Book: Redemption - Part XIV - Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

Pieces

1985 - 1989

In February 1985, I did something completely out of character for the ‘me’ of the 1980s. The turbulent SEQEB dispute, brought about by striking electricity workers reacting to the latest attack on workers’ rights by the Bjelke-Petersen government, was in full swing. With black-outs and load-shedding the order of the day, readers of The Courier-Mail regularity vented their opinions on the Letters to the Editor page. From the anonymity of my kitchen table, I vented my own opinions, usually about their near-sighted, self-serving stupidity. I did this for quite a while although I never ‘did’ anything about it. Instead, I’d verbally give this or that letter-writer a piece of my mind, then I’d get on with my day until another day and another letter got my dander up. When the inevitable happened, the children were at school and Steve was working away, ironically enough on the construction of the Tarong power station near Nanango in Joh's electorate.

I read my letter thrice before sealing it inside its envelope. I was still reciting it in my mind as I walked out the door. I felt so empowered and caught up in my own sense of righteousness I never paused to consider the consequences. I did after I dropped the envelope into the post box. In that instant a gut-wrenching fear beyond anything I had previously experienced swept over me. As I walked home, unable to understand what was happening to me, I scolded myself with every step. The next morning, I hesitantly opened the paper to the Letters to the Editor page with my heart pounding in my chest like a bass drum. I fearfully scanned the page for my letter and on not finding I felt my prayers had been answered. That very same day, on the evening news, I heard the words everyone longer to hear - the strike was over. My relief was palpable. No more letters! I was free! I couldn't have been more wrong. The following day, The Courier-Mail (then in broadsheet format) dedicated two full pages to the “best letters” received during the long-running dispute. One of them was mine! Not only that, it was bordered! A little box surrounded my letter, a little box to draw unobservant eyes. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole! I felt sick. I was shaking. My entire body was shaking with a fear I never knew existed. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

By the time Kristen came home from school shrieking: “How dare you! How could you do that to me?” I had forgotten about it.  Hours had passed and I had managed to block it out of my mind, push it down to some deep reservoir in my subconscious. “Do what?” I asked innocently. The last thing I thought she could have been referring to was the letter. People were talking about it at school I was told in no uncertain terms. I was her mother. I was supposed to be a quiet little woman who did not embarrass her daughter. I most certainly was not supposed to express my opinions in so public a forum.

The next day I received a message from Kathleen accompanied by a clipping from the newspaper. She wrote: You are your father’s daughter. Your Uncle Pat rang me to tell me what you had done so I thought you would like to keep this for posterity. I may not have known what channelling was in 1985, but twenty years later I saw the sentiment of that letter prove chillingly prophetic under John Howard’s watch. I also came to accept that I wasn't 'alone' when I was overcome by the irresistible urge to grab the typewriter.

That letter:

I reply to a letter from (name withheld, C-M, February 20). So, (name withheld), unions have served their purpose have they! True, you have your eight-hour day, your four weeks annual leave, your good, safe working conditions, your sick leave and your workers’ compensation. You accept these as your God-given right.

You may be young enough to one day hear an anguished cry echoing into the night of the draconian future which awaits you, “please, give us hope!” Or perhaps, it will be your grandchildren who will hear the cry. Perhaps, it will be your grandchild who stands amidst the injustice of tomorrow’s world, with the last shreds of human dignity torn from his or her body, uttering that plaintive cry.

In the evening Steve rang to tell me people at his work site were talking about my letter and asking if I was "related to him". Part of him was proud of me, but another part was frightened. His need to protect me verged on the smothering at times. He ended the call by urging me to think twice before doing anything like that again. I was so terrified by the whole thing I was happy to agree. The trouble was just a few months later I was at it again, only that time Steve was home to see the fallout for himself. The first call came through at 9.30am. It was from a professor at James Cook University. For over an hour I spoke to this very supportive man who urged me to follow the promptings of my spirit and to never again say I was “just a housewife from Brisbane”.

