by Max Howell
Let me know if you want me to do anything. Her parents will not even give me her address. All I know for certain, mate, is she married some bloke in the country.
Sorry, mate. That is all I can say!
Your old china plate,
Flash.
Married? Married? How can she be married? How could it happen? Tears did not come, just a certain coldness. He read the letter again, and walked out of his home in the Berkeley Hills. There was a sense of relief as he saw people walking towards him. It was not a dream, and life went on. It had to go on for him too. A shudder went through his body. It is all over, it is all over! It is a mystery that I will never be able to explain. But she is married! Now pull yourself together, Mark! You are a man! Steel yourself! You must go on!
A coldness, a chill, swept through his body again. A chapter of his life was over. It was now necessary to get on with his own life. He was bewildered, and confused, and wondered if he would ever put his trust completely in another person again. Though there was a sadness in his heart that was beyond description, the sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the leaves of the trees were still moving. Despite the feeling that it was the end of the world, life was actually going on, unaware of his own personal tragedy. So must he also go on! Mark steeled himself, his resolve for success now greater than ever. He must throw himself into his work. His personal life was a failure. He had to rise above it all and make a success of his other life.
CHAPTER 8.
MARK’S FATHER IS DEAD
A few months later another letter arrived for Mark which caused his heart to sink even further. It was from his mother.
Dear Mark,
I am sorry to have to tell you but your father died yesterday, of a heart attack. He was found dead on a bench in the park just around the corner from Mr Cook’s barber shop and the Coach and Horses. As one of his friends said, ‘He died close to where his heart was.’ Maybe that is true with respect to the pub, but certainly not with his workplace. Your father hated work with a passion, and worked only when he had to, as you know only too well.
I do not know what came over him the last month. He must have got some money from somewhere. I never did see him, but everyone told me he was off the liquor and was wearing good clothes. His friends said they could not believe it, and he even paid back a lot of his outstanding debts. It is ironic that he died when he was seemingly at last pulling himself together.
In a way your father cheated me even in death. I had taken out divorce proceedings, and they came into effect the day before he passed away. As a consequence I will not be able to get the widow’s pension. So even in death he was no help to me.
You know how bitter I became about your father, but I know you will be happy to know that he died at his very best. We only had a simple funeral, but there were hundreds there. I did not know your father had so many friends, or so-called friends, as few came to help him when he needed it during the last few years. But they came out for the funeral, and they were crying for him. I hate to admit it, but no tears came from me.
They buried your father at the Coogee Cemetery. It is high on a hill, and they placed him next to his father and mother. Your grandmother died young, and grandfather bought a plot so he could be buried next to his wife, and his children. So you will be able to visit him when you come back.
Your father was only 46, and it is the same age his mother died. It is a terrible waste. He had no chance in life. He was married too young, we had your brother Bill and you when we were too young. God bless him, though I doubt if God ever will, he simply had no sense of responsibility.
So there it is. Your father is gone. I did not send you a telegram as you might have flown home, and there was nothing you could do here. So I decided to wait and write afterwards.
After the funeral, everyone retired to the Coach and Horses. They say it was the most beer they can ever remember selling. Tonsey Michael, you may remember him, said they all told stories about your father, and toasted him with a beer or two. He would have liked that. Let us at least hope he rests in peace.
I received that job in the restaurant I told you about, and I like it. I am still staying with your Auntie Maren, who has been a source of great strength to me, but in a few months I hope to get a little place of my own.
Sorry to have to pass on the bad news, particularly after what happened with Faith. I thought nothing could separate you two. Life has some strange twists. Look after yourself.
Love,
Mum.
Mark put down the letter, and cried like a baby. “Oh Dad, I love you - I love you … and I will miss you.” He had contained his emotions when he received word of Faith’s marriage, he somehow felt he had to. His outpouring of emotion was perhaps greater now because of his pent-up feelings. My God, he thought, what is happening to my life? First Faith, and now Dad. He consoled himself with the fact that his father had pulled himself together at the end. So the money he gave him allowed him a month of dignity, during which he regained some of his self-pride. Mark had done everything he could. He only wished he could have done more.
When Mark had recovered he thought of all the good times he had with his father: how he used to clamber into the truck on Saturday nights with him and his drunken friends to go to the fights at Rushcutter’s Bay Stadium, and how he used to enjoy sitting and watching his father regale others with stories. His father had a natural, down-to-earth humour, and there was something in his manner that gained attention when he started a story. People liked him and Mark loved him, and would never forget him. He felt a deep sense of personal loss.
Mark was somewhat relieved when his first semester was underway. With his work, and his studies, he now had little time to think about himself, or Faith, or his father. But he could never really shake Faith from his thoughts, and whenever it was possible he thought of her every evening at nine o’clock, as he promised he would, and he actually persisted in this practice throughout his life.
He threw himself into his studies. He took a course in Philosophy, one in English, one in American Diplomatic History and the Basic Anatomy course. He particularly liked the English and the History, as he had in Australia. He particularly immersed himself in the American writers and he became intrigued with Walt Whitman’s verse, and the prose of John Steinbeck. Steinbeck’s stories of the struggle and primitive life of the itinerant worker struck a particular chord in his psyche. His own labour tendencies, developed through listening to his father, started to gell at this time.
