Monday, November 9, 2009

"LOSING" MY RELIGION

WHOA! As a result of announcing to my friends and family that I have survived the Big C, I have received an email from a very dear, very lovely friend telling me I’m about to Find Religion (her caps). Thank God she was being ironic. But it set me thinking.

It took a long time to slough off my Catholicism, as a snake does its old, unwanted skin, and I’m not about to slide it back on again.

From a personal perspective, I, like my fellow generation of 50s/60s Catholic kids, was indoctrinated from birth in my faith. In my cot, before I could talk, I’d been taught how to make the sign of the cross. (I know this because I watched my younger siblings get taken through the same procedure.)

When I was much older, watching the evening news on TV, there might be scenes of some protest rally. It was Vietnam War time. Some women might have young children with them. Mum would say, “How awful, indoctrinating kiddies who aren’t old enough to understand.” Hello?

Then came adolescence. As if it weren’t enough to cope with being a closet queen, every time I had a wank I was condemned straight to Hell, mortal sin blotted my soul from the sight of God and if the bus was on target I was doomed for all eternity. Quick, get to confession – and start all over again. What a way to grow up. Nowadays we would call it child abuse, not self-abuse.

Despite this, I was a devout Catholic into my early 20s, thoroughly believing my God was the true God. It was as my homosexual urges grew stronger and mild experiments with girls were getting me nowhere, that I began to see there was no place for me in the church. But I still believed I was the one at fault. Gradually as I moved out of home and spent more time in gay bars, I stopped going to church and didn’t feel too bad about it.

By the time I got to England, aged 25, I was happily agnostic and religion had dropped out of my life – perhaps by a process of reverse osmosis.

Then one wonderful night I watched a debate on BBC TV on the existence of God. The opponents were Oxford philosopher Prof. A. J. (later Sir Albert) Ayer and a Jesuit bishop. The bishop kept starting with, “Let’s just suppose there is a God”. “No,” Ayer would reply, “you must prove to me that there is a God. I am under no obligation to prove otherwise.” Indeed, as we know, it is impossible to prove the non-existence of something. He wiped the floor with the bishop and I had my Road to Damascus moment – yet again in reverse, I guess.

This cathartic moment cleared all doubts from my mind. I became quite comfortable with my sexuality and my lack of religion and began to build some self-respect and personal confidence. I realised the world didn’t need a creator, no more that the creator needed a creator of his/her own. The years of Catholic guilt fell away like that snakeskin.

LESSON ONE.

FOR today’s lesson I’d like to address the concept of the Sin of Arrogance…

Science tells us that there are more stars in the Universe than there are grains of sand on all the beaches of the world (or grains in the Sahara, if you prefer). Even the Vatican accepts this truth. Note, I said stars, not planets. The Sun is our star. In this analogy the Solar System is less than one grain of sand. The Earth, its third planet, is infinitesimal in size compared to the Sun.

The highest life form on Earth, we may assume, is Man (oops, Humankind – is that better?). Yet there are educated, otherwise intelligent grown-ups who sincerely believe that they have been created in God’s image (Arrogance alert) and that this Old Grey Guy in the Sky (OK, OK…) listens to the prayers and supplications of one individual and can answer and direct him/her to a better life.

Hey, this is one human being out of several billion, on this infinitesimal planet in a Solar System that is less than a grain of sand in the scheme of things. If this isn’t arrogance, what is? (For less intelligent beings this might understandably be sheer desperation, but I’m talking about the so-called brainy ones.)



LESSON TWO.

CHILDREN open your catechisms at Question One.

Q. 1 Who made the world?

A. 1 God made the world.

Q. 2 Who is God?

A. 2 God is the Supreme Being, omnipotent and omniscient, who always was and always will be – eternal in being and infinite in wisdom. (Hey, I made all that up, but it’s not bad is it?)

Now hang on here. The Christians and Jews can’t believe in a Universe that has always existed –in one form or another – but a Supreme Being, that’s OK? It’s OK for one thing to have always existed, but not the other?

I’m looking out the window at solid forms in the universe – birds, trees, etc – and I accept that they exist. But I see no evidence of the existence our friend the S.B. (Some would say I’m looking at His/Her handiwork, but that’s something else altogether). Bring on the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny. I can’t tell how the birds and trees came into being, so for an answer I turn to Science. The wonderful thing about scientists is that they never say, “This is a fact, this is true, this is what happened.” They come up with a theory, they test it, then they say, “We think this is the situation so far.” Think of Galileo, think of Newton, think of Einstein. Each of these geniuses took his field of science to a higher level, but scientists know there’s more where that came from, folks, and little-by-little we’re getting a clearer and better picture. Surely that’s Humility, not Arrogance. (Cue irony button here.)


ENOUGH of my preaching awready (yes, I’m confining my remarks to the Judeo/Christian faith, I don’t know much of the others).

To return to the personal, I don’t have to prove there is no God – you can’t prove a negative, reasoning teaches us. But I firmly believe there’s no God, no Heaven, no Hell, no afterlife. It’s up to someone else to prove otherwise to me.

(Digression here: religious friends talk of an afterlife in Heaven and most assume we’ll all meet up there. But if there’s a Heaven, there must be a Hell. If not, Hitler’s in Heaven, along with Mussolini, Stalin, your ex-husband and that guy in menswear who diddled my doodle when I was 13 years old – God (sic) forbid!)

So is it more arrogance to assume you’re on your way to Heaven? Will you arrive there Alzheimitic and crippled, as on the day you died, or mewling and puking at a much earlier age, or a little later, covered in pimples?

So are my convictions set in stone, like those of many I criticise? Do I have a closed mind? Absolutely not. Whilst I cannot respect the blind faith of others, I accept it. If you tell me you can’t do work on a Saturday, can’t eat certain unclean foods, or firmly believe that if you consume a wafer of bread and a glass of wine you are consuming the body and blood of Christ (touch of cannibalism there?) because of your religion, I think you are crazy, or at the best misinformed. Nevertheless, I am totally open to someone, some day, somewhere convincing me that God exists. Then I’ll believe.

But here’s what I call the Catholic Catch-22. Belief in a God, as I understand, requires an act of faith not dependant on concrete evidence – i.e., blind faith. If someone convinces me, I’ll have evidence which negates blind faith, destroying the very thing necessary for my belief in the first place.

I need a drink. You need a drink.

CODA: Just twenty years ago, the Berlin Wall came down – a thrilling event. A few weeks later, David Barenboim and the Berlin Philharmonic played a free concert to celebrate its fall, specifically for the East Berliners who had never heard their orchestra live, if at all. They played Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, which just happens to be my favourite piece of classical music. I heard a recording of this performance recently on ABC Classic FM. I have two recordings of it already, but listening to this performance, I could feel excitement and enthusiasm coming out of my speakers. When they got to the final movement it felt as if Barenboim had said, “Right, fellers, every man for himself and I’ll meet you at the end.” I was almost in tears, sitting alone in my room, as Sally Bowles said.

And my point is? I do believe in the spirit – I see it in a garden of flowers, I see it in a great work of art, I hear it when Ella sings “Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye”. I can be moved to tears, I can find myself lost in the universe. I can’t explain it and nor, so far, can science. Maybe they will one day – the brain is the great unexplored inner space – maybe they won’t. But it doesn’t need a God.

Here endeth the lesson.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

JURY DUTY

Early in 2006 I received a letter summonsing me for jury duty. As I was unemployed I had no excuse to avoid it. What’s more, it pays reasonably well if you’re out of work. I reported to the Downing Centre District Court on the appointed morning and found myself waiting with over a hundred other prospective jurors. As names were called, some submitted reasons for being exempted, sometimes successfully, sometimes not.

Finally about twenty of us were led into a courtroom and seated in the visitors’ chairs. The judge, a dear old duck, the Crown Prosecutor and two barristers (one for each of the accused) were present, but not the accused. The prosecutor explained the facts of the case in some detail. The case involved two brothers and was in effect, two parallel trials as they were each charged with the same offence – hence the two barristers. We were read a list of names of people who might or might not be called as witnesses and told that if we knew any of these people we could be excused. This was not an escape from duty, as you merely returned to the main pool and would be selected for some other trial.

Finally we entered the jury box and in turn stood up. The barristers could reject up to three potential jurors each, merely by looking us over. This they did, until we were reduced to twelve in number, including myself. We never spoke a word in court, except for the foreman who delivered the verdict. We remained totally anonymous.

I found myself empanelled with eleven others on a case of intent to murder. Two brothers in their early twenties were accused of luring a friend into the bush south of Sydney (supposedly to harvest some cannabis) where they shot him in the back of the head and cut his throat. Strangely, he lived! The .22 bullet didn't even pierce his skull. The motive was revenge, as the victim had broken into the brothers' house and stolen money and pot.

Day One is spooky when twelve of you sit down in the jury room, never having met before. First you have to choose a foreman. We introduced ourselves by first name and Paul offered to be foreman. No one else wanted to do it, and he turned out to be an excellent choice. Amazing how we all got along - 7 men, 5 women, me the oldest, then ranging all the way down to a bright young 19 or 20 year old lad named Rhys. We didn't have any smart arse or show off and all maintained our sense of humour right to the end. Thank God, as it went on for seven weeks (minus Easter, Anzac Day and a few hitches caused by legal matters).

The accused were very handsome in a second-row scrum sort of way - boxing, footy, weights, etc - but we got an eyeful into their background. They were from housing commission (that is, Government provided) families from around Beverley Hills, a suburb in Sydney’s south, and my first experience of second generation druggies - all the parents were divorced, remarried or having children all over the place and no doubt sharing a joint or five - very sad.

Each day started at ten o’clock. Sometimes we had to leave the courtroom whilst the heavies discussed some legal point. Our court clerk was a most pleasant man. He would lead us in and out like schoolkids and deliver our notes to the judge when we raised some question. Before we entered the court from our own special corridor (we were always last to enter, first to leave) he would rap three times on the door. Later in the trial he handed this duty over to a very excited Rhys.

Lunch time was an hour. At first we got sandwiches, fruit and soft drinks, as the trial went into week three we graduated to a hot meal (and the daily allowance went up). We could get out at lunch time and I was grateful for this – otherwise it was somewhat claustrophobic. I would take my crossword to the Crown Hotel and have one glass of white wine. One afternoon Louise, a twenty-something juror with hopes of becoming a policewoman announced that she was sure the fat barrister was a drinker as she had a very sensitive nose for alcohol and regularly smelt it after lunch. I bought some breath mints.

As the trial dragged on, witness after witness, including the victim, was taken through the same story, over and over again until we knew it backwards. Two stories actually: the crown’s allegations and the accused boys’ alibi. Some professional experts and police were called.

The funniest witness of all was a teenage boy from New Zealand, a mate of the accused. When he was dismissed from the stand he thanked the Judge, shook hands with the startled Crown Prosecutor (a female), gave a thumbs-up to the barristers and profusely thanked the jury. We all held our breath until he had left the court and then the whole place went into uproar, judge and all.

The accused brothers sat silently in the dock each day, wearing suits and ties that they had obviously never worn before in their lives. They were never called to the stand and never spoke, though we did hear one of them on a police video on the day of arrest. At least one of their parents was there every day – we knew, because they looked like peas in a pod, even the Mum and Dad. (Incest? – it’s possible.)

One obviously under-age girl, a one-time girlfriend of one brother, gave evidence via a live video link-up. It was abruptly terminated when she told us we could all “fuck off”. Of course in the court you get actual, uncensored transcripts and it’s odd at first to hear the very pretty female prosecutor reading the “c-word” so matter-of-factly.