The second call came through an hour later. This time Steve hovered about, urging me to hang up. People had to have gone to the phone book to get my number, he said. Did I understand the implications of that? Did I understand the emotions this debate was bringing up? Did I not see that I was putting myself and my family in potential danger?

The third call came through just a few minutes after I hung up, then a fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh. After the eighth call, Steve took the phone off the hook even though every one of those calls had been supportive. At 8pm, he put the receiver back and we lay down on the couch to watch television. At 8.30, the phone rang and despite his insistence I ignore it, I felt I had to answer it. The caller was a young girl who said I had saved her life. She said she had been following the debate and was about to end her life because she didn’t deserve to live. She said she had the pills in her hand when her eyes fell on my letter.

It was May 1985. Joh Bjelke-Petersen had moved from harassing unionists to tackling abortionists. Letter writers, from first-timers to old hands, were penning emotive missives with the emptiest vessels making the most noise. One vital aspect of the debate had been ignored by the high-minded, the bloody-minded, the close-minded and the just plain stupid, so I wrote this letter.

I am a mother of three healthy children and one who, personally, would not have an abortion, however, if my circumstances were different….?

I wish to ask those whose narrow-minded ideals and unrealistic and unrelenting pressure on weak-willed politicians have successfully inflicted such pain and unnecessary suffering upon thousands of women and young girls these few questions.

1. Which one of you is going to provide the funds to feed, clothe and educate the children you demand be born into poverty-stricken homes?

2. Which one of you is going to step in when a child is senselessly beaten because its mother can no longer cope with the enormous pressures its birth has brought her?

3. Which one of you is going to reach out to the forgotten children, unloved and unwanted, and give that much-needed and much-deserved attention which is the right of each and every child born into this world?

4. Which one of you is going to open up your homes and your hearts to the homeless children who sleep in doorways, wander the streets, and hope they live to see some semblance of hope in a world where the is none?

What is the greater of the two evils – terminating a pregnancy or bringing a child into the world who will only know misery until the day it dies? Remember people – there but for the grace of God go you or I.

A few days later, some gutless individual anonymously left a “Right to Life” pamphlet in a plain white envelope in my letter box. If that was all they could manage, I thought, then to hell with them. Whoever it was would probably have happily watched that young girl swallow those pills because “she was a murderess with blood on her hands”. Their actions so annoyed Steve he tacitly gave me the nod to continue, and continue I did.

1986: I am writing in support of (name withheld, C-M, November 5). No, you are not the only one (complaining about the gerrymander that allowed the Bjelke-Petersen government to be returned with only 39% of the vote), but what can we, mere mortals, do about this pernicious system? We can only wait for justice. She may appear lethargic. She may even appear to tarry when she should be fleet, but her footprints are there, written indelibly in the sands of time.

1987: After reading that some key SEQEB staff are being offered lucrative new contracts to guarantee electricity supplies, I have just one question to ask. What happened to the electricity supply in the Geebung area last Monday night? We were subjected to a severe “brown-out” for over two hours and not one word of explanation has been forthcoming. This was not an isolated incident. For some time under contract labour consumers have been subjected to varying degrees of power failure. Some may even have suffered huge losses due to electric motors blowing as a result of power surges brought on by such “brown-outs”. So much for contract labour!

1989: The Premier, Mr Russell Cooper, urges us to vote for the National Party to help keep this state strong and free. Well, keeping it strong is a matter of conjecture and keeping it free is a matter of record – thousands of records in fact. (I was referring to Special Branch records in which I am sure I received considerable mention.)

But not all my letters were political. In 1987, I wrote to berate Channel Seven for taking off a brilliant program and in 1989, I wrote in defence of a friend. But then I stopped – just like that, despite continuing to read irrational letters penned by boorish people. It was as if a switch had been flicked on in 1985 and then flicked off four years later.

