by Tony Kelly
Dad, a lapsed Catholic, was not particularly inclined to any form of organised belief system – other than those found within the unions, at the races and in the pub. On Sundays Mum liked to attend either the morning service or evensong, and Dad would chauffeur her to and from church. His other primary Sunday aim was to get to the pub. During the 1960s and ’70s this was limited to two dedicated sessions: the first from 11 am to 1 pm and the second from 5 pm to 7 pm.
Before collecting Mum from the 11 am church service, he’d say to David and me, ‘Want to go for a drive to the dump after getting Mum?’
We’d be in the back seat of the FB Holden before another word could be spoken. An outing with Dad was a treat, and we knew that once we were in the car there’d be no way he would change his mind and tell us to get out. Paul and Michael were both too old to be tempted by the excitement of a trip to the dump so were not invited.
Dad would load the rubbish into the boot and then drive to the church to collect Mum. As soon as she saw us in the back of the car, she’d know what he was up to.
‘I’m taking Beck and Dave to the dump,’ Dad would announce, ‘and then we might go for a drive.’
Mum wouldn’t say anything, but her silence spoke volumes.
‘I’ll get them out of your hair for an hour or so,’ Dad would continue.
Then Mum would turn and address us: ‘Are you sure you want to go?’
We’d nod enthusiastically.
Turning back, Mum would say, ‘Lunch will be served at 1 pm. Don’t be late.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he’d laugh. ‘We’ll be back well before then!’
I always knew this was highly unlikely, but I was an optimistic and obedient child and wanted to believe everything adults said.
When Mum got out of the car at home, Dad would say, ‘You kids jump in the front with me.’
David and I would crawl over the seat to join Dad and sit three abreast on the bench seat. We thought this was the coolest thing ever. As we headed off we’d ask Dad to beep the horn and we’d give Mum a big wave through the front window.
At the dump we’d get out of the car while Dad sorted out the rubbish. The dump was a busy place on the weekend, and we’d often see other families poking through the rubbish. It stank and there were big mobs of hawks and crows and other scavenger birds hanging around, but it had a certain intrigue. Dad would let us turn over a few items with a stick, and then he’d say, ‘Righto, into the car!’
‘Where are we going now, Dad?’
Dad wouldn’t answer, but when we reached the crossroad he would always turn left and take the road into town. I’d always be thinking, ‘Turn right, turn right,’ because that was the road home. We wouldn’t say anything but we knew what was happening.
Dad would drive into town and park the car in West Street. ‘I gotta go and see a fella about a thing,’ he’d say as he got out.
‘What thing?’ David would ask. He was always more assertive than me.
‘A work thing.’
‘Can we come?’ David would ask.
‘You kids stay here and look after the car. Don’t get out.’
We’d nod, then watch as he walked down the street.
‘He’s gone into the Argent,’ David would say. The Argent was a popular corner pub that had Sunday sessions. In high school I learnt that argent was French for money and Spanish for silver. I would think, ‘Dad spent a lot of silver money at that pub!’
David and I have, as adults, discussed these outings. We’d never do such a thing to our own children, but back then we didn’t question it. It was what it was. Neither of us have memories of it being unpleasant or feeling anxious about being left. There were lots of other kids sitting in cars on West Street so it was all quite social. Of course we’d get out of the car and play games on the footpath. We knew from experience that ‘a trip to the dump’ was code for ‘go to the pub’, but we craved his attention so were happy to play along. We truly believed that something more exciting might happen, but of course it never did.
What always happened was that eventually Dad would come out of the pub and take us home. We’d be late for lunch and Mum would be furious. Arguments would start about why he was late, why he’d been at the pub and why he’d left us alone in the car. I could never understand these arguments. Didn’t everyone know what was going on? Why did everyone act so surprised and get so worked up by it all?
We kids hated these arguments, so eventually stopped saying yes to Dad’s invitations to join him, and he stopped asking us. Unfortunately, Dad’s drinking habits didn’t change and the arguments continued. We all learnt to live and operate around them.
It wasn’t as if drinking and fighting were new to Mount Isa. At school there was a regular lunchtime cry of ‘Fight down Wog’s Alley!’ and everyone would rush off to watch the latest punch-up. We sometimes heard people fighting in their homes or in the park next door. On Monday mornings at school there would often be someone who regaled us with a story of some kind of family barney. I never said anything about our family. I knew intuitively that that sort of conversation was off-limits.
From the outside we looked and behaved like any other working-class family. We went to school, participated in sport and arts events, had friends over, went to the pictures, played with our cousins and spent hours riding our bikes around the neighbourhood with other kids.
Inside the house, we learnt to plan around Dad and his behaviour. Friday night was the best night to have my friends around for a sleepover; Sunday was the best day to have a friend over for lunch and a game. Dad would happily drive me to my extracurricular events during the week, but on Saturday I had to ride my bike or get a lift with my friends’ parents. Dad’s Saturdays were dedicated to drinking, and nothing stood in the way.