Oh, I almost forgot. On the first morning of the trial I could feel that this prosecutor was staring intently at me. I put it down to imagination, but she continued each day. It was a “Do you really think you should be here?” look. But in about the second week young Louise remarked, “That prosecutor spends half her time staring at you”, so it wasn’t just me. Magnetic charm? We’ll never know.

With the evidence over, we deliberated for two days and were by no means in agreement at the start. The two South Africans, the Bangladeshi woman and the New Guinea housewife (all Australian citizens, of course,) were all for guilty straight off, but we Anglos held out for quite a while. (The accused and witnesses were all Anglo, with some New Zealanders thrown in.) The trouble was that there was absolutely no collaborative evidence - no weapons, fingerprints, DNA, gunpowder residue, etc - and some pretty sloppy police work. But some rather dodgy alibis. It boiled down to one word against another –which story did we think more likely? Well, finally, I was the only one holding out, until the Bangladeshi woman beside me (we always sat in the same seats) reminded me, “Hugh, you only need reasonable grounds, not one hundred percent.” So we all agreed finally on guilty of intent to murder for both of them, and I'm convinced that was right. We probably won't know the sentence, which is handed down at a later date. Her Honour dismissed us after telling us that the barristers and herself agreed we had been most conscientious and that they were impressed with the way we had responded to the job. Some jurors had made copious notes. I just sat and listened. But it was quite stressful, and I took it very seriously, as did we all.

But at $100 or so a day, free hot lunch and travel allowance, it's just the ticket for the unemployed. (We could get out at lunchtime and went home each night - promising not to talk about the case to anyone, of course). And we can't be called for duty again for three years. The twelve of us left the court and went our separate ways and haven’t seen each other since. I’m extremely proud of having done my civic duty and put great faith in our jury system.

PS: I have a friend who is a judge and via him was able to discover that Her Honour had sent both the boys up the river for eight years. I feel that vindicated our verdict.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

ARMIDALE TEACHERS' COLLEGE 1959-60

Robert (my brother) and I were holidaying in Brisbane in January 1959 when my Leaving Certificate results were published in the Sydney Morning Herald. We were staying with Aunty Addie Albury in Wollongabba, earshots away from the Cricket Ground. (I have no idea what relationship she bore to me - all old ladies were aunts in those days.)

We found a Sydney Morning Herald at the railway station (it being an interstate paper) and a milk bar and opened the paper at leisure to discover that I had been awarded five Bs for the six subjects for which I had sat. (I deliberately failed Modern History, a subject that bored me to tears.) Later that day I got a telegram from Mum and Dad, "Congratulations on your five Bs". This was in case I hadn't seen the paper, not a put-down, as they subsequently explained. (The lowest possible pass was four Bs.)

I was quite happy with this result. My ambition was to attain a ticket out of town. First prize was a Commonwealth Scholarship (in which case I would have studied architecture - so glad I didn't win it) and second prize was a Teacher's Scholarship, which I won. (I later discovered that my Bs were all close to As, the only two options in that exam - hence the scholarship.)

I had no real desire to be a teacher, but as I said, it meant escape from the farm. Although I was eight days below the minimum age for entry to Teachers College, they accepted me (they were desperate in those days) and in March 1959 I was to report to Armidale Teachers College for enrolment.

This entailed a ricketty bus trip from Lismore to Tenterfield, a country town in the New England region (and birthplace of Peter Allen) on a Saturday to catch the New England Flyer (a train) to Armidale, which got me and a few other neophytes there just after midnight. We were met, taken to the student houses, and in the wee small hours I was deposited in my room. As my new roommate was fast asleep, I silently slipped between the sheets and slept soundly.

I awoke early next morning (Sunday) and introduced myself from my bed.

"Hello, I'm Hugh."

"Hi, I'm Rod."

"Do you know where the church is?"

"Which church?"

Oh my God, I immediately thought, they've put me in a room with a Protestant! What do I do?

At the tender age of sixteen-and-a-half I had had very little to do with Protestants. In Ryde they were simply a no-no (which probably eased my conscience when getting little Jimmy Gordon to drink that beer bottle full of piss - Scots Presbyterian that he no doubt was) and along West Nimbin Road, Goolmangar, there were only the McLennans, whom we RockChoppers - the Boyles, the Bolands, the Macnamaras, the O'Keefes - graciously tolerated. Now I was sharing a room with a heretic.

And what a one! As Rod Hoad unwound the sheets and emerged in his Jockettes, my jaw dropped. Long before the days of gyms and buffed bodies, my new roomie was an Adonis. Like myself, he was a dairy farm boy, but there all resemblance ended. I was sharing a room with a hunk. He was from Denman in the Upper Hunter Valley and had obviously worked a lot harder than me on the farm. Not surprisingly, he went on to play scrum half for the College's First XV.

Anyway, I found the church (a cathedral, as it turned out) and managed not to miss Mass.

Newling House was the men's residence, an aluminium and glass prefab building, designed for the tropics, which the Department of Public Works in its wisdom had plonked down in the middle of wintry Armidale. Brrr! And that's in summer. Nevertheless, with the help of a one bar radiator, Rod proceeded to do his assignments seated at his desk in the aforementioned Jockettes and I had no wish to complain.

Armidale is an academic city, boasting the University of New England, the Teachers’ College (nowadays amalgamated with the Uni) and several boys’ and girls’ private boarding schools. (Think Boston or Cambridge, but much smaller.) It is situated in the section of the Great Dividing Range known as New England. Lots of deciduous trees, freezing in winter and not much warmer in summer. It was here I saw my first falling autumn leaves and my first snowfall. On winter mornings, as I walked across town to the school where I did practice teaching, the windscreens of parked cars were still iced over. It was cold.

The course was only two years and one was awarded a Teacher’s Certificate. Teachers were a scarce commodity in NSW in the 1950s and the machine was churning them out. I honestly believe I learnt absolutely nothing about being a teacher in these two years, except for the two stretches of practice teaching where I was out there in front of a class of ten-year-olds and winging it.

But I totally enjoyed those two years. I had to do a lot of growing up in a hurry, learning that the Proddos weren’t the Devil incarnate and reading set texts which dealt with adultery wasn’t a mortal sin. I clung to my Catholic faith, though, even becoming secretary of the Newman Society, an organisation that cared for Catholic students and kept us on the straight and narrow.

The girls’ residence was Smith House, a converted old mansion from the late nineteenth century, but there was also a residence for Catholic girls (if they so chose), called Merici House. For a while I was known as the Guardian Angel of Merici House. I only dated Catholic girls, in order to avoid sin. But this was to change, as we shall see.

I made some really good friends, apart from Rod the Prod Bod – at the start of second year students had the chance to change roommates, but to my delight Rod was happy with the status quo.

John Abercrombie was a wonderful human being – over six foot and pock-marked as the craters of the moon – with a wild sense of humour. He came from Mosman, a very prosperous Sydney suburb where one didn’t use sugar in one’s coffee, one used coffee crystals. (Whatever happened to…?) I met his charming mother and father and was inwardly outraged when she told some of the foulest jokes I had ever heard. I’m sure I blushed.

Alf Redman was equally delightful, but quite a different character. He was a Welsh “ten pound” migrant, a late entry student of 31. We thought him ancient and inevitably in the second year we senior students elected him President of the Student Union. But disaster struck for Alf. After graduation, he opted to teach in Nauru, a Pacific Island famous only
for its very valuable birdshit. If you signed a two-year contract you were on an attractive salary and paid no income tax.

On the plane to Nauru he met an English girl who was doing much the same thing. They settled into their jobs and fell in love. Alf bought a motor scooter and used to ride home to lunch most days. One day, at the town’s major intersection, he collided with the island’s only bus. He was seriously injured and fell into a coma. The Australian Air Force flew him to Brisbane, but he was dead on arrival, aged only 33. At his funeral I met his fiancée, Pam, for the first time, with some apprehension. But I distinctly recall at the wake exchanging stories of Alf, over a few drinks, with her and fellow mates, until we were laughing with happy memories.

In the summer holiday following our First Year, five of us new mates,including Alf and John, went camping at Hawkes Nest, then a basic, undeveloped beach some hours north of Sydney – the final approach was by vehicular ferry. I remember us making countless trips on this ferry to the pub, on foot, as we hadn’t brought a beer cooler. We basically only had stretchers and mosquito nets. As the evening drew in we lit a fire and I recall Bill Crisp saying that if we lay close together, we could “break each other’s wind”. When we woke at dawn in what we had considered a secluded spot, we were surprised to see countless trails of foot prints either side of our camp and at least three dozen ocean fishermen along the shore. Maybe that’s why I’ve never really been a beach person.

Though, as I said, I didn’t learn much, our lecturers were generally a pleasant bunch. Each of the four wings of Newling House was presided over by a resident master. Ours was Bill (alias Benny) Goodman and another really pleasant master was Robert Albert Ross (imagine naming your child Albatross). In the second year, a new young music master arrived. He was called Freddie Ebbeck, a stringy, gangly poof. But one night he had a few of us into his apartment and played his new LP – the American pianist Van Cliburn’s recording of Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto. He had won the prestigious Tchaikowsky Award in Moscow, a first for an American in the middle of the Cold War. I had never heard this concerto or any other before. I had never heard such a thing in my life. In fact, before Teachers’ College I had no interest in classical music. It certainly didn’t rate high in the O’Keefe household – Mum referred to the violin as the “vile instrument”. Now I was ecstatic and wanted more. A whole new world was there to be explored.

I avoided sport. The sissies like me had the option of archery, which we didn’t take very seriously. In fact a number of them were quite devout Anglicans who delighted in the fact that they could read Moravia’s “The Woman of Rome”, the heathens. For us it was on the dreaded Index (of Forbidden Books).

But it wasn’t long before I was playing piano in the College dance band. There was a dance in the gym every Saturday night. I wasn’t the only pianist, so I got time off to dance with the Catholic girls, including Helen Larrissey who had enchanted me with her Hamlet, only a few years before, and Julia O’Rielly, a blazing redhead who later became a nun. But then I got word on the grapevine that a girl (Proddo!) called Denise Smith had taken a fancy to me. I would never have twigged otherwise. She was a very pretty strawberry blonde with a lively personality and we started dating – in foursomes, just to be safe. This was dodgy country. Friday was usually movie night, or sometimes just a feed at the fish café. Indeed the latter had presented to me, to my horror, a whole fish on a plate, eyes and all; and this was where I learned that rice could be a vegetable. As I said, I had a lot of growing up to do.

The Mistress of Smith House gave regular talks to her girls on good morals and the like. One evening she told them they should never wear red. Red inflames boys beyond control. On Friday when I arrived to pick up Denise for the pictures she was in red from head to toe. The penny refused to drop. After the movies the girls had to be in by midnight or so. (Interesting: we boys could stay out all night, but the girls were locked in, so they were safe. Pity the town girls, I guess.) The custom was to return to the huge front veranda of Smith House. Here were oodles of snogging couples, wall-to-wall, an amazing sight until the bell sounded. Denise and I did some snogging, but I wasn’t really enthusiastic.

Then as final exams approached at the end of second year, things got rather intense. I was doing Geography Honours (how geeky!) and hadn’t paid much attention all year. Long nights with No-Doz, my drug of choice.

The aforementioned Bob Ross called me aside to tell me Denise wasn’t coping well with the pressure. His proposal was that on Sunday he would drive us both with a picnic basket and some text books to a secluded spot by the Dumaresq River. He would drop us off for the day and call back at an appointed hour. We picnicked, we studied, Bob returned. Poor Denise.

