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.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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