The Bastard from the Bush: An Australian Life

by Jarratt, John

  ‘Hey, we’re all pretty Aussie, eh, all fairly ocker?’ I said. ‘So Brian, you’re a bit of a yuppie, so you’d be a yupker. Baz, you’re a bit of a hippie, so you’d be a hipker.’

  They were pretty quiet and didn’t think it was that funny, so to break the awkward silence I said, ‘What do you think I am?’

  Without hesitation and without missing a beat, they both said in unison, ‘You’re a cunt.’ I nearly wet myself.

  It snowed continuously until about three, when the cloud cleared. For another two hours we skied with full vision on virgin snow, heaven. We fell into the pub around 6 p.m. for dinner, completely, happily buggered. My brothers washed it all down with quite a few beers; I had my fair share of lemon, lime and bitters. We dragged ourselves to our car at about nine. Our car was the only one in the car park. It was completely covered in windswept ice. All the locks were covered in thick ice.

  We had a brainwave. Brian was average height and heavy, I was tall and heavy and Barry was short and light. We were all full of liquid, so Brian pissed on the boot lock, I pissed on the door lock and Barry got on the bonnet and pissed on the windscreen. We unlocked the boot, put the skis in, unlocked the doors and we were in. We put the heater on and off we went. We could see where we were going; it stank a bit, though.

  Back to the city, again

  For the first two years of Better Homes, we did a lot of building and land­scaping on our home at Hazelbrook. We were rapidly running out of things to do. Noni and I were earning good money for the first time in our lives. I suggested buying a waterfront block on my beloved Scotland Island and building a house from scratch on the show. Noni agreed with the notion and that’s what we did. So we could keep control of our property, Noni and I produced the segments and sold them to Better Homes. This helped pay the camera crew and the building crew; it still cost us for materials, unless we could organise a contra deal with the supply companies. There was a heck of a lot of work involved. The builder, Greg Torpe, and I organised the entire shit fight. First we had to have a house drawn up and get the plans through council. Then the land had to be prepared for building and materials had to be barged and trucked to the site. We’d do one segment every fortnight.

  This is how it worked. I’d start with the closer of the segment we’d done the week before. For example, we’d put the last post in place for the segment about footings and posts the fortnight before. Then we’d do the opener for the next segment, bearers and joists, then we’d spend the segment putting bearers and joists into place. We’d spend the fortnight finishing the bearers and joists and starting the flooring. We’d pick points on the three levels of the building, set up four stages of flooring, being careful to leave a space free of floorboards to enable us to do the bearers and joists closer, followed by the flooring opener. Complex, eh! I would have been stuffed without Torpe, who is a consummate builder and a great organiser. He got onto the TV thing very quickly. He’s a big unit, 6 foot 5 and solid. He’s a Pittwater kid: we had him labouring for Rossini’s Raiders when he was a teenager, and he did his time as a shipwright. Your average house takes six months to finish; we took two years.

  Here’s the clincher. Noni wasn’t too keen to be so far away from Scotland Island. I’d have to stay in town a lot, in a hotel or something. At the time a distance had developed between us, and I just didn’t feel comfortable in the relationship. I liked the fact that Better Homes was keeping us busy. Her segment took her away from the house for a couple of days a week and my segment kept me in my workshop – garage most of the week. Weekends were about kids, and every second one involved getting Ebony from the city and taking her back. The house was always crawling with crew, our nanny, cleaners and our PA Linley. Not surprisingly, this wasn’t good for a relationship that was already shaky. Noni and I were ill at ease: we niggled each other and argued a far bit.

  Linley was much more than a PA: she was a close personal friend of both of ours, and still is. She ended up being our mediator. I’d whinge to her about Noni and Noni would whinge to her about me. She’d find a way to sort us out and things would be okay until the next round. It was upsetting for Linley because she loved us both. She used to say, ‘It’s such a shame, you’re both so much alike, you’re too much alike, two lions in a cage both trying to be in charge.’ I think that sums it up in many ways.