Armidale was also the first place I played piano in a pub. Now that was the start of a long tradition. The pub was Mann’s Hotel and it was the one favoured by college students (as opposed to the uni bods – there was a distinct hierarchy) and the odd lecturer as well, including Elspeth Howie, who after a few beers delighted us all by dancing on a table and flashing her skirts. I was under age of course, still not much of a beer drinker. I knocked out a few tunes now and then - “Lipstick on Your Collar”, “Swingin” School”, any thing by Bobby Rydell and Connie Francis – until the manager offered me a spot with a modest salary.
Not much, but it was a start.

(To get ahead of myself a little here, years later when I met Peter Allen, I told him I had played at Mann’s, knowing he had also. He replied, “You must have followed me in there”, as if it were some big Broadway venue. And indeed I had, as he had been playing there at the ripe age of fourteen. I’ll tell you the whole story some day.)

Well, two years rapidly were drawing to a close and there was the Graduation Ceremony, and, no doubt, other final parties and events. And all I can remember of that time was walking back to Newling House for the last time, in the small hours of the night with Terry Simmons, a salt-of-the-earth guy, a big burly farmer’s son from the wheat and sheep belt and a fellow Catholic. We had taken drink, and walked with our arms around each other’s shoulders, both of us bawling our eyes out.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

ACADEMIA AND THE GRAVY TRAIN

Here’s a very recent saga. Pour yourself a drink.

Late last year my good mate John Hughes, Pro Dean in the Faculty of Education and Social Work, decided I should be an Honorary Associate of the University of Sydney - after all, after nine years of Shakespeare Globe, everyone in the Education Faculty thought I worked there anyway. This resulted in some very fancy business cards and embossed letterhead, a free parking sticker (which I have onsold for a bottle of good wine) and, potentially, an office with phone, computer, etc. (more of this later). This didn't affect my paid work at the University.

Then, a few months ago, I decided it was time to update my will - apart from anything else, three of the beneficiaries in the old one are dead. I don't have any descendants, of course, and my nephews and nieces are all doing quite nicely, thank you. I discussed this with John and he jokingly suggested I leave my estate to the Uni. I chuckled, then went away and thought, "Why not?"

When I became a casual teacher in the early nineties, I was struck by the lack of male teachers in primary schools. Even if there was a man, he was usually the stereotype PE teacher. I was often welcomed with open arms just because I was male. What more noble idea than to establish a bequest offering scholarships to encourage male student teachers to enter primary teaching? John was thrilled with this idea and approached the then Dean, Derrick Armstrong, a good bloke and friend.

This meant, of course, having lunch. The Mixing Pot, in Glebe, a short walk from the Uni, is far and away my favourite Italian restaurant in Sydney - a good time was had by all. Now all I had to do was make a will.

Next step was an invitation to the presentation to Education Faculty (Edfac) Scholarship winners - a brief ceremony where I was reunited with my old friend, Marie Bashir, Governor of NSW (drop cutlery tray here) and met a new one, the recently appointed successor to Gavin Brown, Vice Chancellor Dr Michael Spence. Despite being (as is his wife) an ordained Anglican minister, he comes across as yet another good bloke. He is anxious to revive the groves of Academia and move away from the Bob the Banker mode that has prevailed in recent years. I was introduced to him as a potential benefactor and we chatted.

The Alumni Association had proposed the first ever Alumni Ball, in the McLaren Hall. I told the VC I'd save him a dance. As a man who has spent the last several years as a Professor at Oxford, he seemed to have no problem with this.

Now, John H in his wisdom had also made Cate Blanchett and Andrew Upton Honorary Associates, for some spurious reason, and now hoped they would grace the Edfac table at the ball. (Law, Medicine and Business Admin. always have their bigwigs, but Education is a bit of a Cinderella.) Alas, they were unavailable. I pretentiously suggested that I invite Sonia, Lady McMahon widow of Prime Minister Sir Billy, mother of actor and TV star Julian and a good friend (Viz: Drinking and Driving). "Scarlett, you're brilliant!” he exclaimed.

Sonia is delighted to accept my invitation - lunch, dinner, parties anytime, anywhere, she's up for it. So on the night the Edfac table is graced by Lady McMahon and this does not go unnoticed. As aperitifs are being taken, a large screen is flashing up a slide show of notable Alumni, and up comes Sir William. "Oh," says Sonia, to anyone who's listening, "I really should do something in Bill's honour". Yes, darling, you should.

After the slide show the new VC was introduced and asked to respond. He told a very entertaining story. While he was at Oxford he got an invitation to speak at a conference in New York. He realised that his passport had expired. He rang the Australian High Commission in London for a hasty replacement.

“Michael Spence?” the official asked.

“Yes,” replied Michael.

“Michael J Spence?” asked the official, for clarification.

“Yes,” replied Michael, a bit befuddled.

“Oh, we can’t give you a passport. The Queensland police have a warrant out for your arrest.”

“That’s crazy,” said Michael, “I haven’t been in Queensland for years.”

“Well, it’s listed here, so we can’t renew your passport.”

“So what do I do now?” inquired Michael.

The official gave him the number of the police station in Brisbane where the case was under investigation. Michael rang it immediately.

“This is Michael Spence,” he said.

“Oh,” said the desk sergeant in Brisbane, “We’ve been waiting to hear from you.”

“Now what’s this all about?” said Michael. The sergeant outlined various charges, dates and places where they had occurred.

“Well, there must be some mistake,” said Michael, “because I’m not your man.”

“Michael J. Spence?” inquired the sergeant.

“Yes,” said Michael, a little testily.

“Born in 1958?”

“No, 1959.”

“Oh, well, indeed you’re not our man”.

“So now what do I do?”

“You got any tattoos?”

“Certainly not,” Michael replied.

“Well don’t get any,” advised the sergeant, “This guy’s covered in them.”

He got his passport renewed in time.

I decide to relieve the VC of his dancing obligations with my good self and he seems quite grateful. A grand night ensues, fine food and wines, good music and taxis at midnight. Note, at this point I have not yet made a new will, nor has anyone enquired as to what my "entire estate" might amount to. I haven't mentioned reverse mortgaging.

So now that Sonia's in the loop, the ball is passed to Dr Andrew Coats, DVC External (which means bringing in the money) and of course, we'll need to do lunch. So after a private tour of the Great Hall and the Nicholson Museum, it's off - by car, of course - to the Mixing Pot again (also, as it turns out, one of Sonia's favourites) - Dr Coats hosts myself and Sonia, John Hughes and Jan Hupfau. (By now John is seriously considering making a modest bequest himself, having seen the fringe benefits.)

Another fine lunch with two bottles of wine (John barely drinking, as he has to go back to a curly meeting). John duly departs, and not long after Dr C picks up the tab and excuses himself, leaving me and the two girls.

"I'll call a taxi," I say, being keeper of the vouchers.

"Oh," says Jan H, "I thought I'd shout us another bottle."

"OK," says, Sonia, "and I'll get the next one." We laugh.

But we drink Jan's bottle, then Sonia's. Those girls have got stamina.

Meanwhile, the new VC has got word of this and wants to host a lunch for Mr O'Keefe and Lady McMahon in his private dining room. Dates are mooted, but what with Melbourne Cup and other major matters, it's difficult to settle on a suitable date. So that's on the back burner until next year.

But the show's not over yet, folks.

There's the annual Challis Bequest Lunch coming up and not only does Mr O'Keefe score an invite (sans Sonia, she hasn't coughed up yet) but he also scores a separate invite to morning tea with the VC prior to lunch. John doesn't, and is not happy. He makes enquiries and is informed "that's only for special donors". Pity.

So I find myself in the VC's boardroom with about 15 old biddies and several walking frames. God's waiting room. Another youngster of about my age introduces himself. He is Paul and is leaving his entire estate to vet science, because they saved his dogs. Hmmm, I'm thinking - no wife, no kids, just dogs, about my age (and as even my young straight friends will tell you, my Gaydar is appalling). Then he tells me he is taking thirty friends to Bangkok for his 60th birthday. More hmmm. We discover we live near each other and when I mention that I live in Kingsley Hall he says he had a friend living there, the late Ross McGlynn. I say, "Oh, I knew Rose", and the wrists start flapping. Strangely, Ross's flat is the one John now occupies, so I graciously introduce John as we enter the main event in the Great Hall. Turns out Paul Bryde has a town house in Darlinghurst (with the dogs) is a great cook, loves entertaining and has a $20 000 wine cellar he is anxious to share. Bingo!

Roll on 2009.

Oh, yes, I have signed the will. Would you believe I couldn't word it to encourage more male teachers in primary schools - that would be sexist. Instead, I'm addressing gender balance. Thank you, Germaine.

Over Christmas word came through that Dr Coats is leaving Sydney and returning to the UK. So it seems that we better have a farewell lunch – why not? This time Dr C. hosts us at the Boatshed, a highly-regarded seafood restaurant housed above the Sydney Women’s Rowing Club, a building owned by the University. The oysters are superb and so is the recommended snapper pie that follows. Glad I’m not footing the bill, though. But neither is Dr C. He has brought his colleague, Gavin Thompson, from External Relations, who picks up the tab. We surmise that as he is retiring, Dr C. no longer has an expense account.

So, I’ve made a will, Dr Coats has been farewelled and I haven’t yet helped Paul Bryde with his mighty wine cellar, as Paul has suffered a few setbacks, including being molested by one of his beloved dogs. But the Annual Challis Bequest lunch looms next month, so we might get the gravy train up and running again.

And yes, I now have office space at the University of Sydney, my own desk, computer and access to support facilities – otherwise, you wouldn’t be reading this.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

ONE PERFECT DAY

Easter Monday, 1971. London.

My flatmate Edward and I awoke on the last day of this long weekend to sunshine and the promise of a beautiful early spring day – the sort of day that brings false hope of an end to winter and for that reason alone needs to be embraced.

We shared a flat in Parkview Court, Fulham, London, SW6. The easterly aspect meant we got any morning sun, over Fulham High St. (The Parkviews, alas, were on the other side.)

I never got used to London winters – does anyone? The cold can be managed, but the long greyness of winter days always got me down, especially coming home from work in the dark.

Occasionally, to cheer ourselves in the depths of winter’s gloom, on a Saturday, Edward and I would have a picnic in the living room. While one of us struggled for ages to get the coke fire going with a gas bayonet (wood and coal fires in Central London have been banned since the lethal fogs of the 1950s. Coke is a smokeless fuel, but a bugger to get going), the other would lay out the picnic rug in front of the fireplace and set out the breads, meats, cheeses, condiments, plates and napkins. We’d sit on the floor munching and yakking away, washing the food down with rotgut Moroccan rose, and listening for the umpteenth time to Nina Simone’s “Here Comes the Sun” album.

But today the sun was blazing – well, as much as it ever blazes in London. This was a day to get out of the house. But what to do? Neither of us had a plan, so we formulated one and put it into action. Breaking out our best flares and platforms, we caught the 22 bus up the New Kings Rd to Chelsea.

After some people-watching and window shopping we came to one of our favourite bistros, Le Bistingo, on the Kings Rd. A coq-au-vin and carafe wine sort of place, it provided us with a satisfying and inexpensive lunch. Now it was only 2.00pm, still sunny, so we decided to stroll up Sloane St to Knightsbridge and cut across to Hyde Park.

The area around the Serpentine was busy with way-too-hopeful sunbathers, kids flying kites and couples paddling hire boats on the water. We eschewed hiring a deckchair (fourpence a throw) and lay ourselves down on the grass and chatted away. I’ll tell you a lot more about Edward Percival one day, suffice to say here that we never got tired of talking to each other. We were at the very least empathic, sometimes almost telepathic and quite good at finishing each other’s sentences. I loved that boy madly.