He did not know why he took a course in Diplomatic History, because there were many other history courses which would have fulfilled the Humanities requirement. The course was at eight o’clock in the morning, which allowed him to work with Bob Losey during the luncheon hour, whenever he was required. But he became completely enraptured by the course, which was held in a large auditorium. The Professor was a Dr Rappaport, and he brought the subject alive. It made Mark realise more than ever before that history could be a living subject, and names that had previously meant almost nothing to him like George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, James Monroe, Theodore Roosevelt, Herbert Hoover, Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Harry Truman, The Monroe Doctrine, the ‘Big Stick Policy’, the role of Woodrow Wilson in the Treaty of Versailles, the plight of Hoover in the Depression, all these and so many more came to life through the inspired teaching of this gifted professor. Theodore Roosevelt, and Franklin D. Roosevelt became his personal favourites. The swaggering, rambunctious ‘Roughrider’ Theodore was a man’s man, and Mark liked his style. At the same time, the idealistic, urbane Franklin Delano became his idol. Mark never missed a class, and would sit in the front enthralled as the most significant events in American history were unfolded. He would watch Dr Rappaport intently, endeavouring to ascertain the secrets of his lecturing success. For Mark it was his easy-going, relaxed manner, the way he made history a story, his knowledge of the subject, and his interest in the students. No question was ever treated lightly, however idiotic. A
s he watched Dr Rappaport in action, and eventually Mark was to take every course he offered, he resolved that if ever he became a teacher he would try to approach the subject like Dr Rappaport.
There was Dr Adams, too, a famous philosopher, who used as a text in his course ‘Basic Philosophy’ a book he wrote himself, Knowledge and Society. Mark was frightened of the subject. As he read the book he found that he could not read it like a novel or a history book. It would take him three or four times as long to read a page. He had to then think about what was written, and sort it out in his own mind. Even before his first class had begun, Mark had a hundred pages of notes. Logic caused him the most problems, but endeavouring to sort out the philosophies of Hegel and Locke caused him much anguish.
But as for Dr Adams, with his long, angular body, he too impressed Mark. He would walk into Wheeler Auditorium with an immense dog, and would amble to the lectern. He would look around in a bemused way at the students, wait until his dog settled into a relaxed position, and then disarmingly softly, would begin his lecture.
What took Mark aback was that students would interrupt, and he would gaze in astonishment as a student might say, “I disagree with that, Prof.” Dr Adams would smile at the student, and answer carefully and methodically. Every time this happened Mark shuddered, for in his mind the students had to be geniuses to challenge this obviously learned man. There was no way that Mark had the confidence to attempt any such refutation. He felt so ignorant, and yet he was working extremely hard in the subject. It was the beginning of Mark’s education with the American student, as he later met the one who interjected the most, and he got an F, whereas Mark got an A and the professor asked to see him and told him he was exceptional student. American education at all levels was very high, on oral skills, communication and interaction, but Mark found he got top marks by the old Australian method, hard work.
It did not take Mark long to change his dress habits to conform to the American student norm, jeans or shorts, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes or sandals. He had to admit he preferred it to that in Australia at the time, which was much more formal.
In his mind Mark thought he might become a doctor, but his experience in ‘Basic Anatomy’ changed all his ideas in that direction. Working with actual corpses and handling arms and legs to study the origin, action and insertion of muscles, and the smell of formaldehyde, nauseated him, and he was glad when the semester with that subject was over.
Mark was extremely anxious about his results, and soon learned that you gave your professor a self-addressed postcard and he would send you your grade. Thus you would know your mark before the official University notification came. The first one he received was Philosophy, and his heart skipped a beat as he turned it over, expecting the worst. It was an A. On the following days his other marks arrived. He had received four A’s in his first semester, which most people predicted would be his hardest because of the big numbers of students in the introductory courses and his unfamiliarity with the system.
With all the bad news that had come his way, the high marks were just what he needed. They gave him added confidence, and ultimately turned him into an outstanding scholar. The study habits from his days in Australia, and the high degree of motivation and competitiveness he had gained from swimming, when combined, made him a formidable student. He still worked twenty hours a week but only eight was at the ‘Cue Center’ because he had to work twelve hours a week for his scholarship, cleaning the pool and handing out towels. He always swam two hours a day, but he organised himself so that he utilised every spare moment. His social life was limited, as he worked the rest of the time in the University student library. He soon found out that it was only the exceptional student that put in as much time as he did. He became known as a ‘straight A student.’ He fell more in love with American education, because of the freedom it allowed, its openness, the closeness you could get to the professor if you went to his visiting hours, and the competitiveness, where hard work paid off for the superior student.
There were good professors and bad professors, he soon found, but he took a positive attitude into every class. He was determined to learn, and determined to get the most out of every course.
