Somebody That I Used to Know

by Bunkie King

  Chapter 2

  Bank Street

  From then on, Jack drops by often in the afternoon after school for coffee and a chat. One day, he takes me for a ride on his motorbike over to a friend’s house where he is staying. It’s a hot day and I am uncomfortable in the fleecy sweatshirt that I’m wearing. Jack offers me one of his t-shirts and says he’ll turn his back while I change. I turn around and pull the sweatshirt up over my head. After putting on the t-shirt I turn back to see him looking at me with a surprised expression; he seems a bit shocked that I didn’t run off and conceal my semi-nakedness behind a closed door or something. I am confused by his reaction as I have been brought up with little concept of a nude body being something to hide or be ashamed of. Besides, I had my back turned and have no boobs to speak of, not even enough to wear a bra. What’s the big deal? I wonder.

  He drives me to Bondi Junction to a newly opened ice-cream parlour, the first one in town to have a whole range of different flavours. Up until then it was just vanilla, chocolate or strawberry. This is really cool.

  Jack soon moves in with Le in a share house in Bank Street, directly behind Mother’s house in Euroka Street. In fact, our backyards are on the opposite sides of the same lane. Soon after the move he takes me on his motorbike to a house in the eastern suburbs to pick up some of his stuff. Standing in the kitchen-living room is a woman with a striking face, almost Tibetan looking, with black hair styled in a pageboy cut. Jack introduces her as Beverley, his wife, but hastens to add, ‘We’re separated.’

  This is a shock. I know nothing about her. In fact I know nothing at all about his past. Beverley takes me completely by surprise when she asks, ‘Do you need anything for your kitchen?’

  I don’t know what to say — she has obviously mistaken me for Le. I mumble something like ‘Oh no, that’s OK,’ and wander off, too confused to know how to explain that actually Jack has moved in with my sister and I am just there because he asked me if I wanted to go on an outing.

  I receive another surprise when I see a baby in one of the rooms. Jack casually explains he is their child, Patrick, born after he and Beverley had separated. They had been together for six years and married for four when Jack left. It was during a brief period of reconciliation that Beverley became pregnant.

  The proximity of Jack and Le’s share house is convenient. He increases the frequency of his visits to about three times a week. I suppose Le knows he is visiting me and taking me on these outings; why would he keep it secret? I assume he enjoys involving me and showing me new things. I have fallen for him but I figure that realistically he probably regards me as a friend, maybe even a little sister.

  One afternoon Jack and I are at home when he mentions he would like to take me to the movies. ‘That would be great,’ I reply, staying cool, ‘I’d really enjoy that.’ I almost explode with excitement — this is really something more personal, almost like a date, sitting in close proximity to each other in the dark.

  At school the next day, just before lunchtime, I hear my name being called over the speaker summoning me to the Headmistress’s office. Apprehensively I walk up the long corridor past the assembly hall into the private office area. What on earth could she want to see me about? When I enter her office, the Head points to a telephone on the desk in front of her.

  ‘There is a man on the phone for you.’

  Mystified, I pick up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

  I nearly faint when I hear Jack’s voice asking, ‘Why aren’t you at home? I came to take you to the movies.’

  The Headmistress and her deputy both stare at me. Personal phone calls at school are unheard of, except for a major emergency in the family.

  Damn! I want to apologise for the confusion and let Jack know I would love to see a movie with him some other day. But how do I convey this without exciting the Head’s interest? I keep it entirely neutral on my part and close the conversation by saying, ‘Well, thank you for letting me know.’ I make an excuse and beat a hasty retreat.

  That night I tell Mother what happened and ask her to write me a note of explanation, that she had been sick and had requested a family friend to call me at school. I don’t find it at all strange that she doesn’t question why Le’s 29-year-old boyfriend is contacting me at school. She never expresses interest or concern about anything I get up to. Her approach to parenting me, her last child, is that if my school report is good and I am at home in bed every night, then everything’s OK. That makes me feel free to do what I please.