We had decided that as the day began to fade we’d “take in a movie” as the Yanks would say. Peter Bogdanovich’s “The Last Picture Show” had opened to much acclaim and we were both keen to see it. I had read Larry McMurtry’s novel of the same title but it hadn’t grabbed me. If you know the book or the movie, you must remember the scene of the younger, rather simple brother, cap-on-backwards, endlessly sweeping the roadway of the only intersection in this forlorn western town. On paper it didn’t work for me, on the screen it blew me away.

The movie was showing at the classy Curzon cinema in Mayfair and when it was over we were hungry again. We headed straight for Picadilly and the newly-opened Hard Rock Café. It had brought a US-borne breath of fresh air to the London food and nightlife scene. Two years earlier we were gobsmacked when the Great American Disaster chain arrived on the scene. OK, their genuine US hamburgers were a whopping 7 shillings and sixpence (75c) compared to the tired old English Wimpyburger (what a name) at one-and-six (15c). But we’re comparing Veuve to Babycham here.

Now we had our own Hard Rock Café with rock’n’roll blaring. And cheap red wine. And real chips. The queue wasn’t very long, the waitresses were pretty and pert and the joint was buzzing. Oh, what a night.

We staggered out into the street to catch the No 14 bus from Hyde Park Corner (the world’s largest roundabout), home to our separate beds – me to face schoolkids in the morning, Edward to design more trendy shirts for the South Sea Bubble Company. We agreed, almost in unison, that it had been the Perfect Day.

And we’d spent the whole day talking only to each other.

WRITING ON WRITING

It is often said that there is a book in each of us. I have never believed this of myself. I still don’t, but the pendulum is swinging.

So why am I writing these stories? Maybe here I need to indulge in a little meta-writing: let’s write about writing.

And maybe I need to go back a bit, as usual. Over the years, I have amassed a fund of stories and experiences which I have thought to be funny, or at least entertaining. No place for false modesty here – I have trotted these stories out on festive occasions and they have generally been well-received. Perhaps, at times, I have trotted them out once too often, but that’s another story which probably involves wine.

When I retired from full-time work four years ago, people inevitably asked me, “What are you going to do now?” My lazy reply was, “Nothing – that’s what you do when you retire.” That response did not satisfy. One has to do something, I gather.

Then “You should write,” became a common refrain, from many. “But I’m not a writer,” I would defensively reply.

Then I recalled a story told to me by my wonderful friend Noel Tovey. Noel has been a very successful actor and theatre director. He is an aboriginal man, now in his seventies. When he was a seventeen-year-old homosexual living in Melbourne, oh, so long ago, he was at a private gay party which was raided by the police – that’s what happened in those days. The knowing responded by giving a false name when applying for bail and then disappearing off the radar. The courts were quite happy with this arrangement, too. Being young and unknowing, Noel gave his real name and ended up serving time in prison. You don’t want to imagine what a handsome, dark-skinned teenage boy would have gone through.

This is all getting a bit too long, but at least I’m not digressing.

Noel’s agent suggested that he should write a book of his experiences. Noel replied, “I’m an actor, I can’t write a book.”

“But you tell great stories,” said the agent, “Just write them down.” He did and the resultant book, “Little Black Bastard”, I highly recommend to you. He turned it into a very successful one-man stage show.

So I had my inspiration. “Just write them down”. But I still needed encouragement. On my 65th birthday (official retirement time), my great friends Tommy Murphy (as you Aussies would know, he is a highly successful young playwright) and his other half Dane Crawford, presented me with a white box tied in bright red ribbon. (OK, one digression: you know in the movies when the heroine gets a present she doesn’t fiddle about untying ribbons and tearing wrapping paper, she just lifts off the lid? Well, this box was just like that.) Inside was a beautiful pad of antique parchment and a very stylish silver Parker pen, which I now use for my longhand reflections. The birthday card just said, “Now write the fucking book!”

I was caught and they didn’t throw me back.

So now that I have a few stories under my belt, I ask myself: who am I writing for? The first answer is “Me”. A writer whose name I can’t recall wrote, “I write for the reader in me”. That’s not bad. I needed to discover if I could write and if I liked reading what I wrote. So far, so good. I thoroughly enjoy writing and publishing my stories. I am amazed at what I remember.

The second answer is, of course, “You”. When I write something, I hope someone will read it, I hope they might enjoy it and, if so, tell me. This encourages me to write more. I’m also keen to get constructive criticism. Last night my mate Damian talked for almost an hour on what he likes in my writing and how he thinks I could improve it. I lapped it up, but of course, I’m free to ignore his fine advice.

“You” includes also my family. My brothers Robert and Chris lived through the farm years and the floods with me and have made invaluable suggestions and corrections, drawing on their own memories. And I want their children and grandchildren to be able to read stories of the “olden days” and know their family history.

A final point: my stories are true, as true as memory will allow. (The monumental mendacity of my schooldays is behind me, I hope.) In the future they may involve painful memories, which scares me a little.

So I hope that none of my readers thinks that I find the death of a little puppy under a fat lady funny. I don’t. But it happened and I think it raises questions about human nature, as in, “What would you have done?”

My reaction to my first encounter with a Jewish sister shames and embarrasses me. I didn’t like writing it (I actually used much stronger language at the time) but it is true and it helps to explain myself to me.

So I trust that you will continue to read and, I hope, enjoy my ramblings and musings. Please know that at no time have I any desire to offend anyone. But I find myself bounden to the truth.

PS: I should point out that I have had no replies expressing offence – so far. And thank you for your encouraging comments – good for my ego, you know.

Whither I goest thou will be goesting, to paraphrase appallingly the beautiful Book of Ruth.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

TWO FAT LADIES

On the French Riviera, the main drag that runs along the beachfront in Cannes is called La Croisette. It’s a grand, palm-fringed, divided boulevarde lined with very expensive real estate, mainly grand hotels such as the Carlton and the Miramar that we see in the background once a year on TV when the Film Festival is in full swing.

One block back from the waterfront is the much more modest Petite Croisette, a narrow street running more-or-less parallel to its big sister. Here you will find a guest house (or one did in 1969) called the Sweet Home Hotel – yes, and in English, too.

This guest house had been recommended to me by Brian Hawes, a Sydney friend, a dressmaker by calling. In those days, to me, Brian represented the height of sophistication. Probably then in his late 30s, an impeccable dresser, he drove a white Mercedes convertible.

He had a small shop called The Purple Parrot on Bayswater Rd, Rushcutters Bay. Here he designed, made and sold his creations to a wide-ranging clientele of graceful and grateful ladies. It was not unusual to walk into this small salon and find an Eastern Suburbs matron having a fitting whilst a local prostitute was instructing her young daughter to remove the fives and tens (maybe even some twenties and fifties, if it had been a good night) from an old paper bag, unfold them, smooth them out and arrange them in appropriate piles, by colour, before she made a purchase.

Across the road from The Purple Parrot was the very eccentric Belvedere Hotel, run by two equally eccentric elderly sisters. An old pile that had grown rather than been built, it was a rabbit warren of rooms furnished in a style that makes the word “eclectic” an understatement in the extreme.

Each year, when Brian staged his fashion show, he and his partner, Philip Morwich would stay at the Belvedere, rather than make the long journey home to Palm Beach, on the northern-most fringe of Sydney. They stayed in a top-floor suite where the bathroom had a high attic window with no glass. Each morning, the free standing bathtub with its alligator feet was full of autumn leaves. In another suite, the bathtub had two shower roses, one at each end.

But I digress.

At Palm Beach, Brian and Philip had a modest cottage on the hillside, but its crowning glory was a magnificent terrace, looking westward over Pittwater. This, as one wit remarked, was “the best room in the house”. The deck was paved in white marble. For years Brian had haunted second-hand shops and bought up, for a song, scores of marble-topped coffee tables and sewing machine tables – the sort with wrought iron bases. These marble tops now paved his terrace, surrounded by a very camp Cinderella balustrade.

It was his custom regularly to host Sunday lunch parties. The menu never varied: prawn cocktail, the prawns hanging over the edge of a martini glass stuffed with shredded lettuce and thousand-islands dressing; lamb casserole and bread-and-butter pudding, washed down with copious quantities of sparkling Burgundy.

I was fortunate to be a frequent guest at these lunches, thanks to John Heffernan, a mutual friend. John was a tenor with the Australian opera company and a member of the “Revue ‘62” show, where he sang and danced in the chorus of Digby Wolfe’s highly acclaimed Sunday night variety program on Channel 9. John drove a white Datsun Fair Lady convertible and was known as “Hilda Heffernan, the Whore of the Highways” for reasons I might explain one day.

But, again, I digress.

Another regular guest was Beryl Cheers. Beryl was a short woman of generous proportions. Unlike John, she was not a minor performer, she was a star in her own right. Appearing on TV and in cabaret all across the country, she could belt out a song and was a gifted comedienne.

Now, Brian’s terrace was furnished with a glass-topped dining table and wrought iron chairs. Along the edge of the terrace were two three-seater swinging lounges, suspended from A-frames under a canopy, all covered in very floral duck – the sort you saw in “Meet Me in St Louis” when Judy sang “The Boy Next Door”.

The custom, almost a necessity, after lunch was to doze off or fall asleep in these lounges, or wherever, before the long drive back to the city (except for the time I ended up in a foursome, but that’s another story).

Brian and Philip’s pride and joy was Missy, their beloved miniature dachshund. Eventually Missy fell pregnant and produced a litter of five beautiful little puppies. One Sunday evening, as we roused ourselves from our post-prandial slumber, Brian and Philip gathered together Missy and her precious babies. To their horror, they could only find four. As Beryl snored on in blissful ignorance, a frantic search was mounted for the missing puppy. Alas, to no avail. Amidst great concern, Beryl was wakened, informed of the tragic news and we all prepared to leave, as there seemed nothing else we could do. At this point, Beryl felt something soft and smooth crushed behind her back in the folds of the swinging lounge. She stealthily reached around and felt a still warm, but seemingly lifeless body. Being not too many brain cells removed from Sherlock Holmes, she apprehensively put two-and-two together. Surreptitiously, she grasped the offending item and stuffed it in her handbag. As she drove home through Frenchs Forest she reached into her handbag and flung the decidedly deceased doggy into the woodlands.

Of course, she told no one this story until many years later, after a very drunken dinner at the San Francisco Bar in Bulletin Place at Circular Quay (long since gone). I happened to be there.

However, yet again I digress.

This story started on the French Riviera, and there shall it end..

On the aforementioned Petite Croisette, not far from the Sweet Home Hotel, was a small bistro called, would you believe, Le Petit Carlton (not much imagination, those French). Here I decided to have a glass of wine, which meant testing my then appalling French. I asked the waiter for “un vin rouge, avec glace”, thinking – nay, hoping – “glace” meant “glass”. I didn’t want a whole bottle (how times have changed!). The waiter looked at me rather superciliously, (God, I love that word), but wandered dutifully off.

When he returned with, yes, a glass of red wine full of ice, I realised I had not the great mastery of French that I possess today (in-joke). But, determined to make the most of it, I murmured “merci” and toyed with my glass ever so nonchalantly, as if this were how I always took my wine.

I looked around the room at my fellow diners and my eyes lit upon a middle-aged woman of Beryl Cheers proportions. She was a type I immediately recognised. The assisted-blonde (as I think Dorothy Parker wrote) coiffure was stressed and sprayed into place, her creamy summer frock was a little too frilly for her age and she was covered in gold – earrings, necklace and bracelets.

“Bloody rich Jewish bitch,” I thought to myself.