As the year came to a close, he found that he had more of an affinity to the humanities and social sciences. He revelled in the English, history, philosophy, anthropology and sociology courses. When the customary fifty minutes of each lecture were finished he was always disappointed, as he wanted more, and in the various tutorials he also gained in confidence, as he could express his own viewpoints and increasingly wide reading without hesitation. But he was never flippant in his questions, always logical and analytical. More and more he gained the respect of his professors.
Mark could handle the sciences, though not with ease, and it seemed to take more out of him. Mathematics, physics, chemistry, biochemistry and botany lacked warmth for him. They to him were cold and dispassionate. Only biology appealed to his academic tastes. It became more and more evident to Mark, now a serious young scholar, that his interest lay in matters dealing with human beings. Perhaps the way his father fitted in so well with others had an influence, and certainly the hurt that he had experienced with Faith had left its scars, but he felt himself drawn more and more towards a profession where he felt he might be doing good for others. The images of Drs Rappaport and Adams, and other good teachers like them, had a role in shaping Mark. He knew the effect they had had on him, and a yearning developed within him to develop their expertise and qualities so that he could somehow also influence other young people.
There were two others who played pivotal roles. There was the previous Australian student at Berkeley, Max Howell, who was now teaching at the University of British Columbia. He came down once a year in the Spring with the UBC rugby team to play Berkeley in the World Cup, and they had instant rapport with one another. Only seven years of age separated them, neither drank, and they came from similar backgrounds.
They would talk on and on throughout the night, and sometimes the air was somewhat heavy with nostalgia as they spoke of the Coogee Surf Club, the Aquarium Baths, the beach, the ‘Flying Greens’, Peter’s Corner, the Coach and Horses and so on. But another message started to come through, and that was the personal benefits that could be accrued through coaching in North America. Though Max was pioneering in academia in Canada, he obviously loved his continuing association with rugby.
Then there was George Schroth, whose personal example exemplified everything that Mark believed in with respect to human relations. He watched him with his family, envious of the warm relationship he had developed. But above all he observed him with his team, and admired the way he treated each member as a unique human being. He encouraged each to achieve his maximum potential, in swimming and studies. He was a task master as well as a kindly parent, ever anxious to assist his charges when problems arose. He also had that rare ability to see the larger picture, and part of his world concept was assisting youth towards a better life.
These various influences had a marked effect on Mark, and as his first year ended there started to form, in his mind, the idea of being a coach, like George.
He was a freshman that first year in swimming, and he was not by College regulations allowed to swim on the ‘Varsity squad. He broke the University school records, however, in the 55 yards, 110 yards, 220 yards and 440 yards, and more people used to come out to see the ‘frosh team’ than the ‘varsity. They had to put extra seating around the pool at Harmon Gymnasium to cater for the interest in the young Australian. He was, as a ‘frosh’, unable to enter the NCAA Championships, but Berkeley paid his way to the AAU Championships which were held in Chicago, and he won the 55 yards and the 110 yards, setting American records in both, and was declared an All-American swimmer. He was a minor celebrity at Berkeley, and when he walked around campus or sat in classes he would hear the whispers, “That’s the Australian swimmer over there.” He never felt embarrassed when he heard this, rather he felt a surge of p
ride. But he was no longer just a swimmer in his own mind’s eye, he was a student, and a good one at that. He thanked George Schroth, and for that matter his old coach Terry Somerville, for giving him the opportunity that he had.
He loved American football from his first Fall Semester, and never missed a game. George obtained him a job on the gates of the Stadium collecting tickets, and once the game was underway he could slip away and watch the game. At first the game bewildered him, but increasingly he gained an appreciation of the high standard of coaching and the various strategies of the game. He even reached the point that whenever he had a spare hour he would go up to the stadium to watch the practices, and was astonished at the drills and the one-on-one coaching that was being done. There was a backfield coach, Wes Fry, a line coach, Herm Meister, an assistant coach, Zeb Chaney and various assistants; and a ‘Frosh’ coach, Hal Grant, as well as a Rambler coach, Carl Van Heuit. The head coach was the legendary, cigar-chewing ‘Pappy’ Waldorf. Mark could immediately see that many of the drills could be used in rugby league and rugby union, and how these and most other sports in Australia had nowhere reached the same level of sophistication. Though at first he did not like the stop-start nature of the game, in contrast to rugby, he began to appreciate the opportunity it presented to implement strategy, and how plays would be sent in by the coaching staff. The precision of the game and lack of individual initiative at first irritated him, but later he was able to see how such individuality worked on the ‘scramble’, and broken plays. The timing of the quarterback and the running patterns of the ends was something he never tired of watching. Mark got to know the coaching staff quite well because of their association with George, and it was not long before he was friends with most of the top players. His favourite as the years went on was Joe Kapp. Joe came from a poor family, and had that burning drive because of it. Flamboyant, he was supremely confident of his own abilities. When he was ‘sacked’, you could see the fire in his eyes as he pushed away his tormentor. He would spit the blood away and, with great courage, would immediately take the offensive. Joe was an athlete all the way, and Mark enjoyed his style. There were so many others too, such as Wayne Crow, Steve Bates, Pete Olsen and Donn Smith. These became his particular friends throughout the years.