When we were younger, Mum, like David and I, believed that his behaviour might change. When he’d say, ‘I’ll definitely pick you up from the swimming pool at five-thirty,’ Mum would believe him. By 6 pm it would be evident that Dad wasn’t coming, so Mum and us kids would begin the long walk home. Sometimes other families would offer us a lift but Mum always said no. She knew that Dad would be even more furious if we accepted a ride from someone else.
On the Saturday nights when Dad didn’t come home for dinner, Mum would take us in a taxi to the Finnish Café in town. Though I loved the ice-cold milk served in tall glasses and the crispy crumbed fish, I could rarely eat much. I was a perky kid with a cheery disposition, but at these meals my stomach would be a knot of nerves. I knew eventually there would be a price to pay for the taxi fares and the dinner out. My anxiety drew a veil across my ability to enjoy the moment.
Occasionally Dad would still do things like take us on picnics out bush. I think he wanted to do the right thing but he carried a social anxiety that meant he was unable to settle into events unless he had grog to soothe his nerves.
One afternoon our family was having a picnic at a waterhole out bush with my cousins and uncle and aunty. I watched Dad as he opened the esky and counted the number of beers inside.
‘I’m going back into town,’ he said to Mum.
‘What for?’ Mum asked.
‘Pick up a few more beers,’ he said.
‘There’s plenty in the esky,’ Mum said.
‘We might need a few more.’
Mum didn’t say anything. She knew well enough to not cause a scene in public, even if it was just in front of her sister. Dad got into the car and drove away.
He was gone for hours and I remember watching Mum like a hawk. I was anxious and looked to her for cues for how I should feel or behave. But she gave nothing away.
‘When will Dad be back?’ the boys yelled out from the waterhole. ‘When will the barbie be cooked? Do we have to wait for Dad?’
Mum pretended not to hear them.
The adults made the fire and cooked the food, and fi
nally, after dark, Dad returned. He was rotten drunk but we all piled into the Holden and he drove us home. No one in the car said a word.
I hated the tense silences far more than the loud arguments. I knew they meant that something far worse was to come. At least with the arguments I knew the procedure. Michael or Paul would get David and me and take us out of the house. We’d go and play in the park or go for walks and return when they figured the worst of it would be over. But the silences could linger for days.
It wasn’t that Mum disliked drinking per se. She didn’t have a problem with people having a few drinks, and every now and again I would see her have a glass of beer or wine. But Dad’s drinking meant he shirked his responsibility as a parent. Alcohol caused him to have a personality change, making him unpredictable.
So Dad would spend all Saturday afternoon at the pub, and Mum would spend it at home with us kids. She was no doubt tired, and sick of parenting alone, so her irritation would grow. When we saw Dad’s car roll into the driveway, we’d say to Mum, ‘Don’t start anything.’
‘I won’t,’ she’d reply.
The drunker he was when he came in the door, the greater her ire would be. There’s nothing to be gained by trying to have a sensible conversation with a drunken person but Mum would forget this. Dad would try to be coy but Mum wouldn’t have a bar of it. She would bait him and he would arc up. The tongue of an intelligent sober person is far sharper than that of a drunk, and Dad always felt the attack. His default position was anger, so then they’d be off.
I hated it. I felt sad and frightened. We all did. But then it would be over and we’d go back to being normal again.
Kids are incredibly resilient, but addiction and violence are damaging. When I first started to study social work, I felt for a time that the trauma of my family had left me wounded. But as I developed more knowledge, skills and experience, I realised I was not wounded. I was bruised and battle-weary, but thankfully there was always just enough love to keep us protected.
Mum once said to me, ‘Your father’s the sort of man who should never have had children.’
I knew what Mum meant, but still I felt loyal to Dad. Mum was loyal to him too, but she came second to his addiction. He never missed a day of work and always made sure we had everything we needed, but his drinking was always there.
Things did eventually get better, but not before getting worse. In 1971 my brother Michael disappeared, setting off an emotional explosion inside our household.
Throughout my adult life, I have tried to piece together what happened, but it has been difficult. Like many people of her generation, Mum believed that the past was exactly that – past. To speak about such things would do nothing but stir up sadness and grief. She felt that the best course of action was to let the past go and move on. I tried once or twice with Dad, but he made it clear that there was no way he would ever talk about it with me.
What I do know is that Michael was a greatly loved firstborn. Mum would tell me how she and Dad would sit him on the kitchen table dressed in his pyjamas and ready for bed. They would then bathe his feet in a little basin, and Dad would carry him to bed so that he could get into his sheets with perfectly clean feet. It always sounded to me that he was treated like a prince.
He was by all accounts a ‘normal’ kid. He went to school, played sport and hung out with his siblings. He liked cars and camping. He had an easy and confident disposition.
Michael finished Year 10 in 1966. He chose to join the army and do an apprenticeship as a fitter and turner. Throughout high school he had been involved with army cadets, and as Dad was a returned World War II soldier it must have seemed like a logical move. The apprenticeship was in Melbourne, so at the ripe old age of fifteen he was put onto a train and sent away. I had just turned four.
Early on during his apprenticeship, Michael absconded and was listed as AWOL.