  It wasn’t all bad. Christmas 1997 was a great memory. It was our only holiday during Better Homes. We flew to Tasmania and stayed in the beautiful fishing town of Bridport. Two of my two favourite people in the world live there, Will and Sharon. I’ve known Will for thirty-five years – he used to rent my first house on Scotland Island. We had the most relaxing time on that holiday. I hate fishing, it’s boring and I generally don’t catch anything. Will’s mate forced me to go out on his boat by exciting Ebony and Charlie. I begrudgingly joined them. In an hour we pulled in thirty-six flathead, most of them caught by Ebony and Charlie. It’s the only time Ebony’s excitement has matched Charlie’s. They were so elated I thought they were going to explode. Will’s mate had so many fish he drove around town giving them away. He offered to take us again and everyone, including me, said, ‘Yes, please.’

  Noni wanted to move back to the city, but I didn’t. We sold Hazelbrook and moved to Castlecrag on the North Shore. Not cheap. We spent a lot on property during the Better Homes years. Even though we were well paid, we weren’t saving much. The Castlecrag house was a rendered brick house on a sloping block. The house didn’t really need work, but I couldn’t help myself. There was a lot of headroom underneath the house, so I got a jackhammer and carved out two more rooms. I’d come back from island building and do Castlecrag building and child-raising.

  Charlie was still a handful. He was nine and Will was almost three. Will was fine until you put him to bed; he was not a good sleeper either. I spent the first two years of his life sleeping next to him on a mattress on the floor. I’d learnt to lock my hand into the slats of his cot so he could hold my hand and go to sleep. Imagine how great that was for my relationship. By the time I got to Castlecrag I’d had a gutful. We decided to let him scream his guts out every night until he got over it. It took weeks; this kind of training should happen at six months, not two years and six months. One night I could hear a woman talking outside his window. The next-door neighbour thought we were abusing him. Not a good headline.

  Charlie was still up to his tricks. Ebony couldn’t understand him. One Saturday morning we were trying to get him to clean up his room. He refused, and this confrontation went on and on. In the end, quiet little Ebony got exasperated by it. She leant in to Charlie and said, ‘Why don’t you just do it?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to.’

  Aaah! I sent him to his room and he just sat on his bed.

  I came in. ‘Fine, I’ll clean up.’

  I took every last toy including his beloved Lego models and put them on top of my wardrobe. I went back to the room and said, ‘I’m keeping your toys for a month, what do you think of that?’

  He looked at the top of his shelf and pointed. ‘You missed one.’

  He was pointing out a Lego piece I’d missed, little bugger!

  Noni was a light sleeper; I snored, so most nights I slept in the spare room downstairs. I was happy with that and I think Noni was too. It would have been well and truly over if it wasn’t for the kids. I think we were both hanging in for them. It’s children’s eyes that bring me undone. Any time I thought of leaving I’d look at Charlie and Will’s wide child eyes and I’d immediately remember Ebony’s baby eyes looking at me and Zadia’s crying eyes across the room and I couldn’t leave my boys. I couldn’t stay with my girls that day, but I had a choice with my boys. I couldn’t leave.

  We were well-off and I should’ve been happy, but I’d never been so sad and lonely in my life. I came home from work one day and I was walking around. It seemed that no one was home. I walked to the bathroom and the door was open.

  Noni was lying back in the bath looking
out the window. She ignored me.

  I said, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Something’s wrong.’

  She continued looking out the window.

  Finally I said, ‘What’s wrong?’

  She turned her head slowly and looked at me. ‘Well, if you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.’ She looked back out the window.

  It could have been I’d forgotten to put the bins out; it could have been that she thought I was having an affair. I’ll never know.

