected, but he looked fit and in good health.
We hadn’t thought where to go after this initial meeting, so I suggested coffee at one of the restaurants on the western side of Darling Harbour. In truth, I didn’t really care where we went; it was just so wonderful to finally meet my father.
At first we were hesitant in our conversation, but our confidence grew as we felt increasingly comfortable in each other’s company, and soon virtually nothing was off limits. This was when I thought it timely to remind him of something important.
‘I just want to mention one little thing, if that’s okay?’
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘My mother has requested that I don’t talk about her in any way, and I have to respect that.’ I didn’t use Maida’s name, as even that seemed like a breach of faith in my mind.
‘I understand,’ he said, and that was that.
I was relieved, as I’d been struggling with how I was going to deal with this elephant in the room. I didn’t want to intrude into the personal feelings of either my mother or my father, or into the circumstances of their relationship all those years ago in Orange. From the beginning, I thought it was none of my business. It was ancient history and didn’t impact on my life in any way — except for, of course, that I was the outcome of that relationship. That was all I needed to know. I had been given the gift of two new families, and that was enough for me.
We had so many questions to ask each other as we sat for hours in that cafe. Occasionally we pinched each other to confirm that we really were there, together. There was so much I wanted to know about: my grandparents; his health; growing up in the Sutherland Shire; his life story; how he was living life now; and so on. He wanted to know about my life, too, of course, and I shared everything with him except the taboo subject of my earlier reunion with my mother.
There were two subjects where I waited for him to take the lead. One was about his wife, Lola. I felt so deeply grateful for the forgiveness and understanding she had shown to my father, and for her unwavering support for this reunion. It could not have happened without her, and I was forever in her debt. I wanted my father to tell me about her and their life together, but only when he was ready. When he did speak of her, it was to describe a very fulfilling and happy marriage, and I could see his love and respect for her in his eyes.
The other subject was that of my sisters and brothers. I was already walking on eggshells here, and started to worry when, after several hours, my father still hadn’t mentioned them. Perhaps something had gone wrong.
When he did eventually speak about them, he admitted, ‘Your arrival on the scene has been a huge shock to them.’
I immediately felt wretched, and experienced another rush of guilt about my selfishness in pursuing this reunion.
Then he added, ‘I think the shock was as much or more about me than you,’ and I understood more fully the implications of what must have been a huge guilty secret in his life.
Yet another of the many coincidences surrounding my adoption came to light when my father mentioned the address of the former family home in Gordon where my siblings had grown up. I realised that, over the years, while taking a regular short cut on my way to Forster, I had frequently driven right past that house.
After we’d talked for several hours and the sun had moved over the proverbial yardarm, I suggested we have a glass of wine. My father, being a loving and sensitive man, happily agreed, not telling me that he wasn’t a drinker, or that Lola, a definite teetotaller, was in fact waiting to meet us on the other side of the bridge. I still shudder to think what she must have thought about me that day when she smelt the wine on my father’s breath. Perhaps that I’d dragged him into bad company on day one!
It was only as we were walking back across Pyrmont Bridge that my father mentioned that Lola would be waiting for us in front of the Sydney Aquarium. I think he must have forgotten this while we were talking, overawed by the magnitude of events. Or maybe he did tell me that she was waiting for us, and I didn’t hear it because of my own emotions. In any event, I would have stopped talking hours before had I realised Lola had been waiting so patiently for us.
As we walked towards my first meeting with Lola, my mind was going crazy. I felt totally unprepared. How should I handle it? Should I be cautious, or show my enthusiasm with a hug?
Lola was standing on the wharf just in front of the aquarium, watching us walk towards her. She had a welcoming smile on her face, and I decided to just be myself. I gave her a warm hug, which was immediately reciprocated. I was overjoyed to be so welcomed.
I don’t remember the details of what we said to each other, because our meeting was such a shock to me, but I do remember that we chatted easily, and I thanked her profusely for her support for the reunion with my father. She said she was looking forward to meeting Jody, Jade, and Jack.
After we’d promised to see each other again soon, I stood waving goodbye until my father and Lola disappeared from sight. I felt dazed, as if in a trance. Could all that have really just happened?