Before that first letter in February 1985, I was the typical suburban housewife. In addition to running the household and being a full-time mother, I volunteered at the tuck-shop, went to ‘dancercise’ classes, played tennis and socialised with friends. In 1986, my life underwent another change when Kathleen gave me a car. She said I needed one and as there was one to be had I may as well have it. I objected because it was too generous, but she countered with: “Your father helped me out over the years. I can’t repay him, but I can through you.” The truth of the matter was she never forgave herself for the events of twenty years earlier. Besides that, I was convinced she overheard what Marie said to me a few weeks before she died. Kathleen had left us alone to talk in private but she must have returned in time to hear Marie tell me she was concerned about my children needing to rely on other people to get them to and from sporting and social events. Marie’s last piece of advice to me was to suggest I get my driver’s licence, as soon as I was able to, and a car, a nice safe car, as soon as I could afford to. Eight years were to elapse before Kathleen was presented with the opportunity to fulfill her late sister’s wish.

The car was a Ford Escort previously owned by my cousin, Monica, the youngest of Kathleen's children. The mother-daughter deal saw my cousin accept from her mother what a car yard would have offered her as a trade-in. The night before my driving test I was so nervous I couldn’t sleep so I got up to gaze at the stars through the window. I was there no more than a few minutes when I saw Halley’s Comet streaking across the night sky. Halley’s Comet is said to have heralded Mark Twain’s entrance into this world as well as his exit. Seeing it was a good omen, I decided, so I went back to bed safe in the knowledge I would pass my test and I did.

Marie had been right. That little car opened up our lives in ways I could never have imagined. On Saturday mornings, I took my girls to Downey Park for hockey in the winter and Tamara to softball in the summer. Che had swimming practice on Friday evenings, Little Athletics on Saturday mornings, and cricket on Sunday afternoons. In February 1988, he signed on to play rugby league. Sadly, Steve’s years growing up in a violently abusive household had left him so emotionally scarred he was unable to get out in the backyard with Che and his football more than a few times. It fell to me for that, but I wasn’t complaining. Che’s decision to play league actually cemented his relationship with his father. It also brought Steve out of himself for he loved the camaraderie junior rugby league provided.

Other things were happening in 1988, too, but they were of a more surreal nature. While dusting Mum’s china cabinet one day, I set right an old black and white photograph of my parents. After Mum’s death, we were each given a small framed photograph. It was a composite taken from two separate photos of our parents. I often found the photograph face down and simply assumed Che was responsible. On that particular day I happened to mention it to Kristen, which is how I learned it wasn’t Che. When I asked her why she did it she said she didn’t want the old lady to get out. For several years Kristen had mentioned an “old lady” as being in the house. The first time she saw her, she said the woman was standing in her doorway looking at her. I hadn’t considered my mother as being the “old lady” because, even though Mum had white hair, she was only forty-eight when she died.

Composite photograph of my parents

The next time something odd happened I was ironing. It was my least favourite chore so I left it until the afternoon so I could watch the ‘soaps’ on TV. About 3.15, I distinctly heard Che slam his bike down and stomp up the ramp. He always did that and I had had enough, so I went out to tell him off only he wasn’t there. Neither was his bike. I just stood there for a moment not knowing what to think. Fifteen minutes later, it happened again but this time is was the real thing. By then confusion had dissipated my anger so he got off lightly.

That same month Kristen came home to ask what I wanted. I hadn't called her. It wasn't the first time either. She was eight or nine the first time. In every instance I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about. I hadn’t called her. But then it happened to me. I was cleaning the bath when I heard my name as clear as day. Convinced Hazel needed me next door, I hurried over but no, she he hadn’t. The next time it happened I ran over the road where the children were playing, but as before, no one had called me.

The most extraordinary incident of all, though, occurred on June 3^rd 1988. Excited about having his party, Che had been racing around all morning creating mayhem at every turn. When he noticed me icing his birthday cake he stopped long enough to watch me. Unexpectedly, and with the utmost solemnity, he said: “Well, I am surprised. I thought I would have passed on by now.” Trying to contain my emotions I looked at him but the moment had passed. But something did happen. It was as if in turning ten the part of him still connected to his soul memory began to fade until there was nothing left.