  The Chatswood house

  Noni was obsessed with the real estate pages. She came across an amazing property that sounded very promising for a bloke with my skills. It was at the bottom of a hill about a ten-minute walk due west of the Chatswood CBD. To get to there, you drove down a lane past the street-front properties. It opened up to a beautiful established three-quarter-acre block. The block was mainly flat and completely private. It sloped away at the back down to a creek with lush natural bushland bordering the stream. It was surrounded by Crown land, so the block seemed even bigger than it was. Nestled in the middle was a quaint little two-bedroom cottage, built in the late 1800s. It was run-down and dilapidated; it belonged to an old couple whose family had been there many years.

  It must be obvious to the reader by now that building had become another addiction, and like all addicts at the height of addiction, I couldn’t see it. I recognised my alcoholism and put down the glass twenty-five years ago, but I only recognised that I’m a build-aholic four years ago. I’ve managed to put down the tools. They’re all under the house, and I’m still very tempted at times. Writing this book has enabled me to recognise how full-on my building addiction is. Like all addictions, it allowed me to escape my life problems and responsibilities I didn’t want to deal with.

  Noni and I both agreed that this was it. This was going to be the house of our dreams and our future. I put everything into it. Also, I was a realist. I knew Noni and I were touch-and-go, but I thought if worst came to worst, she and the boys could live in Chatswood and I could live in the island house.

  I removed the roofing iron, all the internal and external cladding from the four rooms, the verandah, and the bathroom and toilet. I replaced the verandah, wrapping it around the front and one side, and made it 3 metres wide. At the front, I extended it past the front bedroom to the side of the house and added another bedroom off it. I closed in the verandah the length of the front room, installing a massive bathroom and an internal hall leading to the new bedroom. On the other side, I extended the verandah past the lounge. I closed it in and installed a beautiful hand-crafted kitchen courtesy of Nikos. I extended the back of the house substantially with a large dining room off the kitchen, and an entranceway leading onto a central deck off the lounge. Next to that I built a huge main bedroom, 5 metres by 4 metres, with an ensuite and a walk-in robe attached.

  Nikos and Barry built the house, working full-time for six months. All my spare time was spent working with them. Davo and Ray did the painting and finishings. I built this house using the best of the best materials. As far as I was concerned, this was my swan song and it was going to be a magnificent house to be lived in and enjoyed for years to come. I spent a lot of cash on this joint. I hadn’t put aside my tax as I knew we were earning enough the following year to sort it. We were still number one and the show was one of Channel Seven’s flagships. Every year we got a substantial raise. It was important to get this home right. I didn’t want more loans: we already had three mortgages, so I had to spend my wages.

  The Soothsayer was spouting prophecies of gloom and doom for the turn of the century in 2000. It was all over the news: computers, passenger jets and other things were going to crash. We all got a bit revved up about it and Noni voiced her concern. The shift of the San Andreas fault was a scientific fact. As a result, massive tsunamis would hit Australia. It was overdue by 150 years. Noni was concerned that if we took it for granted, the children would drown under a massive tsunami that would hit Sydney up to eleven times. An earthquake in Chile in 1960 caused a tsunami to travel 10,000 miles to Hawaii, where it caused extensive damage. The distance from LA to Sydney is 7500 miles, and the California quake was predicted to be much more severe.

  I first heard about this back in 1977 from a bloke who owned three big ferry cruisers at Palm Beach. He was worried about it and he found out it would take eleven hours for the wave to hit Australia: they travel at almost 1000 km/h! He figured he could steam up the Hawkesbury to Windsor, where he’d be safe from the wave’s reach. Noni said it would be impossible to get out of Sydney because road and rail would be at a standstill. I’d always wanted a timber cruiser. Noni got her escape vehicle and I got a 33-foot double-ender called the Dolphin. Pretty as a picture, I fell in love. More money spent, more escapist woodwork for me. The family had such fun aboard the Dolphin, chugging up to Lion Island and around the corner into the most beautiful waterway in the world, the Rea, the sunken river valley of the mighty Hawkesbury.