I did not know any Jews at that time, but I knew all about them. They killed Jesus. (Although I had gratefully abandoned my Catholicism by then, doubts still lingered…) But, the thing is, I had seen them in Double Bay in their Mercedes and their BMWs. Why did they have all the money?

I looked at her again. That’s when I saw the numbers tattooed on her forearm.

My blood froze. The wine remained untouched. I fled.

Monday, September 21, 2009

THE FARM YEARS - FINALE

When I was 14 Mum and Dad asked me if I’d like to learn to play the piano. Would I! My sister Nanette had learned piano from the nuns and played quite well from sheet music. Years before, in Ryde, Nanette’s brother-in-law John Leonard would knock out popular songs of the day on the piano at Nona and Grandfather’s. I was always there, clapping along to the music. Now, on the farm, Nanette taught me the notes on the sheet music and how they corresponded to the piano keys, key signatures and time signatures. I could pick out a tune OK, but I couldn’t play with two hands.

In North Lismore there was a piano teacher called Mrs Rix. She was perhaps in her sixties or seventies and so popular that my lesson was at 7.30 am on a Friday. (How did I get there? I vaguely remember Alan Lowe dropping me off on his way to work.) I progressed rapidly and after a few weeks she asked me if I wanted to concentrate on classical or popular. Hey, I was a fourteen-year-old boy! Popular it was. Over the next months as well as all the scales she taught me to read guitar chords (these are printed on popular sheet music). With these I could play a vamp bass to the melody line – it’s a short cut, but it worked. Soon I was thumping away with both hands. The downside is that I’m an appalling sight reader, but happily I have a “good ear” so that eventually, I didn’t even need the sheet music. I could listen to a song on the radio a few times, then play it. By the age of fifteen, the lessons had ended (money) and I was playing in my own dance band. And what a legacy this was to become! Piano playing has literally taken me around the world.

Lismore boasted something very special. At the Riviera Ballroom, on the banks of the Richmond River (and likely to slide in at any time) on each Saturday night, Stan Chilcott and his orchestra played for a 50-50 dance. This was no ordinary dance band. It was a 14-piece ensemble, drums, guitar, piano, bass, saxes, trumpets and trombones, the full Glenn Miller/Benny Goodman swing band. The only one of its kind in the 500 mile stretch from Sydney to Brisbane. From the age of 15 I was allowed to go there with my older cousin Paul on Saturday nights. I loved it – I learned all the old-time dances - gipsy tap, Canadian three-step, Pride of Erin – as well as the modern foxtrot and quickstep. I distinctly remember Agnes McNamara teaching me the barn dance to Jerome Kern’s beautiful “Long Ago and Far Away” –not Kern’s intention, I suspect, but at strict dance tempo it worked. I believe the band still plays, with many of the original players, over 50 years later.

I’ve told you about my time at high school, but I’ll close this somewhat exhaustive account with three last school anecdotes.

One morning, for reasons I now forget, I decided to wag first period. The roll was taken and I was found to be missing. The class teacher decided to check with my brother Robert, who said, yes, I had been on the bus. So during second period I received a message to report at play lunch to the office of the headmaster, Br Emile. He was a good, upright and approachable man, and rather handsome. He asked me what had happened. I told him I had got off the bus at the Goolmangar village and it had taken off without me. Of all my multitude of lies, this was the most appalling and the most implausible – didn’t stand up for a minute, and I knew it. For example, how had I subsequently got to school? He said, “Come back and see me at lunch time”. I did so, apprehensively. He said, “See me after school.” I couldn’t do this, as I had to go straight to the bus and he knew it. I realised he was deeply disappointed in me, and wanted nothing more than to wash his hands of the matter. I was extremely ashamed. I guess that was his intention. I think that might have ended my lying years.

We had a science lab. In our final year, the overworked science teacher allowed us six boys to do our experiments unsupervised. How foolish. The game developed that when you walked through the lab door, someone would throw you a glass beaker. The rules demanded that you immediately throw it to someone else, and so on until someone dropped it. And you may recall, I was physically handicapped when it came to throwing, let alone catching. Much broken glass ensued. Then someone dropped the phosphorous into a beaker of water. It buzzed and bubbled, but thankfully didn’t explode. Then we put silver nitrate in the holy water fonts at the entrance to each class (Catholics will understand). This was a clear liquid, but stained your fingers black (and your forehead, if you were really devout). And at the end of the year, the science teacher told us how well-behaved and trustworthy we had turned out to be.

Finally, sex. We had had no formal sex education, though I had finally found out where babies came from and, what’s more, how they got there. Fr Casey, a young curate, had decided things had reached a crisis point (perhaps from things he was hearing in the confessional) and took matters into his own hands. Fifth Year had a series of Formal Lessons on Sex Education. Big time! Diagrams were displayed on the blackboard and things were explained in great detail. Eventually we got the explicit diagram of the female genitalia in all its glory. As he finished his explanation, pointing again at this mystifying diagram, Fr Casey said, with great piety, “… and remember, boys, the finger of God is in all of this.” I thought I’d burst my sides. He spotted my spluttering and said, looking straight at me, “Isn’t it, Hugh?” I don’t know how I regained enough composure to reply, “Yes, Father”.

Here endeth the lesson.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

LIFE ON THE FARM 3 -SOCIAL LIFE AND MILESTONES

The Goolmangar church formed a focus of community life. Father Smith lived in the presbytery next to the church, so we had Mass every Sunday, unlike some rural communities. As I have said, the area was populated with a great many Catholics of Irish descent. We’d hang around after Mass, the adults gossiping and the kids running around the parked cars, until rumbling tummies sent us home to breakfast –of course, we had been fasting since midnight, despite having milked a herd of cows. I was now head altar boy, very proud of the hem of four inches of lace on my white surplice, worn over my red soutane. One morning, during the sermon, I accidentally hit the gong used to signal the consecration. Fr Smith announced, “Well, looks like I’ve got the gong,” and promptly concluded the sermon. But he was a real nutter with a fiery Irish temper. If he walked into the sacristy and flung his bag and papers on to the table, I knew we were in for a bumpy ride. Then some commotion flared up and he became aware that some parishioners were not happy with him. After Mass he promptly placed his chair centre stage, before the blessed tabernacle, sat himself down in full regalia, amice, alb, cincture, chasuble, the lot and demanded someone tell him what the problem was. As my brother Robert also recalls, he harangued and ranted away for a long time. I don’t think anyone else spoke – after all, you were never to talk in church, apart from reciting the prayers. I think that’s the last we saw of him. We had visiting priests for a while.

During these years, many Italians, mostly single men, or with families back in Italy, had arrived on the north coast of NSW. They rented small acreages on the high, non-pasture bits of the farms, where they built small sheds and cultivated and grew bananas. They didn’t assimilate with us, though there was no animosity. They spoke little English and none of us had a word of Italian. The Lismore Bishop (Farrelly?) was concerned for their religious wellbeing, so two priests of the Scallabrini order were appointed to Goolmangar parish.. They were an Italian order with a specific brief to minister to Italians abroad. Our two, Frs Miazzi and Molon were delightfully young and modern and soon the choir was singing very jazzy hymns that I’m not sure even Bishop Farrelly would have approved of. But they were much livelier than the dreary “Mother Dearest, Mother Fairest”, “Hail Queen of Heaven” and the dreadful “Faith of Our Fathers” we had been droning out for years. Church life had become buzzy and breezy again.

Dick Mazzer drove the Kirklands school bus from Nimbin to Lismore each morning and back again in the afternoon. As I have written elsewhere, from about the age of 14 I used to drive my brothers and the neighbour kids down to the turnoff to catch this bus. Then Kirklands, no doubt in a money-making move, decided to put me out of business with a shuttle minibus service of their own. This was driven by Mrs Mazzer, an out-and-out vile bitch. She obviously hated the job, hated kids (she had none) and spent every journey telling us to sit up and shut up. I complained to Mum and Dad, but they did nothing.

Three major family milestones occurred during our years on the farm – two happy, one very sad. I’ll let Dad tell you about them:

...On July 25th 1954 John (my older, half-brother) was ordained a priest in St Carthages Cathedral Lismore. A really great occasion. I think we supplied 14 muscovy ducks to help with the reception (held on the farm). These Pauline and Mac (Blewitt) cleaned and dressed and the neighbours helped with the cooking. He said his first Mass in our little Goolmangar church...

...Prior to this on the 26th of May 1955, there was great excitement when Dorothy (my only sister) was born. After three sons we were hoping for a daughter, and since she was the first grand daughter after 7 grand sons, the Byrne family were very elated...

My half-sister Nanette and her husband Alan lived with us on the farm after marrying in January 1956. They later returned to live in Sydney. Now the sad story:

...their baby Anne was born on the 10th of September 1956. Then tragedy raised its ugly head once more. On the Sunday Anne was christened, her mother Nanette took ill. She suffered a severe haemorrhage. She was admitted to Ryde hospital. They tried unsuccessfully to stop the bleeding. This made x-ray useless. They assumed the trouble was being caused by a disrupted stomach ulcer, and on that assumption about the end of the week they decided to operate. Unfortunately their assumption was wrong. Instead they found she had a malformation of the veins in the stomach. These had burst. They were not prepared for this situation, and not geared to handle it, so the operation had to be abandoned. John was holidaying with us at the time so he and I flew down. She was then moved to St Vincent’s, where in spite of the best medical skill available she died a week later on the 14th of October 1956...

Dad married his first wife, Frances Hatton, in 1930. In due time along came John, Pattie and Nanette. But two tragedies were hovering. In 1936, aged almost four years, Pattie fell from a trellis in the garden. She hit the back of her head on a rock and died instantly. Three years later a flu epidemic hit the area and Frances succumbed to double pneumonia and died. So now Dad had lost a wife and two daughters. Anne, Nanette’s baby, would never know her mother. But today she is a wonderful wife and mother herself and we love her madly.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

LIFE ON THE FARM 2 - FLOODS

When we arrived in 1953 the area was in the grip of a prolonged drought. This was decisively broken by a record flood in February 1954, only three months after I had arrived. Our farmhouse was on rising ground, about 200 metres from the creek. We watched apprehensively as the creek filled to a level where it would break its banks. The cattle had been moved to high ground. Now it was time to release the pigs from their paddock down near the river and let them scamper, along with ducks, chickens and various farm dogs, up to the house yard and under the house – the foundations weren’t much more than a foot off the ground, so there was a constant bumping of piglets against floor boards throughout the day and night.

The waters rose rapidly over two days and nights, until the farmhouse was marooned. We kids were excited – we were on an island, no school, and all this drama – but we knew we were fairly safe. Upstream from us was the Coffee Camp School and we knew it had been destroyed when desks, chairs, a blackboard and even a piano came floating by. The stream was fast and furious and murky brown.

Finally the rain stopped and the sun shone. But the waters took ages to disperse. The Goolmangar and Wilsons Creeks meet at North Lismore to form the Richmond River. From Lismore the river meanders for 70 miles (about 110 kms) to the ocean at Ballina. In this course it drops only 36 feet (about 10 metres). The flood waters took weeks to drain and disperse. Meanwhile the sun started to dry things up, resulting in steamy humidity and an appalling stench of rotting cattle corpses (some trapped up in the telephone lines that bordered the roads), other dead animals and vegetation. The process of cleaning up began. The shops in Lismore’s four main streets were all flooded, some to a height of two metres or more. Food and merchandise were destroyed and silt covered everything. The shopkeepers had taken few flood precautions and it all happened very quickly. Two weeks earlier the Queen and Prince Phillip had paraded through town on their 1954 Royal Visit to Australia through streets festooned with flags and bouquets. Now the sight of sagging shaggy bunting and streamers drooping from the lampposts only emphasised the sadness of it all.