On December 28^th 1988, I gave up smoking. For the previous three years I had been trying without success and it wasn’t pretty. But that morning I just woke knowing I would never have another cigarette again. Mum knew I was smoking when I was fifteen and often had a go at me, but threatening to “cut my fingers off” if she caught me was nothing compared to what she did to me after her death. She sent me dreams in which I would wake in terror searching for a dropped cigarette. There were times when I actually stripped the bed in my panic to find it. At other times I would sit up and have to mentally think back to what I was doing in the moments before. When I realised I could not have been smoking, I went back to sleep. I used to laugh at people who said if I could give it up for six months I would never want to take it up again. What rubbish! Every time I fell pregnant I gave it up only to resume the habit afterwards. With the girls, giving up was easy because a mere whiff of cigarette smoke made me violently ill. With Che, it was a struggle every day. A friend once said I should have a ciggy if I wanted one because smoking contributed low birth-weight babies and I could use a little help in that area. In light of later events, I am grateful I resisted the temptation.

My New Year’s resolution for 1989 was to get my Senior Certificate. The kids were older and I was ready to return to the workforce. To be a librarian, though, which was what I wanted to be, I needed a university degree which meant I needed my Senior Certificate. It wasn't simply the circumstances of my situation that I left school after completing Year 10, or Junior as it was then called, very few girls at St Columba's stayed on. In 1989, I had a choice of attending mature age classes at Hendra State High School or working at my own pace via correspondence. I opted for the latter. I was doing exceptionally well but in May, while at Downey Park with Tamara’s hockey team, I experienced an unmistakable sensation after going to the toilet. I had suffered a prolapse. Five weeks later, I was a patient at the Royal Women's Hospital recovering from what was called a "Manchester Repair". I never resumed my studies. Another opportunity lost.

Two days after my operation a new patient took up residence in the bed next to me, Tracey, an aerobics instructor from Kingaroy. On hearing that I couldn’t resist telling her my sister was also. I hadn’t known that until John told me. The last time I had seen Frances was shortly after Che was born. “Frances Warman!” Tracey blurted out after asking her name. “She’s the Goddess!” John hadn't told me that! At my new friend’s urging, I rang Frances to ask if she would care to visit me in hospital. Tracey was awestruck. It was actually quite amusing. Of the three girls born to Edna and Ernest Warman, Frances scooped the Casey-Warman gene pool. Tall, slender, pretty with long eyelashes and long, straight strawberry blonde hair, she was also extremely intelligent.

Frances was studying Anthropology and Sociology part-time while working for the Federal Government when I last saw her. She told me then she knew there was no future for her in the Public Service. She had hit the glass ceiling. The story, as I heard it from her that day at the hospital, was that while flicking through the ads in the paper, she saw one that changed her life. She had never trained as a dancer, but in typical Leo style, she went to the audition anyhow. That lateral step eventually led her into the aerobics business.

Just weeks later I discovered fate had a dual purpose for introducing me to the girl from Kingaroy. When Frances visited me at home one day, a few months after I came out of hospital, we talked of many things, including life at the farm. This provided me with the opportunity to tell her of a strange memory I had; something that, until then, I had not told anyone. It started when I was about six. Whenever I was alone with Uncle Jack I would think: If I’ve got to run, I’m going to run. Tears welled up in her eyes and I learned a terrible truth. She had been sexually abused by Jack. She said she took it right to him by telling Glady, but Glady refused to believe her so she left, something she was loathe to do because of Anne. Had Anne been abused? I had to ask. Yes, she had, Frances replied sadly.

If I’ve got to run, I’m going to run. Those words had haunted me for years. In time, I came to understand the relevance of the spider dream, but that left me with more questions. Had my warning protected me from Jack like the mosquito net protected me from the spider? I had no memory of him molesting me, but I do know much changed for me around that time. In time, another thought occurred to me. Had I suppressed a memory so repulsive I couldn’t bear to acknowledge it so it found an outlet through my subconscious?