  Nineteen ninety-eight was coming to a close. Linley and her husband James were going to work in London for two years (which turned into seventeen: I just got off the phone to her in Mexico City). I was really gonna miss them. Linley is a character; I could write a book about her exploits. Here’s my all-time favourite. Linley is the strongest woman I know. Her husband Jimmy is a long, tall computer dude, quiet compared to Linley (she could talk underwater with a mouthful of marbles). They were in the cinema watching a movie and this spivvy westie behind her answers his mobile.

  Linley turned to him. ‘What do ya think you’re doing? Turn that fuckin’ thing off.’

  He turned it off, crossed his legs and kicked her in the back of the head. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to kick you in the head.’

  Linley swivelled in her chair, locked her knees into the back of the seat and punched this guy in the ribs and stomach. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to thump you in the guts.’

  His girlfriend went to say something but Linley shut her up. ‘Shut ya mouth or I’ll fill it full of broken teeth.’

  They got up with the guy wheezing as he left.

  James couldn’t believe it, ‘What if they go to the cops?’

  ‘Yeah sure. “Officer! A 5 foot 3 blonde just beat the shit outta me.”’

  We had a big get-together for Zadia’s twenty-first, poolside at Mum and Dad’s. The cake was fabulous, the number 21 designed to look like a set of lips sucking a thumb. Zadia sucked her thumb until she was about eight. If something terrible happens she’ll still sit in my lap and suck her thumb. She’s 5 foot 10. It makes me feel quite smothered.

  It was a great celebration; her present was an all-expenses-paid holiday with her boyfriend Nick to Bali. Zadia lucked out; she’s the only one who turned twenty-one when I was earning a decent quid. It turned out to be the last family get-together with Noni. Things still weren’t right between us. Linley felt that we didn’t have time to ourselves. We were trying. That year I bought Noni a Mercedes sports car, but even that went sour: it was full of rust. So, just before Christmas we took the rust bucket to the Southern Highlands for a few days. It was very pleasant and worth the effort. Under the right circumstances, Noni and I were good mates. We had great conversations and a lot of laughs. I looked forward to doing the hostings every week. We were professionals, so we’d put any conflict behind us and give the hostings our best shot. Noni wrote them, and they were always witty and funny. I just remember them with absolute fondness. We laughed a lot.

  Ebony had to have her tonsils out when she was thirteen. Two years earlier she’d had her third and final eye operation, and she was about to get an expensive set of braces for her teeth. She’d had more than her share of medical procedures as a kid. I didn’t get to the hospital until after the tonsils had been removed. Ebony was just lying there with a very sore throat, staring at the wall, typical post
-op. So I sat there talking to this vision in soft light sitting across from me. The light source backlit Rosa: she was shimmering, it took my breath away. My love for her hadn’t diminished; that absence makes the heart grow fonder is absolutely true in my case. Rosa had bought a one-bedroom timber cottage in the upper mountains. I added two more bedrooms and made it a DIY segment on Better Homes in ’97. I think she forgave me a little after that and the ice began to thaw after twelve years of separation. From that point we slowly became friends again.

  The clanger

  By the beginning of 1999, Castlecrag was sold and we’d moved all our furniture into the finished sections of Chatswood. There wasn’t a lot left to do before we could move in. We lived in our new home on Scotland Island. Poor Charlie had a long drive to school and back, but apart from that I loved living there.

  Noni came to me and said she’d made up her mind to go back to the mountains. She just didn’t feel right staying in the city and if I really cared about my children’s future, I’d back her. A major disaster was not fortune-telling, it was scientific fact. I reminded her that we had a boat, and she pointed out that’d only work if we lived on the island. She was right, but I just couldn’t live like that. I was nine years sober; I’d learnt to live in the present. Chatswood was not a spec-build; it was long-term with no expenses spared. I told her no, I wasn’t coming. Noni was confident I’d come around; she’d always convinced me in the past. Somehow this was it for me. I’d had enough.