I walked aimlessly for a time, ending up on the other side of Cockle Bay, looking up at the place on the bridge where we’d just met. It had been such a big day for me, and it couldn’t have gone better. I’d experienced a deep feeling of fulfilment and connectedness to my father, and saw in so many small and large ways how he had been the missing element in my life. This first meeting had given me huge insights into my own self and what I perceived to be some of my defining qualities, especially my gut-response empathy when I’m confronted by human suffering.
Soon after this first meeting with my father, he phoned to tell me that he’d now told the full detailed story of my birth all those years ago to each of my siblings, and it was likely that meetings would be set up soon. It all happened very quickly after that.
The first meeting was at the house of my sister Jeanette, the oldest of my siblings at 33 years old, in Ryde. I was to meet Jeanette and her husband, Sel, and her daughter, my niece, Alana (nine months younger than Jack). Also present was my father’s sister, Aunty Dulcie. My father and Lola were there, too, of course.
As I walked up the drive towards the front door, I steadied myself for what was to come: meeting my sister and aunt for the first time was another big moment in the family reunion process. I needn’t have worried. Everyone was there at the front door to greet me, all as excited as I was.
Unknown to Jeanette, I’d first heard of her and her daughter, Alana, almost two years previously, during one of my furtive visits to Mangrove Mountain. I’d called in at the one-pump service station and picked up a copy of The Mangrove Mountain and District News, a small local paper. In it, I’d seen an item about Len and Lola Murray announcing the birth of their first grandchild, Alana, born in Melbourne to Jeanette and Sel. I took great delight in recounting this story to Jeanette, and also revealing my guilty secret about driving up to where my father lived.
She laughed, clearly liking the story.
Wow! This warm, vivacious, larger-than-life person is my sister, I thought. Right from the start I was elated and proud to be her sibling. At that time, Jeanette was a nurse in the spinal unit at Royal North Shore Hospital. Since then, she has moved into the inner city, closer to where I live, and now works in community health, including delivering programs supporting the Aboriginal community in the inner west of Sydney.
My Aunty Dulcie was two years younger than my father, tall, slim, and well dressed. Meeting her was particularly special, because I’d learnt from my father Len that she had actually held me as a baby in Crown Street Hospital in my first week of life. When we met again, she gazed at me as if I were a revered species (much to my embarrassment), and I felt humbled by her kindness.
She spoke in a quiet but direct way, and greeted me by holding both my hands in hers. ‘Welcome to the family,’ she said.
‘I’ve heard that you held me as a baby,’ I said. I still found this so hard to believe.
‘Yes, and a beautiful baby you were, too.’
‘Amazing — and good to see you again,’ I joked, and she gave me a little grin.
Aunty Dulcie was a very kind and loving woman, who had devoted her life to her Christian faith and her missionary work in rural Australia. She lived a very modest and frugal life until the day she died in 2015. Although we were very different and I didn’t share her faith, we became very close. I admired the integrity with which she had lived her life, holding true to her beliefs and convictions. I visited her regularly over the next two decades, and joined the rest of the family in spending time with her in the week before she died, at peace with herself and with her God.
My brother Neil cut through the reunion process by directly phoning my ministerial office in Canberra. I was in Adelaide when I got the message that he’d phoned, and called him back immediately with my heart in my mouth, somewhat petrified that it might not be a friendly call. I could barely talk I was so nervous, but as soon as I heard his warm, strong, and confident voice, I knew everything would be okay.
Neil is the older of my two brothers, both of whom are younger than my sisters, and he was then 28. We agreed to catch up as soon as I got back to Sydney, near where he worked at the time as property manager for the Sydney Cove Authority. He has since gone on to have an extremely successful career in property management in both the public and private sectors, and is highly regarded in the industry.
We met one weeknight after work, and it was just like it had been meeting my father. As I walked into the venue, this bloke stood up from his chair and strode over to meet me. It immediately hit me that we did indeed share quite a strong resemblance, as Lola had said. We were of virtually identical height and build, and had similar facial features.
We greeted each other with a tentative handshake, and a degree of trepidation on my part. I so wanted this to work. We sat down and had our first drink together, and the conversation flowed. We just fitted like a glove, and I discovered for the very first time in my life what it might be like to have a brother.
At one point as we were chatting happily, I looked down at his hands on the table in front of me, and it was just like looking at my own hands. I could hardly believe it.
‘Those are my hands!’ I blurted out, and he laughed at my delight in such a simple but wonderful thing.