  Jack picks me up on a Saturday and we go to an afternoon session in the city. He takes me to see If …, an anti-establishment film that satirises English public school life. It shows the teaching staff indulging in various weird behaviours — the House Master’s wife wanders naked through the boys’ dormitory and washroom while fondling soap and other bathroom objects. When students become involved in various rebellious activities and sexual experimentation, their clashes with authority lead to strict punishments meted out by senior students. Mick, the leader of the rebels, is beaten until his buttocks bleed. When he and his friends discover a cache of automatic weapons, they use them to conduct a revolt. On Open Day they open fire from a rooftop, shooting the Headmaster through the head. The film’s climax leads the audience to believe this act of rebellion is just the beginning.

  Throughout the western world anti-establishment youth rebellion is everywhere. Student protestors are rioting in the streets in Europe and America against the forces of conserva­tism and oppression. During these heady times they have a certain kind of charisma, sort of like romanticised outlaws. Jack appears to understand these rebels, to relate to them. He tells me that he’d served in the army but considers himself a pacifist and managed to avoid being sent to Vietnam. He joined with students protesting in the streets of Brisbane during US President Johnson’s visit in 1966.

  Jack is moved by the film. As we walk arm-in-arm down George Street to Wynyard station, he speaks to me with the enthusiasm of a revolutionary passionate about rocking the foundations of a rigid society. ‘That’s what happens when the Establishment is too controlling — people are forced to rebel!’

  As I have been brought up in an unconventional and fairly liberal household, his comment makes sense to me. I have read Animal Farm and Lord of the Flies and understand that true freedom means people need to resist dictatorial authority. But books are different from watching a violent film. At 15, I am more used to films like Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet. If … certainly wasn’t the kind of movie I would have chosen to go and see. However, walking so closely with Jack reassures me that he does enjoy being with me, he’s not just being nice or filling in time, there really is some kind of a connection between us. Soon after, Jack introduces me to great authors such as John Steinbeck, Ray Bradbury and Robert Heinlein — Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land has a big impact on me. I’ve always loved to read — I got through all 600-hundred-odd pages of small type of The Count of Monte Cristo when I was just 12 — but these authors are different; they are more real, even a bit radical.

  In January 1970, Mother, my brother and I spend the last two weeks of the summer holidays on Jamberoo Mountain near Kiama on the south coast. Our family has holidayed at these bush cabins virtually every year since I was born. These were some of the happiest times of my childhood as my parents’ bushwalking friends like Paddy Pallin swapped jokes and stories around the campfire at night. On long bushwalks my eyes were opened to the natural wonder and beauty of the Australian bush.

  Sitting in the sun reading on the verandah of our cabin, I hear a motorbike turn into the driveway. I am stunned to realise it is Jack. He walks up the steps and gives me a big smile as Mother comes out to greet him. He explains that he was just going for a ride and happened to be going past. Taking off his suede jacket he exposes a pinkish-purple tie-dyed singlet that shows off his golden tan and bronzed hairy chest. The cabin’s owners, our friends, aren’t impressed but Mother makes him welcome. He is Le’s boyfriend aft
er all and therefore part of the family. I am delighted that he came all this way just to visit me! Mother of course knows nothing about our regular outings or anything about my feelings for Jack.

  When school resumes in February, I am in Year 10 at Cremorne Girls’ High. After school I wait for the bus; Jack often comes to pick me up on his motorbike. I hold on tight with my arms around his waist as he revs the 180cc Yamaha and takes off, my body pressing against his back.

  I love riding with Jack and when he offers to teach me how to ride the bike I am totally stoked. He takes me to Ball’s Head, a nearby promontory of native bush that juts out into Sydney Harbour. It is a safe place to learn how to ride. Ball’s Head Road makes a big circuit around the promontory and in the centre is a hill that Jack stands on to listen to the sound of the engine as I ride up and down hills and around corners. After a few laps he gives me some tips: ‘I could hear the engine labouring as you went up the hill, you have to change down earlier.’