We lost no stock and were relatively unscathed – a few fences needed mending where debris had crashed through. Low paddocks had turned into lakes and ponds which took weeks to dry out. However, the rich, loamy silt did wonders for the growth of fodder.

Marist Brothers High had copped the full force, except for two classroom blocks which were up on stilts. Fortunately First Year (Year Seven), my year, was on stilts, but other kids had desks full of soggy, useless books and whatever.

Gradually things returned to normal and farming life resumed. However, the flood was followed by a very dry 1955 and it became clear that this accumulation of disasters meant that the farm could definitely not support two families. The Blewetts moved back to Sydney apart from cousin Paul, who was sixteen or so. He had left school and stayed on as a paid farm worker.


Well, as we all know, the benevolent Lord moves in mysterious ways and seems to love to test us. In 1956 we had an even bigger flood and this one was a doozy. (It wasn’t higher in the Lismore township, but it was on our farm.) But this time there were family complications. My sister Nanette and her husband Alan Lowe were staying with us and on the morning of the first heavy rain were due to travel to Casino, perhaps an hour’s drive, to catch the train back to Sydney. Mum and Dad had planned to drive them to Casino and despite the heavy rain, decided all would be OK. They were wrong. They hadn’t got to Lismore before the road was flooded and they had to turn back. But now the low culvert on the West Nimbin Road was also under water. They were marooned. This was at Frank Boyle’s farm, so they took refuge there. They were anxious to get back to the farm where we kids were in the care of Nona and Grandfather, Mum’s elderly parents. Frank led them up the hill beside the stream that was flooding the culvert until they came to a fallen tree across the much narrower stream. All four in turn straddled this and then kept to the high ground, crossing several farms and crawling through fences and wading waterways.

When they finally came in sight of Aintree they were pretty much exhausted and appalled to see that the farmhouse was completely isolated on its own little island. Indeed, more than that, this time the floodwaters, higher than 1954, flowed freely under the house. The pigs were paddling and the poultry were seeking shelter in the trees. From the neighbouring Handford farm they could see just the very tops of the fence posts of the horse paddock, leading from the farm border to the house paddock. They decided to follow this line, clinging to the fence wires and fighting a very strong current. (If memory serves, I remember Paul Blewitt setting out from our side to meet them, then guide them back.) They made it, cold, wet and shivering, very fatigued and much in need of warm towels and clothes and hot tea.

Whilst they were coping with this ordeal, I had witnessed an awesome sight. To give some background: somewhere in the early 20th century my grandfather decided to fell a huge teak tree by the creek’s edge. He had hoped to fell it along the line of the road so that its trunk could form a part of the fence. However, it fell across the creek, requiring major surgery (to the tree, that is) to remove now useless limbs and such, until the only things left were the stump and a base section of its trunk which measured a good six feet (2 metres) in diameter and about 25 feet (10 metres) in length. This huge log lay there, useless, until 1956. Alongside it he built a large pigsty – a barn almost as big as the farmhouse itself with attic storage for fodder.

During this flood, the waters rose halfway up the galvanised iron roof of this pigsty, until maybe only the top one metre of the roof could be seen. As my grandparents, brothers and I watched the dramatic flow past of trees, furniture, household appliances, and the odd cow, we were awestruck as the visible part of the roof slowly turned through 180 degrees and sank into the swirling, muddy waters. That’s when we knelt down and started saying the rosary. This was no longer fun, like the first flood.

We discovered, when the waters subsided, that the power of the flood had picked up this enormous teak trunk, bowled it straight through the pigsty, which was now a shambles, and carried it a good 150 metres through some fences until it came to rest in the front paddock where, to my knowledge, it rests to this day.

The Good Lord was surely testing us.

The townsfolk and merchants were much better prepared this time; they had learned from the disaster of 1954. For example, some stores had clothing cabinets and display cases designed to rise and float on the waters. This flood hit us harder than the people in the town.

But life slowly returned to normal, as it does. School resumed. This time I wasn’t so lucky. I was in a classroom at ground level – that one where we used to climb out the window between periods – and in my desk my school books were all a soggy mess, along with the rotting bananas and apples that had festered there for way too long, as, in those days, they did in your average schoolboy’s desk.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

LIFE ON THE FARM

To tell you a little of the history our farm called Aintree, at Goolmangar, I need to delve into the history written by my father, John Patrick O’Keefe.

Dad tells us that his father, also John, was born in Gerringong on the NSW South Coast in 1864. Both his parents died in 1874, when he was ten. He was raised by the Taylor family. In his teens, he travelled to Lismore, on the North Coast and worked for a time as a surveyor. He then worked for the Beveridge family on their farm at Goolmangar. Whilst there he selected fifty acres adjacent to the Beveridge farm. In an effort to encourage the opening up of farming land, any good citizen could select land, at no cost, provided they then developed it into a productive farm. My grandfather built a house, dairy and bails and became an independent dairy farmer.

In 1890 he married Emily Boyle and started a family. Gradually they bought up surrounding land until they had 200 acres. They built a new house which is still there today and into which we moved in 1953. He moved the old house to become the kitchen of the new house. In those days, the kitchen was always a separate building, because of the fire risk. It has long since been demolished.

Dad was born in 1900 on January 20th, so for all of his life (minus 19 days annually) he was the same age as the year. He was always known as Pat, to distinguish him from his father.

So it was this farm which Dad inherited on the death of his mother in March 1953. His only brother inherited the family home in Lismore. I remember visiting the farm around 1949-50 when Dad drove the family to Lismore, a three-day trip, in the old 1926 Dodge.

I quote here from Dad’s memoirs:

In March 1953 my mother died. I inherited the farm at Goolmangar. My underprivileged sister Lily was declared my responsibility for as long as she lived. The farm at the time was leased to Fred Savins. He offered to buy it for 16,000 pounds ($32,000). Had I not Lily to consider I would have probably sold. But not knowing what might be involved in her future, and realising that property was a safer asset than cash in the hand, I wasn’t game to sell. I took a trip up and had a look at the place and a talk to Fred. He showed me his returns for the last twelve months and they were very encouraging. On my return Mum and I talked it over, and decided there was no better place to rear our family of boys so we sold up and headed north.

So what did we find? The farm house was a typical four rooms with a hall from the front door (which no one ever used) and a veranda on four sides. When we arrived, the back veranda had been converted into kitchen (with fuel stove and no hot water), a dining room and a bathroom (with no hot water). I once went into the bathroom and found a green tree snake had come up through the plughole. There were two other small rooms on each side veranda. Later, Dad enclosed more of the verandas to make bedrooms, an extra kitchen for dual living and a sleepout. I don’t think you got planning permission in those days.

When I arrived in December 1953, the family (and our cousins the Blewitts) had had three months start on me. What did I find? Behind the kitchen door was a string bag, that is, a bag to hold string from packages – Sellotape was still a novelty –another bag for brown paper bags – essential for school lunches – and the Strap. (Mum and Mum only administered this round the back of the legs when necessary.) We kids were expected to make a brown paper lunch bag last a week, though we trashed the wax paper the lettuce and vegemite sandwiches were wrapped in. From the kitchen ceiling hung numerous flypapers – long, spiral, sticky strands which helped to keep down the fly population of plague proportions. (Remember, this was cow shit country.)

Mum cooked the usual meat and two veg for dinner each night, on the fuel stove (which had a constant tub of hot water on one side) and later on the Metters electric cooker. But there were some treats for us kids. Firstly, Mum made buckets and buckets of ice cream, using the Sunbeam Mixmaster on full bore – after all, we had no end of milk – and it was great. (I don’t think that I have said that our farm produced cream for the Norco butter factory at Byron Bay. We separated the cream from the milk in the dairy and the creamless milk was fed to the Tamworth pigs that we raised also.) To make us eat our lettuce, we were allowed to sprinkle it liberally with white sugar. And best of all, when the white bread was getting stale, we could sprinkle it also with sugar and pour on lashings of cream. Why are my arteries still functioning?

The dunny was an outdoors affair and Dad emptied the pan regularly in the bull paddock. The laundry was out there, too. It contained two cement tubs and a copper which got filled with water on washing day and heated by a wood fire. Mum stirred the sheets, towels, etc with a wooden copper stick. It was a happy day when she got a washing machine with a hand-operated wringer.

In the cow bails where there was a source of hot water – everything had to be scrubbed to death – Dad had rigged up a shower. This consisted of a ten gallon drum, a pulley and a rope. You filled the drum with hot water, hoisted it up on the pulley, secured the rope to the wall, and, voila. The drum had a shower rose soldered into its underside, with a tap. Bliss. That’s where Dad and we boys usually showered.

We had a herd of Jersey cows of pedigree standard. Jerseys have the highest cream to milk ratio, Guernseys produce larger quantities of milk. (Black and white Fresians are best for milk, not cream.) In the summer, the herd got up to around 70 to 80 cows and, believe it or not, they all had names and we knew every one of them by name and they knew us. I recall one old slump backed cow with one horn broken that Auntie Pauline christened Madame de la Plonk. Another, called – would you believe – Daisy, would sit in the holding yard waiting to be milked and was quite happy for me to sit on her back. In the winter the herd would drop to 20 or less as their milk dried up, and in the spring there would be all those poddy calves, thanks to the diligence of our prize bull, Bellington Nomad II and his mates. When the calves were weaned we’d hand feed them with separated milk, keep some to build up the herd, and send the others off, with the latest litter of porkers, to market. The milk truck came three days a week to collect the cream and deliver the papers. Though not refrigerated, the cool room kept the cream from curdling – probably just.

I remember that my life on the farm was spent in bare feet. I had school shoes, of course, but no working boots. So I, and Robert, would be up to our naked shins in cowshit, as the dairy yards were somehow always boggy – it was a high rainfall area, of course. In our leisure time us kids would go down to the creek that flowed through our property and dig out cubby houses in the floodbanks of silt on the creek’s edge. Or we’d go to Santo’s swimming hole, a huge lake carved out by floodwaters in a bend of the stream. On one occasion, excavating away, I sliced into my big toe with an axe. Off home to Mum, mercurochrome and bandage, then Dad drove us the ten miles to Lismore to the doctor. No, no stitches needed. I still have the scar.

The only major illness I can recall on the farm was when we all came down with yellow jaundice, a highly debilitating disease, which I believe is today a version of hepatitis. We fell like dominoes and took to our beds. Mum soldiered on and when she went down, Dad took over. We recovered in due course with no apparent ill-effects. Of course there were colds, measles and chicken pox. You know I’m not one to boast, but Mum said I was the best patient. When I’m sick I’m like a cat – I crawl into a corner and worry no one until it’s all over. But if ever I wanted a day off school, I could put one over Mum every time. My sick-acting must have been superb. I remember being rapt in Nicholas Monserrat’s “The Cruel Sea”. It was winter, too, so I spent the day in bed reading while Mum supplied hot lemon and lunch. Shame!

I learned to swim in the creek. One hot day, Dad, Mum, Robert, Chris and myself were cooling off in the water. I was wading slowly when suddenly there was no creek bed under me any more. I panicked into a sort of dogpaddle and Dad, from the bank, shouted encouragement and told me I was swimming and indeed I was. Other styles came later.

Nimbin Road stretched the 15 miles from Lismore to Nimbin. About ten miles from Lismore you came to the Goolmangar village: General store with petrol bowsers (and these days a bottle shop), run by Mr and Mrs Alf Jux, the post office, School of Arts and the telephone exchange. This was a manual exchange. The telephonist would call you on the party line – our ring code was “two longs and a short” to differentiate from other farms that shared the same line. I’m sure she listened in, but I doubt there was much to hear.