My brother Craig was next to appear on the scene. He was 24 years old and a police officer in Sydney. Craig first made contact with me by letter, which began with a confronting statement, before continuing reassuringly:
Just over 24 hours ago Dad told me the news, and yes, I have been on a roller-coaster of emotions. I love our father so very much. He is a wonderful man who would do anything for anyone. He has always been there for me and I have always been there for him. Rob, there is so much to write about, I can’t possibly fit it all in this letter, not if I wrote all day and night. Dad has explained everything and I asked a lot of questions. You have not been out of my mind. Last night when I was driving back to Sydney from Mangrove Mountain, only about 2 km from our front gate tears welled in my eyes. I felt a mixture of emotions. Well, now it is Wednesday and all is well. I don’t know why I felt like I did and it must be a natural process.
Craig told me that my work as minister for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander affairs was known to him, and that, when he was at the Police Academy, he had quoted me in an essay and a class presentation. I was quite chuffed and amused that he had done so not knowing that I was his brother.
He closed his letter with some very warm words about welcoming me to the family. Not long after, we arranged to meet at the same place where I’d met Neil. I got there first, because I wanted to be able to see Craig arrive; I’d learnt through experience that I found it easier that way.
I saw him as soon as he came through the door. He was tall and well built, with lighter-coloured hair than Neil and different features — more like our father’s. He was so enthusiastic and animated about everything he spoke of. He struck me as someone who was just itching to throw himself into life and experience everything around him.
Craig shared with me his longstanding involvement in public speaking and his interest in studying law, which, of course, were huge parallels with my own interests and background. He’s now a solicitor, running his own busy law practice in Sydney.
He also has a deep and resonant speaking voice, and when I commented on it, he responded by imitating the Australian TV journalist Peter Harvey, who was known for his distinctive sign-off at the end of his reports. ‘Craig Murray, Canberra,’ Craig declaimed in his deepest voice, and we both had a good laugh.
We immediately formed a strong bond and had some warm and funny experiences getting to know each other. Not so long after this first meeting, we went on a car trip to visit his grandmother on his mother’s side at Alstonville, near Ballina. I drove, and we discovered during the trip that we shared a very old-fashioned, and some would argue poor, taste in music. Craig had brought some John Denver along, and was flabbergasted when I turned on my music in my car and it was also John Denver.
We stayed overnight in Forster at my mother Gwen’s unit, which I still had. That night, we reverted to ridiculous adolescent brotherly mischief. Af
ter dinner at a local restaurant, we competed in a running race through the streets of Tuncurry back to the unit, and then ended up wrestling on the floor. Naturally, Craig’s 24-year-old body and massive frame put my 44-year-old body to the test. It was as if we were making up for the time we’d missed out on growing up together.
I had another memorable experience with Craig, which reinforced my new role as part of a large and loving family. He invited me for a catch-up on Sydney’s Lower North Shore, and noticed when I returned from getting a drink that I was very quiet and obviously distressed. He asked me what was wrong, but at first I refused to tell him. Eventually he dragged it out of me that I’d been harangued about my political views by a very pompous and aggressive voter. I hated confrontations of this kind and always shied away from them.
With lightning speed, my 24-year-old brother jumped to his feet and headed in the direction of my antagonist. I was mortified, but there was nothing I could do to stop him. There he was, towering over my heckler, talking vigorously, and gesticulating for emphasis. I was quite anxious, as the situation could have easily gotten out of hand, but Craig finished making his point and returned to our table. And it suddenly hit me that, now I’d become part of this loyal and supportive family, I would never be alone again. I was truly touched — more than Craig will ever know.
My sister Kathryn was a dedicated teacher by profession and was still living in Brisbane, so we were the last to meet. Kath has always been her own person, and it took some time for us to become close, not helped by a few hiccups unrelated to us directly. The turning point came on Christmas Day in 2001, when the whole family was gathered in the park at the back of my house in Balmain. During the afternoon, unknown to any of us, my father’s hip replacement became dislodged, and the excruciating pain caused him to collapse unconscious. An ambulance was called, and, within minutes, the rest of us were left standing in the park as the paramedics took my father and Lola to the emergency department. At that point, we had no idea what had happened and were worried that he might have suffered a stroke or a heart attack.
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