  We do this often and if he isn’t home and the bike is there, I take the keys and practise on my own at Ball’s Head and around Waverton. Helmets aren’t compulsory and I thrill at the feel of the wind against my face and the sense of freedom.

  By this stage in my life, I am ready, willing and able to fall in love and be loved. I desire that wonderful thing that happens between a man and a woman. All my friends have boyfriends but no boy has shown a real interest in me, yet here is this sophisticated, worldly man wanting to spend time with me. I am able to talk with Jack in a way I can’t with the dopey, immature boys I know. I begin to see a new person in the mirror, someone more like Le and my older sisters who all had boyfriends when they were young, someone possessing the confidence of knowing she can hold the interest and attention of a man like Jack. I dare not think that Jack wants me as his partner because he is living with my sister, but I feel that he can teach me lots — and spiritual love with a soul partner has special connections and no boundaries.

  Mother is hardly around. She is at work five-and-a-half days a week and making the most of being single. My three oldest sisters, Julia, Hyone and Maria, have all left home and have families of their own. Julia is living in Italy, Hyone in England, and Maria, recently married, is living in suburban Castle Hill. My brother, the sibling closest in age to me, is at boarding school. Since the divorce Father has virtually disappeared; I believe his new wife doesn’t want anything to do with his children. I have a couple of schoolfriends and that’s about it. I’m so lonely.

  Chapter 3

  A fractured family

  Before my parents separated, life seemed idyllic. From our house on top of the hill at Shellharbour on the New South Wales south coast, we children would walk down to the beach in single file, pass the Surf Life Saving Club and head south to a rocky outcrop. There we’d discover the magical kingdom of rock pool valleys with their miniature sandy roads winding through underwater villages, trees and gardens.

  My mother Joan is a vibrant woman who trained as an actress in London. She was born in Sydney, the only child of older parents who introduced her to the esoteric beliefs of the Theosophical Society. Joan had lived with her parents in the Society’s headquarters, The Manor, in Mosman. In 1926, at the age of five, she travelled to India with them, joining the Society’s worldwide membership for their Golden Jubilee celebrations. She even met Krishnamurti, the rising star of this group, who went on to become a guru to New Age seekers in the 1960s. The concepts of reincarnation and karma were a natural part of her upbringing.

  At the age of seven she travelled with her mother Dorothy and her Dutch father Julian Mazel to settle in Holland. Julian died within months of their arrival and Dorothy moved to London where she completed a medical degree. She subse­quently established a thriving practice as the first female doctor on Harley Street. My mother grew up in a privileged environment filled with parties and balls.

  At the age of 15 she was accepted into RADA, the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, one of the youngest students to be invited into this prestigious academy. At 17 she met Basil King, a handsome officer in the RAF with a dashing moustache, 10 years her senior. They married in 1939, on the eve of World War II. Their wedding photo shows my father in dress uniform with a sword and a long feather on his helmet.

  At the time, Basil was a Squadron Leader with Fighter Command. His brother Derrick, in the Royal Navy, was killed at Dunkirk. In the early months of the war Basil was transferred from Fighter Command to Training Command. The young couple were unaware of it at the time, but this was all due to Dorothy, Joan’s mother, who was well-connected in London. Father was not impressed, however. In the subsequent two months during the Battle of Britain his squadron lost 28 officers and Father carried the heavy burden of knowing that he had survived in a non-combat position when so many of his fellow-pilots, with whom he’d trained, were killed.

  His enormous reserves of patience meant he was well suited to the position of trainer and in 1943 Father was sent on an overseas tour of duty. He went to Afghanistan to train Afghani pilots in night flying in the only planes they had — World War I-era Tiger Moths. Mohammed Zahir Shah, the young king of Afghanistan, had persuaded the Germans to train his army and the English to train his air force, virtually creating a ‘neutral zone’, not to mention covering his country for any possible eventuality. It was so far from anywhere, nobody seemed too bothered.