Then West Nimbin Road (now called Boyles Rd) branched off – a gravel road with constant corrugations, despite the attentions of Ada the Grader and Lola the Roller – and after you passed the Catholic Church, the Boyles, the McLennans (the Only Protestants!), the McNamaras and the Colefaxes you came to Aintree. Now I appreciate what a beautiful valley it is. Then it was my prison.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

The Goolmangar Years

OK folks, it's back to the life and times of. Ryde was behind me. Now read on...

Early in 2008 I wrote to The Northern Star, Lismore's major newspaper, announcing that fifty years ago, I had formed my first dance band, along with Kevin (saxophone) and Richard (drums)Mackney from Tuncester. Richard was a classmate at school, Kevin, a few years older. I was fifteen. We were The Mackney Trio, which was fine by me. We played for lots of the dances at Goolmangar School of Arts and got three pounds each for a gig. Also fine by me.

Both Richard and Kevin saw the letter and replied by email. Later I had a long and charming phone call from Richard and as I hadn't seen him since we were 40, we had a lot of catching up to do. Richard said, among other things, "You were always the flamboyant one." Hmmm... is that code?

Well, let's not get paranoid, let's move along...

My brother Robert has written elsewhere – he is three years younger than me - about his Goolmangar years and as far as I'm concerned, though his account is delightful, it seems we were on two different planets. He loved the farm, hated school. I hated the farm, loved school.

So from the start. I've already told you about Mum's icy reception at Casino railway station. Now I was introduced to the farm, and the rest of the family had had three months' start on me. One of the first things was horses. To backtrack, the Blewitts, (Uncle Mac and Auntie Pauline, Peter, Paul and Michael, who were also living with us at the farm - Dad had optimistically calculated that it could support two families - wrong!) had previously managed a property at Cobbity, near Camden (that's where I learned about the birds and the bees, remember?). On one occasion there Robert and I had been invited to ride the horses. I stubbornly refused - I wasn't getting on one of those things!

Now I realised that for God knows how many years I'd be stuck in this place, I had better try to fit in. There were two horses, big black Ned the work horse and old grey Rex, the kids' horse. So I took the plunge and mounted Rex. He was great - if you fell off (and I did) he stopped within a footstep. He didn't mind how many of us climbed aboard, he was there to be of service. Eventually, I would mount him barefoot, no bridle, no saddle and steer him with his mane. I felt like some Indian in a Western movie. Yes, that bit I enjoyed.

But there is nothing to be said for getting up at five o'clock every morning (cows don't know it's Good Friday or Christmas Day) and milking cows for two hours before breakfasting and dressing for school. Then getting home from school and having to help clean out the bails (the buggers were milked twice a day!) before tea and homework. So school was my escape.

Marist Brothers High School, Lismore, was situated on a flood plain, just below St Carthage's Cathedral, which was, as in all country towns, placed on rising ground. I entered First Year (i.e., Year Seven) in January 1954. There were 56 in the class. At the end of Term I I came second in the class. Jimmy Grainger came first. Jimmy was a swot and I quickly realised it would take a lot of hard work to knock him off his pedestal. I wasn't into hard work (and still am not, I confess) and felt that second place with little effort was pretty damn good. Subsequently, I always came second or third. Jimmy went off to become a priest and his place at the top of the ladder was taken by Bill Buckley. Fine by me.

We were all caned regularly - this was the norm - myself included, and Robert has already written of poor Brother Julian, surely no more than nineteen, who always got an erection while caning, which was why so many of us lined up. So while I wasn't totally a saint, I was not among the group who got caught letting off the rotten egg gas bomb in the Vogue cinema one Saturday night and were ritually and publicly flogged on Monday morning.

Our Intermediate class (Year Nine) was housed in a room with a very high ceiling and very high windows - you couldn't see out of them without climbing on a desk. One of our games was, in the change of periods, to climb out the windows one-by-one, jump down and rush around and re-enter the classroom by the door before the next brother arrived. Someone would inevitably arrive back to find brother had arrived - a sort of Lismore Roulette. When it was me, Brother Fergus said, "What are you doing out there, O'Keefe?" Something inspired me to reply, "You put me out there, Brother." "Oh, did I? Well, get in here and sit down." "Yes, sir."

I was a great liar - I think I was, because I did it a lot and rarely got caught. At one time, first class after lunch was Geometry, and as I always got 100%, I didn't feel guilty about missing it. I'd go downtown at lunchtime (did we have permission? I don't remember) and look at the new sheet music in Palings and put sixpence in the jukebox at Florian's Cafe to hear "Green Door" one more time (a great sacrifice, as my pocket money was one shilling a week) and be back in time for the next period. One Monday, I was loitering outside a chemist's window, ogling the ad for sun cream which had a couple of boys in cute swimsuits, when who should appear but Dad. I had forgotten Monday was market day.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, not unreasonably. As I was not briskly walking anywhere, I replied "Oh, I'm picking up a prescription here for one of the Brothers. It's not quite ready yet."

"Well, I'm surprised they don't use (he named the Catholic chemist)."

"Yes, me too," I replied and with that he walked on.

Looking back now, I realise that my education was appalling. In those days, with classes in the fifties and brothers hardly out of their mediocre training or on their last legs, school was all "learn this for the exam" - often by heart. Write it out and memorise it. No time for debate, no questioning allowed. The priests and the brothers were God. The only book I ever read at school (and loved) was Treasure Island. To this day, I have never read Austen, Dickens, H.G Wells, Thackeray and, God forbid, Hemingway or Steinbeck. Great grounding for the future school librarian.

Shakespeare. Intermediate year was Twelfth Night and Leaving Certificate was Hamlet. The girls at St Carthage's Convent mounted their all-girl production of Hamlet and we boys were invited. Helen Larrisey was Hamlet, she was great and it was great, but I can't remember why. We just learnt it for the exam.

At the convent two of the nuns, Mother Carmel and Sister Pascal, were distant relatives of ours. Sister Pascal cooked in the convent and my privilege as a relative of a holy nun was to be allowed to visit her at lunchtime (perhaps this was how I got downtown). I'd return with a pocketful of warm, delicious biscuits, straight out of the oven.

I was very much the class wimp - hopeless at sport, but good at running. These days I'd have been a victim of gay-bashing, but none of us knew anything of that. I won my spurs by being the class clown and bashing out the Black and White Rag and hits of the day on the classroom piano at lunchtime. "Please sir, can we go in and listen to Hugh on the piano?" I was never game to ask myself.

And yet, as I said at the beginning, I loved school. Each year I'd think, this is great, better than last year. I can only put it down to having nothing better to compare it with. By the Year Five (Leaving Certificate) we were a class of only six. Most boys left at Intermediate to work on the farms or get jobs in town. We had a considerable camaraderie in my final year, a headmaster, Br Emile, who was young, handsome, decent and manly, and a charming old English teacher, Br Fergus, who tried to instil a love of literature in us, but it was too late. (As a precursor to the cryptic crossword freak I have become, I worked out that our surnames spelt SOMBRE - Smith, O'Keefe, McDonald, Buckley (he was still topping the class), Rayner and Everingham.)

Then we sat the Leaving Certificate exam at Richmond River High School, being forewarned not to put JMJ at the top of the page, or they would know we were Catholics. Our school years were done. I had just turned sixteen.

Hugh

Sunday, July 26, 2009

DRINKING & DRIVING

THIS IS A LONG ONE. POUR YOURSELF A DRINK

In early 1991 I was eventually, and justifiably, arrested for drink-driving – an event long overdue.

My history of driving began when I was 14. We then lived on the dairy farm at Goolmangar, outside Lismore on the NSW far north coast. One day Dad suggested to Paul, my cousin, who worked for us, that he take me for a driving lesson in the old 1920s Dodge farm truck. So I learned to drive with the old double-declutch system (don’t even ask, you youngies) and pretty soon was ferrying the neighbouring schoolkids and brother Robert down the dusty dirt road to the junction where the local bus connected and took us to school in Lismore. This seemed to perturb no one, even my super-Catholic mother.

One day when I was around 16 or so, cousin Paul was returning from Sydney and needed to be picked up from the bus station in Lismore. To my surprise Dad suggested I take the FJ Holden and collect him. Quite illegal, but still not a murmur from Mum. Off I went and over the first hill I met a police car coming the other way. My blood froze, but I waved and drove on. So did they, to my relief. At the bus station I had a hard time convincing Paul that I was on my own. I let him drive back.

So by the time I went for my licence I was quite an experienced driver. I was 17 and it was New Year’s Eve, 1959. In those days you went to the police station for your driving test. The copper got in beside me and after a drive round the block, involving four right turns (with hand signals – no indicators in those days) I had my licence.

I had my first taste of alcohol, too, at 17. It was an extremely lethal and random mixture of leftovers at a dance party at the University of New England. I was the pianist with the Armidale Teachers’ College dance band when we played this gig.
The other lads (and the inevitable female vocalist) liked a drop or three, but I was still an OJ man. Someone in the group decided to liven things (and me) up, and one glass of orange juice can contain anything, really, and look much the same.

I was subsequently told that I went on to perform like a “latter-day Liszt” (I don’t remember) and said some particularly revealing – and quite untrue – things about my current girlfriend in the car on the way home. I also discovered, in retrospect, that one throws up in the toilet bowl, not the wash basin.

*

This introduction to the effects of alcohol, not surprisingly, didn’t encourage me in that direction. Indeed, years later, at my 21st birthday party in the Strathfield Scout Hall, the entire alcoholic provision was a case of long-necks (as they are now called) of Resch’s Dinner Ale, for those of the adults who cared for a beer. Most of my mates and myself were still on the OJ.

To step back for a moment, in 1961, when I was 18, I had my first teaching position. I was teacher-in-charge of Kelvin Public School, a one-teacher school 12 miles north of Gunnedah, in north-western NSW. I had a group of twelve pupils, ranging from kindy to sixth class – though fourth class was empty. I knew nothing about teaching.

The system thereabouts in those days was that the farming parents would billet the teacher, term about – not entirely satisfactory. My first term was spent with the Jeffries family. Jeff Jeffries, a rough-as-guts wheat farmer, had three sons: Pater and Paul, both my pupils, and a very handsome teenage Robert (nicknamed, most appropriately, I was led to understand, “Snake”) who worked the farm with his dad.

Jeff’s custom, at the end of the day, was to knock the top off a Tooheys or two, and this he now shared with me. I can remember my head spinning after two glasses, my vision blurring, telling myself to keep calm and focused. After all, I was the local school teacher.

Word got round that I played piano and I soon joined up with Bernie Foster (trumpet), George Speed (sax) and Les Fuller (drums) to form the Zodiacs dance band. We played all over the district – Narrabri, Baan Baa, Wee Waa – but mostly at the Gunnedah Golf Club. In those days, teachers were not permitted to take second jobs, but the local school inspector, Mr Johnson, despite being a demonic Mason and thus not very fond of little Catholic me, turned a blind eye – perhaps because Mrs Johnson enjoyed dancing at the Golf Club.

Often, after a gig, I would stay at Bernie’s place in town, innocently sleeping top-to-tail in his single bed. One night, the two of us stayed drinking after the gig was over, finally appropriating a couple of bicycles and riding around all nine holes of the course. Somehow, I got back to Bernie’s, blind drunk, before him – we were probably driving our own cars. I found Mrs Foster doing the ironing at four in the morning. She was not happy. She sent me straight to bed and had a few words with Bernie when he got in.