Years later, Michael told Mum that the reason he ran away from the army was that he was lonely and scared. Mum understood the loneliness bit. He had been left more or less alone for a long weekend in the army barracks. Most of the other young men were from rural Victoria, and had gone home. We don’t know what scared him but he took off and headed to the city. Becoming lost and disorientated, Michael didn’t have the confidence to ask for help. I don’t know how long it was before the army found him, but when they did they put him in a military prison in Melbourne.
Michael told my brother Paul that the army’s main aim during his prison sentence was to break him. They saw his absconding as a weakness, and they told him they were going to break that aspect of him and make him into an army man. But Michael refused to break. Eventually the army dismissed him, saying he was ‘psychologically unfit for military service’.
Michael was now free to do whatever he liked, and he chose to disappear. My parents did not know where he was. They contacted the army but they wouldn’t help find him. I can’t imagine what this was like for my parents, when their son was so young and naive.
After many months Dad received word from somewhere and went to Melbourne. He found Michael living quite close to the army barracks in a share house with other men and working on a rubbish truck. Dad brought him back to Mount Isa, and arranged an apprenticeship for him as a diesel fitter with Mount Isa Mines.
Paul remembers how changed Michael was. He had gone to Melbourne as a shy bush kid and come back gung-ho and assertive. ‘He was not the person I knew before he left,’ Paul told me. ‘I never felt comfortable around him after he returned. He had a bravado that lacked compassion.’
Michael completed his apprenticeship at the end of 1970 and then went with a group of mates on a holiday to the Gold Coast. While there, they all got drunk, drove a car through a zebra crossing and accidentally killed a young woman. I don’t know who was driving. I do know that my brother bolted from the scene of the accident and went into hiding.
Again my father went looking for him, and eventually found him in Far North Queensland. Together they sought legal advice. This was at the height of the Vietnam War, the beginning of the Bjelke-Petersen regime, and a time of great fear in relation to police and legal affairs in Queensland. The lawyer’s advice was that Michael should ‘disappear’ for the next ten years. He did, and was on the run for the next decade.
Like many people from that time who wanted to hide away or escape, he gravitated to the Gulf of Carpentaria and the Northern Territory. He worked on prawning and fishing boats, drove trucks and did stints in the mines.
Back at home, no one said a word. I had no idea what had happened or where he was. I was a chronic eavesdropper as a kid, so would occasionally pick up tiny threads of information from overheard conversations between Mum and her sister Veronica. But in the family no one said Michael’s name or spoke about him. We did not acknowledge his birthday or his absence at Christmas or other special occasions. It was as though he had never existed.
Over the years, I’ve wondered if this decision to not speak about him was quite conscious. Did my parents actively encourage us to forget in order to spare us pain, or were they in so much pain themselves that they couldn’t bear to speak his name?
I didn’t ever ask Mum where my brother was. I spent an enormous amount of time with her, as Dad was largely absent too, but nothing was ever said. Like most kids of that era, I took my cues from the adults around me; if they didn’t speak about it, neither would I.
Sometimes, when no one was watching, I would slip into Michael’s abandoned bedroom and go through the items in his drawers. I found his army dog tags and his apprenticeship records. I looked at his handwriting and wondered where he was. I went through photo albums and found pictures of him. My favourites were one of him in his cadet uniform, and another of him wearing stovepipe jeans and a white turtleneck sweater. I would stare at these and try to remember what his voice sounded like, how he smelt and what his touch might be like.
One afte
rnoon, a few years after he had disappeared, I came home from school and Mum told me to get my homework done quickly because we had a visitor coming for dinner. I asked who it was but she wouldn’t tell me. After dark, the back door opened and a man with a big black beard came into the kitchen. I looked at him and felt something lurch in my stomach.
The man put his hand out and tapped the peak of my Skippy cap. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.
‘I think you’re my brother,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m your brother.’
I remember his smile, and the deep urge I felt to know this adult, but the visit was short and before I could get past my shyness he disappeared again.
I recall seeing him again a few years later, but again the contact was covert and guarded. At the time he was driving trucks and snuck into town after dark. He parked his truck in the bush on the outskirts of town, and Dad drove out to pick him up and bring him home. I have no idea how Dad knew where to find him. We didn’t have a telephone, so I can only think that Michael rang Dad at work.
I remember Michael arriving with a large bottle of Coke. We’d never had Coke in the house before and I was very excited. Mum had made a popular new dip out of creamed cheese and a packet of dried French onion soup. As was the way in Queensland in the 1970s, she added a can of crushed pineapple to the dip.
I watched and listened as Mum, Dad and Michael talked. They weren’t interested in either the dip or the Coke so I ate and drank the lot. Michael stayed till late and then Dad drove him back out bush to the truck and he disappeared again. I spent the next day vomiting up dip and Coke. I still find both hard to stomach; the smell always reminds me of that night. I have no memory, however, of what anyone spoke about.
Over the next few years both my parents’ behaviour changed. Dad’s drinking and temper became worse, and Mum began to withdraw. She stopped socialising, and other than doing things like the shopping and going to church, she more or less stayed home. She had always liked having people over for lunches and dinners, but these now came to an end. I think partly it was a self-enforced purgatory, and partly it was that she wanted to be at home in order to keep things as ‘normal’ as possible.