  As air attaché to the British Embassy in Kabul, Father’s job was both military and diplomatic. Mother enjoyed her position of social prominence with five servants to take care of the house and children. She was in her element mixing with diplomats from the various legations and their wives for dinners and regular five o’clock cocktail parties, even the Germans and Italians.

  After five years in Kabul, where Mother nearly died of smallpox, the family returned to England. My older sisters remember the great excitement when Father went to Buckingham Palace to be decorated by the King; he received the Air Force Cross, the highest distinction awarded to an airman for outstanding achievement in a non-combat role.

  When a wealthy relative of Mother’s, ‘Madam’ Christian Thornette (the daughter of Sir Hugh Dixson), offered Father a cottage and some work on her property on the south coast of New South Wales, he jumped at the opportunity. It meant he could get far away from his wartime memories. Joan and Basil migrated to Australia in 1950 with my four sisters Julia, Hyone, Maria and Leona. My brother, their only son, was born in 1952 and I was born in Kiama Hospital in 1954.

  Due to a false accusation which led to a misunderstanding, the family had to leave Aunty Chris’s property and Father then took a job as a clerk at the Port Kembla steel mill. He could have had a career in commercial aviation but couldn’t overcome the guilt of having survived the war when so many of his fellow airmen had died. The decision to emigrate was disastrous for Mother, the indulged only child of a well-to-do parent. She had little or no experience of doing household chores and caring for the practical needs of children, and no family support, plus she had to make do on Father’s low income. Living in a small coastal town in the 1950s appeared to her to be a cultural desert; she suffered terribly from a lack of artistic and social stimulation.

  Mother spent a lot of time in bed with what would now be diagnosed as depression. As the youngest, I only remember that she had afternoon naps at the same time as me, but didn’t realise she spent most of her time in bed. Due to her depression she didn’t have the energy to care for me. I doubt I ever experienced the kind of love and affection that helps build a healthy sense of self and positive self-esteem. Established in their place was insecurity: the feeling of not being wanted and not being loveable.

  On the occasions that she was up, Mother would cook, but usually that task fell to her eldest daughters. Julia had become caretaker of her younger siblings at a very young age. She remembers that when she was 10 she was changing nappies and caring for her younger sisters. The children were rostered to do the housework. Once a friend of Mother’s remarked, ‘My, yo
u breed good servants!’

  Mother only pulled out of her depression once she made contact with various European families and other Dutch-speaking people in the area, who started visiting our home. One man took her out on the back of his motorbike. This was the turning point for her, but it took the first few years of my child­hood for her to recover and return to the role of capable parent.

  At this stage our grandmother, whom we called Oma, came to live with us. She had retired from her medical practice in London and moved back to Australia for her health. Le became Oma’s favourite. My three eldest sisters were out of the house most of the time, and my brother and I were too young, whereas Le could respond to Oma’s attention. This enabled her to develop self-confidence and the ability to voice her opinions at a young age.

  The year after Mother’s recovery, a debating team from Sydney University came to stay in the annexe next to my parents’ house in Shellharbour, and the first of some legendary Easter parties was held. Many Europeans who lived in the area, post-war migrants who worked at the Port Kembla steel mill or the coal mines to the north of it — Czechs, Poles, Hungarians, Italians and Dutch — all gravitated to our house. These Easter parties, which lasted for many days, became a ritual gathering over the next few years. Our next-door neighbours didn’t know what to make of us.

  Oma went to live in Sydney some time before my parents sold the house in Shellharbour. For reasons I didn’t understand at the time, we moved to Tathra, about six hours’ drive further down the coast. I later learned that a family friend — a man Mother revered almost like a priest — had behaved inappropriately towards my two oldest sisters. Mother refused either to believe it was happening or do anything about it. Maria, who was only 11 when she caught his attention, told him, ‘If you come near me again I’ll tell my mother.’

  ‘Your mother won’t believe you,’ was his knowing response.