On another occasion, I was driving my brand new Triumph Herald back to Kelvin after a gig when I saw the local police car tailing me – police vehicles were unmarked in those days, but we all knew the green EK Holden. I knew I was drunk, but not speeding, so I kept going. He eventually pulled me over and I thought a fine young career was about to crumble.

“So, Hugh,” he said, “how was the dance tonight? I’ve been on duty and couldn’t get there.” I brought him up to date with the evening’s gossip and he sent me merrily (too merrily) on my way.

But those were isolated incidents – I was by no means a regular boozer – hence the small amount of alcohol at my 21st.

*

But gradually I got better at it. By the mid-60s I was back living in the family home at Strathfield. I now had a white Triumph Spitfire convertible, my pride and joy. In those days one frequently drove wherever, as pissed as a newt. I remember one particular Saturday night when I drove from Strathfield to a party at Mosman, then on to another at Coogee. At home the next morning I could remember being at both parties, but nothing of the driving between them. Surely one trip must have been over the Harbour Bridge? But none of this was any call for concern – we all did it, all the time.

In passing, whilst tooling around in my sporty sedan, top down, I found myself stopped at a red light in Blaxland Road, Ryde. I was daydreaming and didn’t notice the lights had changed until the old bloke in the ute behind me put his head out the window and drawled, “Any particular shade of green you’re waiting for?”

Another thing we did seemed perversely to be encouraged by the restrictive NSW drinking laws of the time. Pubs were closed on Sundays. You could not drink in a pub unless you were a bona-fide traveller. This was a hangover (sorry) from the Cobb & Co days when travelling salesmen and their ilk could legally claim a drink if they had travelled 20 miles or more that day.

Some pubs, especially in the outer suburbs, took advantage of this loophole. You could (and we did) drive to, for example, the Newport Arms on Sydney’s northern beaches, sign in the visitors’ book that you lived in Cronulla, a suburb over 20 miles away, (the only ID was your driver’s licence, and no one checked) and booze all day to your heart’s content.

The trouble came at 5.00pm when the Sunday pubs closed. A whole bunch of drunken yahoos left their chosen waterhole in the north and drove south. Meanwhile, those who had spent the day in the south drove north. No wonder the carnage on the roads in those days was so drastic. However, I can thankfully write that I don’t recall any of our gang ever being in serious trouble.

*

I spent the years 1968 to 1974 in London, without a car. In London a car is a liability, not an asset.

Back in Sydney in late 1974, I immediately needed a car and bought an old VW Beetle for $500. I was mobile again, but in my six-year absence things had changed.
In the past if the police thought you were intoxicated, they’d ask you to walk a straight line. Now they could ask you to breathe into a bag which calibrated your intake of alcohol. Fortunately, they could only pull you over if they suspected you of an offence. So we were back in lottery-land – take a chance and hope for the best. And for me, so far, so good.

All through the late 70s and the 80s I drove with impunity, showing little regard for the drinking laws. My attitude was somewhat fatalist – if they catch me, accept the consequences and so be it.

So I carried on blithely and luckily continued to escape the law. But then came the dreaded RBT – Random Breath Testing; the police could pull you over without any suspicion of drunkenness and breathalyse you at random. Big deal – I continued to drink, I continued to drive – though I usually stuck to the back roads.

*

The story of my encounters with and subsequent downfall due to RBT comprise the three following chapters:

EPISODE ONE

After a night of Mick Jagger solo at the Entertainment Centre, I was driving my mate Wolf back to Bellevue Hill. The police had set up their Booze Bus in the notorious Rushcutters Bay stretch and they pulled us over.

“Well,” I said to Wolf, “this could mean trouble.”

But Huggy,” he said, “you only had a couple of drinks at interval, you’re OK.” (And one at the bar afterwards.)

“Yes,” I thought as the policeman approached.

“Good evening, sir – have you had a drink recently?”

“About 20 minutes ago,” I replied truthfully.

Apparently, this means you have to sit there for a while, before the breathalyser will take an accurate reading.

As we sat there, me apprehensive, they pulled in another car which took off at high speed in the direction of New Beach Road. As the cop’s partner waved frantically, mine said, “You can go now, sir,” as he and his mate set off in hot pursuit. I drove quietly home.

EPISODE TWO

My second encounter with a breath test was a little more complicated. It occurred in the early evening of a Sunday in the mid-80s. I had been playing piano at a lesbian birthday party in Balmain. It was a lunchtime affair and around 6.00pm I was again driving home to Bellevue Hill. I was driving the worst car I’ve ever owned, a VW Golf. I had bought it for $3000 without a proper inspection and it was a lemon.

As I drove along Oxford St, Woollahra, I was waved over. As I pulled into the kerb, the Golf let out a series of appalling automotive grunts and groans.

The cop came over. “What was that?” he asked.

“I think it’s the clutch, officer. I’ve been having trouble with it.”

“Well, you can’t leave it here – this will be a clearway in the morning. Can you get it up on to the median strip?”

I turned the ignition and to my surprise and relief the engine started. I managed to get it off the roadway, grateful for this distraction. The car then coughed and died. I got out, looked under the bonnet and pretended I knew what I was doing.

Eventually the cop came over. “So what do you think?” he asked.

“Well, I guess I better call the NRMA,” I replied, planning to walk to the nearest phone box.

“I guess that’s the best idea, sir,” he said, “… but first, would you mind breathing into this.”

My heart sank. I thought I’d been doing rather well. I was sure I’d be over the limit, although I’d been playing piano most of the time and drinking moderately. Even I haven’t perfected the desirable skill of playing piano and drinking at the same time.

The cop looked at the gauge and said, “Hmmm…”. He called his mate over and said, “What do you make of this?” They wandered off to discuss things out of my earshot.
He came back and said, “Where were you heading, sir?”

“Just around to Queen St,” I lied, giving the address of two nearby friends. Then inspiration struck. “But, officer, I can’t drive anywhere now.”

“That’s true,” he said, “so I guess you had better be on your way.”

Phew. I locked the car, walked straight round to the Woollahra Hotel and ordered a double scotch on the rocks.

EPISODE THREE

Now for the big one.

Early in 1991 I was again driving home to Bellevue Hill after a night of serious partying. Coincidentally, I was again chauffeuring my mate Wolf, who lived round the corner from me. I had learned by now to avoid the notorious stretch of Oxford St bordering Centennial Park, the scene of my former encounter. But, Hell’s bells, it was four o’clock in the morning – they wouldn’t be out at this hour!

Well, they were. As we came round the corner from Queen St, we were waved over. Wolfie still claims the young constable had to leap for the pavement as I screeched to a halt. “Well, I’m for it this time,” I said, and this time Wolfie didn’t disagree.

They left me to sit for some minutes and then it was bag-breathing time. I’d spent the time doing lung-clearing deep breaths, but I knew there was no hope.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you’re well over the limit and I’ll have to arrest you. Perhaps your passenger would care to drive the car home for you?”

“I choose not to, officer,” said Wolf wisely.

So Wolfie hailed a cab and I was bundled off in the paddy wagon

Now here’s a spooky thing. The back of the paddy wagon has two long metal benches and … no seat belts! Is this an OH&S issue? I was thrown around the cabin as we headed off for who knows where. We ended up at Maroubra police station (though I didn’t know that until I read the charge sheet the next morning) and I was processed. This involved being locked in a dock, finger-printed (very messy) and held for a while before being breathalysed again. I registered 0.145. I was impressed.

Then, for reasons known only to HM constabulary, I was bundled back into the paddy wagon and driven to Paddington police station. (I was rapidly sobering up now and managed to find the hand holds in the back of the vehicle, thus avoiding any more bruises.) At Paddington I was thrown into a cell, perhaps to cool off for a while and then released. (I can remember being extremely demure and polite all this while, even thanking the Paddo police for their kindness and attention.)

So, as the sun rose, I finally arrived home, unplugged the phone and fell into a deep and drunken sleep.

Late that Saturday afternoon I awoke, made coffee and reviewed my situation. I was not anxious to inform any of my friends as to my predicament until I’d come to terms with it myself.

*

Fat chance. Of course, good old Wolfie had gone from the scene of the crime to Julian McMahon, who was squatting in his mother’s as yet unrenovated new purchase in Bellevue Hill. After they got over the schadenfreude of my situation they phoned me but, of course, got no answer. They became concerned and began calling others of my friends. They found John Hughes on a weekend in Canberra with a bunch of mates, so by midday, while I slept on, the whole gang knew what had happened.

So while perversely proud of my new statistic (even my good mate Tim had only managed 0.10) I realised it was time for common sense to prevail.

My lawyer Warwick found me my barrister, Alison, and moves were made. It seemed that several factors would be taken into account: my driving record; character references from reputable friends; and circumstances leading up to the night in question, among others. My driving record was – and still is – clean (which simply means they hadn’t caught me until now). I got references from two very respectable female friends and, needing a third, nervously approached Sonia, Lady McMahon, mother of the aforementioned Julian. I knew Julian much better than his mother – he and I were good drinking mates, which wasn’t necessarily a plus on this occasion.

I made my tenuous approach via Julian (“Do you think your mother would mind…?”). Of course, I thought her name might carry some gravitas. She came up trumps.

As with the other referees, she asked me to draft a letter for her consideration. I sent it off to her and in return received the warmest, glowingest hand-written account on her letterhead making much reference to the positive effect I had had on her children and her subsequent gratitude. (It is, by the way, required by law that the reference acknowledges the specific offence.)

As to the circumstances leading up to the night in question, I put it to my barrister that I had heard that day of the sudden death of a very close friend and had taken, uncharacteristically, to drink. (This death had indeed occurred, but some six months earlier.)

So we would plead guilty and throw ourselves on the mercy of the court. There was in those days a provision that the judge could use at his/her discretion to take into account one’s previous good character and/or charitable works when sentencing.

But the hearing would be at Waverley Court, where, as everyone knew, both magistrates were hanging judges. No mercy was ever shown. No leniency was to be expected.

*

Judgment day arrived. Alison had managed to schedule the hearing for late morning, when we hoped no press would be present. Then we discovered, to our delight, that both presiding magistrates were absent. The visiting magistrate was named McMahon (coincidence?). We entered the courtroom, me in my greyest and drabbest suit and tie and I sat, as is custom, in the body of the court next to my barrister. Alison had advised me that the most likely outcome would be a conviction, perhaps a $500 fine and a six-month suspension of licence.

The police prosecutor outlined the nature of the charge and the circumstances relating to it. As Alison rose to submit my references and plead mitigating circumstances, I sat with my hands clasped between my knees, looking steadfastly at the floor, doing serious humility acting.

When she finished her speech, there was a short silence as the magistrate studied the references. He then looked at me and asked me to enter the witness box. Alison subsequently told me that she had never seen this happen before and had become extremely apprehensive.

His worship then addressed me:

“Mr O’Keefe, I have the power to convict you, I have the power to suspend your licence, I have the power to send you to prison.

“I intend to do none of those things as your references attest that you are a man of fine character and are highly regarded in the community. You also have an admirable driving record. As well, it would seem that the evening in question was in the nature of a wake.”

He went on to lecture me on the dangers of various alcoholic beverages – “White wine can be extremely deceptive…” – and finally announced that he was putting me on a 3-year good behaviour bond, with no fine, no loss of licence and no conviction recorded.

Alison and I put a great deal of distance between the courthouse and ourselves before we allowed ourselves to collapse into guffaws of relief and amazement.

Friends had arranged to have lunch at the Tilbury Hotel in Wooloomooloo with me (if I wasn’t in gaol). As I walked into the beer garden I met their apprehensive and collective gaze.

“There has been a major miscarriage of justice,” I announced. “I’m free!”

I sold the car.